Zombie Moon Read online

  She lifted the gun.

  What the hell was the woman doing?

  With his shotgun gripped in his hands like a club, Caleb sprinted forward. He swung and smashed the heavy butt of the gun into a zombie skull. He didn’t pause to see which creature he hit. He just spun and slammed the stock into another.

  A bullet whizzed past him. He glanced at the woman firing. Her gaze was on him, her eyes round as she sucked in a breath.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. He swung the gun like a bat and caught the prom queen across the forehead.

  While the party-going zombie was still on the ground, he flipped the shotgun end over end and with the butt pressed against his shoulder, pumped a round into the chamber. Then he fired, up close and very personal.

  Shot roared out of the barrel. The gun recoiled against his shoulder. He held tight and pumped it again. His back to the woman in the silver coat, he raised the gun head height and fired again. He kept firing until he knew there wasn’t a zombie standing. Then he fired some more. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder clogged the air, taking the edge off the stench of death and decay at least.

  He flipped the gun again so the butt was down, then he roamed the alley, stepping over the fallen zombies, nudging each with his toe. The one in the tux twitched, so Caleb smashed the butt of the shotgun into the mess that had been the zombie’s head, until he was sure all brain matter had been destroyed.

  Without looking at the woman, he muttered, “Shooting them does no good. Not unless you take out their brain stem.” He didn’t know who the female was or why she was here, but when she’d seen the zombies she should have run. Any rational human would have. But she hadn’t, which meant she was either very stupid or she knew what she was looking at and had thought she could kill it.

  There was only one place for amateur zombie hunters. The grave.

  Her ignorance could easily have gotten her killed or, worse, it could have gotten her turned into one of the monsters that now lay decomposing on the alley floor.

  The prom queen, her face a mass of gore, flicked her fingers. Caleb lifted his foot and smashed his steel-toed boot into what was left of her skull. Then he stomped down one last time, making sure he made contact with her spine.

  When her hand had fallen and he was confident none of the others were going to rise, he turned to the woman.

  He could see her hair and features clearly now. Dark hair with a hint of red that brushed her shoulders and oversize hazel eyes. Her face was tiny, almost delicate, and her stature matched the gun she carried—petite, not meant for the job she’d put before it.

  “You need to get out of here and not come back.” He didn’t bother softening his tone or asking how she was. She’d walked into this; now she needed to get out…and stay out.

  Zombies were pack animals, not for security so much as the inability to think on their own. If one stumbled in any direction, all those around him would follow. And while the zombies’ brains were far from fresh, their combined scent would still be triple the attractant of his small bit of bait.

  If six had shown on the first encounter, another ten might come later. At least Caleb could hope. He’d been following a growing trail of zombies for months. After twenty years of searching, he was getting close to their source. He could feel it.

  He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped bits of brain and decayed flesh from the butt of his shotgun.

  Then he looked at the woman. She was standing in the same spot, hadn’t moved so much as an inch. If he had to guess, she hadn’t even blinked, maybe hadn’t breathed.

  Her face was ashen, as lacking in color as the prom queen’s had been, and the revolver she held tumbled from her fingers.

  She turned and ran a few stumbling steps, made it all of eight feet before doubling over and puking on the asphalt.

  Caleb threw the cloth he’d used onto the ground and growled.

  He was no one’s nursemaid.

  He picked up the pistol she had dropped and shoved it into the back of his jeans. With it secure, he turned, thinking to leave, but as his gaze fell on the pile of zombies, he remembered where he was, and what else would be arriving soon.

  With another growl, he strode toward the woman. He was within grabbing range when he heard the shuffling footsteps of more zombies.

  He slapped his hand over the woman’s mouth and jerked her against him. “Do not say a word. Don’t even breathe,” he hissed. Then he walked backward, dragging her with him. She didn’t struggle—the one smart thing he’d seen from her since her arrival. He took some heart in that, gained hope that she had some sense.

