“Taggard, what the fuck?” I pressed out between gritted teeth, trying hard to keep my mounting panic at bay. “That was one of your own people. The least he deserved was a bullet between the eyes!”
Taggard briefly glanced at the zombie before he beamed a creepily cheerful smile at me. “This is where you’re wrong,” he explained. “It would be so wasteful not to try to get as much out of this situation as possible.” Cocking his head to the side, he continued to study me, as if he was committing the image of me restrained there to memory. “I’m still waiting to see you reduced to a shivering pile of nerves, rocking in a corner. Threatening you didn’t do the job. Making you directly responsible for what you consider heinous crimes against humanity didn’t do the job. And from our few pleasant conversations I’ve gleaned that not even letting my boys have a go at you will do the job and forever break your spirit. Sure, you’d need some time to come back from that, but even that whiney ass bitch over there managed to hold on to her sense of self until the very end. You challenge me, so I have to find a way to escalate things somehow. Let’s see if getting raped by a zombie will do the trick, shall we?”
The very concept was enough to make me want to piss myself—and no conscious thought was required for me to tense and try to wrench myself free, any way possible. But the restraints held, even if I managed to shake the frame of the chair a little. It was by far not enough, yet did its own to scramble my thoughts until all that was left was the overwhelming need to be free.
“You’re fucking insane!” I shouted, but cut off immediately when the zombie let out a scream, its dead eyes fixing on me. Oh great. Now it had noticed me.
Exhaling forcefully, I did my best to shove a door shut between the all-consuming fright and my working mind, silently screaming at myself that I needed to get a grip, and now, or else I was toast. Taggard watched me struggle, still behaving as if we were having a benign discussion.
“So you’re gonna do what?” I panted out, my voice pressed enough that I had trouble understanding the words that made it over my lips. “Add ‘zombie fluffer’ to your resume? Because I hate to break it to you, but if the undead fuckers are incapable of one thing, it’s actually fucking anything.” Way to go with the phrasing, but just keeping myself from hyperventilating so I wouldn’t pass out was a feat. Or maybe not. If I was wrong, this was not an experience that I needed to be conscious for.
“You sure about that?” Taggard asked, his tone teasing before a twist came to his mouth. “Or did you try yourself? I’ve heard stories that your group got down and dirty with dissecting their fair share of the undead. Did you try wanking one while the others held it down?” He leaned close enough that I could feel his breath fan over my face, making me press myself harder against the chair. “Is that the thought that keeps you awake at night? How it would feel if your lover snapped and turned, and consequently fucks you to death while he eats your face?”
Through gritted teeth I hissed, “He’s my husband, and he’d rather kill himself than let that happen!”
The grin I received for my effort was a long shot from friendly, and I was glad when Taggard straightened again and clapped his hands once, demanding everyone’s attention. The zombie made a lunge for him but the leash poles held, making it strain uselessly as it snapped its teeth. It was then that I realized that they hadn’t just restrained its hands behind the body, but that there was a lot of blood that had soaked into the uniform jacket it was still wearing. No arms meant it couldn’t grab anyone and pull them close; if not for my current position I might have applauded Taggard for being smart about this.
Except for my involvement, naturally.
“Camera is ready?” he asked one of his men, looking up at something in the corner by the door. The soldier confirmed with a sharp nod. Glancing to me, Taggard explained. “By now I don’t give a shit whether you survive or not. But it would be a shame to just waste this glorious moment and leave the world guessing exactly what happened, and what is scientifically possible. After all, if you do survive, physically, and only that bright, big brain of yours ends up irrevocably damaged, we wouldn’t want your husband”—he stressed that word—“to have to keep guessing exactly what we did to his wife now that she can no longer tell him herself.” He let that sink in for a second before he stepped away, making room.
“You can’t do this to me!” I screamed, knowing already that it was useless, but I just needed to get the words out. I knew that senselessly pulling on my restraints wouldn’t do me any good, but it wasn’t like I could just lie there, doing nothing.
