The Paladins (20 page)

The Draugar stands, releasing my throat, but with my feet attached to the skeleton, I’m drawn upside down like a rabbit in a snare. Engulfed by panic, I scream and shout obscenities. My eyes bulge and heartbeats gallop. I strain and stamp and punch at the stinking carcass, breaking him to smithereens and freeing myself.

My chest heaves as though I’ll never draw enough air again.

Storm winds bend the young saplings in the glade, plucking sparse leaves from their branches like feathers from a dead chicken.

All around, pieces of the zombie I just destroyed twitch and jump all by themselves. Slowly, ruined limbs inch toward each other. I cringe watching old bones snap into place and knit together again like grotesque puzzle pieces. The creature struggles to his feet, shoulders hanging at odd angles. A hiss that sounds a lot like my name draws my gaze up. The creature has donned a thin, black robe that I recognize from my father’s dressing closet with its expensive satin sheen and rich, scarlet lining. The edges flap in the gale I’m creating with my fear and desperation. The robe’s collar droops, and inside, I see a young girl with platinum hair cradled within the heavy folds.

“Rose?”

The sight of her pressed against the mephitic flesh of the zombie turns my stomach.

The scene smears with my fury. I rub my eyes and look again, but this time I’m drawn to the zombie’s face.

Dead, black eyes clear and turn bright blue. Healthy flesh forms over bone, and the citrus scents of home replace that of rot and decay. Shining, black hair, a perfect match to my own, grows from the misshapen skull.

Father?

He sets Rose aside and comes for me.

I’m weak, helpless. I don’t even fight as his palms resume the unrelenting pressure on my windpipe.

Icy breath leaks from his open mouth in a cloud of mist. I blink, but slowly. Purple lines streak across the backs of my eyelids. My head spins. I’m sinking as he forces my head down and underwater.

Waves close over my nose. A few bubbles escape my mouth, and I watch them travel lazily to the surface and burst.

The muscles in my father’s face flex with effort as his hands continue crushing my throat. The heartbeat echoing in my ears slows to nothing. My vision darkens, lungs heat to burning.

You always did want me out of the way.

Ah, there … my father smiles at me, perhaps to say goodbye. But no, I see now it’s merely a grimace from the sheer force of his exertion on my neck.

My hands go limp and fall to my sides.

So, this is what it’s like to die.

Gideon

Over and over, my cane snags in the undergrowth, and my boots stick in the sucking mud. The wound in my side is screaming, slowing me down. Because my pace is slow, I’m falling behind. Falling behind means I’ve lost sight of her. Losing sight of her makes me insane with worry. Insane worry makes me rash and incredibly stupid.

“Raven!”

The thought of her in the hands of those
things
makes me see red. Literally. Like the blood I long to spill stains the sky, drips from the trees. Everything I look at is inked crimson. My thoughts are murderous as they turn to Pan, the board at Maddox enterprises, and myself. For once, life was good. I was happy. How did everything go from amazing to screwed so quickly?

My foot goes out from under me, and I’m on the ground, covered in swamp. Wet and rotting, when the forest exhales, its foul breath permeates my lungs. The dozen flowers surrounding me open and vomit pollen. Swearing an extra painful death to Pan, I shake yellow powder from my hair. When the dust settles, I glance up and detect a clearing just beyond the haunted wood.

It’s not the lake house that lies ahead in the distance, but Maddox mansion. I briefly think that’s impossible, but Jamis and Jenny’s safety trumps logic. Old as they are, they’re no match for Pan’s creatures. Like a fool, I must have led them all the way home.

I search through the muck with my fingers, grasping for my cane but can’t find it, and I’m out of time to look. The house needs warning, so I gather my legs beneath me, muscles burning as I rise. My exhaustion makes sense, but not the labored breathing and blurry vision. Everything hurts as though I finished a triathlon, but it’s the sharp pain in my ribs that has my attention.

Eight inches of tree branch protrudes from my side. I clench my teeth knowing it has to come out. Trembling fingers grip the stick’s end. I tense, ready my mind, and ease the wooden stake from my torso. My lips press together to gag the cry in my throat. Sweat beads on my forehead. Breaths pant from me in noisy, broken puffs.

I can’t control my shaking hands. Red runs down my fingers, splattering the leaves below until, inch by inch, the stick is out. As I examine my skewer, it tips forward from my too loose grasp and falls to the ground.

As if someone slashed a tire, dull hissing leaks through the forest behind me.

I ignore the pain in my gut, forget my cane, and limp toward the house. There’s plywood stockpiled near the garage, left over from repair work we did last month. If I can get everyone inside, perhaps we can bar the windows. Create a barricade. Once the zombies lose interest, I can slip out again and look for Raven. Not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got. She’s strong. Smart. She can hold on until I find her. I force myself to believe it’s true.

I head for the detached garage. Though I’m constantly watching the house windows for my employees, I alternately scan the woods for Draugar.

And then the first one breaks from the tree line. More follow, slinking along in their relentless pursuit. The zombies’ mouths hang open, no more than cavernous black holes. With their weird, hobbling gate, the things look like mummies wrapped in tobacco leaves.

Shudders wrack my body, but I keep moving.

A new group pours from the trees opposite, thick like a trail of fire ants between me and the house. Rapid heartbeats slap at my aching ribs. I’m breathing so loud I fear they’ll hear me.

