by Lukens, Mark
“We’ve shot at them through the night,” Wade said in his deep voice, his words coming out slowly like he was in a perpetual state of shock. He was shivering as he held his rifle, aiming like he was about to shoot again at any moment. “But they drag the bodies away. We can hear them eating them. And more of them come back, building again.”
“What are we going to do?” Kate asked.
“Keep shooting if they get too close,” Jo said. “If they build it too high.”
Kate turned around. She hadn’t realized Jo had walked up behind her. Gil was beside her. Both of them close together.
“How many bullets do we have left?” Kate asked.
Jo didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said: We’ll keep shooting until we run out. What else can we do?
CHAPTER 47
Max
Somewhere along the way Max had lost Dawson and Phil. He was alone as he ran past houses, his gun in his hand, bullets flying, shouts behind him somewhere, the smoke from the fires getting thicker in the air.
He’d gotten through the hole in the wall that the van had created, getting through the fireball as it burned down a little, but then the fire began to spread across the tall, dry grass. He had lost Luke as soon as he had jumped out of the van as it sped toward the wall. Now he ran alone. But he’d seen the map. He knew where the Dragon’s house was, where Dawson claimed it was, and that’s where he was going.
A shot rang out, a bullet whizzing right past him. He swore he’d actually felt the crackling air in front of him as the bullet passed by inches in front of his face. He was almost to the corner of the house on Warner Street—the Dragon’s house should only be four more houses down, at the intersection of Warner and Elm. But he didn’t have time to think about that right now. He didn’t even have time to get to the corner of the house and find cover. He turned and aimed and shot.
His bullet struck home. The Dark Angel who had just shot at him crumpled down to the ground, letting out a wail as he lay on the ground, his weapon forgotten as he clutched at his chest.
Max didn’t linger. He got to the corner and then around to the back of the house. He decided he would move along through the backyards until he got to the Dragon’s house. But he needed to stop for a moment, to calm himself down. He was shaking uncontrollably. If he needed to shoot someone else at that moment he might not be able to do it.
He had just shot a man, most likely killed the man. He’d shot plenty of rippers so far, but this felt different. Even though the man had been a Dark Angel, he had still been a human being. And Max had just killed him.
Fighting back tears, Max collected himself. He needed to focus on his mission here, to get to Petra. If he had to kill more men along the way to free her, then that’s what he would need to do.
A moment later Max was on the move again, hurrying across backyards. No fences to climb over so far, and that was good. Some of the backyards had rows of shrubs separating them. He used any shrubbery and trees as cover as he made his way toward the Dragon’s house.
Next door, he saw the three-story white house, the side of it—the house he’d seen in a dream once. He studied the windows, all of them dark. No movement inside that he could see. He didn’t hesitate, he ran down the side yard to the front porch, slipping up and over the railing at the edge of the porch, hunched down by a front window and watching the street for a moment. A big SUV sped by, full of people inside. Either they were driving toward the battle or running away from it; Max couldn’t be sure. The rippers were roaring in the distance, coming this way, drawn by the smoke from the fires burning everywhere now. In moments the town would be overrun with rippers.
He didn’t have much time.
The front door was unlocked. He opened it and rushed down a wide foyer and then a hall that led off of that, the stairs to his right ascending up into darkness. Maybe someone was up there, but Max didn’t have time to check. The house was clear so far. He entered a living room, his gun clenched in his hand, then he crept toward a dining room off of the living room. He remembered the dining room, the table and chairs, the same thing he’d seen in the video on the cell phone that the drone had dropped off. He was definitely in the right place. Dawson had said that the Dragon had been holding Petra in the basement.
Max hurried through the kitchen and paused at the archway to the kitchen. The room was a mess but nobody was in it. An open door led out to the back porch and an open doorway led down to the basement. Max was about to bolt to the open door of the basement, but then he stopped. He heard noises from beyond the back porch.
