A quick glance around confirmed that there were plenty of cars, but none looked drivable. Someone must have had some fun with fire as things got out of hand in the town. Several businesses had been torched, along with most of the cars lining the street. A few charred bodies inside some of the automobiles made Michael wonder if they had already been infected when the fires came or if they were just poor fools who’d gotten caught up in whatever riot had consumed the area.
It wasn’t long before Michael’s sense of urgency was spectacularly reinforced. As the trio continued moving down the street, a dark shadow blotted out the sun momentarily and a body landed nearby. It sounded like a bag of mushy potatoes as it splattered all over the pavement. Cindy had seen the shadows shift and yanked Michael back from the point of impact just in time. He stumbled back and yelped in pain as he put his weight down on his bad leg, but Frank’s scream of terror drowned him out completely.
“Will you shut it? You’re going to bring the whole town down on us if you keep up that crap!”
Frank’s mouth slammed shut as he stared up at the two-story building from which the ghoul had jumped. When it appeared that no more bodies would be following the first off the rooftop, he gave Michael an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry, man, but this shit is really starting to freak me out,” he moaned, his voice on edge as his eyes darted back and forth. “I wish I still had my shotgun. Damn, I miss my baby.”
Michael was ready to lay into the whiny idiot when four figures stepped out of an alleyway to their left. The rotters were already on top of them—just a few steps away and closing fast.
The sound of rifle shots filled the air. Michael ripped off two three-round bursts and watched as four bodies fell to the ground, their spoiled brains dripping on the asphalt.
Cursing silently at the noise, Michael kept the rifle out as he limped down the street as fast as he could. He had just announced their presence to every stiff in town. Frank bounced along beside him, bumping up against the other man repeatedly, like a dog whose leash was too tight. As he did, he verbalized what Michael was thinking.
“We’re fucked now, man! They’re gonna keep coming at us!”
As if Frank’s words had magical power, several moans echoed off the steel canyon of buildings surrounding them. Michael slowed, trying to get a fix on where the noise was coming from. Frank skidded to a halt as Michael gestured for silence. He swung the rifle in front of him in a wide arc, hoping to spy movement ahead.
“Cindy, do you see anything behind us?”
Michael knew how doggedly persistent the infected could be. They were able to track a normal person with uncanny ease. Chances were, in this small downtown section of Manchester, that the three of them were already surrounded. But if they could move a few blocks in any direction, they would be out of the cramped urban setting and have more room with which to work. The injured man could feel his ankle stiffening up and knew they were running out of time.
“Cindy?”
He looked back when there was no response. Frank did as well, and they scoured the landscape. Michael’s blood began to boil.
“Where the hell did she go?” Frank asked, baffled.
Michael screwed his eyes shut and clutched the rifle to his chest. The temptation to yell for Cindy was strong, but he already knew where she had disappeared to and why. It would be pointless to call out to her. She would ignore him.
The crazy bitch had abandoned them.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” was all he could mutter as he shook his head in disbelief.
Doing his best to blot his psychotic girlfriend from his mind, Michael tried to focus on more pressing concerns. The moans were getting closer.
“Oh shit.”
Michael opened his eyes at the sound of Frank’s fearful voice. He raised the M16 to his shoulder and stared at the shifting shapes out in front of them. There were six in all, the closest about half a block away. More moans were coming from behind but didn’t sound as close.
Frank grabbed Michael’s shoulder and pointed at another batch of ghouls coming from their left. They were everywhere. At present, the two men could only spot a few, but other rotting forms seemed to be boiling up from the earth like ants. Michael spun, not sure where to shoot first. Then something caught his eye. Tensing, he made a quick decision.
“This way.”
Gesturing toward a side street that appeared clear of the undead, he limped in its direction. Frank moved forward, barreling ahead of his gimpy partner. There were more echoing cries of excitement as the stiffs closed on their position. Michael glanced back in time to see more coming, small groups merging to form a larger pack. He turned and kept limping down the road.
Frank glanced back, and Michael could see how tempted the cowardly bastard was to take off and leave him behind. But his beady eyes moved down to the M16 again, and the fat hick’s expression changed. He slowed to give Michael a chance to catch up, not interested in being too far from the man with the weapon. Frank even smiled as he urged Michael forward, his loyalty on full display.
As they moved farther down the street, the moans grew louder.
Michael ripped off several shots in quick succession, switching the rifle to semiautomatic mode to preserve ammunition. He had only two thirty-round clips and had already burned through several rounds in the first one.
Only two of his targets went down as bullet holes appeared in the chests of several others. He cursed silently and scanned the buildings surrounding them in the hope of finding a safe haven. There were surprisingly few shattered windows or smashed-in doors, and there were only a couple of abandoned cars on the road, with no corpses lying out in the open. It felt like a massive and deadly contradiction: the bright sun casting its rays down on a relatively pleasant little street while two people raced to escape a couple of dozen ravenous cannibals trying to eat them.
“Michael, we need … we need to get out of here! Please! Get us out of here. I can’t handle this anymore … please!”
Frank was losing it. If they didn’t get somewhere safe fast, he was going to get them killed.
