What I could make out horrified me.
There were hundreds of them. Make that thousands. My mouth dropped open as they approached the gated area. The military tried to usher people out of the way. Yelling, screaming, employing the butts of guns. With the dead approaching, the guys in uniform didn’t seem interested in being friendly protectors anymore. They wanted to deal with the threat if it meant beating their way through the civilians.
A group of soldiers peeled away from a box of supplies, leaving the lid ajar. It was chaos, and no one had their eye on the cache. I moved in, looking around to make sure no one took notice.
I spotted an automatic and drew it out. In the midst of the other weapons, I found three loaded magazines. I didn’t have the right gear to carry them, so I stuffed two in my back pockets and slapped one in the gun.
Relief flooded through me as I shouldered the gun. I wondered how long it would be before someone stopped me and asked where I had gotten the weapon. I would just have to cross that bridge when I came to it. I didn’t want someone to think they could just take it from me. If I had a handgun, I would have it stuffed under my shirt. With the big assault rifle over my shoulder, I was an easy target, and anyone with a need to feel safer would know it as well.
The long parking lot wrapped around the massive field. I made my way through milling masses of civilians and the military. It was already hot as hell, and it didn’t help that the grounds looked like a disaster area. Wrappers and cups lay discarded. Everywhere I stepped, something crinkled. The “green” nuts would lose their minds when this was all over.
If it ever ended.
The military guys had already started to set up a second line of defense. Sections of fresh chain-link fence, flown in on choppers, had been left in huge piles. Some larger vehicles were being used as reinforcement. I saw a black vehicle that looked very familiar. It could have been the Escalade in which Lester had rescued us. I had been too blind with grief and too filled with rage to remember much about our short but harrowing trip to the arena.
People stood in pockets and exchanged small talk. Jokes and one-liners, like this was some kind of fucking sitcom. Don’t laugh too much, folks; you may want to save your voices for screaming.
I knew what was coming. It was inevitable. Seattle was a city of millions, and there was no telling how many were now on the streets, how many of them were seeking warm flesh. How many with their loping gait, their heads low to the ground, faces a nightmare—garish and filled with hate.
The little fence wouldn’t hold up, and when it came right down to it, the battle would be one of attrition. But we weren’t going to be on the winning side. Even if every man, woman and child in the area had a gun, they wouldn’t be able to stop the deaders.
A pair of military vehicles, the sort I’d seen all too often on the news as they patrolled cities in Iraq, came to a halt as they tried to get through the crowd. Shots were being fired now, and everyone wanted to see what fresh new hell was in store for them. I was afraid we would all be seeing it firsthand in the next few hours.
Marshall
“I was just looking for something to eat. It’s not like they need it, know what I mean?” He chuckled and held out the sour milk, spout open as if the form in the doorway could smell the rot from there.
The man—had to be, from the bald head—stumbled through the door. Marshall gasped.
“Moon?” Marshall made a move toward him. Then he saw the damage.
Moon’s face was gone. Most of it had been eaten away. Bite marks marched up his left cheek like bizarre railroad tracks. He had one good arm, the left one. It swung as he strolled into the room on feet that barely stayed ambulatory. He staggered and almost fell but crashed into the tall living-room lamp. He turned to stare at it as it hit the ground with a crash.
Glass exploded everywhere, but Moon didn’t care. He seemed to be game for just about anything and strolled over the broken light. One of his feet was bare—one big mass of damage that looked like a raw steak that had been gnawed.
Marshall wanted to freak out. He wanted to jump right out of his fucking mind. He wanted to crash through the deader that had once been an almost-acquaintance and keep on going until he reached tomorrow.
He saw it in his mind. He would dash into Moon, knock him to the ground, leap into the air like a ninja, and smash Moon’s head like a cantaloupe.
That wasn’t how it went down.
