Blurb:
Shotguns seem to be everyone's
favorite accessory for the zombie apocalypse, but Zach Paul believes he can
survive without hurting anyone—not even the zombies. An elite-level runner, he
plans to speed away from every danger. Then Zach meets a woman he can't bring
himself to leave behind, and staying beside her tests all his principles.
Viola Ortiz fought free of her
controlling boyfriend just before the zombies came, but now she believes her
macho ex is the only one who can protect her. She sets out to reunite with him,
only to encounter Zach instead. The tall, lean runner is everything her ex is
not, and Viola is shocked to find he turns her on as no man has before. Viola's
ex, however, isn't willing to let go of her, and soon it's clear that other
survivors are as dangerous as the zombies.
Zach and Viola can run, but
they must find safety before they lose their humanity in the struggle to
protect their lives and growing love.
Excerpt:
It may not have been too
crazy for me to think I could keep clear of the zombies in the Quarantined
Area. On the news everyone kept saying these are "slow zombies."
They're dangerous, diseased, and mostly impervious to pain, but not the sort of
terrifyingly speedy hunters that have been popular in movies lately. My plan to
run in there was risky, but I like to think not completely doomed. I planned
around my talents instead of just deciding I'd somehow figure out how to
execute a standing long jump of multiple feet once I found myself staring down
at concrete two stories below a rooftop. I trusted the only thing I've been
able to rely on my whole life—my legs.
What
I didn't take into account were bullets—as in projectiles whizzing past my ears
as I booked it down the sidewalk. Why the hell does everyone think the zombie
apocalypse gives them a license to act like Rambo? I'm not just talking about
what happened once zombies actually appeared in the middle of our city, eating
brains, shambling, and whatever else they do. I'm talking about all the years
of excitement about zombies—Facebook quizzes predicting whether your
relationship would survive an outbreak, the sudden popularity of YouTube videos
about parkour, and a pervasive cultural obsession with shotguns. I think people
watched zombie movies and decided it would be great for the rule of law to
break down to the point that they'd be allowed to solve problems by shooting
first and asking questions later.
It's
not the most macho position to take, especially not in the neighborhood where I
grew up, but I guess it's clear by now that I'm a pacifist. Some other guy
might respond to the looters by taking cover behind an abandoned building and
pulling out his own gun to trade shots. That's not my style.
Instead,
I shouted, "What the hell?" and tried to run faster.
Two
days into societal breakdown, street cleanliness had already suffered. Trash
bags, newspapers, and other detritus littered the road, and I swear the
pavement had more cracks than usual. It took all my concentration not to slip
or break my ankle.
I
don't have experience dodging bullets, so I wasn't sure if I'd be harder to hit
if I tried to zig-zag or not. Since I didn't know, I ducked my head, picked up
the pace, and hoped for the best.
The
guy with the gun shouted, "Drop the backpack!" Apparently, he thought
bullets made good punctuation.
"There's
nothing in it!" I screamed back. Which wasn't strictly true. I didn't have
any money or valuables, which I assumed was what they were looking for. On the
other hand, the backpack had everything I thought I needed to survive in the
Quarantined Area, so I didn't want to give it up.
"Like
hell it's empty!" The guy chasing me squeezed off a few more shots.
The
fact that he hadn't managed to hit me yet confirmed one of the points I'd like
to make about guns, which is related to a couple of the things I've already
ranted about. A lot of people think you can just pick up a gun and go to town.
That tells me that most people have never actually held a gun, much less fired
one.
I've
been to the shooting range a number of times with my older brother Dominic, and
once, before a birthday party he celebrated one year in Vegas, that included
firing machine guns. Before I'm accused of hypocrisy, I'll add that Dominic
spent a long time trying to get into the police academy, and I provided moral
support while he studied and trained. Anyway, after several good tries, I
learned that if you can hold a gun without your hand trembling uncontrollably,
you're doing well. And it takes training before most people can manage to hit,
say, the broad side of a barn.
The
looter chasing me might think he was tough, but he'd obviously never gotten the
chance to practice with a gun. I promised myself I'd say a prayer of thanks as
soon as I got out of range of him and his burly friends. I almost looked
forward to the zombies at that point—at least I'd understand their motives.
Someone
cried out behind me, and I risked a glance over my shoulder. One guy lay on the
pavement clutching his ankle, probably a victim of one of the cracks I'd
noticed earlier. Two of the others seized the excuse to quit running, squatting
beside him clutching their sides, gasping, panting, and coughing. I allowed
myself a satisfied smile. The guy with the gun hadn't tired yet, but he would,
as long as he didn't manage a lucky shot before I finished putting him through
his paces.