Slipping through the side door of the garage, I search for anything that will make a decent weapon. The place reeks of gasoline and sawdust. Moonlight streams through rotted shingles in the roof. Between the junk piled in here and my father’s old ’57 Corvette rusting under its cover, there’s nowhere to step without making noise.

I dare a glance out the dirty window and come face to face with a zombie. Ducking, I bump the rear fender of the car with my ass. My elbow knocks a paint can over, and the hissing outside increases tenfold.

Shadows play on the cover of the Vette, staining the old, blue plastic darker. I know a dozen zombies congregate just outside. Sweat creeps down the back of my neck, dampening my collar.

Glass breaks. The door on the far side of the room creaks open. Frantic, I scan for a way out and catch sight of the rafters and damaged roof beyond. The hole may be too small to fit through, but if zombies can’t climb, this is my chance.

I’ll have one shot. Placing most of my weight on my good leg, I launch toward the lowest beam. Arms stretched to capacity, my fingers bite onto the rough wood. My injury stabs white-hot as I pull myself up, just as the door smashes inward.

Zombies burst into the room and swarm the car. One spots me, alerting the others with his shallow wheezing. They reach for my legs, but my feet scrabble up and over the beam to safety. I never find out if zombies climb—because they jump.

Crouching like spiders on the floor, they shoot upward. Limbs flailing, they windmill through the air before clinging to the beams. One grabs my boot with a hiss, its open mouth moist and foul as the pit of hell.

With surprising ferocity, I’m yanked from my perch. My body rockets toward the floor. My lids slam shut as I brace for impact. The fall lasts longer than I think it should, and my eyes open again.

Then I hit.

Pain blisters my knee, hip, and shoulder where I make contact.

Looking up at the Draugar, the distance seems wrong, and I realize I’ve fallen into a pit that wasn’t here a minute ago. My fingertips graze concrete block. Cold and damp, it surrounds me on four sides.

Above, the creatures watch. They bob their hideous heads, pace to me at bay, but they don’t attack. I’m almost afraid to know why. Then the grinding starts.

A slab of concrete at least a foot thick inches its way over the top of the pit. Only it’s not a pit.

It’s a tomb.

No vault exists in my garage. No crypt or mausoleum is kept anywhere on our property. At least, not one I know about. Yet here I am. About to be buried alive.

What are the last thoughts of a dying man?

Memories flit through my mind, but fear scatters them until I can’t hold on to any one image. I need more time. My voice rings out and returns to smother me. Reason is quickly wiped clean by the panic filling my brain. Questions knock against fear with no time left to consider anything but …

Raven
. God, how I love you. Did you know?

The question will remain forever unanswered as I suffocate here alone in the earth. God help me. No, no help
her.

She’s all that matters. All I ever wanted. And hers is the name I call as the lid slides shut on my grave with a final, echoing boom.

Raven

The night enveloping me is silky and unpleasant, like suffocating inside black satin sheets. Darkness presses in, wrapping my arms and legs in an unseen bond until I can no longer move. I trip and fall into a yellow mist as cold as winter’s breath. Coughing only brings a burn to my nose and lungs.

Last I knew, I was running in the woods, away from actual zombies. Separated in the swamp, I lost sight of Cole and couldn’t find Gideon no matter how I tried. And I tried. I’m still looking. Seems I can’t turn my feelings off the way he apparently can.

I sneeze a disgusting clump of gold dust. A snap and rustle in the swamp’s undergrowth gets me to my feet. With the fear of monsters clinging to me, I call for my friends just in case, but no one answers.

A quiet flutter pulls my gaze up. Four baby owls cluster together in the crook of a dead tree. Squat and wide-eyed, they stare as if I’m a threat. “It’s okay, boys,” I soothe. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

As I step nearer, their little, round heads bobble. Heaven help me, they aren’t owls at all, they’re children! Smooth skin shines with oil, and dirt, and grime. Dark, greasy hair plasters to their swarthy foreheads, while round eyes grow ever bigger inside emaciated faces. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know how I ever mistook these pitiful little kids for birds.

Metal clinks. My heart twists as moonlight reflects off the manacles attached to their ankles, the chaffing skin beneath raw and wet with infection. Tiny feet clutch the tree bark so tightly, their toes appear to be white and bloodless worms.

One child picks at a scab on his knee until a red trail leaks from the wound. The next in line flinches. I think he’s in pain or afraid, but he repeats the awkward motion several times over. He gurgles, the sound of mucus thick and uncomfortable in his throat. I think he might choke, but no he suffers from some odd, gulping tic.

The wind brings the scent of illness and decay. My skin crawls at the sight of them, and then I scold myself. They need help.

When I raise my palm, the group huddles closer together.

“It’s okay,” I say.

The boys hunch and scowl with black eyes so round, I can’t see any white.

My hand inches closer. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The children’s mouths yawn wide and they screech as a unit. One ducks low, the youngest on the end. Little square teeth gnash.
Click, click, click
.

I stumble back, struggling to regain my balance, and when I look again, four baby owls shiver on a tree limb.

What
…
?
Taking an uneasy step, I push the panic down. A dreamlike quality affects my mind until I’m dizzy. No longer sure what’s real, I turn. Run.

The ground is soft and damp, giving beneath my pounding tread. My lungs tighten in the humid forest, but I don’t stop. Perspiration glues my clothes to my skin. My progress seems slow and heavy, yet I jump at every leaf rustle, twig snap, and bird call.