The Gauntlet: Escape the Infected City in 12 Hours: Zombie Uprising, #2

By M.A. Robbins

One escape route. Twelve hours to get to it. Half a million zombies in the way. 

 

Jen Reed survived the zombie outbreak with a little luck and a lot of sarcasm. Now hundreds of miles away, she joins a government scientist studying the virus, but the pathogen finds them, and soon they're up to their necks in hungry walking corpses. To survive, they must travel through a zombie-infested city to catch the last plane out before the government drops a nuke to stem the epidemic.

 

Can Jen overcome a ticking clock, relentless zombies, and her own smart mouth to escape the city before it's turned into a radioactive crater?

 

The Gauntlet is the second book in the Zombie Uprising Series. If you like flesh-eating corpses, riveting action, and a lead character who doesn't take crap from anyone, you'll love The Gauntlet.

 

Buy The Gauntlet now, because you will be instantly transported into a fast-paced world of zombieness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cottage Street Press
• Release date: Jun 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227996800

Book preview

1

Officer Dan Brunell pulled his cruiser into the neatly paved parking lot of the Wasilla Mountain View Funeral Home. The only building in sight, it looked almost idyllic. Surrounded on three sides by birch and fir trees, the building had a front facade that made it look like a homey log cabin.

Dan stopped beside an Escalade with a short, balding man in a flannel shirt and jeans leaning on it. The man tossed a lit cigarette on the asphalt and ground it under his shoe as Dan strode over.

Mr. Greenberg. You report a burglar?

Abe Greenberg blew out a cloud of smoke and glanced at the front door of the funeral home. Sounds like it. I came in to pick up some papers, and before I could unlock the door, I heard a crash from inside. I waited, and there were more noises. Sounded like someone was tearing the place apart. They were loudest in the back.

Dan frowned and hitched his belt up. And there's no one else in there?

Greenberg shrugged. No one alive. Just one client in the back who arrived today. Did you know One-Eyed Jack?

That skinny old guy with a patch over an eye? The bartender at the Loon?

Greenberg nodded. The same. I already opened him up and did initial prep, so he damn sure ain't wandering around in there.

Dan sighed and keyed the microphone attached to his shoulder. Base, this is Officer Brunell. Made contact with the owner. I'm going to do an interior check.

Roger. Need backup?

Dan hesitated. His shift was over in a couple of hours, and his flight to Florida with Wendy and the kids was an hour and a half after that. He calculated how long he'd wait for backup, just to rouse some homeless guy who'd found an unlocked window. No backup at this time.

Roger. Make sure you check in at fifteen-minute intervals.

Roger that. Dan held a hand out. Keys.

Greenberg pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and dropped them in Dan's hand. The square gold one fits the front and back doors.

Dan nodded. You stay here. I'll get this guy out of your place. Won't take but a couple of minutes.

Dan walked to his cruiser and unlocked the shotgun mount. No need to take chances. The homeless guy could also be a meth head. He jacked a shell into the chamber and strode to the front door. Pausing, he pressed his ear against it. Nothing.

The key slid into the lock quietly enough, but when he turned it, the deadbolt made a loud clunk as it retracted.

He listened again. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he eased the door open and pointed the shotgun in the doorway.

The midnight sun only shined five feet into the entryway, leaving the rest of the lobby in shadows. Dan leaned in and flicked the light switches. Arched doorways to his left and right displayed empty viewing areas, and a closed door across the lobby led to the embalming room.

Muffled banging came from behind the door. Dan inched to the door. Something slammed into it, and he jumped back. Heart pounding, he waited.

The banging stopped, but someone on the other side breathed heavily. Dan thought to announce himself as a police officer, but his mouth had gone dry, and he couldn't work up enough spit.

This is so not what I need tonight.

The breathing sounded close. The damn guy had to be inches from Dan, with just the door between them. A low, guttural growl vibrated through the door.

What the hell? Sounds like a damn animal.

Dan backed away. Protocol required him to call for backup. He glanced at his watch. An hour until shift end. Backup would probably take most of that time. Vacation.

Screw it, he said. My shotgun will take down any human or animal.

He crept to the door. Keeping his shotgun pointed forward, he pulled the door open, and a chemical smell smacked him in the face. He sneezed. Light glinted off the empty steel embalming table in the middle of the large room, but most of the room remained in darkness. Dan swept the shotgun barrel from left to right. Nothing moved. What the hell?

