Shayne’s last sight was of Kara as she leaned over to check on him. She didn’t even care that he stared down her shirt.
Redness filled his vision, and then blinding rage filled his head.
“You did it, Shayne! You saved us all. You turned out to be quite the hero.” She reached for him, maybe intent on hugging him, more likely to push him away.
Slivers of glass finished slicing the skin off his bones. He clenched his teeth in anger, and his muscles tightened. As his body went cold, the pain slouched away, leaving him for the first time in a very long while.
Shayne tried to speak, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a gurgle of blood from his severed tongue. It flopped to the ground, and his mind gave way to a blinding red haze that knew only one thing.
Time to feed.
Kate
Kate pocketed the phone and wished she knew a way to signal Anne that they needed to get back as quickly as possible. But she didn’t know the first thing about all that military bullshit. Besides, all the hand signals involved in a message that long would take fifteen minutes. Instead of going back and losing the boys, she shouldered her gun and followed them to the stairs.
She turned toward the door, but motion in the alley below drew her gaze. A group of guys crept along, hugging the wall as they moved in single file. They carried an assortment of weapons, including handguns and a few rifles. Each bore an impact weapon of some sort. Their leader was a huge man with a shaved head. He had a tattoo of some sort; she squinted and thought it might be a swastika on his pate.
It stood to reason that gangs would form in the midst of the madness. Maybe they existed before the virus, and now they had free victims.
The leader wore a pair of reflecting sunglasses, and when he looked around the corner, he scanned left and right, and then, as if sensing her eyes, he tilted his head up and stared at Kate. She put her hand on the stock of her assault rifle and stared back.
The man didn’t move. He didn’t nod, and he didn’t crack a smile. He just gazed, and after a second, he put two fingers to his mouth, spread them into a V and waggled his tongue up and down. Then he licked his lips and blew a smooch in her direction.
Like you have a chance.
“Asshole,” she muttered as she turned toward the door. It was time to check up on her friends, especially farm boy. He could be in all kinds of trouble, might have damsels in distress throwing their panties at him. Nothing like souvenirs from a rescue.
She wondered what it would be like to feel him holding her. Kissing her.
Kate shook her head and almost laughed. That was never going to happen.
She looked back at the guys below, but they had moved on. If she ran into them again and they wanted to start some shit, she would be happy to teach them that she was far from a helpless little girl.
She placed her hand on the doorframe and poked her head into the dark room. It took Kate’s eyes a few seconds to adjust, but her respite was short lived. There was a shout and then a scream of horror from somewhere within. She moved into the room, gun already swinging down from her shoulder.
The room was dark; the blinds were all shut. With the heat, the inhabitants probably closed them to cut out the sun. Not that it helped much. The city was sweltering in the mid- to upper-eighties, and air conditioning wasn’t exactly an option.
She found that she was in a kitchen. There was a large silver refrigerator she had no interest in opening. If the power had been out for a few days, any food was probably rotting and best left alone. There were dishes piled in the sink, and the trash overflowed, spilling out of a cabinet. No power was one thing, but couldn’t one of the office slaves bag up the trash and toss it outside? Hell, there was a fucking zombie invasion in full effect. No one would say a word about a bag or three lying in the street.
She moved across the room to the single doorway. It was a glass entry, and she couldn’t see movement on the other side. She cracked the door, hands firmly on her rifle, ready for anything as she poked her head out.
“Mark? Anders?” she called. Her voice echoed around the room.
There was movement from somewhere, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from, because the noise bounced around the maze of short cubicle walls. She picked out printer stations everywhere, monitors, and PC towers.
How the hell do people stay locked up in this hell?
“Mark?” she called softly.
Noises filtered around the room, then a tremendous bang echoed. She spun in the dim light, but there was no one there. Kate moved through cubicle hell, her rifle trained over each wall so she left no surface uninspected. Anders had, as he called it, a fully kitted-out gun. On one end was a flashlight. She should have demanded one as well. She could always run back and open the blinds, but what if one of the team was in trouble? What if Mark was?
“Doofus can take care of himself,” she muttered as she trained the gun around.
The door at the end of the room stood wide open like an invitation. She looked back toward the balcony, wishing that Anne had come along. What the fuck call signs did she need to get her over here to cover her back? Both arms flapping in the air? It might not be procedure, but it would get the point across.
But that would leave their exit unprotected.
She had been anxious to get out into the city and see some action. Well, here it was.
There was a smell in the room. Something she knew all too well. Sweat and fear, like the occupants had sat up here in the dusky room and fretted for hours. No running water, no electricity, no way to get food.
She moved toward the doorway in a rush, convinced there was nothing behind her. Still, it was hard not to look over her shoulder every few seconds. If a deader was skulking around, she wanted a chance to blow its head off before it got anywhere near her. She looked through the doorway and just about jumped out of her skin when gunfire broke out.
Loud voices, gunshots, screams of fear and … something else.
Rage?
“Anders? Mark?” she tried again. There was a split stairway that led both up and down. When she got close to the wall, she could make out dim pictures of coffee cups and other Seattle icons painted on the walls.
