The Dark Trilogy (54 page)

The shadowy creature crept across the street.

Chapter 9

Michael wiped the sweat from his eyes, the rifle heavy in his arms. The heat was an oven blast he’d not gotten used to, but quietly endured. Lack of water was taking its toll, along with the agony of his injury as he continued limping forward. The excited moans that had accompanied Frank’s final agony had faded fast. The undead were on the hunt again. But even if those beasts remembered he existed after their feast, they would have no idea where he had gone.

The injured man kept moving, changing directions more than once to throw the hunters off his trail. He’d seen none of them for quite some time and relaxed a little.

Despite the increasing pain in his ankle and the thick, humid air that clogged his lungs, Michael dared to feel good about things. As he strolled along the city sidewalk, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he could purge this hellhole from his memories and put it behind him. He would find a car and drive right out of this place. There were plenty of abandoned vehicles from which to choose, he just had to find one with the keys still in the ignition. He resisted the urge to whistle, instead allowing a small smile to cross his lips.

The attack from behind came as a complete shock.

The four children hiding in the rusted bed of the pickup truck piled high with junk rose up as Michael passed, detecting his scent on the air after having remained immobile for several days. It took less than a second for the first to launch his little body like a sluggish missile up over the side of the old Dodge and directly at Michael.

The minor blow to his back knocked him off balance and forced Michael to put weight on his bad ankle, twisting it as he tried to overcompensate. A howl of agony burst from his lips as he crashed to the ground, writhing in pain.

The boy plopped down next to Michael, who clutched his ankle, his vision dimming. Realization of what was happening came quickly, and the man rolled over, his ankle held tight to his body. Clenching his teeth as he continued rolling away from grasping hands, he looked up in time to see a second child, smaller than the first, diving off the edge of the truck toward his exposed torso. At the same time, two other heads popped up over the side of the truck, mouths smeared with blood. Michael deflected the girl’s descent toward him with an elbow to the ribs. He pushed up hard, and the miniature revenant bent in the middle, her legs flopping wildly as she skidded backwards across the pavement.

Michael snatched up his rifle, which had clattered to the ground during the opening attack. He drove the metal muzzle through the left eye of the next child who dove at him, skewering the creature like a fish. Pushing the weapon and its impaled victim away, he followed up the assault with an elbow smash to the first assailant, who was creeping closer. The blow connected with the child’s forehead and drove its head into the cement. Michael ignored the crunching noise and the stench that erupted from the young boy’s shattered skull as he detected a wet plopping sound a few feet away. He turned to see that the fourth child, the most ravaged of the bunch, had managed to drag its maimed carcass over the side of the truck, but had the misfortune of landing head first on the edge of the curb. The pathetic creature’s body flopped over and leaned against the rear wheel of the vehicle, motionless. Michael reassured himself it was truly dead before twisting to face his single remaining opponent. The little girl had skidded to a halt a few feet away, but was back on her feet. The initial blow to her chest had likely cracked a few ribs, though she was unfazed by the damage. She charged at him, pigtails bouncing.

Michael met the child’s rush on his knees. In a fluid motion, he gripped both sides of her skull as she got close. Without so much as a cringe at the rotten-apple mushiness beneath his hands, the ruthless killer twisted the girl’s neck violently. The doll-like arms, extended to embrace him, did a jittery dance and flopped to her sides. A sound like crunching peanut shells told Michael all he needed to know, and he dropped the feather-thin body to the ground.

Growling in pain, he grabbed his rifle, wrenching it free from the eye socket of the boy he had speared. Using it like a crutch, he climbed back to his feet. As the exhausted survivor rose up, his stomach roiled from an overload of pain in his leg.

Michael surveyed his handiwork. Three dead children and one paralyzed from the neck down. The little girl stared up at him balefully, her body and appendages useless.

“I hope you live forever, you little cunt,” he spat at her.

Lifting his head, Michael blotted the children out of his mind and listened intently. He cursed and resumed limping down the street.

Those things had heard his scream. They were coming for him again.

