Dead Alive Trilogy (Book 2)- Cursed Resurrection

Death is Thicker Than Blood

Ryan rode quickly, as quick as he could. Although the Plaguers didn't plan it, any sound one of them made drew all the others within earshot to that location. You wouldn't want to be any where near there when that happened. For that reason Ryan wanted to get as far away from that place as possible. A bike was great for that. Bikes are fast, good for running.

Just as he ran from his home. It was crumbling from the the combined force of of hundreds of Plaguers pushing on it from all sides. He had been the conspiracy theorist of his family, so when everything went to hell, he knew what to do. Unfortunately, his parents were on the other side of town and his brother wasn't a fan of listening to him. When the living dead first broke into the house, hid brother was bit, but maybe Ryan was wrong and the bites didn't kill. For once in his life, Ryan wasn't happy that he was right.

So he was then alone in his house, trapped in his room. Accross the hall laid his brother, abite mark on his shoulder, and a 9 millimeter bullet in his brain. The stairs were destroyed so Ryan was trapped on the upper floor. Until the Plaguers pushed his old house down. The moment it started to fall, Ryan climbed onto the roof so he wouldn't be crushed by it. This worked for him. The proof was in the horde that had been crushed by their own hunger for Ryan.

Across the street, his neighbors had fled so he broke into the garage and took a bike to the nearest gun shop. As he predicted, nothing much was left, only .22 millfire weapons and rounds. This, Ryan took gratefully. He was glad everyone else went for the biggest gun without considering the .22 guns had light rounds that you could carry very many of. Those rounds and an old bow with matching arrows had gotten him threw the following year. After raiding the gun store, Ryan spent the year wandering the country, trying to stay alive. He was also looking for something. He didn't know he was, but he surely was looking.

But he wasn't looking at the path. It had a sharp rise that, when combined with Ryan's speed, launched him into the air, hitting a Plaguer on the way down. Unfortunately, the bike was totaled. More unfortunately, the Plaguer didn't even fall. Even more unfortunately, Ryan did. The monster slowly crept up to Ryan ready to feast on his flesh. Ryan reached for his crowbar, but stopped. He figured that he couldn't muster up the force to bust the skull of this walking cadaver from the ground. Without the time to get stand up and strike, he did the only thing he could. He pulled his pistol from his belt and fired on shot. One loud, accurate, and deadly shot. The monster crumpled to the ground as one mass of rotting flesh and bone.

Ryan quickly patted down the creature and stuffed its wallet into his pack. He shouldn't have fired the gun. There were only three reasons to ever fire a gun: if you had enough firepower to face the consequences, if you could be somewhere else, or you had a death wish. The first and last reasons did not apply to Ryan, and as Plaguers emerged from the woods on all sides, he realized neither did the second.

With certain doom approaching, Ryan did the only thing that made any sense, and climbed up a tree. As the undead slowly approached, loudly moaning and calling more Plaguers, one word was going through Ryans head up in that tree: "Crap."