Ex-Communication by Peter Clines (love story books to read .txt) 📕

grabbed an ex in either hand, slammed them together, then looked back at St. George. “There’s too many up front,” she bellowed.

Billie hopped up onto the tailgate and stomped twice. “Turn us around, Luke,” she shouted.

“Fucking comic-book guy,” growled Taylor. He put a round in an overweight ex in a Superman T-shirt and cracked its helmet. The zombie fell over backward.

The truck’s engine revved and it lurched forward. An ex that had made it past Cerberus, a bulky man with blood-splattered eyeglasses under its helmet, dropped under the bumper and the large tires crushed its legs and one arm. Taylor and Jarvis took a few steps, keeping close to the tailgate while they called out more targets.

St. George grabbed a dead man by the neck and waist, lifted the ex up, and marched forward with it like a battering ram. Other exes tried to reach past the body and became a tangle of grasping arms and snapping jaws. He heaved and sent a score of them sprawling back. Their bodies tripped another dozen heading for the truck.

A quartet of the undead wrapped their arms around St. George in a group hug. The hero shrugged them off and hammered his fists down hard on their helmets. The impact cracked helmets and crushed three of their skulls. The fourth, a girl in a soccer uniform, he batted away. She plowed into another ex and they both tumbled back into a third.

Big Blue was halfway through a three-point turn. Taylor had leaped up onto the tailgate. Jarvis was still walking alongside it. The truck surged back again and knocked down another ex with the edge of the tailgate.

The air tingled and St. George heard the crackle of electricity over the chatter of teeth. Cerberus was firing up her stunners again. Arcs twisted around the titan’s gauntlets and exes dropped at her touch.

An ex reached for St. George. He grabbed the claw-like hand and swung the dead thing into the air, bringing it around like a club. He swung it once to the left and once back to the right, knocking down a dozen zombies as he did. The ex broke apart on his third swing, its cartilage crumbling like old jerky.

He spread his arms wide and marched away from the truck. He caught three exes against himself. The one by his face was a Latina with chalky eyes and no helmet. The dead woman tried to bite his face and its teeth scraped off his nose. St. George snapped his head forward to crack its skull.

The ex slumped against him and was pinned there when he walked it back into another one. He was pushing six exes at two steps, ten of them at four, and by the time he shrugged them off almost twenty exes were knocked to the ground.

They were already closing back in around him. He leaped into the air and they reached after him with withered fingers. He pushed himself through the air, back to the truck, and a half-dozen exes tipped over as they tried to twist and follow him. A tall one latched onto his boot and he dragged it a few yards before it dropped away.

“Son of a bitch!” shouted Jarvis. There was a sharp edge to his voice. The older man kicked his leg and swung his rifle down to shoot something on the ground. At point-blank range, its helmet did nothing against a rifle round. St. George got a quick look at the twisted thing before its head exploded. It was the ex Big Blue had run over, still wearing the red-flecked glasses. It had used its one good arm to crawl under the swerving truck to where Jarvis stood.

The salt-and-pepper man swore again. A wet stain blossomed on his left calf, just above his boot. He stumbled and grabbed the edge of the lift gate as the truck shifted gears again.

He’d been bitten. Bad, from the look of it.

“Get him in the truck,” shouted St. George. “Now!” He flew down, grabbed another ex that had gotten close to Jarvis, and hurled it away.

Taylor had been part of the same super-soldier program that had given Captain Freedom his enhanced physique. He wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Freedom, but he was still three or four times stronger than most of the people in Los Angeles. He grabbed Jarvis by the collar, heaved, and set him down in the back of the truck. Bee leaped down from the top of the cab and pulled a first-aid kit from her shoulder bag.

Big Blue lurched back and Cerberus stepped up onto the lift gate. The truck’s suspension sagged and squealed. “Go,” shouted Ilya, banging on the back of the cab.

St. George hurled back a last few exes as the truck surged forward. He grabbed one ex by the throat, a dark-skinned woman with a gash in her cheek. The corpse smirked at him.

“Still feel smart, dragon man?”

It let out a coarse chuckle. The hero brought his fist around and shattered the dead woman’s jaw. The laugh echoed from a dozen exes around him. He lashed out and destroyed four more. Legion laughed at him the whole time.

Big Blue was a block away and picking up speed. St. George flew after the truck and landed in the bed next to Cerberus. “How bad is it?”

“Just a scratch,” Jarvis said through clenched teeth.

“It’s bad,” said Bee. “Think it might’ve hit a vein.” She was crouched next to Jarvis. Hector de la Vega was across from her. He’d slashed open the bloody jeans to expose the bite and held the leg up in the air.

The ex hadn’t taken any meat, but it had sunk its teeth in deep. Bee washed the wound clean with a bottle of water and half the liquid ran down to stain Jarvis’s crotch. For a moment the ragged bite pattern was visible on his calf and some of the loose flesh flopped back and forth like a dying fish. Then more blood streamed out and