Marshall couldn’t get his legs to work. He told them to move, but they refused. He willed his arms to start the pumping motion that would get his upper body into the act, but instead he stood there, in a puddle of chunky sour milk, and couldn’t even budge.
A helicopter rocketed by outside the sliding glass door. That was it. He would go out on the deck and wave. They would slow down, and he would jump from the railing to the helicopter struts. He had seen that in a few movies, and it couldn’t be that hard. Someone would probably reach down, catch his hand and pull him up into the safety of the vehicle. Then they would do tequila shooters while talking about his crazy-ass stunt.
That wasn’t how it went down.
Moon closed in on him. He bared his teeth through what remained of his mouth. Scraps of skin hung from his nose, and one long runner from the top of his forehead joined the dangling army of disgust that bounced off his chin.
Marshall wanted a drink more than he had ever wanted one in his entire life. He was willing to start over on his AA program if it meant he could get one in now and get away. He would even drink this nasty milk if that was what it took. Hear that, God? I’m willing to do weird shit if you just let me off the hook this once. Just this once, you understand?
He didn’t take a drink. Instead, he threw the carton as hard as he could at the rank deader. Sour milk exploded in Moon’s face. Chunks plastered themselves to his face, his hair and what was left of his shirt. A normal person would have been repelled. Would have turned and tried to wipe off the noxious sludge. But not Moon. He just kept on coming.
The smell broke the spell. Rot mixed with sour milk made him want to vomit, and wanting to vomit reminded him to get the fuck to moving.
He dashed at Moon and jerked to the side to avoid the tall, ghoulish ex-neighbor. Moon was faster than he appeared. His one working hand grabbed at Marshall, who tried to dive out of the way. The broken lamp became an immediate barrier as he got a look at all the shattered glass and realized that he didn’t want to be headed in that direction. His hands would be torn to shreds, and then how in the world was he ever going to learn guitar? He’d been meaning to learn forever.
In a half-fall that felt more like a stagger, Marshall got an arm up to knock Moon aside. But the deader latched on to Marshall first.
He screamed like a six-year-old girl.
He wriggled and shook, but Moon had him like a vice. How was the druggie so damn strong?
Marshall went down, despite his attempt to recover. Moon was right there with him and fell onto him. Marshall tried to squirm away from the milk-splattered ghoul. He howled as teeth snapped next to his shoulder. He pushed Moon off, trying—and failing—to avoid getting chunks on his hands. He shimmied out and rolled away, right into a patch of pain known as the broken lamp.
He screeched as his palms sliced open. Blood came out fast and hot. He pressed one hand to his side to stop the flow. The other had a huge chunk of glass stuck in the meaty part just below his thumb. He fought to his feet, but Moon was right there to screw up his plans.
One foot latched on to his ankle as he tried to slither away.
The lights flickered for one brief moment like the power was returning. The room lit up, and Marshall got a good look at the horror that was attacking him. He kicked at the form trying to get away, but Moon wrapped his arm around Marshall’s leg like it was a deader toy.
Teeth went for his leg, and Marshall knew a new kind of pain. The only saving grace was that he was wearing a pair of thick jeans, and the deader’s chompers couldn’t get through on the f
irst attempt.
Marshall screamed for help, and the lights went out again. It was almost a mercy not to have to see the horror coming at him.
He managed to get up on all fours and slither away from Moon. He tried to avoid the glass, but a piece found his knee. Then the lights flashed again as his personal horror movie played out in the tiny room.
Why the hell did he ever decide to come over to Moon’s? He should have stayed and starved; it would’ve been better than dying here. Or worse, coming back as one of them.
He got to his feet and made it to the door. He got one bloody palm on the frame and knew he was safe. Safe! He was going to go lock up his apartment and never leave again. Sorry, kids, looks like shoe soup is now on the menu!
He turned to give Mr. Moon a good piece of his mind with the heel of his foot. Fuck that crazy deader and his shitty apartment.