Keeping his feet planted outside of the room he reached in and fumbled along the wall for the light switch. His hand grazed something cold and smooth, and he jerked it back. A shiver ran the length of his spine. He took a deep breath. Stop spooking yourself.

He pulled out a flashlight, switched it on, and trained the beam on the wall to his right. The light switch sat right where he expected, and a metal case stood just beneath it. A cold, smooth metal case.

He scoffed at his skittishness and flicked on the light. The room looked like a tornado had hit it, with papers strewn about, tables toppled, and instruments scattered over the floor.

A naked man stood in the corner, his back to Dan. This is no homeless guy. This asshole's high on something.

Dan pointed the gun at the man's back. Police. Turn around slowly.

The man's head tilted to one side, then he shuffled back a step. A long, slow growl came from deep in his chest.

What the hell have I gotten into? He keyed his mic. Base, this is Brunell. Request immediate back⁠—

The naked man turned and sprung at Dan in one fluid motion. Dan threw up his hands and managed to push the attacker to the side. The naked man crashed into the metal case, shattering its glass front, and bounced to the floor.

The radio squawked. Officer Brunell. Repeat.

Dan aimed the shotgun at the man. Another move like that and I'll blow a hole through you.

The man pulled himself to his feet and faced him. Dan gasped. The drugged-out man before him was One-Eyed Jack, his patch missing and his empty eye socket seeming to gape at him. And his one eye. It's yellow? What the hell's with that?

Jack straightened and bared his teeth at Dan. Rough stitches formed a Y over his chest and stomach. This can't be real. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

Officer Brunell. What's your status?

Dan keyed his mic but didn't know what to say. He muttered, Help.

Jack tilted his head back and let loose with a shriek that made Dan cringe. Dan aimed at Jack's chest. Jack crouched as if he were about to spring again, and Dan pulled the trigger. The pellets hit Jack's chest dead center, knocking him onto his back.

Dan's training kicked in. He pressed the mic button. Base, this is Brunell. Need immediate backup. Suspect down.

Roger. What's suspect's condition?

Oh, hell. What do I say to that? He's dead, but he attacked me anyway?

Jack pulled himself up and into a crouch, then leapt at Dan, knocking him back through the doorway and on his ass. Jack landed on him and drove him to the floor. The shotgun skittered across the entryway, and Dan held Jack back by grabbing his skinny upper arms and locking his elbows.

Jack snarled and pressed on Dan, snapping his jaws at his face. Dan rolled to the side and threw Jack into the wall. He scrambled to his feet as Jack sprung at him again. For a skinny little shit, One-Eye had a lot of energy.

Jack went for Dan's neck, but Dan grabbed his arms again. Jack strained forward, his mouth opening and closing, teeth clacking, and yellow eye glistening.

Dan's sweaty hands slipped. One-Eye got closer and closer. Dan let go with one hand and tried to flip Jack away, but Jack grabbed the arm that held him and sank his teeth into the bicep.

Dan screamed as flesh and muscle were torn from his arm and swallowed by the dead bartender. He struggled to get away but became weaker every second as his blood puddled on the floor and Jack ravaged his arm.

Within a minute, the pain dulled and he could no longer move. He lay there, listening to One-Eye snacking on his arm. His last thoughts were of his family and the vacation they'd never have.

2

Jen opened her eyes.

What happened? Where am I?

She took a deep breath. A rush of nausea flooded her stomach, but she lay still and it eased. She found herself staring at an unlit light fixture on a ceiling.

Dull yellow light shined from her left, and she turned toward it. A small desk and chair with a lamp sat against the wall.

She eased herself into a sitting position, her stomach roiling, and surveyed the room. The dim light didn't reach the corners, but she made out two doors and a small refrigerator next to the desk.

What the hell? No windows?

She searched her memory, thinking she had been at one hell of a party the night before. Maybe she'd passed out and was still there.

But then the memories flooded in. The village. The pit. The zombies, the blood, the gore.

Her dad.

Where is he?

Groggy, she swung her feet to the floor and caught herself as she almost kept going. Too unsteady to get up, she just sat there.

What's the last thing I remember?

The helicopter. The guardsmen helped Dad to it and strapped me in.

Beyond that, she drew a blank.

She took another deep breath and rose, steadying herself with her hand on the wall. One of the doors was near the foot of her bed, so she shuffled to it, figuring if she fell she could land on the bed.

She grasped the knob and eased the door open, then fumbled for a light switch. Bright white luminescent light blinded her, and she stepped backward before clutching the doorway. Her eyes adjusted and before her was a bathroom. Not a homey, fluffy-rug type of bathroom, but an institutional one. One with sparkling chrome fixtures, tile floors, and the stinging aroma of disinfectant.

