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  Praise for PLAGUE NATION

  “If you like your heroines smart and sassy and kick ass capable, Ashley Parker has what you need. And Plague Nation is exactly what the zombie genre needed.”

  JOE MCKINNEY, Stoker Award-winning author of FLESH EATERS and INHERITANCE

  “Plague Nation is a rollicking zombie thriller packed with action, chills, and biting humor. Brava!”

  JONATHAN MABERRY, New York Times bestselling author of PATIENT ZERO, FIRE AND ASH, and DEAD OF NIGHT

  Praise for PLAGUE TOWN

  “In Plague Town, Dana Fredsti has created something truly unique in the world of horror fiction - a cool, hip zombie apocalypse novel. With crisp writing, a cast of memorable characters, and tons of undead combat action, it’s a zombie lover’s literary dream. When the dead rise, I’ll want the Wild Cards by my side.”

  ROGER MA, author of ZOMBIE COMBAT MANUAL

  “One of the Top Ten Zombie Releases of 2012.”

  BARNESANDNOBLE.COM

  “A gruesomely good read that has me panting for the next book in the series. As hard to put down as a swarm of zombies. When’s the next one?”

  KAT RICHARDSON, bestselling author of the GREYWALKER novels

  “Fredsti’s writing is razor sharp as her heroes fight off the horde while fighting their attraction for each other.”

  STACEY GRAHAM, author of THE ZOMBIE DATING GUIDE

  “Plague Town is a fast-moving zombie tale that reads like a blast of energy. If you like zombie apocalypse stories, this is a must read!”

  LOIS GRESH, New York Times Best-Selling Author of BLOOD AND ICE and ELDRITCH EVOLUTIONS

  “Dana Fredsti has created a world as familiar as our own back yard and populated it with recognizable people we care about... and zombies. Plague Town will have you turning pages fast... and checking the locks on all the doors.”

  RAY GARTON, author of LIVE GIRLS AND SEX and VIOLENCE IN HOLLYWOOD

  “As adorable an end of the world as you’re liable to get... a brisk, witty ultraviolent romantic gurlventure...”

  GINA MCQUEEN, author of OPPOSITE SEX and APOCALYPSE AS FOREPLAY

  “Chills and thrills for that season when you’re looking for—chills and thrills!”

  HEATHER GRAHAM, author of HALLOWED GROUND and the FLYNN BROTHERS TRILOGY

  “Not only is the prose good, but it’s seasoned with a dash of steamy romance and an excellent sense of originality and pacing. it survives the zombie apocalypse in style.”

  MISPRINTED PAGES

  “More action than season two of The Walking Dead.”

  HORROR TALK

  “Revoltingly gory in just the right way, and I’ll be picking up the sequel when it rolls around.”

  HOUSE OF GEEKERY

  “Read it—I zombie dare you. Fun, fast, read.”

  AFFAIRS MAGAZINE

  “A diverting, entertaining zombie siege novel—complete with all the delicious, bone-crunching, blood-gushing awesomeness a zombie lover could ever want.”

  BOOK SMUGGLERS

  “While Plague Town is a really fun and action-packed ride, one cannot dismiss the darkness at the center of it all. There are sections laced throughout written from the perspective of the innocent people as they are turning into zombies. an emotional core that grounds the novel and keeps it from being just a shallow action/horror romp.” STRANGE AMUSEMENTS

  “If you love zombies, strong, sarcastic heroines with heart, and fight scenes that will knock your socks off, you’ll devour Plague Town!”

  MY BOOKISH WAYS

  “Delightfully gruesome.”

  NERDS IN BABELAND

  “Described as Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets zombies, which is definitely accurate, although does not do nearly enough service to the book’s skillful delivery of action, humor, gore and romance.”

  STARPULSE

  “Chock-full of gore and zombie romance... a fresh spin on an otherwise tired genre.”

  DAILY GRINDHOUSE

  “It’s funny, scary, gory, sexy and goes a mile a minute.”

  CULTURE BRATS

  “If you like butt-kicking heroines with a fair dose of snark and humor, then you’re going to love Ashley.”

  GEEK MOM

  BOOKS BY

  DANA FREDSTI

  * * *

  THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS

  Plague Town

  Plague Nation

  Plague World (forthcoming)

  Murder For Hire: The Peruvian Pigeon

  PLAGUE NATION

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857686367

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686398

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: April 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Dana Fredsti asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2013 Dana Fredsti

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

  Did you enjoy this book? We love to hear from our readers.

