"A few weeks?" Bish shrugged. "I don't think I'm infected. The window's five to ten days before you croak, isn't it?"
"They don't know. They don't know shit about it, no matter what they say." Shipley replied. King was relieving herself behind a bush. "She know?" He asked.
"She's seen it." Bish bit into the lizard with a crunch. "She don't care."
Because she can just plant herself on my face once you're dead, Shipley thought. He took a tiny sip from his canteen. "Maybe I can't get infected," Bish mused through a mouthful of guts. "It's like Gerry, you know, how she can't get pregnant."
Bish was functionally retarded, Shipley decided, and went hunting for his own lizard.
It was a few nights later that Bish slipped into a coma. He'd just shot his wad, and King shook Shipley awake with a rumpled shirt held to cover what he'd already seen.
"Maybe it's heat exhaustion." She said while he looked over the unconscious soldier. She'd pulled on the bottoms of her fatigues and was walking around topless; Shipley ignored the swaying of her breasts as she took shallow breaths.
"He's dead." Shipley muttered. They didn't have anything to decapitate Bish with, let alone torch him. The cheap combat knives handed out to grunts by the Army could barely cut a steak. Shipley would have to saw at muscle and bone until the blade broke, then wrench the head completely off.
King wailed. "He can't be! How did it happen? Not the bite! It wasn't the bite!!"
"OF COURSE it was the bite, you fucking..." Shipley spat and turned away. He pulled out his knife and she seized his wrist. "Please don't do this to him! Just leave him in peace--"
"Cut the crap! You didn't love him!" Shipley plunged the knife into Bish's throat. King opened her mouth, but no sound came out. "I know what love is," Shipley said softly, and started sawing.
Bish threw him off with a gurgling cry.
Shipley lost the knife in the darkness. He scrambled to his feet and saw Bish sitting up, blood gushing down his bare chest.
"Oh GOD!!" King sagged, sobbing hysterically. Bish turned to look at her and more blood spurted from his ragged wound.
"King - Gerry! Get away from him!!" Shipley crawled in circles trying to find the knife. How far could the fucking thing have gone?
"I DO love you!" King cried, taking Bish's face in her hands. He stared dully upward, and she knelt to kiss his mouth.
Shipley's finger found the tip of the knife. Cursing, he grabbed the handle. King's muffled scream rang through the night.
Bish tore her lips away, greedily gashing at her face, one arm wrapped around her back and the other mauling her breast. Blood spilled over his face, into his gullet, and his wide open eyes stared into hers the entire time.
Shipley buried the blade in the back of Bish's head. There was no response from the undead; as the tip of the knife emerged from his mouth, he met the dying King in a hungry kiss.
Grasping the handle with both hands, Shipley threw all his weight against it. Bish's head was ripped from his neck.
King slumped over on the headless, spasming corpse of her lover. Shipley wrested the knife from the zombie's skull and stood over her, sawing into her throat. He screamed to drown out any sound she might make, and screamed and screamed and screamed until he was utterly alone with the soldiers' unrecognizable remains.
Gerry King was the first and last living person he'd ever killed.
"Here we are." Mike pointed up the staircase of an apartment building. The sun had risen a bit and, though the sky was slightly overcast, it cast its warm light down upon them. Things almost felt normal - normal meaning Jefferson Harbor without a family of rotters prowling inside its walls.
Mike followed Shipley to the landing, then had him stand back. He rapped on the door. "Cheryl! It's me."
A series of locks could be heard turning. Cheryl yanked the door open and wiped tears from her eyes. "There was one out here! It had a shovel, going from door to door, and I didn't think it could get in but if it had been here when you came back--"
"It's okay, the coast is clear." Mike stepped into the doorway. "We've gotta go. There's a safer place downtown, with other people. I just need to grab a few things, then we can go."
Yet he didn't go in. He stood beside Cheryl, closing his grip around Voorhees' pistol. There was ammo inside, but her eyes had already met those of the man on the landing.
"This is Shipley." Mike said.
Cheryl smiled.
"Hi."
29.
Deconstructing the Dead
Just before noon, a series of explosions rocked Jefferson Harbor.
Boiling smoke tore into the sky as tongues of flame reached heavenward; at the east end of town, the great gates set into the city wall were flung from their hinges like so much rubbish on the wind.
The medical plaza went up in an unimpressive smattering of flames, but the Donner Convention Center's entire roof swelled like blistering flesh and was ripped away by the explosions within. And the city landfill ignited like a mountain of gas-soaked rags, spewing noxious black smoke that seemed to swallow the sun and stretch its tendrils across the sky.
Gene stood at the edge of the flames and studied the smoke tower. His cheek was scabbing over where the pipe had cut him, before he died; gaseous rumblings in his lower organs had ceased and he felt less pressure inside his abdomen. He was regenerating.
Noon. Voorhees and his survivors were taking the scenic route to the police department. He led them into a long-abandoned construction site to rest. Duncan pointed out the numerous empty buildings across the street, but the cop just shook his head. "Don't trust 'em."
