by Joe Augustyn
Now he had a hard decision to make. Was it worth continuing the pursuit? Did he have any chance to catch up to them? How much of a head start did they have?
And what about the others? The girl is the actual witness. Whatever she might have told the others is mere hearsay. But coming from the troopers it might be admissible. Still, if she were gone…
He weighed his options carefully.
She’s probably already gone. How long could she last in that funhouse, with dozens of hungry Resurrecteds inside? I saw them go in.
Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the flooded street before him. A dozen zombies were wading slowly through the water, occasionally getting swept off-balance by the current. His gunfire had drawn some down into the streets from the boardwalk and late arrivals were trickling down from the bridge. Most of the horde were still up on the boardwalk—hopefully feasting in the funhouse.
The girl is either trapped in that funhouse or she’s dead. Either way she’s not going to get very far. I can deal with her later if I have to. Right now it’s that trooper and his little boy scout buddy who are my biggest concern.
He slapped a full mag into his assault rifle and waded into the street, heading for the state police boathouse. I can still catch up to them. If they made it to the boathouse, they’re probably holed up inside. And I doubt they’ll be expecting me.
59
Kerri’s fever broke and the hungry dead pulled away. In an instant her body chemistry had changed, as if a biological switch had been thrown. Suddenly her flesh was less than palatable to the ghoulish feeders crouched over her. Her pheromones no longer drew them like the scent of Sunday dinner.
The dead dragged themselves to their feet and ambled away. Kerri rose slowly. Her cheeks were gone, as were her nose and the bottom of her face from the lower lip down. Her pinkie fingers were missing, the flesh of the others stripped away like the meat from a rack of short ribs. Where her throat had been was an open windpipe, bitten cleanly through.
No pain or troubling thoughts plagued her mind. She stood blankly for a moment, a dummy of flesh and blood and bone. Then the most rudimentary of signals passed through her brain, a call to join the action as a crooked figure prowled past her.
Her stiff, uncertain legs started to move. With each step her hunger grew. The craving was a mystery… a burden… a misery. She staggered like a rusty wind-up toy, following the herd through the maze. Her brain no longer functioned on its own, but rather was central command post for a colony of microbes. Organisms intent on taking over the planet, one body at a time.
In no time at all—for time meant nothing now—Kerri stood in a swarm of bodies pressing against the exit door. They felt no discomfort, only ravenous hunger, as more and more corpses arrived, crushing each other against the closed door. Finally a body hit the brass bar just right and the door flew open.
Kerri tumbled forward, landing in a heap of writhing bodies.
Slowly, mechanically, the dead pulled themselves free, untangling leaden limbs, dragging themselves forward. They crawled under the garishly painted railing that ran alongside the funhouse, dragging themselves onto the rain-drenched amusement pier.
Kerri slapped a hand on the wooden railing and hoisted herself to her feet. A vague scent drew her cold dead eyes to the pair of moving figures hobbling as one across the pier. She leaned forward over the railing, leaning farther and farther, straining to savor the provocative bouquet seeping through the cavity in her face where her nose had once been. Her hands slipped off the sopping wet rail as gravity tipped her forward and her body flipped onto the pier. She landed hard on the rain-drenched deck, but felt neither pain nor wet nor cold.
Elusive waves of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by jarring booms of thunder. The rain smacked pieces of gore from her mangled face and hammered the boards at her feet. But the only sensation that made it through to her brain was the aroma of bloody human flesh. One stiff leg jerked forward… then the other… as bodies rose from the pier all around her and moved in a swarm in pursuit of their fleeing prey.
60
Bronski led the way down the narrow pier that ran along the side of the state police boathouse, getting splashed by waves from the channel breaking against the wooden pilings and the rocks below. The windows of the boathouse were dark. Bronski knew that meant one of two things: either the place was abandoned or the occupants were holed up inside, afraid to run the emergency power generator for fear of attracting the cannibals.
