Bloodline, page 1
Bloodline
Thomas, Volume 7
Aaron Abilene
Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BLOODLINE
First edition. May 15, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.
Written by Aaron Abilene.
Also by Aaron Abilene
505
505: Resurrection
Balls
Dead Awake
Carnival Game
Full Moon Howl
Donovan
Shades of Z
Deadeye
Deadeye & Friends
Cowboys Vs Aliens
Ferris
Life in Prescott
Afterlife in Love
Island
Paradise Island
The Lost Island
The Lost Island 2
The Lost Island 3
The Island 2
Pandemic
Pandemic
Prototype
The Compound
Slacker
Slacker 2
Slacker: Dead Man Walkin'
Texas
A Vampire in Texas
Thomas
Quarantine
Contagion
Eradication
Isolation
Immune
Pathogen
Bloodline
Virus
Raising Hell
Zombie Bride
Zombie Bride
Zombie Bride 2
Zombie Bride 3
Standalone
The Victims of Pinocchio
A Christmas Nightmare
Pain
Fat Jesus
A Zombie's Revenge
505
The Headhunter
Crash
Tranq
The Island
Dog
The Quiet Man
Joe Superhero
Feral
Good Guys
Devil Child of Texas
Romeo and Juliet and Zombies
The Gamer
Becoming Alpha
Dead West
Small Town Blues
Shades of Z: Redux
The Gift of Death
Killer Claus
Skarred
Home Sweet Home
Alligator Allan
10 Days
Army of The Dumbest Dead
Kid
The Cult of Stupid
9 Time Felon
Slater
Bad Review: Hannah Dies
Me Again
Maurice and Me
Breaking Wind
The Family Business
Lightning Rider : Better Days
Lazy Boyz
Sparkles The Vampire Clown
From The Future, Stuck in The Past
Honest John
She's Psycho
Vicious Cycle
Romeo and Juliet: True Love Conquers All
Hunting Sarah
Random Acts of Stupidity
Born Killer
The Abducted
Graham Hiney
Zartan
The Firsts in Life
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Aaron Abilene
Bloodline
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Also By Aaron Abilene
Bloodline
Written by Aaron Abilene
Thomas' boots crunched on the scorched rubble of what was once a vibrant city, the desolate wasteland stretching endlessly into a horizon blurred by heat and decay. Sarah, her rifle held in a tight grip, walked in sync beside him, her eyes darting to every shattered window and shadowed doorway, hunting for signs of movement. They moved like specters through the ruins, their passage marked only by the soft hiss of disturbed ash and the occasional sharp clink of debris underfoot.
The air was thick with the stench of rot—moldering wood mingled with the metallic tang of dried blood. It seemed to coat their tongues, a constant reminder of the world's descent into chaos. Every so often, Thomas would signal a halt, his hand raised, and they would freeze, listening intently over the muffled thud of their own hearts for the telltale groans that heralded danger.
"Anything?" Sarah whispered, her voice barely carrying above a breath.
"Clear," Thomas rasped back, his gaze never wavering from the shadows.
They pressed on, past the bleached bones of cars and the skeletal remains of buildings, each step a potential trigger for death. It was in one such gaping cavity of a collapsed storefront that they found them—a huddled mass of survivors, their bodies trembling, faces gaunt and hollowed with fear. Their eyes, wide with the terror of the hunted, flickered to Thomas and Sarah, a mix of hope and dread warring within their depths.
The small group was a ragged assortment of humanity, clutching at each other in the dim light that filtered through cracks in the walls and ceiling. The building around them creaked ominously, its structure an echo of stability in a world that had none. Amongst the dirt-caked faces and tattered clothes, the evidence of brutality was written in the bruises and cuts that marred their skin—a canvas of suffering that spoke volumes without a word.
Thomas exchanged a glance with Sarah, who nodded slightly, her expression set in grim determination. They knew the risks of bringing others into their fold, the potential for betrayal or weakness, but leaving these souls to the mercy of the undead was not an option. In a world stripped of kindness, every act of humanity became a rebellion against the darkness that sought to consume them all.
"Stay behind us," Thomas commanded, his voice low but carrying the weight of iron. "Move only when we move."
The survivors eyed him with a mix of relief and apprehension, the decision to trust this stoic stranger made in the silent communication of desperate nods. They gathered their meager belongings, the scant possessions they clung to as if they were lifelines in the wreckage of civilization.
With Thomas leading the way, his body tensed for battle, and Sarah covering the rear, vigilant against any threat that might slink from the shadows, the group began their perilous journey toward sanctuary. Each step was a defiance, an assertion of life amidst the carnage, their path a narrow thread woven through the heart of darkness that the world had become.
Amid the hush of desolation, a floorboard groaned underfoot as Thomas surveyed the grim assembly. His gaze fixed on two figures, distinct in their youth yet aged prematurely by dread. Alex, with his hollow cheeks and eyes that mirrored the abyss, leaned against the fractured wall. Beside him, Emily's slender fingers clutched a tattered photograph, her knuckles white as bone.
