Tosha stood, aimed, and fired a shot. It would have been a perfect torso hit, even from this distance, but another guy had stepped up just as the bullet reached the target.
"What are you, nuts?" John asked.
Tosha fired again but the target was already gone over the short fence and behind trees. "I hit one, just the wrong one."
They hunkered down when shots began bouncing all around them, chipping chunks off the wall and spraying them with dust.
"You're going to get us all killed," Mike said and began shooting.
John looked around. Across the way, a side street lead back into the middle of town, but he could see several shuffling forms in the narrow lane. It was made more for foot traffic than cars.
Tosha stood and fired, hitting another person, then dropped back down behind the wall. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."
"I'm glad you're having fun. I'm not used to this," Mike said.
"What the fuck you been doing this whole time?"
Mike shrugged. "Driving a giant fucking bus."
Another bullet ricocheted overhead.
John shot a zombie as it came around the corner. "We'll be trapped soon, between the gunmen and them zombies we ran from. Any other bright ideas?"
Tosha stood and fired two more shots before kneeling and reloading. "Give me a second, will ya?"
Down the wall, Mathyu sat, staring at her twin sister.
"Not now," Tosha whispered. She turned to Mike. "Anytime you're ready to fire that pretty gun of yours, knock yourself out."
Mike stood and fired, dropped back down.
"Did you aim?" she asked.
"Not really."
"Next time throw the bullet at them. You'll have a better chance of hitting something."
Mathyu looked away from Tosha and smiled. Tosha followed her dead sister's gaze. "Holy shit, there's a break in the wall. We can get into the cemetery and sneak around them."
"How do you know?" John asked.
Tosha laughed. "My dead twin sister told me, of course. Follow me, boys, and keep right behind my gorgeous ass."
* * * * *
"I wish your sixth sense had been wrong," Russ said. They were stopped just shy of the Gate of Lions, watching a large group of zombies entering St. Augustine. They could hear gunfire close by.
"What's going on?" Darlene asked. She pulled the two new pistols from their shoulder holsters. "I guess we'll find out."
"Hold on. This is going to be fun. You'll need to shoot over my left shoulder at anything that might get in our way. Got it?"
"Sure." Darlene draped both arms over his shoulders. She hoped this was going to work.
Russ rode at a slow pace, faster than the zombies but slow enough that Darlene could get the hang of shooting like this. Before they got to the midpoint of the bridge she was out of ammo.
Russ stopped the motorcycle. None of the undead had turned back at them. "Reload," he said but she was already doing so. He pulled two grenades out. "When we get to the end of the bridge, I'm going to toss these at the nearest clusters. Keep your head down and your eyes closed. Got it?"
They made it to the end and Russ pointed at a group of survivors in the road, shooting down the street. He tossed both grenades and veered toward the living fighters.
When the first one saw the motorcycle coming, he opened fire. Darlene shot at him, forcing him to duck.
The grenades exploded behind them.
A bullet whipped past Darlene's head and she instinctively ducked, but leaned too far to the right. Russ slowed down and they put the bike down without rolling it or getting hurt.
"We walk from here," he yelled, tossing his helmet to the pavement and grabbing both rifles and another two grenades. "The locals don't seem too friendly."
A barrage of bullets from four men behind a low fence pinned them down.
Russ smiled. "Watch this," he said and tossed a grenade. As all four men ran to escape it, the grenade went off, tossing them in different directions.
"Let's move," Darlene said and ran around the fence. Several zombies were between her and the fort. She cursed, knowing she would lose the surprise but she didn’t want to get attacked.
She shot two of them in the face and dove behind a tree just as the men across the street opened fire on her.
It was chaos. There were zombies everywhere on the street now, at least a dozen men shooting at them and at someone across the street in the cemetery.
Russ came up behind her, rifle blazing. "I hope they're the bad guys, because I keep shooting them."
"There's someone shooting from the cemetery." Darlene didn't know who to kill first: the oncoming zombies or the men firing at her.
She slumped down behind the tree and her hands refused to work. The sounds of bullets filled the air and the sight of zombies so close stunned her. She was having a panic attack and couldn't move.
Russ kept firing and moved up in the grass. "Follow me," he shouted, but she couldn't obey.
Darlene could hear only the sound of her heart pounding now, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.
The men were falling back to the Ripley's parking lot, the shooters in the cemetery now over the wall and giving chase.
John Murphy.
Darlene saw him with two others, a man and a woman, and her heart soared. He was alive.
She shook herself loose of the bad thoughts in her head and stood, shooting a zombie who'd gotten within six feet of her.
Russ was ahead, waving at John to not shoot him.
Darlene ran across the lawn to catch up.
At first the man appearing from the lawn didn't register with her, but when he took two shots—one at Russ and one at John, who was running to join Russ—she recognized him.
It was Rusty, one of the bastards she'd sworn to kill.
Chapter Eighteen
John saw the man and woman pull up on the motorcycle, begin firing, and was glad for the distraction. He didn't know who they were but he was glad they were here.
The enemy was pulling back, dropping supplies as they tried to escape.
