Z-Risen (Book 3): Poisoned Earth by Timothy W. Long Page A

shoulder. He took the blow and almost went down, but his grip on my ankle pulled me off-balance and I stumbled, striking my knee on the curb. Pain shot up my thigh, so hot and sharp I had to fight back a scream.
    The dead fuck fell away as I managed to sit back on my ass and shake him lose. I rolled to the side and got a fresh shambler around my neck for the effort. Jesus Christ! Were they breeding back there?
    I did the only thing I could think of: I lowered my chin to my chest and then snapped my head back hard, catching the Z right in the face. Cartilage broke and something cold and wet hit my neck. Fighting back nausea and an intense wish to find all of the Purell in the world to squirt down my shirt, I stood up, dragging the Z along with me.
    It dropped in a pile of arms and legs, fighting to get to its feet. The first Z came at me, so I backed up a step, knee aching as it took my full weight. I shuddered but soldiered on.
    “Joel,” I called, but my voice was a ragged gasp.
    The pair of Zs closed in on me from opposite sides, both eyeing my pale white flesh. They probably looked at me the same way I’d look at a rack of baby back ribs covered in BBQ sauce. The stupid thought invaded my mind and saliva actually shot into my mouth.
    “Here, piggy,” I said, and bashed the first Z in the head.
    He went down in a lump, my wrench stuck in his head. I had to let go or be dragged down to the ground, so that left me--with a full pack and assorted weapons clanking around my body--to stumble away as the zombie closed in.
    She was about my age, and her wounds weren’t as bad as those of the guy who had my weapon sticking out of his noggin. She was small but wiry, and fast. She moaned: that low rumble of greed for flesh that I’d heard endlessly since this shitstorm started.
    I fell back and my leg went out from under me as pain made me grimace. One second I was on my feet, the next I was on my aching knees.
    Her hair might have been a pale shade of red once, but now it was like knotted curtains around her head. When she spun around to track me, her dreads of gore spun with her, slapping against the side of her face. I never wanted to hear that noise again.
    I managed to crawl a few feet, rip a can of beef stew off the pile and throw it at her. She took it in the chest, so I picked up another and pelted her in the neck. She snarled at me and staggered to her feet. Hands up, fingers mostly intact except for a few that were bent back at an angle that made me shudder, she crawled on her knees.
    I smacked her with another can, but it hit her shoulder and the can sailed away.
    I struggled to my feet, but the Z tripped on her shoelace and fell on me, taking me to the ground. I fought her as she went for my arms. She got a piece of fabric and ripped it in her greedy mouth. I punched her in the side of the head, feeling like a misogynistic asshole, and then hit her again. By the time I pounded her to the side I’d gotten over myself, stood up, and crushed her head.
    Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, a fresh pair of Zs exited the building and stumbled toward me. I tried to get up, but my leg screamed in pain. It was the same leg I’d injured a few weeks ago, so my freshly-healed ankle now had company. That was just great.
    “Fuck every one of you!” I said, realizing that I was about to join their ranks.
    Joel’s knife blurred out and took one of the Zs in the temple. He was like some ninja as he let go of the blade and then lashed out a foot to trip the other Z.
    “You gonna sit there crying or help me out?”
    “I got a choice?” I said.
    My wrench was only a few feet away. I shuffled toward it and grabbed the haft. The weapon felt good, like an extended arm terminating in a fist of heavy metal. I lifted the piece and then spun as one of the zombies broke from the cover of the building.
    I struck it at about knee height, a staggering blow that took its legs out. The Z wasn’t even on the ground when I hit it in the