The Saga Of Tom Stinson (Book 1): Summer School Zombocalypse by Eric Johnson Page B

collar tight to stop the chill of the rain. What if the sun set, and his dad didn’t come home?. What was he going to do? What if his dad was dead?
    “ Tom?” Emmett said.
    Tom trembled, and his arms stiffened.
    “ Tom, are you listening?”
    “ I know I promised you, Emmett, but don’t you think we have a bigger problem right now? It’s going to be dark soon. We need to get ready for the night. My dad keeps the camping gear in the garage. I’ll go down and get it and tie the stuff to the pulley rope. I need you guys to pull it up, and keep an eye out for zombies. I don’t want one of those things creeping up on me.”
    The twins nodded in agreement. Tom lowered the ladder to the ground and descended with his back to the rungs, glancing down the driveway with each step. He remembered how he used to be scared of going into the garage alone.
    On the ground he moved to the garage’s side door, but it was locked. “Crap,” Tom said under his breath. How could he forget, the keys were in the house.
    “ What’s wrong?” Winston called down.
    Tom picked up a brick and broke the window. “No keys. I got it.”
    “ I thought we had to be quiet.”
    Tom shot Emmett a sharp look and reached through to unlock the door, while being careful not to cut himself. His dad didn’t go in the garage much except to keep returnables; he called it his mini savings plan. Bags of cans and stacks of bundled newspapers were piled everywhere.
    The camping gear was in the back corner covered in cobwebs. Tom pulled recyclables out of the way to get to it. Picking up the first of the storage containers, he tossed it out of the door toward the ladder and returned for another.
    The garage darkened as something filled the doorway. Shivers ran down Tom’s spine, his back shot straight. He turned slowly, not wanting to see what he knew was there. It blocked the door, and there was no way out. Cans crunched under his feet as he reeled backwards across the garage. He groped in the dim light for something to defend himself with. His back hit the far wall. The thick wooden handle of a shovel came to his hand, and he raised it like a spear.
    At the same time the zombie lunged at him, he charged. He thrust and jabbed the shovel at the zombie. He hit his mark, and the blade sunk deep into the zombie’s chest. He screamed in defiance, “No!”
    The force from the impact stopped him cold, and he found himself pushed back across the garage through the clutter. The shovel acted as a wedge when it hit the wall, holding the zombie back.
    Tom twisted the shovel, and black blood oozed out around it to pool on the floor. The zombie reached out, grabbed hold of his shirt, and pulled. It slid down the shaft, moving itself closer to him with the crack of snapping cartilage and bone. Tom gasped and knew that he wasn’t strong enough to fight it.
    The zombie brushed his face with its fingertips, and he braced his foot against its torso, pushing with all his strength. It was no good; his leg folded under its weight, and the zombie slid closer. He couldn’t let it get him. He had to live to find his dad. Fight! echoed in his head as he pushed as hard as he could.
    Tom bobbed and weaved his head to avoid being grabbed. The zombie caught hold of his ear and pulled. He couldn’t do it; he wasn’t strong enough. If he couldn’t overpower the zombie by strength, he needed to be faster.
    Holding tightly onto the shovel, he twisted his body, ducked underneath, and stepped to the side. He pulled as hard as he could on the handle, freeing it from being wedged against the wall and using the shovel like a leash. He led the zombie around in a quick half circle. The zombie lost its balance and crashed into the wall. Regaining its balance, the zombie pushed out from the wall and marched Tom backwards. The only thing between them was the shovel, and that was shortening quickly. Tom glanced over his shoulder at the door, wanting to run, but if he let go, what would