"Used to be a lab tech at Mercy General," Alex's voice scratched the silence, "before it all turned to hell." The words spilled from him like blood from a wound. "It swept through faster than fire. Hospitals became morgues, morgues became... feeding grounds."
"Feeding grounds," Emily echoed, her voice a ghostly whisper. Her gaze flickered to Thomas, pleading for a shred of hope in the ink-black narrative. "We watched our friends turn, one by one. The virus didn't just kill; it... reanimated."
Their tales were punctuated by the soft weeping of others, a chorus of despair harmonizing with the bleak tableau. The air grew thick with the stench of fear, each breath a reminder of the omnipresent death that stalked them.
Thomas's jaw clenched, his resolve hardening like forged steel. He stepped forward, his shadow enveloping the pair as if to shield them from the horrors they recounted. "I've seen what's out there," he said, voice steady as a gravestone. "The dead don't rest. But we're still breathing. We fight, we survive."
He extended a hand — an offer etched not in kindness but survival. "We have a place — more secure than this. It's no fortress, but it's shelter. You can join us. Together, we stand a chance."
A feral determination lit in his eyes, a flame in the suffocating dark. It was not merely an invitation; it was a lifeline thrown into the churning waters of apocalypse. His stance was that of a warrior, a guardian against the nightmarish reality outside the fraying walls of their makeshift haven.
"Stick close. Stay quiet," Thomas instructed, scanning the haggard faces before him. "Survival's a privilege, not a right. We move as one, or not at all."
In the grip of the end times, amid the wreckage of humanity, Thomas emerged not as a savior, but as a necessary force of order in chaos. The survivors, broken and battered by the world gone mad, saw in him the brutal necessity to endure, to embrace the darkness if it meant seeing another dawn.
The silence that followed Thomas' offer hung thick as the dust in the air. Alex exchanged a glance with Emily, their eyes reflecting a storm of hesitation and hope. The others, mere shadows clinging to life, nodded almost imperceptibly, their acquiescence carried more by the weight of their despair than by any spoken word.
"Alright," Alex murmured, his voice a dry whisper, "we'll come."
"Good." Thomas's nod was curt, his gaze already shifting to the shattered windowpane, the world beyond a canvas of ruin. He gestured for them to gather their meager belongings. "We move now. Dawn's the only grace period we get from those things."
Sarah stood by the door, her hand resting on the hilt of a machete stained with tales of survival. Her eyes, sharp and vigilant, mirrored the resolve that had kept them alive this long. She beckoned the survivors with a tilt of her head, a silent command to follow.
Stepping into the bleak light of morning, the group clung to the shadows like specters fleeing the sun. Thomas led the way, his footsteps deliberate, avoiding the crunch of broken glass and debris that could alert the undead to fresh prey. Sarah brought up the rear, her gaze darting between the hollowed buildings and the faces of the new additions to their fragile fold.
They traversed streets where blood had long replaced rain, staining the asphalt a permanent crimson. Abandoned cars served as grim reminders of failed escape attempts, their doors ajar, the insides ransacked by looters or worse. Above, the skeletal remains of billboards flapped in the wind, advertising a past life that now seemed like a distant dream.
"Stay close," Thomas hissed, pausing at the corner of an intersection. His arm shot out, signaling them to halt. Ahead, the groan of a zombie cut through the stillness, a single note in the symphony of dread that played endlessly in this new world.
A figure lumbered into view, its flesh hanging in tatters, a grotesque marionette animated by an insatiable hunger. Thomas didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, he drew his pistol, its report echoing off the derelict buildings. The creature crumpled, a finality that was both brutal and merciful.
"Keep moving," he commanded, holstering the weapon. His eyes never lingered on the fallen; there was no room for remorse in the currency of survival.
They wound their way through alleys choked with the remnants of chaos, past storefronts with windows smashed open, their contents looted or left to rot. Each turn was measured, each step a calculated risk in the minefield of the end times.
The shelter lay nestled behind a barricade of overturned vehicles and barbed wire – a fortress cobbled together from the detritus of collapse. As they approached, Sarah lifted a hand, parting the wire with a practiced ease that spoke of countless entries and exits.
"Inside, quickly," she urged, herding the survivors through the makeshift gate. Once all were safely within, Thomas resecured the barrier, his movements deft and sure.
"Welcome to what we call home," he said, the words void of warmth but heavy with solidarity. "It isn't much, but it's ours."
The survivors huddled together, their bodies weary, their spirits frayed. Yet, within the confines of the shelter, surrounded by the sturdiness of their new allies, a fragile seed of hope took root amidst the carnage of their reality.
