Green Fields (Book 4): Extinction (40 page)

As soon as we were through the door, we saw why. Just as with the factory hall, there were zombies everywhere here, and the racket of our shots was drawing those that had before dawdled in the rooms they had been locked in right to us. Andrej kicked the door shut in the face of the zombies that were still following, and there was to hoping that they wouldn’t get it open any time soon—it was a “pull” rather than “push” situation. Whoever came after them would have to take them out first. Not our problem, as it was.

“Just how many of these fuckers did they lock up in here?” I shouted over the barrage of shots, more to vent my fear and frustration rather than expecting a reply.

Santos still gave one. “Just about enough to kill us all,” he said, flashing me a grin that was downright rivaling Burns on a good day.

“Looks like it,” I shot back, emptying another eight slugs into undead flesh before I had to reload. Shit, but that carbine would have come in rather handy right now. Not that I would admit that when Nate snarked at my shotgun next time. If he ever got to do that again, I had to remind myself.
 

Just then Santos’s last magazine clicked empty, and he dropped his assault rifle with a curse, going for his pistol next. “Anyone got any spare ammo?” he shouted.
 

“I’m on my second-to-last magazine myself,” Cho gritted out through clenched teeth.

Just then I thought of something. “I still have grenades in my pack.” More I didn’t need to say. I didn’t even need to pause shooting because Santos cut my pack right off my shoulders. And because he wasn’t a complete idiot, Santos started throwing the containers full of chemicals right as he grabbed them rather than drop them onto the floor where any of us could have tripped over them.
 

Never before had the usual “Fire in the hole!” sounded better to my ears as when the first grenade followed, then the second and third. Within seconds, the remaining zombies were down and we were running forward, reaching the next part of the corridor before even more could stream in from the other rooms. Andrej barely managed to pull the door closed before several thumps banged right into it, and the wood started to splinter almost immediately.

“Only two more rooms,” Cho called back from where he took point, making the rest of us surge after him. Santos lobbed two more explosives at the shamblers coming toward us, then switched back to his pistol, quickly chewing through my backup magazines as he continued to fire.
 

We were almost at the last door when a loud crash behind us alarmed us to the fact that the zombies were closing in on us, and the continuing stream from left and right didn’t dwindle much. “Cho, Lewis, you clear the next room,” Andrej barked at us. “Santos, keep shooting.” With that, Andrej thrust his rifle and pack at the somewhat stunned Santos, wrenched the ax from his pack, mine from the other, and hurled himself straight into the crowd of zombies behind us. Training rather than intent had me run toward the door, counting on Andrej’s shouts for the zombies to get distracted. That we probably left Santos to be chewed up in the midst of that all I didn’t want to consider.

True enough, we ended up in the foyer. My momentary elation only lasted for a second until I came to a skidding halt next to Cho—staring right into the barrels of the assault rifles of three soldiers who had taken up position behind a makeshift barricade.

Shit.

“Drop your weapons!” one of them said, or rather shouted, as otherwise we wouldn’t have heard him over the noise coming from behind us. Cho just grabbed his rifle harder, and I had no intention of lowering my Mossberg.

“Do you hear what’s coming after us?” I hollered right back. “Two of our guys are holding them off. Who do you think they’ll chew up once they are through with us?”

The other two soldiers looked ready to turn their weapons toward the door rather than us, but the one in charge didn’t relent, although his voice cracked as he continued. “I said, drop your weapons or we will shoot!”

“You got to be fucking kidding me!” I screamed, frustration for a moment overruling fear—and common sense. Screaming at someone who was already scared shitless but too stubborn to back down? Never a good idea.

“I said—“ he shouted right back, but what else he’d wanted to say got drowned out when a door just to my right banged open and zombies started pouring in. I debated for only a second, then turned around and pumped round after round into them, the staccato fire from Cho’s assault rifle joining in a moment later. Our joined fire brought the zombie onslaught to a momentary halt, and those not immediately falling onto their dead comrades went for the soldiers rather than us, choosing the path of least resistance. The other two soldiers opened fire at them immediately—while the stupid one shot at us.
 

