“I’m pretty sure your brother would appreciate it if I got you home,” Jack started. “I know how he is. I have no doubt he’s in a panic trying to get over here to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, probably,” Gray acknowledged. He wasn’t going to admit that, deep inside, he was in a fair amount of panic himself, stressing over whether Theo was okay. Being out in the town with things the way they were, even inside an ambulance, had to be dangerous. Theo was all he had; he didn’t want to risk losing him. “My car is right outside,” Gray said. “Maybe we could—” A loud thud at the front doors cut him off. “What was that?”
“Sounded like someone at the door,” Jack said.
“Or something,” Gray added grimly. He stepped away from the window, edging toward the door. Another thud echoed through the room, and Brendon and Smitty both circled the counter to join them as they backed toward the center of the room.
“Think we should check?” Jack asked.
“No,” Gray replied. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’d be better if we pretended like nobody was in here. There’s a reason we barricaded the doors, right?”
“I think I agree with him,” Brendon said. “We should just stay inside, keep our mouths shut, and let them go away.”
The thudding at the door became more insistent, sounding more like fists—a number of them—beating on it in a discordant rhythm that sent chills up Gray’s spine. He gripped his cell phone tighter, gliding his thumb over the keypad, searching for the “send call” button. Smitty walked briskly to the door, moving beside it to peer out the window, trying to make out what was outside.
“Anybody got a flashlight?” Smitty asked, his hushed voice sounding even louder than it should have in the otherwise empty bar. When nobody stepped forward to offer him one, he motioned to Brendon. “Get me the one behind the bar. It’s over near the shotgun.”
“You’ve got a shotgun, and you didn’t mention it?” Jack asked. “You know we could use that, right?”
“Nobody uses my shotgun but me,” Smitty said sternly. He glanced at Brendon. “Bring the shotgun too while you’re at it. Kid’s got a point. We might need it.”
When Smitty squinted into the darkness again, a hand slammed against the glass, and he staggered back from the window, stumbling over a stool and almost falling. Jack rushed forward to catch him, helping him stay on his feet. The beating outside the door became more insistent, more frantic, accompanied by the sound of shouting. No, not shouting, Gray realized. Growling. It was animalistic snarling and groaning and moaning. The sounds sent chills up his spine. The thought of zombies no longer seemed quite so absurd, and he bit back the nausea welling in his throat.
The front doors were shoved inward. The tables and chairs blocking the door scraped against the floorboards as they gave a few inches under the onslaught from the other side of the door. Gray took a few steps back, closer to the table where April’s body lay. He turned, intending to search out something to use as a weapon, and that was when his eyes landed on the pool table.
April’s body was gone.
“April?” Gray called out, scanning the darkness in the corners of the bar. Maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t really dead. He looked to Jack, who gave him a quizzical look. “April is gone!”
“Gone? What the fuck do you mean, gone?” Jack asked, taking a couple of steps toward him.
“Gone! Not here! Away!” Gray snapped. “Should I get you a fucking dictionary? Or would you prefer a thesaurus?”
“She can’t be gone! She’s dead!”
“Maybe we made a mistake! Either way, her body is gone! Who moved it?”
“Nobody moved it,” Jack said. His tone was wary, and he edged toward Gray, trying to get a look around him at the newly empty table. He was distracted by the sound of the chairs and tables scraping on the floor again, though, and he hurried to join Brendon and Smitty in their efforts to push the furniture back against the doors.
Gray knelt to peer under the table, as if April’s body had somehow rolled off the table or magically sunk through it to the floor below. He straightened, rising from the floor to find himself face to face with April Linder. She lunged at him, her hands out, grasping for him as she snarled, similar to the sounds made by the people outside. Gray was staggering backward with a shout of alarm, trying to dodge her grasping hands, when the door behind him gave way and the animalistic people from outside flooded in.
