A quiet summer weekend turns into a dystopian nightmare when a National Guard unit is called up to man a traffic control point right in their hometown. This isn't a story about the undead, or the Apocalypse. It's the story of the Team, how a small group of men and women deal with combat in a world gone mad.

Contains all eleven books in the Zombie Killers series, including the 2017 Dragon Finalist Novel "Falling".

“Jesus Christ! What the eff was that?” exclaimed Sergeant Williams, who had come back with the cell phones. “I don’t know, but this is about to get bad. Naomi, tell your people to pull trucks across the bridge. The TCP is closed, as of RIGHT NOW!” She didn’t answer, just nodded and raced away. I heard truck engines starting as I jogged forward on the bridge. “YOU, YOU AND YOU, COME WITH ME!” I yelled, pointing at Kolakowski, Hanebury and Boyd. The three of them, all Specialists, had been manning the Traffic Control Point, but I needed them now, especially Ski with his SAW. I was hoping a show of force could stop this riot in its tracks, because a riot was what was about to happen. “LIEUTENANT, BRING YOUR GUYS BACK!” I yelled. Behind the crowd, screams erupted, that howl wailed again, chilling me to the bone, and everyone surged forward, onto the bridge. She had turned to face her men and order them back when a single pistol shot sounded, and Diana Brown threw up her arms as she was flung forward and onto the pavement. She disappeared under the feet of the single-minded animal. One of her guys, I don’t know who it was, took a knee and fired a burst into the crowd, and it rolled back, like a wave meeting an immovable rock. Two bodies lay in the street, and LT Brown had been pounded into the pavement. “CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!” I yelled, but it was no use. The asshole with the pistol fired again, a half dozen rounds, and two soldiers fell. That was all it took, and the rest of them unloaded. It was a massacre, compounded by the crowd still pressing up from behind. Whatever was driving them, they were more afraid of it than of our guns. Our guns, which quickly fell silent. In their wisdom, our leadership had only issued thirty rounds to each troop. What, honestly, did we need more than that for? Our captain had said. Now, I cursed his name, and dug into my vest, where I had two hundred and ten of my own ammunition. “Come with me,” I said to my scratch team, “we’re going to get the LT. Everyone else, fall back to the trucks!” The men passed me by, hurrying back towards the supposed safety of the two MRAPs. I pushed forward against the crowd, trying to get to Di, but I slipped and fell on a dead woman, and started to get trampled. Feet slammed into me, and my breath was driven out of my lungs. One kick landed just under my helmet, and I saw stars. Right at that moment, I thought I was going to die, but then I heard the Ma Deuce mounted on one of the MRAPs open up, and the crowd surged backwards again, allowing me to crawl over to the side of the bridge and pull myself up. I took a second to gather myself, and, thank God for them, the three guys I’d grabbed charged over to me. Forming a tight team, we started back, but the crowd came on again, and I ordered them to stop and fire. So help me God, I wish to this day there had been something else I could have done, but foremost in my mind was the thought that, if they got through my unit was dead, and beyond them was my wife and family. I lined up on one woman, overweight and wearing some kind of pants suit. A state worker, maybe, but now her face was twisted in a rictus of hate and fear in the spotlights, and she had picked up a rock or a brick to throw at us. I fired, and she sat down with a huff in the street, a puzzled look on her face, then just slumped over. I haven’t forgotten her, but I’d like to think, in light of what came later, that I spared her some suffering. Now that I know. Maybe I’m just making excuses for myself, but it weighs on my soul.