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Backs Against the Wall
Survival Series
Book Two
By Tracey Ward
Backs Against the Wall
Survival Series
Book Two
By Tracey Ward
Text Copyright © 2014 Tracey Ward
Editor - Jessie Allen
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.
For my husband Lawren who taught me about zombie cage fighting,
trebuchets and Greek Fire.
So much badass would be missing from this book were it not for him.
Table of Contents
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
About the Author
Chapter One
I may be a Tinkerbell, but I’m definitely Tink when she’s trapped in the lamp gasping for her last breath, begging the world to believe and clap their friggin’ hands. In essence, I ca
It’s too far.
I tuck and roll the best I can, but gravity is unkind. I’ve gathered momentum, too much to be useful, just enough to be hurtful, and I tumble head over shoulders over side over elbows onto knees. I’m pretty sure I did a cartwheel back there somewhere, something I wish my mom could have seen. She spent hours with me in the backyard one su
I never liked Tinkerbell. She was a jealous jerk who deserved what she got and worse.
Finally I tumble to a stop on my back, smacking my head hard against the ground until I see stars.
“Ow,” I mumble weakly.
I’m not sure what I’m complaining about. There’s too much pain to inventory all at once. I’ll have to take stock of my body one limb, muscle and burning abrasion at a time. This will take a while. But the good news is I have nothing but time. The zombies are still out there, very nearby I might add, and I have no clear idea of how I’m getting off this roof now that I worked so hard to get here. If I go inside this building, I’m going in blind and defenseless. I don’t know what the situation is in there, if there even is one. Way my luck is going, there is. No doubt about it.
I move my legs. First the right, then the left. No breaks, good news. There’s a pulled muscle or two down there but nothing I can’t handle. My arms are next. Right one, good. Left one—
“Holy Mary Mother of God Almighty,” I grind out through gritted teeth as I roll back and forth on the ground trying to escape the pain. “Oh yeah, that’s broken. Soooo broken.”
My language goes far downhill from there. Jack and Jill tumbling down and breaking every bone along the way kind of downhill. I take a few deep breaths, vowing to never move my left arm again, and I test out the rest of me. Neck is good. That’s a relief. Head is sore along with the face but I haven’t begun vomiting, no dizziness, no blurred vision. Odds are I took a hard hit but no concussion. Ignoring the left arm (something I dare you to do someday. Go ahead, break it and pretend it never happened. Can’t be done!) I’m alright. I’m mobile. I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving this. But I know I can’t do it alone. Not with a broken arm and limited defenses.
I reach for my trowel, ready to take another shot at signaling for help despite my I-Am-Wonder-Woman-And-Need-No-Man moment back there. Independence is great but real strength is being able to ask for help when you need it. And man oh man, do I need it right now. I won’t sit around wishing and hoping someone will save me, but I do understand I have to keep trying to get help. I’m going to expose myself to the biggest, baddest gang out there if all goes according to this terrible, suicidal plan, so a
Unfortunately, my trowel is no longer with me. I sit up, hugging my arm to my chest, and give out a groan but otherwise the pain is being handled internally. I broke it somewhere near the elbow because all I can feel is white hot pain in that area. I refuse to look at it though. I know I’ll see bone and I can’t handle that now. It’s too real. If I see how truly awful, crazy, jacked up bad it is, I’ll give up. I’ll imagine it hurts worse than it already does and I’ll assume I’m dead meat. I need denial to make it out of this alive.
I scan the rooftop for the trowel but it’s MIA.
“Perfect.”
Alright, no more calls for help. I wanted to do it alone and it looks like that’s what I’ll do. I stand up slowly, letting my skin stretch in new ways that tells me where more cuts and scrapes are. To be clear, by ‘scrapes’ I mean road burn. I mean sections of skin lost to the rooftop like it was trying to make a Joss suit it could wear. My thin Colony clothes are ripped wide open in several places making them nearly useless. I’m shivering again, something that’s working wonders for my arm, so I get moving to warm up. Also to seek shelter. I don’t know that I’m going home, though.
The way I see it I have two options. I’m in no condition to see The Hive today. They prey upon weakness and in my current state I am all weak sauce, so I can go to Crenshaw to have him bandage me up or go to Ryan. That’s it with that second option. No real benefits, no promise of help or healing. Just Ryan. One choice is smart, one is emotional and I hate, loathe and despise emotional. But can you imagine which option I’m considering the hardest?