As he shifted around, a new figure arrived at the doorway. A fresh vision of hell that was Moon’s girlfriend, Lucinda, strolled into the room. She was still waif thin, and being dead hadn’t helped her disposition at all. He swung his fist at her, but pulled at the last moment, anticipating the pain that would ensue when his cut hand collided with the remains of her face.
She didn’t even have a scalp. All of her hair was gone, leaving a blood-etched skull.
He fought against the feeling in the back of his throat, but it was too late. He expelled the contents of his stomach, which amounted to nothing more than a bunch of acid. It burned on the way out and felt like fire when he breathed it back in.
Then Lucinda crashed into him, and he fell next to Moon. His ex-neighbor didn’t waste much time sinking his teeth into Marshall’s cheek and tearing it open. Lucinda went to work on his gut, and he knew a whole new world of pain.
Marshall screamed until his mouth filled with blood.
He crawled and was glad he could do that. The damage was immense. He couldn’t talk, because his voice was gone along with part of his throat. He couldn’t walk, because his leg was missing too many chunks. He couldn’t see, because his eyes were filled with blood.
But he hadn’t changed, and that was the only happy part of his entire nightmare. He reached for the doorknob of his apartment and managed to get a finger on it before his hand slipped. That would be because of the missing fingers. He still had a thumb and a pinky, but even a monkey needed a few more digits that that.
The hallway had been a marathon. He was out of breath, exhausted beyond all levels of endurance. His lungs were filled with something viscous. He struggled to get a breath, but it just wouldn’t come.
But he was home now, and everything was going to be okay. He would soak in a bath filled with rubbing alcohol if he had to.
“Marshall?” His wife’s beautiful voice greeted him. “I heard screaming. Is everything all right?”
He tried to answer, but all that came out was a gurgle.
“Honey? Honey?” she asked again and again.
He scratched at the door. Yes, it’s me. Let me in.
The door cracked open, and he fell inside. Home at last. Look, honey, I brought back raw meat.
She screamed, and suddenly things came into view. His lovely wife stood there, shaking. She was warm; he could sense that. Her eyes were clear, but tears rolled down her cheeks. His girls were behind him, cowering in fear. Why did they have to come out and see him like this?
He meant to stretch out a hand to reassure her, to show the girls that everything was going to be okay. But what he wanted was something completely different.
His hand became a claw, and he found new strength in his legs. His mouth, which felt full of razor blades a minute ago, was suddenly wide open. Hunger became his world. And his wife became his next meal.
Kate
The man was covered in filth and blood. It looked like he’d taken a bath in tomato sauce. The side of his face was caved in, and he had a massive amount of damage to his lower body, where Kate had put about half a dozen bullets in him.
Then there was a woman in a skirt. It hung in tatters, just like the white shirt she wore. She must have taken a bullet to her spine, because her lower body was immobile while her arms flailed. She snapped the air with what remained of her teeth.
Anders crouched down to look at her. He didn’t stay there for long before he fell back in a heap. He landed on his ass and just sat there as if confused. His eyes didn’t leave the woman as she reached for him. Part of one leg was at an angle, because at least one bullet had torn the knee apart, and her calf, probably shapely at one time, looked like strips of meat.
“Kara,” Anders whispered.
“Oh Jesus.” Mark shook his head. He moved, reaching out as if to comfort Anders, but the man shrugged him away.
Anders knelt next to his sister and stared into her blood-red eyes. She groped for him over and over again, her hand a claw with a couple of fingers eaten to the first knuckles. The other was useless, twisted the wrong way, perhaps from falling on it.
Anders moved to take her working hand.
Kate swatted his hand away before the two could touch.
“It’s not her!” Kate barked.
“It’s Kara! Maybe she didn’t change that long ago. I need to get her back to the base.”
“Man. Look at her.” Mark tried a quieter approach. Kate wanted to blast both of the deaders into oblivion.
“I’m supposed to protect her. I promised.” Anders trailed off.