It only took a couple of minutes for the infected in the immediate area to tighten the noose around Michael, who was forced to open fire with the M16 once again. Breathing raggedly, the harried man picked his shots carefully, skipping targets not directly impeding his forward progress. With every step, his wounded ankle felt like it was being dipped into molten lava, but he knew he couldn’t stop for any reason. Even as he took a risk and turned a blind corner around a building in an effort to confuse his pursuers, there was no slowing up, not even to catch his breath.

The bullets were gone quickly, the second clip evaporating faster than the first. A dry click marked the end of the ammo, and Michael immediately changed course again, swerving away from a ghoul that had been in his crosshairs. Weaving between buildings, he was positive he was getting close to escaping downtown Manchester. Moments later, as he moved in front of a little market, he spied a small stand of trees up ahead.

Nearly weeping with relief, the desperate renegade counted only a few more retail establishments standing between him and the suburban landscape. Grunting in pain, Michael picked up his pace. The noise had faded behind him, and he hoped that his tortuous path had confused his pursuers, if only for the time being.

Just a few more buildings to go: an auto parts store, a hair salon, a drug store, and a bank. Past that, it would be far easier to see anything coming for him. Fewer mangled vehicles, ruined bodies, and piles of ash to contend with. Michael couldn’t see any houses, just trees, but there had to be a neighborhood nearby. He was sure the air was starting to smell better, cleaner somehow. The haze from the heat rising from the asphalt would be gone soon as well. Soon. Very soon.

That was when the two teens slithered from their hiding place just inside the grocery store vestibule. Michael saw them out of the corner of his eye and barely had time to raise the rifle to which he still clung possessively before they tackled him. He toppled over, the M16 the only thing separating him from the teeth of the boy above him. The other ghoul, a girl, collapsed on top of the two combatants. Her eyes bulged with excitement as she reached for Michael.

Panic took over, and Michael scrambled frantically in an attempt to break free of the gibbering piles of flesh groping him. Teeth snapped at his clothes, and clawed hands pawed at his exposed flesh. He didn’t hear the distressed cry that broke free from his lips as he drove his rifle forward with a surge of strength born of desperation. Michael somehow managed to wriggle free of his two attackers and, from his position on the ground, lashed out with his good leg. There was a huff of air as his foot connected with something solid. He kicked again and used the contact to push back from the two stiffs. Rolling away, he wrapped his arms around his face in an attempt to avoid getting scratched or bitten. Tucking the rifle tight to his chest, the survivor didn’t stop until he was certain he was in the clear.

Slamming the M16 to the pavement, Michael pulled himself skyward. His ankle was a blast furnace sending endless signals of pain to his brain as he tried to focus. The two teens were still on the ground, their arms raised toward the living man as if asking him to help them get back to their feet.

The waves of panic rushing through Michael ebbed, and he scanned the area for other attackers. He blinked away the burning, sweaty tears from his eyes, and still saw no one. Gripping the rifle rigidly, he advanced on the prone forms. He saw the girl’s eyes blaze with anticipation just before the butt of his weapon slammed down on the side of her face with a satisfying
whap!
Several teeth went flying, and the foul monster’s head turned at an abnormal angle. Raising the rifle again, he brought it down repeatedly on the boy’s head until the creature’s ghastly eyes closed for good. A whimpering burble of agony came from deep in Michael’s throat as he took the last swing.

Hands raw, Michael stared at the mangled mess the M16 had become. The barrel was bent, and the useless weapon clattered to the ground as he staggered off.

He set his sights on the bank he had seen up ahead. It was just past a hair salon, and there was an empty parking lot situated between the two buildings. The salon was a worn-down wooden building with a huge picture window out front. It looked like a giant fishbowl. The bank, on the other hand, had a brick veneer with several nooks and crannies that could provide temporary shelter while he took a short rest. That was what the exhausted warrior needed: a few moments to rebuild his strength before moving on.

Michael did not look back, but couldn’t avoid hearing the sound behind him. The low rumble of vocal cords corrupted by infection seemed to be crying out for him.

