Teaser #1 For The Novel “Zombies Don’t Ride Motorcycles”
By: Matthew Leo
Tags: Zombies, Writing, Books And Authors, Books, Novel

Teaser #1 For The Novel “Zombies Don’t Ride Motorcycles”

Charlie

The tattoo on the back of her neck spelled out “Lady,” which she was not. It was a defiant act out against her parents, who had given her the nickname. Their logic lay that calling her such would inspire her to be so. It epically failed. The tattoo was the first of many acting-outs she visited upon her parents. The ROTC plan her parents forced her into meant to smooth out all of her rough edges. They only served to sharpen them. It made her stronger, true. Defiantly, however, her attitude remained. This showed most poignantly when she demanded her fellow cadets call her Charlie. “Charlotte” sounded too weak and grated her ears woefully every time she heard it.

Charlie walked into the break-room. The tables lay turned over. The fronts of the drink machines were shattered and emptied. All that remained of organized civilization here were a sink and a full-length viewing mirror. She ran the water and gave herself what her mother once affectionately referred to it as a ‘whore’s bath.’ She smiled briefly at the thought. It had sounded so innocent to her the first time she had heard those words. She was too young then to understand what a whore was or why they would clean up so haphazardly. Charlie allowed herself a short giggle, her eyes finally open to the joke.

She pulled off her garments and then proceeded to clean with the paper towels she had found under the sink. She stopped and ran her fingers up the sides of her back. The raised texture of her tattoos felt smooth against her fingertips. She turned to view it in the mirror.

Black wings spread half-open to traverse the whole of her back. The only colors in her ink were the little red droplets trickling from the furthermost ends of her wing’s tips.

A low gasping quietly echoed from outside the break room. Charlie ignored it. She raised her eyes back to their reflections.

“Well, I guess there is no one left to say who I can and will be now, huh?”

A single tear bungeed down from her eye. She caught it in her hand and slammed it against the sink.

“No. Not now. We’ve got work to do, Lady.” She dressed back into her black and pink sports bra and a green muscle tee.

Then, she looked down over to her equipment.

She checked over her weapons. Each of them carried a rouge lipstick mark around each handle, around each grip. Finding them not smeared or completely removed, she took stock. She cleared the lipstick marks one at a time and began strapping various throwing knives on her body. She did not like sleeping without her weapons. In moments she felt the most vulnerable, the girl marked any weapons not kept on her person to show any tampering. Charlie had watched enough crime dramas and horror movies to know that a girl couldn’t be too careful. Plus, it was a habit that her commanding officer instilled in her.

Two smaller blades made their homes in each boot, and several others hid slyly around her belt.

A couple of tiny blades quickly slipped into her bra. She had nicknamed these “Toothpick” and “Splinter.”

Two sharpened machetes sheathed across her back.

Two holsters slapped against the fronts of both thighs, one for each of her Desert Eagles.

A samurai sword lay sheathed upon her back. It was a display model from a hobby shop, and of course, stolen. The new owner had reappropriated the ornamental weapon and sharpened it fully to employ it for real physical use. Her three longer blades formed an asterisk on her back, punctuating her as the wildcard she had become.

Lastly, she zipped up a backpack holding all her ammo and any excess food she found along the way.

The gasp swallowed into a choking cough and then settled back into a gasp. Charlie walked around the corner opening of the break room and looked to the floor. About six feet away laid the writhing body of a butcher. Probably from this location, she surmised. He was still wearing his uniform, soaked in blood, and without his apron. Charlie did not need convincing; the blood was human, not from butchering out steaks. She pictured his final day of breathing before transforming into one of the teeming undead. He probably began feeling sick that one morning. It was not something that even registered as a good enough reason to call out. People caught viruses and went to work all the time anyway. The pressure from bosses to call out was everywhere. Yes. It was partly a pride thing, but a decision mostly made from fear of the repercussions exacted from upper management. No, this man did not dare not to show up for work.

Charlie imagined he was in the middle of prepping his equipment. The nauseating pains built up to a crescendo, and off to the bathroom, he went to deal with it. That is where he probably died, only to awake again with the hunger of flesh in his eyes and mind. The patrons and employees that remained never stood a chance. This man was burly. It was apparent he had the girth to overpower and perhaps even outrun anything still roaming the store. Well, everyone except Charlie.

Her eyes met the butcher’s eyes. They were full and ready, almost all-consuming in every direction. She was sure that if they could, they would jump right out of their own sockets to get at her.

She knelt beside the creature and observed his predicament. An eight-inch KA-Bar protruded from his throat, staking him straight to the wooden pallet on which he was lying.

Like a pushpin to a poster.

She slowly stretched out her grimace into a cold smile. She looked into the twitching, reddened eyes one last time. “Your kind killed my parents. I may have hated them, but they were still mine. And no one touches what’s mine.”

She grabbed the KA-Bar and ripped it the rest of the way through the zombie’s throat, spraying blood all over her knees and legs. She stood up, not content, and kicked the rest of the butcher’s head off, sending more sprays of clotted blood all over her. She stopped and looked down at herself.

“Great. Now I’m gonna need more than just a whore’s bath,” she said and headed back to the bathroom.

© 2020 Matthew Leo

Thank you so much for giving me some of your time. It means the world to me. If you enjoyed this chapter, please click on the clappy hands at the bottom as many times as you feel it deserves. Please feel free to tweet, share on Facebook, Pinterest, Instagram, or to whoever you think might enjoy it as well. Take care and Be well.

Zombies Don’t Ride Motorcycles can be found and purchased on Amazon.com. Kindle price is 2.99. Paperback is 15.99 (It’s quite a lengthy book)

I am planning on doing a complete overhaul on this novel (edits, proofreading, added scenes) with a brand new cover design by Melissa Leo-Pahl. This teaser shows some of the edit and additives that I have in mind for the overhaul. I should have this completed sometime within the first quarter of 2021.

Your wordsmith,

Matt