The Siege

by Hautala, Rick

  “If they come all at once, we don’t stand a chance,” Donna said softly. Her grip on the nail-studded club was so tight her fingers were going numb.

  “How many do you think he had with him?” Dale asked.

  “I counted at least twelve, maybe fifteen in all,” Hocker said. He spat on the floor. Dale noticed Hocker was holding his wounded shoulder at an odd angle, but he didn’t complain.

  “Look, though,” Hocker said with a grunt. “He’s trying to get them to cooperate, but some of them are sort of drifting.”

  Sure enough, while Rodgers stood by the open limo door, shielding himself from any gunfire that might come from the house, he was indicating to each man where to go; but a few of the men seemed dazed as they wandered toward the house.

  “If what you said was true about the drug,” Donna said tightly, “maybe it takes away their will or something. They seem and act so mindless.”

  “That may be our only hope,” Dale said. His hand tightened on the axe handle when one of the zombies lurched toward the house and stumbled up onto the porch.

  The three of them waited tensely, and then there came a solid thump on the front door. Donna thought it was probably her imagination, but she was positive she had seen the door and the blockade buckle inward from the impact.

  Dale shifted over to one side of the door and stood at ready, his knees slightly bent, the axe up over his head. As soon as a face or a hand came through the door, he was determined to lop it off with a single stroke. He didn’t consider for very long whether or not the rusty axe head could really do that.

  Then a harder blow shook the door. Hocker smiled, but Dale and Donna exchanged worried glances.

  “It sounds like he could punch his way through the wall, never mind the door,” Dale said.

  Donna took another peek outside, and what she saw made her gasp. Three more of the zombies had approached the house. A twisted, snarling face loomed up in front of her, filling the crack where she was looking out. With a squeal, she fell backwards, covering her face with her arm when the glass exploded inward. She saw thin but strong-looking fingers reach in through the break and start clawing to remove the blocking wood.

  “Hold tight!” Dale said. “If he starts getting through, whack him!”

  The sound of breaking glass continued as the zombie pulled the window sash apart, clearing it out of his way, and then began hammering his fists on the wood nailed over the window. Donna watched with open-mouthed horror as the boards bounced with each hit. She focused on the nails, holding the wood to the inside window frame, and prayed earnestly for them not to slip out.

  Hocker stayed where he was, watching Dale and Donna with a slight smile across his face. He kept glancing out through his slit to see if his window was also going to be the focus of an attack, but so far it wasn’t.

  Dale stood, frozen into position, as the zombie outside the door continued to rain heavy-fisted blows on the door. Everything, the door frame included, shook under the impact, and as much as he wanted to deny it, he was sure the barricade was gradually giving to the assault. His anger at Rodgers flared and grew stronger when he wondered if he had already been to Mrs. Appleby’s and done something to Angie. He knew he had a responsibility to Angie to survive and find out if he had md take his revenge.

  “It’s not gonna hold,” Donna said frantically.

  “Be ready! Be ready!” Dale shouted, not taking his yes from the door. As soon as he said that, the end of the of the blocking boards popped out and swung down. The hammering sound from outside grew louder and faster. Dale became convinced there were at least two of the creatures working to get the door down.

  Finally, with a loud crack, one of the upper door panels broke inward in a shower of splinters. A big-knuckled fist shot in with it. Once inside, the fingers snapped open and reached blindly for something to snag onto. Dale tightened his stance and brought the axe down as hard as he could. The blade caught on the shattered wood, but enough of it hit the exposed wrist to do some damage. Dead and rotting muscles and tendons were torn open. The hand snapped back, flat against the inside of the door.

  “Take that, you son-of-a-bitch,” Dale snarled, curling his lips back and exposing his teeth in a savage grin. The fingers twitched, and the hoary fingernails made a weird tap-dancing sound on the wood. Dale pulled the axe back and swung it around quickly, before the creature could pull its hand out.

  There was a loud snap as the hand severed at the wrist, and Dale watched, horrified, as it fell to the floor. For a second or two the fingers continued to twitch, but then they stopped, and the hand lay still, truly dead.

