Read Hunger Driven: A Zombie Short Story for Free Online Page A

slump, then lose it as the bike seemed to leap out from underneath him.  I gauged the range at nearly five hundred yards.  For a sniper, no sweat.  For me, that was a long, long ways off to be killing somebody.  Or even shooting at paper, come to think of it.
    Sighing, I rolled back and looked down at the rifle in my hands.  My Daddy loved this thing, claimed it shot the same cold barrel or not.  Not really possible, but I didn’t dispute the claim.  It would be like challenging somebody’s fishing story.  Sober, doing so violated the guy code.  With a few beers, though, fishing stories became fair game.  Of course, I didn’t do much drinking with my father growing up.  He wasn’t much of a beer drinker in general, and even after a few stolen sips I secretly knew I hated the taste.
    So I looked forward to hunting with my Dad and he taught me to shoot.  As an adult, I wasn’t much for the long distance competitions, back before, and preferred participating in the three gun contests instead.  I wasn’t that good, lacking the funds for really high speed weapons or the time to hone my skills.
    In fact, the Model 70 was the only rifle I used when I went to the outdoor ranges.  Well, those ladies should be glad I used to get nostalgic for days at the range with Pops.  That was why I opted for the Winchester over the monster in the case.
    In my haste to congratulate myself, I lost track of the little car until it was about a hundred yards from my position, and one quick glance told me the driver was having trouble keeping her speed up and her vehicle on the road.  I was no mechanic, but even I knew that white smoke boiling up from under the hood meant trouble.  Whatever it was, pretty soon she was going to find it difficult to maintain that all critical eleven miles per hour headway to outrun the pursuing hungry dead.
    Setting the Winchester aside, I grabbed one of the little Rugers and went over to the boombox.  I cranked the volume to ‘ears bleeding’ and started popping zombies.  After horsing that big 30-06 around, firing the 22 felt like I was shooting a paintball gun.  At least my wrists didn’t seem to hurt as much now.  I chalked it up to adrenaline.
    I noted some of my undead guests shifted their attention back to the store, but I was focused on thinning the numbers ahead of the car now headed away from me.  I didn’t take offense at their flight, since that driver or her passengers wouldn’t exactly find it safe to hang out here at Zombie Central.  Plus, that whole ‘enemy of my enemy’ thing just means another potential enemy out here in the wilds. 
    I don’t pick up survivors when I’m on these jobs.  Finding strays makes me nervous so I fall back on the theory that rescue is a function best suited to the National Guard.  All I’m willing to do is offer directions and wish them well.  Working solo means I work with no backup and I might be suicidal at times but I’ll not willingly let some other jackass take the life from me.  I guess I’m a bit perverse that way.
    As I emptied the last of the ready magazines in my bag, I saw the little green car was barely making headway.  I managed forty kills out of fifty rounds, which was pretty darned awesome at over a hundred yards on a moving target the size of a basketball. 
    Find a place and hole up, I whispered as I broke away long enough to refill my bag with more loaded magazines.  Crap, I was down to the last four of the twenty five rounders and six of the ten round magazines.  By the time I ran back to the edge of the building, this time on the north facing side, I saw the last gasp of white smoke erupt into a plume and realized the smoke was from an engine fire and not a busted radiator.  Six of one, half dozen of the other.
    Reloaded once again, I started potting zombies in the vicinity but took care not to expose them to over penetrating rounds.  The two doors of the small car flew open and I watched in surprise as