by Sean Platt
A gunshot rang out and thundered off the walls.
Adam half expected to look down to see a gaping wound in his chest and his blood adding more crimson to the snow. Instead, he heard Black Hat tumbling from the carriage top and falling to the ground, forward between the horses, which began to whinny and buck in their harnesses.
“Get the Hellweaver!” a voice shouted from the rooftops.
Colton!
Adam turned and ran toward the carriage.
The left side door swung open and Pug came out, sword in hand. He looked around for Black Hat, saw Adam racing toward him, screamed, and swung his sword.
Adam stumbled, lost his footing on the slippery ground, and fell hard onto his back.
Pug rushed him, sword raised, hate gleaming in his ugly brown eyes as spittle flew from his mouth.
Another gunshot, this time taking out the back of Pug’s skull. He fell to the ground. Adam scrambled to his feet, slipping, sliding, before finally finding purchase on the asphalt, cracked and covered with snow.
Noisy chaos erupted behind him: Colton firing shots, zombies moaning, and the sound of metal as it thwacked at rotting flesh. Adam wanted to look back and see if zombies were about to fall onto him. He wanted to look into the carriage as he passed the open door to see if the other two bandits were inside taking aim, if they’d come out to try and stop him, or—if they were smart—if they’d run like hell. But Adam saw nothing but the fallen twisted body of Black Hat being trampled by the horses as they struggled for freedom.
He also saw the Hellweaver beside Black Hat in the snow but couldn’t see the red disruptor he needed to drive the zombies away.
His momentum died as he moved toward the horses. He looked back to see Pug’s corpse, heavy on top of the chain that bound Adam to the carriage. A zombie was tearing into the dead man’s face, and there was no way Adam could pull them both off and get slack in his chain. He struggled to pull, just to gain a few more feet.
The collar bit deep into his neck as he stretched the chain as tight as it could go.
He reached out, still three feet shy, as the horses cried louder together. They grew more frantic, shaking and bucking, stomping Black Hat’s flesh into pulp. Suddenly, arms fell onto Adam’s shoulders, a growl hot on his neck.
He spun, pipe tight in his fist, driving the metal into the zombie’s skull and shoving it to the ground. From the corner of his eyes, Adam saw the woman go down in a pile, zombies atop her as death cries mingled with the sound of her choking on her own blood.
Horse cries found a new pitch behind him. Adam spun to see a pack of zombies circling to the other side of the carriage, several already tearing into equine flesh.
One of the two remaining bandits shoved the zombie feasting on Pug and fired his blaster into its body. The zombie fell, and the bandit looked down to see that Pug was past saving.
He looked up at Adam and raised his blaster to fire.
This is it.
The thought tore through his mind as he stared into death. The bandit fired . . .
He missed.
Or, as Adam realized a moment later, he’d been firing at a zombie approaching Adam from behind. He hit his target and sent the creature to the ground. Adam had no time to wonder why the bandit had chosen to save him, or if maybe he had in fact missed Adam and accidentally shot the zombie instead, because the man fell in the following moment, buried beneath the weight of another three zombies.
Fate smiled and sent the bandit’s blaster flying from his hand to just inches from Adam’s feet.
He dropped to the ground, grabbed the blaster and checked his perimeter. He saw a zombie approaching on his left, and fired, tearing a wide hole in its chest and sending the rest of its body on a short trip to the ground.
Adam grabbed the chain in his left hand, yanked tight, then fired three inches below his grip. He missed the first time, sending chunks of melted asphalt flying from the ground.
He heard undead shrieks behind him, closing in. Footsteps inches away.
He ignored the sound of imminent death, focused on the shaking length of chain in his hands.
Focus.
He fired again.
Adam fell back as the chain split, ripped, and set him free . . . tumbling into a pack of undead.
He fell straight through them to the ground and somehow managed to hold onto his gun. As the three monsters turned to catch the prey that had slipped through their rotting fingers, he fired three blasts, taking them all down.