  Once they were hidden behind the Dumpster, he whispered another warning in her ear then dropped his hand from her mouth and loosened his hold.

  She sank to a squat and rested her forehead against the Dumpster, her fingers twitching at her sides. Her perfume reached out to him, a light floral scent completely out of place in the death-filled alley.

  Not a scent he’d associate with someone hunting zombies. Perhaps she was just a thrill seeker, coming armed to an area advertised as dangerous. If so, she’d received quite the lesson.

  He doubted she’d repeat the prank soon.

  Her coat bunched between her shoulder blades. When he glanced at her she looked away and studied the solid wall of green metal inches from her face.

  She didn’t trust him.

  That was fine. He didn’t need or want her trust.

  He just wanted her to stay out of his way. Tossing her a warning glance, he peered over the top of the Dumpster.

  Four more zombies had gathered in the alley. They bent awkwardly, reaching for the gore that had been their own kind. Their eyes blank, possibly sightless, they shoveled bits of decaying flesh into their mouths.

  This batch seemed older than the first, in worse shape, which made sense. The younger zombies, those retaining more of their function and body parts, made it to any scene first. The older ones came along later and were left the role of scavenger.

  A male dressed in a stained green leisure suit ripped off the prom queen’s arm and chomped down with toothless jaws.

  Beside Caleb, the woman grabbed hold of the Dumpster’s lip and pulled herself to a stand. Her fingers were white against the green metal. Turned whiter as her grip on the edge tightened.

  Ignoring her, he pulled his revolver from its holster. He needed to take out the zombies’ brain stems. From this distance the shotgun wouldn’t work. Up close it worked great. One blast opened a zombie’s brittle skull, made it easy to smash through any important bits left behind. But at this distance, he needed accuracy and the shotgun wasn’t built for that. His revolver, however, was.

  He rested his hand on the edge of the Dumpster and waited. He needed a clean shot, hopefully from behind.

  The woman laid her hand, cool but surprisingly steady, on his arm. “Let me.”

  He raised a brow. She had wasted five bullets without downing a single zombie. Then she had puked on the pavement.

  His faith in her was far from impressive.

  He stared at her briefly then turned his attention back to the zombies. Leisure suit was standing sideways, his head cocked as if listening to or smelling something.

  It was all the warning Caleb had before the creature turned. With a yowl the zombie staggered toward them.

  Joining his cries, his companions followed.

  Caleb cocked the gun, fired…and missed the stampeding zombies completely. Habit made him curse, but survival instinct made him focus. He couldn’t afford to do as the woman beside him had done and fire wildly. He had to think, to calculate his best move. His ability to do so even while under attack, combined with his werewolf talents, had kept him alive so far.

  The monsters stamping and scrambling toward him were facing him. The revolver’s round would shoot through their skulls, but with the group turned toward him and moving at the pace they were, taking out their brain stem would be nothing more than luck, and Caleb’s luck had run out a lon
g time ago. He didn’t believe in it anymore, didn’t believe in anything, didn’t trust in anything except his own skill.

  But his options were few. He shoved the revolver into the woman’s hand. “Just don’t shoot me,” he said before shoving the Dumpster out of their way and charging the zombies, shotgun in hand.

  Chapter 2

  S amantha stood frozen, unable to move, unable to believe the man who had pulled her behind the Dumpster had then—once the zombies had actually arrived, when she and he were in the most danger—kicked their barricade away and left her standing completely exposed.

  What kind of idiot was he?

  The man—Caleb Locke, she hoped—raced toward the four new arrivals. Two feet away, he lifted his shotgun and fired. The closest zombie, a man in a leisure suit, crumpled. The shot had annihilated the top third of him, blown his brains out the back of his skull.

  She tasted bile, wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Shooting zombies was harder than she had imagined, because despite their gruesome appearance and horrendous smell, they still looked human, still carried clues of what they had been in life.

