Brian Keene (33 page)

"Guhnnuh git ewww."

It shambled toward him, its tongue flopping around in its mouth like a dead fish.

Jim shouldered his way through a jumble of raspberry bushes and continued on. His shirt caught on the thorns and he shrugged his way free, leaving the garment dangling like a flag.

Scrambling up a brush-covered hill, he reached down and grabbed a fallen limb. It was about the length of his arm and it felt solid as he hefted it. A groundhog, entrails protruding from a hole in its side, chittered angrily and snapped at his ankles. Jim swung, bringing the makeshift club down across its head. The creature backed away and he brought the limb down again with a mightier blow. The thing's head collapsed, one eye bulging out of its socket.

Worm was right behind him now. Gaining higher ground, Jim turned to face him.

More zombies were pouring from the woods toward his position. Six, then a dozen. Then two dozen. He could hear more of the creatures crashing through the undergrowth, and plodding down the highway to his left. Worm clawed at him and he shoved him backward, sending the zombie tumbling down the hill. It crashed into three more, and they sprawled in a heap on the forest floor.

285 He swung the club again, connecting with another zombie's jaw. There was a sharp crack, and Jim cheered, until he realized that it was his weapon, and not the zombie, that had broken.

The jagged limb looked like a spear now, and using it like one, he thrust it forward, jabbing it into the creature's jaundiced eye. He pushed with all his weight and heard a pop as the broken stick penetrated the membrane and sunk into the soft tissue of the brain. Jim tugged on the stick but it wouldn't budge, embedded in the zombie's skull. Dropping it, he turned and ran again.

He headed back towards the road again, searching desperately for an abandoned vehicle, or at least a weapon, dropped during the battle. He'd gone about five hundred yards when he almost tripped over the injured soldier.

The man lay with his back against an oak tree. One arm dangled uselessly at his side, and both legs were broken and covered with bite marks. Remarkably, despite the damage, the man was alive.

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After a moment, Jim recognized him.

"Hey man," the guardsman pleaded, "help me out. I need to get back to the unit. Need to find a medic."

"You're Private Miccelli, aren't you?"

The man's eyes narrowed in a mixture of suspicion and surprise.

"Yeah," he panted, "and you are?"

"Jim Thurmond. I remember you from this morning. Let me help you." He knelt down, prodding at Miccelli's legs. A jagged splinter of bone had poked through his calf, and Jim touched it with his fingertip. Miccelli shrieked, clawing at the dirt and leaves.

"Shhh," Jim warned him. "You'll let them know where we are. Those things are all around us."

"For fuck's sake, man, help me! What the fuck is wrong with you?" With his foot, Jim casually pushed Miccelli's rifle out 286 of the soldier's reach.

"They'll be on us in a minute or so. I'll have to protect us both. How the hell do you work this thing?"

Between grunts of pain, Miccelli explained the weapon, and how to change the clip. Satisfied, Jim stood up and pointed it at him.

"What are you doing man?"

"This morning, when you took Professor Baker away before we were put on the truck, you asked me something. Do you remember what it was? Do you?" Miccelli shook his head in frustration.

"You asked me if I would like to be gut shot and left behind. Remember that?"

His eyes widened in comprehension.

"Hey man, don't!" He held his palms out in surrender. "Please? Don't fucking do that man! If you're gonna shoot me, shoot me in my fucking head! Don't shoot me in the stomach! Why would you do that?"

"I wanted to get to my son, and you got in my way."
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He gave the trigger a short, quick squeeze and Miccelli's screams were lost beneath the report.

Blood gushed from the hole in his abdomen, and he grappled with his intestines, fighting to keep them inside. The tendons in his neck and face stood out, taught with pain. He began to shake, his teeth clattering together.

"You asshole," he whined. "You fucking asshole."

"So tell me Miccelli, how does it feel to be gut shot and left behind?" Jim took off quickly, as the zombies, attracted by the gunshot and Miccelli's cries, began to draw towards them.

He burst through the foliage and onto the road, then turned. He was well ahead of the zombies, but they were still within sight, plodding steadily toward Havenbrook.