His heart pounding, he leapt up, wondering where Colton was, but he had no time to look.
Bodies were all around him, moving, groaning, reaching, clawing, biting.
Adam raced toward the horses, all kicking and chomping their teeth in battle with raging zombies. He could scarcely make out anything among the heaving masses of moving flesh and blood but noticed that the horses had managed to yank the stagecoach forward about 10 feet, enough to leave Black Hat’s trampled corpse unmolested, face down under the carriage.
Adam raced forward, slid to the ground, and grabbed the Hellweaver.
He could almost feel its awesome power as he held the gun. But the weapon might not be enough. He had to get the disruptor. Adam set his blaster aside and reached into the bloody, wet clothes, desperately searching the man’s pants pockets, fingers closing around tons of stuff, none of it feeling right.
Adam heard footsteps behind him—more zombies. But he couldn’t turn before he found the disruptor.
His fingers finally seized an object that felt right in size and he started to pull.
Black Hat’s head turned and his eyes popped open.
For a moment, Adam thought the man was alive, until his groan said otherwise.
Zombie Black Hat lunged his head forward, gnashing at Adam.
Disruptor in hand, he raised his feet and kicked Black Hat in the chest, propelling himself away and out from under the carriage.
Hellweaver tight in one hand, disruptor in the other, Adam looked up in time to see no less than 20 zombies surrounding him, all rushing forward.
He felt a button on the disruptor’s slick, bloody surface and pressed it, raising it high as Black Hat had done.
The zombies stopped in their tracks, all slapping rotten hands on their ears as they shrank back, shrieking.
Adam held the device in front of him, stepping forward to carve a path through the mass of rotting monsters.
As Adam slowly marched forward, careful not to slip on the ice, he could feel his pulse pounding in his neck. The undead’s shrieking grew louder the nearer he got. As the crowd parted for Adam, who cleared a path through an alley full of even more of the creatures, he prayed to God that the device didn’t have some sort of time limit, or worse, that the zombies would too quickly become immune to whatever held them at bay.
Eyes darting between zombies, Adam scanned the alleyway, windows where more bandits might be lying in wait to attack, and rooftops searching for Colton. He saw the man nowhere.
Adam felt a sickening certainty that his father’s old friend was dead, shot by the bandits or killed by the zombies, leaving Adam to fend for himself.
“Colton!”
Adam’s only response was an uncaring wind and a dull gray sky.
He pushed the zombies farther back as he marched toward where they had come from, hoping Colton was waiting. He turned, checking behind to make sure that no zombies were sneaking up on him. He saw the undead backing away from the disruptor, content to feast on horses instead.
One of the wooden boards to Adam’s right pushed open.
He turned, aiming the Hellweaver, even though he had yet to check the ammo or fire it once and could only hope it worked the same as any other gun.
Adam didn’t bother to fight his smile as he realized it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to fire.
Colton stepped out of the building, shaking his head. “I hate to say I told you so.”
Adam wanted to break down and cry hard, wanted to hug Colton and thank him
for saving his life, wanted to confess that he was so very, very sorry.
But Adam only nodded, hanging his head low as he followed the man into the building’s dark shadows.
CHAPTER 27—SUTHERLAND
Sutherland opened his eyes as someone lightly slapped his face. Several thoughts erupted at once, then suddenly he remembered the worst—what had happened, where he was, and the sour truth that he was waiting for mercy or death at the hands of another.
Sutherland thought of the shard under his pillow and told himself it would be enough. All he needed was the right opportunity and the patience to wait for it. However, someone had cuffed his hands and legs to the iron bedposts.
He tried not to panic.
As soon as he opened his eyes all the way, he saw who was slapping him—Connor Vinson, the man who Sutherland had been torturing not too many hours before.
He thought again of the shiv and saw himself running it first along Connor’s throat, then across his former second’s. He would go slower with Gallus, taking his time to let him bleed out, just as the traitor had taken his own sweet time while crafting betrayal.