When he went to join up with the new arrival, he heard shots. The man went down and a bullet went right past John’s shoulder.
He heard a scream behind him and looked back in horror to see Mike Ross with a bloody hole rent in his upper chest.
"Mike!" John yelled, but by the time he got to him he was gone.
John turned back, determined to make this bastard suffer for killing another person. That's when he saw her, running across the lawn and shooting two pistols with abandon.
He did a double-check. How was it possible that Darlene was here?
John didn’t want to see her die as well.
* * * * *
Darlene's first shot went wide but it got Rusty's attention. The second shot caught him in the foot and he went down.
She wasted no time, firing both guns at his legs, hitting him at least three more times.
By the time she got to him he wasn't moving. She kicked his gun away and flipped him onto his back.
He was still alive.
Darlene put the Desert Eagle to his forehead. "Remember me, motherfucker?"
"I sure do, sweet ass," he coughed out with a bloody smile. "Come back for seconds?"
"Fuck you." Darlene stood and shot him in the face.
Then she shot him again. And again.
John put a hand on her shoulder and lowered the guns. "Hey."
Darlene turned and fell into John’s arms. "I missed you."
John hugged her. "I missed you, too. I won't even ask what you're doing here."
"You told me I couldn't come. So I came."
Tosha ran up, putting two zombies down as she joined them. "I hate to break up your lovely reunion, but the zombies haven't stopped coming. I could use some fucking help."
John kissed Darlene on the cheek. "Let's clear them out."
"There's too many. We need to get out of here, but first things first: Doug Conrad is h
ere."
John nodded. "He's probably at the docks. We'll follow the men back and wipe them out."
"I'm Tosha, by the way. Nice to meet you. Let's kill something."
"I like her," Darlene said.
"Your friend didn't make it. Sorry," Tosha said.
Darlene wanted to cry. So much death and so much heartache. Would this ever end?
She gave a last look at the ruined face of Rusty. She didn't feel anything right now, good or bad, toward him. She just felt empty inside.
* * * * *
Tosha led them down the street, clearing a path through zombies as she went. She was in the zone, pointing and shooting in one fluid motion.
She didn’t see Mathyu but she was sure her sister was with her.
Another zombie came out from a side street and she shot it in the face.
The tour bus of Steve 'The Breeze' Brack was up ahead. "Should we check it out?"
She got her answer when three female zombies stumbled out of the bus.
John and Darlene stepped up and shot them.
Tosha climbed inside, saw Steve, naked, bloody and jaws snapping at her, and promptly killed him again.
"Anyone know how to drive this?" she asked.
"I might be able to," John said.
"Fuck it, I can manage it." Tosha looked for the keys, found them near Steve, and started it up. "This should get us there."
She floored it, laughing as she heard John and Darlene falling in the back. "Sorry," she mumbled with a laugh. "I see them ahead."
Darlene and John joined her in the front of the bus.
"Not Doug," Darlene said.
"Hold on." Tosha clipped one of the running men with the bumper of the bus, knocking him over. "That was fun."
There were only three more men and they spread out or ducked behind something as she sped past. "He's at the ship. I take it you're after the leader," Tosha said.
"Yes." Darlene reloaded all three pistols.
"Old boyfriend?"
"Nope, just someone who tried to rape me, let the gang have their turn, and then kill me."
Tosha grinned. "I'll let you have first shot. If you see a teenager, he's mine."
"Why?"
"He's a teenager. He's probably a little dickhead. That's reason enough."
"There are the boats," John said.
Tosha parked and they ran up the dunes, but the one boat was already moving south.
"Can you hit them from here?" Darlene asked. They were on the beach now.
Tosha shrugged. "I can try. Without a rifle it's near impossible, but they aren't that far yet."
Darlene handed her the Desert Eagle. "Will this work?"
"Sure."
"I'd like one of my bullets to pierce his black heart."
Tosha stepped into the waves and took aim.
There were definitely two figures out there. She figured in the waves, the movement of the boat, the wind… she pulled the trigger and both figures went down, but she didn't know if she'd hit one or if they'd both just reacted to the sound of the shot and hit the deck.
Her next shot hit the boat, but just barely. "They're out of reach. Sorry. I'm not sure if I hit him or not."
John shot a zombie in the head as it walked out of the surf.
"I think we need to get back home," Darlene said.
"Are you coming?" John asked Tosha.
"Where is home?" Tosha handed the Desert Eagle back to Darlene.
"Follow A1A south to the Matanzas Inlet. The stilt houses are to the left on the beach. We're there." Darlene put her gun away. "It's not far."
"I have something to do first. How about I take a rain-check for a couple days and then pop over for lunch?"
John thanked her.
"You want the bus?" Tosha asked.
"Not really. We'll be fine." John put his arm around Darlene.
"You two make a cute couple." Tosha got back in the bus. "I'll see you around."
Tosha hoped to find true love someday. She smiled as she watched John and Darlene kiss and embrace like school kids.