  The other zombies, however, didn’t seem to share Samantha’s qualms. As one, they jumped on the carnage that had been their companion and began fighting over his remains.

  Samantha watched, unable to do anything more. At least they were occupied, or so she hoped.

  Two of them, women, looked up and sniffed the air like dogs catching wind of a squirrel. Their eyes were hollow—not lacking in emotion, but hollow as in missing. Breath shuddered through Samantha.

  A third zombie, who appeared to have at one time been a teenage boy dressed in a torn football jersey, lurched to a stand. He had his eyes and they were both pointed at Samantha.

  Caleb’s shotgun fired. The noise slammed into Samantha, her body tensed and her ears rang. She was comfortable with guns, but no amount of experience or practice could have readied her for this.

  One of the female zombies near Caleb screeched. Had he missed? Or had he hit his target, and the second zombie was objecting?

  Samantha had no time to glance in his direction to see. The zombie focused on her was bent over and, like the football star he might have once been, was hurtling toward her.

  “Damn it!” Caleb yelled and fired again. This time Samantha saw what he hit, saw the small bits of metal slam into the zombie headed toward her. The shot got the zombie in the side, spun its body so it was pointed toward Caleb, its back to Samantha.

  It was her chance to run, to get the hell away from here and forget she had ever wanted to find Caleb Locke.

  But she couldn’t. Her loyalty to Allison and a childhood of watching old Westerns where the good guys fought, no matter the odds, wouldn’t let her.

  One hand felt heavy. A memory of Caleb slipping something into her grip flashed through her mind. She lifted her hand, surprised to see a gun there—a big gun, heavy and capable of bringing down anything, even a zombie.

  She’d asked for this gun, and she knew how to use it. Yes, she’d wasted five bullets trying to kill the first group of zombies, but that was before Caleb had told her what she’d done wrong. She could do this now. She had to.

  She took two giant steps forward and lifted the gun. Her arm shook. She lifted her other arm, held the weapon with two hands to keep it steady. Ready to pull the trigger, she repeated the crazed zombie hunter’s lecture. “Take out the brain stem—it’s the only way to stop them.”

  She pulled in a breath and forgot where she was, forced herself not to hear Caleb’s yells or the zombies’ screams. Just focused on the indented spot where the zombie’s head met his neck.

  Then she fired.

  His shotgun held to his shoulder, Caleb froze. The woman stood behind the zombie he’d been about to blast back to the coffin. Only his werewolf reflexes saved her from being blasted along with him.

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pulling the trigger anyway. There was no room for stupidity when hunting zombies. Better the woman die by shotgun spray than be turned by a zombie. He’d given her the gun because he’d had to, because he couldn’t leave her standing there unarmed, but he hadn’t expected her to jump into the battle with it, not after she had failed so miserably before.

  But then thrill seekers weren’t usually listed at the top of the dean’s list. They weren’t listed at all, because usually they were dead.

  The zombie seemed to sense someone was behind him. He lifted one hand and listed to one side as if preparing to turn.

  The muzzle flashed and a shot exploded in the night. Caleb tensed, sure the zombie would stagger the foot or so that separated him from the woman. He was too close. Caleb wouldn’t get there in time to stop his bite. And then Caleb would have one more zombie to kill—the thrill-seeking woman who didn’t have the sense to stay out of an alley filled with the living dead.

  The bullet sped through the zombie’s neck and came out his mouth. It kept going until it hit a fourth zombie, this one dressed in pants and a silk blouse. The bit of metal lodged in her shoulder. She jerked and stepped to one side, knocking into the second half of the old woman pair that Caleb had been sighting with his shotgun. This new pair staggered forward, their arms out like something out of a cut-rate Frankenstein flick.

  The teen zombie, the one the woman had shot, crumpled. Behind him, the woman in silver still stood. She looked calm now, in control. She lifted her gun again.

  “Get down,” she yelled. Then she fired.

