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Bone Hunter

 

 

 

 

Bone

Hunter

 

 

 

 

A SHORT STORY IN THE

DARK OF DAWN

SERIES

 

 

Sebastien Woolf

By Sebastien Woolf

 

DARK OF DAWN

4 Horsemen

Island of the Dammed

Evil’s Legacy

  • * *

DARK OF DAWN SHORT STORIES

Warrior Princess

Bone Hunter

Goth Squad

4th and Dead

Dead Fare

  • * *

 

 

 

 

First published 2016

Copyright © [+ Harem Scarem Publishing+] 2016

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

 

Cover art by jimmygibbs

 

All rights reserved.

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

Shakespir Electronic Edition, License Notes

 

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Shakespir.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

Discover other titles by Sebastien Woolf

www.darkofdawn.com/books

 

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View the Dark of Dawn book trailer

https://vimeo.com/151724193

 

 

Dedicated to the aching bones of those tragic souls who helped trap the pain inside my head just long enough for it to explode into a million pieces of inspiration – a splatter of ink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Bone Hunter Chapters

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p<>{color:#000;}. The Reaper

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p<>{color:#000;}. Dawn Blood

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p<>{color:#000;}. Head Start

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p<>{color:#000;}. Fury’s Page

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p<>{color:#000;}. Eye In the Wind

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p<>{color:#000;}. Ashes In the Night

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p<>{color:#000;}. The Black Crow

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p<>{color:#000;}. Valhalla

Epilogue

 

 

1

The Reaper

Late afternoon light cast a shadow across the empty street. The city was up to her old tricks again, silhouettes and shapes, illusions and visions. A brisk wind gusted across the sidewalk, an icy breeze with a vicious bite to it which rustled a few discarded newspapers that lay scattered next to an abandoned newsstand.

Tugging at the strap the man in the shadows pulled the goggles down from the top of his tactical helmet so they covered his eyes once again, providing him instant relief from the cold wind. He squinted down the short barrel of his handgun, gained a bead on a shuffling silhouette ahead of him and closed an eye. Allowed the small teardrop that had formed on his eyelid from the fresh breeze to slowly trickle down onto his cheek.

The gun kicked slightly in his hand.

A body fell to the ground.

Like a wolf on a full moon’s night, the breeze howled wildly up the street, barking at his heels muffling the sound of the gunshot. As he stared blankly at the corpse laying motionless on the sidewalk opposite, a steady stream of blood ran through the cracks and over the curb into the gutter.

Sliding the .22-Calibre Rimfire pistol into the holster at his hip, he pulled the black fixed blade knife from a belted sheath hanging next to it. The ten inch long serrated blade made it the ideal hand-to-hand combat weapon, perfect too for cutting through bone and sinew, necessary when removing a head from its body.

Vertebrate crunched as the blade cut hard, it required a bit of muscle, but eventually with a popping sound the head came clean off. The man paused for a moment eyeballing it in a Hamlet-like pose, holding it out in front of him. Alas poor… soul, he recited in his head, causing half a smile, more a smirk to curl up on one side of his mouth. Allowing the dead head to roll off his open palm it fell to the ground with a splat.

Newspapers danced on the sidewalk in the breeze, pirouetting and promenading gracefully. It was starting to get dark, gloomy and overcast with grey rain sodden clouds building up in the distance, rumbling forward on the wind. A dart of lightening and a crack of thunder announced the storm’s imminent arrival.

Sheathing his knife the man reached for his rifle which was slung loosely over his right shoulder. He knew better than anyone in this Godforsaken city, the importance of always being armed for danger lurked at every vantage point and in every shadow. It needed no further invitation.

A loud whistle was followed by the sound of panting.

“Good boy,” he said, patting his companion on the top of its head. “Let’s go hunker down. It’s gunna be a wet and wild night.”

There was no other movement on the street aside from the flapping of paper in the wind and a few tin cans that rolled along the sidewalk, clattering loudly as they gained momentum. The storm front growled overhead as it bore down rapidly, menacingly on the wastelands.

SPAM!

Peeling back the top of the can the man savored the aroma of the processed pork shoulder. It was far from an ideal entrée but he wolfed down as much as he could stomach before tossing several slices to his companion. He smiled as the Rhodesian Ridgeback devoured it greedily.

The dog curled up next his master, it’s sleek, glossy brown coat shimmered in the candlelight. They made fitting companions, both imposing, athletic and muscular, yet sensitive and loyal. The man’s rugged, calloused hand stroked the solid head of the hound as he finished cooking his evening meal.

Blue flame flickered from the small gas burner on the floor in front of him, heating the contents of a grey tin cup. Bubbling away was yet another scavenged meal, a stew of sorts combining tinned spaghetti, dried stale crackers and freshly picked herbs which tasted quite foul, but it was nutritious nonetheless.

All through the night the storm raged, viciously assaulting the wastelands and all who remained there. An unrelenting barrage of rain and sleet pelted the pavement outside as man and beast lay sleeping.

Dawn broke and with it the heavenly assault finally abated. Heavy cloud cover remained and with it a bitterly cold, biting wind that swirled around the abandoned city as if it were the breath of an angry God. Pulling on his Garmont lightweight boots the man laced them tight, tying them in a doubly slipped reef-knot with a half hitch – standard shoe tie. Pulled on a sweater, slipped a nylon camouflage poncho over the top then reached for his rifle.

“C’mon boy, it’s time to go to work,” he said in a husky, morning voice patting his companion on his black muzzle. “There’s vermin out on the streets already today, I can smell them.”

Wind whistled by the alcove disturbing the man’s poncho as it roared down the street, ruffling the line of hair that ran along the dog’s back. It was a cold, bleak, inhospitable morning, grey and uninviting.

Shifting cloud cast dark ominous shadows over the landscape below, seemingly giving sinister life to everything around. Shapes moved deep within the shadows, shuffling, and creeping, playing hide and seek. Distinguishing what was real and what was merely a figment of one’s vast and wild imagination, was both an art and a survival technique that was nothing short of essential out here in the badlands.

2

Dawn Blood

Amidst the sound of the wind the cough of the silencer went unnoticed as it belched forth its death sentence. A shape shifted in the shadows, stumbled forward then fell to its knees slumping over itself in a hideously contorted pose. Dead as dead could possibly be in its absolute final form.

The man blinked, stared and blinked again. He had been here before and had seen it time and time again. For him it was a déjà vu feeling, a strange kind of sensation that came to him at the most peculiar of times – the same creature, muffled gunshot, the finality of death, it was a scene that was on constant repeat.

