Read Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure for Free Online

out from the sockets and tread on them so they burst all gooey and horrible. Then she’ll put those eyes back in so they can see her punching them in the nose again. Then she’ll cry and eat chocolate.
    Her woes increase with the greater frequency of houses dotted along the country lane giving an indication of nearing the town. Cottages mostly, detached and lovely and no doubt owned by toffee nosed rich bastards that killed foxes for pleasure. Bastards. The onset of the mood eases back the fear and hesitancy of hanging off to peer and be uber sure before rushing past. Instead she watches, listens and then runs while cursing foully at being forced to run.
    Some of the cottage doors have been bust open. Windows smashed with signs of forced entry. Blood stains on a gate and up a path. A congealed mess of something gloopy and old outside one of them. None of them look intact or safe and the fact most have been entered means this immediate area isn’t safe either.
    She presses on, venturing gradually from rural to town. The fields become smaller and more like pasture land for grazing horses. Stables here and there. Sheep and cows chewing content and silent.
    The hedges are soon replaced with wire fences then wooden panels and finally by walls marking the boundary of edge-of-town houses. She spots roof tops, church spires, mobile phone masts and the tops of factories now in the near distance. A big town by the looks of it but if these houses have been looted or smashed in then the shops are probably all looted too. Probably by the greedy toffee nosed fox murdering wankers. Bastards.
    Now is the time to switch on and despite the growing discomfort of pain, swelling, bloating, cramps, sweats, foul mood, hunger and being royally pissed off she forces herself to focus and look properly. This only happened twelve days ago. It seems longer because hiding with sod all to do every day makes the time stretch out but it’s still new enough to be wholly and inherently dangerous.
    The lane ends at a junction to a wide main road with an instant transition from rural to urban. In both directions she can see rows of houses, shops further down, cars parked up or left abandoned. Silent with a foreboding air that hangs heavy and hot.
    She holds still, easing the bag off her shoulders again and dropping to a squat that sends a fresh wave of cramps through her gut. She winces, growls and waits hoping it will pass but it doesn’t. Instead she moves faster, gripping the brown wooden stock of the sawn-off shotgun that she slides out and lays down on the road. Four cartridges are taken from the side pocket and put next to the shotgun. She doesn’t know what they are, or even if they’re any good but it was all she could find when she broke into the farm while running to find somewhere to hide. She nabbed a hacksaw at the same time and later cut the barrels down so the shotgun would fit it in her bag then taught herself how to open and close it. She opens it now and slides two of the cartridges into the holes, side by side. Two triggers so that must be one for each barrel. She hates it. The weight of it and the need to carry the thing but having it is far safer than being unarmed.
    She pockets the other two shells, closes the shotgun, shoulders the bag and sets off over the road, aiming for the junction of another smaller street further down. She gets halfway across when she hears the engine. Diesel and throaty, like a van. The kind she used to hear every day when she lived in her town. Vans that made deliveries to shops and homes. She runs faster, opening her legs to sprint as she gains directional hearing to the engine coming from the right side.
    She factors that hearing an engine means someone is driving and that means another survivor. Unless the zombies have started driving vans in the few days she’s been hiding in the church. She gets across and vaults a low wall then runs further into the garden to drop behind a hedge. Breathing hard from