First, how about a couple of blurbs from authors you may know:
“Dead Tide is a fast-paced journey full of zombie mayhem, in
which ordinary people encounter the most gruesome monsters,
both living and dead. Any fan of zombie fiction should enjoy
this page-turning romp.”
—Dr. Kim Paffenroth, Bram Stoker Award-winning
author of Gospel of the Living Dead, Dying to Live,
and Dying to Live: Life Sentence
“A militant zombie novel that, like all good zombie novels,
bares the predatory nature of mankind. [Dead Tide is] a
wonderfully brutal debut for Library of the Living Dead.”
—D.L. Snell, author of Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines
This novel also includes an Introduction from David Dunwoody, Cover Art by Dan Galli, and was edited by Travis Adkins.
Here is the prologue from my zombie novel, Dead Tide(Not sure why, but some of the
paragraphs didn't format properly when I copied and pasted. The irregularities don't
show up on the edit page---My apologies):
FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS he finds it difficult to see, but chief among
them is the protective mask over his face. Fortunately it is the newest
model, a fairly sleek piece of rubber with large binocular lenses. Even
so, he can feel a film of sweat forming on his forehead and cheeks.
As the helicopter drops lower, the haze hanging over the small
town becomes apparent. The northern side of the town is enveloped
in roiling smoke and flame. The chopper banks right and circles
clockwise in toward a parking lot that is the landing zone.
“Get ready Jacobs,” the pilot says over the headset.
Jacobs takes off the headset and puts his helmet on quickly. The
other men around him are already tense and poised, ready to go. The
chopper settles, hovering about a foot off the ground and men begin
to jump to the asphalt from the open doors on either side. Jacobs is
last and the chopper is pulling up even as he jumps. He lands fine,
and quickly takes a knee, with his M-4 carbine held up to his cheek.
He activates the laser sight.
Roughly fifty yards away are a line of storefronts. From left to
right they are: a Chinese restaurant, a liquor store, a grocery store, a
pawnshop, and a beauty parlour. Some cars off to his left are still
parked in orderly rows, but not those near the front of the grocery
store. Two cars and a pickup are locked together burning just ten feet
from the store’s entrance. Jacobs can smell gasoline. Broken bodies
and shattered glass litter the ground. A state trooper’s cruiser is parked
on the sidewalk at the entrance to a liquor store. No sign of the trooper.
Jacobs glances to his left, and activates his mike. “Headcount!”
Each of the five men sound off over the headset. Right now, each
is in position in a circle perimeter with roughly ten meters between
each man, all facing outwards to cover each other.
“Listen up. We’re going to leapfrog up to the store’s entrance.
Booth, Hicks and Lepski will go first. Shell, Watson and I will follow.
Got it?”
“Yes sir!”
“Then move it!”
Shell and Watson move up on either side of him. A second or two
later, the other three men sprint toward a camper with a horse trailer.
They cover the twenty or so yards without incident. Booth kneels at
the rear of the trailer, Hicks at the middle in between the trailer and
camper, and Lepski at the front of the camper.
“Go,” Jacobs orders, and his men comply, scrambling to follow
him as he sprints left of the trailer toward a scorched yellow minivan.
Somebody with an automatic weapon opens up, firing several
bursts that tear up the asphalt all around him. A shot whines past and
another tears a gouge across his right thigh. Breath rasping, he makes
the final few steps and falls near the rear of the van. Shell and Watson
drop beside him a moment later.
“You hit, Sarge?” Shell asks, leaning over him. He too is breathing
hard.
“Just creased along the thigh. I’m more pissed off than hurt.”
“Yeah, who the hell is shooting at us?”
“Not sure, but it sounded like a Thompson.”
Watson looks up. “You mean that World War Two submachine
gun?”
“Yes. Did either of you see where the shooter was?”
“I think it came from the liquor store, Sarge,” Watson answers.
“You want me to put some stink on him?” He hefts his light machine
gun like a toy.
Jacobs shakes his head and laughs. Putting some stink on someone
has been the big joke lately. “Be ready in a moment to do just that.”
