After the zombie apocalypse wipes out most of the population of Beach Town, it’s up to a small group of survivors to try and build some kind of future.
Figelo Street, fortified and controlled by ex-police officers and the notoriously big-headed Jim, is running low on supplies. Roger, the trusty second-in-command, is tasked with scavenging food when he discovers something far darker than the dead. A supernatural cannibal cult intent on hoarding supplies and destroying their lives.
They are not alone, though. A group of ragtag soldiers turn up to complicate matters, and a whole lot of evil is seeping within the community. It is up to Roger to try and keep the group alive, while fighting off the dead and trying to build a future.
Can they survive long enough to find hope?
Targeted Age Group:: 15-99
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wanted to explore Beach Town further. The first book has been rather successful and is always in the top 15 best selling British Horror Fiction category. I love zombies and I particularly like chaos, in large groups. This novel really shows us just how much humanity has withered and that never ending human quality, to look for hope.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I had the characters in mind before I began to writer the novel. Beach Town: Apocalypse showed us the police and how they responded to the outbreak, I thought I would explore those further, their motives, their fears and hopes. I like to observe people whilst at a cafe for example, and that helps me greatly, in terms of painting a picture of someone's personality.
Straight to the office, Peter,’ Quentin says, rushing ahead
again. The rotters behind close in. The front ones are half-filled
with maggots that fall onto the shards of glass lodged in the
window frames, the shop’s blue exterior sprayed purple. More
dead fall onto the shards, skin tearing and limbs breaking their
fall. They soon pile up and the entrance becomes inaccessible.
There’s no back exit yet. The door to the office is well hidden
and is ajar, and is partially blocked behind a small collection of
untouched wooden beams. Peter leaves Quentin to carry the
man and pushes ahead. The shop’s once organised surfboards
are all scattered, many broken. The back room is a mess. Papers
are scattered and desks overturned. The workbench is intact but
the tools are gone. Peter glances back at Quentin, who stands,
huffing. His knees are bent, holding the man. Peter nods and
climbs over the wooden beams, before booting the door open.
‘Shit,’ he whispers. ‘Not the best idea.’
Inside the office is organised and untouched, except for a rear
window which has been boarded up. The dark room has a desk,
on which it appears that cans of food are stacked. Then, in one
corner, large water containers. There is an overwhelming musk
of dust collecting on the surfaces of the office objects.
‘This isn’t empty,’ Peter says. Moments later, Quentin places
his hand on Peter’s shoulder.
‘Jeez, you scared the crap out of me,’ Peter says. Quentin
grins and loads his gun. ‘Where…’ Peter continues but he’s cut
off by a thud.
‘He’s rested on the floor,’ Quentin says, his voice low, to the
point that his throat crackles.
From another dark corner emerges a small man.
‘Hold it.’ Quentin aims his pistol at the man, who continues
to approach, hands raised. As he comes into the light, his age
Late fifties, brown waistcoat and jacket and pants, brown
brogues, and a brown hat.
His skin is worn, wrinkled, his chin thinning.
Peter’s eyes are wide. Quentin keeps his mouth agape and his
sights on the man. Then he thumbs the safety off.
Whoever he is, he has a tremble to his walk, his posture is
slightly hunched, but his demeanour is clearly friendly.
‘Equip it,’ Peter says. Quentin does so, stowing the pistol in
his holster. The old man speaks but his voice is quieter than his
‘Hello,’ he says. His voice croaks, dry. Peter begins to unpack
his backpack again and roots around.
‘What now?’ Quentin asks. Peter shakes his head; Quentin’s
pushing him too fast.
He pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to the old man.
At first he jumps and then he examines the object from Peter’s
hand like a dog with food. Finally, he takes the bottle, struggling
to grip it and unscrew the lid, but then he begins to gulp the
‘Oh no, what about the pilot?’ Quentin groans. More thuds
come from inside the store. Quentin picks out his pistol from
his unbuttoned hip holster yet again, and climbs back through
the office doorway and over the wooden beams.
Peter waits for the man to finish his drink. Once the bottle is
empty, Peter opens the backpack again and stores it.
The man goes to open his mouth and Peter smiles. Then the
old man cries aloud, grips his chest and falls left onto a ragged
pile of blankets.
Peter immediately drops to the floor next to the man. More
bangs echo through the doorway, and this time Quentin’s
Beach Town: Hope: Part II
shouting and the groans of the dead. The entire shop is in chaos.
The room is dimly lit. Peter tries to remove the old man’s hands
to check his chest, but the man goes into a solid foetal position.
His muscles contracting.
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