Zombie Haven - The Fence Book 2. Read part of the opening chapter of the novel below.
Stonehaven has fallen to a post-apocalypse event. Zombies are rife. People are being killed. The military has only one man in the area, RAF gunner Jason Harper. He hates killing.
His search for survivors in dystopian Aberdeenshire continues. With the aid of drug addict Imogen Pritchard, they must find the uninfected before it's too late, or kill the infected.
Can they reach the survivors before the infected kill them and survive themselves? Will Jason finally get through the fence that's been erected around Aberdeenshire to keep the zombies in and reach his wife and unborn baby? Can he trust Imogen to keep him safe?
Zombie Haven is the second book in The Fence series of military post-apocalyptic zombie invasion novels by British horror writer C.G. Buswell.
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The bullet thudded into the shoulder of the running man. He had dried blood crusting on his mouth, down his neck, and onto his flapping shirt. It exited after ricocheting off his clavicle, causing a huge hole to burst from his back. He didn't feel a thing. Nor did the smaller woman, behind him, as it burst through her face, the heavy 8.59mm calibre bullet exploding her features like a burst tomato. Her all-in-one waterproof jacket, reaching down to her ankles, didn't protect her clothing from the gushing torrents of blood that poured from her writhing arteries and veins as they danced and made her muscles contort and twist.
Both undead were victims of the Russian plane that had flown overhead yesterday, spilling a strange yellow smoke, turning Aberdeen and the surrounding Aberdeenshire into a death zone. Those affected by the chemicals had turned feral upon each other, craving the blood of those few lucky enough to survive. The couple, united in death, took another faltering step, then dropped to a merciful release. As an act of irony, the man twisted as he fell and lay prone on his back as if awaiting the delivery of the woman. She obliged and fell on top of him, her mushy neck nuzzling into his unfeeling face, giving the appearance of a last embrace.
'Fuck me!' exclaimed Imogen Pritchard as she watched through the Schmidt and Bender eye scope of her new favourite weapon, the L115A3 sniper rifle, given to her at the newly constructed fence near the border of the county of Angus. 'That's fucking fantastic.' Her smile exposed her missing teeth. The start of black decay in those few remaining gave away her years of drug dependence and personal neglect.
Her companion, Flight Sergeant Jason Harper, put his hand to his mouth and gave a few dry heaves. His shoulders and back arched from the floor of their battered Land Rover, and his free hand grasped the lip of the lowered tailgate. 'They were people,' he sighed as he dropped his other hand from viewing through the single sight of his spotter lens, the Mark 4 Tactical Spotting Scope.
'Not anymore, Cowboy! If you are going to spew, crank your head over to the gravel, and watch out for Sabre, I don't want any vomit on his fur.'
As if in expectation, their furry friend, a huge German Shepherd dog, began sniffing around the weeds beneath the tailgate the unlikely couple was spread on.
'Let's find your next target. Try not to snatch at the trigger. You went wide of the heart,' advised Jason. He looked to Sabre, 'Lie down,' he ordered. 'I don't want you shaking the tailgate and making Imo miss.'
The dog instantly hunched down and spread his long legs, awaiting his next command.
'I was aiming between his eyes. I wanted to see his head erupt. But two in one shot, how about that? Got to be a record!'
Jason shook his head in distraction. 'I'm afraid not. A British sniper in Afghanistan took out eight towel heads with one shot. It's thought his shot hit a suicide vest, and it was straight to Allah for them.'
Imogen muttered incoherently under her breath as she took aim, from the top car park, down to the hillside path and up to the ruined castle that stood proudly on a high, rugged hill, its rear and side sprouting on mighty solid rocks. The North Sea battered impotently against the solid rocks below, as it had done over the centuries. Sheets of white and blue water tried to cascade the sheer walls and then ebbed back to the sea in a hasty retreat. There was fleeting movement around the mixture of roofless buildings, except for the modern-day visitor centre. The armed couple didn't need to travel the 800 metres down the path and then up the steep incline to get to this ancient monument. Their dull black and green weapon's bullets travelled within two seconds; the fist-sized Lapua Magnum bullet fired effortlessly from the sniper rifle. The enhanced suppressor, at the tip of the muzzle, created little noise, nor flash, designed not to give away their position. The colonel, who had left them a couple of kitbags crammed with gear and an assortment of weapons in the back of the Land Rover, had thought of everything.
'Slow your breathing down. We are trained to not feel the emotion. Each target we aim at isn't a human with a family. We are taught to see them as only a target.'
'So why do you vomit every time you kill?' mocked Imogen.
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