Fall of Man | Book 2 | Homefront

by Sisavath, Sam

  The big man shook his head. “Emily…”

  “We can’t risk both going up there and leaving the first floor undefended. Someone has to stay down here.”

  “You. I’ll go up and take a look.”

  “No.”

  She walked past him and toward the stairs.

  “Emily!”

  She stopped and looked back. “It’s my neighborhood, Greg. I know it better than you do. I’ll have a better understanding of what’s happening out there.” She softened her eyes and gave him a pursed smile. “Besides, it’s more dangerous down here. Don’t you agree?”

  He didn’t answer her for a moment. Emily wondered if he actually believed her or was sniffing bullshit.

  Instead of waiting for him to decide, she turned and jogged up the first couple of steps. “Watch my back!”

  “Emily!”

  She stopped again and glanced back.

  He sighed. “Be careful.”

  She nodded. “You too.”

  Then she turned and continued up, feeling very much like a stupid teenage heroine in slasher movie. But unlike that stupid heroine, Emily had a SIG716 semiautomatic rifle and a gun belt with a Glock in the holster.

  Chapter 18

  Dogs. There were dogs in Arrow Bay.

  Not just one dog, or two, but six that she could see from the second-floor master bedroom. Dogs by themselves wasn’t a strange sight in the area, but six of them, and moving in a pack? She’d never seen that before.

  Emily made absolutely certain to stay out of view, peeking past the curtains down the street from one side of the window. When she saw everything she could from that angle, she crawled to the other side and did the same up the street, in the direction of the front gate.

  Not that she could see the gate all the way from up here, but there wasn’t anything that hinted at activity in the area. The parts of the fence around the subdivision that she could see were still intact, but that wasn’t unexpected. It was much easier to scale a ten-foot wall than it was to knock them down. Unless, of course, you used a car as a battering ram, but even then…

  So where had the dogs come from? Had they jumped the fence? All ten feet of it?

  Three days ago, she might have thought that impossible. Dogs were agile, but they weren’t that agile.

  Or had someone opened the gate after all, and the animals came in that way?

  She tracked two more dogs as they appeared from up the street. Dark black fur and possibly the same breed as the other six she’d spotted earlier, on the other side.

  Two more for the pack?

  A flicker of ice-cold sensation ran down her spine even as her skin crawled. It wasn’t the sight of the animals that did it, but the way they were moving: Casually, as if they owned the place. They were clearly dogs, but at the same time…

  There was something wrong with them. She didn’t know what, but she could feel it. There was something not right with them.

  She kept watching the animals, trying to understand why they made her so uneasy. She’d been around dogs before, even if she’d never owned a pet in her life. It wasn’t like she was scared of animals. She’d been around enough of them to know the majority of them were more afraid of you than you were of them.

  So why were these dogs giving her goose bumps?

  She watched the two from her left getting closer.

  Then closer still.

  They were big—she couldn’t quite tell their heights from her angle—but they looked like Labradors, or some kind of species within that family. Short dark black fur with a single white stripe that ran down their foreheads, all the way to their snouts. She couldn’t make out collars around their necks, so they weren’t pets. Unless, of course, they’d shaken the shackles of pethood, but that possibility was unlikely.

  The animals stopped at Don Taylor’s house next door to hers and looked toward it. Long and hard and intensely.

  Emily slinked back farther from the window, pressing her body against the wall even though she was certain the dogs couldn’t see her all the way up here. Hopefully they couldn’t see her all the way up here.

  She focused on the nearest animal—it was a little bigger than the other one—as it continued down the sidewalk, then stopped in front of her yard and glanced over.

  Then the animal lifted its head toward her window.

  Emily pulled back from view, her heart pounding in her chest while her fingers gripped the SIG716 tightly. A sudden surge of adrenaline rushed up and down her spine.

  There’s something wrong with that dog…

  She didn’t understand it. Why was she hiding from dogs? She had a rifle and a pistol. She could shoot it easily if she had to—

  The boom! of a shotgun blast snapped her out of her thoughts.

  It had come from inside the house.

  From the first floor.

  Greg.

  Greg!

  Boom! as another shotgun blast rang out.

  That was followed by a long, piercing scream that filled the air and echoed throughout the house, all the way up to where she was on the second floor. He wasn’t shouting out her name or anything that even resembled words.

  It was just a scream.

  A pained, terrified scream.

  Greg!

  Emily was running through the bedroom before Greg’s screams had even faded completely. Suddenly, the SIG felt a lot heavier than its supposed 9 to 10 pounds. There had to be 15 pounds added when she wasn’t looking, because why else was she moving so slowly?

  She burst through the doorless entry and into the hallway.

  Another boom! of a shotgun blast from below her.

  She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. The fact that Greg had fired again meant he was still alive and kicking. But that he’d fire again at all meant he was still in danger.

  Hold on, Greg, hold on!

  Emily reached the stairs and turned, the rifle rising to take aim in case she saw something on the other side that needed to be shot.

  There was, but it wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

  It was a dog.

