The Reckoning: Epic Final Battle Between the Living and the Dead: Zombie Uprising, #5

By M.A. Robbins

She fought the zombies. She survived the virus. But will the dark side of humanity take her down for good?

 

Jen Reed found love and purpose in the apocalypse. When the zombie virus mixed with an experimental serum in her blood, she also discovered the power to control the undead. But when the shadow government vows to use her abilities to take down its enemies, she and her remaining friends become easy targets…

 

Desperate to escape government agents and former allies out for blood, Jen's only hope may lie in exposing the nation's leaders for who they really are. As tragedy and betrayal strike yet again, she must somehow find the will to raise her own flesh-craving army.

 

Can she stop a well-trained militia before everyone she loves joins the walking dead?

 

The Reckoning is the powerful conclusion to the Zombie Uprising post-apocalyptic series. If you like blood-soaked action, chilling twists, and tenacious heroines, then you'll love M.A. Robbins' dark and delicious novel.

 

Buy The Reckoning today to watch the undead rise to a whole new level!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cottage Street Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227256829

Book preview

1

Jen grimaced as she swallowed a cold forkful of scrambled eggs. How do you screw up something so simple?

The attendant at the motel dining room stuck his head in the door and flashed a smile. How’s everything? he asked in a chirpy voice. He looked at her as if he could see through her mirror sunglasses. If that were true, it’d wipe that smile off his face.

She nodded to his question. Fine. Got any hot sauce?

Smile still pasted on his late-teen face, the attendant hustled to her table and pulled a small bottle of Tabasco sauce from his apron. Without another word, he disappeared through the door.

Jen sighed and splashed the sauce over her eggs. A commercial ended on the TV and the news came back on. Jen shifted her attention to the large screen on the wall.

The war against the undead suffered a severe setback overnight, the grim-faced, perfectly coiffed news anchor said into the camera. A map of the United States was displayed behind him, a red line bisecting the country through Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico.

This was the front line yesterday, the talking head said. The image changed with the red line moved out to eastern Colorado. With Denver’s fall in a massive zombie assault last night, our troops are in retreat to Kansas.

Shit, Jen said.

A chair next to her squealed and she jumped. D-Day plopped onto the seat and placed a tray on the table. He gazed over the empty room. Not their busy season, is it? He nodded at the TV. Does that say what I think it does?

Jen watched as D-Day shoveled a whole sausage into his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed and he made a satisfied rumble in his throat.

Jen rolled her eyes. Guy can eat anything.

We need to get a damn disposable phone, she said. I left Zeke and Wayne hanging. They don’t know what’s going on.

D-Day wiped his mouth with a napkin. We’ll do that first thing. There was too much military activity on the road last night to stop anywhere. We need to be careful.

All they know is we’re heading toward Colorado, Jen said. Couldn’t talk once Zeke told me about some new Homeland Security agents that were sitting near them. Couldn’t take the chance on the wrong person finding out where we were.

And their destination was changed from Atlanta to Pittsburgh and no one told them why, D-Day said. There’s something going on.

Jen took a swig of her orange juice and placed the glass on the table. They’re in danger. I just know it. Just like I know the government would be on us like flies on shit the minute I used my government phone.

They can take care of themselves. D-Day gestured to the TV screen. Looks like Butler’s going to come to us if we wait for him.

The screen switched to a commercial from Homeland Security. A woman in hair rollers and with a shotgun explained how to detect and report zombie activity.

We’re in what, eastern Missouri? Jen asked.

D-Day nodded. Sikeston.

She dropped her fork on her plate and sat back. We have to go to Butler, not wait for him. There are too many people between the horde and us. Too many that’ll die.

Can’t we just find a leader so you can touch it and talk to Butler?

I don’t know, she said. Every communication through a leader has been Butler contacting me. Don’t you remember that one we ran into just before we left Georgia? Couldn’t get shit out of it.

Maybe you weren’t close enough to Butler. We’re hundreds of miles closer to him now and he’s heading this way.

Jen shrugged. Worth a try. I had a few numbness episodes overnight, but none lasted long. They must be getting killed as soon as they turn.

D-Day pushed his plate forward. We’ll need to top off the gas tank before we go anywhere. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. Saw a convenience store with fuel pumps nearby when we pulled in last night. We can pick up a phone there, too.

Jen emptied her orange juice and stood. Let’s do it.

D-Day started the Harley. Black smoke chugged from the exhaust as it rumbled to life. He motioned for Jen to get on, and she wedged herself between him and the sissy bar. Wish we’d kept the sidecar, she said into his ear. This seat hurts my ass after a half hour.

A sidecar limits our maneuverability and uses more gas, D-Day said. Besides, you’ll get your own bike as soon as we find a decent one we can steal.

Jen put her arms around him and propped her feet on the passenger foot pegs. I’ve never ridden a bike on my own.

D-Day tilted his head back and laughed. You ride four-wheelers and snowmobiles, you can ride a bike. He accelerated and rode around the motel, then pulled onto an empty Highway 62. Almost immediately, a convenience store came up on the right. He pulled in, stopped at the pumps out front, and turned off the engine.

