Several were already crawling on the far side the barrier, limbs shattered from falling off the wall. Two clumps of undulating dead surrounded people who they had taken down, and as Danielle watched, they tore into the still-living gunners with their teeth. From one person, a bright splash of arterial blood spurted through the air. The man was screaming beneath the pile of corpses, but she couldn’t see who it was. Danielle raised her rifle and fired into the mass, not to kill the zombies, but to put the man beneath them out of his misery. The screaming stopped short; either she had hit her mark, or death had claimed him independently of her actions.
Something hissed above the gunfire, and she looked over to see a ghoul crawling toward her as fast as it was able. The creature was covered with dust from its trek across the desert, and its clothing was essentially a mass of tattered rags. Danielle put a bullet in its head, and the corpse collapsed into a motionless heap. Beyond it, more dead lurked, trying to walk on shattered legs or crawl toward her despite broken arms and spines. Even more zombies fell from the wall, their arms outstretched, reaching toward her even as they slammed into the ground and rolled. The impacts did nothing to deter them; as soon as they saw her again, they began inching toward her and the others.
“Don’t get too close to the wall, Dani,” said a lanky, pimple-faced boy beside her. Jason Donner was a short order cook at the diner she had worked at before the zombie apocalypse. While he hadn’t served in the military, he had been a bit of a paint ball fanatic, and he took to shooting real rifles like a natural. He looked up at the walls overhead, and nodded toward another zombie as it stepped off the walkway and plummeted to the ground. “It’s like they’re trying to get to us, even though they’re all the way up there!”
“Start killing them,” Dani said. She shouldered her rifle and fired, killing the stench closest to her. When it stopped moving, she turned her sights onto another target and dispatched it as well. Jason did the same, firing accurately. One shot equaled one kill. From overhead, the gunfire grew more ragged, less intense as the gunners manning the wall were either overwhelmed, ran out of ammunition, or ran for the ladders that led to comparative safety. The miniguns still ripped their thunder through the air, and over the din, Dani heard dozens of 5.56 millimeter cartridges raining down from the towers in a neverending cacophony. They poured from the flex chutes hanging from the tall, spindly constructs like metallic waterfalls, twinkling and spiraling in the sunlight as they fell.
“Are we going up top?” Jason screamed. He sounded terrified, but the expression on his face was one of pure joy—that of a kid who had spent his short life killing things through an Xbox, and now he finally had the opportunity to do it all in real time.
She didn’t know the answer, but then Walter Lennon and a band of his men pushed past them. “Coming up!” Lennon shouted over the gunfire. They ran for the ladders, weaving around the writhing dead on the ground at the base of the wall. Some of the men held back, aiming their rifles upward. They began shooting the dead with a mechanical precision, clearing the walkways around the ladders. Dani raised her rifle and joined in the fun, but Lennon started waving at her.
“No, no! Kill the ones on the ground!”
The cluster of ghouls that had covered the man Dani had shot broke up, crawling toward Lennon and his men. Dani hurried over, moving with a commanding agility despite her leg. The new prosthesis worked like a charm. She walked right up on them and began shooting, blasting each corpse in the skull as they swung her way. She was surprised to see the man on the bottom of the pile sit up as well, his skin pallid and pale. He was severely torn up, and his shirt and most of his pants had been ripped away. His flesh had been torn open, and for a moment, she thought the man looked like a present that had been ripped open by some overeager kid on Christmas morning. He had two bullet holes in his chest, right in the vicinity of his heart. Just the same, he was moving, and like the zombies, trying to make his way toward her. She recognized Officer Whitter of the Single Tree police department. In life, he had been a sour, authoritarian sort. In death, he wasn’t much better.
Dani shot the corpse in the face, and it fell back to the ground and lay still.
Something tugged on her prosthesis, and she looked down. A small female zombie had managed to writhe its way right next to her, probably while she was staring at Whitter’s ravaged, moving body. It tried to sink its teeth into her shoe as it grabbed onto the titanium spar that served as her ankle.