"But--"
"Did you not hear those explosions earlier? Look at the smoke out there. Let's stay out here a while - we can spot a rotter coming from blocks away in any direction."
"What if Mike and the others reach the PD before we do?" Palmer asked. "Does he know how to get in?"
"He can figure it out."
"Wheeler--" Jenna began. Voorhees shot her a dark look. Staring right back at him, she went on. "He said something about the 'Addison estate' - a house in the swamp?"
"I said that. The house in the swamp part." Palmer sat on a concrete slab and peered up into the steel ribcage of an unfinished office building. "Addison was a doctor who lived out on the west end. That was years and years ago, he's got to be dead."
"Well, what about those rotters then? Wheeler said he recognized them. He called them kids."
"I'm hungry." Kipp mumbled. Wendy patted his head. "We'll eat soon, honey."
"It looks like rain." Voorhees observed. Jenna walked past him to Palmer. "Wheeler called the rotters kids."
"The children that Addison took in, the children of the wealthy. I wouldn't be able to recognize any of them, especially if they were undead. I don't see how Wheeler could have."
"It's just..." Jenna sighed, picked up a rock, tossed it into an open basement. "It's something."
"We all want answers." Palmer replied, in a counseling tone. Jenna flinched. "Reverend, don't start with that."
"I wasn't going to say anything about God, if that's what you mean. If God knew something that He was willing to share with us, I'd sure as shit know by now. I ask Him every morning and every night. Look. We were all born into a world with undead. We've all spent our entire lives asking questions, and we each desperately want something to hold on to. An answer." Gesturing around the site, Palmer smiled bitterly. "You really think there's an answer in Jefferson Harbor?"
"Why are we still alive?" Lauren asked. She was looking at Kipp, who had knelt to follow a beetle's progress over the soil.
"Laurie, please. I want to find out about these Addison kids." Jenna said.
"Let it go." Duncan grumbled. "The Rev's right."
"They were working together!" Jenna shouted. Lauren went white and pressed a finger to her lips; it went unnoticed. "I've never seen anything like that! And all of them looked PERFECT. Didn't you notice? They almost seemed alive. Not a mark on them! Tho
se clothes...somebody KEEPS them. Somebody ALIVE."
She pointed to the darkening sky. "Those explosions..."
"Okay, now you're grasping at straws." Duncan stood to face her. "I'm a journalist, Jen. I made a whole fucking career out of seeking answers, taking picture after picture of those things until they all looked alike to me. They were here before any of us, and they'll be here after we're gone. All we can hope is that we're not walking among them."
"Very moving, Mark. You want to jot that down before you forget?"
"Jen--"
"Don't call me that, asshole."
"I think Kipp's getting sick." Wendy broke in, quickly adding, "from the weather. Looks like it could rain. Between that and the smoke don't you think we should be indoors, Officer?"
"There's shelter here." Grabbing a bit of plastic sticking out of the earth, Voorhees pulled an entire sheet from the dirt and shook it clean. "Let's get beneath the scaffolding, and if it does rain we can drape this over the planks. Okay?"
The group reluctantly gathered together, in stubborn silence, but thankful for the company.
In the auto shop behind the remains of the shelter, Sawbones had managed to work himself out from under the shelf. He rolled over, propped himself up and looked at his nearly-severed feet.
Carefully he took them, one at a time, in his hands, and he tore them off.
The damage done to the dog's-skull had loosened the wires holding it on his head; he rolled over and slammed his face into the floor. The skull shattered, bone hanging in bits from the sides of his head. He tugged the wires out of his flesh.
Sawbones' exposed head was raw meat with patches of malformed skin here and there. His jaw had been wired shut. He pawed at the workbench beside him until it spilled tools into his lap. There, pliers.
The doctor went to work.
When it was done, he parted his lips, breaking capillaries that had formed along the seal, and spat black blood. Reaching in, he felt a full set of teeth there. Despite only being fed through an IV, he had eaten well. He massaged his jaw until he was able to open and close his mouth without using his hands. Not much biting power, but there were ways he could work around that until he was stronger.
There was no going back to the house in the swamp. No more master, no more others. He grabbed the axe and began the process of standing on the stumps of his legs.
Rain started falling on the roof. He rose, fell, rose, fell, carved bits of meat and bone away from his ankles to improve his balance.
Finally, he stood and stayed standing. It required the support of the axe handle, like a crutch, but he was standing. Sawbones took slow, wet steps across the floor. Several times he grabbed at the wall to steady himself. He'd need a better crutch. Especially since the axe was used for other things.
Sawbones walked out into the rain and opened his eyes and lips to receive it.
It felt good.
30.
Under
"What about food?" Wendy complained.
Voorhees dragged the plastic sheeting over their heads. "It can wait. None of us are starving yet."
Standing over an unfinished basement, Lauren watched rain pool at its bottom. Jenna gently brought her away from the edge. Duncan watched them confer in hushed tones.