  Please email us at [email protected] or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

  To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website: www.titanbooks.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To my cousin,

  Staff Sergeant Nick Fredsti

  * * *

  with the 82nd Airborne, killed in action in Afghanistan while serving his country, and his sister, Sarah Fredsti, one of the bravest people I know.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAIL
ABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  “And now for some more bad news. Ready?”

  Egg Shen, Big Trouble in Little China

  BELLEVILLE, WISCONSIN

  Bart shuffled out onto the front porch to collect the morning paper, cursing when he saw that their idiot paperboy had once again managed to pitch it nowhere near the house. Instead it lay in a pile of slush in the middle of the front yard, meaning he would have to get his slippers soaking wet to get the damn thing.

  Grumbling, he made his way carefully down the slippery steps, moderately grateful that Belleville was experiencing a relatively mild winter, and it wasn’t actually snowing any more. Early November in Wisconsin wasn’t always so gentle. Even so, the sky was a solid gray layer of clouds.

  Bart managed to retrieve the paper without mishap, and turned to go back into his house, but paused as he noticed a pile of newspapers on Lucy Swenson’s front stoop. His first thought was how come the little shit of a paperboy had managed to get his neighbor’s papers right up against the front door.

  Then he frowned. Why hadn’t Swenson picked up her paper? Bart counted at least three in their plastic bags, lying in the half-melted snow on the cement porch.

  No, this wasn’t like Swenson at all. Hell, Bart could set a timer by her daily routine. Porch light off at 6:30 a.m., step outside at 7, always wearing a scowl that frightened small children... Pick up her paper. Grumble something under her breath—usually about the neighborhood dogs ruining her yard. Go back inside and slam the door. She only reappeared when Belleville’s lone postal carrier delivered her mail, and harangued him about all sorts of crap that had nothing to do with the postal service.

  Porch light on at 6 p.m. sharp—even in the summer.

  With this last thought, Bart realized his neighbor’s porch light was still on. No, that wasn’t right. Could she have fallen and hurt herself? As much as he disliked Lucy Swenson, the cantankerous old bitch was still his neighbor. And in a place as small as Belleville, people looked after one another.

  “Well, shit.”

  Bart sighed and pulled his terrycloth robe tightly around him, retying the belt in a secure knot before carefully making his way onto his neighbor’s property, avoiding piles of muddy slush. Even so, the cold wind gusting across the yard penetrated both robe and flannel pajamas, sending an unwelcome chill straight through his bones.

  As he approached the porch, Bart’s eyebrows shot up as he peered at the mailbox mounted to one of the porch supports. It was stuffed to overflowing. A chill tickled his spine that had nothing to do with the wind.

  Careful to avoid patches of ice on the cement steps, Bart navigated his way to Lucy’s porch and rapped on the front door.

  “Miss Swenson?” He’d known his neighbor for years, long enough to call her by her first name, but she’d have a conniption fit if he did it. He knocked again, more vigorously. “Miss Swenson?”

  He held his breath, and thought he heard something. Bart pressed his ear to the door. It was a thumping sound, followed by a noise as if something was being dragged across the floor.

  “Well, shit.”

  He went around the porch until he’d reached the living room window. His view inside was obscured by snowy white eyelet curtains, with hardly any space between the panels. The interior of the house was dark. He thought he saw something moving inside, but it was hard to tell.

  “Miss Swenson—you okay in there?”

  He heard a low moan. It didn’t sound good.

  That decided him. Putting his shoulder to the door and a hand on the doorknob, he pushed and twisted at the same time. The door opened easily, and Bart stumbled, practically falling inside the front hallway. He caught himself, his right knee screaming at the unexpected twist. The pain, however, was quickly overwhelmed by the stench that wafted through the house, like an overflowing port-a-potty in the heat of summer. Slipping, Bart fell to his knees into a puddle of viscous black fluid. He began choking on the thick smell, his gorge rising even though he hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee.

  Something was dead in here.

  Trying not to panic, he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the ache in his joints and trying to ignore the foul black goo that now coated the knees of his pajama bottoms and the hem of his robe. Slow, stumbling footsteps sounded in the living room to the right of the front hall.

  “That you, Miss Swenson?” he said hopefully, covering his nose and mouth with one hand.

  The hair on the back of Bart’s neck rose. Something was really wrong here, and he realized the best thing he could do was leave. Right now. But his conscience wouldn’t let him do so without one last try.

  “Miss Swens...?” Bart’s voice broke in the middle as another low, guttural moan sounded. The footsteps drew closer, lurching across the living room.