Dani raised her leg and brought the prosthetic foot down on the corpse’s head, hard. Bone cracked beneath the blow, and for a moment, the ghoul’s grasp on the prosthesis weakened. Seizing the opportunity to step back, she lowered the barrel of her rifle and fired a round into the zombie’s now-misshaped head. It stopped moving without even a twitch.
“Dudette, that was totally hard core!” Jason said, sidling over to her.
“Keep shooting them!” Danielle realized her magazine was empty. She pulled a fresh one from her tactical vest and hit the mag release on the rifle. The Magpul magazine slipped out of the well and clattered to the ground. She slapped in the fresh mag, hit the bolt release, and was back in business.
Just as a horde of zombies boiled over the wall and came crashing down all around Lennon and his men. And her.
###
“Sounds like some bad ass shit is going down,” Shaliq said, his voice soft in the prison cell he shared with Doddridge.
“Yeah,” was all Doddridge said, as he listened to the thunderous gunfire that seemed to be coming from every direction. It wasn’t right outside the police station, but it was close enough to set him on edge. He knew what was going on, and he wondered for how long it would last.
“What, you fucking scared?” Auto asked. He was lying on his bunk in the next cell with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had the cell all to himself, as the townie cops hadn’t wanted to put a white convict in the same pen with two blacks. That was wise of them, Doddridge had thought. Somebody would wind up dead if they had.
“Aren’t you?” Shaliq asked.
Auto snorted dismissively. “What, you think the zombies can get to us?”
“No,” Shaliq said. “But they can get to the people who feed us. And if that happens, we dead, man.”
“We’re dead anyway,” Doddridge said. Like Auto, he was lying on his bunk, separated from Shaliq’s by a sink and the toilet. “These people ain’t gonna look out for us. Once those things get inside, they’re gonna leave us in here to rot.”
“I don’t know, man. These people, they’re not like the guys who run penitentiaries,” Shaliq said. “They’re all beef-fed country boys. You know, America, Mom, and apple pie and shit. I don’t think they’ll be leaving us in here if they can avoid it.”
Doddridge chuckled. “Boy, you think a buncha white motherfuckers and spics are gonna give a shit about us? And they even got fucking Indians here, man. You think those people are gonna stop runnin’ and say, ‘Hey, what about the two niggers in the jail cell?’ We ain’t from their town or their tribe. Hell, you ain’t even from their state.”
Shaliq said nothing, just looked across the cell at Doddridge with empty eyes. Doddridge felt the weight of the younger man’s gaze, and after a moment, he looked over at him.
“Don’t you be eyin’ me, boy,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Shaliq looked away.
Auto chuckled over in his bunk. “Heh, every cell block has its bitch.”
The door to the cell block opened, and the fat old cop Lasher stepped inside. Doddridge thought it was a little early for dinner, but he was happy for the distraction. He got more than he bargained for when Lasher led in an owlish Latino with a thick porno mustache and thinning hair that was beginning to go silver. The guy looked terrified, his hands cuffed behind his back. He squinted and blinked, and Doddridge thought the guy needed glasses, or something.
“Is this really necessary?” the man asked, with a quaver in his voice.
&nbs
p; “Well, yes, Hector. It is,” Lasher said. “You broke the law, and this is your reward.”
“I was just cooking a steak!”
“Well, I hope it tasted good.” Lasher led him to Auto’s cell and steered him toward the bars.
“I didn’t get to eat it,” the newcomer said.
“Life is full of bitter disappointments.” Lasher looked at Auto. “Get up, big guy. You need to lean against the bars and put your hands through them so I can cuff you.”
“Fuck you, Barney Fife,” Auto said.
“Now, now. Don’t be so rude, or I’ll pepper spray all of you. Or maybe I’ll go and get a taser, and we can have a little chat while you’re lying on the floor pissing yourself while I juice you a couple of times. Your call, now.” Lasher’s voice was easy and conversational, as if he was offering Auto a couple of easy choices, like whether he wanted a burger and fries or some Chinese lo mein for dinner.
