Resurrection (Eden Book 3) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Tony Monchinski
Tags: apocalypse, Armageddon, Living Dead, End of the world, postapocalyptic, walking dead, night of the living dead, dead rising, zombie novel, eden
his Model 7, and the closer they got, the greater was his realization that something was amiss.
* * *
With the dawn of the third day of his imprisonment, MacKenzie lost hope. He gave up any notions of escape or release, of being allowed to walk free from this infernal bondage. Rodriguez would not be coming for him, nor would Red. He had sinned, he knew, and now he enjoyed the punishment for his transgression. If there was a god or gods in heaven judging him, he would meet them soon enough. No deity imposed this penance on his person.
“I’m sorry,” he cried aloud, his voice hoarse from days of shouting and lack of water. “I’m so damned sorry…so damned sorry…”
Little Red had put him here.
The diminutive redhead had requested that he and two others—Tommy and Dalton—accompany her into the wilderness. MacKenzie had dutifully piled into the bed of Dalton’s truck and the big, burly man with the beard and the knit cap had driven it along the rutted, worn path that had once been a road. MacKenzie had laughed nervously in the bed of the truck, and Tommy had smiled politely, as they were jolted back and forth. Red had just sat there, her back to the cab, the Noveske Diplomat N4 on her lap.
Of course now MacKenzie realized that Tommy had known. Dalton had known too. They’d understood what was to become of him.
MacKenzie had sinned. He had stolen. In their camp, that was the ultimate transgression. Greater even than murder. Murder was a form of theft in that it stole a life; yet murder could be and had been justified.
When he’d done the deed, MacKenize had known he was committing a punishable offense. He hadn’t expected to get caught, but he had been caught. And now, the old man, Thomas, having decided his fate, left him snared in the net.
The net was made of barbed wire. They had bundled him in it and dragged him, cursing and bleeding, from the truck to this spot beneath some southern sugar maples. Red slung a rope over a branch twenty feet above the ground. Together, she and Tommy and Dalton yanked MacKenzie kicking and screaming up off the ground. His bodyweight against the barbs caused them to cut deeper into the bottoms of his thighs, into his arms and shoulders, his face. MacKenzie swung there, not daring to move, because each motion resulted in new cuts and the deeper penetration of extant wounds.
“Consider what you’ve done, Mac,” Red told him, and MacKenzie listened as she and the other two walked off, back the way they’d come. He heard the truck’s engine turn over, heard Dalton put it into drive, and knew they were never coming back.
They left him bound here, in the air, with neither food nor water. With no weapons. No chance of freeing himself. MacKenzie tried, struggling to loose himself, which only resulted in fresh gashes. A strand of the barbed wire was way too close to his groin. He’d had to watch how he moved, less he worked it up farther under his manhood. None of the wounds were bad enough to kill him. The barbs stung like hell, but the wounds they inflicted were superficial. MacKenzie would not bleed to death here.
But the fact he bled was bad enough.
His blood, dripping from many wounds, had pooled beneath him amid the pine needles. His blood, in the dirt and leaf litter, was as dark as the lower trunks of the sugar maples, stained black from mold growing out of the sap sucker’s holes. MacKenzie’s blood would bring Zed, he knew.
A few hours after Red left him, MacKenzie heard the first of the zombies arriving. It stumbled through the bushes and trees, never attempting to mask its presence.
The sun was going down when it spotted him and walked herky-jerky to the spot where he was bound. It had been female, but wore a button-down men’s dress shirt, which it had either worn untucked or it had come untucked somewhere along the way. The zombie wore a man’s black tie, which matched the circles around its eyes and the color of its hair. Its head was bent to
* * *
With the dawn of the third day of his imprisonment, MacKenzie lost hope. He gave up any notions of escape or release, of being allowed to walk free from this infernal bondage. Rodriguez would not be coming for him, nor would Red. He had sinned, he knew, and now he enjoyed the punishment for his transgression. If there was a god or gods in heaven judging him, he would meet them soon enough. No deity imposed this penance on his person.
“I’m sorry,” he cried aloud, his voice hoarse from days of shouting and lack of water. “I’m so damned sorry…so damned sorry…”
Little Red had put him here.
The diminutive redhead had requested that he and two others—Tommy and Dalton—accompany her into the wilderness. MacKenzie had dutifully piled into the bed of Dalton’s truck and the big, burly man with the beard and the knit cap had driven it along the rutted, worn path that had once been a road. MacKenzie had laughed nervously in the bed of the truck, and Tommy had smiled politely, as they were jolted back and forth. Red had just sat there, her back to the cab, the Noveske Diplomat N4 on her lap.
Of course now MacKenzie realized that Tommy had known. Dalton had known too. They’d understood what was to become of him.
MacKenzie had sinned. He had stolen. In their camp, that was the ultimate transgression. Greater even than murder. Murder was a form of theft in that it stole a life; yet murder could be and had been justified.
When he’d done the deed, MacKenize had known he was committing a punishable offense. He hadn’t expected to get caught, but he had been caught. And now, the old man, Thomas, having decided his fate, left him snared in the net.
The net was made of barbed wire. They had bundled him in it and dragged him, cursing and bleeding, from the truck to this spot beneath some southern sugar maples. Red slung a rope over a branch twenty feet above the ground. Together, she and Tommy and Dalton yanked MacKenzie kicking and screaming up off the ground. His bodyweight against the barbs caused them to cut deeper into the bottoms of his thighs, into his arms and shoulders, his face. MacKenzie swung there, not daring to move, because each motion resulted in new cuts and the deeper penetration of extant wounds.
“Consider what you’ve done, Mac,” Red told him, and MacKenzie listened as she and the other two walked off, back the way they’d come. He heard the truck’s engine turn over, heard Dalton put it into drive, and knew they were never coming back.
They left him bound here, in the air, with neither food nor water. With no weapons. No chance of freeing himself. MacKenzie tried, struggling to loose himself, which only resulted in fresh gashes. A strand of the barbed wire was way too close to his groin. He’d had to watch how he moved, less he worked it up farther under his manhood. None of the wounds were bad enough to kill him. The barbs stung like hell, but the wounds they inflicted were superficial. MacKenzie would not bleed to death here.
But the fact he bled was bad enough.
His blood, dripping from many wounds, had pooled beneath him amid the pine needles. His blood, in the dirt and leaf litter, was as dark as the lower trunks of the sugar maples, stained black from mold growing out of the sap sucker’s holes. MacKenzie’s blood would bring Zed, he knew.
A few hours after Red left him, MacKenzie heard the first of the zombies arriving. It stumbled through the bushes and trees, never attempting to mask its presence.
The sun was going down when it spotted him and walked herky-jerky to the spot where he was bound. It had been female, but wore a button-down men’s dress shirt, which it had either worn untucked or it had come untucked somewhere along the way. The zombie wore a man’s black tie, which matched the circles around its eyes and the color of its hair. Its head was bent to
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