Member-only story
Renegade Zombie — Battlefield Z book 8
I’m pissed.
I’m not worried about my kids, at least not my two oldest.
Scattered to the wind again by another crazy survivor.
She sent my boy to a depot in Nashville, and his older sister abandoned the township in the company of a scout I trust, another kid I’d crossed half the country with.
Everyone was scattered to the wind, but it gave me purpose.
And anger.
What should have been a simple drive across the country, pick up my two oldest, drive back to grab my youngest and find someplace to hide out the end of the world had turned into a cluster.
Most of it wasn’t even my fault.
I just piss people off. I guess it’s my face.
Granted, before the zombie apocalypse I was only considered marginally handsome by a select group of genius women.
Even as my hairline receded, they blamed it on excess testosterone and told me I looked like my father.
Since the end of the world, I’d been shot, blown up, grazed, beaten, bullied, made fun of and even hanged.
Those tend to leave scars and now, though I could not often see my reflection, I looked more like Frankenstein’s monster than I did the C-suite ladder…