With barely ten feet between us, he also hit.

Even considering all the other shit that had happened to me thus far, I hadn’t been shot before. Grazed by a bullet on my upper arm, yes, but not full on shot. The first three bullets slammed right into my bulletproof vest that suddenly seemed to do a shit job protecting my torso, each impact jarring my entire body. Pain constricted my rib cage as I staggered forward, trying to find cover. That I did, incidentally, in Cho, who took the brunt of the barrage, his body jerking—until he fell back and into me, blood spraying from his mouth. His weight landed fully on my arm, pulling my shotgun down. I let go, trying to shove him off me, but that only made me turn—and that got the next shots to bite into my hip and thigh where the bullets met fabric rather than plates, and went right through. And that was an entirely different world of agony than what the vest had kept from me.

I went down like a felled tree, my leg simply giving out as white-hot pain raced through my body, Cho landing right on top of me. The impact drove what air remained in my lungs out of my body, letting me utter an inaudible gasp rather than a scream. Or maybe I did manage more but it got drowned out by the howls of the zombies. The way I’d fallen, I got a perfect look at when they overwhelmed the soldiers at their flimsy barricade, tearing them literally limb from limb. That took them a few seconds. And then I was the only living thing in the entire room.

Sadly, the zombies didn’t really care for giving me a chance, as those that came pouring into the room ignored the heaps behind the barricade and came straight for me. I started shoving at Cho’s lifeless body immediately, doing my best to ignore how slick with his blood we both were as I tried to kick with my good leg as much as possible. I’d almost managed the feat when the zombies were on us, tearing Cho right off me. The second I was free, I started pushing myself toward the windows that were now close enough that they let in actual sunlight. Only a few more feet. Only—

Something grabbed my ankle, wrenching me right back. My wet hands were slippery on my shotgun, but even with no slugs left, it served well to smash the closest zombie’s face in. More gore splattered down on me but I ignored it. A grasping hand tangled in the strap and wrenched my weapon out of my hands. Immediately, I had my Beretta out and emptied the magazine into the zombie that kept my ankle in a deadlock. I felt momentary triumph when it let go, sagging in on itself in a lifeless heap.

Then my gun clicked empty. I was tempted to throw it, for good measure, right at the next gaping mouth coming for me, but the sinking feeling in my stomach already told me what my mind was still in denial of—I was toast.

I was still scrambling to slam the next magazine into the gun when Andrej vaulted into the room—just in time when the first zombie’s teeth tore into my injured leg, right where the bullets had torn my cargo pants to shreds.

The magazine clicked into place, and I was firing as soon as my finger could contract around the trigger. The zombie’s head exploded, spraying brain matter and bone everywhere. I didn’t care. The next I could fend off, but the scent of fresh blood must have been too enticing for them because they just kept on coming. Pain doubled, tripled as I felt teeth tear through muscles and tendons, but I kept on shooting. I needed another magazine—my last—to get that fucker off me. As soon as the weight lifted, I threw myself onto my front, not giving a shit whether that bared my back to the zombies or not. My right leg was still working but my left one was only so much meat, making getting up impossible. Well, if you can’t run, you crawl, and that was exactly what I was doing.

A blast of assault rifle fire went off over my head, making me guess that Santos was still among the living. I didn’t care. I didn’t look back. All I could focus on was to make it over to those glass doors and down the steps into the parking lot.
 

My fingers convulsed around the top step and I pulled myself outside, using my momentary momentum to roll sideways down the steps. That hurt like hell but the impact at the bottom of the stairs was worse. Still didn’t care as I forced my muscles to start working again so I could pull myself ever forward. I even managed a crouch that halved the time over to the Rover. Then it was just a matter of getting the door open and dragging myself up into my seat. My vision went black more than once but I kept going, hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life until I finally managed to get my ass up onto the leather. I didn’t waste time with catching my breath or closing the door but went straight for the bottle of bleach that was crammed underneath my seat. Gritting my teeth against the flare of pain I knew was about to come, I dumped it right onto the wound on my left thigh.