At this range his M24 sniper rifle was accurate to a within an inch, capable of taking out any creature with a single shot. His aim was true on almost every occasion, but this was not a sideshow gallery where he was aiming to win a prize, it was a game with much greater ramifications. He cursed himself when he was even slightly off.

Crouching he took a bead on another shape close to the fallen corpse, went through his four step breathing routine, mentally took the shot then depressed the trigger. Instantly the dark figure collapsed in a heap in the same way they all did into a twisted, pathetic pile of reanimated human remains.

Pulling the ten inch serrated blade from the sheath on his belt he then systematically set about dismembering the corpses. Removing the head from the body gave him definitive proof that the creature would not ever rise to kill again. This ritual of confirming the kill was one that helped keep him alive, it was part of his ‘code’.

Mid-morning and the streets were already awash with the undead. Their numbers had swelled of late and the man had his work cut out for him today in this particular sector of the city. He took solace in the fact that he was doing his part to rid the world of this menace, culling, killing, liberating – whatever name anyone cared to give it.

Crouching low behind an abandoned Mini Cooper the man prepared for an all out assault on the undead. Checked his magazines knowing they were full, another of his ‘codes’, this one all about preparedness. He lived by simple rules, each one designed to keep him and his trusted companion alive through these dark days, through this post-apocalyptic hell.

“We’ve got company boy,” he said, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Keep your eyes out for more while I take care of this lot. Ok fella?”

Wind howled again, rustling the camouflage poncho that protected him from the cold. Light items of debris on the road swirled and danced before resettling, only to be uplifted once again and carried off into the distance.

Click!

Silencer coughed again.

One by one the creatures fell, picked off at will by this expert marksman. The man was indeed a deadly shot, landing almost every bullet in the same spot in each of his long-range kills. Blood oozed from tiny holes in each victim’s forehead, gaping holes appearing at that back of their skulls as the specially designed missiles did all their damage on exit.

Shell casings littered the ground next to him, expelled as each bullet took a life. He believed it to be a fair exchange. He did not value the lives of these creatures highly at all. As far as he was concerned they were the scourge of the earth, a plague that infested the wastelands of this once beautiful city. An evil that simply had to be stopped.

Judge, jury and executioner, that was how he saw himself, for he was alone out here and these were his streets – this was his code and these were his rules. There was a single purpose to his daily routine, unlike any other he had experienced in his rather mundane existence before the turn. He was the Reaper, administering justice in his own way, sending these abominations back to the hell from whence they came.

Holding his position he waited in the wind, scouring the landscape ahead searching for signs of movement. The way ahead was all clear, nothing else moved amidst the carnage aside from the steady trickle of blood that ran from open wounds onto the dirty grey bitumen.

A bark alerted the man.

“What is it boy, do you hear something?”

Another bark, slightly muffled by the guttural howl of the wind indicated the direction of the threat. A growl followed as the dog bared its fangs giving a vicious snarl.

Propping himself up against the vehicle the man rocked back on his haunches, before spinning around on his heels to face the danger. Two creatures, close enough to see the froth of saliva bubbling from the corner of their mouths, a man and a woman. Close now, too close.

“Good boy!”

Dropping his knife he hastily reached behind him to pull his most favored weapon out from his pack, a Mossberg 500 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. Sleek, black, shiny and beautiful, he caressed it carefully with both hands. Time on the road had proven to him that a shotgun was always deadly up to twenty yards against the undead, the perfect weapon at such close range. Raising his weapon he pointed it in the direction of the incoming creatures.

Gun powder burned the shirt of the first creature as the bullet entered its chest, shattering breastbone, rupturing vital organs. A large, gaping hole appeared in its back, as muscles and soft tissue were torn to shreds. Without lungs and heart functioning the creature heaved uncontrollably, blood streaming from its mouth and nose. Still, inconceivably, it continued on.

Close now, the second shot burned flesh as the bullet entered its skull, ripping through cranium. In just a fraction of a second, the undead male collapsed to the ground, its brain having stopped functioning almost immediately.

A series of barks reminded him that there was still one more to go. Realising his master was in danger the muscular dog lunged forward, sinking its huge jaws around the leg of the advancing creature, slowing the female form in her advance. Long, bony fingers grasped at the dog in a desperate attempt to free itself from the bite, to no avail.

Getting to his feet the man pumped the shotgun, took a step closer to the creature, placed the barrel to her head and smirked. “Lights out bitch!” he said, with utter contempt. Her head simply exploded into a million pieces as the force of the shotgun pellets at point blank range completely demolished her skull and everything in it. Blood splattered everywhere.

Sliding back down to a crouch the man ripped a piece of shirt from the dead man and wiped the blood from his weapon and face. Reaching under his poncho into his shirt pocket, removed a bag of dried dog biscuits and passed a fistful to his companion.

“Good boy,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you mate, you saved my arse yet again.”

Setting about with knife in hand the man decapitate the corpses on the road, removing any chance of resurrection. These creatures had already risen once from the dead, he would not allow them a further opportunity to live again. ‘Code’.

Many times he thought about taking a souvenir from each creature, a tooth, finger, piece of bone, but there were simply too many of them for him to even entertain the thought much at all. He had no idea of his body count, possibly now well into the thousands but he did not care much for numbers. Each kill represented one less threat on the streets, his streets and that was all that mattered to him.

He was the Reaper!

3

Head Start

Sharp blades scythed across his scalp as the man pulled the razor over his skin, shaved his head bald again. He loved the smooth feel of a hairless cranium, tt was low maintenance and just so much easier to manage. Icy cold water splashed, causing him to shiver as it washed soap and remnants of whiskers away.

It was another cold bleak night in the city, brisk wind and heavy rain lashing the empty streets. Safely tucked away in their shelter out of the reach of the worsening storm, man and companion remained warm and snug.

Inside all was quiet, aside from the consistent pelting of raindrops on the window pane. The man was at ease in silence, it comforted him, gave him time to think and time to reminisce. He chewed over his losses and his life like cud, regurgitating many deep-seated emotions, feelings and unresolved pain which constantly cut him to the core.

Memories haunted him, flashbacks and horrid nightmares often kept him awake at night, tormenting him at every turn. Mental montages came in waves mainly images of his family who, for intense and purpose in his mind were still living, breathing and very much alive. He could hear their voices as the sounds of laughter echoed loudly inside his head. They were so close, he felt that he could touch them, hold them.

