Dan raised the barrel and aimed it at John’s head.
“Not me, man,” Brian said, trying to pull his cuffed hand as far away from John as he could.
“I don’t trust you,” Dan said. “You might be infected.”
“That’s not how it works,” John said, allowing his frustration to get the best of him. “Get that gun out of my face and take these damn cuffs off me.”
“Sit down,” Dan said.
“Go to hell.”
“Sit down now.”
“Dad?” the voice of a little girl called out from down the hall.
Dan shifted his gaze for a moment and gave John the opening he needed. He sent his fist into the side of Dan’s face with all the pent-up frustration he could gather. The barrel of the shotgun swung wide from the impact and went off inches from John’s face. The explosion sent a vicious ringing through his ears, but he managed to grab the barrel and pushed it back toward Dan’s head. John was surprised when Brian came around him and kicked Dan in the stomach. The homeowner fell back, and as he lost his balance, his grip on the shotgun loosened.
“Give me the damn gun,” John said.
Dan grabbed hold with both hands and refused to let go. He surprised John with a knee between the legs. John hit the floor but managed to keep one hand on the gun. Dan tried to force the barrel down on him, but a jab into his ribs from Brian kept him from succeeding.
John couldn’t gather his breath, the knee to his manhood having done its job. He tried to get off the floor as Brian and Dan fought over the top of him. Brian got another sharp jab through Dan’s defense, which caught him on the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted from his nose like a faucet and Dan fell back, hitting the floor with a solid thud. Dan was dazed but too close to the shotgun to test his reaction time; instead, John got to his feet and pulled Brian back out into the hall.
A quick look back revealed Dan already sitting up, shotgun in hand, leaving John a second to react. He leapt over the banister with one jump, and his shoulder was nearly pulled out of socket as the handcuff went tight. Brian bore his weight as he dangled over the stairs. A moment later, Brian did the only thing he could do, and the two hit the stairs with a painful impact. Their arms and legs intertwined as they rolled the rest of the way down. Brian was up to his feet first and dragged John out of the way. They were out of view from the staircase and safe for the moment.
John ran toward the back door and into the adjoining kitchen. He pulled open the counter drawers and found a butcher knife. Brian armed himself with a kitchen mallet hanging above the stove, and the two held still in the center of the kitchen. Dan’s footsteps echoed throughout the house as he ran from the front room toward one in the back. A door opened and slammed shut. A muffled argument ensued, but John could not make out much else.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Brian said.
“You want to stay bracelet twins forever?” John pulled their wrists up for a reminder. “Besides, I want that gun.”
“It’s not worth getting shot over.”
John had a hard time arguing Brian’s point. He figured they could get out of the handcuffs some other way if they had too, but he wasn’t so sure they’d get another shot at a gun. He was thinking more for himself than anything else. He would have to get Alex and Angela out of the cordoned-off area somehow, and having a gun might be the only way. Brian was about to speak, but he froze when the sound of the door opening echoed down the stairs. Slow footsteps crept toward the top step and then stopped. John forced Brian to walk toward the hall and stopped near the bottom stair outside of view from up above.
“We want to get out of here,” John said.
“I have a gun,” Dan replied.
“Don’t you think we know that? Give us the handcuff key, and we’ll be on our way.” Dan didn’t move. All three men stood in silence for several uncomfortable minutes until John urged on the situation. “Look, I’ll open the damn doors and let these things in. You want to try and keep them from chewing on your family?”
Brian gave him a terrified expression.
“Just the key then?” Dan asked. “And you’ll go?”
“That’s all we want.” John edged along the wall until he could see the end of Dan’s boots. He was tapping his foot as he worked the deal around in his mind.
“How do I know you won’t un-cuff yourselves and leave the doors open anyway?”
John started to yell back but realized he didn’t have a good answer. He settled on the best idea he had. “You’ll have to trust us?” He knew it wouldn’t work when he said it, but he thought he would try it anyway.
Dan’s laughter filled the staircase. “Why don’t you stick your hands out from down there and I’ll shoot the chain,” he said between laughs.
John took one long step out behind the cover of the wall and caught Dan with the shotgun aimed at the ceiling. “Fine, you asked for it.” He grabbed the butcher knife by the blade and flung it as hard as he could. The blade rotated perfectly and sliced into Dan’s stomach, above his waist. John stepped back and readied himself to run back to the kitchen. He heard Dan stumble and curse from up above. A loud crash followed as Dan screamed out in a mixture of pain and anger.
“What did you do that fo—”
Brian’s question trailed off as he watched the shotgun slide down the stairs, hit the laminate hall floor, and come to a stop.
John smiled. “Any more questions?” He asked another question before Brian could answer, this one loud enough for everyone to hear. “Are you going to throw down the handcuff key now, or am I going to have to come up after it?”
They heard Dan’s deep, panting breaths, and for a second they thought he might be unconscious.
“You threw a knife at me,” Dan said as if just discovering the fact. “I’m bleeding all over the place.”
“What did you want me to do?” John asked. “We want to get the hell out of here, and I’d prefer to do it unchained.” He eyed the shotgun and guessed three long steps could get him to it, but something kept him from running out to get it.