At Taggard’s barked command two of his men approached the zombie carefully to grab its pants and pull them down. As I’d expected there was nothing going strong down there, not even when the one with the cattle prod poked the zombie’s lower back twice. It did take a step forward, stumbling momentarily because of the fabric caught between its knees, but that was it. It did some more hissing and snarling, making all but the soldiers that directly controlled the zombie back away. It seemed more focused now, its eyes skipping from target to target, and twice more it tried coming for one of the soldiers. I forced myself to stop moving, even going as far as to hold my breath as long as I could. Its eyes skipped right over me but then snapped back as my chest expanded with another, much needed, inhale. Shit.
“Maybe it needs some incentive,” Taggard mused. “Get it closer so it can smell her reeking cunt. That should get it going.” His eyes skipped up to my face. “And if not, it’s as good a place as any to let it start gorging itself. Nothing going to waste there as it is.”
The soldiers with the poles shoved the zombie forward, and it took another reluctant step. I couldn’t help but flatten myself further against the chair, hair all over my body standing on end as panic made my throat close up. It was close enough now that if my legs hadn’t been tied to the stirrups of the chair I could have touched it with my toes—not that I had any intention to do so. It was hard to hold on to a single lucid thought, everything inside of me screaming to flee. Yet—again—the restraints held.
“Don’t do this,” I pressed out, then decided that pride was one thing I could easily live without, considering the possible—likely—consequences. “Please!”
I hadn’t exactly expected that to work, but the cold, calculating way that Taggard kept regarding me with made my heart sink further.
“I don’t care how much you beg,” he stated as he took the cattle prod from one of his guys and shoved it into the base of the zombie’s neck. It staggered forward, bending over to escape the assault, bringing it way too close to my knee for me not to jerk on the restraints as much as I could. “Begging might have been useful on the first day,” he went on, quite conversationally, as he kept prodding the zombie, making it take another step forward. “That is, if I’d thought it was genuine. But that ship has sailed. You are so much dead meat to me. Unless we can get a zombie breeding project started today. Makes one wonder, doesn’t it? If that thing could actually knock you up, would the resulting fetus start eating you after it is born, or before?”
A last, violent shove with the cattle prod sent the zombie careening into me, its flaccid dick touching my left thigh high up. Something inside of me snapped, as if that single, revolting contact had flipped a switch inside of my mind. I screamed, tensing, willing my muscles to contract as far as they would, my limbs to jerk as hard as possible. My vision went white with pain, agony singing through my body—
—and something gave.
One moment I was completely motionless. The next, my left hip lit up with pain as my leg went down, still strapped to the stirrup but the metal extension no longer connected to the chair. I didn’t think, I didn’t aim, I just wrenched my knee up, my thigh muscles burning, and then I kicked, as hard as I could. The angle was wrong, and the stirrup part heavy enough that I couldn’t keep my leg up, but somehow I managed to hit the zombie in the leg, making it stagger back a single step. It hissed at me, spittle flying from cracked lips, and I
could see it readying itself to lunge toward me. Fright gave me extra strength as I pulled my knee upward a second time. As the zombie came toward me, I kicked up, the stirrup hitting it right in the jaw, breaking and dislocating it with a sickening crunch. And because that only made the fucking thing pause, not rear back, I kicked it again, this time squarely in the chest, which sent it into the soldiers holding the poles. One staggered to the side but the other ended up right underneath the fallen zombie—and because that thing was out for blood now, lower jaw hanging sickeningly looser than before, it started gnawing on the downed soldier’s throat, its front teeth doing surprising amounts of damage.
It had all happened so fast that the other soldiers only now came out of their stupor. The one with the second pole dropped it and backed away, until his back hit the wall—and the door panel to one of the cells. The glass pane went up, and a moment later the soldier was jerked backward as the zombie he’d just freed grabbed him. His startled scream cut off with a gurgle—and that was the signal everyone seemed to have been waiting for.