The nightmares always ended the same way, a blood-red color eventually tainting the visions in his dream state, every loved one slowly, hideously transforming into a ghastly creature. The sharpness of each image burned as a vivid reminder of a past filled with hurt and a pain that had become almost unbearable to live with.

As strong as he was the man often succumbed to his emotions, struggling with the memories of everything and everyone he had lost since the turn. With only his companion as witness to his angst, not for the first time he curled up in a ball and whimpered alone in the dead of night.

Sunlight broke through the clouds, causing the man to lift the goggles on his tactical helmet in order to see through the glare. Rubbed his eyes with his Kevlar leather gloves, refocusing immediately on the road ahead.

“Where are they boy, can you see them?”

Panting.

“Come on buddy, we can’t have lost the buggers.”

They had been tracking a swarm of creatures all morning, moving like a pack of lions silently hunting their prey, carefully staying downwind and out of eyesight. Advancing cautiously through abandoned vehicles so as to not make a sound, they took detours when necessary in order to remain invisible.

Whilst the swarm was out of eyesight he knew they were there, somewhere up ahead on the road meandering and shuffling along. The man had been reluctant to open fire on them until he had found the right location to launch such an assault and stay protected at the same time. There were too many to simply charge in and take them all out in one round, this was going to take a concerted effort and much concentration.

Snarl!

“Gotcha boy, I see them too. Now we’re almost set, just need to get in front of them now and take them down as they come to us. C’mon boy, we’ll shoot down here.”

Through an empty department store they ran, passing by jewelry and perfume displays, running though menswear, eventually spilling out into the rear carpark through the outdoor furniture department. Cutting left they sprinted hard towards the road at the end of a long dark alley, stopped, propped, turned then bolted towards a restaurant on the other side of the street. Tearing up the stairs the man crouched down and took up position on the alfresco dining balcony.

“Perfect,” he said, as together they panted and caught their breath.

Pulling the light backpack from his shoulders he reached inside, withdrew several full magazines and placed them in a neat row against the low Perspex wall. Placing a pair of binoculars to his eyes to survey the road, studied the formation of the swarm and quickly formulated a plan of attack.

“Here they come,” he whispered, turning to wink at his companion.

Readying his sniper rifle he went through his regular routines ensuring he followed his ‘code’. Maintaining tremendous concentration he peered though the scope towards the incoming throng of creatures and took aim, pictured the first shot in his mind then took it.

Bodies began to fall everywhere as the man with the steady aim picked them off one by one from his secluded vantage point on the restaurant balcony. Shell casings clattered to the ground all around him, creating a brass timpani that beat in time with the falling corpses.

Numbers rarely mattered to him, this was not why he did what he did on the deserted streets each and every day. His focus was simply eradicating the vermin – an exterminator would never stop to count the cockroaches, nor should he. He was the Reaper!

Suddenly, unexpectedly the swarm broke into two and separated, the breakaway mob veering away and disappearing down an alleyway. The larger group continued forward, shuffling aimlessly through the carnage around them, oblivious to the fate that awaited them. Slightly confused and concerned he might lose control of the situation, the man accelerated the cull by firing at a much more rapid rate.

Blood trickled from bullet wounds in foreheads as more and more of the undead met their doom to a barrage of 175-grain hollow point rounds. It was, as always a one-sided affair with the man easily gaining the upper hand. He decimated the gathering on the road before him in no time at all, reducing this part of the swarm to nothing more than a handful of stragglers.

“Time to move buddy,” he said, quickly stuffing magazines and supplies back into his pack.

Making their way down the stairs onto the road the man slid his rifle into a custom made pouch on his backpack and unclipped two ice axes from his belt. Their titanium shafts and steel heads made them ideal melee weapons when facing individual stragglers or small groups, allowing him to conserve ammunition.

In two bounds he reached the first creature, rising up high in a leaping attack he slammed his weapons down hard, burying one of the picks deep into its skull. Blood burst from the open wound, erupting like a volcano high into the air. The next creature to lunge at him met with a similar fate. Life was extinguished immediately as the second lightweight weapon that he wielded with so much precision pierced through the temple above the right eye.

In a flash it was over. Nothing moved save for a weeds on the sidewalk seemingly applauding as they bobbed and weaved in the wind. Turning his head to the alleyway the man cut an ominous figure on the road as he stared intently in the direction the breakaway mob had headed.

“Sick ‘em!”

With a sharp bark the dog bolted into the dark, its footsteps clattering as it bounded along the cobblestones. The man followed, walking at a steady pace ringing the blood from the end of his ice axes as he went.

From somewhere nearby a scream rang out. It was human.

A survivor!

Startled, the man froze, immediately pushing his back flat to the back wall inside the alleyway. As he pulled the goggles up to the top of his tactical helmet in order to see better in the shadows he gave a shiver, it was cool in the dark. His companion stood up ahead in the light, snarling.

Another scream, then silence.

Moaning followed.

A quick headcount revealed eight creatures on their knees devouring a fresh kill. The man dispensed with the undead quickly and efficiently in a surprise attack from behind.

He ascertained that the poor soul sating their hunger was a young lad, probably in his early twenties, lean build and tall with a mop of scruffy blonde hair on his head. Wearing jeans and a hoody, he looked every bit out of place in this part of town, any part of town for that matter. A cast on his right leg indicated the reason why he had become a meal for the savage beasts that had attacked him that day.

Rifling though the dead man’s belongings the man found nothing of real importance or usefulness. Loose change, a pocketknife, keys attached to a Marijuana leaf chain and a wallet. Pulling out the driver’s license he read the man’s name and date of birth quietly to himself as he shook his head slowly.

“Aidan, what the hell were you doing here… dude?” Gave a sight. “Honestly, the wastelands were never a place for someone you.”

Ten inches of serrated steel through Aidan’s temple ensured that this was to be his only death. Bone crunched as he sliced through the cervical vertebrae just below his skull.

Dropping to a knee the man crossed himself and said a silent prayer, holding his pose as he recalled all those he had seen fall since the turn. He prayed for each of them, giving special homage to his wife and child, whose memory flashed before him at that moment as vivid as could possibly be. Almost convinced that they were within arms reach in front of him, his hands twitched as his heart begged for him to embrace them.

“Let’s go boy!” he said, snapping out of his daze. Getting to his feet he wiped the vision from his mind, focused on what lay ahead. “We have a lot of work to do!”

4

Fury’s Page

Winter’s deathly grasp tightened. The bitterly cold storm front brought with it torrential rain and icy wind, thrashing the wastelands for days on end. Blocked drains overflowed causing flooding to most areas of the downtown business district as surface water began to flow like rivers, knee deep through the streets.