Gritting his teeth, the man with the rifle searched the area until he saw the perfect place for them to go. Michael knew it would solve all their problems. He raised his hand and pointed.
“Let’s head that way. But you’ve got to help me, man, it’s hard for me to walk anymore.”
Frank glanced down the alleyway Michael had pointed out. He could see daylight peeking out from the opposite side. It was narrow, but not a dead end. Frank continued to quaver, but nodded in agreement.
Michael slung the rifle and lifted his arm. Frank slid underneath it and allowed the taller man to lean against him. They moved toward the alley at a brusque pace while a slow parade of rotters followed. Despite their awkwardness, the two men managed to increase the distance between them and their pursuers while closing in on the narrow opening between the two buildings. Michael looked back, satisfied at the distance between them and the nearest hunters. As they moved down the alley, he gripped Frank’s shoulder and urged him to slow down. Frank anxiously obeyed.
“You know, Frank, I’ve been thinking.”
Frank looked up at the man he had obeyed dutifully for over a month, his expression filled with hope. Michael was smart, and when he focused on a problem, he typically came up with a solution.
“You need a weapon. I think my knife will work,” Michael said as he unsheathed the blade.
Frank frowned, disappointed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather have something I won’t have to fight up close and personal with.”
Michael shook his head. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
When the knife entered Frank’s belly, his expression didn’t change. It was only when Michael drove the blade deeper that the bolt of pain hit and the heavyset man looked down to see the hilt protruding from his gut. Frank looked back up at Michael, confusion stamped on his face. He shook his head as if to reiterate that he re
ally didn’t want the knife.
Michael wriggled out from Frank’s grasp and pulled the knife free. Without the other man to hold him up, Frank slumped to the ground, landing on his knees. His thick fingers covered the wound as he stared at the blood gushing out of it. As he toppled backwards, he screamed.
When Frank felt the hand on his leg, he shrank back toward the wall and stared at Michael, his eyes wide with fear. Only when he saw that his former friend was trying to say something did he stop screaming.
“… truly sorry. I really am.”
“Wha-? Why ... Michael? Michael! What have you done to me?”
Michael shook his head and grimaced as he leaned in closer and clamped his fingers even more tightly around Frank’s leg. The other man was too busy trying to hold his guts in to squirm out of the iron grip. Frank kept looking down as if he expected his organs to start spilling out of the hole in his belly, but so far there was only blood.
He started to cry, and Michael shushed him like a baby, raising a finger to his lips and shaking his head back and forth, a stern look on his face. Before Frank could blubber even more, Michael spoke again.
“I’m sorry, Frank. I really am. But you’re just too damn weak.” His fingers dug into Frank’s calf, but the injured man didn’t seem to notice. “I can’t babysit you any longer.”
Frank felt another sudden sharp pain, this time from his ankle. For a moment, the agony in his belly was forgotten as Michael’s knife cut efficiently through his Achilles tendon.
Michael stood up, a grunt of pain escaping his lips as he balanced on his good leg. A look of grim satisfaction claimed the murderer’s face as he stared at the mouth of the alley.
Frank howled as he tried to wrap his fingers around the sliced ankle, recoiling in pain the instant he touched the wound. Groaning heavily, the fat man tried to lever his body up the alley wall behind him, but only made it a few inches before slipping back to the ground, exhausted.
After a few moments, Frank’s eyes refocused on Michael, who was still backing away. His limp was far less pronounced now.
“You were a good soldier, Frank. Weak, but a good soldier nonetheless. You should feel proud of what we accomplished together.”
As Michael stared down at the bloody mess Frank had become, the hamstrung man lay motionless, his eyes dull as they stared back at the man who had betrayed him. His crying had stopped; perhaps he was going into shock
A small group of undead appeared at the entrance of the alley. They sniffed the air as they came, drawn forward by the rich coppery scent of Frank’s blood. The one at the front of the pack raised its head and caught sight of Michael at the opposite end of the narrow passageway. For a moment, their eyes locked. Michael felt an icy finger sliding down his back, and he blinked. When his eyes opened, the dead man was focused on the fallen form of Frank, which was far closer. Michael watched for a couple more seconds, certain that something had passed between him and the ghoul. Whatever it was, it made him feel more discomfort than fear, as if the wretched creature somehow knew he had betrayed Frank, and had judged him for it.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned, fleeing as quickly as his wounded ankle would allow. He had exaggerated his injury to fool Frank, but it still hurt mightily. After running the knife blade along his pants to get rid of Frank’s blood, Michael sheathed the weapon at his wrist.
*
Frank watched as Michael’s form diminished. He wasn’t in shock, but his thoughts were getting fuzzy. The pain had been incredible at first, but there was a numbness creeping into his belly and ankle as more blood flowed away from his open wounds. That helped keep him from crying out in agony, which was good. Tears still blurred his vision, and he knew he had to figure out a way to get back on his feet. He had to drag his sorry ass down the alley and follow Michael before any of those flesh-craving lunatics found him. As his fingers dragged along the dirty concrete in an effort to gain purchase, he tried to blot those horrific bastards out of his mind.