I
lengthened my strides. It felt good to take my body to its limit, to dig as
deeply as I could into the inner reserves I'd built up over the years... Right
up until I realized I'd forgotten to keep an eye on the littered road.
My
foot tangled in a plastic bag, and I went down hard. It was like something out
of kindergarten—bloody knees, bloody palms, and pain that brought stinging
tears to my eyes. A bullet hit the asphalt a mere foot away from me.
"Let
up, man!" I made my voice as threatening as possible, despite my
vulnerable position. "I got nothing!"
"Give
me the backpack!"
Adrenaline
forced me to my feet. I took a deep breath, preparing to push myself back into
a run despite the stiffness already settling into my knees.
That
wasn't to be, because my fall had allowed the big guy catch up with me. He may
not have known how to use his gun, but he sure as hell knew how to use his
hands. He demonstrated on my trachea as soon as he got hold of me.
I
hate to say it, but I froze. I thought about trying to stomp on his foot or
something, but I didn't really expect that to work, and I didn't want to die a
traitor to my own pacifist ideals. I helplessly pondered what to do as he
squeezed my neck tighter, and I started to feel chilled and light-headed.
That
was the first time I saw her, and considering how little oxygen was reaching my
brain at that moment, you can probably understand why I thought she was some
sort of apparition. She was beautiful. Sexy? Yes. She had the sort of curves
that make a man want to spend long afternoons in bed just tracing the shape of
them. Lips to match and ringlets of black hair that I immediately wanted to
feel across my bare chest. But she was also beautiful in a holy way—some kind
of light in the eyes or glow to the skin that reminded me of pictures of La
Virgen. She was dressed all in blue too, which contributed to my impression
that she wasn't entirely of this world—my mother taught me that blue is Mary's
color.
Her
small, compact body hurtled into me and my captor with force far beyond what I
would have expected from her weight. She screamed that he ought to let me go,
and his grip loosened, I think because he was so stunned. Neither of us knew
where she had come from or what she had to do with me.
Unfortunately,
the deranged looter's first instinct after letting go of me was to go after
her, specifically by hooking a finger through one of the big gold hoop earrings
she wore. I stretched my own rules a little and jabbed him in the ribs with my
elbow, hoping to distract him enough that my rescuer and I could both escape.
She
didn't have the kind of qualms I did. Out of one pocket, she produced a can of
pepper spray and proceeded to administer a healthy dose straight into his eyes.
I covered my face in time, but he gave a high-pitched scream and clapped his
palms to his cheekbones. The gun hit my foot then the pavement. The woman
screamed too, and I wondered if he still had her by the earring.
I
dropped to the ground and crawled a few feet away, moving through the pain in
my knees and palms. A glance at the woman showed she'd gotten herself free of
her opponent's grip and had grabbed the upper hand by far. She administered a
series of precise and painful-looking strikes to his abdomen.
Any
second, more of the looters would join this fight. I didn't feel good about
running away when she'd gotten involved in the first place because of me.
Pushing
myself to my feet, I went over and grabbed her elbow, wincing when my scrapes
contacted her skin. "We have to get out of here," I told her.
"Try to keep up."
She
rolled her eyes but didn't answer me. I took off running, feeling so much
adrenaline by then that the pain in my knees didn't really bother me.
She
wasn't next to me.
I
whirled without stopping, in time to see her scoop the looter's gun off the
sidewalk and toss it into a glittery backpack she carried, slung too low to be
entirely practical.
I
took my own turn rolling my eyes. Just what I needed. Another Rambo wannabe.
"Come on!" I shouted.
I
have to admit that despite annoying me by going for the gun, she'd impressed me
so far. The next thing she did really caught my attention. She grinned at me,
as wicked and gleeful as if we'd gone out racing to settle a bet. Then she
covered the distance I'd put between us so fast it took me a moment to realize
I was being outpaced.
She
shot past me and tossed another smile over her shoulder. "You better
hurry," she said, with a Puerto Rican accent and not a trace of effort. "Ahora, chacho. Those guys look
mad."
Bio:
Annabeth
Leong has written romance and erotica of many flavors -- dark, kinky, vanilla,
straight, lesbian, bi, and menage. Her titles for Breathless Press include the
contemporary werewolf erotic romances Not His Territory and Not the Leader of the Pack, and Run for Your
Love, a romance set in the
midst of a zombie apocalypse. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island, blogs at
annabethleong.blogspot.com, and tweets @AnnabethLeong
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