He then keys his mike. “Booth, you and the others be ready to lay
down cover fire for me and Shell. We’re going to rush the storefront.
Think we got a shooter over at the liquor store. Copy? Over.”
“Roger,” Booth replies. “Whenever you are ready, Sergeant, we
are too. Out.”
“Ready Shell? Let’s go!”
Gunfire erupts and the tinted glass windows and door of the liquor
store shatter. Someone leans around the police cruiser. Before Jacobs
can fire, several rounds hit the guy and knock him flat on his back.
Jacobs keeps running. The crease stings with every step but is
manageable.
Suddenly the fire slacks off, and he and Shell run past the guy
near the cruiser. Sure enough there is a Thompson in his hand, and
bullets have literally riddled his body.
Just some crazy fuck trying to stay alive.
His boots crunch on the broken glass as he hits the remains of the
door at a sprint.
His boots slip in a big puddle just inside the door, and someone
just inside grabs his protective jacket and the suspender for his ammo
pouch as he falls backwards. A snarling, snapping nightmare straddles
him. The carbine is lost. Where is Shell? Can’t see, but he has one
hand on the thing’s throat and the other struggling with its ripping
fingers. He can feel his equipment belt coming apart. The thing lunges
and his hand on its throat can’t stop it. His mask almost comes loose
with the impact of the thing’s face.
Oh Jesus, it’s chewing on my mask!
So weak. No energy to fight much longer.
A shot rings out, deafeningly loud. The weight of the thing falls
away.
“Fuck Sarge, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t draw my pistol quick enough.
I couldn’t use the Ronson here, or I’d toasted you both.”
“No problem Shell, I think I’m all right. But this mask has to go. I
can’t see a stinking thing.”
“That woman was chewing on it. Probably saved your life.”
The suction is too great for a moment, and the rubber resists, but
it comes free bringing almost immediate relief to his sweaty face.
Vision returns.
He looks at the mask in his gloved hand. The eyepieces are smeared
with blood that is still dripping.
“You said woman?”
Shell nods. “Yeah, it was a woman all right, and if she wasn’t trying
to bite your face off, I might’ve been tempted to leave you two alone.”
Jacobs lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t go there Shell, I’m warning you.
Now where is my carbine?”
“Have a look yourself, Sarge. Look at her…”
Jacobs turns fully toward Shell, and before he can stop himself,
grabs the man by the throat. The other man’s eyes are wide behind
the lenses of his mask. “Get moving, Private! Back outside!” He gives
the man a push backwards.
“Sure thing, Sarge,” Shell says over his shoulder.
Once the other man is gone, Jacobs gives in and looks at the body.
She is wearing a light green jogging outfit and tennis shoes. Her hair
is long, and a light brown with blonde highlights. His rifle is right
beside her.
Wonder what her face looks like? What color are her eyes?
A distant shout snaps him back.
Why am I looking at a dead woman?
Because there is no chance they’ll look back. This one isn’t going
to recoil in fear, hatred, or disgust. No restraining orders. No shouting
or screaming.
No nothing.
He feels a tear course down his cheek, and a long shudder wracks
his body.
He picks up the rifle, checks it over, then heads for the exit.
Once outside he finds his men behind nearby cars, spread out
once again in a circle perimeter, covering all approaches.
Shell stands up. “Are we going to clear the buildings, Sarge?”
Jacobs can see most of the others looking over at him, waiting for
an answer.
“No, we’re not, Shell. You are going to burn them.”
“But there may be healthy people still trapped in there. What if
some people are still alive? I can’t kill innocents.”
Jacobs lifts his carbine up a bit, and the red dot of the laser sight
plays across the asphalt at Shell’s feet. “You heard my order, Shell.
I’m getting impatient.”
It is impossible to read the man’s expression behind the mask,
but he nods, then steps forward from behind the cover of the minivan.
He aims the nozzle of the flamethrower and slowly squeezes the release
and ignition triggers, which requires both hands, one on each pistol
grip.
There is a roar as Shell directs a jet of the burning fuel up and
onto the roofs of the stores.
They’ll thank me later, Jacobs thinks.
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