Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel) (19 page)

True to his word, Vinny met us at the
entrance, panting from exertion. "Seriously?" he asked, looking
down at his bike. "Purple?"

"Save it," snapped Jake. "This isn't the
time."

We pedaled with everything we had, sticking
to roads and weaving between clusters of zombies reaching out for
us.

"We're almost there," Striker assured us, his
voice carrying on the wind. "One more street!"

Meg cried out behind us, catching a stone in
the front tire and losing control. I slammed on the hand brakes and
jumped from my bike, tossing it to the ground to help her up.

"I'm fine," she said, shrugging me off and
reaching for her downed bike. "Get back on the bike."

The others had stopped to make sure we were
okay. All except for Casey, who plunged forward, digging deep with
unlimited energy.

"Striker! Get her!" I yelled to him. He
turned, not understanding what I meant at first. Seeing the frantic
mother putting distance between us, he took off again, followed by
the rest of us.

Casey's bike came to a halt at the end of the
street facing the intersecting road where her family's car had run
out of gas. She howled incoherently, and looked back at us with a
tortured expression.

We reached her, unstraddling and dropping our
bikes to better defend ourselves against the oncoming pack of
undead. We circled the woman, protecting her from danger, and began
cutting down anything unlucky enough to get within striking
distance. With the last of the zombies falling to the pavement with
fresh head wounds, the tail end of the car was visible. Halfway
between us and the car a bike, similar to the ones we rode, lay on
its side.

"Where is she?" shrieked Casey.

A group of undead, somewhere around a dozen,
clawed at the passenger's side of the small car. Movement from
within the vehicle caught my attention.

I held the stricken mother by her forearm.
"Casey, calm down. We need to clear the car. I think she's inside.
Look."

She tried to squirm out of my grasp. The
foolish woman had no regard for her own safety. I pulled on her
with force, hearing her cry out in pain.

"Enough!" I snarled, surprising myself with
the callousness of my voice. Immediately I felt guilty for my lack
of patience. She'd just lost her son and husband, and the fate of
her daughter remained a question mark. Still, though, she was
putting us all in harm's way with her reckless behavior.

Meg and I positioned ourselves on either side
of her while the three men advanced on the car, slaying each zombie
like an elite military team. We moved up behind them, careful to
not allow too much space between us and risk getting cut off by
undead. I had no illusions that I could handle myself with the same
effective precision that the men could.

When the last zombie fell, we stopped a few
feet from the car. There was an ominous stain of bright red blood
on the door. The color stuck out in contrast to the blackened
sludge from the undead. My hands flew to my mouth, and I screamed
into the flesh of my palm when Elorie's mangled face struck the
window. The others just stood there, facial expressions slack with
defeat, while the dead girl repeatedly hit the tempered glass with
her head and hands.

Casey tried to rush the car. The sight of her
daughter drained all reason from her, and her broken mind was
unable to reconcile the death of her daughter. The woman's
anguished cries echoed in the vacant street, and she fought against
Striker's grasp, nearly reaching the door handle before he dragged
her back.

Seeing Elorie like this, broken and feral, I
felt another piece of me shrivel up and die deep inside.

"Let me go!" Casey screamed, striking out and
clawing at Striker's scarred face and leaving angry red welts in
his skin. She fought him until she had nothing left, sagging to the
street and wailing in agony.

The zombie, I willed myself not to think of
her as Elorie anymore, stopped moving and just stared at us through
the window. Chills ran down my spine when I noted its slack jaw and
blank expression devoid of emotion. Struggling zombies trying to
eat me, I could handle, but this eerie stillness unnerved me.

Like an amateur slasher film, undead faces
crowded the window panes of shops lining the deserted street. The
sound of Casey's crying providing the soundtrack to the macabre
scene. A feeling of being watched crept over me, and I felt like
invisible ants were crawling on my skin. I glanced around, taking
in my surroundings again. Everywhere I looked, gaunt faces glowered
back at me, mouths drawn and teeth showing in snarls of rage and
contempt.