Fucking hell! Kate wanted to scream. This was just bound to turn into some dramatic standoff where Anders stood guard over his sister. She just hoped Mark didn’t side with the other guy. If it came to that, she was prepared to do something about him. Sure. She would just blow his brains out like he was any other fucking man.
Except he wasn’t, and she didn’t want to think about what kind of feelings she might have toward him. The image of her naked body astride his once again flooded her mind. Way to go, mind. A couple of deaders on the floor, and you’re thinking about getting fucked.
She backed up and stood next to the big man. She looked at his rugged face, square jaw, big blue eyes. This son of a bitch could have just stepped out of a Stetson commercial. She should just kill everyone in the room. She could see the moves in her head, which was always the first step. Draw and slice down to sever Anders across the neck. Maybe not a killing stroke, but at least a slash to put him down. Then she would shift, slide her right foot out and sweep the blade across her body. The blade would wisp up and slice him from groin to throat. He would go down, hands holding in his intestines. He would probably scream in pain, maybe stare at her in horror. Why? The question would fill his eyes before she took off his head. Then the sword would rise and slide into Anders’s back. Just to the right and off center from the spinal cord. His heart would go, and it would be a matter of seconds before he died.
His sister, the snarling bitch on the floor would be second to last. First, Kate would finish off the gore-splattered man. Maybe use her gun on them both. She already had enough blood on her blade for one day.
She shook her head, and the image fled like a nightmare. Then she had a much different image. This one of Mark as he did very bad things to her. Her face flushed, probably her chest as well.
What was wrong with her today?
If he ever tried anything like that, having his guts ripped out would be the least of his worries.
Bob had a similar effect on her. Her ex-neighbor in his little apartment with computer parts all over the place. He’d had that massive handgun tucked away, and when he showed her how to handle it, she’d almost had a fucking orgasm. Men with guns seemed to be her thing.
“Just do it, Mark,” she said. She looked away and waited to see how things would play out.
“Anders. Look at her. Be realistic.”
“Be realistic? Fuck that, man! Ever since we got out here, you’ve been trying to take the lead. Trying to show me up like I’m some fucking green recruit. You think she cares? She’d as soon spit at you as loo
k at you.” He finished his tirade, staring at Kate as he spat out the last word.
“Shut the fuck up, Anders. Just do what you know you have to do!” she yelled.
“Guys!” Anne’s voice called from the stairs. Kate abandoned the two men to their staring contest and went to the door. She pulled it open and poked her head out.
“Anne?” she called into the silent stairway.
“Which floor are you on?”
“Fifth,” she called back. “Hurry before these two start shooting each other.”
Anne pounded down the stairs like her ass was on fire. She was small, but she sure could run. She was cute, with a little pixie nose. Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, then secured to the back of her head with bobby pins. She still looked feminine, even in her bulky military clothes.
“We need to haul ass. The other building was swarmed by those dead bastards,” Anne panted as she hit the landing. She looked down at the deader on the floor and slid her foot away from a puddle of blood as if she were wearing Manolo Blahniks.
“How many?”
“Ten? Twenty?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. A group of guys came in after them. They lured one or two away, then beat the shit out of them with baseball bats. Sounded disgusting.”
“Squishy?”
“Gross. Just gross. I don’t care what they are. They don’t deserve that kind of treatment.”
“Didn’t know you military types had hearts,” Kate observed.
“It’s not that … or maybe it is. It was just wrong, you know?”
“Not really.”
“Get away from her!” Anders’s voice cut in. Ann and Anders. Kate almost giggled at the match. Their Hollywood name would be Anderann.
“This may get nasty.” Kate motioned toward the door. “They can’t get over here, right?”
“Probably not over the ladder. Not coordinated enough.”
Anne kept her eyes on the stairs while Kate peeled away. It was time to get the boys in order and get them the hell out of here.
Among the Dead Book 2 (Among the Living) Page 14