A scream from below. She ran down the stairs and found another open door. She didn’t rush in but stopped and listened as something shuffled around in the room. Whatever was making the racket, it wasn’t her companions. And this was most definitely not the sound of celebration.
There was a long hallway that opened up into other rooms. Some had security plates before them, but most had been propped open. She moved down the hallway, sweeping the gun back and forth, wishing again for a flashlight.
Kate wiped at a line of sweat that started at her hairline of her forehead, tracked down the side of her face, and ran down her chin. It was hot in here. Cloying. It reeked of gunpowder and old sweat. There was also the reek of rot; it was a safe bet that any food left in the offices was moldering by now.
“He’s moving!” Anders’s voice filtered from down the hall. She went to the door and flung it open.
There was one body on the floor, and another crept low to the ground. Kate dropped the barrel of her gun and aimed at the person. Something blasted away her hearing, and she took her eyes off the form for a half-second. Bright flashes revealed Mark firing on a figure at the end of the room. The man stutter-walked toward Mark. He had blood running down his chin, and even in the pale light, she could make out red eyes.
Deaders.
The form near her rushed. She backed up, wanting to shoot, but she had to be sure. It would be a damn shame to come all this way just to pop one of the civilians in the head.
The form moved swiftly. It was on the ground one moment, then launching itself into the air the next.
“Kate!” Mark warned.
The assailant crashed into her, and she went sprawling. Her finger had been over the safety just as they had taught her, but she hadn’t flipped it down. What was she thinki
ng? Her trigger finger flexed to no avail.
She went with the deader’s momentum, turned and let the creature’s forward motion carry it past her, but it got a finger on the webbing that ran along her shoulder and down her chest. She was tugged along, but she turned the force of the pull to her advantage and struck with her right hand, a short shot that caught the deader in the side of the head.
He, and with his ponderous gut, it was most definitely a he, had about fifty pounds on her, and he was intent on his prey. He got a hand on her gun and pulled at it. She gave up; even if she got the safety off and managed to fire, it wouldn’t be a killing shot. His hand was on the barrel, making it impossible to angle the gun upward. In the madness, she was just as likely to shoot herself as him.
Blood flowed down his chin, and when he roared at her, something flopped out of his mouth and onto his chest. He pulled again, and she let go. He fell back with the rifle in hand, but at least was dumb enough not to turn it on her. The deader hit the ground, tossed the weapon aside, and was on his feet in the blink of an eye. Just her luck. She was found her action in the form of one of the fast ones.
Kate lashed out with her right foot, turning her hip to increase the force of the blow. It caught the deader under the chin and knocked him back so hard that the wall shook.
The blade came out as if it were part of her hand. It was short and sharp enough to shave her legs; she didn’t bother with anything fancy. In one swift motion, she swept the blade into his neck, severing skin and tendons until she struck his vertebrae.
She planted her foot on his chest and pulled. The blade came free along with a gush of blood.
“Kate!” Mark called again.
Shut up, Mark, she thought. Or I’ll show you firsthand what this hunk of metal can do.
The gun was fine and all, but she didn’t think this was the place to start shooting indiscriminately. Anders clearly felt otherwise, because he blew through part of his clip shooting a figure near the back door. Bullets smacked into wood and stitched across flesh, ripping chunks as they passed.
The man hit the door and stopped moving when a bullet struck his forehead and smashed the back of his head into the wood. He slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood and gore.
“What the fuck happened down here?” she shouted. Her hearing was shot. The gunfire had robbed her of one of her best assets.
“We were too late. One of the things got in here, and the office is crawling with deaders.” Anders sounded on the edge of hysteria. “Where is she? Where’s Kara?”
Kate wanted to scream at him to get it together.
Another big guy covered in blood lumbered into the room. Good Christ, these guys needed to shop at a different gore store.
The bastard didn’t even look around; he just made a beeline for her.
Kate set her feet shoulder width apart. She didn’t have to wait for him to get to her, because Mark blew his snarling head off. The body hit the ground in a heap, momentum carrying it a few feet across the ground before the remains of the bloody mess stopped against the edge of a cubicle.
Kate sheathed her sword and retrieved her gun. She fingered the safety to off and checked the breech for a round. She studied her hands for a tremble, but it didn’t come.
She should have been ready. Well, live and learn.
There didn’t seem to be anything else to shoot at. She surveyed the foyer while Mark and Anders compared notes in whispered tones. Then Anders threw his hand in the air, turned and walked back to the door.
“What the hell happened to you two?” she asked.
“Anders heard a cry. We ran down here, thinking his sister might be in trouble.”
“It might have been her,” Anders protested.
“Dude. There’s no one alive. We should just go back.”
“She’s here!” Anders hissed and moved into the room.
“Guess Kara is his sister?”
“Yeah. He’s got a real hard-on for her.” Mark lowered his voice.
“Ew.”
“Not like that. It’s just a saying.”
“Good, ‘cause if that fuck starts making out with his sister, I may have to put them both down.”