Jen squeezed herself out from behind the burly biker and walked up to the closest pump. She jiggled a padlock on the nozzle. Locked.

A ding came from the convenience store and a twenty-something man in dirty jeans and a blue T-shirt that had seen better days sauntered toward them. Jen automatically adjusted her sunglasses to make sure they were secure on her face.

Sorry, the man said. Gas is only for those with ration vouchers, law enforcement, or government officials. He took a wide stance next to the pump and folded his arms. A pistol was strapped to his side.

Then we’re just the folks you can help. Jen reached into her back pocket and the man’s hand went to his pistol grip.

Jen froze. Just getting my ID.

The man glanced from Jen to D-Day, and back again. Go ahead. His hand didn’t leave the pistol.

Jen drew her ID and held it up. Homeland Security.

The man squinted, then nodded. He pointed at D-Day. Him, too?

She nodded.

The man’s shoulders lost all their tension and he gave her a smile. Sorry for the caution. Had a station in the next town last week where an attendant was murdered. Sumbitches wanted the gas.

D-Day unscrewed the Harley’s gas cap. How about that lock?

Oh, yeah, the man said. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys.

Jen nodded at the convenience store. I’m going to pick up a few things. Need anything?

Could use a cold one, D-Day said.

Any particular brand? she asked.

The gas attendant pulled the padlock off of a pump. Here ya go.

D-Day grabbed the gas nozzle. Get me anything that’s not light.

Jen smiled. You’ve got it.

She crossed from the fuel pump island to the convenience store and pushed the glass door open, causing another high-pitched ding.

Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the store. Small and packed with goods, it looked like any of the thousands of stores across America. The glow from overhead lights bleached everything out, making it harder for Jen to see any detail through her sunglasses.

She picked up a small bag of chips from a display in front of her and noticed an older man behind the counter with his eyes locked on her.

Creepy.

She walked up to him and stared back. Where can I find the beer?

His gaze never wavered as he pointed behind her. Fridge on the back wall.

And a disposable phone?

Got ‘em right under here. He patted the counter. Remind me when you cash out and I’ll fish one out for you.

The door dinged and the attendant walked in. Jen made her way down an aisle between displays of pastries and cookies on one side and magazines on the other.

She pulled the fridge door open and studied the beer singles.

Mumbling came from the register, and she glanced over at the attendant and old man speaking in hushed tones. The attendant pointed toward the pumps and the old man shook his head and jerked a thumb at a corkboard on the wall. He then shooed the attendant out of the store.

As she turned back to the fridge, a sharp pain stabbed Jen’s gut, and bile rose in her throat. She put a hand on the door handle and steadied herself. Zombie. Somewhere close.

She grabbed a sixteen ounce can of beer and turned. Need to get to it before it’s killed.

Catching a flash out of the corner of her eye, she stood on her tiptoes and watched the old man disappear behind a door marked Employees Only.

Are you shitting me? She trudged to the counter and placed the beer and chips down. Held up by an old man’s bladder.

A muffled voice vibrated through the wall. Jen cocked her head. It was the old man, but wasn’t clear enough for her to make out any words. He does seem excited, though. What the hell is he up to in the bathroom?

She gazed out the window. The young guy had engaged D-Day in conversation. The biker stood with his arms crossed, and nodded.

Come on, old man. Got to go.

Her gaze drifted to the counter. The old guy had left a half cup of black coffee and an open hunting magazine by his seat. Cigars and cigarettes spanned the display case on the wall, well out of reach of any light-fingered customer. Jen leaned over the counter to see where the phones were. A freaking padlocked drawer?

Fishing in her pocket for some bills, she plopped a ten on the counter. Dammit. I’m just going to leave the money. We’ll get the phone somewhere else.

She picked up the beer and chips and turned to leave, glancing at the corkboard the old man had been pointing at earlier. She stopped. The fuck?

A poster was pinned on the upper middle of the board. A Wanted Poster. Jen’s black-and-white eyes stared back at her from it.

Son of a bitch.

She tore the poster from the board and examined it. The picture was the one on her Homeland Security ID. Ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest of Jennifer Reed, she read. Do not approach. Consider her armed and dangerous.

Time to go. She folded the poster, stuck it in her pocket, and picked up the beer and chips. The Employees Only door slammed open and the old man stood there, a shotgun pointed at her gut.

His face chiseled in stone, he aimed down the barrel. Don’t move.

2

Zeke yawned and his gaze fell on Wayne snoozing next to him at the back of the nearly empty train car.

Oh, yeah.

Two Homeland Security agents sat up front across the aisle from a sleeping Dr. Preston. The larger agent, Dickson, turned around and stared at Zeke. He had a phone to his ear and nodded before facing forward. The other agent, a slim older man with a bald head and a permanent scowl, leaned in to Dickson and said something Zeke couldn’t hear.

Wayne stirred next to him. How far out are we? he muttered.

Zeke looked out the window. I asked Dickson a few minutes ago. He said Pittsburgh’s not far.

Wayne straightened and scratched his head. He pulled his phone from