This can't all be for me.

From the woods, Miccelli began to scream louder. His cries were punctuated with the horrible laughter of the zombies. But there were also the sounds of further

287 pursuit. More were coming his way. Only a few of the creatures had stopped to take advantage of the dying man. The others were moving forward. Why? Where were they going? He thought about it and decided that they must be pursuing the convoy. Only a small handful of the creatures were armed, but apparently, they planned to continue the fight. Almost as if they were following orders from someone... The knowledge chilled him. Slinging the rifle, he ran on. Jim had always laughed at horror movies where the victim ran down the middle of the road, rather than hiding in the woods, but now he found himself doing the same.

Miccelli's screams followed him, then turned to squeals, and finally faded. He found a hollow oak stump, a long-ago victim of a lightning strike, and he hid inside the dry-rotted, musty confines. He waited there, along the edge of the road, hidden in the tree, until the shambling, rotting forces had passed by him.

The zombies were representative of all walks of life. The majority were children and teenagers from the orphanage, but the residents of Hellertown, and even a few dozen soldiers from Schow's rag-tag group also marched toward their destination. Black, white, Hispanic, and Asian-death did not discriminate. Some carried weapons while others
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carried nothing but their hunger, hanging over them in an almost palpable cloud of menace. Some moved along at a quick pace while others lagged behind, slowed by mangled or missing limbs. One in particularly bad shape paraded by, and the flesh sloughed off its leg as it passed his hiding place, landing on the road like a discarded banana peel. They were all around him now, and Jim slouched

288 down inside the tree as far as he could go. If they found him now it would all have been for nothing. The confines of his hiding place offered no escape.

Eventually, their reek and clamoring subsided. They were gone, drawing closer to what he was sure was their destination: Havenbrook. He left the tree a short time later. He crossed through a marsh on the opposite side of the highway. If a major confrontation between Schow's troops and the zombies was about to erupt, he should be able to skirt around it unnoticed, and make his way north. If he could find a car, he could conceivably be at Danny's within an hour or a little more. He slogged through the stagnant, ankle-high water, pushing through the reeds with his hands. He was glad Martin wasn't with him. The old man would have had a difficult time wading through the bog. A flash of memory hit him; their conversation in the Clendenon's living room, while Delmas lay dying.

Maybe this is how it's supposed to be, Jim. I could stay here with them while you went on.

No, Martin, I can't leave you here. You came with me, offered your friendship and support. It wouldn't be right.

He thought of Baker, and what he'd said as Miccelli was dragging him away. Your son is alive. I can feel it too!

He pushed forward and suddenly a white, pallid arm thrust up from the swamp and clutched at his legs. The zombie pulled itself up, brackish water dripping from its mouth and nose and ears. Not wanting to announce his location with a shot, Jim unslung the M-16 and in one fluid motion, brought it down on the creature's head. He did it again and again, blow after blow, hammering the thing back into the muddy marsh bottom. They don't need air, don't need to breathe. So it just lay there at the bottom, waiting for somebody to come by. There's still so much we don't know about them.

289 Wonder if Baker figured that out yet?

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He stood, panting heavily.

Danny was ahead of him. His friends were behind.

Thrashing at the weeds in frustration, he turned and ran back towards Havenbrook. He ploughed through the fronds and cattails, and prayed.

"God, I'm not even sure that I believe in you anymore, but I know that Martin does. I hope that you'll repay his faith by watching over him. Please let him and Baker and the others be safe. And please, please Lord, watch over my son. I'm so close. So very close now. Just keep him safe for a little longer."

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Baker shuffled past the silent, brooding guardhouse. The only sound was that of his feet scuffing through the gravel, and the idling engines of the vehicles and tanks. He then crossed through the open gate and let out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe Ob is long gone--Powell's body rotted away and Ob had to go back to the Void and then back here again to find a new one.

He crept forward. The stillness of the place was ominous, and Baker was filled with a sudden sense of dread. Something felt wrong. He knew of no other way to describe it, but he was certain of it nevertheless. He could feel it in the air.