Chapter 8
The sound of the gunshot hung in the air around Theo as he fell back against the airway seat. He stared at Jonathan’s motionless body lying just beyond the edge of the doorway, horror washing over his mind. His breath was coming out hard and fast, and he felt a twinge of dizziness tickle at his brain. He shuddered and closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing before he hyperventilated. He had a sudden appreciation for Gray and what he went through when he had asthma attacks.
Theo knew now wasn’t the time to get panicky. He had work to do. He had to get out of the ambulance. He had to get moving. He had to find his brother. After that, he was going after Dillon. From there, he had no idea what he was going to do, but once he had both of them with him, he could figure out anything.
Theo wasn’t sure where to start, though. He had no idea if the shot that had killed Jonathan had been a stray one that had just chanced to hit him or if it had been an intentional kill shot. If it’d been an accident, then Theo was reasonably sure it wouldn’t happen again and he’d be okay stepping out of the truck from the back. Granted, “reasonably sure” didn’t translate to “absolutely sure,” and if the shot had been intentional…
Theo edged toward the back doors. The least he could do was pull the top door shut to minimize the risk to himself. The less exposure, the better. He wasn’t going to lie, not even to himself: even being within spitting distance of the doors made him nervous. Figuring it was better to do it quickly, he rushed forward, grabbed the metal bar on the door, and yanked it hard, slamming the door closed before backpedaling from it.
Theo’s stared at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs, waiting to see if any bullets were going to tear into the open space on the lower half of the doorframe and rip into his body. When nothing was forthcoming, much to his relief, he gathered the trauma bags. The best place to exit was the side door above his head. Though he wouldn’t be any less exposed climbing out on top of the ambulance, he figured people were less inclined to look up when searching for people to shoot, so it could offer him some semblance of cover from that perspective. Besides, if he remembered correctly, the exterior cabinets next to the door had extrication equipment in them, including a crowbar and a fire axe. If he was going to go after Gray, he wasn’t going to do it completely unarmed.
He hadn’t decided what the plan was for when he got to Smitty’s. It wasn’t an immediate concern. His main priority was getting to Gray, first and foremost, and then seeing if he could help Gray’s friend before she died. From what Gray had described, though, considering the amount of time that had passed since Gray’s call, there was a chance April was no longer alive.
Theo slung the heavier of the trauma bags over his shoulder, climbed onto the edge of the airway seat, and unlatched the door. With a firm shoulder against it, he swung the door open and out against the side of the truck.
A cool gust of air blew in and ruffled his blond hair as he dropped back down from the seat to grab the other bag and slide them both out onto the top of the ambulance. After collecting his flashlight from under the stretcher, avoiding the body sprawled on top of it, Theo hauled himself over the edge of the door and fell onto his side. He lay there panting for several long heartbeats, pain shooting through his shoulders, then he slid across the side of the truck to one of the exterior cabinets. The chill of the metal leached through his uniform, and he started to shiver, fumbling at the handle. The door popped open with a loud squeak. Theo tensed, instinctively ducking low, flattening against the truck’s metal siding. He lay there, bre
athing heavily and listening for anyone approaching, anyone trying to get after him. Once he was assured of his relative safety, he knelt once more and swung the second door open. He freed the flashlight from his right knee pocket and turned it on, shining it into the cabinet. He discovered he was holding his breath only when he let it out on seeing the tools he was hoping for inside.
“Oh thank Jesus,” Theo whispered. He reached in and picked up the axe and crowbar. The sledgehammer would be too heavy for him to carry for any distance. The axe, too, would likely be too heavy in the long run, especially considering he would be bringing two trauma bags along for the ride. But he would bring both tools, as far and as long as he could carry them.