Or at least I had. Gritting my teeth against the pain I knew was about to come, I forced my semi-free leg to swing up and across my body, right over the still restrained leg. My body twisted as gravity took hold, straining muscles, tearing at tendons, making leather bite even harder into skin than it already did—but only for a moment. Then the leather restraints gave, tearing right off the second stirrup, and my legs both hit the floor. Pain exploded from my left ankle and several of my toes felt less than stellar, but the worst were the muscles of my torso, yanked in directions they weren’t quite used to moving in. But there was no time for fretting or even taking a breath, so I gritted my teeth and kept tearing on my wrists until the restraints there broke as well.
Suddenly bereft of my steel-frame counterweight, I went down, my body slamming into the concrete floor. With my view upside down I had a moment to appreciate the surreal display of the soldiers trying to wrangle with the two zombies, no one going for a sidearm for whatever insane reason. Taggard was shouting, trying to rally his men, but his words were unintelligible over the howling and wet, tearing sounds.
None of that mattered. I needed to get out of here, and fast. Damn everything else that was going on.
Forcing my lungs to expand, I drew a pained breath, then another, the black around the edges of my vision slowly receding. A push with my palms against the floor had me sit up so I could reach for my left leg and work on the buckles of the two last remaining leather restraints. It took me forever to get them open, but as soon as my leg was free, I staggered up, ignoring the pain flaring to life all through my body. One of the soldiers noticed me, making a lunge in my direction. Rather than try to take him on, I stepped back, my shoulder hitting cool glass. A body slammed into it from the other side, making me jump, and I could have done without the sneering visage of the Gussy zombie—until that gave me an idea. Ducking to the side, I hit the door mechanism with my fist, just in time for the soldier to come at me. I was too slow to block his punch, valuable air leaving my lungs once more, but I didn’t fight the impulse to bend over. Instead, I let myself drop to the floor, turning the motion into a roll. I knew it had been the right decision when the soldier didn’t kick me, or come after me. Of course he couldn’t, not now that a third zombie was free, already grappling with him for control.
Looking up, my gaze found the next closed door just ahead of me, and it took the last of my strength to jump up and open that door as well. Flattening myself against the wall right next to it, I held my breath, trying to be as still as possible. The previously locked-up zombie came vaulting out, never looking left or right, just straight ahead at the soldiers, and that’s exactly where it went.
That was all the distraction I was ever going to get, and it was high time for me to beat it.
I was halfway across the room, ducking and weaving between the soldiers still grappling with the zombies when my gaze fell on the last occupied cell. I hesitated—already a stupid move—before I changed course. Erica didn’t move as the glass pane withdrew, and she didn’t react at all as I called out her name. But there was no time, and I was likely already fighting a losing battle here. All I could do was run—and, with luck, if I drew enough attention to myself she might… do what exactly? I asked myself. I knew all too well how she must be feeling, about a day after infection.
A kick to my left knee sent me down to the floor. Rolling, I staggered back onto my feet, only to find Taggard hulking over me, his fist coming right for my face. I managed to block his punch but that left my side wide open, which he of course exploited. His other fist slammed into my ribs, tantalizingly close to where I’d bruised them in Sioux Falls. I went down without being able to cushion my fall, the impact as bad as when I’d made it off that chair—right next to which I found myself again, all progress that I’d made gone up in flames.
Another kick, this one to the base of my spine, reminded me that I had other things to worry about than to lament my setback—like my spleen, or the ability to use my legs ever again. Breathing was impossible for several seconds, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t pull myself forward, trying to get out of his reach by crawling underneath the very torturous piece of furniture that was responsible for most of the scrapes and bruises that started hurting all over my arms and legs. A hard boot hit the back of my knee before I could pull it away, making me scream and lose what little air I’d managed to drag into my lungs. Scrambling blindly for purchase, my fingers touched cold steel—the stirrup. Without much thought required I curled my fingers around it, swinging it up and around as I forced my body into motion again. My makeshift club collided with Taggard’s foot just as he aimed for my shoulder. I was sure that he didn’t really feel the blow through his combat boot, but not having my shoulder dislocated with that next kick was a bonus.