Mark stared at her.
“Just a saying I have.”
Mark shook his head but didn’t say a word. He pulled the magazine out of his short sub-machine gun and inspected it. He tossed it into a bag, extracted a new one and rapped it against the stock of his gun, then rammed it home.
“Ritual?”
“Sort of. In the desert, it knocks sand lose. But the ritual goes back farther than that. Some guns, like that AR of yours, used to have a nasty habit of snagging the pointy end of bullets on the lip as they left the mag. It knocked them back against the side of the metal wall and helped them feed into the breech.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. History Channel.”
“You asked.”
“Yeah, so why do you do it?”
“Just a dumb habit.”
Kate swept her eyes behind them as she and Mark made for the door. She was careful not to step in deader guts.
“What other dumb habits do you have?”
“Oh, I like to hang back with the pretty girls.”
“That doesn’t sound dumb to me.”
“Got a point there,” he said and shot her an all-American smile that could easily have graced a box of Wheaties.
Mark slid into the doorway, steps sure and steady. Anders was a few feet ahead, scanning the room, which was a near duplicate of the one just above. Much as Kate had on the previous floor, Anders gave every cubicle he passed a once-over.
Kate and Mark took the opposite side of the room. Mark muttered to himself, but not anything she could make out. He was probably praying.
All three met at the end of the room, Kate brining up the rear. When Anders tried, the door didn’t budge.
They didn’t speak as Mark lowered his pack and drew out the pry bar. Anders applied it to the door, which popped open with a groan. Anders dropped to one knee a few feet back from the entryway. Mark dragged the door all the way open while keeping the line of fire unobstructed.
When no gunfire erupted, they proceeded into the room.
Later, Kate truly wished she had never followed them out of the stadium.
Lester
It didn’t take long to get this organized, whatever “this” was. They came at the gate, moved the trucks aside and, within seconds, had the door wide open. Then came a rush as men and women moved away from the safety of the stadium and set up defensive positions. Others dropped behind them. They called that shit overmatch. Lester was a keen observer of terminology when it came to playing shooters on his Xbox.
Blood blossomed, and body parts flew. Deaders fell in waves. The men in green rushed forward as the soldiers split into a funnel. They moved with deliberate precision, drawing a bead, firing a few rounds, shifting aim and taking down another one. Before long, they had an arc spread out a good fifteen feet to either side of the fence.
The guys in green looked protected enough to survive World War III, but it didn’t hurt to have a bunch of automatic weapons backing them. Their suits looked like they would survive some nasty bites a hell of a lot better than the duct tape some of the soldiers had taken to wrapping around their appendages.
The crowd roared as deaders fell away, victims of withering gunfire.
But they didn’t shoot all of them.
Lester was sure there was about to be a fucking slaughter, and he wanted to be the first to go kick some heads around. If one of those guys would just loan him a gun, he could help. A gun or a crowbar, or maybe an axe.
He moved through the crowd, weaving and sliding through the press of folks so bored that they’d lined up just to watch the blood flow. The smell of unwashed men and women made him want to gag. Did he smell that bad? He was a drug dealer, so he was expected to smell and look like shit. But Lester was fond of regular showers, something he’d not had in days.
He brushed past a pregnant woman wearing a tank top. Her breasts practically touched her belly, but Lester took a peek just the same. They drew him like magnets. Tits and loose shirt, meet Lester’s eyes.
Les made it to the gate and found a place he could stand. Some guards had just pushed a car out of the way so the gate could open fully. A group had gathered to protest. They were screaming about the rights of the deaders. The right to life. One ranted that they didn’t deserve to be shot down like animals in the streets.
Lester had heard all the arguments for “deader rights.” Some felt that the creatures actually needed to be captured and held somewhere until a cure was found.
“Stop the killing! Stop the killing!” they chanted.
Only in Seattle. He shook his head.
Lester moved behind two of the protestors, a pair of women whose hairstyles were straight out of the eighties. His voice rose with theirs, a chant to stop the killing. A man stood in front of them and pumped his fist in the air, so Les did the same. This was actually fun!
The shorter one tried to shrug him away, but he pressed right up against them like they were in a weird love triangle. The women exchanged a look, shot a few choice words at Lester—something about being a dirt bag—and moved on. Lester moved into their space.
The deaders ran at the defensive line. Fire was laid down, but it didn’t sweep into the mass. They were careful about taking out most of the fast ones, leaving just enough of the slower ones to make it to the defensive line.
Then the men in oversized plastic suits waded in.
They lowered long sticks, and the sound of sizzling flesh filled Lester’s ears. The attacking deaders fell like flies. They twitched and shuddered on the ground. A second set of the suit-wearing men grabbed them by the wrists and slipped on plastic cuffs.
“Fucking cattle prods,” Lester breathed. He chuckled at one of the deaders, an older woman who wouldn’t stop flopping around like a giant fish. She might have worn some kind of flowery dress in life, but now it was like a big billowing balloon that flapped around her blood-covered legs.
Among the Dead Book 2 (Among the Living) Page 10