I felt the color drain from my face, and I
pulled my arms tight to my chest, making myself as small as
possible. In a jerky motion, I grabbed Jake's arm, squeezing it
hard, never taking my eyes away from their faces.

"What is it?" he asked, tearing his gaze from
the teen zombie to look down at me.

My heart raced, nearly exploding from my
chest, and my voice came out in a shaky whisper. "They're
everywhere."

Jake's muscles stiffened and his head snapped
up, eyes darting around. I heard sharp intakes of breath as each
member of our small group saw them. We stood, our feet rooted to
the pavement, mesmerized by the morbid spectacle.

Casey let out a shriek and rushed the car,
managing to get her fingers lodged under the handle before Striker
caught her. With a death grip on the handle, the door swung open
when he jerked her backwards, and her former daughter spilled out.
The lack of resistance caused Striker to fall, and the struggling
woman landed on top of him, jamming her elbow into his diaphragm.
Gulping in air, Casey scrambled up. At the same moment she let
loose with a blood curdling scream as the corpse of her daughter
bit into the meaty part of her thigh.

"Casey!" shrieked Meg, running forward to aid
the woman. Her attempt was futile; Casey had just sealed her own
fate. Vinny swooped forward, intercepting his sister and carried
her to safety.

Once again, time seemed to slow. Every detail
stuck out, suspended in the seconds that passed. Elorie pulled her
head back, the flesh from her mother's leg stretching like
salt-water taffy and tore free from her body. Strips of thigh hung
from her bloody maw and jiggled as she chewed and swallowed.

Before Elorie could lower her face and
continue feasting, I brought my crowbar high above my head and
slammed it through the back of her skull with enough force for it
to slice through the tender flesh and out her open mouth. The
unyielding steel decimated her front teeth and scattered them on
the pavement around her mother's still screaming, and now
substantially bloody, body.

I swallowed the vomit that rose in my throat
and pulled. The tool was stuck in such a way that her lifeless
cadaver remained affixed and she swung like a marionette on a
string. No amount of shaking and shimmying would remove the crowbar
and I was left with no other option but to use my foot against her
back as leverage. I refused to let her body fall to the floor—I
cared for the girl too much to be so callous—and I gently lowered
her down.

When the sound of Meg's scream jarred me from
paying my respects to Elorie, I spun to find Striker wiping his
machete on the shirt of a now-dead Casey. Her head rolled to a stop
at my feet and I stared down at it in shock. A scream born of rage
and rancor bubbled from the pit of my belly, rising in pitch until
I vaulted over the corpses and clung to Striker, raining blow after
blow onto his head and torso. I clung to him as he spun in circles,
flailing his arms like he was trying to bat away a swarm of
bees.

Jake and Vinny peeled me off him, holding me
back while I continued to kick and swipe at the stunned man.

"You're an animal!" I screamed. "A fucking
animal! Why?"

Striker's eyes swam with violence, and I
didn't care because mine did too. "She was going to die!" He
bellowed so loud the windows in the nearest shop might have
rattled.

"No shit, Sherlock, but she deserved a
choice."

"No, she didn't. She deserved to not suffer,"
he said, and turned away from the group. His body language left no
question that this conversation was over. We'd fought and lost this
battle. In a matter of hours, we'd lost an entire family.

I tore my arm free from Jake's grasp and
stalked off in the direction we'd come.

My husband caught up with me, "Where are you
going?" he asked. Stress lines were etched into his face and the
blood from his split lip had dried, accentuating the furrows around
his mouth.

I paused to look at him. "I'm going to
Asylum. I'm done with this nut job."

Chapter 12: When Ya Gotta
Go

"Stop." Jake stepped in front of me, blocking my
path. "Give the guy a break, Em."

