The Living Dead Series (Book 2): World Without End by L.I. Albemont

Bea shot again and this time hit the man in the head. She didn’t have a bullet left for the child who appeared unable to get back up anyway.
    David had torn out a hole in the wall big enough for them to squeeze through. Brian went through first, David tucked the hammer in his belt and followed quickly. Bea heard voices then a cry, quickly cut off.
    She called, “Brian? Are you okay?”
    There was no response. She looked through the hole and saw light but no Brian or David. The lathe scraped her shoulders and she lost her hat as she crawled onto a rough, plank floor and looked up into the twin barrels of a shotgun.

Chapter Six
     
    “P ut your gun down and step over here, slowly.”
    She knew she was out of ammunition and thought about throwing the gun at her but the middle-aged woman who had spoken kept the shotgun trained firmly at Bea’s head. A tall, beefy man in a Redskins jersey, presumably her husband, stood to one side with a bundle of bungee cords in one hand and in the other a knife held to Brian’s throat. David stood in the corner near a radiator with hands held high. His rifle was on the floor next to the man.
    Bea placed the gun on the floor, never taking her eyes off Brian, and stood still while the man tied her hands behind her back and wound the cords around the radiator. The cast iron coils were hot to touch and she had to take care not to rest her hands against it.
    “Why are you doing this? We’ll pay you for the damage to the wall. We’re just trying to find someplace safe. Please let us go,” Bea pleaded.
    They ignored her and the man picked up the rifle, walked over and slammed the butt into David’s head. David went down with a sickening thud. He then took her back pack and threw it on the floor with Brian’s, tying him up next to her. David was trussed with cords and left lying in the corner.
    “I wouldn’t bother screaming for help if I were you. You might attract attention you don’t want.”
    The man picked up the rifle and handgun and they both left the room, the woman glancing back almost apologetically before closing the door firmly behind her.
    “Did they talk to you? Why are they doing this?” Bea asked Brian.
    “They didn’t say anything. When I came through they grabbed my arms and held the knife against my neck.”
    David groaned and opened his eyes. Blood ran from his temple and his face was a sickly white. When he spoke his voice had a grating quality to it.
    “They’re not used to taking captives. They didn’t frisk us. Brian, do you still have your gun?”
    Before Brian could answer they heard voices raised in what sounded like an argument. A moan, anguished and chilling drifted down the hallway then a door slammed. Something began to pound against a wall or door in an incessant, unvarying rhythm.
    “It’s in my pocket but I can’t reach it.” Frustrated, Brian exclaimed as one of his bound hands brushed against the radiator. It was hot enough to raise a small blister on the knuckle. The bungee cords forced them to constantly pull away from the radiator or get burned.
    “What do you think they want?” Bea asked David.
    “I have no idea. Maybe they’re mad at us for breaking into their house. I can’t blame them. Maybe they think we’re infected and don’t want us roaming around. Sounds like they have an infected trapped or tied-up down the hall. I assume it’s a family member.”
    The room they were in looked as if someone had started a remodel they never finished. The floor was raw pine; there were rolls of pink insulation stacked in a corner and a table saw was shunted to one side underneath a skylight in the roof. An empty ceramic flower pot lay cast aside on the floor near David and he wriggled over to it, managing to pick it up with two fingers and smash it to shards which he used to begin sawing through the ropes on his hands. When their captors came back thirty minutes later he had made progress but still couldn’t free himself.
    The man cut the