“I’m going to die up here.”
John swore under his breath and then bolted out from his cover. Brian ran with him and reached for the shotgun first. Gunfire erupted from the stairs and before John knew what was happening, Brian was on the ground, blood splattered across his shirt from a wound in his arm. John snatched the shotgun off the ground and pull himself back, dragging Brian into the hallway with him. John pushed his back against the wall and readied the gun as he tried to figure out what happened. Dan’s coughing laughter was a clear indicator.
“That’s not my only gun.”
“Clearly,” John said.
Brian grabbed the wall with his good hand and picked himself up. Blood smeared the off-white paint as he slumped up against it. “Let’s get out of here.”
John racked the shotgun, making sure to catch the expended rounds. He got to seven before it emptied. He reloaded and then gave an unsatisfied look to Brian. “We still need the damn key.”
“Why don’t you come up here and get it,” Dan said and then laughed harder.
John started toward the back door. “You want to play that way, fine.” He stopped a few feet from the door and then turned toward the small adjoining living room and found inspiration. He and Brian stacked the couch and loveseat on top of one another in front of the walkway leading into the living room. They went back to the hall when they were done and John called out one last attempt at reconciliation. “This is it,” he said, “either you throw down the key or your family is going to become dinner.”
“Go to hell.”
John pulled Brian back toward the living room and readied himself. Brian’s strength was giving out, and John knew it would be the next problem he’d have to solve. “Hold your hand still.” Brian held his cuffed hand straight out in front of him and John brought the shotgun to bear, placing the barrel on the link between their wrists.
“You sure about his?” Brian aske
d.
“Nope.” John pulled the trigger and the shot ripped his shoulder back. He nearly dropped the gun, but he was pleasantly surprised to find he was no longer part of a set. With one problem solved, he maneuvered himself by the back door. “When I open this door, we’re going to get back in the living room as fast as possible and slide the couches in front of the opening.”
“Wait,” Brian said, “why are we doing this again?”
John was growing impatient, but he knew he needed Brian’s help for this to work.
“The dead will come in here,” he said, pointing at the door. “They won’t be able to get to us, so I’m hoping that will lead them down the hall and up the stairs.”
“But they’ll get those people.”
John frowned. “Would you rather they get us?”
Brian kept quiet and positioned himself on the other side of the couch. John grabbed the door handle with one hand and held onto the shotgun with the other. He watched the thin line of light under the door and when the light cleared, he turned the knob and swung the door open. Not waiting to see what awaited him outside, he ran into the living room and helped Brian push the stacked couches in place.
The dead came through the door, pouring in with a wave of putrid smell and familiar moans. The first of them pushed up against the couches trying to reach around. Brian stood close, making sure the barricade didn’t move. In a matter of seconds, rotting arms reached for him from every small opening.
“They’re not going down the hall.”
John paid little attention to Brian’s discovery, instead focusing on their escape. He laid the shotgun down and pulled open the drapes over the rear window. The last of the dead on the porch were pushing their way into the house. He picked up the lamp in the corner of the living room and bashed out the window. John waited until the last corpse disappeared inside, picked up his shotgun, and prepared to jump. He heard the sound of pistol fire on the second floor and knew the dead had found the hall and the stairs.
“We can’t just let them die up there,” Brian said.
“To hell with them. I’m getting out of here, and if you had half a brain, you’d follow me out.” He put a boot on the edge of the windowsill and pulled himself up with his free hand. He leaned forward to jump and a scream stopped him. He turned to find Brian trying to get away from the couches and two pairs of hands grabbing onto his shirt. “Damn it.”
John got down from the window and rushed toward Brian. He grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled, but the dead would not be denied. With the help of John’s strength, a lifeless corpse pulled itself over the stacked couches and latched onto Brian’s neck with both hands. It bit into his face before John could react. Brian screamed wildly as the zombie bit his ear off. John knew Brian was gone but couldn’t bear to let him end up like the mass of walking dead spilling into the house.
Another of the dead climbed over the couches to join in the feast and John aimed the shotgun at Brian’s head and pulled the trigger. Brian’s face was reduced to unidentifiable muscle and bone. John readied himself in the window and jumped. He landed in the backyard and rolled to a stop. He took one last look at the house as the sounds of a terrible death echoed from an upstairs bedroom. He turned his attention on his escape and dashed through the gate and back down the alley with the shotgun at the ready.
16
John ran until his sides hurt. He got out of the housing tract without any sign of the dead. He guessed they were converging on Dan’s house. A scan of the street outside of the tract revealed the west end littered with rotting figures. He’d forgotten about the mindless mob at the gas station. It appeared they’d lost his scent when he went over the wall and returned to wandering around the area for a meal.
John crossed the street and took a knee behind a station wagon. He looked through the car’s interior for keys but found none. He turned his attention on the two-story apartment building behind him. He had to get a vehicle if he hoped to survive, but the idea of storming into one of the apartments wasn’t appealing. There was a good chance the occupants wouldn’t be open to receiving new guests, or worse, were already part of the infected.