It was Petra. She was yelling and fighting with someone.
He crept to the doorway to the back porch, slipping out onto the floorboards, watching the wall of screens, but all he could see from this position was the tall shrubs along the back porch. He stopped for just a second, staring at the two wooden chairs facing each other about ten feet apart, bloodstains under both chairs, but much larger bloodstains under the chair farther away.
The sight of the blood turned his stomach, but it also spurred him on. He knew he didn’t have much time now. He hurried to the screen door, slipping out and down to the steps. The shrubs were still pretty tall here, but not as tall as the others. He moved around the last of the bushes and aimed his gun at the two people at the other end of the backyard.
It was Jacob and Petra. He recognized the man from the video, he recognized his voice. He had his gun in one hand, a handgun with a barrel that seemed to be too long. He held Petra in his other hand, his fist clenched into her clothing, holding her tightly. She fought back, but he was moving subtly, just enough to be out of her way. He seemed to be amused by her fighting, like he was a bully holding a child back and stepping out of the way of futile swings.
A dead woman lay in the middle of the yard, clothed in a white dress, on her side, her face down on the ground, her hair splayed out.
This was it—this was Max’s chance. Jacob and Petra were preoccupied, still fighting with each other. They hadn’t seen him yet. Max raised his gun up, aiming, his finger on the trigger, squeezing.
The impact slammed into Max, knocking him backward. He knew he’d shot his gun; he’d felt the recoil of the weapon in his hand, he’d heard the sound of it. He hadn’t heard the sound of Jacob’s gun, but he’d felt the bullet strike him in the chest, like someone had just punched him and knocked the air out of his lungs. Only he wasn’t getting his breath back. He was trying to draw in another breath, but he couldn’t.
How did he get down on the ground so fast? Where was his gun?
He looked over at where Jacob had been. Was Jacob on the ground? Had he shot him? Had he gotten him? And where was Petra? Had she gotten away? Had he saved her somehow?
He couldn’t be sure. He stared up at the smoke-filled sky above him, the smoke drifting by like a mist. He felt blood in his throat, coating it. He knew it was rising up from his stomach, from other organs, the blood flooding them. He was dying.
Yet he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t sure if he had shot Jacob, and he wasn’t sure if Petra had gotten away. Even if she hadn’t, Luke would save her; he was sure of that. Yeah, Luke was around somewhere. Luke would kill Jacob. He would get Petra and take her home.
Home. He thought of home. He thought of Glen. He’d had a good life with Glen. His life hadn’t always been great. His parents had disowned him. He had overcome so many obstacles. But he had clawed and scratched his way to success. And then he’d found Glen. Memories flashed by. Memories of him and Glen at the beach, at home watching a movie, joking around while doing the dishes, at the hospital when Glen’s mother was dying, the big fight they’d had about something so stupid he couldn’t even remember what it was now. So many memories.
Oh God, his life had been good with Glen. He’d been so lucky to have those moments.
“Glen, I’m coming to see you,” he whispered. Or at least he thought he’d whispered the words. He couldn’t really be sure. There was blood in his throat, a lot of
it. He couldn’t swallow it down, and he couldn’t breathe. But he still didn’t panic.
A noise. Someone beside him, dragging something.
Max had just enough strength to turn his head and look at the person approaching him, dragging his leg a little. Max just stared at Jacob, too tired to fight now, to speak, to do anything. So tired and cold. He just wanted to shut his eyes and go to sleep, to think about Glen. But he kept his eyes open, staring up at Jacob as he stood over him, his gun in his hand down by his leg.
Jacob smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll get her. I always do.”
Max didn’t respond. He stared up at Jacob. He didn’t look away as Jacob aimed his gun down at his face. He wasn’t going to close his eyes. He wasn’t going to give Jacob that satisfaction.
There was a blast of light and then blackness. Max’s pain was gone.