Wielding his newly acquired weapons, Theo slid to the edge of the truck, peering off the side to make sure no one was below, waiting to pounce the moment he dropped to the ground. Satisfied that everything was clear, he lowered his bags and weapons off the side, switched off his flashlight and returned it to his pocket, and slid off the truck. He landed in a defensive crouch and scanned the darkness. Gunshots cracked through the night nearby, and his nerves trembled under his skin, but the act of actually doing something, of getting out of the ambulance, of facing the mission to get to his brother—and Dillon—was invigorating. He huffed out a heavy breath and scanned the road in front of him. Not seeing any immediate dangers within ten yards of him, he collected his bags, slipped the crowbar beneath his belt, and hefted the fire axe in both hands. Then he waded into the darker shadows alongside the road and began to walk rapidly in the direction of town, his fingers clenched around the axe’s handle, praying he’d make it to Gray before something horrible happened to him.
Chapter 9
Gray threw his arms up instinctively when April’s fingers grabbed at the front of his shirt. He stumbled backward, simultaneously trying to block her advance and protect his face. The bloodstained pool table behind him impeded his retreat, and as she reached for him again, he dodged low, ducked under her arms, and cut around the corner of the table. He straightened in time to hear a gunshot blast from the direction of the door, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off April. His instincts told him that if he did, he’d likely end up injured. Or dead.
Or just like her, the niggling suspicion in the back of his brain suggested. Gray reached a hand out to the pool table, hoping to find a potential weapon somewhere on it. His fingers closed around a pool cue. He hefted it, wielding it between them like a sword, hoping to hold her at bay with it. April didn’t look fazed by the heavy stick; if anything, she only quickened her advance.
His heart racing, Gray held a hand out to her, hoping she would stop, that she wouldn’t actually attack him. All evidence, especially the evidence currently mobbing en masse into the bar itself, spoke to the contrary, though. He drew in a deep breath and held up the pool cue like a baseball bat. His shoulders tense, he readied himself for the next attack, the one he knew would come.
April bared her teeth at him, her once beautiful face hard and full of wild fury. Gray took a step back, braced himself, and swung the heavy end of the pool cue. It collided with the side of April’s head, sending her careening sideways against the table. She righted herself, struggling to find her feet, and Gray took several steps backward to give himself breathing room. His eyes flickered in Jack’s direction. Jack, Brendon, and Smitty didn’t seem to be having much luck holding the mob off; he was surprised they were still standing. Smitty blasted another round from his shotgun right into the crowd, but none of the people who were hit with the birdshot were affected. That only assured Gray of the correctness of his “zombie” suspicions. It was the only explanation he could come up with, regardless of how ridiculous it sounded.
Gray didn’t have time to dwell on the possibilities. April was back on her feet and coming at him again. Jack was yelling something at him, but with the distraction of the woman in front of him coupled with the noise from the mob crushing into the bar, Gray couldn’t make out a word of what he said. He shifted his eyes back to April, and his gaze met hers. He could read the intent in her brown eyes clearly.
Gray lifted the pool cue and brought it down on top of her skull with all of his strength. She fell against the table, and Gray lifted the cue and slammed it down, again and again, beating her mercilessly on the head until blood flowed freely. When she finally stopped moving, stopped reaching for him and clawing at the air between them, Gray sagged against the table, dropping the pool cue on the floor with a clatter. His lungs heaved, and he was straining for air. As before, he didn’t have time to stop and catch his breath. Jack was yelling at him again, and now he was able to focus enough to figure out what he was saying.
“Gray! Go! Get the fuck out of here!” Jack shouted across the gap between them. He swung a chair leg at a man grabbing for him before looking back at Gray again. “Back door! Head for your place!”
“What about you?” Gray replied.
“I’ll meet you there!” Jack said. “Now go!”
Jack turned his back on him and swung the chair leg more vigorously. Gray shook loose his frozen muscles, forcing himself to turn and do as Jack instructed. Sucking in a deep breath, pulling much-needed air into his lungs, Gray sprinted across the bar, dodging stools and free-standing tables, aiming for the storage-room door behind the bar’s long counter. If he remembered right, there was an exit on the back wall of the storage area that would drop him onto the street immediately behind the Brass Monkey.