  “Weird, huh?” Hocker said, standing there, watching. “No blood. No blood at all.”

  “Yeah,” Dale said with a gasp, thinking he was going to throw up. “At least we won’t make a mess on the floor.”

  Donna, meanwhile, was too busy watching her own window to pay attention to what was happening to Dale. Above the sound of shattering glass and breaking wood, she could hear the deep-gut grunting the creature made as he rammed his shoulder into the blockage. Every time he hit, the wood groaned. When it finally gave way, though, it wasn’t slowly, as Donna had expected; the entire barricade suddenly shot inward, and right behind it was the bulky, dark shape of a man.

  One piece of the flying wood caught Donna on the side of the jaw. The suddenness of the impact caught her by surprise, and she staggered back, dazed, as the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

  It was more out of reflex than thought that Donna acted. She took a quick step forward and swung the club around with a low, whistling whoop. She hadn’t even checked to see which side the nails were on, so only a corner of the wood connected with the man’s head as he lunged through the open window. There was a satisfying sound that made her think of a baseball player swatting a home run, and the man collapsed with only half of his body inside the house.

  Hocker let out a loud shout as he darted over beside Donna and brought his club down, time and again, on the back of the zombie’s head. Each blow produced the sound of breaking bone as hair and skin peeled back, exposing the shattered skull. Splinters of bone stuck up through the dead skin, and Hocker caught a glimpse of the dark mess of exposed brain. The creature never flinched or stooped trying to propel itself into the house, though; arms and legs scrambled for purchase, and still the zombie struggled forward.

  “Watch his hand!” Donna shouted, and Hocker had to take a quick leap backward to avoid getting tripped up. He knew how strong a hold these creatures could have, and there was no way he wanted to let this one get a hold on him.

  “For Christ’s sake! Don’t just stand there!” Hocker shouted as he moved forward and continued to hammer on the man’s head and shoulders, to no avail.

  Donna wanted to help, but she couldn’t bring herself to join in. All she could think was, not so long ago this man had been a living, breathing human being. It wasn’t his fault he was what he was now. Even if he was just an empty shell, totally drained of true life, she couldn’t bring herself to savage a human body. It was like corpse mutilation!

  The zombie’s fingers were clawing frantically at the floor. As Hocker pummeled its head, the nails of his club tore away large swatches of dead flesh. Then, one lucky swat severed the man’s spine, and this, finally, had the desired effect. With a sudden growl, the zombie slumped to the floor face-first, his head hanging over his right shoulder at an impossible angle, looking up at the ceiling.

  “That’ll do it,” Hocker shouted gleefully as he swung one last time at the twice-dead man. The head loosened some more but didn’t quite come off. Hocker could tell this one, at least, would give them no more trouble.

  “See,” Hocker shouted to Dale. “You just have to disconnect the brain from the body! Pull the plug on these bastards!”

  “Great!” Dale replied. The handless arm had pulled back from the hole in the door, but the hammering on the door continued unabated. He glanced over at the corpse on the floor and the broke
n barricade. “Get that wood nailed back up if you can,” he shouted, “before any more come.”

  Another face suddenly filled the hole in the door. When Dale swung the axe at it, the creature retreated. The axe head caught on the edge of the hole, and Dale almost lost his grip from the impact. As he was straightening up, regaining his balance, two more door panels broke inward, and soon the entire door and blocking wood were caving in.

  V

  While Dale, Donna, and Hocker were defending the front of the house, Tasha and Winfield were busy at the kitchen door. Their problems were slightly less for two reasons: the door they were defending wasn’t boarded over, so they had a clearer field of vision; and the two zombies who had been protecting the barn hadn’t been joined by any others.

  Still, two of those creatures are problem enough, Winfield thought.

  Before the two zombies made their move toward the kitchen door, Winfield and Tasha had a few minutes to speak. Tasha maintained her quiet reserve, an attitude, Winfield had no doubt, she used with all authority figures, but she did, after a fashion, apologize for kicking him in the balls.