"What's with her attitude?" Voorhees asked him. "She's not a goddamn rock star anymore."
Duncan was surprised at the words from his own mouth. "Don't pigeonhole her as a spoiled bitch. She wasn't making demands, she was looking for answers. Like the rev said."
"Doesn't matter. You'd better take her aside and let her know that she better listen to me, for her own damn good." Voorhees pressed a finger into Duncan's chest. "Unlike the rest of you, I still have a job."
Duncan stared silently at the finger between his ribs. The P.O. removed it, saying "I'm not trying to come off like a sonofabitch here. But I won't compromise anyone's safety. Got it?"
"Tell her yourself." Duncan muttered.
Lauren pulled away from Jenna and walked out from under the scaffolding. "Come back here!" Voorhees yelled. He grabbed Jenna's arm. "Go get her!"
"For fuck's sake--"
"I won't tell you again."
Jenna threw his hand off. "We made it long enough without taking crap from people like you."
Palmer wedged herself between the two of them. "This isn't accomplishing anything."
"No shit." Voorhees snarled through gritted teeth. Then he saw it, from the corner of his eye: Lauren stiffened and came to a dead stop in the rain.
Climbing over a concrete abutment, Zaharchuk trained his Desert Eagle on her.
"Stay there," he coaxed, hands trembling, the gun jerking from side to side. Lauren whimpered, but remained still until he was able to slip his arm around her and turn her to face the others.
Voorhees' hand flew to his empty holster. "Fuck." He reached behind his back for the widowmaker.
"Leave it, old man." Zaharchuk called. "I've seen you, I watch you when you're not watching me. I know all of you."
"He's crazy." Duncan whispered. Voorhees stepped out from under the plastic. "STOP!!" Zaharchuk barked.
"Okay." Voorhees held up his hands. "I'm unarmed. Why don't you lose the gun?"
"I know you've got a cleaver strapped to your back, shitheel." The mouth of the Desert Eagle dug into Lauren's neck. She closed her eyes. Zaharchuk pressed his cheek against her shoulder, peering at Voorhees as if from a foxhole.
"Tell me what you want." The patrol officer said. There was silence in response. "We don't have any food or drugs. We don't have anything to offer but shelter. Safety. Is that what you want? Do you want to travel with us?"
Zaharchuk's eyes narrowed, but still he said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the rain-soaked pistol.
"We're all in the same situation here," Voorhees continued. "If you want our help, you need to let that girl go. Put that gun away."
Jenna stared hard at Lauren, trying to send her strength through her eyes. Just hold on - don't move, don't cry, don't make a fucking sound.
Zaharchuk wiped his nose on Lauren's shoulder. "This is my gun! I'm the one who's safe!"
"Then get out from behind that girl."
Zaharchuk's fried logic had put him in a corner, Duncan knew, and the maniac would only try to shoot his way out.
Wendy screamed from the back of the group. Zaharchuk yanked Lauren's hair back and pressed the Eagle to her chin.
Voorhees, glancing back, saw Wendy teetering on the edge of the unfinished basement; Sawbones had come up and grabbed her by the ankle. Sawbones, the one they'd left behind, the one they'd crippled, had her leg. She shrieked and reached for the others.
Then she lost her footing and dropped into the cellar.
"What the FUCK was that! WHAT THE FUCK?!" Zaharchuk shoved Lauren forward. The gun was trained on her head. He was going to shoot.
Voorhees whipped the widowmaker through the air; it buried itself between Zaharchuk's eyes, and he flopped back into the mud without so much as a squeal.
Palmer dragged Kipp away from the edge of the basement. Sawbones was on top of Wendy, tearing at her clothes, her flesh. He pressed his gaping maw into her throat, and the puddle beneath them turned dark crimson.
Voorhees tore off his trench coat and made a running leap into the basement. Pain stabbed through his legs as he landed with a splash. Sawbones, the horror under the mask revealed, turned and grunted.
He had the axe. Voorhees was driven back by a wild swing. Clambering over the earth like an infant, Sawbones swept the axe through the air, scant inches, then millimeters from Voorhees' knees.
Duncan landed behind the rotter and ran to Wendy. Her throat was an open wound brimming with blood. Her eyes, unblinking, collected rainwater.
Voorhees moved in a wide circle. Sawbones followed. Did he remember the cop? Of course he did, and he knew that Voorhees was his greatest threat. Nothing would stop the undead from taking him out. Except... "GET THE WIDOWMAKER!!!" He screamed at those standing
topside. "THE BLADE!!"
Jenna ran past a sobbing Lauren and wrenched at the handle jutting from Zaharchuk's face.
Duncan grabbed Sawbones' leg and pulled it from beneath him, sending the rotter facefirst into a puddle. Sawbones sputtered and rolled over - heaving the axe with both hands.
It spun past Duncan, and searing heat lanced his thigh; he saw the bloodless gash open wide and turn red in the space of a second.
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