He got up to a crouching position and looked through the car’s windshield for a better view of the street. He counted more than a dozen dead to the west and another dozen farther down the road to the east. He forced himself to keep moving, heading north through an alley between the apartment buildings. The street beyond was a narrow one-way with cars along one side of the road but no sign of movement. The other side of the street was the start of the business district; most of the shops were small and locally owned.
John skimmed through the signs and focused on Ted’s Hardware. There were only a few rounds remaining for the shotgun, and he would have to have something else to depend on. He crossed the street and approached the hardware store’s front door. He smashed the glass with the butt of his shotgun and stepped inside. A quick inventory brought a smile to his face. He grabbed a leather tool belt and strapped it around his waist. Once he finished his shopping spree, nearly everything hanging from the belt could be used as a weapon in some fashion.
John secured the last clawed hammer in place, and then eyed the back door. He’d heard a sound from the rear of the building when he came in but didn’t react. He was sure he’d heard it again. He eyed the door and froze in the center aisle. He raised the shotgun slowly, training the barrel on the door. He watched the knob in the hope it would turn. The dead could not open doors, as far as he could tell, so he hoped whatever he heard could walk and talk.
It took several minutes of silence before his mind couldn’t take it any longer. He took one hesitant step forward then another. He was close enough to touch the knob when the sound returned. He froze again; close enough to tell it was not the shifting feet he’d heard outside the shop but something moving an object aside. The door was unlocked and gave way after a hard push. The old hinges screeched awful and the dark room behind offered no hint of safety. John pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped back. The light from the front of the store revealed only a few dirty tables near the entrance but left the deepest part of the room hidden.
“Is anybody in there?”
He waited for a few seconds and then decided to leave the space alone. He figured messing around in a dark storeroom wouldn’t bring anything but trouble. He backed away and looked over his shoulder to make sure the sidewalk was clear outside the front of the store. He only made it a few steps before another rummaging sound came from the back room. He stopped, this time bringing the shotgun up and ready to fire.
“I’m going to start shooting into the wall if I don’t hear someone.”
He cocked his shotgun for an audible effect, took one long stride toward the door, and prepared himself to fire. The scream that met him caught him off guard. He felt his finger pull on the trigger by instinct as a short figure stepped out of the darkness. It took quick mental willpower to keep from firing at the small boy who appeared in the doorway with his hands up.
“Don’t shoot me, mister.”
John eyed the boy over the top of his gun and figured he couldn’t be more than ten or eleven. The boy’s face was streaked with tears and he wore ragged clothes caked in dried mud that showed signs of a struggle. A blotch of blood on his shirt made John nervous. His dirty blond hair was matted to his face.
“You been hurt?” John asked. He tried to sound concerned but didn’t lower his weapon.
“I’m all right,” the boy said.
John scanned the front of the store as he lowered his gun. He eyed the boy, and part of him knew he should try to get the kid to a safer location, but another part wanted nothing to do with the trouble. He was struck with an idea of taking the boy in case Alex needed nourishment. The thought clung to him like a scene from a dirty movie. “Go hide back in that store room,” he said. “Lock the door from the inside, and somebody will come along for you.”
“You’re somebody,” the boy said
.
John wiped his forehead with his hand. He was itching to leave and didn’t want to be cornered in the store if he could help it.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Mathew,” he said. “Mathew Roberts.”
“Any relation to Pastor Roberts?”
“He’s my father,” Mathew said.
John grinned. “I bet he’s writing up a hell of a sermon about all this.”
The boy nodded, but his blank expression showed he didn’t get the joke. His rail thin arms hung at his sides like pipe cleaners.
“Well, Mathew—”
“Matt,” he said. “Nobody calls me Mathew.”
“All right, Matt,” John said. “How did you get yourself hidden inside the storeroom?”
“My dad owns this store,” Matt said. “He owns a bunch of stores in town.”
“Well, the good Lord does provide, doesn’t he? I suppose your father’s congregation gives a good deal of its money to ensure his well-being?”
Matt shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question,” John said. “What are you doing here?”
“My dad sent me down here for nails and screws to board up the house.”
“He sent his kid out in this?” John shook his head. “What a hero.” He looked hard at the boy. “I’m not your hero.” He looked back at the front of the store again and then started toward the door. “You can follow me, but as soon as I can drop you off with someone else, you have to go.” He looked for confirmation, and Matt nodded. “Take this.” He handed him a hammer, and the boy looked at it as if unable to imagine what John expected him to do with it. “You have to hit them in the head.” Matt swallowed hard. “Don’t hesitate if the time comes. They won’t. Now stay close or you’ll get left behind.”
They started for the front of the building at a quick pace, and John felt Matt grab his tool belt. They reached the broken glass door and saw two decomposing corpses moving toward the storefront. John took the shotgun with one hand and pulled out a hammer from his belt. The way east looked clear and he had an idea. If he’d learned anything, he understood that running away was always a better choice than fighting.
The Decaying World Saga Box Set [Prequel #1-#2 & Books #1-#2] Page 13