I won’t die. I can make it. If I can get back on my feet, I can limp along. The gut wound isn’t so bad. I just need to get stitched up. Lydia will do it for me when I find her.
Frank’s wet fingers slid into a mortared groove between two bricks on the wall, and he tried pulling himself up once again. When his fingers slipped and he fell back to the ground, a small whimper escaped his lips. I’ll get back to the others and they’ll help me! They have to! A small sound like a hiccup escaped his lips as he grinned.
“They’ll take me back. They’ll forgive me for abandoning them,” he insisted aloud.
The only response he got was an excited moan from behind where he lay on the ground. Frank hiccupped again, laughter trying to force its way to the surface. He couldn’t go any farther. He was stuck, and someone was coming for him. There was a small desire to turn and look, to see who it was. He wanted to believe it was Lydia. Dear, sweet old Lydia. She would comfort him, take care of his wounds like she took care of everyone else who’d been hurt. She wouldn’t care that he had run off with Michael and left them behind to suffer and die. She was too much of a saint to hold a grudge.
The moans grew louder, and Frank finally understood. He wanted to ask God for forgiveness; he wanted to pray for some sort of redemption. But instead, he felt rage building inside as the sound grew louder. He could hear awkward footsteps sliding along the hard surface of the pavement. They were getting close. Only a few seconds left to live, and Frank knew he still had a choice. He could ask for forgiveness and hope for a charitable God to grant it, or he could continue to think about Michael. The unholy bastard had hamstrung him and hadn’t just left him to die; he’d left him as bait.
There were more footsteps dragging closer. Too many to count. A whole army. That was when Frank made up his mind. He screamed again, the rage outweighing any terror he felt. It was not some high-pitched wail that escaped his lungs, but a single word repeated again and again for whoever remained in this wretched world to hear.
Even as the monsters tore into him, ripping his flesh and rending his bones, he screamed, howling his curse on blood-flecked lips until he could scream no more.
*
Michael had made it a block when Frank’s first scream pierced the muggy air. He stopped and looked back at the gap between the two buildings he’d just escaped. There weren’t any bodies tumbling out in pursuit.
The plan had worked. Frank’s immobile form had been too much of a lure for the mob to pass up. As another scream burst forth from the alleyway, Michael knew his crony would keep the ghouls occupied for a while.
The screams grew higher in pitch and then cut off abruptly. Satisfied, Michael continued down the road. He made it a few more feet before Frank screamed out again.
“Miiiiichaaaaaaaeeeeeeel!”
Even as the dying man’s ragged voice faltered, he continued to shout. Michael could not outdistance the sound, even as it turned into one long, final scream that never seemed to end.
He limped along as fast as he could, a small whimper escaping his lips as he realized what he had done.
Now he was truly alone.
Chapter 6
Ben frowned as he scanned the area. He had just stepped outside through the broken windshield to get an idea of how much trouble they were in. He and George had already hoisted Jeff over the back wall, and the two other men were dealing with the women and children still inside the bedroom.
They were in the center of Manchester’s small downtown area, surrounded by shops and office buildings. Ben saw the pile of cars that Michael had been forced to dodge, which had sent them skidding into the curb. But it wasn’t what he saw that bothered him; it was what he heard. The howls of the infected. Ben’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the first of them on the street. As he surveyed the neighborhood, he saw more coming. There wasn’t much time.
Moving with purpose, Ben went back inside the RV. George and Jeff had just lifted Teddy’s unconscious body over the bedroom wall with Lydia’s and Megan’s
help. Jason, who had a huge gash on his forehead, was straddling the barrier and assisting them as best he could.
Ben performed a rapid evaluation of the two men standing before him. George was the bigger and stronger of the two and looked like a linebacker who could probably plow through a pile of stiffs like they were nothing. Jeff was physically average and didn’t strike Ben as the athletic type. He was just another soft suburbanite. Yet it was clear that there was more to Jeff than that. The end of the world had changed the man. That was apparent from the way he had stood up to Michael and stuck with Ray even when the boy had been as good as dead.
Making his decision, Ben stepped forward.
Grabbing Jeff by the arm, he pulled him out of earshot. After a few seconds of furtive whispering, Jeff nodded and scooped up the baseball bat lying at his feet. They made their way outside.
“Holy shit,” was all Jeff could think to say as he saw the bodies pouring out of the buildings surrounding them.
“How long do we have?”
“A couple minutes at the most.” Ben saw the fear on Jeff’s face morph into grim determination and knew he had made the right choice.
“What do we do?”
“We need to distract them. All of them.”
Jeff looked around again as he felt his skin grow cold. His teeth started to chatter, and he clenched his jaw to make them stop.
“We need to tell the others.”
“You do it. I’m going to get started.” Ben moved away, but turned back to say one last thing. “Don’t take too long. Just tell them to get the hell out of here and find someplace to hole up. Whichever way they go, head in the opposite direction. I’ll find them, wherever they go.”
And he was off, whooping and hollering as he charged into a group of staggering forms, bowling them over. Jeff watched in amazement as Ben kept running, his wild movements and bellowing voice drawing attention from every cloudy eye in the area.
The Dark Trilogy Page 38