Something squealed like a charging boar a few feet behind him. He reached down deep for a burst of speed and found nothing but a broken leg. His jaw went slack as he tried to suck in as much air as possible. The oxygen burned in his lungs, and tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.
He didn’t have anything left. If he reached the garage door Eric had told them was in back of the store-hell, if he reached the store period-it would be under whatever power he was using right now.
“That’s right,” he grunted. “Here I fucking come.”
Something snatched at the back of his jacket. He refused to believe it was a hand. It had to be a branch, its tips just scraping across his back. He was not that close to death, not just inches. One way or another, he’d make it to that door.
He reached the break between the woods and the store’s parking lot. Once he moved ten yards along the grass, trying to create some distance between himself and the throng, he bolted for the pavement. His socked foot struck the hard and rough surface as the chorus of hunger left the woods and split the sky. The rabid cries shoved at his back, telling him all he needed to know. He hugged the store’s brick wall and raced to the back corner as he heard feet stomp through wet grass.
The contraption strapped to his leg threw off his momentum as he tried to turn the corner. He stumbled and nearly fell, arms pinwheeling in a mad attempt at balance. Something grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled. The motion jerked him up from his fall and wrenched a horrified scream out of him in the same instant. He swung his fist backward and connected with something soft and brittle. The fingers fell away from his jacket, and he kept running. Each time his broken leg pounded down on the pavement, his splint sent a jolt through his body. Every step sent arcs of electric pain through his ribs, his back. It stabbed into his brain and created flashing lights that filled his vision.
He scanned the store’s rear wall for the garage door Eric had promised him was there. The white flashes that went off like strobes across his field of vision made the task all but impossible. He wasn’t even sure he was near the grocery anymore. Maybe he had simply run into the field behind it, sprinting and laughing and waiting for something to tackle him and take a good, hungry bite.
Then, he looked up and saw it. The garage door approached on his right, and he thought he’d never seen anything so wonderful in his entire life. Its cracked paint looked like a roadmap to paradise, and he ran into it at full speed.
The door boomed with his impact. In the next instant he started banging on the door with his fist, his knee. He took in a great, hitching breath, and screamed.
“It’s Blake! Guys, let me in! Hurry and open the door!”
A hand grabbed him.
“Hurry!”
Another.
“Please!”
The zombies dragged him down.
TWENTY-FOUR
The words were muffled, barely audible, but the sheer terror in them was unmistakable. He knew the voice, too. Recognition blasted through his mind, and then he was running toward the door.
“Come on!”
“What?”
“It’s fucking Blake! Get the door open!”
“Aw, shit!”
Morris didn’t know what to make of the sudden excitement in Stevenson’s voice. It hit a strange note, something between fear and happiness. The man moved, though. Stevenson darted around boxes and reached the garage door before he managed to come within ten feet of it. An instant later, Stevenson unlocked the door and threw it open. It rattled along its track, and Morris felt a sudden terror and hopelessness punch him in the stomach like a pissed off bouncer.
The first thing he saw was a pile of writhing flesh. It looked just like Eric on the ground, killers on top of him digging in like he was nothing more than a lunchtime snack. He registered a few things that didn’t make much sense, like a baseball bat and duct tape and some strange wooden construction around Blake’s leg, but then he was already in the thick of the mess, swinging his steel flashlight as though it were a mace. It struck one of Blake’s attackers in the temple, and the zombie’s skull crumpled inward even as the flashlight’s lens and bulb shattered. The dead female went limp and fell to the side.
“Get him inside!” he told Stevenson, and then he kicked another moving corpse. He missed its skull, instead slamming his foot into the thing’s shoulder. It didn’t appear to care or even notice. The dead thing scrabbled over Blake’s lashing body, trying to find a vulnerable spot. Ignoring every warning his brain screamed at him, he reached down and grabbed the vicious thing in his arms. Its doughy, rotten form seemed at odds with its incredible strength as he tried to wrestle it away from Blake. The zombie bucked like a psychopath, limbs somehow flailing and hanging onto Blake’s clothes at the same time.
Morris heard the beginnings of a growl in his own throat, a deep, angry sound. The growl became a roar as he wrenched the dead man free of Blake’s writhing form. The thing hissed and twisted in his grip, but he spun to the right and flung it as hard as he could manage. It took a clumsy step across the concrete and then sprawled in a twisting mass of mottled flesh and snapping bones.
He turned to check on Blake, but movement caught his attention instead. At least a dozen of the flesh-eaters were sprinting toward the door. One of them closed to within a few feet, barreling toward him like a charging rhino. He met it with a fist across the bridge of its nose, followed by whipping the flashlight into the thing’s gut. The zombie’s torso burst open like a paper bag in the rain, its liquefied contents splashing over the pavement.
He took two quick steps toward the garage door and heard Stevenson’s terrified voice.
“Help me!”
The man had dragged Blake through the doorway, but a dead female clung to Blake’s leg, chewing wildly. Chris planted kick after kick in the woman’s torso, but she refused to relinquish her prize. Blake screamed and thrashed, but Morris couldn’t tell if the guy was in pain or just terrified.