“Tase ’im, man,” Shaliq said.
Auto sighed and slowly rolled off the bunk. The bruises on his face were fading, but he still looked like hell. He walked toward Lasher, then turned his back to him and extended his big hands through the bars. Lasher cuffed him quickly and efficiently.
“I do so appreciate the cooperation,” Lasher said. Once Auto was chained up and going nowhere, Lasher unlocked the cell door and steered the newcomer inside.
“Really, officer, I think this is a little much,” the paunchy Latino said.
“Well, it’s what Chief Kuruk wants. And he’s the boss, Hector.”
“But I haven’t done anything!”
“Yeah, we all say that,” Shaliq told him.
Lasher removed the Latino’s handcuffs and pointed to the bunk opposite the one Auto was using. “I’d sit down over there and keep to yourself until we can figure out what we’re going to do with you over the long term. As you can see, the accommodations are the finest in the land. Bunk, sink, and shitter. Try not to get them confused with each other, and you’ll get along just fine.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Hector. Enjoy your stay with us. I hope it’ll be comfortable.” With that, the fat cop closed the cell door, then uncuffed Auto. “Try hard not to make any trouble, boys.”
“Hey,” Doddridge called out as the cop turned to leave. “What’s going down out there?”
“Usual shit. Zombies trying to storm the castle. No need to worry though, they’re not even on this block yet. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back with some food—in fact, I even have a kosher MRE for you tonight, Shaliq. Guaranteed pork free.”
With that, Lasher left the lockup. Auto stepped toward his bunk, and the Latino looked up at him with a horrified expression.
“Hello,” he said, his voice trembling.
“Shut the fuck up and get out of my way, or I’ll break your fucking jaw,” Auto said. “Don’t fucking talk to me. I hate spics as much as I hate niggers.”
“Oh,” the Latino said, and he practically jumped onto the next bunk, allowing Auto enough room to resume his previous repose. Auto stretched out on his bunk and clasped his hands behind his head.
“Hey, Mr. Magoo,” Doddridge said. “What did you do out in the world?”
“I run the town pharmacy,” the Latino said.
“Pharmacy? What, they find you out there cookin’ up some meth?”
The Latino blinked, confused. “No. No, I was just cooking a steak!”
“Cooking a fucking steak got you in here? Shit, man. I know guys who cooked babies and they’re still free.” Doddridge shook his head. “Well, whatever you did, man, it musta been pretty hard core for a pussy like you to wind up here.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” the Latino said. He looked at Auto. “My name’s Hector Aguilar. What’s your name?”
Auto slowly turned toward the man as Doddridge and Shaliq both snickered in their own cell. “The name’s Death,” Auto said, “and I only talk to people I intend to kill.”
The Latino man’s eyes practically bugged out of his skull.
Doddridge laughed. Even in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, funny shit still happened.
###
“So really, why are we here again?” Sinclair asked Victor as the acting police chief stopped the golf cart on the side of Main Street, not terribly far from the roach motel Sinclair and Meredith were staying at. There was another wall there, and people were already atop it, firing at whatever lurked on the other side. The gate in the middle of the wall was still open, and it too was guarded by men in paramilitary gear.
“Well, you want to document what happens, right?” Victor said airily as he stepped out of the golf cart. “Here’s your chance, because what’s happening is right across the way.”
“Yes, but what is happening?” Sinclair asked. He felt sweat breaking out across his brow. The din from all the gunfire was horrendous, and he felt weak and queasy as he fumbled with the Canon EOS camera.
“Life. Death. The usual. Listen, why don’t you get up on the wall? You’ll be able to get some great pictures from there.” Victor turned and surveyed the scene, then waved to someone. Sinclair climbed out of the golf cart as well, and saw the someone the police chief was hailing was none other than Barry Corbett himself.
“Victor, about time you showed up,” Corbett snapped. He didn’t look to be in a particularly welcoming mood, but Sinclair took the chance and filmed his approach, anyway.