CHAPTER 48
Petra
Petra ran. She had no choice. It had all happened in a split second. She’d been fighting wildly with Jacob, and then she’d seen the movement out of the corner of her eye, someone standing at the steps that led down to the ground from the back porch.
Max . . . he was there. Somehow, he was there.
Jacob had seen him too.
Max fired. Jacob fired. Max had hit Jacob. Somewhere in the leg, Petra thought, but she couldn’t be sure. How bad was the wound? She couldn’t be sure of that either. But she knew Jacob’s bullet had struck Max in the chest, knocking him to the ground.
Max was dead, or at least dying. There was nothing she could do for him. She ran while she had the chance, while Jacob was distracted for a second.
When Petra was a few houses away she stopped, breathing hard, holding onto the siding of the home, crouched down behind shrubs. She was crying. She couldn’t remember when she’d started crying. Her tears were for Max. She couldn’t help him. It was too late. She’d seen the wound on his chest, the blossom of blood on his shirt, the way he lay on the ground, paralyzed with shock and pain. But she still felt guilty for not helping him. Max had come to save her and now he was dead.
Rippers had invaded the town. She could hear them but she hadn’t seen any yet. She needed to get moving.
After a deep breath, she wiped her eyes and got up, creeping out from behind the shrubs. She needed to hurry—she was sure Jacob was searching for her. She ran along the shrubs then out into the backyard, crossing quickly to the next backyard. From her attempted escape with Audrey and Scott, she remembered that the far end of Hell Town wasn’t too far away, maybe another block or so. When she got to that wall she would find a way out.
Her breaths fogged up in front of her as she ran. She needed to find a weapon. A gun would be great, but anything would do. If Jacob caught her again, she needed something to fight back with. She didn’t stop at the back of the next home; she hurried around to the side yards between the two homes and then stopped abruptly.
The Dragon lay in the side yard near the house, his body stretched long, his thin arms and legs splayed out. He was dead.
She approached him cautiously. It had to be the Dragon. He was wearing the same dark pants and shirt she’d seen before, the same dark suit coat, the same boots and gloves, the same long black coat. No guns or other weapons around. She stood right beside the body, staring down at the ruined face. It looked like someone had mangled his face, maybe beating his face in with the butt of a rifle or a shotgun.
Rippers? No, it couldn’t be. They would have eaten him.
Someone killed the Dragon? One of his followers? One of his guards or a Dark Angel? Or maybe it was one of the servants that he liked to select for torture. The thought of a servant killing the Dragon pleased her. She saw vividly a young woman in white bashing the butt of a rifle onto the Dragon’s face over and over again. The Dragon would have pleaded for her to stop the first few times, gurgling through blood and shattered teeth, maybe his jaw not working right anymore. But the servant wouldn’t stop; she kept slamming the butt of the weapon down into his face over and over again, screaming in rage, her eyes wild, splatters of blood and specks of flesh painting her white dress.
The Dragon was dead. Petra could hardly believe it. She’d wanted to kill the Dragon herself, and she was disappointed just a little, but she was glad someone had done it.
She was about to move on—she needed to get going right now—but something held her there beside the body. Something wasn’t right about the Dragon. Same clothes, yes, but there was something different about his body, something she couldn’t define.
It wasn’t him. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that, but she was. This was an imposter, one of his soldiers, someone unfortunate enough to have the same body type, someone to stand in while the Dragon got away.
A different picture ran through her mind: the Dragon switching clothes with his soldier, perhaps aiming a gun at him while doing so. Forcing the man to walk and then bashing him in the back of the head with his rifle, the man collapsing to the ground. And then it was the Dragon who beat the man’s face to a pulp. But the Dragon’s eyes weren’t wild with rage like the servant woman’s; his eyes were cold and calculating, his face smooth, his expression bland; this was just a chore to be accomplished.
Spurred on by the thought of the Dragon escaping, Petra ran past the next house and got to the rear wall of the town. The smoke from the fires was getting heavier. The sounds of the rippers were closer, but she thought they were coming from the northern part of the town: maybe the rippers were running toward the open gates as some of the Dark Angels and townspeople escaped.