She stumbled to the toilet, stepping as fast as she could. Damn floor's made of ice.

She dropped her pants and sat. No underwear. The pants and shirt had the same washed-out blue color.

That's it. I'm in a hospital. But where?

She finished, pulled up her pants and tied the string in front. After washing her hands, she splashed some water on her face.

Better.

She wandered into the bedroom and over to the other door, where she flicked the light switch on the wall. An LED overhead light shined, chasing away the shadows and bringing out the drab white-greenish colors of the walls and ceiling.

Time to see where I am. She grasped the doorknob and twisted, but it didn't budge. Jiggling it didn't help. She examined the knob, but there was no locking mechanism visible. The damn thing's locked from the outside.

She knocked on the door. Hey. Anyone there? Can you hear me?

No answer. She pressed her ear to the door, but heard nothing. What the hell?

She banged her fists against the door. Hey! Open up! I'm awake.

Nothing. Was she in a military hospital? Quarantine?

She kicked the door, stubbing her toe. Shit!

Hopping to the bed, she squeezed her eyes tight and repeated, Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

She plopped onto the bed and held her foot, rocking back and forth. Five minutes later, the pain had dropped to a dull ache and she examined the room in the full light. A mounted TV hung in an upper corner, its screen black. Besides the bed, desk, chair, and small refrigerator, the room was devoid of any other furniture. No dresser or closet. Where were her clothes?

She limped to the desk and opened the refrigerator. Bottles of water and cans of soda lined the door and filled the racks. She shrugged, pulled out a can of soda, and popped it open. After gulping down half the can, she let out a deep belch and noticed a remote control on the desk. She picked it up and sat on the bed, taking another swig of soda. Pointing the remote at the TV, she pressed the power button and the TV popped on, displaying a national news channel.

Jen brought up the channel listing and looked up the lower number channels. Sure enough, they were local channels she recognized. She was in Anchorage. She smiled. Just call me Sherlock.

The date and time on the channel listing showed it was just after 7 a.m. the day after she and her dad had fled Point Wallace.

Metal sliding into metal caught her attention. A click came from the door and it opened. A muscular thirty-something man in khaki pants and a polo shirt that accentuated his large biceps stood in the doorway. He reminded her of a younger Mike Tyson. His eyes met hers and something in them told her he wasn't anyone to mess with. He stepped into the room and to the side, and a large woman in a dirty white apron puttered in and placed a tray on the desk. She turned and left, never looking at Jen.

Jen jumped up. Wait. Where am I? Who are you?

The muscular man glanced her way, stone-faced, then stepped through the doorway. A short, older man in a suit stepped up beside him and stared at her, his arms crossed. His eyes creeped her out. Sunken into the shadows of his sockets, they stared emotionlessly at her as if they were independent beings. Jen stumbled toward him, but he closed the door before she made it. The click on the locking mechanism caused her heart to drop, but she tried the knob anyway. When it didn't move, she pounded the door with a fist. Talk to me, dammit! Why am I a prisoner? Where's my dad?

She pressed her ear to the door. The sound of a squeaky wheel moved farther away and disappeared.

Shit! She stomped to the bed and dropped onto it, folding her arms. How could someone treat someone else this way?

The smell of bacon filled the room, and her stomach grumbled. She approached the tray on the desk. It had a cup of coffee, creamer, sugar, a glass of orange juice, napkins, silverware, and a covered plate. She removed the cover and breathed in the aroma. Bacon and scrambled eggs, with toast.

Ravenous, she cleaned the plate off within minutes. At least they weren't going to starve her.

Picking up the remote, she sat back in the chair and brought up a local news channel. The screen showed a close-up of the news anchor. Reports are still incomplete about the fire that devastated the small northwestern Alaskan village of Point Wallace.

The feed switched to video of helicopters landing on the Point Wallace airstrip. They looked just like the helicopter that had picked up her and her dad. The governor has called up the Alaska National Guard to assist with the search for missing villagers. So far there are no reported survivors. Another shot displayed the guardsmen deploying from the helicopters. We'll stay on top of this story and bring you updates as they occur.

Wait. Those guardsmen all carried M-4 carbines. Why would they need those for search and rescue?

She jumped up and paced the room. They weren't telling the public everything. How many of the zombies survived? Bile rose in the back of her throat. Maybe the fire hadn't wiped them out.

Four hours later, she sat on the bed flipping through channels