“What brings you up here, old man?” Victor asked. “Thinking if you fart enough dust, the zombies will go back to being the normal dearly departed?”
“Why is everyone calling me ‘old man’ all of a sudden?” Corbett asked. Sinclair was impressed that his gravelly voice was clearly audible over the roar of gunfire.
“Because you’re older than the desert?” Victor offered in a helpful tone.
“Sinclair, are you taping me?” Corbett said, looking directly in the camera.
“Well, it is part of what I’m here for,” Sinclair said. “Barry, might I be able to interview you—”
“You may not, you useless idiot. Get up on the wall. Tape your wife as she kills zombies. I don’t know how you managed it, Sinclair, but you actually wound up with someone in your life who can actually do something. That must’ve been a mistake, I know you hate hanging around people who are more capable than yourself.”
Sinclair stiffened at the jibe, despite the fear that was building inside him. “Very well,” he said. “How do I get to the top of the second wall?”
Corbett pointed at the ladder nearby. “Right there,” he said.
Sinclair marched over to the ladder. Switching off the camera and slinging it over his shoulder, he took a moment to put a pair of ear buds in his ears, more for noise suppression than for recording purposes. The noise of combat bordered on deafening, and getting closer to it would definitely leave his ears ringing for hours, if not days. Once they were in place, Sinclair slowly climbed up the ladder. His limbs felt numb and heavy even as fear-driven adrenaline coursed through his body. He didn’t know how long he would be able to last on the wall, but he had to try to get as much footage as he could.
When he got to the top, he managed to make it to the walkway without falling to the ground below. Clumsy with fear and a suddenly developing sense of acrophobia even though the wall was only thirty feet high, he grabbed the edge of the wall and held onto it tightly. And looked out onto Hell.
Around him, men and women were firing rifles across the gap between the two walls. Dozens of zombies were climbing over the main wall, limbs flailing in the air as they literally formed grotesque mounds over which more ghouls would climb until they were higher than the wall itself. Almost all of the defenders that had been positioned on the wall were gone, either having been killed or having retreated. Sinclair had filmed them only two days ago, and they’d struck him as a confident lot, well-armed, highly motivated to defend the town. But no one had anticipated such a wave effect. While he was no student of matters military, even Sinclair c
ould see there just wasn’t enough firepower. Despite the towers and their hideous Gatling guns which continued to bellow in the early evening hours, the dead kept on coming.
Dear God, I’ve got to catch this! Sinclair grabbed his camera and switched it on, pointing it at the violence below. There were scores of zombies on the ground now, most of them badly damaged from tumbling off the wall. The fighters down there serviced them as quickly as they could, and for a minute or two, Sinclair thought it might actually work out. Yes, the zombies were coming across, but they were being killed on the other side of the secondary barriers. But then, a huge wave of bodies spilled across the wall, raining down to the ground. Most were so damaged by the impact that they could only crawl, but several zombies landed on softer bodies... and they were still able to get up and hobble toward the line of defenders. More and more zombies came across. One of the Gatling guns in the towers suddenly went silent, and then the gun crews leaned out the gun nest and began firing with rifles. Sinclair zoomed in to the base of the tower. Zombies milled around below, looking up at the defenders, as if waiting for them to try and escape.
If they don’t get out soon, they won’t have a chance later, Sinclair thought.
The defenders on the ground were slowly being pushed back by the more ambulatory attackers. The zombies kept coming for them, and bit by bit, the confidence and prowess of Corbett’s town army were slowly unraveling. Through the camera, Sinclair saw one of them was purely indomitable—it was a young woman he’d seen before, a veteran Marine who had fought in the Middle East. Sinclair had wanted to interview her, but had never managed to set it up. He’d heard she was disabled, but if that was the case, it didn’t seem to matter. He watched her stomp a zombie’s skull, then shoot it at point blank range.
Then several waves of hundreds of zombies poured over the wall.
The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead Page 19