Apocalipstick (Hell in a Handbag Book 1) by Lisa Acerbo (best motivational books for students .TXT) 📕

fear made instinct erupt and Jenna ran. And she didn’t stop until stomach cramping, bile filled her throat.

Able to finally see past the mausoleum she’d first spotted, a small shack nestled behind it. Although a mishmash of stone and wood, it was enough, and she wouldn’t have to bed with the dead as she would in the tomb. Jenna approached, tugging on the door, but it remained locked and sturdy even though the metal roof was pocked and rusted.

Skulking towards the side of the building, her hand shimmied across the wooden casing of a window. She reached to push it open only to have shards of broken glass decorate her coat sleeve. With the thrust of an elbow, Jenna knocked out the remaining glass.

She cleared the remaining slivers with her backpack before launching it through the empty frame and into the murky interior. Biceps screaming, she hauled herself up, belly pressing tight against the wood before she flopped inside like a dying fish.

Once nestled on the floor, tempted to rest, she focused on finding anything useful. It was the practical thing to do to keep the fear at bay.

A rusted wrench, hoe, and shovel sat propped in a corner along with discarded can of beans and a forlorn granola bar wrapper. The tools would make good weapons but were too bulky to haul all together. A salvage job. The wrench would work. The handle of the shovel could be dislodged from the base.

In addition to the tools, Jenna found a few matches near the charred remains of a fire littering the back wall. She hunkered down, shovel in hand, and began to ply the handle apart from the base. There was no telling how soon evil would arrive. Once her task was complete, she curled herself into a corner and fell asleep.

When she woke her vision filled with red. There was no time to scream.

1

8 months later . . .

Jenna propped herself against the ledge of the roof and huffed a breath. She’d completed her daily regime of jumping jacks, push-ups, squats, as well as some hand-to-hand practice.

A girl could never let her guard down.

She studied the landscape from the red brick, two-story building that had been home for the last two weeks. A large field and playground dominated the side, grass overgrown, a battered swing set in pieces on the ground. One main street in front of the building led into Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a former manufacturing community. Across the lane, empty homes with cracked windows, peeling paint, and boarded doors. The elevated roof of the two-story building on which she stood provided a clear view of the area and the small city would hopefully provide supplies and resources desperately needed.

She yawned with boredom and scanned the street. Her eyes narrowed and her hand rose to shield them from the early morning glare of sun.

Like the trickling of a slow, muddy sewer on the side of a ditch, movement caught her eye.

“Streakers!” The scream scorched her throat.

The undead limped from the shadows. Bodies shuffled in and out of the heavy air, numbers hidden by the haze of heat. A corpse turned the corner of a nearby building, stepping into sight. Arm missing, the monster lurched forward. Mottled with decay, the dead woman wore a rash of pale gray skin. A few clumps of rot sprouted like mushrooms along its scalp.

The Streakers were broken and twisted, catatonic, but staggering along the road. One had all his limbs attached, but its face seeped off the skull like pus. An eye dangled by its nose.

“Streakers.” Jenna’s scream clanked and pinged around the roof like a pinball machine.

Ford, an agile middle-aged man who somehow managed to maintain a small paunch belly despite the end of the world, ran over and put a hand on her back, scooting close. “They found us?”

The teen twins, Eric and Billy, skidded to a halt at the ledge next to Jenna, leaning over to observe.

“They’re an ugly lot,” said Billy. He turned to his twin, playfully punching his rail-thin brother on the shoulder.

“You’re an ugly lot, and the two of you need to take this more seriously.” Jenna smiled at the tall, tow-headed boy to take the sting out of her remark.

Eric shifted position to protect his arm from further brotherly abuse and turned his blue eyes on Ford. “Can we fight today?”

The older man tilted his bald head and squinted. “They just came into sight. We don’t have a strategy yet, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. We might pick up and go.”

Billy pushed long, unruly bangs out of his eyes. “Sucks that.” He peered at Jenna. “Put in a good word for us.”

“Maybe. No promises. What do I get if I do? I’m not nice for nothing.”

Billy and Eric exchanged glances.

Jenna chuckled, pushing away their awkwardness and surveyed the sidewalks and roadways, watching the zombie parade for a minute before pointing a gun at a desiccated corpse that had separated itself from the herd like a lost cow. The blast pounded. One of the monsters exploded, remnants flying into the air.

It was a callous joke by the survivors, calling the undead Streakers after the people who used to get naked and run through public spaces for protest or prank, especially because these creatures hobbled, shambled, and trod. The world no longer made sense, so why should their name.

“It’s been nice to have the quiet. Guess that’s over.” Ford frowned into the horizon. “I was beginning to hope they wouldn’t find us but here they are.”

“Never hope.” Jenna didn’t take her eyes off the Streakers in the street.

Ford raised a hand to the sky like an actor on stage. “The sweet morning silence and quiet bird songs rang like symphonies. And yet you call the mumbling evil masses to us by shooting one.”

“You are a poet, Ford. You should write that down.” Jenna’s green eyes turned hard. “Don’t lecture me on using the gun. If they are this close, they’ve detected us already. I helped establish