He heard the approaching shrieks and grabbed hold of the garage door. He slammed it shut, and something collided with the metal a second later, denting it inward. A second form struck, and then their fists sounded like a hailstorm against a tin roof.
“I can’t see!” Chris screamed. “I can’t fucking see!”
Morris couldn’t see either. The sudden burst of sunlight had left him swimming in inky blackness now that it was gone. His shattered flashlight wouldn’t do a damn bit of good, either. Stevenson and Blake’s voices filled the room along with the zombie’s frantic sounds, but he couldn’t see a damn thing. He spotted the dimming light of the other Maglite near the shelves, but he didn’t have the time to retrieve it.
Keeping the steel flashlight tight in his fist, he shouldered Chris out of the way. He honed in on the zombie’s cries, using them to find the dead woman’s body. He grabbed hold of one arm and then hooked the other. She thrashed in his grip, but he cinched his arms tight and took control, ripping her away from Blake’s leg. She fought him, and he realized she’d sunk her teeth into the man’s flesh. He jerked at her again, and he heard a cracking sound. Jesus, had she already gnawed her way down to his bones? It didn’t feel possible.
When he finally tore the female free, he cast aside the question. He slammed her against the garage door and then let go. She bolted forward, and he thrust his forearm against her chest. He slipped his arm beneath her chin in the next instant and pinned her.
She flailed against his weight. He pressed harder. He’d grown sick and tired of these fucking things that kept killing those he cared for. Growling once again, he raised the flashlight over his shoulder and brought it down, heard it collide with her cranium. He repeated the attack. Something crunched against steel, and he swung once again. The woman stopped fighting him. He closed his eyes and whacked the flashlight against her head twice more. When something wet and stinking splashed his face, he knew he could stop. Finally, he removed his forearm and let the dead woman slump to the floor.
&n
bsp; Morris stood beside the garage door for a long moment, his chest rising and falling, the sick air burning in his lungs. He felt weaker with each moment. Blake panted somewhere nearby, and Stevenson was asking him if he was okay. No, Blake wasn’t okay. The zombie had torn a chunk out of his leg, had even chomped through his goddamn bones. They all knew what that meant. Blake would become infected, would die and come back hungry. Unless he stopped it.
Morris dropped the dented remains of his flashlight. Let Stevenson do it. He couldn’t kill anybody else today. He didn’t want to haul Blake back to Millwood, explain to a loved one that he had died. It wasn’t fair, not even close. This terrible world would destroy them all one at a time, breaking their spirits before tearing out their throats.
He slumped to his knees, fell forward and caught himself with his hands. “Goddammit.”
“You okay, Morris?” Blake’s voice, scared and filtered through breath that was harsh but not pained. How was that possible? Had the man slipped into shock?
He heard Stevenson stand and walk away. Maybe he was going for his flashlight.
“I’m fine,” he told Blake. “How bad is it?”
“I’m okay. It didn’t get me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Are you joking, Morris? She didn’t fucking get me. I think I’d know.”
He wiped the sweat from his face. The stuff soaked his beard, leaving it a soggy monstrosity. He thought there might be some tears in all that mess. Strong odds said he’s spilled his share.
“Please, Blake. Don’t try to pull that shit on me. I heard something break. I had to tear her off you.”
“I swear, Morris.” His voice sounded like it was inching toward panic. “I’m not pulling anything. She didn’t fucking get me.”
“Let’s just see, okay?” Stevenson said. He was heading toward them, the light from his flashlight swishing back and forth across the concrete, catching motes of dust as they moved through the stagnant air like tumbleweeds. “It’s like a tug of war between retards with you two.”
“Happy to see you, too,” Blake said.
“Sure thing, Ellis. I tried baking a cake, but the power’s out.” He aimed the light into Blake’s eyes, causing the man to jerk his arms over his face.
“Shit!”
“Suck it up.”
“Check his leg,” Morris said.
“I told you-”
“And now we’ll see. Chris?”
“You bet, Doc.”
The light traveled down Blake’s body from his face to torso, where wet patches of mud and other forms of gunk marked his clothes. Morris saw the duct tape that attached Blake’s hand to a baseball bat, and he thought to himself that it was a pretty inventive idea. Finally, the light shined over the duct tape that held three pieces of wood that looked like broom handles to Blake’s leg. As it continued down the leg he saw where one of the thick rods had splintered. A black tooth remained stuck in the wood along the break’s edge.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What is it?” Blake asked. He sounded almost annoyed now.
“The fucking things can bite through wood.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“He ain’t,” Chris said. “Wait a second. Ain’t? Jesus, I’m talking like you inbred bastards now.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Eat shit, Ellis. I just went out on a fucking line for you.”
“So you follow that up by being an asshole?”
“You’re right. Should’ve just let you become a chew toy, you ungrateful piece of shit.”
“Both of you shut up!” Morris roared. His voice rang through the darkened room and brought a fresh round of pounding on the garage door. “Goddammit, I have fucking had it with the both of you. At some point, the two of you will have to have to admit you’re better than a walking corpse. Shit, maybe you’ll even get along.”
