Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland Read Online Free Page A
Author: Frank Tayell
Tags: Zombies
about night-sights is that they don't work in daytime. Obvious, right? But nor do they work in well lit buildings or when a light is shining on them. Do you remember all those movies where the bank robbers would use a flash-bang to blind the SWAT teams? Well, I've no flash bangs, and with no electricity except in a thunderstorm, there's no prospect of the floodlights suddenly coming on, but I do have my torch.
It's about a hundred yards of lawn between the edge of the maze and the house. Probably about the same distance on the other side of the building. Perhaps more. Probably more, I don't know.
My right leg didn't heal properly from the break I sustained on the same day the outbreak started in New York. Now it's slightly twisted, an inch so shorter than the left, and I have to wear the leg brace for support. I can walk, I can hop, I can skip out of the way of the grasping arms of the undead, but I can't really run. The limping lope I manage instead is still faster than any zombie can manage and up until now that is all that has mattered.
Day 106, Longshanks Manor.
10:00, 26 th June.
Last night, I waited until about half past nine. It wasn't fully dark, but in the still night air I heard something approaching. The undead were coming. Fighting off one, or even two, whilst staying hidden from the snipers would be possible, not easy, but possible. Except, when it comes to the undead, where there is one, soon after, there are more. If it's a choice between a bullet and being torn apart, well, what choice is that?
I took off my coat, wrapped it around the pike and raised it so it was just peeking above the corner at the other end of the gazebo. I moved it about for less than a second, then pulled it down just as a shot was fired. They weren't lying about the night-sight, but clearly it wasn't powerful enough to distinguish between a person and the oldest trick in the book.
Trying not to expose anything more than the tips of my fingers, I reached up and placed the torch on the gazebo's wooden handrail, pointing it towards the house. Then I tried the trick with the coat once more, this time raising it higher in a sudden jerking motion that I hoped would be interpreted as an attempt to clamber up over the railing. A bullet flew through the jacket, hitting it dead centre. It folded over in what, even to me, looked like a fair imitation of a collapsing body. I let go of the pike, reached up and turned the torch on. Then I dived from cover towards the hedge.
In the near dark, with so much new growth, there was no point wasting time looking for a path through the maze. Three seconds after I'd left the shelter of the gazebo I heard a bullet striking wood. I dived at the hedge, shoving and pushing as the branches tore at my hands and face. Five long seconds later and I was through, just, as another shot was fired. This time it must have hit the railing because the torch moved, rolling so its light now shone directly on the branches above my head.
I dropped to the ground and began to crawl, my hands outstretched, searching for a gap in the undergrowth. I found it as a third shot was fired, and the light went out.
As darkness suddenly returned, it seemed as if a deathly stillness settled on the grounds through which every last little sound seemed amplified. The water lapping against the shore of the lake, the trumpeting call of some far off animal, the wheeze of the approaching undead, even the click-clack of the next round being chambered in the rifle. I crawled on.
I was on my hands and knees, halfway out of a hedge when a sudden weight pushed me down. My chin smashed into the soft leaf litter, my teeth jarred upwards biting into my tongue. I could taste blood but I ignored this small pain, waiting for the agonising spasm when my brain realised I had been shot. It didn't come.
I breathed in, and it hurt to do so, but there was no bubbling rasp of a punctured lung, no numb collapse of a severed spine, no spreading
It's about a hundred yards of lawn between the edge of the maze and the house. Probably about the same distance on the other side of the building. Perhaps more. Probably more, I don't know.
My right leg didn't heal properly from the break I sustained on the same day the outbreak started in New York. Now it's slightly twisted, an inch so shorter than the left, and I have to wear the leg brace for support. I can walk, I can hop, I can skip out of the way of the grasping arms of the undead, but I can't really run. The limping lope I manage instead is still faster than any zombie can manage and up until now that is all that has mattered.
Day 106, Longshanks Manor.
10:00, 26 th June.
Last night, I waited until about half past nine. It wasn't fully dark, but in the still night air I heard something approaching. The undead were coming. Fighting off one, or even two, whilst staying hidden from the snipers would be possible, not easy, but possible. Except, when it comes to the undead, where there is one, soon after, there are more. If it's a choice between a bullet and being torn apart, well, what choice is that?
I took off my coat, wrapped it around the pike and raised it so it was just peeking above the corner at the other end of the gazebo. I moved it about for less than a second, then pulled it down just as a shot was fired. They weren't lying about the night-sight, but clearly it wasn't powerful enough to distinguish between a person and the oldest trick in the book.
Trying not to expose anything more than the tips of my fingers, I reached up and placed the torch on the gazebo's wooden handrail, pointing it towards the house. Then I tried the trick with the coat once more, this time raising it higher in a sudden jerking motion that I hoped would be interpreted as an attempt to clamber up over the railing. A bullet flew through the jacket, hitting it dead centre. It folded over in what, even to me, looked like a fair imitation of a collapsing body. I let go of the pike, reached up and turned the torch on. Then I dived from cover towards the hedge.
In the near dark, with so much new growth, there was no point wasting time looking for a path through the maze. Three seconds after I'd left the shelter of the gazebo I heard a bullet striking wood. I dived at the hedge, shoving and pushing as the branches tore at my hands and face. Five long seconds later and I was through, just, as another shot was fired. This time it must have hit the railing because the torch moved, rolling so its light now shone directly on the branches above my head.
I dropped to the ground and began to crawl, my hands outstretched, searching for a gap in the undergrowth. I found it as a third shot was fired, and the light went out.
As darkness suddenly returned, it seemed as if a deathly stillness settled on the grounds through which every last little sound seemed amplified. The water lapping against the shore of the lake, the trumpeting call of some far off animal, the wheeze of the approaching undead, even the click-clack of the next round being chambered in the rifle. I crawled on.
I was on my hands and knees, halfway out of a hedge when a sudden weight pushed me down. My chin smashed into the soft leaf litter, my teeth jarred upwards biting into my tongue. I could taste blood but I ignored this small pain, waiting for the agonising spasm when my brain realised I had been shot. It didn't come.
I breathed in, and it hurt to do so, but there was no bubbling rasp of a punctured lung, no numb collapse of a severed spine, no spreading
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