There was little one could do but wait it out, for venturing into such a tempest would most certainly be putting one’s life in immediate danger. Detecting movement and sound on the streets would be nigh on impossible, exposing oneself to much more than just the elements.

In the drab shelter inside an office building on Eighth and Faraday, the man sat lost in thought. Whilst he was now used to solitude, a big part of him still yearned for company. Every now and again he would be reminded of how much he missed being a part of something, how much he missed his loved ones and how much he missed being around people. It had been some time now since his greatest loss yet he still carried a heavy burden on his broad shoulders every day.

Despite there being no hope to help save him, Aidan was not the first survivor he had come across that had been taken by the undead, there had been many others like him since the turn. Every now and again he would catch a glimpse of people scavenging, foraging, and fighting for their own survival in the rubble. Watching from afar he would observe, keeping his distance reluctant to engage in any way. He had changed, as people do in times of crisis, turning inward losing his ability and desire to interact with humans. Not once had he waved or even given a sign, preferring to simply sit in the shadows and wait until they moved on.

His spirit was tormented and there was an internal conflict within him like he had never experienced before, a battle between good and evil. He was a good person, he knew he was – a once devoted father, loving husband, caring friend and dedicated employee. All that was in a former life, at a better time, his greatest conundrum right now was understanding who he was and what had he become.

Killing creatures had become a necessity of daily life and he had found it easier than he had anticipated to justify what he did. Too easy in fact. A pacifist all his life, the man had never before handled any form of weapon until fate had forced that upon him. Adapting fast he faced up to the fact that his world had deteriorated into a daily kill or be killed situation, forcing him to choose to kill in order to live. He learned quickly how to wield the few weapons he managed to scavenge at first, honing his skills on a daily basis to become a killing machine. That was who he now was.

It had come at a heavy price. There was a darkness within him, a hardness that had developed over time, a certain roughness that had enabled him to stay alive when others around him perished. The pain of loss weighed heavily on him, coursing through veins like a cancer, spreading to every part of his body. Everyday he lived with the constant yearning for his family, knowing that he would never see them again. Not in this life.

Outside the storm continued unabated, rain drumming hard on the windows, wind whistling through the cracks and openings of the building. A small fire crackled inside a drum in the centre of the room, providing enough heat to warm the surroundings. It was freezing. Flames danced higher and light flickered all around making for an eerie and gloomy setting.

The man looked at his companion and smiled as he tugged at the two heavy blankets over the top of him. Curled up close to the fire, the dog looked every bit content to be inside, out of the wind and the rain, just as he was.

A week passed and the precipitation had been constant, seemingly never ending. Heavy thunderstorms rolled in with the deafening sound of celestial kettle drums announcing their arrival with a crescendo, signaled their departure with a soft diminuendo that trailed off into the distance. Eventually the storm broke, clouds rolled on to soak other parts of the city.

Making a welcome appearance the sun glinted off puddles on the road, instantly restoring a sense of calm across the barren wastelands. A hush descended and only the sound of insects chirping could be heard echoing dully through the lonely city. Rodents scampered and scurried, setting about finding a much sought after meal, birds flew overhead looking to scavenge a feast – the food chain became active again.

Bright sunlight greeted the man and his companion as they ventured out through the doorway onto the wide open street before them. The air had a clean fresh tinge to it with the rotten, putrid stench of decay now washed away for the time being.

With a stretch the man donned his full-faced tactical helmet, readjusted the mask and slid the goggles over his eyes. Reached for his Mossberg, cradled it in his hands before giving it a pump, he was ready now. Slapping his thigh he signaled for the dog to follow him as he set off to survey the neighborhood.

Surface water lay everywhere with huge pools overflowing onto the streets, knee-deep still in some places filling large potholes. Sodden litter and debris were piled up in places, having been carried there in torrents of flowing water from other parts of the city.

It was quiet – too quiet.

A three-block radius, that was all that he wanted to comb today for it was a late start, mid-morning now and he did not want to waste the entire day doing a perimeter sweep. Still, it needed to be done – part of his ‘code’.

What the creatures did during a storm he honestly had no idea as he cared little about the God-forsaken savages. It was still an intriguing question though, one he pondered as he strolled watchfully on. The undead were nowhere to be seen in any direction which was rather odd, for there were usually at the very least a few milling around at this time of day. The area was completely deserted, it was as if they too had hunkered down away from the wind and rain.

“Where are you, you filthy fucking beasts,” he muttered impatiently under his breath. “I know know you’re out here, just show yourselves and we’ll get this over with quickly.”

Noon passed and the sun continued to dry the soaked city below. There was a sense of tranquility about the new day, calm, quiet and bright, somewhat inviting. Amidst it all the man knew that this was the perfect setting for him to be caught out if he let his guard down, even for a second. He remained on high alert, marching on with more caution than he was usually accustomed to on a simple stroll around the block.

Movement.

Bark!

Turning to look the man caught sight of shadows up ahead and set off immediately to investigate. “Good boy,” he whispered quietly, thankful once again for his canine friend’s alertness.

There was a disturbance up ahead, coming from inside an abandoned tram in the centre of the road, a few hundred yards away. Shadows and shapes moved inside as it rocked slowly from side to side.

“There you are you stinky, slimy pieces of shit!” Gritting his teeth he raised his shotgun and continued on. “I knew you were here somewhere.”

Placing a foot on the first step he breathed in, shook off any fear or doubt that might be lingering and followed the barrel of his shotgun inside. Seconds later a loud gunshot echoed through the wastelands.

5

Eye in the Wind

“Fuuuuuck!”

Coughing.

“What the fuck were you doing here lady?”

Blood curdling gargles.

Bark!

“Fuck!”

Bark!

“Alright, I fucking heard you!” the man yelled at his pet from the corner of his mouth, maintaining eye contact on his victim.

A sudden gust of wind howled past the windows of the tram, giving the effect of a banshee wail. Eerily scary in the scheme of things.

Blinking, the man stared intently. “Honestly lady, what the bloody hell were you doing?”

Laying back against a seat the woman spluttered, tried hard to speak but with her life-force was draining fast and she had no fight left within her. Bright red blood, unlike the tainted color of the blood of the undead, trickled down her chin onto her khaki clothing. Vacant eyes stared blankly as they began to glaze over.

Death came.

In a state of shock the man simply stood there for a few moments, hunched over the dead woman’s body slowly shaking his head. He tried hard to justify his actions, despite knowing that he had just killed an innocent survivor. In his mind he passed over the blame, it was easier to deal with the guilt that way and besides, who would stop him anyway.