The air inside the shelter was thick with the scent of sweat and rust. Fluorescent lights, scavenged from defunct buildings and powered by a generator that coughed like a sick animal, cast a harsh glow on the faces of the new arrivals. A low murmur of unease hummed through the group as they took in their surroundings—a crude amalgamation of scrap metal and hope.
"Food," Thomas announced, his voice slicing through the tension. He motioned towards Sarah, who began distributing cans of beans and sardines, along with slabs of hardened bread that had survived the collapse. Water followed, precious and rationed, poured into cups with hands that shook either from relief or withdrawal from the world outside.
"Take what you need to keep strength," he said, eyes flitting across each gaunt face, "but ration for tomorrow. We don't know when we'll find more."
The survivors ate with a quiet desperation, fingers trembling as they clutched the meager offerings. Some nodded to Thomas and Sarah, mouths too full of food to form words, others simply stared at their portions, disbelief etching their features.
Thomas moved among them, a tower of resolve amidst the ruin. His shadow fell across the cold concrete floor, stretching out like an omen. The new survivors couldn't help but steal glances at him—the broad shoulders that carried the weight of their fragile safety, the hands that could both provide sustenance and deal death in equal measure.
"Rest here tonight," he instructed, gesturing toward a corner lined with tarps and blankets. It was no featherbed, but it promised something many thought they'd lost—security.
"Tomorrow, we fortify. Everyone contributes. No exceptions." His words were a decree, non-negotiable. They resonated in the hollow space, a grim reminder that their survival hung on obedience and grit.
In the dim light, the survivors saw the vestiges of blood splattered across Thomas's boots, the remnants of battles etched into his skin. There was a ferocity there, in the set of his jaw, the way his hand hovered near the gun at his hip—an unspoken understanding that he would protect this sanctuary with a brutality that matched the horrors outside.
As night crept over the wasteland, the shelter settled into a restless silence. The survivors lay in their makeshift beds, grappling with the duality of their circumstances—grateful for the protection, yet wary of the man who provided it. They slept not with ease, but with the knowledge that, under Thomas's watchful gaze, the nightmares that roamed the streets would not breach these walls.
The crackle of a dying fire was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence of the shelter. Thomas sat across from Sarah, their faces half-hidden in shadow, eyes reflecting a resolve hardened by the world's end. The dim light played on his face, emphasizing the lines etched by survival and the dark stubble that covered his jaw.
"Tomorrow, we go out again," Thomas's voice was low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "There's got to be more like us... survivors clinging to life."
Sarah nodded, her expression stoic. "And supplies," she added, her hands methodically cleaning the barrel of a handgun. "We're running low on meds, ammo... everything."
"Then it's settled." Thomas's lips pressed into a thin line. "At first light, we move out."
Morning found them methodically preparing for the day's grim task. Thomas checked the edge of his machete, the blade glinting with a sinister shine. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of the weapon that had saved them more times than he cared to remember. Beside him, Sarah loaded magazines with a mechanical precision, her movements betraying no hesitation or fear.
"Double-check everything," Thomas instructed, his tone leaving no room for error. "One mistake out there is all it takes."
"Always do," Sarah replied without looking up, her voice as cold and unyielding as the steel she wielded.
They strapped on their gear, layering protection over protection. Each piece was a testament to their experiences—scrapes, dents, and dark stains told stories of close calls and hard-won victories. Thomas slipped a knife into his boot and felt the comforting weight of the firearm at his side. In this new world, they were extensions of themselves, as vital as any limb.
"Ready?" Thomas asked, locking eyes with Sarah.
"Let's hunt," came her terse reply.
Together, they stepped out into the dawn's gray light, the desolation of the wasteland stretching before them like an open grave. They moved with purpose, each step a silent oath to reclaim what was lost, to forge a future from the ashes of the past.
The desolate streets whispered with the ghosts of wind, stirring up dust and debris as Thomas and Sarah advanced through the urban graveyard. Their footsteps, though careful, reverberated off the skeletal remains of buildings, creating an eerie symphony of survival in a world that had forgotten the melody of life.
Eyes sharp, they scanned the horizon—a mere silhouette against the brooding sky. Each shadow might conceal death; each silence might be broken by the guttural moan of the undead. They communicated in curt nods, their bond forged in bloodshed and the unspoken understanding that today could be their last.
As they turned a corner, the stillness fractured. From the gaping maw of a collapsed storefront, a disjointed procession emerged—their grotesque forms a grisly parody of humanity. The zombies shuffled forward, their limbs jerking with ravenous intent, eyes milky white and devoid of soul. Hunger, pure and vile, exuded from their rotting pores.
"Back to back," Thomas hissed, drawing his machete in a fluid motion that spoke of countless battles. It was a dance of death he had mastered, the blade an extension of his will.
"Got it," Sarah responded, her voice a low growl. She positioned herself, pistols drawn, backs pressed together with Thomas's. There was comfort in their proximity, an assurance that no matter what, they would face this horror as one.
