Dead South Series (Book 1): Dead South Read online

  Dead South

  Dead South Book One

  Zach Bohannon

  Copyright © 2020 by Zach Bohannon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Jennifer Collins

  Cover by Yocla Designs

  zachbohannon.com

  moltenuniversemedia.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Dead South 2

  Afterword

  Also by Zach Bohannon

  About Zach Bohannon

  1

  Jon South watched the dead bastard lumber past the aging oak tree.

  The zombie stood around five-foot-seven, several inches shorter than Jon, who measured just over six feet tall. But the thing, only a number of yards away from Jon and the tree, was as wide as a house. It walked alone, so although it wouldn’t be easy to take down, Jon could be selective about how he wanted to do it. He didn’t know if the dead walkers felt pain, but he hoped that they did. That’s why he only hunted with the baseball bat and the tactical hatchet.

  He licked the salt off his lips while contemplating which weapon to draw off his back.

  Three years ago, when all this had started, he’d carried both a handgun and a shotgun with him on the hunts. His lack of confidence at the time had forced him to. But after a while, as he’d become more comfortable and experienced the satisfaction of taking down the zombies in close combat, he’d begun leaving the shotgun at home and the handgun in his holster. Eventually, he’d stopped bringing the pistol on the hunts altogether. Leaving the firearms behind only amplified the thrills.

  He grabbed the hatchet first. The weapon had claimed dozens of zombies. Its rubberized grip and lightweight construction made it easy to handle. Jon had sharpened its blade the night before, priming it for the kill. He could severe a limb or even decapitate a zombie with a single forceful swing, but that depended on his mood. Because he could also take his time if he wanted to. Sometimes he wanted the dead bastards to suffer.

  And then, sometimes, he used the bat.

  On his many nights alone sitting on the front patio of his remote cabin out in the Tennessee woods, Jon had often thought about naming the bat, but that seemed silly. It sounded like something only psychopaths did, and Jon was far from losing his mind. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  The bat brought him comfort. It brought him hope. Hope that the gluttonous dead bastard before his eyes would suffer in the same way he’d suffered. In the same way they had suffered. Nothing felt as good as connecting with the skull of one of the zombies and hearing the crack of wood against bone.

  That was why he had to use the bat.

  Jon returned the hatchet to its place on his back and took hold of the bat instead. He slapped it against his palm a couple of times and studied it. The branding had faded away from the barrel and the light brown color barely showed under its crimson stains of blood.

  He brushed his hand against the tall grass as he moved from behind the tree offering him cover. Stopping next to a stump, Jon watched the creature continue to limp away from him. He could have snuck up on the monster and taken it out stealthily, but that wasn’t always quite as fun.

  The hunt was the skill, but the takedown was the art.

  Slapping the bat against his palm again, Jon whistled.

  The zombie jerked its head around. It snarled, spit spraying from its mouth like a sprinkler. It turned all the way around to face Jon. Suspenders held up the zombie’s mud-stained pants. The white undershirt it wore had ripped at the bottom, revealing the creature’s flabby belly. Like all the other zombies, its skin was a pale gray. Its eyes bore a yellow tint not too different from mustard. From the way the skin looked, Jon estimated the creature had taken this form at least a year ago. Since then, it had likely been walking across the barren lands with no purpose but to seek its next meal of living flesh. Again, it snarled at Jon.

  “What?” Jon put his arms out to his sides. “You’ve been walking all this time. I know you’re not too fucking fat to come get me. So, here I am. Come eat me, big boy.”

  The creature opened its mouth wide, letting out a hellish scream. Then it wobbled toward Jon with its hands stretched out, hoping to grab him.

  Jon twirled the bat in his hand. “Come on, you son of a bitch.”

  The zombie ran at Jon. Jon gripped his bat with both hands and swung, hitting the zombie in its belly as he moved around the massive thing. The hit didn’t give Jon the satisfying crack that he loved. Instead, it was like hitting an exercise ball; only, the zombie’s stomach didn’t pop.

  Turning around, Jon held the bat tight and prepared for a home run shot. The creature faced him, and Jon didn’t hesitate. With a cry like a wounded warrior, he aimed for the zombie’s head and swung.

  It sounded like a gunshot. The barrel of the wooden bat connected with the side of the zombie’s face. Blood sprayed, and whatever teeth hadn’t rotted out of the dead thing’s mouth came spilling out and onto the dirt. The blow wasn’t enough to knock the zombie down—only stagger it.

