Michael Thomas - Night of the Nazi Zombies

“Ich bin Sergeant Smith, sprechen Sie Englisch?” he asked.

Steiner, thinking for a moment spoke the best English he could manage.

“Steiner,” he pointed to himself.

Sergeant Smith pointed back into the road, “Untoten?”

Steiner nodded and with a superhuman effort he pushed himself back up and tried to restart the engine. The people on the truck, whoever they were, started firing with their weapons as the undead staggered closer. The American sat in the passenger seat picked up the shotgun. Steiner nodded acknowledging the fact that right now they needed each other, and proceeded to load it. The truck shook as the rest of the survivors clambered on board. Smith jumped up onto the bonnet and then lifted himself up to the top of the cab.

With a cough and splutter the engine roared into life. Steiner slammed the gearstick into reverse; the crash box clunking as he roughly engaged the gears and then floored the pedal. The rear of the truck shook as it pulled itself out of the ditch. With a squeal of tyres the truck left a cloud of dust and blood and then moved off down the road and towards the sight of the flashing lights and tracer fire ahead. Back on the bed of the truck Madeleine sat along with Trent, Smith and Jones. Between them they now carried just the one firearm and only a few shells. Madeleine said nothing, the shock of what had happened and the relief of being on the truck and escaping simply numbing her to an almost lethargic state.

Smith was watching her and thought she seemed to be very pale.

Damn, he vaguely remembered someone saying she might have been bitten. Perhaps he’d imagined it and hoped he was wrong, but unfortunately he would have to keep a very close eye on her!

* * *

Just a few miles back sat Chard, still at the window frame as he watched the sun start to rise in the distance. Inside the church the undead still numbered in the dozens and outside many more staggered about though now they seemed confused and dazed. Holding the sword of the Archangel across his lap he leaned against the wall and allowed himself to rest for a moment. The sound of distant gunfire and the occasional groaning of the undead reminding him that sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford. As his heavy eyelids closed down he felt something tugging at his leg. As he opened his eyes he panicked, realising he was falling to the floor. The pain in his leg as he hit the stone floor was agonising, he must have easily broken his ankle in the fall. The sword clattered to the ground nearby.

Looking upwards the light of the new day flooded into the building, lighting the face of the man stood over him. Like the rest of the undead this one had the pale face and blood dripping mouth but unlike the rest, this one and the two stood next to it were dressed in the black uniforms of the SS.

The closest one snarled, moving quicker than the other creatures he had met so far and lunged towards him. Rolling to his side his right hand grasped the sword, and with one powerful swing he sliced through its throat and sent its head catapulting through the air. Holding onto the stone wall he lifted himself up. The pain was excruciating but he could just about stand straight. He lifted the sword up high and staggered forwards, swinging the weapon and shouting as he moved towards the two soldiers.

“Come on, you square headed bastards!”

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(c) 2010 Michael G. Thomas

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No part of this publication may be produced, 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 in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain by Swordworks Books

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Cover design by Swordworks Books