You stupid woman, why didn’t you just give me a sign? You’d be alive if you had’ve just waved or yelled! That’s all you fucking-well had to do!

He was not good at addressing the dead either.

Bark!

“What the fuck is it now!” he snapped. The dog lowered its head and gave a slight whimper.

Looking up sharply the man peered out through the windows of the tram to see what his lookout had seen. Creatures, hundreds of the hideous beasts shuffling out of time and were heading straight towards them.

Moaning!

Bark!

In a panic the man spun around, peering out through the other windows of the tram only to be greeted with the same sight in every direction around him. Realizing what he had done he crapped himself, the gravity of the situation hitting him like a sledgehammer to the face. The shotgun had sounded an alert awakening the undead from their hibernation and they were now bearing down fast.

Isolated and trapped in the centre of the road, the man and his companion were rapidly being hemmed in. Death loomed on all fronts and there was little he could do to stop their advance. There was no escape from the incoming army of the undead.

Racing to the door he pulled it shut in a desperate attempt to keep the creatures at bay. As it opened inwards he signed knowing it would not hold against the combined force of the creatures once they arrived. Dragging the body of the dead woman down the aisle he tossed her deadweight into the stairwell, where it propped the door securely shut. She was dead, he had no compassion or feelings for her inert form now whatsoever – cold, but necessary.

Taking up position in the middle of the tram he pulled off his backpack and readied himself for the impending conflict. Cursed himself for dropping his guard and allowing them to get caught out like this, he was usually so vigilant, so careful. Muttered something about being an idiot under his breath.

Moaning intensified outside as the swarm arrived in numbers, hitting the tram hard and rocking it from side to side. Desperate to reach what lay inside, boney sickly fingers scratched and clawed at the metal exterior of the boxcar.

At that precise moment, the man’s life would change forever. The sound that filled his ears right then was so distinct, he recognized it immediately and it chilled him to the very core of his being. A baby’s cry, soft at first it rapidly escalated into a loud wail. It came from somewhere around him inside, close-by. Raising an eyebrow he peered over the seat in front of him to see a tiny bundle of rags, wriggling and writhing.

Reaching over he unfurled the tiny package to revel an infant, a baby boy dressed in a blue jumpsuit and a woolen jumper. The child was very young only weeks old, frail and weak, barely able to breathe let alone cry.

Closing his eyes tightly the man’s heart sank as he realized the enormity of what had happened here today. A pang of guilt swept over him, shame and emotional pain sacked him right there and then, causing him to drop to his knees and begin to sob. His mind took him back to memories of his own family and his children, all of whom he had lost when the world turned.

“What the hell am I going to do with you?” he said, addressing the child through blurry eyes as if it was capable of understanding. “I cannot care for you, I cannot do anything for you. Your mother is dead, I killed her, and now there is no-one to look after you. You hear me, no-one!”

Glancing down at the woman he could not help but notice that she looked quite emaciated and sick. The man thought she looked like she had been ravaged by an illness or had some sickness or poison in her system. She was simply ghastly looking.

Fucking hell, no wonder I mistook you for a creature!

The baby too looked ill, pale and sickly. Totally reliant on its mother’s milk for nourishment the child’s chances of survival were going to be slim with her now gone.

What the hell happened to you two? How could you possibly feed him, looking like that?

Bark!

Jolted back to reality the man rewrapped the baby in its rags, left it to wail on the seat and then refocused his attention on surviving this current onslaught. They were now surrounded, cornered on all fronts with no chance of escape. He checked his ammunition which was minimal for he had not expected to run into such a large swarm as this. What had started out as a pleasant day, welcomed relief from a week-long storm, had rapidly descended into a shit-storm of epic proportions.

He thought about running for it, but quickly gave that idea away when he saw that the creatures had now gotten five to six deep around the tram. A couple of rows were easy enough to push through, but at this density his momentum would not be enough to carry him through.

Think God-damnit man, think!

Experience had taught him to be prepared no matter what, abiding by the Boy Scout motto he had learned when he was younger. It had stuck with him all his life, right through until the world turned, right up to this very point.

Reaching inside his backpack he withdrew a medium size steel box, rusted and grey with the word ARMY stamped on it in big bold white lettering. Sliding the lid open the man carefully took out two hand grenades and placed them gently on the seat in front of him, this was the very situation he had kept them for. He knew what he had to do, it was his only hope against the hundreds of creatures swarming toward their position. Now totally surrounding the tram they blocked every possible exit for man, beast and child.

With an almighty bang the first grenade went off some twenty feet from their location, the blast radius inflicting massive damage on every creature unfortunate enough to be caught in the explosion. Rising from his position of cover over the infant child, the man tossed the second grenade through the open window, grabbed everything in readiness and waited. The second blast rocked the tram from side to side, shattered glass and caused massive chaos.

Grasping the dead woman by the arm he dragged her body out from the stairwell, flung the door open and made a run for it. Clutching at the bundle of rags which held the baby tight, he hurdled dismembered body parts and piles of red goo, bolting for the open spaces beyond the swarm. The explosions had torn through life and limb, creating just enough of a hole for an escape, but it was a very close call.

As the remaining creatures turned to slowly take up pursuit, the sound of the baby wailing like a Police siren faded fast as it disappeared into the distance.

6

Ashes in the Night

Later that evening the man sat alone consumed by thought, chewing at the rabbit stew he had just cooked on the gas burner. It had a strong, gamey taste, tough and stringy, adding freshly picked rosemary made the meal somewhat bearable, but it was food and he honestly cared little for the flavor.

Washed his dishes in a bucket of rain water then set them aside to drip dry on a table. The room was dark, save for the flickering flame of a solitary candle in the middle of the floor. Staring at the bundle of rags on the sofa the man rubbed his bald head as he pondered his predicament.

Aside from the occasional soft cry the child was rather lethargic and hadn’t stirred for hours. With an extremely swollen stomach and dark patches on its skin, the man was well aware that this infant was malnourished and in peril. His mother was all skin and bone and no doubt could hardly even raise a drop of milk to provide for her desperately unfortunate child before she died.

With no milk or food of any kind to provide any form of sustenance, the man was resigned to the fact that there was little or no hope that the baby would survive the night. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all and that cut him to the bone. He was a strong man both physically and emotionally, but this, this bleakest of situations was to test his every resolve.