  Jon waited for it to turn around, and then he swung again. The bat vibrated in Jon’s hands, sending a shock up his arm as it once again connected with the zombie’s head. But the hit was enough to knock the ugly bastard onto the ground.

  Breathing heavily, Jon stood over his victim. Blood dripped off his bat, and he could feel some on his face. He wiped his forearm across his cheek to confirm it.

  On the ground, the creature groaned. It tried to push itself up, but Jon stomped his boot down into the middle of its back.

  Closing his eyes, he remembered why he was doing this. Rage filled him as he opened his eyes again and looked down at the helpless creature. Then he raised the bat over his head and, with another scream, brought it down onto the back of the dead thing’s skull. This crack was more of a splat as Jon’s bat split the thing’s skull and crushed it.

  The zombie quivered for several moments, but then it ceased moving altogether.

  Jon breathed heavily as he stared down at the creature, drops of blood dripping down his face. Another kill to his name.

  He didn’t know how many in total he had killed. He kept nothing from the creatures to help him keep track. Like naming the blood-stained bat, collecting trophies from his kills would have been the work of a psychopath.

  Jon didn’t need to be reminded of each of his kills.

  He only needed to remember why he hunted.

  He only needed to remember them
.

  2

  Jon stepped out of the woods and arrived back at his motorcycle. He’d hidden the black cruiser behind a faded metal sign on the side of the road advertising a place called Dale’s Country Kitchen. Reaching into his saddlebag, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face. When he pulled it away, Jon saw the blood from the zombie, but his face felt cleaner. He tossed the towel into a small bag to keep it from soiling the inside of his saddlebag before stowing it away again.

  Glancing up at the sun in the sky, he guessed it was around four in the afternoon. He was still getting used to telling the time this way, and had nearly looked at his wrist instead. His watch had died months ago, and he hadn’t gone out of his way to look for batteries. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a working battery.

  Jon decided it was probably best to turn in for the evening. He closed his saddlebag and hopped onto his bike.

  Gripping the handles, he started the cruiser and revved the engine, feeding it gas. Out in front of him was nothing but an open backcountry road, and he’d enjoy the short three-mile ride back to his house.

  Jon was about to pull away when he felt the presence of something or someone. Like he was being watched.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  About twenty-five yards away, he saw three people standing on the side of the road, staring at him. They appeared to be a family, the man and woman a little bit younger than Jon, with a teenage girl standing with them.

  The man locked eyes with Jon, then he said something to his wife, and they turned their backs and hastily retreated into the woods. Jon watched them disappear before looking forward again.

  He revved the engine once more before taking off down the open road ahead.

  The cabin sat at the top of a hill a mile off of the main road. That was part of why Jon hadn’t been bothered by other people in the area. He had seen some travelers on the highways when hunting in the area, but he’d rarely seen any near his cabin.

  He rode his bike up the dirt driveway to a detached workshop which served as a garage for his motorcycle. Jon stored some other items inside, as well, but left his most valuable assets, such as weapons, inside of the cabin.

  After putting his bike away, Jon headed inside. He went through his regular routine after each hunt. Everything had a place, most of which were in his bedroom. He hung the keys to his bike on a hook just inside the door. Then he opened a trunk on the floor where he kept his weapons and ammunition, along with some other personal items. He took the hatchet off his back and added it to the chest's contents before shutting it.

  He removed the bat next and leaned it against the bedside table. Along with a .22 pistol sitting on top of the table, he usually kept the bat there in case he heard an intruder during the night.

  Before leaving his bedroom, he grabbed a cigar box off of the dresser. It was tan with a red border around the outside of the cover, a Caribbean-style logo designed in the middle of the box. He stared at it for a moment before heading out of the room.

  Jon made his way to the back of the house and removed his coat. He opened the back door and tossed it over a chair, wanting to keep the wretched smell of death outside until he could wash it. That could wait until morning. He closed and locked the door, and then went into the kitchen.

  The whiskey bottle sat on the counter, right where he’d left it the night before. He’d found the bottle a couple of weeks ago while scavenging a shed. There was enough of the brown stuff left for a couple of shots, but Jon didn’t need to dirty another glass. He grabbed the whole bottle and headed out to the front porch.

  Sitting down in one of the two rocking chairs, Jon placed the cigar box in his lap and the bottle on the table next to him. He unscrewed the top off the bottle and tossed back some of the liquor. The whiskey burned his throat, but that was a sensation that never grew old, and he stared at the box. Putting down the bottle, Jon lifted the box’s lid.