He waited for an apology from Blake, a snappy retort from Stevenson. Nothing came. If not for the metallic booming from the garage door, they’d be wrapped in silence.
“Ten minutes of rest, guys. After that we finish up and go.”
“Right, boss,” Stevenson said. “Sure-fucking-thing.” He stood, and the flashlight’s beam began to move toward the shelves again.
“How about you leave the flashlight?”
“Kiss my ass, redneck.”
The light receded into the darkness.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
“Always will be,” Blake answered.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“More or less.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Broke my leg across the street. That’s what the splint’s for. I can feel the fucking thing blowing up like a balloon.”
“We’ll get it looked at once we get home.”
“Right. Where’s Eric?”
Morris sighed and dropped his face into his hands.
TWENTY-FIVE
Chris stopped at the back of the stockroom long enough to grab three cans of beer from the warm pile. He threw one against the wall like he was trying to strike out a hitter. It slammed into the drywall and let out a satisfying hiss as it broke open. He smirked and then popped open one of the remainders, took a long gulp. It felt thick in his throat, like runny mashed potatoes, but he needed the drink.
That little fucking prick, Ellis. He’d saved the bastard’s ass, and all the guy wanted to give him in return was more bullshit attitude. Well, fuck him. He’d let the redneck get himself out of the next jam. Maybe Blake would enjoy it if the last thing he saw was his smiling face as he waved goodbye. Sure would teach the hick his place.
He swung the dimming beam of light against the wall and found the hallway. Eric must have come this way. Damn, as much as he didn’t give a shit about the guy, he had to admit the skinny fucker had owned a set. It took a lot of balls to pull a maneuver like that, charging into a building with a few dozen killbillies on your ass, unsure if he’d even have anywhere to run. Ellis probably thought he’d done something just as daring, but the prick could have gone anywhere. He could have kept running until he found a tree to climb or a car to jump inside. Far as he was concerned, it wasn’t anywhere near the same thing. Besides, Ellis was an asshole.
He heard the two remaining rednecks talking about something back by the door, probably him. Fuck ’em. As long as they got him out of this fucking town, he didn’t care.
Two shafts of sickly gray light cut through the darkness at the end of the hall. He clicked off the flashlight and continued toward them. He saw the outline of the double doors Eric must have come through. They didn’t look so strong. Solid wood, sure, but how much difference could that really make against a pack of hungry corpses?
He reached the doors and held his hand to one. The wood felt plenty strong, but what did he know? Give him a sixth floor apartment with a steel fire door, maybe a nice luxury condo with a balcony. Then he’d feel safe.
He didn’t hear anything on the other side of the door. Maybe it was the banging from the garage door he could still barely hear, or maybe the zombies that had followed Eric inside had fucked off. Only one way to tell.
He found the bolt that ran between the two doors and slowly drew it back. It began to squeak-an angry metallic sound-and he pulled more slowly, holding his breath as it finally clicked into place.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the wood. Did he really want to do this? He needed to decide soon. If he waited too long, Morris and Blake would leave, and then his chance would be gone. Then again, he might open the door only to find the killbillies had left Tandy’s. If that was the case, his great idea wouldn’t add up to shit.
The answer to one of his questions slammed against the opposite side of the door. He jumped at the sudden concussion, but he regained his composure quickly. Shifting to one side, he peered out of one of the round windows.
Sure enough, a killbilly stared back at him. The female had really started rotti
ng. A thick slime glistened over the green and black flesh of her face. A ragged hole instead of a mouth showed him her yellowed teeth.
Behind her, he saw more zombies spot him and charge. One by one, they careened into the doors. He heard their sounds, and they almost felt like music.
“Hey, you ugly fuckers,” he said. “Want in?”
————————————
“You really think that’s going to work?”
Blake felt useless. He sat on the edge of the Ford’s backseat, watching as Morris attached a rope to a pipe that jutted from the wall beside the garage door. Even through the pain of his leg and kidney and head, he thought he should be helping.
“Don’t know for sure,” Morris said as he tied a tight knot. He stretched the rope as he crossed the length of the garage door. It was maybe knee-height. “Right now, I’m kind of in an every little bit helps mode, y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Hurts like a real son of a bitch.”
“I can see where it might.” Morris tied off the other end of the rope to a metal rack, gave the line a quick tug. It vibrated, catching the light. Morris came to stand beside him. “Just try not to think about it.”
“Right. Because that’s a walk in the park.” He worked his thumb beneath the layers of duct tape on his wrist and started tugging. The tape had probably saved his life on the run from the house to the store. He hated to think what might have happened if he’d dropped the bat. Now, however, it felt too hot. He wanted to wiggle his fingers. The digits ached for freedom. The fact that they were strapped into place was slowly driving him crazy. He knew it was some offshoot of claustrophobia, but the knowledge didn’t provide any comfort. Until he freed his fucking hand, he couldn’t feel sane.
He tossed the bat into the passenger seat. If nothing else, he planned to keep the fucking thing as a souvenir. He wriggled his fingers and then rubbed his leg with both hands.
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