He burst into the storage area unimpeded and slammed the door closed. The first thing on which his eyes landed was a glowing red sign that proclaimed “EXIT,” attached to the wall immediately above the door. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he headed for it, skirting boxes of alcohol and bar nuts stored in organized stacks on metal racks. The sign on the door that warned of an alarm sounding gave him only momentary pause, but with a glance over his shoulder back the way he’d come, Gray decided an alarm was the last of his worries. He grasped the bar and shoved the door hard.
The metal door bounced off the brick wall outside, and a shrill alarm cut through the air, startling him with its volume and sending him scrambling through the doorway. His heart stuttered in his chest as he ran for the corner of the building. He peered down the narrow street alongside the Brass Monkey. He figured if he could get to his car, he could get away faster than on foot, especially since he wasn’t in any physical shape to be running. He smacked at his pants pockets, searching for his keys. A low groan escaped his throat.
His keys were still in his jacket pocket. And his jacket was in his car.
“Oh, Christ on a cracker,” Gray muttered. He was screwed. Royally, truly screwed.
Gray crept down the short street to the corner of the building to get a look at the parking lot. He peeked around the corner, his fingers scraping the brick wall beside him, and shuddered. Those crazy people were everywhere; there was no way he’d be able to cross the parking lot without one of them spotting him, and he’d stupidly left the only weapon he’d had on the floor inside the bar.
Gray took another half step forward, and his car came into view. The moment he saw the vehicle, he knew that trying to get to it would be physically impossible; there were simply too many of the crazy people—zombies, his brain insisted—gathered around and near it. A couple of them were even leaning over the side of the car, pushing and shoving each other as they fought to lap at the red fluid staining the window and driver’s door. April’s blood. Gray swallowed the bite of nausea threatening the back of his throat and inhaled shallowly through his nose so he wouldn’t vomit at the sight.
He slunk back into the darkness of the side street, trembling. He leaned against the building and breathed in, slowly and deeply, trying to calm himself. He was going to have to run; there was no question about that. He wasn’t going to be able to get into his own car, and the chances of him getting a ride from a stranger without getting shot were slim to none. He knew he wouldn’t have given a random person a lift in the midst of the
chaos flooding over Plantersville. He’d told Theo to come get him at the Brass Monkey. He was going to have to call him back to tell him to meet him elsewhere.
Gray heard an odd shuffling, scraping sound, like someone dragging his heels across gritty pavement. He ran for the end of the street, cut left, and raced for his apartment building.
As he ran, Gray felt in his pocket for his cell phone, pulling it out and flipping it open. His fingers glided blindly over the keypad. He dodged a man coming at him from a storefront and held the button down, directing the phone to speed-dial Theo’s number.
It took six rings for Theo to answer, six agonizing rings that sent Gray’s heart falling into his stomach in the horrible fear that Theo wouldn’t answer. Then he did, his voice coming over the earpiece muffled and breathless but blessedly alive. “Gray?”
“Oh thank God,” Gray said. His voice was strained as he sucked in another frantic breath and jumped over a trashcan lying abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Where are you? Are you okay?” Theo asked. “You sound awful.”
“Running,” Gray said shortly. He glanced at a corner street sign as he passed it, noting where he was and that he had entirely too far left to run. “My place. Heading there. Meet me, okay?”
“You shouldn’t be running—”
“Had to,” Gray gasped. His breath was already coming shorter in his lungs as he passed the half-mile point. He felt at his pockets again with his free hand, hoping he’d have his inhaler handy. He didn’t. It was probably in his jacket. Which was, of course, in his car. “They got in.”
“Fuck,” Theo said. He didn’t question who “they” were; he probably didn’t have to.
Gray checked one more time for his inhaler, as if it would miraculously turn up in a pocket he’d already searched. His lungs hurt like hell; he would be surprised if he made it all the way to his apartment. “Just get to my place. Please,” he added, fighting to get more air into his lungs. “I’m going to need your help.” He hung up, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and tried to speed up his mad dash.
Origins (The Becoming Book 6) Page 16