  He pulled out the picture which lay on top and stared at it. The man staring back at him was so familiar, yet so distant. Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled, and yet he did so in the picture. He’d had every reason to be happy then.

  The photo had been taken in Myrtle Beach. Carrie had taken it as a selfie, her outstretched arm visible in the picture. She had her other arm around Jon, who held his wife and also pulled their son Spencer in close. Spencer had grown “too old” for moments like this, but had managed to squeeze a smile out for this photo.

  It had been their last vacation as a family, and this was the only picture Jon had as proof that his wife and son had ever even existed.

  Keeping his eyes on the photo, Jon tossed back another shot of whiskey. Some dribbled off his lip, and he used his forearm to wipe it away. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t washed up yet, and he used his finger to touch his mouth and then looked at his hand. Blood lined the side of it.

  Then he glanced at the photo again, his bloody hand also in his vision.

  He put the picture back into the cigar box and slammed it shut. Setting the box on the table, he grabbed the whiskey again. He threw back the rest of the bottle’s contents and then dropped the bottle as his hands shook.

  The bottle shattered, glass exploding onto the patio. Jon ignored it. He leaned forward and ran his shaking hands through his hair.

  He gripped his hair hard enough to nearly pull it out, and he tried to take deep breaths.

  But no matter what he did, he couldn’t get his last image of Carrie and Spencer out of his head.

  3

  11 Days Before the Outbreak

  She ran her hand through his thick, curly black hair and stared at him with her kind brown eyes. Both of them worked to catch their breath, tossing the covers off to cool down.

  “I miss morning sex,” Carrie said. “Like when we got to do it whenever we wanted.”

  “You say that,” Jon said in his gruff morning voice, “but you know you’re going to fall apart when Spencer moves out one day.”

  “That’s why you’ve got to treat me real good when that happens.”

  Jon smiled, running his hand across her face. “You know I’ll always treat you like a queen. Now and six years from now when Spencer goes to college.”

  Carrie’s eyes left Jon’s face as she flipped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “Six years. Where the hell has the time gone?”

  Scooting over, Jon ran his hand over his wife’s bare stomach and then wrapped his arm all the way around her. “Time hasn’t done shit to you. You’re more beautiful than you were the day I met you.”

  Carrie blushed. “Shut up.”

  But it was true. Of course, Jon had always found his wife beautiful, from the moment they’d met at a softball game fifteen years earlier. Jon had been playing third base for a team thrown together by him and a bunch of his buddies. Carrie had come to the game to sit with her friend, whose husband played on the other team. The woman had disliked coming to the games, so she’d begged Carrie to come along to keep her company. Carrie had later admitted to Jon that she was supposed to have been on a date that night, but the guy had canceled on her at the last minute. So, since she had already been dressed, she’d decided to join her friend at the local park to watch a bunch of thirty-something accountants, mechanics, and church friends hit an oversized ball around.

  From the third-base bag, Jon couldn’t keep his eyes off the blonde woman in the white V-neck shirt, skinny jeans, and black boots. She looked like she was supposed to be out having some lucky man wine and dine her instead of out at a public park that smelled of corndogs and pretzels—which, of course, was precisely what she was supposed to have been doing. But the man’s mistake of canceling on Carrie ended up turning into the luckiest night in the world for both she and Jon.

  She had seen Jon gazing at her, both from third base and from the dugout. He’d even peeked over at her during his at-bats to see if she was watching him. A few times, they’d made eye contact, but mostly she’d stared off to somewhere else. B
ut that didn’t stop Jon from trying.

  After the game, Jon stood near the stunning blonde while talking to one of his friends, but when he looked over at her, he caught her smiling at him. He eventually pulled himself away from his friend, introduced himself, and left with her phone number, plans for a dinner date, and the idea that he might have just met the woman he would marry one day.

  Laying in the bed next to her now, he ran his hand through her hair. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life, Carrie South.”

  She grinned, and they kissed. Jon pressed his body up against her again and she giggled.

  “Are you serious? You’re ready for another round?”

  He pushed himself against her bare leg. “You’re goddamn right I am. It’s not like—“

  “Mom! Dad!”

  They could hear their son barreling down the hallway toward their room, and without hesitation, they threw the covers over their naked bodies. The door stormed open and their twelve-year-old son Spencer ran into the room.

  He wore a white T-shirt and green pajama pants. In his hand, he held a portable video game system. “Have you guys seen the charger for my Switch?” he asked.

  Carrie groaned. “I thought you just plugged it into that dock thing to charge it.”