The wall was solid here, pieced together with sheets of corrugated steel, aluminum siding, plywood, all of it lashed to sturdy posts and metal poles. The wall hadn’t been breached, but the Dragon had gotten out through here, she was sure of it. There had to be something.
And then she saw it, a small opening between two of the wood panels. She pulled on the panel to the left—it was loose. She pushed it out of the way and crawled through the opening.
More houses, a continuation of the neighborhood that had been walled off from the town. She slipped in among the houses, running faster now. She was like a bloodhound picking up a scent. She didn’t follow footprints or any other kind of tracks, but she felt like she was following something, a beam of energy left behind by the Dragon.
Moments later she crossed a street where the neighborhood turned into businesses. The houses had been ransacked, most of the front doors wide open or torn off the hinges, windows busted out, junk pulled out of the homes onto front porches and into yards. Abandoned cars and trucks were parked in driveways, on streets, some crashed into trees and telephone poles. The Dragon and his Dark Angels had already plundered all of the homes and businesses around Hell Town, taking anything of use and stockpiling the items down in the basements of the homes inside the walls. What was out here that the Dragon wanted? He wouldn’t be running blindly, would he?
No, he would have a plan.
Petra stopped for a moment at the front corner of a home, catching her breath. She still needed to be careful. Rippers were everywhere right now; she would see some soon, she was sure of it.
Maybe she was losing her mind. Maybe that had really been the Dragon back there in that side yard; she just couldn’t accept that he’d been killed, murdered by one of his “traitors” as he called them. Maybe she was chasing a ghost right now, chasing a nightmare she couldn’t get out of her mind.
She needed to think about escape, about finding a vehicle to take, but finding one around here wasn’t going to be easy. She was sure batteries had been confiscated as well as other car parts, along with spare tires, gas siphoned from the tanks. Walking was going to be dangerous, but if she had to walk, then she had to.
Making up her mind to head east, she almost left her hiding spot, but then she froze. A banging sound came from across the street. There was a mechanic’s shop next to a few other businesses. There were no cars parked out in front of the shop, but next to the office was
a row of rollup garage doors—four of them.
He’s in there. She didn’t know why she was so sure about it, but she was.
Petra darted across the street to the office. The glass door was unlocked. She opened the door, hoping there wasn’t a little brass bell attached to it. She slipped inside, the door closing slowly on a pneumatic hinge. Even though the door was glass and there were big windows, the place was murky inside. She gave her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom, objects coming into view in the distance: a counter, chairs and tables for waiting customers, a TV high up on the wall, a soda machine, posters on the walls, a door behind the counter.
She hurried behind the counter and grabbed the doorhandle. The door must lead to the mechanics’ bays. She twisted the handle gently and slowly, pulling the door open.
The bays were even darker than the office, but she could make out a large pickup truck in the third bay, backed in so the driver could pull right out. The truck had big tires, all of them inflated. It was a newer truck. It looked a lot like the truck Jacob had driven to North Carolina to find her and take her here.
The truck wasn’t running. There were no sounds inside the bay. She entered. She would look for a tire iron or some kind of weapon, something to use—
Petra felt a pain explode in the back of her head. A second later she was on the oily concrete floor without remembering how she’d gotten there, how she had fallen down.
He hit me . . . he hit me with something.
She rolled over, wincing, the back of her head on fire.
A shadow loomed over her, a face staring down at her from under a hood. And for a second she was sure those eyes had just shined yellow.
CHAPTER 49
Emma
The whole time Emma had been down in the bunker, down in Avalon, she’d felt cut off from the world—not just physically cut off, which she was, but also psychically. It wouldn’t be easy for her to explain to anyone the feeling she had, but it felt like being this deep down in the earth had severed the psychic tendrils from reaching out.