  “Hey,” Winfield said, “I’ve got to hand it to you. I’ve rousted drunks and deadbeats and vagrants for a good many years around here, and then it takes a teenage girl from Florida to scramble my eggs.” He snorted with laughter and was pleased to see the slightest of smiles flit across Tasha’s face.

  “I’ve figured it out now, too,” he said, keeping his eyes on the dark figures standing in front of the barn. “After you nailed me, I saw you run off into the woods, heading south when, actually, you wanted to be going north. You were trying to misdirect me, in case I caught my breath and gave chase, right?”

  Tasha shrugged and looked down at the floor. “Yeah, it seemed like the thing to do.”

  “I think it was a pretty clever move, but I don’t think your reason for doing it was very smart.”

  Tasha looked at him, her expression suddenly steely.

  “I mean, if you were protecting him!” Winfield said, hiking his thumb toward the living room.

  Tasha’s gaze went in the direction he indicated, then she looked back at him and sighed deeply. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to defend Hocker. She knew he was an asshole; he was just a little bit less of an asshole than most of the other men she had ever met.

  What she didn’t like was another thought that had reared up on her like a spooked horse: she was scared to death! And she knew they all were facing death here. Everything else Hocker had done—knocking that old man cold, stealing his truck and money, burning the truck was like a joke compared to what was going on now! That man out there in the limo was using these things to try to kill them!

  And even though she tried like hell not to react to this cop, calling her a “teenage girl,” that was exactly what she was. She was a kid, and suddenly, actually without realizing it until it was too late, she had gotten in too damned deep. A phone call to her father wasn’t going to patch this one up! Her parents’ “emotional Band-Aids” weren’t going to get her through this! What she was fighting was the feeling that all she wanted to do was just break down and fall apart. Let this big, tough cop and those other people in the house solve this problem for her. All she wanted to do was curl up in a corner somewhere, close her eyes, and cry until it was all over and she was safe… or dead.

  “You know, I meant what I said earlier about getting you off the hook,” Winfield said, intruding on her thoughts.

  Tasha looked at him, feeling equally attracted and wary. “And what makes you think I need your help?” she said. Even as the words were out of her mouth, she was angry at herself for acting so nasty, so stupid.

  “Why?” Winfield said. “Because I’ve seen a lot of guys like Hocker in my time. They’re what we cops call Triple-P’s. That’s short for ‘piss-poor-protoplasm.’ ”

  Tasha snickered and shook her head. “Aww. He ain’t that bad,” she said. “He may be a little fucked up, but who isn’t?”

  “Yeah, well, the offer stands,” Winfield said. “If we get our butts out of here intact, I’ll make sure you don’t get in any deeper.”

  Oh, great, Tasha thought, just like dad: Mr. Fix-it!

  They didn’t have a chance to talk anymore because just then both of the zombies by the barn started moving slowly forward, their blank gazes fixed on the kitchen door, arms extended.

  Both creatures clambered up onto the porch at the same time, but the narrowness of the doorway forced one behind the other. The lead zombie thrust both hands straight through the glass, shattering it inward along with the snapped wood of the window grid. The creature’s knees pounded against the door, making the whole frame rattle as it pushed forward.

  Winfield watched, fascinated, for several seconds as the creature mindlessly tried to grab at them through the broken window. The door was just a momentary impediment, he knew, but he couldn’t keep himself from staring at this thing that had been turned from a human being into a monstrous parody of life.

  Tasha was cringing back, away from the door. One hand loosely held the shovel; the other was clamped across her mouth, muffling the screams that vibrated her throat. Winfield gave her a quick, reassuring nod, then raised his revolver and fired rapidly, point-blank, at the zombie’s face.

  The revolver kicked in his hand as it spat out lead, but the bullets had about as much effect on the creature as if they had shot through paper. Small, dark holes like black marbles appeared in the zombie’s forehead, but his eyes never blinked; his face never flinched as he reached into the kitchen.

