Another Reason to Love Zombies: “There Is No Meritocracy Like the Living Death”

More revealed mayhem from the THE WRONG KIND OF DEAD

For those who are new to the world of the Dead Silencer, the Xenocider is the monster truck Derek Grace’s wife Dark Agnes drives, hence the need for a ladder to crawl up. The “bikes” are modified motorcycles belonging to the Moonshiners, a gang of smarter-than-average bikers who have thrived in the post apocalypse. As our clip opens, our intrepid z-fighters, monster truck and all, are getting ready to roll out into the thick of a zombie herd.

Agnes and I turn to go before the last of the bikes go by. We have to hurry, as the dead are still coming. I pull the ladder up behind me in time for a nimble-footed woman to pad up and snatch at it. There are enough of them now that our shooters can’t take them all out before they reach the road. Agnes starts the Xenocider, and I close the hatch. I put my headset on and buckle into my seat as we begin rolling up to the crest of the hill.

The sound of so many engines is punctuated with multiple single rifle reports. There’s the occasional splutter of one set to automatic, which makes me cringe for the expenditure of our finite supply of shells—as well as the necessity for using them. Brother Christopher’s men only fire on automatic when they absolutely, positively, have to clear some space to fight. When they’re seconds from being swarmed.

The roar of shotguns on either side of us makes me look to see if we’ve blown a tire. Not many ghouls reach the road, but Agnes is rolling over the ones that do, and we’re rocking hard enough to make me grateful for this harness.

After a slow start we crest the hill, looking down on the main commercial area of what used to be Black Forest. The herd of ghouls is reminiscent of the masses Deacon Sparks corralled into this area for his demonstration of weapons and tactics last year. Except where Sparks’ undead only got so far up this side of the ridge leading down to the Interstate, this massive clot of swaying, grasping, raging ex-humans is surging towards the turn for the road returning to the old golf clubhouse where Abundant Life has its headquarters.

Although the great bulk of the wanderers arriving from the north via the Interstate and the frontage road are homing in on the sound of our engines, I see groups of five and six peeling away from the herd to walk that long road. The ones leading the crews seem to know exactly where they’re going. A man in the rags of a suit leads one group. A woman in a gore-blackened gray sweatsuit leads another. There’s a big, burly thing taking his once-people down the road, and what looks like the leftovers of a 12-year-old girl drawing seven used-to-be adults behind her.

Even the ones among the leaders who limp from some pre- or post-mortem injury limp forward with undeniable purpose. There is no meritocracy like the living death.

The living dead either learn to find and subdue some struggling and violent living flesh, or they go hungry. That’s all. What’s not to love? Aside from us being on the menu, that is.

There’s loads more where this came from in my first two books. Just sayin’.

Book 1 has ONE exploding head
on its cover.

Book 2 has TWO exploding heads.
See the pattern here?

They’re also available in Canada and the UK.

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