  A big black Labrador like the ones she’d seen walking around outside her house. Maybe even one of the same ones. It was hard to tell because they all looked alike—big and black with a white stripe on top.

  Except the ones she’d spotted on the sidewalk hadn’t entered her house yet.

  Or had they? What happened to the ones she’d seen earlier? Had they sneaked their way inside the house? Had those gotten the drop on Greg?

  Greg.

  Where was Greg? She couldn’t hear him anymore. There was no scream or shotgun blasts from downstairs.

  There was just the dog—

  Oh, fuck me.

  Suddenly Emily knew why the animals had creeped her out so much. She’d been convinced there was something wrong with them.

  And now, looking at the dog at the base of the stairs, she knew why.

  It stood directly in the path of sunlight that stretched all the way from the front door, and was covered in blood. Emily hadn’t seen it before from the safety of her master bedroom window, but the blood on the animal wasn’t fresh. It was old and dry and clung to its skin like patches of mud.

  And then there were its eyes. They were red.

  Bloodred.

  It’s infected. Shit. It’s infected!

  It was standing next to the woman in the white dress lying at the bottom of the stairs, looking toward the back hallway—toward the backroom—when she first spotted it. Now, it turned fully around, and snarled up at her. The sound was like something coming deep, deep from the pit of its gut. Spit dripped from its fanged teeth as its mouth opened wider, and wider.

  The thoughts Don’t shoot the dog. It’s just a dog, crossed her mind a split second before she did just that.

  She shot the dog in the head—the pop! of the gunshot was impossibly loud—and the animal slumped to the floor.

  You shot a dog. I can’t believe you just shot a do
g!

  But it wasn’t just any dog. It had bloodshot eyes. It’d turned. Just as Don Taylor and George Benson and Mrs. Landry had turned. The dog wasn’t a dog anymore; it was a psychotic creature that had—or one of its pack had—killed Greg while he was down here, protecting her.

  Greg.

  Where was Greg?

  Shadows appeared against the wall as two more Labradors appeared. They were coming from the direction of the backroom. (Greg. Did they get Greg?) Thin lines of blood stretched from their eyes like spiderwebs, matting their short dark hairs. Infected, just like the first one.

  They stood around the one she’d shot, seeming to almost sniff it. One of them bent down and nuzzled at the unmoving heap of black fur as if to wake it up. If they were even the least bit interested in the dead psycho woman in white, she couldn’t see it. They were almost indifferent to her presence.

  Emily resisted the urge to shoot the two new dogs. She should have, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Shooting the first one had already left her feeling queasy. Why was it so much harder to kill a dog than a person? She hadn’t felt anything at all when she’d killed Chrisman the day before.

  And yet, the dogs didn’t act infected. They weren’t running around the way Don Taylor had. Or George Benson. Or Mrs. Landry. They didn’t look crazed. There was a calmness about them, just as they’d appeared to her when she first spotted them outside the house, that sent shivers up and down her spine.

  One of the two new dogs finally looked up the stairs and snarled at her. Accusingly, as if she was guilty of committing a wrong. And maybe she was, by killing the first one.

  The other one joined in seconds later.

  Then, more shadows appeared in the hallway wall, this time coming from the living room.

  More dogs.

  Jesus Christ. How many of them are there?

  The two visible Labradors launched up the stairs, saliva flitting from mouths that opened wide to reveal amazingly sharp white fangs.

  Emily fired on instinct, without bothering to aim—too fast!—and missed!

  Her round zipped between the two animals and pekked into the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  She stumbled back, and this time, took aim.

  They were already halfway up and moving with impossibly blazing speed. She didn’t know dogs could move that fast. Was this another effect of the infection? Were dogs not supposed to move this fast?

  Emily had no idea. She didn’t own dogs. Had never wanted to own one, and for the most part wouldn’t have been able to tell one breed from another. She only recognized the Labradors because they were the most popular dog breed in America.

  Her first aimed shot struck the closer of the two dogs in the side of the neck. It twisted and fell down, blood arcing from the wound and splashing the steps. She didn’t wait to see if it would stay down, because the second one was still coming.

  Emily’s instinct was to turn and run, but she didn’t, because she wouldn’t make it. The animal was too fast, and there was a ferocity in the way it leaped up the stairs, the low growl coming from its wide-open mouth seemingly getting louder and louder like some hellish demon rising from the pit of its soul.

  The dog jumped the last few steps at her, almost as if it could fly, and she thought, Yeah, I’m pretty sure dogs aren’t supposed to be able to do that!

  She squeezed the trigger again and again—heard a couple of peks! as some rounds missed the target and struck the first-floor hallway wall beyond—even as she backed up. Blood splashed the front of her shirt as the animal spun in the air, made a yelping sound that belied its bloody appearance, and thwumped back onto the stairs.

  It’d landed between two of the steps, before its suddenly limp body began sliding down like some kind of flesh and blood Slinky, except this one was matted with bloody black fur.

  Emily paused to catch her breath, the SIG rifle feeling lighter in her hands. She’d fired probably half of the rounds in the magazine and was thankful she had the two spares in the pouch, hanging off the belt she’d taken off Barton earlier. Something Cole always said about there not being such a thing as having “too much ammo” came to mind.