Wheezing, I came to my feet, but didn’t waste a breath—literally—on orienting myself. Rage swept away the vise grip that fright had on me, lending me extra strength that my body shouldn’t have had anymore. In the very back of my mind alarm bells went off but I ignored them. I had to survive the next minutes first to be able to worry about the next hours.
Taggard stepped back, sneering, but I didn’t give him time to utter one more derisive remark. He looked surprised as I came at him rather than remain where I was, cowering in fright. He was still fast enough to block my swing but didn’t manage to get a good grip on my makeshift weapon. Before he could try yanking it out of my hand, I pulled hard, making him stagger toward me—right where I wanted him. The heel of my foot went into his crotch. Taggard let out the most satisfying wheezing sound, and because he was momentarily stunned, I wrenched the stirrup out of his grasp and hit him in the temple with the solid steel contraption.
Rage made me want to keep beating him until there was nothing left of his head except for bloody pulp. My sense of vengeance only fueled the flames, wiping away clear thought. But my survival instinct was louder, screaming at me to get the fuck out of there, everything else be damned.
So rather than mete out the justice Taggard deserved, I whipped around and ran.
Or staggered, as I lost my footing in a puddle of vomit and blood. I careened right into one of the soldiers, who, likely thinking I was one of the zombies, shoved me off him—and thankfully closer to the exit. People were still screaming, zombies easily drowned them out, and finally someone had the sense to use a gun, leaving me half deaf as I made it through the door at the end of the room, barely seeing what was going on around me.
The room beyond was smaller, more like a corridor, and I immediately flattened myself against the wall right next to the door to catch my breath and orient myself. Four soldiers were struggling with the Gussy zombie in the middle of the hallway, and only one of them wasn’t bleeding from their fair share of bite marks and scratches. The high pitch of their shouts made me guess that none of them expected to survive the week, if they managed to subdue the zombie—and it didn’t look good for them
. Two more soldiers burst from a room left of me, the door almost hitting me in the face but doing its own to hide me as they stormed in the direction I’d just come from. Rifle fire echoed through the bunker, making me grit my teeth as I tried to decide what to do. That room was probably their armory. Armory meant weapons and ammo, but likely also soldiers that guarded it. In a split-second decision I gave the door a soft push that made it swing shut again and stepped around it, still keeping to the very edge of the room. The zombie got a good grip on one of the soldiers and sent it toward me, the body smacking into the wall right where I’d just stood, hard enough that when the soldier’s head collided with the wall it gave a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor in a lifeless heap, leaving a dark, wet smear behind.
Moving as slowly as I could, I inched my way forward, trying to divide my attention between the front and back of the room as much as the soldiers still fighting the zombie in the middle. Just my luck that the last one went down before I made it to the door. The zombie’s eyes fixed on me and she—it—leaned forward, scenting the air. She’d obviously seen me so I didn’t bother playing possum, but instead took a step toward her and growled. It had worked before—sometimes. Gussy cocked her head to the side, her eyes staring at me without blinking but holding more intelligence than a zombie had any right to. She didn’t jerk back at the growls leaving my throat but answered in kind, yet it was a crooning sound rather than a sign of aggression.
Did she recognize me? Or did I simply smell and behave similar enough to her that she saw me as like, and thus not on the menu with so much tantalizingly fresh meat at her feet?
I would never know—and that was something I was glad for—because the next moment shots rang out and her body jerked as the bullets slammed into her. In true zombie fashion she didn’t go down but whipped around, and before the soldier could empty the last rounds in his magazine, she was on him, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his cheek. Not something I needed to be privy to, and about as welcome a distraction as they came. Two steps and I was through the next door, leaving the gore and screams behind me.
Resurgence: Green Fields book 5 Page 29