Connor leaned down and smiled, “Well, hello there. Glad to see you’re awake.”
Sutherland cleared his throat and spit, catching the traitor’s puffy red eye. He’d earlier pulled the lid back far enough to make Connor scream like a baby in a boiling bath.
Connor calmly wiped his eye then leaned forward, practically daring Sutherland to try it again. Sutherland held his saliva, licking his lips as he pictured tearing into the bastard’s throat with his teeth, then feasting on his face like a starved zombie. Connor whispered, “I knew this moment was coming. Anticipation was enough to pass the time, knowing that the next time we were alone in a room, things would be so much worse.” His voice dropped to a whisper as the door swung open on the other side of the room. “For you, of course.”
Gallus stepped into Sutherland’s cell and quietly closed the door behind him looking almost . . . sad.
Gallus walked straight to Connor, set his hand on the puffy-eyed traitor’s arm, and leaned toward his ear. Connor nodded as Gallus whispered, then stepped back to the door as Gallus took Connor’s place beside Sutherland’s bed.
Gallus looked down at Sutherland’s restraints, then up into his eyes. “Can you talk?”
“Of course I can talk,” Sutherland snarled back. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“I mean can you be reasonable? Are you able to have a conversation?”
Sutherland wanted to yell and scream, to ask Gallus how he dared to be so bold and stupid. But his hands were restrained and both Gallus and Connor were armed. He’d have to be patient.
“I’m always reasonable.”
Gallus continued to prove his new brazen nature as he sat at the edge of Sutherland’s bed. His voice was calm and collected, thick with authority in a way that Sutherland had not heard before.
“This is all rather unfortunate.” Gallus took a moment to breathe before continuing. Sutherland had time to wonder if he was supposed to agree. “Things didn’t have to be this way.”
“What way?” Sutherland had to try not to spit. “You were supposed to be my second in command. Yet you tricked me. How else was this supposed to go?”
Voice still cool, Gallus said, “Yes, you had to be tricked, and that’s why you’re here. But you had to be, Sir. This is all your fault and a long time coming. It’s your fault for being so selfish. It’s your fault for the throne room. It’s your fault because you’ve displayed reprehensible leadership when all of us needed you most.”
“You still need me. Everyone knows it. Without me, this place will fall to either zombies or bandits, mark my words.”
“No, we don’t need you,” Gallus said, as Connor nodded behind him. “The only one who thinks you’re an effective leader is you. It wasn’t hard to turn your most trusted people against you.”
Still clinging, Sutherland argued: “No. You’re lying. I will be missed. I’ve been gone since last night. If I’m not seen at dinner and am still missing tomorrow, people will ask. Word will get out. The people, my people, will demand my release.”
Gallus laughed, sad more than mocking. “Do you really believe that? Do you really believe the people still love you? Can you really not see that they think you’re a joke?”
The words cut him like the shiv under his pillow, but he wasn’t defeated yet.
“Weak minds are easily twisted,” Sutherland said. “It is clear to see what has happened. Fortunately, there are always those who can see the danger we’re facing and are sure to see how grossly you have misjudged this situation. I demand to speak with Jeffries.”
Connor laughed from behind Gallus, clearly louder than Gallus liked, judging by his face. He said, “Oh, now it’s you making legal demands. That’s rich.”
Sutherland again pictured his shiv and imagined somehow breaking free, sweeping it from beneath the pillow before launching from the bed to slice the traitor’s throat. But he was forced to stay still. He was, after all, restrained. But he refused to stay quiet.
“You think you’re better than me? You think that somehow your injustices shine with a brighter light than mine? You preach from up high, yet you’re no different, denying what’s rightfully mine, legally and otherwise. Clearly we’re more alike than you think.”
“We’re nothing alike,” Connor said.
Sutherland laughed.
Gallus held his hands up to Sutherland: an awkward plea for peace.