Ryan followed closely on his heels, huddled and shivering in his clinging wet clothes, the water-bloated lining of his sneakers chafing the burning blisters on his feet as he squished across the slick wooden boards. He longed for relief from the rain. Visions of a warm dry cot danced in his head. He prayed they’d find a working radio or phone inside, or learn from a trooper on duty that help was already on the way. Then he could peel off his sopping clothes, curl up in a quiet corner and take a much needed nap. It seemed like he’d been on the move forever since fleeing his house.
Bronski hesitated when he reached the boathouse door—it was standing ominously ajar. He signaled Ryan to be quiet, then quietly pushed the door open. Slipping inside he paused just inside the doorway, scanning the dark interior for movement or sound. Ryan squeezed in behind him, desperate to get out of the rain.
Nothing moved in the darkness. The place was quiet as a tomb.
Bronski switched on his flashlight and swept the high-ceilinged entry room. It appeared to be vacant. Crab traps and life rings and state police emblems hung on the clean white walls. A doublewide archway led to an inner office, where a radio and other equipment were visible on a desk.
Ryan took a step forward but Bronski grabbed his arm and pointed at the floor. He aimed his flashlight down, revealing gleaming red streaks on the floor. Switching off the light he drew his Sig and signaled Ryan to be quiet and to close the door behind them. The last thing he wanted was a fresh contingent of the living dead slipping in behind them while they were busy clearing the building.
Creeping to the archway, Bronski peeked around the corner into the next room. The main office was spacious and on a normal sunny day would be bright and airy, with high ceilings and a row of windows lining the walls. Now it was dark and somber. A pair of crossed oars hung on one wall, along with other nautical decorations befitting the marine investigation unit. Big metal filing cabinets flanked either side of the archway. Like the outer room it appeared to be vacant. Then Bronski noticed something on the floor.
He switched on his flashlight—revealing a pair of legs sprawled on the floor. He traced his beam over the body… to the head, or rather what was left of it. The top half was blown to bloody pulp. Suddenly there was an eruption of noise and Bronski was on the floor, wrestling with a burly combatant.
Ryan rushed forward as he heard the commotion—then stood helplessly, unable to use his gun for fear of shooting Bronski and afraid to throw himself physically into the scuffle. He wasn’t even sure what was happening, or who the trooper was fighting.
Bronski’s flashlight rolled across the floor and settled with its beam illuminating the tussle. Ryan saw the uniform shirt and muscular arms of a trooper, obviously someone who took their workouts seriously.
“Shoot!” Bronski grunted. ”Shoot him, damn it!”
Ryan started to aim his pistol but the muscle-bound trooper dropped forward, trying to bite Bronski’s face. As his head dipped into the beam of the fallen flashlight Ryan saw that the boathouse trooper was indeed a reanimated corpse, with the now familiar bite wounds on his face. He dropped to a knee and tried again to take aim but the combatants shifted and rolled, making it impossible to get a clear shot.
Bronski cursed angrily, straining with all his might to keep the hungry jaws of his attacker at bay. The strength of the attacker was frightening, even for one with such brawny arms. “Shoot him, for god sakes!” he groaned, his own arms trembling as the dead man’s teeth inched closer to his face.
“I can’t!” Ryan cried. “I can’t get a clear shot!” Leaping to his feet he kicked the dead man’s head with all his might. He’d played on his school soccer team, and the coach had often lauded his “big boot.” His foot landed squarely on the man’s face, dislodging his nose, snapping his head back. But a second later it was right back in Bronski’s face, gleaming white teeth poised to bite.
Ryan couldn’t believe it. Any normal man would be out cold from such a nasty blow.
“Shoot!” Bronski barked, on the verge of losing the battle to restrain his attacker.
Ryan dropped to his knees and placed the muzzle of his gun directly against the man’s head. It turned abruptly and looked at him, its nose grotesquely twisted, its hungry eyes fixed on his trembling fingers.
Ryan pulled the trigger. The man’s head flipped back, with a big gaping hole in its forehead. He fired again. The top of the man’s head disappeared in a spray of wet gray slop.