As he sat in near darkness the man continued to justify his actions, killing the child’s mother earlier that day. She had lunged at him from down the aisle of the tram as soon as he had entered, causing him to fire instinctively. Thinking about it now, he came to the conclusion that she was merely doing what any mother would do in that situation, keeping her child safe and protecting it from every possible threat. Her thin, gaunt body was no match for the shotgun pellets that had hit her hard, sending her sprawling backwards killing her instantly. That single shot was inevitably responsible for taking the lives of two people that day.

It was a long and painful night for the man, who tossed and turned in his makeshift bed all evening. Despite sticking to his justification for killing the woman, the burden of guilt proved too much and sleep eluded him. In the dead of night he lay there in the uncomfortable silence listening, watching, waiting. Nothing stirred, sadly he knew it would not be long now.

When sleep finally arrived the man slipped into a deep coma-like slumber, where he remained until morning broke. A beautiful sunrise dawned, rays of warm sunlight pouring through every crack of the boarded up windows of the shelter. He awoke surprisingly refreshed and rejuvenated, ready for the rigors of yet another challenging day in the wastelands. It was to be a day that would indeed test him in every way.

The room was deathly quiet and all round him a wretched silence hung heavy. On the sofa the pile of rags lay motionless, hinting at the ominous prediction he had made the night before. As much as he knew the outcome he still had to check, but found himself struggling to move, feeling as though cement had been poured into his shoes.

Water splashed from the bowl as the dog satisfied its thirst, before slowly wandering over to where his master sat expecting a pat. None came, no affection whatsoever. Feeling ignored it promptly returned to its own bed, circled several times and then lay down and closed its eyes.

With a heavy heart the man eventually moved to the sofa to check on the infant. He knew what he would find and dread followed his every footstep. The child had been born into a world where it did not belong, where death was ever present and survival was only for those capable of fending for themselves. It did not stand a chance, not in this inhospitable, grim new world.

Kneeling at the foot of the tiny grave the man hammered a makeshift wooden white cross into the turf. With each blow of the mallet an echo resounded loudly through the wastelands… through his head. Keeping his pose, he took a moment to say a short prayer, his way of ensuring some semblance of a decent burial and send off to the netherworld.

“Time to go,” he said, rubbing his companion’s ears. Pulling up his skull shaped face mask he sighed, collected his weapons and packs and set off into the deserted streets.

It was slow going that morning, additional backpacks containing all of his belongings and a heavy heart weighed him down considerably. He had decided to move on and relocate to another secure location, the sombre setting that his shelter had become was now uninhabitable. He could not bear the thought of sleeping another night amidst the fog of death with its stench burning his nostrils.

Brief encounters with stragglers on the road slowed progress, having to unpack and repack his shoulders with his gear before and after each exchange. He fought with a new found vigor, as a steely determination swept through him. Ten inches of serrated steel extinguished life as it was forced down to the hilt in each skull, before carving effortlessly through bone. The man met the stare of each creature with wide, angry, vengeful eyes, watching closely as life drained and spirits dissipated into the ether.

As shadows began to lengthen late in the day the man and his faithful companion began to settle into their new surroundings. The abandoned two-story office building was a suitable alternative, spacious yet secure and relatively safe. It afforded views above both exits front and back, as well as allowing free and unimpeded movement between the two floors.

Undertaking a full search he took a mental picture of the floor plans, layouts, exits, strong and weak points of the building. This allowed him to then strategize the best location inside for him to take up residence and to set up effective defense strategies. He smiled contently knowing that he had discovered the perfect fortress for him and his companion.

He positioned his sleeping quarters close to the rear of the building, under a window that overlooked an awning. This spot would provide him with a suitable escape route if the stairwell was ever breached at the front, allowing an easy getaway into the carpark and beyond into the alleyway. He was one to always meticulously plan even the simplest things, for his very survival depended upon it.

Clearing away the clutter in the staff area at the rear he set about rearranging things to his liking, placing his pots, pans and gas cooker on the bench. He laid out his rations and then placed his food in cupboards above the sink to protect it from vermin and insects.

A restless night’s sleep followed, which was expected given the traumatic events of the past twenty-four hours. The sounds of night were different here and would take some time to become accustomed to. The building creaked and groaned as if it were sighing heavily all through the night, keeping the man awake for the most part.

Another day, another hunt. The undead could not elude the man, who had become an expert tracker and with his companion by his side he could find creatures that lurked in any shadow, any recess or within the dark inside any building. He eradicated each threat quickly and permanently, for this was his life’s mission – his eternal quest.

7

The Black Crow

Food runs out quickly in the badlands when there are no convenience stores to keep ones supplies stocked – a simple reality of the new world. Within days the cupboards at the new location were close to empty, most tins of canned food had been depleted and other provisions were running dangerously low. Hunkering down to avoid the recent storm had taken away any opportunity to forage, it was time to now replenish and restock.

Empty streets lay barren, lonely and deserted. The man decided to venture deeper into the wastelands in search of any provisions that might have been left behind when the city was evacuated. This was always a risky strategy, fraught with more danger than he should really be exposing himself to, but food was scarce and he knew there were supplies to be discovered there.

As he strolled through the godforsaken wastelands the man came upon the dead bodies of several survivors that were rotting out in the open. A blanket of black crows had descended to pick at the carrion, stripping skin from bones. Sights like these were not uncommon in the wastelands, people out scavenging often fell victim to creatures, sometimes even dying at the hands of other people. The black cloud ascended to the heavens as the man and his companion approached, the large evil-looking birds cawing loudly in unison, annoyed that their meal had been disturbed.

Scavenging what he could from vending machines, shelves and cupboards in shops, mini-marts and restaurants along the way, he became satisfied he had made the right decision. His haul was a reasonably good one and late that afternoon with several full backpacks, he decided it was time to head back.

There was a briskness to the breeze as it whipped its way down the long deserted street the man and his dog walked carefully along. It had been raining on and off all day and another squall arrived, bringing with it a heavy downpour.

Within minutes it had started to pelt down, drenching everything under the ominous dark clouds that had just rolled in. They were still a long way from home and whilst the man knew it was only a passing shower he still had to get off the road to hide from the rain. Darting for cover he ran down the first available set of stairs and took shelter, immediately becoming consumed by darkness.

The subway was not an ideal setting to be alone in, not now, not ever for it presented its own unique set of dangers deep in the dark. There had been nowhere else for him to go to take shelter but despite the risks, at least he was now dry.

With a click he switched on his flashlight illuminating the way ahead. It was a sullen, gloomy place, one which he had only ventured into once since the turn. He feared it, but today could not avoid it.

“Come on boy,” he whispered to his sidekick, “keep your ears on.”

