Dead South
Dead South Book One
Zach Bohannon
Copyright © 2020 by Zach Bohannon
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Jennifer Collins
Cover by Yocla Designs
zachbohannon.com
moltenuniversemedia.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Dead South 2
Afterword
Also by Zach Bohannon
About Zach Bohannon
1
Jon South watched the dead bastard lumber past the aging oak tree.
The zombie stood around five-foot-seven, several inches shorter than Jon, who measured just over six feet tall. But the thing, only a number of yards away from Jon and the tree, was as wide as a house. It walked alone, so although it wouldn’t be easy to take down, Jon could be selective about how he wanted to do it. He didn’t know if the dead walkers felt pain, but he hoped that they did. That’s why he only hunted with the baseball bat and the tactical hatchet.
He licked the salt off his lips while contemplating which weapon to draw off his back.
Three years ago, when all this had started, he’d carried both a handgun and a shotgun with him on the hunts. His lack of confidence at the time had forced him to. But after a while, as he’d become more comfortable and experienced the satisfaction of taking down the zombies in close combat, he’d begun leaving the shotgun at home and the handgun in his holster. Eventually, he’d stopped bringing the pistol on the hunts altogether. Leaving the firearms behind only amplified the thrills.
He grabbed the hatchet first. The weapon had claimed dozens of zombies. Its rubberized grip and lightweight construction made it easy to handle. Jon had sharpened its blade the night before, priming it for the kill. He could severe a limb or even decapitate a zombie with a single forceful swing, but that depended on his mood. Because he could also take his time if he wanted to. Sometimes he wanted the dead bastards to suffer.
And then, sometimes, he used the bat.
On his many nights alone sitting on the front patio of his remote cabin out in the Tennessee woods, Jon had often thought about naming the bat, but that seemed silly. It sounded like something only psychopaths did, and Jon was far from losing his mind. At least, that’s what he told himself.
The bat brought him comfort. It brought him hope. Hope that the gluttonous dead bastard before his eyes would suffer in the same way he’d suffered. In the same way they had suffered. Nothing felt as good as connecting with the skull of one of the zombies and hearing the crack of wood against bone.
That was why he had to use the bat.
Jon returned the hatchet to its place on his back and took hold of the bat instead. He slapped it against his palm a couple of times and studied it. The branding had faded away from the barrel and the light brown color barely showed under its crimson stains of blood.
He brushed his hand against the tall grass as he moved from behind the tree offering him cover. Stopping next to a stump, Jon watched the creature continue to limp away from him. He could have snuck up on the monster and taken it out stealthily, but that wasn’t always quite as fun.
The hunt was the skill, but the takedown was the art.
Slapping the bat against his palm again, Jon whistled.
The zombie jerked its head around. It snarled, spit spraying from its mouth like a sprinkler. It turned all the way around to face Jon. Suspenders held up the zombie’s mud-stained pants. The white undershirt it wore had ripped at the bottom, revealing the creature’s flabby belly. Like all the other zombies, its skin was a pale gray. Its eyes bore a yellow tint not too different from mustard. From the way the skin looked, Jon estimated the creature had taken this form at least a year ago. Since then, it had likely been walking across the barren lands with no purpose but to seek its next meal of living flesh. Again, it snarled at Jon.
“What?” Jon put his arms out to his sides. “You’ve been walking all this time. I know you’re not too fucking fat to come get me. So, here I am. Come eat me, big boy.”
The creature opened its mouth wide, letting out a hellish scream. Then it wobbled toward Jon with its hands stretched out, hoping to grab him.
Jon twirled the bat in his hand. “Come on, you son of a bitch.”
The zombie ran at Jon. Jon gripped his bat with both hands and swung, hitting the zombie in its belly as he moved around the massive thing. The hit didn’t give Jon the satisfying crack that he loved. Instead, it was like hitting an exercise ball; only, the zombie’s stomach didn’t pop.
Turning around, Jon held the bat tight and prepared for a home run shot. The creature faced him, and Jon didn’t hesitate. With a cry like a wounded warrior, he aimed for the zombie’s head and swung.
It sounded like a gunshot. The barrel of the wooden bat connected with the side of the zombie’s face. Blood sprayed, and whatever teeth hadn’t rotted out of the dead thing’s mouth came spilling out and onto the dirt. The blow wasn’t enough to knock the zombie down—only stagger it.
Jon waited for it to turn around, and then he swung again. The bat vibrated in Jon’s hands, sending a shock up his arm as it once again connected with the zombie’s head. But the hit was enough to knock the