Bronski rolled onto his side, ducking the impact just in time as the twice dead body thudded rudely to the floor. He lay panting, his heart racing.
“I didn’t want to shoot you,” Ryan mumbled contritely.
“You did good, kid,” Bronski wheezed. Finally catching his breath he extended his hand. “Help an old man up.”
Ryan pulled him to his feet. Bronski clapped a hand on his arm. “Thanks. You saved my life.”
“What now?” Ryan asked.
“There must be an emergency generator, probably out back. Hopefully I can get it working and we can power up the radio. I’ll go check around back. You stay here. See if you can find some dry clothes.”
61
“Quiet!” Sheriff Leeds growled, clamping his hand tightly over the little girl’s mouth. “Stop your goddamned whimpering.”
The girl finally settled down, more from fear and emotional exhaustion than any desire to cooperate. Her hysterical mewling gave way to soft ragged breathing. She stopped struggling in his arms and sank down in the corner of the porch. Leeds had found her there, cowering behind a rocking chair, when he’d stepped from the icy water to catch his breath. Her filigreed necklace said “Marissa.” Based on her pint-sized frame, he estimated her age to be seven or eight. There was a bruise on her freckled cheek and another on her neck, but her alabaster skin was unbroken.
Satisfied that she’d stay quiet, Leeds moved to the porch railing and took another look through his riflescope. He watched Bronski emerge from the boathouse half a block away and disappear around the back of the building. He’s going to turn on the generator. To power the goddamned radio.
Marissa whined suddenly and stood up with her back against the wall. Leeds glanced over and saw her staring at the street—at a Resurrected sloshing through the water. He cursed under his breath as the cadaver moved towards them, drawn by the girl’s frightened peeps. The corpse was a fresh kill—a local, not a member of his community.
“Sit down and shut up,” he snarled angrily at the girl, and whipped his buck knife open.
The sound of a generator hummed in the distance and Leeds caught sight of Bronski returning to the boathouse. Shit! I need to get to that boathouse fast. But first he had to deal with the problem at hand.
The zombie finished crossing the street and started up the steps to the porch. Leeds stepped down to meet it, plunging the sturdy steel blade of his knife through its eye socket. He twisted it fiercely then yanked the blade out. The corpse sank to its knees and he kicked it back into the drink.
Leeds checked the street up and down as he rinsed off his knife in the floodwater. Several more Resurrecteds were heading their way. At least two dozen were in sight, and he knew more would soon join them from the cross streets. Their herding instinct was strong. Strangely magnetic. He turned and looked at the girl. She was clearly a gift from the Lord. He was meant to use her as a shield. Or as bait.
“Let’s go, honey,” he cooed, extending a paternal hand.
The little girl backed into the corner as he approached, seriously traumatized and instinctively afraid of the scowling old man. With no time to waste he grabbed her skinny forearm and jerked her into his arms. Plunking her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he carried her down the steps and started across the flooded street toward the boathouse.
When they reached the wooden steps leading up to the narrow pier he set the girl down and looked back at the Resurrecteds. They were moving noticeably faster, sloshing eagerly through the low-standing floodwater. Come on, you hungry bastards. Here’s a sweet little treat for you. Tender succulent white meat. Come and get it.
Marissa whimpered again. She was terrified and confused and just wanted to be someplace safe and quiet, to wake from the nightmare that had started with her parents’ brutal deaths.
“Shh!” Leeds hissed. He tore a strip off the hem of her dress and tied it tightly around her mouth. She struggled but he easily subdued her. Fumbling into his tac bag he pulled out some plastic restraints. In a minute her wrists and ankles were securely bound.
Carrying her up the wooden steps to the boathouse pier he sat her against the railing and tied her to an upright post. She squirmed and struggled, her eyes wide with terror as she watched the ghouls slogging closer, just half a block away.
Leeds smiled at his handiwork. His plan was going perfectly. Pulling his handgun he moved stealthily to the boathouse window and peeked inside.
Ryan was nowhere in sight. Bronski sat before the radio, working the dials.