Sutherland continued. “And you’re an idiot who has dug his own grave and fashioned his coffin.”
“Say what you will, Sutherland,” Gallus said, still looking sad. “It changes nothing.”
“Too bad for you,” Sutherland dared to smile. “I knew you were stupid but had no idea that your reason had rotted like it has. You’ve chosen the wrong side.”
“Only to you,” Gallus said in a whisper.
“History will prove me right. You’ll beg me not to kill you. But I won’t listen. When I’m freed, you will all hang like the cowards you are.”
Gallus sighed, stood, then turned from Sutherland. He went to the door where Connor was standing. Connor opened the door and held it for Gallus. Sutherland’s former second stepped through. Before he followed, Conner turned to Sutherland and whispered.
“Good luck making it to trial.”
The door closed and Sutherland made a vow: Connor would either be the first or last to die.
CHAPTER 28—ANA LOVECRAFT
Ana paced, fuming as she stared at the locked lab door—pissed that Oswald had told her a zombie was on the loose, then stuffed her away like some sort of precious child rather than letting her fight like she’d done since her ejection from City 6. Ana was probably as good—if not better—with a gun than most of The Station’s residents. She could be out there, contributing, doing something.
But no, she was babysitting Calla instead.
The room was 20 feet long by 10 feet wide with giant metal refrigerated coolers on either side. The lab also had a desk and a chair where Calla had been sitting for the 10 minutes since they had been shoved into the chamber.
“Don’t worry, we’re going to be OK,” Calla finally said.
Ana stopped pacing, not wanting to make the little girl any more nervous or frightened than she might already be. If Calla could somehow remain calm, then Ana had to try and do the same.
“You’re right. I just don’t like being stuck in here.”
Calla looked up. “It’s OK, I understand.”
“What?” Ana asked, confused.
“I understand you not wanting to be stuck in here with me, when I could—well, you know.”
Turn into a zombie. I hadn’t thought of that, actually . . . and now it’s all I can think about.
“Shit,” Ana said. “No, I didn’t mean that at all. No, I want to be out there, helping. I don’t like being told to sit out while others are fighting, like I’m a helpless—”
She wanted to say child, but here in The Station, many children, Calla included, were already expected to fight.
“I know. Father has been doing the same thing with me ever since I got bitten. He almost never lets me go on hunts or anything. Not anymore. I had to fight hard to get him to let me go rescue you when we did.”
“He’s just trying to protect you,” Ana said. “Liam’s like that with me sometimes. My father was the same. Maybe it’s a man thing. Or maybe it’s just how you are with the ones that you love—you want to protect them.”
“Your father was very nice.”
For a long moment, it seemed like Calla was going to say something more, as if she had a specific story to tell. Instead, she looked down at the floor.
When Calla opened her mouth, she said, “I like your tunic.”
“Thanks. Rosemary gave it to me.”
“She’s nice. She’s been kind of like a mom. She’s not with Father or anything, but she’s always been there for me.”
“What happened to your mom?”
“She died a long time ago, back in City 6. But I don’t want to talk about that.”
Ana looked down. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Calla still stared at the floor.
Ana suddenly felt an internal gnawing, that feeling that a zombie was near. She’d felt the sensation earlier but had lost it once she was locked in the room with Calla. Here it was again.
She looked down at the blaster, made sure it was charged, and looked at the door as if expecting it to slide open at any second. She could hear nothing on the other side, only the whir of warm air pressing through the vents, blending with the steady hum of the wall’s bank of refrigerated units.
Her heartbeat quickened as she resumed her pacing.
“What’s wrong?” Calla asked.
Something’s coming. Can you feel it?
Ana didn’t want to frighten the girl, especially if there was no way a zombie could enter their room.
“Nothing,” Ana said.
She heard a loud popping sound and looked up to see the metal air duct vent 15 feet above her swing open. Seconds later, a man dropped down from above.