  Bart stumbled backward. His gut screamed at him to get the hell out, go home, call the cops and lock his house up. Just do it now.

  He turned toward the front door, feet slipping again in the stinking black goo that covered the hallway floor. His outstretched hand hit the edge of the door, inadvertently sending it slamming shut on his fingers. He stifled a gasp of pain and fell again to his knees.

  The footsteps rounded the corner of the living room as Bart clutched at the doorknob, slimy hands giving little grip. Finally it turned in his hand, and he might have made it out if he hadn’t paused to look back.

  It was Lucy Swenson, several days dead, but somehow walking even as black fluid and blood oozed out of her mouth, nose, and eyes—dead milky corneas framed by bloody yellowed whites. Her housecoat was filthy, and stuck to her body grotesquely. And she stunk, plain and simple.

  “Well, shit.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  We generally don’t believe anything bad will happen to us. Things like earthquakes, tsunamis, and zombie apocalypses happen to other people. We all firmly believe this... until suddenly that first bastard bites us on the ass.

  Then that feeling of security is shot to shit, never to return.

  I, for one, resent the hell out of this fact.

  * * *

  My fellow wild cards and I stood outside Licker Up— yeah, really—a poor man’s BevMo!, and its sister store Partyrama. “One stop shopping for your party needs!” They were situated in a cluster of interconnected shops on Palm Street.

  Located at the south end of Redwood Grove, Palm was considered the main drag of the town’s “industrial district.” In other words, stores and offices built in that utilitarian saltine cracker box style that clashed with the “quaint” building code imposed on the rest of the community. There were no residences other than a rundown trailer park at the end of the street, and whatever homes were tucked into the woods outside the actual town limits.

  The weather was unusually clear, a brisk wind having swept out the coastal fog that usually shrouded the town. Instead, sunshine filtered through the trees and reflected off the windows. The downside was that without the cloud cover, the crisp November air was butt-ass cold. Gusts of wind managed to insinuate themselves under our clothing and Kevlar, and standing still wasn’t helping the situation. I stomped my feet and blew on my hands, wishing Gabriel—our team leader—would get his butt in gear and tell us what to do.

  Captain Gabriel was a member of the Dolofónoitou Zontanóús Nekroús—usually called DZN, for obvious reasons—an ancient organization dedicated to protecting mankind from the undead. The DZN enlisted members from all walks of life, including various armies and other agencies worldwide. Think The X-Files under the auspices of the U.N.

  Gabriel was also in charge of this “chickenshit operation,” as Tony liked to call it, so we were waiting on his orders.

  We gonna kill some zombies, or what? I rubbed my hands together briskly.

  “How come we’re out here in the butt end of nowhere?” Kai grumbled. Guess I wasn’t the only one getting impatient. As usual, he radiated an attitude that said, “I
’m cuter than a young Will Smith and I know it.” While I had to admit that he made riot-gear chic look pretty damn good, I always found it a toss-up whether to admire his looks, or dropkick him in his admittedly well-toned ass.

  Gabriel gave Kai what my dad used to call the “hairy eyeball.”

  “There are still zombies trickling in from the quarantine perimeter,” he said, “probably drawn to the activity in town. The remaining teams are sweeping the outlying areas with the help of incoming military assistance, now that we can risk letting other soldiers inside the quarantine zone.”

  “About time,” Tony muttered.

  We all shared his resentment—at first, when the quarantine zone was established, the potential for an uncontained outbreak was too high to risk sending in more personnel. Which really sucked for those of us stuck inside to fight the zombies. The Powers-That-Be had only just started sending in reinforcements to help us clear out the remaining ghouls, because some of the soldiers who’d been inside the zone from the beginning had gotten sick, without being bitten. They were the ones who’d received the not-so-thoroughly tested vaccine for Walker’s, the Flu de Jour.

  Gabriel may not have had wild card hearing, but he wasn’t deaf. The look he shot Tony was way past irate. He turned away without saying a word and stalked down the block, yanking out his two-way radio.

  I watched his cute butt every step of the way. If Kai made swat chic look good, Gabriel rocked it like a runway model.

  “What crawled up his ass and died?” Tony said. Four heads turned and looked at me—everyone but Sergeant Gentry, who looked in the opposite direction. He was shooting for the “I am invisible” approach.

  “Oh, don’t even try and pin this on me,” I growled. “Gentry, tell them this is not my fault.”

  Gentry was a baby-faced Army sergeant who’d been fighting zombies with the DZN’s Zed Tactical Squad— ZTS—even before he’d been bitten and discovered his own immunity. He just shook his head.