I stopped in my tracks, flabbergasted that
Jake defended Striker after the man just beheaded a human being. A
living, breathing person. "Let me get this straight. An hour ago,
your brother needed to peel your ass off the floor when Mr.
Crazypants beat your face in. You just watched him chop off a
woman's head with a machete. And you're defending him?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Antennae sprouted from the top of his head
and his body morphed into a donkey. At least that's what it must
have looked like judging by the expression on my face. I shook my
head in disbelief. "Jake. You're fucked." I told him and made a
move to get by him. He strafed to the left, once again using his
body as a barrier to stop me.

He stepped forward and placed his hands on my
shoulders, holding me in place, and looked down at me. Because he
was so close, his eyes made a fast back and forth movement as he
focused on me.

"Emma, you need to get this," he said, his
tone almost pleading. "We don't live in a world that doesn't
involve killing anymore. It's the cold, hard truth. You of all
people should know this. You had to shoot your best friend. If you
can kill Kat, what makes what Striker did to Casey any
different?"

I thought about his words. Logically, they
made sense, and I had to concede. "I know, Jake," I replied. I felt
dejected, like someone had let all the wind out of my sails. "But
he's a savage. He didn't pause for even a second."

"That's not true. Look at him." He spun me
around by my shoulders to face the others. Meg and Vinny stared
back at me with concern, but Striker looked at his feet, refusing
to make eye contact. The machete hung limp by his side, still
coated with Casey's blood. He looked like a little boy being
reprimanded by his mother. That glimmer of vulnerability was back,
and he just looked…pathetic.

My anger deflated. For all my blustering, I
felt pity for the man. He was truly alone, and my heart began to
ache for him. Jake saw the change in my demeanor and let me go. We
retrieved the bikes and walked them back to the car where the
corpses of Casey and Elorie lay sprawled on the pavement like a
crime scene photo. Vinny went back for the last bike while I dug
around in the car and found a Buzz Lightyear comforter. I placed it
over their bodies.

"I'm sorry," Striker said softly.

I was taken aback by his admission and opened
my mouth to respond in kind. But he wasn't looking at me. His gaze
lingered on the comforter and the mounds of remains tucked beneath.
There it was again. The sad, emotionally fractured man broke
through the tough exterior of steel.

He turned away, shoulders heaving with a long
breath, and when he faced us again, the hardened facade returned.
But now I knew. It was just that, a facade. I walked over to him
with apprehension and reached out to place my hand on his arm,
pulling it back quickly when he flinched.

"Look," I started, not quite knowing how to
put what I felt into words. "I know it had to be done, but some
things are just too much to take in. I don't blame you for doing
what I couldn't."

He nodded curtly. His lack of a response
caused my annoyance to flare again when he looked through me, not
at me. My first instinct was to snap at him, but I fought the urge
and just stood before him, mimicking his stillness.

He broke the silence, finally focusing his
eyes on me. "We're close to the Ca' d'Zan. We can make it there
fast on bikes." Looking around again at the number of faces behind
thin panes of glass, he added. "I don't think we should linger here
any longer than necessary."

"Does that mean you're coming with us?" I
asked, hopeful that he'd at least consider it. As much as I
struggled to feel compassion for the man, the thought of him living
in a shipping container, isolated from the bit of society that
remained, bothered me.

"No. I'll get you there, but I won't
stay."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Large groups just aren't safe. They're like
a beacon to the undead." He shrugged and addressed Jake. "You don't
have to go. The shipping yard is as good a place as any."

His voice sounded odd, an emotion I hadn't
seen from him was in his offer. Hope. I realized he didn't want to
be alone.

Jake responded, tripping over his words in an
effort to not offend the man. "I don't think so, man. I have to do
what's best for my family, and I owe it to them to try."

And just like that, the hardened man
returned. "Okay, let's go," he said gruffly and mounted his
bike.

* * *

Meg and Vinny were uncharacteristically
quiet. Usually, we had to beg them to stop their incessant
babbling, but today I almost wished to hear the sibling's banter.
We rode at a brisk pace. My cheeks were rosy from the chilly
January weather and my fingertips were freezing. Eventually, the
strip malls gave way to sprawling homes and lush greenery. The
thought of what lurked inside the overgrown shaded areas caused me
to shiver.