In no time at all the sound of the torrential downpour outside began to fade as the man led them away from the entrance, venturing further down the stairs into the subway system. He was greeted with exactly what he expected and anticipated – total chaos and desolation. It was eerie down there, deathly quiet, murky, scary and totally pitch-black. Newspapers with bold headlines lay scattered everywhere. APOCALYPSERUN NOW! read one. ALL HOPE LOST read another.

As he ventured into the main foyer he felt the ever-present threat all around him, following him, grabbing at him from within the dark. Nerves of steel were being tested. Every step he took created a tiny echo that raced through tunnels, jumped tracks and sped towards the next station, alerting and alarming.

Finally he found what he was looking for just off from the deserted ticketing booth, a large vending machine that was chock full with chocolates and sweets. Removing his backpack he laid it on the ground then panned around with his flashlight and shotgun to check if the coast was clear. Nothing stirred. With the butt of his Mossberg he shattered the glass and proceeded to hastily stash the loot into whatever spaces remained in his pack and pockets.

“Good score aye boy!”

The dog licked its snout, he was hungry. Saliva slobbered and dripped from his mouth.

“Right,” said the man, having emptied the contents completely, save for a few items he detested or was unable to digest. M&M peanuts due to a nut allergy and salt and vinegar potato chips, he simply loathed the flavor. “Ok! Let’s go wait it out up top buddy.”

As man and beast ventured once more through the dark heading for the entrance, a disturbing sound alerted them. The man had half been expecting to hear it sooner or later and was actually glad it had taken this long for it to arrive. A low, sickening moan echoed through the subway tunnels. Then another, with more and more following shortly afterwards. Before long, the entire underground network was resonating loudly with the sound of the undead.

Making haste the man moved through the debris as quickly as he could, making a bee-line for the stairs. Conscious of the present threat, he had to make it out before he was cut off, or face the prospect of fighting for his life in the dark. He was too late.

Sensing the danger lurking in the dark ahead the dog stopped dead, bared its fangs and gave a vicious snarl.

Spinning on his heels the man shone his light in the direction his dog had indicated. There, before him emerging from the shadows came three creatures, remnants of a man and two women. He needed to decide quickly the best course of action, knowing his shotgun would alert any and all other inert forms that lay in the dark. His knife though would be harder to wield as he would have to hold the flashlight in the other hand in order to see his attackers. Tough predicament indeed!

Three shots rang out, shell casings rattled as they hit the ground, sending echoes resonating loudly through every recess in the dark. The man, whilst thankful to still be alive, shit his pants. The sound of moaning became instantly so loud he could hardly hear himself think. He had just woken the dead and it was now time to go, quickly!

“Run boy!” he said, with urgency and fear in his voice. “Run!”

Never before had he run so fast, hurdling whatever was in front of him as if he were an Olympic athlete chasing the tape on the line. The dog reached the stairs first, safely and continued on without waiting for his master. In hot pursuit, the man made it, but only just.

A creature, ugly, grotesque and rotten lunged at him, savage teeth desperately gnashing wildly in an attempt to tear his flesh from bone. The two met head on and collided, sending them both crashing heavily to the ground. Releasing his grip on flashlight and rifle the man watched as they both went skidding across the tiled surface landing well out of reach.

To his left the creature moaned as it fought to right itself like a toppled tortoise, eventually managing to roll onto its side. It lunged again landing on top of him, snapping yellow and rotted teeth a hair’s breadth away from his face. Ten inches of serrated steel ended the tussle in an instant as he drove his blade deep into the creature’s forehead. There was no time to think as more moaning came from everywhere around him.

Diving to the ground he reached for his Mossberg, pumped it then rolled onto his back to face the darkness. His breath was short and his heart thumped loudly against his chest wall, shaking his entire body with each beat. On hands and knees he crawled towards the flashlight which was shining brightly against a white tiled wall. As he swung the beam into the dark he shit his pants for the second time that day.

A horde of undead creatures were marching straight towards him, shuffling, staggering out of time. Quickly he got to his feet and turned towards the entrance, his nerves of steel standing firm, for now.

With a flicker, the flashlight’s batteries died.

Darkness!

8

Valhalla

Waves of ice and fog crept through the enchanted forest of Glasir, whose trees bore leaves of the reddest gold. Lapping against the massive doors of the heavenly realm of light, they washed over the foot of the enormous stone steps outside. High overhead inside the vast hall the rafters that were lined with a thousand spears glinted brightly. Golden shields and breastplates glittered on benches everywhere.

The great hall opened up majestically to reveal five hundred and forty doors, each so massive they towered high above the tallest of men. A wolf stood guard, menacingly holding a strong and purposeful pose at the western door. Soaring high above an eagle kept a watchful gaze over all and sundry below.

Expansive tables laden with only the finest food and drink welcomed the new arrival, a ceremonial feast fit for kings. Mead ran freely from the udders of a goat, the sounds of frivolity and revelry rang through the hall loudly.

Odin’s messengers came, surrounded by bright white light singing softly of war and heroes and fighting on the battlefield. They sang of healing wounds, of the Gods, of fighting well and of the world that can still be saved.

Ragnarok, the battle for the end of the world, awaits you!

Bark!

A long echo trailed off into the darkness.

Standing over his master’s body the dog gave a whimper before licking his face in a desperate attempt to rouse him. The man awoke in a world of pain, his left hand throbbed with an intensity he had never felt before in his life. A thousand needles were working in unison to inflict as much discomfort and agony as possible.

The visions of the great hall, the feast, the Gods all faded quickly.

Light burned his eyes as he stepped through the breach, the falling rain hitting him like pellets from a shotgun. He cared little for he was alive, scrambling to the street staggering away from the entrance, leaving the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the subway behind.

Cradling his wounded hand the man resigned himself to the worst possible outcome for he knew without even looking at it what the congealed blood on his wrist signified. He had to stop the spread of the virus, there was no other alternative aside from removing the infected body part. Dismembering the limb, he had seen this done early after the turn, now he had no choice but to do the same.

Reaching for his long serrated blade, he prepared himself for the agony that was to come. It had to be done though, there was no other way to save his own life than this, it was imperative that he removed any chance of the infected blood circulating through his system. Placing the knife against the skin an inch above his wrist he started to apply pressure, blood trickled onto the bench top as he began to cut.

Bark!

Startled, and completely caught off-guard the man dropped the knife. He was in such a high state of anxiety and fear that the slightest disturbance was always going to shatter his already brittle nerves. His steely façade was starting to fade.

Bark!

“What is it boy?” he quizzed his companion.