  She was still gathering herself, wondering what had happened to Greg, when the shadows she’d seen earlier, cast against the wall below, neared the base of the stairs.

  One—two—four more black Labradors appeared around the first dead dog she’d shot. They stared up at her, past the second dead and third dead animal, which had settled in the middle of the stairs. The second one hadn’t gotten back up after all. Blood ran in rivulets from their wounds and slithered down the steps. She didn’t know dogs could bleed so much, and so red, too.

  The four newcomers growled at her almost in sync, saliva foaming around their sharp teeth. Unlike the first three, fresh red drops were dripping from the chins of these four new ones, and she thought she could see something pink and squishy clinging to the fangs of the two closest ones.

  And the liquids were…

  Blood.

  Fresh blood.

  Greg’s? Was it Greg’s?

  God, she hoped it wasn’t Greg’s…

  There were numerous ways the dogs could have gotten into the house, but how had they gotten the drop on Greg? She’d left the contractor downstairs with a shotgun. He would have been able to see the animals coming.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Yes, he did, because he’d fired. If she could see the bloodshot eyes on the animals, then so could Greg. Or maybe he wasn’t sure? Maybe because the animals weren’t acting like psychos, he’d hesitated until it was too late?

  The dogs didn’t bark, but their growls continued to grow until they were all she could hear.

  Did dogs do that? Could they do something like that?

  Dammit, she wished she knew more about—

  The first one began bounding up the steps.

  Then the others followed.

  Emily turned and ran. She forgot all about Greg and concentrated on staying alive.

  I’m sorry, Greg! I’m sorry!

  There was one obvious destination: The master bedroom at the end of the hallway.

  Take it? Or—

  No. The master bedroom was a bad idea. The only door left was the bathroom’s, with Greg and the others having taken down the rest to barricade the first floor openings. But she didn’t like the idea of being stuck in there with no place to go and dogs waiting for her outside. There was a small window at the top, but unless she could shrink to half her size, she wasn’t going to be able to squirm through it.

  So where, then?

  It wasn’t Cole’s old office, either. It was still damaged from the fight between the contractors from days ago. There was nowhere to go once she was inside. And besides, she had just run past it, so that was a moot point.

  She could hear them coming, pawed feet pounding on the stairs behind her. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to look back.

  She didn’t want to.

  If she couldn’t hear their running footsteps, she could hear their growls.

  And they didn’t bark. She didn’t know why, but they didn’t bark. That, maybe, was the freakiest part of all of this.

  Then she saw it—coming up in front of her.

  A rope dangling from the ceiling just in front of the wide-open master bedroom door.

  The attic!

  Emily slung the rifle, thankful for the nylon sling, and jumped for the rope even though she didn’t really have to. She was tall enough to stand on her tiptoes and grab it. But at the moment, it felt like the thing to do.

  She got a firm grip and pulled, doing her damnedest to ignore the quickly-approaching sounds of rabid footsteps behind her.

  Don’t look back, she told herself. Don’t look back!

  The attic door swept down and opened, and Emily grabbed the stairs and unfurled it before the ladder had fully extended. She jumped up onto the first step, nearly lost her balance, but managed to snatch onto the two railings on the si
des to keep from falling off.

  Loud snarling from behind her, along with the stench of wet (blood-matted) fur.

  Don’t look back! Don’t look back!

  She didn’t look back and instead climbed up, up, up.

  Emily bypassed the last three steps and catapulted upward, landing in a pile of insulation. She scrambled out of it, ignoring her suddenly itchy skin, and twisted around. She leaned over the opening and grabbed the closest step and began pulling.

  It wasn’t easy because attic stairs were not designed to be closed from the inside. It was the other way around. The door fought against her even as she strained to lift it up.

  A blur of black fur and blood-red eyes as one of the Labradors leaped onto the stairs, somehow managing to land on two of them with its two front legs. It began scrambling up, up, up—

  Emily unslung the rifle, but instead of wasting time trying to shoot it—that would have cost her a second or two that she didn’t have—she struck the animal in the snout with the buttstock. The dog reared back and lost its grip on the steps before tumbling back down.

  It landed with a loud thoomp! on top of two other dogs waiting below. The animals were writhing on the floor, scrambling to get up, when she turned the SIG716 around and stuck it down the hole and pulled the trigger.

  Two of the dogs twisted and let out pained yelps, while the other two took off.

  Emily didn’t stop shooting until the two Labradors directly below her had stopped moving, pools of blood spreading around their black-shaped bodies.

  She felt sick to her stomach as she slung the rifle again, then grabbed the attic door and pulled it shut with a loud, echoing thoom!

  Chapter 19

  When she first met Cole, he was in trouble. Big trouble. For Cole, though, that just meant another day at work. She’d saved his life but had gone against orders from the higher-ups to do it. It had been an impulsive decision on her part, but she’d felt it was something she had to do. The other option was to let him die, and she couldn’t do that. Only later did she realize the reason: She was in love with him, even if she couldn’t admit it at the time.