To his left, empty buildings and hangars. To his right, the employee parking lot, holding only a few abandoned cars. In front of him, the office buildings watched ominously with broken windows for eyes. He glanced back at the army, then started toward the buildings. There was a sudden flash of movement behind the windows. Baker froze. He sniffed the air, and smelled corruption. The thing that had once been his colleague and that now called itself Ob stepped out from between the buildings. He saw more movement out of the corner of

291 his eye. Zombies lurked inside the cars, behind trees, and even in the bottom of the fountain; its still waters disturbed and rippling now. He knew Schow couldn't see them. The zombies were still hidden from their vantage point outside the fence. Even if they used infrared scanners or other technology, the corpses wouldn't register. Ob grinned at him; a terrible grimace that split Powell's face in half.
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Schow couldn't see them. Schow couldn't see the rocket launcher in Ob's hands.

"It looks clear, Colonel," he shouted. "I think they've abandoned the place!"

Behind him, the tanks began to rumble forward through the gate. Ob nodded, waiting.

Baker crouched down and prayed for a quick death.

"All units go!"

They rumbled forth; Humvees and half-tracks and tanks, and in between them were men on foot, weapons at the ready. Schow steadied himself as his own vehicle passed through. Clouds of fumes and dust rose into the air. They poured through the gate like invading ants, and Schow was surprised to find he had an erection-until the first tank exploded in a blast of orange flame and shrapnel.

"What the hell?"

"We are under attack! I repeat, we are under attack!"

"Colonel, they've got anti-tank weaponry!"

"No shit, McFarland! Do you really think so? Give the order to fall back!"

"Sir, Sergeant Ford reports we've got zombies in the rear. They're coming up the driveway now."

The sounds of battle exploded around them; tanks,

292 rifles and machine guns were all booming at the same time, and the noise was so tremendous that it seemed beyond the limits of human endurance. Zombies advanced into a storm of steel and fire, but as they were cut down, more took their place. Unlike the previous assault, Ob's forces were heavily armed. They fired indiscriminately, giving the fight back to the unit.

Men were running everywhere, falling back and then advancing, only to fall back again. Most were beyond the fence, on the grounds of Havenbrook. Others had turned to flee, only to be caught by the creatures at their rear, now forming an impenetrable wall.

"We're surrounded," Schow said, indignantly. His officers simply stared at him.

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A volley of bullets slammed into the command vehicle and Gonzalez and McFarland both jumped.

Schow laughed. "It's about time! Finally, we've got a real fight on our hands!"

He flung the doors open and ran out to greet the firestorm. An explosion rocked the trailer and then the doors swung open. Frankie brought the pistol up and into the frightened face of Private Lawson.

"Hey," he gasped. "What is this?"

"Where's your HumVee?" she snapped.

"Blumenthal's bringing it around now. We were coming to get you and Julie. Everything is going to hell out there! You want to put that fucking gun away?"

Frankie shot him in the face, just between the eyes, and he looked surprised as he collapsed to the pavement.

"Let's go!"

She jumped off the back of the truck, scrambling for Lawson's rifle. Julie and the other women followed her.

A group of zombies lumbered towards them, pistols

293 and rifles raised menacingly. Before either group could fire, Blumenthal careened around the corner in the HumVee and crashed into the cluster of zombies. They crunched under his wheels, and he skidded to a stop, dragging several of them underneath the carriage. He stared at the sight of the armed women, but before he could react, Frankie flung the door open and shot him. He screamed, fumbling for his pistol and she shot him again, pumping a third and fourth shot into his head. Then she climbed through the passenger seat and pushed his dead body out the driver's side door. Julie and Maria followed. Meghan was halfway in when she screamed. One of the zombies beneath the HumVee had latched onto her leg, and was gnawing at her exposed ankle. Blood ran down the thing's cheeks as it bit down harder, shaking its head like a dog.

Meghan fell backward, beating at the creature with her hands. Frankie leaned over Julie, put the pistol to the creature's head, and squeezed the trigger.

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