Leeds took careful aim. His first shot shattered the window and an immediate follow-up shot sent a ball of sparks from the radio.
Bronski sat stunned and confused for a moment, then dove to the floor as a third shot whistled by. Leeds fired again and again as he tumbled across the floor. A bullet caught him in the side, burning through the soft flesh of his mid-section and exiting into the floor.
Bronski rolled towards cover behind the nearest wall. Ryan reached out and pulled him the last few feet to safety as more bullets whizzed through the archway.
Finally the shooting stopped as Leeds paused to change magazines. Bronski settled next to Ryan, their backs against a row of metal file cabinets. “Thanks again, kid. I can’t believe that bastard found us.”
Ryan’s eyes went wide as he saw the blood on Bronski’s shirt, seeping from his side. “Jesus, Nick, you’re hurt.”
“It’s okay,” Bronski said. “I don’t think he hit anything vital. The bullet went through me and I’m still breathing.”
He looked down at the wound with mixed emotions, cursing and thanking his luck. Just two inches more and the bullet would have missed. But two inches the other way and he’d be counting his hours on one hand. “Hurts like a mother though.”
Ryan looked around the room. “There has to be a first aid kit here somewhere.” He started to rise but Bronski yanked him back down.
“Forget it,” Bronski hissed. “First we need to deal with that bastard. He took out the radio and he’s obviously not going to stop until he takes us out too.”
Pulling his Sig he shot out the overhead light, plunging the place into darkness. Then he rolled across the floor, ignoring the searing pain in his gut, and quickly drew a bead on the window.
There was no sign of the Sheriff.
Marissa’s high-pitched cry pierced the air. Bronski glanced at Ryan. His look of surprise and concern confirmed what they both feared. That’s a child’s cry.
Bronski considered carefully for a moment, knowing it had to be a trap, then he ran in an evasive crouch to the window to check it out. Ryan hurried over to join him.
Another shriek sounded outside.
Bronski peeked over the top of the windowsill and saw the little girl tied to the post. Leeds had removed her gag to let her scream. Then he left her there alone as bait for the trooper… and for the walking dead.
“Evil mother—” Bronski whispered. “He’s got a little girl out there, tied up like a sacrificial lamb.” Again the girl cried, a high-pitched squeal of
impending danger. “I need to get out there.”
“But—”
“Stay here. If anything happens to me, somebody has to warn the world what’s going on here. That someone is you, Ryan. Go up to Port Norris to the state police headquarters. Tell them Bronski sent you. Troopers Bronski and Silverman.”
“Don’t go, Nick, please,” pleaded Ryan. “It’s a trap.”
“I know it’s a trap. But I’ll be ready for him. At the very least I’ll try to take out that asshole. If I do, and I don’t make it, try to get to that girl… before those things do.”
“But… if something … what do I…? I mean… how do I—?”
“You’re a man. You do what you have to do.” He handed Ryan his assault rifle. “Here. Watch this for me. It’ll just get in the way out there.” Dropping the near empty mag from his Sig he slapped a full one in. “Wait here ‘til the shooting stops. That’s an order.”
And with that he slipped out the door.
The gunfire started immediately.
62
“Cat, wake up! Come on! Get up!”
Emma was beside herself with fear. She’d managed to get Cat halfway across the pier before they both slipped on the rain-soaked planks and fell near the entry ramp leading to the rollercoaster. Now they were cornered—trapped between one group of corpses shambling towards them from the funhouse and another streaming in from the mouth of the pier.
Despite the chilling rain, Cat was fading in and out of consciousness—more out than in at the moment. Her wound had opened again as Emma dragged her across the pier and the scent of her blood was a beacon to the walking dead.
Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating half a hundred ghastly faces surrounding them.
“Oh God no. No… no…” Emma sobbed. Her eyes were locked on the mob shuffling towards them from the funhouse—led by a faceless thing in a familiar uniform. “No… Kerri… no…” She slumped to the rain-drenched boards and buried her face against her knees, with Cat out cold beside her.
