By Manuel Loureiro
An act of terrorism unleashed an unspeakable organic weapon...and hell in the world. yet because the plenty felled via a hideous virus rose from the useless to prey at the dwelling, a small band of survivors defied loss of life and its ghastly spawn—determined to outrun the world’s finish and in some way start again.
But past the undead-besieged beaches of Europe lies anything toward damnation than salvation. Rescued from convinced dying at sea, a tender Spanish legal professional, the attractive girl he loves, and his brash, battle-hardened most sensible friend—who have weathered the worst of the unnatural disaster—think they’re escaping to freedom yet are brought right into a stronghold of hate. In a usa ravaged by way of a zombie plague and overrun by means of the undead, purely Gulfport, Mississippi, deals sanctuary...for a cost: subservience to a fascist dictator and his brutal enforcers. yet their reign of terror will quickly be challenged—by rebels hungry for vengeance and invaders bent on conquest.
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Extra info for Apocalypse Z: The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z, Book 3)
A nod at a tacked-up, blown-up photo of—supposedly—a dog carcass. ” “Now we’re dog catchers,” smiled Black. “I’d hate to have to kill a dog,” Opal moaned, smiling apologetically as she straightened. ” “You didn’t mind helping me melt Bum Junket down today and you’re whining about a mutant dog,” Black chuckled. “Everybody’s got their soft spot. ” “Even exterminating pests makes me guilty,” Opal said. ” She pouted. “Yeah—once I saw a rat with five poor little shiny eyes. ” The three laughed, the robot’s head smiling blandly.
I’ll hold on long enough until they find a cure,” Bum said, more quietly. ” Blo rose from his bench. “I’m going to find some others who feel my way, Bum, I mean it. You’d better leave before I come back. ” Tremulous anger flashed out through the foggy glaze over Bum’s eyes. “Go ahead! You’re the selfish one, trying to control my life! Call whoever you want! ” Bum smiled hatefully. ” Blo nodded. “Fine, alright. ” His slim mechanically-boned hands trembled as they pinched a fresh cigarette from their package.
He had been a young, long-haired pilot during the Red War, now had permanent shadows clinging to his worn face like moss to stone, rust to metal, the lines of his mouth a hard dragged-down scowl, eyes like metal—maybe rusted, maybe not—in deep sockets, and short silvered slicked-back hair. He was in need of a shave. Hard to get along with. Black had joked to Opal once that Vern looked like an axe murderer. “You two can punch out, we got this one now,” he drawled. ” said Black. “Hey, I’m not stealing your glory, pretty boy, I’m doing you a favor.