Nothing happened. Well, that wasn’t true. Of course there was the acrid stench as the bleach vapors hit my nose, and the liquid did some superficial cleaning as well, but that was it. No pain. And that was a million times worse than the agony I’d just braced myself for, needlessly.

Fuck.

The bottle was still half full when I dropped it, yanking my knife out to get a better look at the wound. There wasn’t much left of the fabric of my pants so cutting what remained away was quick. What was underneath looked so much like ground beef that it was hard for my brain to grasp. Blood was still coming from the wounds, and suddenly I felt myself gripped by the morbid desire to see the extent of them better, so I kept splashing bleach all over my leg. Those were bite marks alright, and I thought I saw a deformed bullet lodged in a thick string of muscle that was otherwise untouched. Digging it out, I stared at it, then dropped it. A wave of nausea rolled through me and it took me a few moments to realize that it wasn't born of reality catching up with me but stemmed from the massive blood loss that was still going strong. Fuckers must have torn my femoral artery somewhere. At the rate this was going, I’d be long bled out before I could even start to worry about anything else. If there just was a way to staunch the blood loss…

My gaze skipped from the first aid kit that was wedged into the center console where the cup holders used to be on to the compartment smack in the middle of it. Before the thought was even half formed, I was already scrambling for it, finding what looked suddenly like my salvation to me. I didn’t even hesitate before I tore the cap off the small tube of glue, then squirted the adhesive right into the worst of the wound. Almost immediately blood stopped coming up, and by the time I got the last bit out, my thigh seemed to have a more or less even surface again. Exhaling slowly, I prodded the congealing mass until it stopped adhering to my finger, then went for the next pack of gauze I could reach. Screw it—even if that shit stuck to the bandage, I didn’t care. I felt like shit—and tantalizingly close to crashing—when my eyes fell on the syringe right next to where the glue had been stored. What had it been that Sunny had said? Burn the candle on both ends with a blowtorch? My candle was about to sputter out any moment now, so I might as well end it with a bang.

I briefly considered where to stab myself with the needle, and ended up sinking it into my thigh above the wound. If there was one advantage to severe neural damage then it was lack of pain. My entire torso was still alight with discomfort from where the vest had stopped the bullets from finishing me off completely, so it wasn’t a systemic thing yet. Might as well spare myself that little ouchie now if I could.

Laughter bubbled over my lips, wheezing and cut-off because of my breathing troubles but sounding no less insane for it. Almost immediately I felt the effects of the booster kick in—or rather slam in, as it felt as if someone was holding a live wire to my heart. And with my pulse kicking into a new level of overdrive I also felt a wave of euphoria sweep through me, leaving only a fraction of the pain from before behind. That shit was fucking insane!

It took me a few moments to get a grip on myself and blink away the tears streaming down my face. Using another bit of gauze, I wiped at my cheeks, coming away grimy. Next, I grabbed some tape to secure my makeshift bandage in place. Prodding at my leg, I realized that the damage couldn’t be that grave as I could still move it now that it had gone completely numb. I didn’t waste any time on trying to work out how that was even possible. What counted was that I could use it, so I could use the gearshift. Next, I checked on my surroundings. There was a nice trail of blood right across the lot that yours truly had left, but Santos and Andrej had made it to the cars. I couldn’t see them clearly, hunched behind the Jeep as they were, but Andrej was cursing loud enough that I guessed that Santos was helping him patch himself up. Just then the sound of gunfire came from the foyer, making me perk up. Either it was one of ours, or a target for the sudden, hot rage that burned up my spine. I was almost hoping for the latter.

Reaching for the door, I slammed it shut and quickly buckled myself in. The car came to life immediately, but rather than send it off with a jump forward as I intended, my uncoordinated pedal abuse just killed the engine. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to go about the same maneuver with a little more care, and this time it worked. I only needed to shift into second, anyway, before I sent the Rover right up the stairs and through the glass doors, never mind how much the jostling rocked me to and fro.