Operation Z-Day by Dennis Larsen

Book Preface

A cold, dense fog lifted from the still waters and effortlessly crept over the worn, smooth boulders that lined the shore of the lake, hiding the earth and the dead.  Victor stood near the water’s edge with his raincoat pulled tightly around his neck, his left hand clasped at his throat, holding the lapels together.  In his right he held a long, slender dagger, which widened very slightly toward the end, sweeping up into a highly polished point.  Thick, red blood dripped from the steel and splashed in an ever-growing pool of crimson near his feet.  Exhausted, he could not bring himself to wipe clean the instrument of his salvation, nor could he take his eyes from the bodies of friends and fiends scattered on the ground around him.

The secluded cabin had seemed the perfect place to seek refuge from those that were dead and should have stayed that way.  Events around the world had unfolded far more quickly than governments could react.  The release of a new, highly concentrated nerve agent, by an extreme terrorist organization, had spread panic and then death in its wake.  Thousands, then millions were affected, succumbing within minutes once they were exposed to the chemical.  The world community may have survived this alone but the horrific, unexplained transformation of those, thought dead, into savage, blood-crazed zombies tilted the scales against anyone surviving the initial attack.

When the streets of New York reeked of death and before the dead walked again, Victor Graves and his friends had loaded a van with the few hurried items they could secure and had run for the hills.  Pockets of the living were evident as they had driven further north, but death was also present.  It seemed there was no rhyme or reason, as if the transforming agent had literally been carried on the winds, killing like an angel of death seeking out the wicked.   Arriving at his uncle’s property well after midnight, the little party set about making beds, fixing food and looking for weapons.  Victor had pulled the dagger from the mounts above the fireplace as soon as they had entered the home, while others were satisfied with the kitchen cutlery.

It was then, as they prepared to make the quaint, little outpost their home that the wave of repugnant, flesh-eating dead had attacked.  They swept over the beleaguered band in seconds, easily ripping entrails from their first victim, who fell before she could utter a sound.  Victor and company had battled bitterly, retreating to the slowly lapping water’s edge as their last stand.  Screams had echoed for what seemed like hours but in reality were mere minutes.  When the scene had matched the tranquility of the placid lake, he stood alone, covered in blood and tissue, unable to fathom what had just occurred and not wanting to accept it.