The thought that he was probably the last survivor in Manchester elevated his pulse as he tried to increase his speed. His arms spun like a windmill, and he nearly fell over. Desperately righting himself, he slowed, forcing his good leg into a hopping motion.

“Let me make it … got to make it. Fuck if I’m going to die here … no way, no how,” Michael hissed through dry, cracked lips. The words kept time with his hops as the gimpy man worked to maintain his balance. The pain was intense, but manageable, and he repeated his newfound mantra over and over again.

Angling toward the bank, he saw three drive-through lanes on the side of the building. He was passing the hair salon, which looked like a creaky old place where sixty-year-old matrons went to get their bouffant hairdos spruced up every other week. There was a modest sign hanging in the front window with a pair of scissors and the name ‘Josie’s Hair Care’ on it. A bright yellow plastic sign sat on a small metal trailer out near the street. The sign had lit up at one time in the past but now was cracked and stained, years of dry rot taking its toll. As Michael limped through the salon’s modest parking lot, he looked inside the dingy little shop. Beyond a cheaply paneled receptionist’s desk were four empty hair-cutting stations and several hooded dryers. The place was empty, and he relaxed slightly as his eyes moved back to the bank.

The bank’s recessed entrance faced the street, but was draped in shadows. There were two sets of doors, one outside and one a few feet past a vestibule leading to the lobby. All he could hope as he hobbled toward them was that both sets of doors were unlocked. If they weren’t, he might have to find something out in the parking lot with which to smash the plate glass.

A quick glance behind made Michael’s mind rest a bit easier. There was no one following him just yet. The distant caterwauling cries of the dead remained, but he could see no one … and hopefully no one could see him either. Only the dead teens caught his eye, but he didn’t concern himself with them. The infected tended to ignore their kind, dead or alive. Apparently virus-tainted flesh didn’t appeal to their taste buds.

Michael’s relief was palpable as he turned back toward the bank, but he nearly fell over in shock as he stopped short.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Creeping around the far corner of the bank was a hick in tight blue jeans. Michael froze, his nerves fried. His eyes darted from side to side as he looked for a way to avoid the redneck pusbag meandering toward him. He looked wistfully toward the bank entrance and noticed that the ghoul’s eyes followed the movement.

Taking a deep breath, Michael carefully moved forward. The hillbilly was dragging a wounded leg that mimicked his own injury.

You can handle one. Just one more of these bastards. Get rid of it quickly, and things will be okay.

“So what do they call you? Billy Bubba?” the injured man hissed between his teeth, the words dripping with disdain.

The grim specimen let out a noise that sounded more like a belch than a moan, and Michael snarled in anger. The noise carried, echoing off the bank walls. It would certainly draw attention.

As he moved closer, the stiff matched him stride for decrepit stride. Billy Bubba had the obligatory mullet, molester mustache, and sleeveless t-shirt allowing a clear view of a series of tasteless and poorly drawn tattoos running up and down his arms. He shuffled forward, his slow, stiff-legged gait looking natural and unforced. Despite the ragged bite wounds on his upper thigh and his pale gray skin, Michael guessed that death hadn’t changed much about old Billy.

He stopped short of the ghoul’s outstretched arms and assumed a defensive stance. They were close to the darkened entrance of the bank, and Michael knew his best hope was to take the ghoul out quickly and then head for the doors.

Recalling the moves he had learned from four years of studying Tae Kwon Do, he made a circular motion with his left hand. The side of the appendage connected with the ghoul’s cheekbone. Michael bent his elbow, moving his fist toward his own body and then quickly lashing out, slamming the back of it into the other side of Billy’s face. The living man’s other hand flew out with a straight jab to the bridge of the rotter’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch of bone, and the monster rocked backwards.

Michael sighed when Billy grinned at him through shattered black teeth. The crushed nose was no deterrent. There wasn’t even any blood leaking out of the smashed remains of the stiff’s beak. All it did was add to the gruesome charm of the determined predator.