By Paul Mannering
Ten years in the past humanity misplaced the struggle for survival opposed to a spreading plague that introduced the useless again to lifestyles as flesh consuming monsters.
Now clever zombies rule the area. Feeding the undead a gradual nutrition of cloned humans known as Tankbread, the survivors dwell in a perilous international close to ultimate extinction.
One outlaw courier needs to move on a trip in the course of the post-apocalyptic desolate tract of Australia. battling his approach into the very middle of the apocalypse within the determined look for the way to shop the final people and ruin the undead threat.
His merely better half is a lady with a rare mystery. Her identify is Else and she's Tankbread.
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His basically spouse is a woman with a rare mystery. Her identify is Else and she's Tankbread.
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Extra resources for Tankbread
He’d tried it once or twice with her. Damn near worked. Good-looking vamp. Weren’t they all? She went back to examining the bodies. She decided Korzha must have fed on at least one of the dead guys, and that was why he wasn’t twitchy. “Lucky accident? ” she asked, still crouched beside the bodies. D. uniforms, dark blue and body-hugging, tended to fit poorly in the crotch. She had long legs, and her uniform pants kept riding up. “Well,” the vamp said in his smooth voice. ” Yeah right. If it weren’t for bad luck… “Vamps don’t have bad luck,” she retorted.
Eventually, though, she noticed the rest of her body: aching, throbbing—not in a good way at all—but definitely there. She didn’t dare move her arm for fear the pain would take off the top of her head, but she did shift her legs. Movement was good. Agonizing, but good. She lay on a hard and unforgivingly icy surface. But for her shoulder, which felt on fire, she was cold. She groaned. She could make noise—another bodily function retained. Movement and vocalization? Good. Jeez, her head hurt. Check that.
She prayed her assumptions then would be correct. That was what she was using to control the bot. With her back flat against the bathroom wall, she watched her spy’s data stream across her field of vision. According to the bot, it was in another room about four hundred feet square. There were no fluctuations in air pressure or temperature. Since only a fool relied on technology alone, Claudia tried to slip into what she liked to call her hyper-concentration mode, but the fuzz in her brain interfered.
Tankbread by Paul Mannering