A rumbling came from out on the street, a sound he had not heard for some time. It wasn’t loud, just the low steady hum of a vehicle which, as far as he could tell was traveling at speed. Looking at his hand he stared at the self-inflicted wound, the gash he had slit into his skin which was still bleeding. He felt sick to his stomach about what he had to do, knowing he should continue but was unable to bring himself pick up his knife to finish the task.

Grabbing his M24 sniper rifle, he headed to the front of the building to check out the disturbance. He vowed to himself that he would finish this gruesome task as soon as he could, but the safety of his compound took precedence – how he justified that over a life-ending infection, he would never know.

As the vehicle drew nearer it became apparent that it was indeed motoring. In a flash of yellow it appeared from around the bend ahead, swerving through the debris without losing momentum. The man concluded immediately that the driver must be someone incredibly experienced in order to be able to handle a car with that sort of skill, weaving through chicanes with such ease.

Without changing speed the taxi whizzed past underneath the window. The man’s cross-hairs zeroed in on the driver, following his every move. Behind the wheel sat an Indian man with a thick dark beard covering his face and a turban wrapped around his head, his hands never laving the wheel and his eyes firmly affixed to the road – he was driving determined.

As quickly as it appeared, the yellow taxi vanished from sight, disappearing around a corner. The rumbling softened and in no time at all the streets went deathly quiet once again. The man removed his finger from the trigger, where he had held it in readiness to shoot – every scenario was potentially life-threatening and he knew never to take anything for granted.

This was a very unusual occurrence, for it was incredibly rare to see any sort of vehicle on the road at all, let alone a big yellow taxi. Such a random event could not have come at a more opportune time for him, but he sighed heavily knowing that it was only a slight reprieve – he had to finish what he started.

Picking up the ten inch long serrated knife, he reluctantly prepared himself to complete the task he knew would save his life. He peeled back his Kevlar leather gloves to take a look at the wound, he felt the need to now look at it before he removed his hand completely.

To his surprise, the bite mark did not look anything close to what he had envisioned it would. It was decidedly different to that of a human bite mark, or one that might have be caused by a creature. No, this was nothing like that at all, it was much narrower and longer, similar to that of a dog bite.

What the fuck?

“Was that you boy?”

Whimper.

With a sigh the man slumped to the ground. His knife clattered loudly as it spilled from his hands, which now covered his eyes as he sobbed. A sense of absolute relief swept over him.

Weeks turned into months and the wastelands simply lay in ruin as time passed her by. The barrenness, the solitude and the emptiness of it all was not lost on the man, who relentlessly continued on with his quest. He fought bravely amidst the loneliness and desolation around him.

His dreams frequently took him to Valhalla where he again ventured into the great hall, to kneel before Odin. Around him appeared the faces of all the brave warriors who had died defending the wastelands, many of whom had perished warding off the new scourge that infested the earth.

The man was reminded every time he stepped foot into this heavenly realm of light in his slumber, of the task he had been assigned.

He was the keeper of the city.

The Reaper.

The Bone Hunter.

This was his final battleground!

Epilogue

Moaning.

Silence.

“All clear,” whispered a young red-haired lad, checking the way ahead. “Let’s move.”

The two young men had been walking for some time through the wastelands, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched… stalked. Sitting in the shadows out of sight and undetected, the man sat quietly, observing, following their every move.

“Hold up mate, I need to take a piss,” said the other boy rubbing his crotch.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Chill out man, I’m busting.”

“Just hurry the fuck up then.” The red-haired lad fired a stare in the direction of his companion, then gave a slow blink as he shook his head.

Turning to face the wall the chubbier of the two young men relieved himself with a satisfying sigh.

“Are you done yet?”

Zipping up his fly, the blonde boy tightened his belt and collected his weapon. Lifting his head he turned then nodded, his blue-grey eyes glinted in the sunlight as he continued to smile with satisfaction.

“You are such a bloody worry,” his friend said, shaking his head once again.

Desperate to engage the man could not bring himself to venture from his bunker, holding tightly to his companion to keep him from breaking their cover. The pair of them sat and watched as the two young men fought off a small group of creatures that had attacked them on the road.

They fought well, effortlessly dispensing with the threat without raising much of a sweat during their brief altercation. He watched as they pilfered the corpses pocketing what they found, before eventually wandering off into the distance. Their departure once again leaving him alone in the barren wastelands.

About the Author

Sebastien Woolf is an author, creative dark force and coffee connoisseur. He has has been working toward publication for many years while battling depression, addiction and recovering from a breakdown. His life has been far from perfect, overcoming adversity to learn how to balance family life with a writing career. Heavily influenced by splatter, gore, slasher horror books and movies and forever obsessed with the zombie apocalypse, he is a lover of all things dark and macabre.

All Sebastien’s stories, characters and plot come from the deep, dark recesses of his subconscious mind. Most of his manuscripts have been written by hand for as he is feels empowered with pen, ink and paper and can feeling the energy and creativity flowing through him. Now he simply cannot stop writing.

The series ‘Dark of Dawn’ explores many maxims of human behavior and the many and varied complex social, cultural and religious issues survivors are challenged with. As the zombie apocalypse arrives, humanity crumbles and those who remain are forced to face the very real dangers that lurk in the shadows.

Sebastien likes the idea of remaining a mystery, an enigma so he will continue to write behind the mask, alone, finding comfort he finds it comfortable there in the dark. Come join him in the Dark of Dawn….

Web: www.darkofdawn.com

Email: [email protected]

Twitter: @SebastienWoolf


Bone Hunter

Since the world turned the wastelands have become an inhospitable place, barren, desolate and lonely. Everyday is now a bitter fight for survival and keeping one's wits about them is no mean feat, whilst battling the emotional heartbreak of the heavy losses faced in the past. The Bone Hunter is a man alone, struggling with his own demons as he wanders the desolate ruins on a quest to eradicate vermin from the streets. In the face of adversity he has changed, become someone he never believed he would or could be. His biggest fear is not the undead that roam the streets, it is coming to terms with just who, or what he has become. This is a cruel, heart-wrenching story of survival in the most brutal of settings. Facing unimaginable threats on a daily basis, the man and his canine companion stare death in the face, laughing at it as it comes screaming from every vantage point. Never before has he faced a challenge as daunting as the one that before him now. Will this be his final judgement? Only time will tell...

  • ISBN: 9781310604775
  • Author: Sebastien Woolf
  • Published: 2016-02-24 05:40:12
  • Words: 11322
Bone Hunter Bone Hunter