Timothy Long - Z-Risen - Outbreak

“You got a key for this?” I pointed at the gun rack.

“Yeah, but we aren’t allowed to open it anymore. The manager is worried about a riot, about someone getting a gun and shooting at people.” He was short and stocky. Perspiration covered his face over a sheen of oil. How many hours had he been here trying to keep order? Trying to milk the last dollar out of the consumers?

“That makes no sense,” I said.

The woman who had followed watched our exchange, then shook her head as if just remembering something, and walked off as well. There was a buzz to the air, and things were going to get violent at any moment. I didn’t want to stick around that long.

“Just open it for a second. I’ll even leave my credit card with you. Charge whatever you want.” I took my wallet out of my back pocket, extracted my Visa Platinum, and set it on the counter. My name gleamed back at me, embossed in plastic.

He looked at it, then at me, and started to leave. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, man, you know about those things, right? You got a family? You got a gun to protect them?”

“It’s not that bad out there. Everyone is overreacting.”

“Overreacting? I just watched a guy on CNN get torn to pieces. You married, Patrick?” I said, looking at his nametag.

“I have someone at home.”

“Then do us both a favor. Open the door, take a gun, and go there. Trust me on this one, pal. You don’t want to be here when those things arrive.”

He stood there for a few seconds, unsure what to say. I watched a drop of sweat leave his hairline and run down his forehead, until it dripped down his nose and onto the floor. He looked up and down the aisle for a manager, then he took a key out and unlocked the case.

Shotguns and rifles stared back at me. I took out a smaller-barrel shotgun, a 20-gauge, and laid it on the counter. Then I pulled out a Marlin .30-06 and looked down the barrel. The store didn’t have the highest quality guns, but I felt a weight lift just having the weapon in my hand.

Allison hated me having weapons, and I got rid of them for her. I sold my .40 caliber pistol, which I missed dearly, and got rid of my old hunting rifle, which was superior to the gun I held now. The worst loss was an M-16 semiautomatic I had treasured for a few years, but I gave it all up for her, and she left me for another man. I would have done better to get rid of her back then.

“What should I take?” The clerk’s gaze roved up and down the selection. He looked at the assortment and swallowed so loud that I could hear it from a few feet away. He even reached to touch one or two barrels.

I found a 12-gauge shotgun and handed it to him. It was good up close, and a blast would leave no doubt that his target would be dead. I was going for the smaller shot, because I knew from experience this gun was more of a hunting weapon, and worked better at a longer range. It didn’t have the impact of a gun like the one he held, but it would do for me.

Not wanting to stand around and comfort the clerk, I pulled a box of shells off the shelf and put them next to his new shotgun. Then I took a couple of boxes for my selection and put them in the cart with the rest of stuff.

“Wait. You can’t buy a gun and bullets at the same time.”

“Right.” I added a couple more.

“It’s against store policy.”

“Call a cop. If he can get here in five minutes, he can arrest me.” I took my credit card when he didn’t make an attempt to run it.

Pushing my cart down another aisle, I looked for some Sterno cans. When I found them, I grabbed as many as I thought I could carry. Now it was just a matter of getting out of the store.

I loaded as much as I could into the backpack, heading out of the hunting area as I packed. While I rushed to jam stuff in, I almost missed one important area. An upended rack held a wealth of camouflage clothing. I pawed through them quickly and found a Large. Holding it to my chest, I decided it would do all right.

People moved around me, rushing to find anything of use at the last minute. I felt like one of them , and cursed again that I didn’t go shopping earlier. A woman eyed my canned meat, and I stuffed it in my backpack with a scowl. A man stopped and stared at the guns in my cart, asking where I got them. I pointed him in the direction of the hunting goods, then made for the door.

The security guy who tried to hassle me on the way in saw my goodies and decided to get in my face. He was at the same door and had managed to regain some sort of control. I gave him the once-over, glad to see he wasn’t armed, except for a can of mace. I was willing to bet if he pulled it, I could take him down before he sprayed me.

Timothy W. Long has been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and has also read enough books to choke a landfill. He has a fascination with all things zombies, a predilection for hula-girl dolls, and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people.

Beyond the Barriers(Permuted Press)

Among the Living(Permuted Press)

Among the Dead(Permuted Press)

At the Behest of the Dead

The Zombie Wilson Diaries

The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole

Z-Risen: Outbreak — A Zombie Serial

Tim swears that if he is ever stuck on a deserted island with a zombie, no matter how attractive, he will bash in her brains.

Really!

“If this is how the world ends, sign me up!”

“One of the best zombie novels of the year.”

“Long, a prolific horror author writes with graphic glee — repulsive details and way off-color jokes abound. If this were a movie, it would be rated R for revolting but it’s revolting in a cheerful kind of way.”

Edited by T. F. Rose

Cover art: Straight 8 Custom Photography

Interior art: Zach McCain

“Z-RISEN: OUTBREAK” By Timothy W. Long

Copyright 2013. Timothy W. Long

All Rights Reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely fucking coincidental.