Zombie Express

The Last Train Home Is About to Become a One-Way Ticket to Hell

On a bitter winter’s night, the final train leaves London’s Marylebone Station carrying a handful of unsuspecting passengers into the darkness. Four of them have already been bitten—and as the infected begin to turn, panic spreads through the carriages.

Trapped aboard a speeding train with nowhere to escape, the survivors soon discover that every act of kindness could prove fatal. Beyond the windows, isolated attacks across London are becoming an apocalypse as the dead rise with an unstoppable hunger for human flesh.

Claustrophobic, savage, and relentlessly fast, Mark L’Estrange’s Zombie Express is a gripping zombie horror novel that plunges readers into the terrifying opening hours of the undead outbreak.

Board Zombie Express and experience the journey where every passenger is a potential victim—and anyone could be next to turn.

Excerpt from the book

Jerry Drake dropped from the railing of the graveyard, landing on the moist earth below. His feet slipped from underneath him, forcing him to windmill his arms in an effort to maintain his balance.

His struggle lost, Jerry fell backwards, slamming his back against the earth behind him.

His bottle of Jack Daniels, which he had slipped through the railings before jumping, lay a few feet away, partly obscured by the wet, overgrown foliage.

The fall had jolted the breath out of him, so he lay there for a moment, staring up at the night sky, trying to regain his composure. His breath came in deep, heaving gasps as he pushed himself back just far enough so that he could use the railings to support him.

With his back against them, Jerry sat there until his breathing relaxed.

He leaned forward, groaning with the effort, while he scanned the ground with his outstretched hand, desperate to locate his bottle. Finally, his fingers reached the neck, and he brought the bottle to lay in his lap, smiling at his success.

He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, coughing and spluttering from the big gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

The graveyard always closed early, even during the summer. Local council rules apparently. Still, it suited him for what he had in mind. The last time Jerry visited the burial ground during opening hours he was asked to leave by a rather obstreperous warden who began quoting regulations at him, informing him in no uncertain terms that the partaking of alcohol on the grounds was strictly forbidden.

Jerry tried to explain to the man that he was merely raising a glass, or to be exact, a bottle, to the memory of his wife who was buried there, but the uniformed jobsworth was having none of it.

If he were being honest, it probably didn’t help that by the time of the encounter, Jerry was already more than halfway through his bottle, so his speech may well have been a tad slurred. Plus, his attempt at rising to his feet to confront the man concluded in him stumbling into him, knocking the poor man back on his rump with Jerry on top of him.

After that, Jerry left without a fuss, apologising profusely, albeit in an incoherent effort, as he desperately tried to maintain his balance as he went.

Since then, whenever Jerry felt the irresistible urge to visit Margie’s grave, he waited until the gates were locked and the attendant had left for the day. Having to climb the railings was a simple enough task for an ex-army man.

Jerry sat there long enough to take another large swig from his bottle.

Replacing the cap, Jerry released a loud fit of giggles, slapping his hand over his mouth so as not to alert any nosey passersby on the other side of the railings.