  “Hocker told you that wouldn’t do anything!” Tasha screamed, shifting backward toward the cellar door.

  Winfield smiled grimly and, not taking his eyes off the creature, said, “I just had to see for myself.” He slipped his revolver into its holster, gripped his makeshift club with both hands, and leaned into a vicious swing at the creature’s head.

  There was a satisfying whack upon impact, and the creature sagged to one side, but still there was no change of expression in its eyes. It unblinkingly groped forward… to kill!

  Tasha’s screaming rose shrilly when the door, with the added weight of the second creature bearing down on it, suddenly caved in. Winfield was caught by surprise and was knocked backward against the counter. His club clattered to the floor. When he dove for it, his hand just missed it. A sudden, crushing weight dropped onto his back, forcing the air from his lungs in one big burst.

  Tasha almost turned and ran, but she felt a sudden loyalty to this man. She brought the shovel around in a whistling swing, and she couldn’t help but smile when the shovel blade caught the first zombie under the right ear and sliced cleanly through the putrid flesh.

  Winfield never made a sound as he worked under the weight of the zombie to get his club. In less than a few seconds, dirt-crusted teeth would be working their way into his living flesh. The panic that seized him was nearly blinding, and even though he couldn’t breathe, he kept his focus clearly on the club; that was the only thing that was going to save his ass!

  Glancing over her shoulder, Tasha saw the second zombie lurching through the door, its eyes fixed blankly on her. She swung the shovel again and caught that one squarely in the chest. The shovel thumped into the creature’s chest, ripping it open to expose a xylophone of yellowed ribs. The creature was knocked back a few steps, but he regained his balance and started forward again just as Tasha swung again.

  “Die! Goddamn you! Die!” Tasha wailed as she swished the shovel back and forth like a razor-sharp pendulum. Each swipe cut into the creature, exposing bone and blackened muscle, but it didn’t stop coming at her!

  “You son-of-a-bitch! Die!”

  She spied the opened cans of paint on the countertop, with a few quick side-steps, moved between the door and the scrambling mass of Winfield and his attacker. When one particularly firm hit had sent the zombie attacker reeling, she quickly turned and grabbed a can of paint and tossed it straight into the z
ombie’s face.

  The effect was exactly what she had wanted! The creature didn’t hesitate as it continued to move forward, but now it was blind; she had the edge! With that to bolster her confidence, she braced the shovel close to her body, like a knight’s lance, and jabbed it directly under the creature’s jaw. Pink paint dribbled and splashed everywhere, a crazy parody of the blood this thing should have been shedding. The zombie’s head snapped backward, and there was a stomach-wrenching snap as the rotted spine broke. The head dropped to the floor with a dull thump, and the body crumpled down after it, landing right in the puddle of paint.

  Winfield, meanwhile, was struggling to keep the creature’s open jaws away from him. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for long. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and his arms ached as if he were trying to bench-press a Mack Truck. With a frantic lunge, he finally managed to grab his club and bring it around. Using the heel of it, he pounded the zombie’s face just as it was opening its mouth and leaning down to set its teeth into his neck. The only sound Winfield was conscious of was his own roaring intake of breath as the weight on him eased up enough to breathe.

  The creature’s long fingernails scraped across his scalp, spreading neon-bright pain along his nerves. The teeth, clicking and clacking, came closer to the top of his head.

  All Winfield could think was, This is it! I’m done for! But then the creature suddenly lurched to the side and, looking up, Winfield saw Tasha standing over him, smiling grimly. She had brought the shovel blade down hard onto the back of the creature’s neck, and the blow had severed the spine, disconnecting the brain.

  The zombie’s head hung back over its left shoulder blade as it fell backward onto the floor. Winfield hurriedly kicked the dead body aside, stood up, and took a quick inventory of himself to make sure he wasn’t wounded; he knew the adrenalin charge of fighting could numb the pain of a severe wound, and he didn’t want to find himself collapsing suddenly from loss of blood. But the scalp wound was the total of his injuries, so he and Tasha set to work, cleaning up the damage.