  Granny number two flopped forward.

  Caleb glared at the woman who was downing his zombies with his gun, interrupting his hunt. “You get down,” he yelled back.

  The remaining zombie, the one in silk, oblivious to their disagreement, stepped over her fallen companion.

  Caleb pumped his shotgun and lifted it to his cheek. Then without knowing if the woman had listened to him or not, he fired.

  Samantha dropped to the ground seconds before the psycho hunter discharged his shotgun.

  While the blast still echoed down the alley, she hopped back to her feet. She was barely upright before two more explosions told her he was repeating the manic shooting he’d done before.

  Her hands shaking, she strode toward him.

  “They’re dead already,” she yelled. She knew she shouldn’t care, but she couldn’t help it.

  Caleb turned to face her. His eyes were unlike any man’s she’d seen before, golden, wild, but not insane; intriguing, she realized.

  “They’re zombies. Being dead doesn’t stop them,” he said.

  He lifted his foot and smashed his heavy boot into what was left of an older woman’s skull. Samantha turned her face to the side.

  He continued smashing and kicking, giving no sign he noticed the ungodly gore and its stench.

  Finally, he looked up at her. “Fair shot. Was it luck?”

  Fighting to keep from losing what little remained of her lunch, Samantha took a minute to reply. When she had focused enough to understand his question, she bristled. “Luck and guns don’t mix.” Her father had pounded that into her, that knowing how to fire a gun wasn’t enough. You had to have the skill to use it well, or you shouldn’t even pick one up. Anything less would just get you killed.

  Caleb stared at her for a second as if waiting for some further answer, then he grunted and held out his hand.

  His fingertips were square, as were his hands. There was strength in them, too. She’d never noticed a man’s hands before; it made her uncomfortable that she did now, while surrounded by death.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “My revolver,” he prompted.

  “Oh.” Carefully keeping her gaze from his hands, or any part of him, she removed the remaining ammunition, and handed him the weapon.

  He lifted a brow. Ruffled, she dumped the bullets into his hand, too.

  With a shake of his head, he immediately reloaded the weapon and slipped it into a leather holster that hung from his be
lt.

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Confused, she stood there for a second. Then she held up her hand and called, “Wait.” She might not like him, she might not trust him, he might, in fact, intimidate the hell out of her, but he was the only chance she had to save Allison.

  He kept walking.

  She glanced at the carnage. Swallowing to keep from throwing up again, she yelled, “There could be more.”

  He turned slowly and let out a breath laden with strained patience. “If there are they aren’t worth fighting. That last batch could barely stay upright.”

  She fought the need to squirm. She’d been proud of what she had done, that she hadn’t panicked, that she’d downed two of the four. And now he was telling her they hadn’t counted, had been no real challenge at all.

  “You’re welcome, by the way,” she murmured.

  He studied her for a second. She thought he was going to say something, ask her how she got here, why she hadn’t freaked when she’d seen the zombies, ask any number of reasonable questions in this unreasonable situation, but he didn’t. He just reached to the small of his back, pulled out her snub-nose revolver and set it on one of the few remaining clean patches of asphalt.

  Then he strode out of the alley.

  The woman still stood behind him surrounded by massacred zombies. Caleb would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was intrigued by her. Why was she here and how had she found the strength of mind to sneak up on that zombie and plug him in the brain pan? But regardless of his interest, Caleb didn’t mingle. Not with anyone.

  Sure, he had hookups with the occasional female. He wasn’t a zombie himself. But he didn’t get close, not emotionally.

  And somehow he guessed this woman wouldn’t be easy to set aside, wouldn’t be easy to forget, not if he let her get close.

  He could see her in his mind, standing ankle deep in zombie gore, his oversize pistol hanging at her side, and her silver coat pushed back to reveal her body-hugging black outfit. He had never seen anyone—in person, on a billboard, or in a pinup magazine—look even half as sexy.