Day Zero - Bog

Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling author of ROBERT KIRKMAN'S THE WALKING DEAD: DESCENT says...
DAY ZERO by Charles Ingersoll gets under the reader's skin quicker than a walker bite! Authentic, terse, economical, surgically precise, the book is a barn-burner that reads like a cross between Tom Clancy and the Marquis de Sade! Summary Set at the outbreak of the wildfire rise of undead zombies, injured and discharged Marine sniper Sgt. John Walken finds himself trapped on a barricaded island community with no clear way to get home. John is forced to take on one last mission. Using his military training, he must protect the island residents from hordes of invading zombies, aggressive human threats from the mainland, and unexplained deaths within the community. Great for... Fans of The Walking Dead, Night of the Living Dead, zombies, the undead, rotting walkers, isolated apocalyptic locations, small bands of survivors pit against hordes of flesh-eating ghouls and marauding killers. See below for an excerpt from the book... Mr. Laraby swung off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The girl emitted a sound that was half moan, half hiss. Her lips peeled back, revealing bloodstained teeth and blackened gums. Her jaw opened as if she could no longer stifle a ferocious yawn. She lunged toward his throat. He sidestepped to get the jacket tighter around her, pinning her arms.What the hell? I got up to assist. She struggled against him, still trying to get at his neck. Mr. Laraby spun behind her, wrapping his arms low around the jacket and her chest. When she could not get anywhere close to his neck, she bent forward to snap at his arms. I could smell blood and dirt, mixed with urine and feces. Mr. Laraby picked her up and took a couple steps toward the diner. Her whole body thrashed. He lost his grip and dropped her. As soon as her feet hit the pavement she spun around, shrugged off the jacket and lashed at him. Mr. Laraby tripped backwards, his ass hitting hard on the pavement. She settled on his chest with uncanny speed, forcing him onto his back. Grabbing handfuls of his graying hair, she plunged her mouth toward his left shoulder. A pistol shot. The bullet ripped through the girl's shoulder. She twisted off Mr. Laraby and rolled into a coiled crouch. A uniformed man ran up, a smoking Beretta M9 in his right hand. He kicked a steel-toed black work boot across her jaw. It cracked and hung askew, still producing a horrible humming sound. She readied to pounce on the officer. That thought was fleeting as a second pistol shot blew brain matter and skull fragments out the back of her head.