Chapter Nineteen
Ellen and Trish stayed in Kimberly's in the upstairs bar area for two days, until refugees came trickling back in and cleared the city of zombies once again.
St. Augustine, the oldest city in America (or what used to be America) was rebuilt on a smaller scale, fencing off the center of town and barricading the Bridge of Lions once again.
Ellen—Kimberly from now on—served some drinks, cooked some food, and spent her days telling stories about that scary night to anyone who would listen.
She buried her husband and daughter in the lot across the street, and she and Trish helped organize a better way to gather supplies for the small community.
* * * * *
The Cessna soared overhead, headed due south, and Doug decided to follow it. What else could he do? Where there was a plane, there was, hopefully, supplies. And people. And food.
He ate the last of the canned corn and sighed. He was sun-burnt, dehydrated, and weak. Doug had been on the water for sixteen days since fleeing St. Augustine. Every time he steered close to land there were dozens, sometimes hundreds, of zombies waiting for him.
The kid (he couldn't remember his name anymore) had succumbed to the lucky gunshot that rang out just as they were escaping St. Augustine. He didn't know who had shot him, and he didn’t care. All he cared about now was finding food and water, and, hopefully, gathering another crew.
His plan for world domination hadn't ended. This was a minor setback.
The Sons of the New Patriots would rise again.
PREVIEW
Dying Days 3
Prologue
Frank.
He had a name, once, and it was Frank. He had a last name, but he couldn't remember it. His thoughts, at the moment, were on trying to figure out what exactly a last name was.
The noise he heard was the ocean and he moved his stiff neck and looked down to see his shuffling feet kicking up sand on a beach. Frank had never been to the beach. Never felt sand on his toes, but he was doing it now. He was barefoot. He didn't know why.
Frank couldn't stop walking. He was being driven by something, an anger… but he didn't know who he was mad at. He knew he was raging, though, and needed to strike out and rip someone apart. He didn't know why, but, suddenly, knew it was the only reason to keep moving.
There were others on the beach, but he felt nothing toward them. No anger and no need to destroy them. They moved in the same flowing, general direction as he did. One would veer off and walk into the waves or over the dunes, and he could see more stepping out of the surf and joining the walk.
Zombies.
The word came unbidden to his mind. These were zombies, undead, monsters… and they were in search of the living, to tear them apart, to rape them, violate and break all in their paths. They weren't evil. They were just hungry.
Frank willed himself to stop. A man, with his head broken and at an odd angle, bumped into him. Frank lashed out, with creaking arms, and knocked the zombie to the ground.
It felt right. This mindless creature struggled to rise on battered legs but seemed incapable of simply rolling over and pushing himself up.
Frank knew how to stand. He knew the mechanics of how to drive a car, how to brush his teeth, how to make love to his wife.
His wife had been sick? Frank remembered bits and pieces of memory. He lived in Montreal. He worked in a dead-end job selling newspapers. His wife had been back to Sweden to see her sick mother. By the time she'd returned to Canada, she was coughing and wouldn't talk about the visit or her mother.
He couldn't remember his wife's name, but he remembered the bite mark on her forearm. The wound festered and he'd taken her from the airport right to hospital.
There was an incident. Frank remembered a nurse and doctor being bitten. By his wife? Chaos in the emergency room, followed by stampeding hospital personnel and patients. He went for his wife; she was out of the bed,
dragging smashed equipment as she moved.
Frank remembered trying to extricate her from the machines, pulling needles and wires from her body. She stared at the blood as it spurted from her wrist and onto his chest.
Then she'd bitten down on his neck and the pain was intense. He saw red and then… he was dead. He couldn't remember his wife's name.
Warmth on his feet, as the sun beat down. This was no Canadian beach. He had no idea where he could be, but he was walking, so it couldn't be too far.
Frank remembered biting people and savagely attacking their bodies. He remembered ripping apart orifices and, actually, having brutal sex with people until they died. The thought appalled him at first.
The zombie was still trying to get up on the beach. Frank was about to help him, but then he stopped. Why should he? It dawned on him: this monster was after the same dwindling thing he was looking for. The living.
Frank reached up with stiff hands and felt his neck wound. It was just a sliver of ripped skin, although, he swore she'd done a number on him before he died. He flexed his legs and it felt good. How was this possible?
The blood.
Frank knew the blood, coursing over and into his body, made him stronger. It made him grow closer to whole again. With each living body he consumed, he was closer to being fully formed. He needed to find humans before the rest of these weaklings did.
He knew by looking at them, as they walked by, they weren't conscious of their surroundings or aware like he was. He didn't know why, and he didn't care.
"I was in the first wave. My wife was patient zero," he actually whispered through cracked lips, and was amazed he'd spoken. He felt his vocal chords flexing for the first time in, what, days? Weeks? Months? Years?
The zombies around him were growing as well, but they were nowhere near where he was. But, in time, they would rival him, and grow aware. They would try to destroy him as the enemy. Frank couldn't have that. He was even angrier now, but he let it wash over him. He could control it, little by little. He knew his brain was now his driving force, and not the insatiable hunger.
Dying Days 2 Page 9