Serial Killer Z: Sanctuary

by Philip Harris

  “Harwood, you can’t—” said Parker, but Santos appeared, her own gun pointing at Parker.

  “This is not negotiable,” Harwood said. “Now, everyone inside.”

  The men standing beside the town hall had moved. They’d circled around behind the group, and they began herding us toward the town hall, rifles raised. Unsure what else to do, the crowd shuffled forward with no real resistance.

  There was a flash of lightning, and thunder reverberated across the square again.

  The thunder concealed the sound of the bus until it was too late.

  It burst into the square, black smoke billowing from its exhaust. Gears grinding, the bus accelerated. Its engine screamed in protest. It hit a dip and bounced. Metal scraped against the pavement.

  The guards behind the crowd ran in opposite directions as the bus hurtled toward them. Startled shouts and a single, strangled scream filled the air as the people around me gradually realized what was happening.

  The bus swerved sideways as it hit a lump in the road. Rain pelted the windshield, obscuring the cab, but I could see a shadow wrestling with the wheel as they fought to get the vehicle back under control. It straightened up again, heading directly at the town hall.

  People scattered as the shock of seeing eight tons of metal barreling toward them finally wore off. Someone ran into me as they tried to get away.

  I ran, too. The ground beneath my feet was slick and uneven, and as I turned, my foot caught in a deep crack in the asphalt. It twisted sideways. Sharp pain ran up my ankle. I hobbled on for a few steps, but the pain eased quickly. Behind me, the roar of the bus’s diesel engine was more than a match for the thunder.

  The bus was still forty feet or so away from the building when Santos opened fire with an automatic rifle. Bullets peppered the front of the vehicle, ricocheting away in a shower of sparks. The windshield cracked then shattered and fell away. Harwood calmly raised his pistol and let off three shots at the bus’s tires, but they hit the bodywork. Santos fired again, into the cab. The shadow inside ducked down. Bullets tore through the roof.

  The crowd had managed to get out of the way, but the bus continued toward the building. Harwood and Santos dodged aside.

  The bus raced past and slammed into the steps leading up to the town hall. They collapsed, and shards of wood exploded into the air. The front of the vehicle dipped then fell forward as the structure beneath it collapsed.

  Black smoke billowed from the bus’s exhaust. The pitch of the engine increased as its rear wheels spun uselessly in the mud. Then the engine spluttered and died.

  At some point, Melissa and Parker had jumped clear. Parker had a look of a horror and confusion on her face, but Melissa was already charging toward the bus. So were Harwood and Santos. Santos had her rifle raised, Harwood his pistol.

  The bus groaned and tilted sideways. Its now-burst front left tire rose into view as the right-hand side of the vehicle sank into the ground.

  People materialized in the streets as though from nowhere, drawn by the wreck. Some of them ran to help. Others hung back, watching from a safe distance.

  Metal ground against metal, and the door of the bus swung slowly open. Harwood raised his pistol as Mercy Ballantine clambered out of the cab. Her head was cut, and blood poured down her face.

  He let her get almost completely out of the bus before he fired. Three shots slammed into her, twisting her sideways then snapping her head back as the final round tore off the side of her skull. She fell forward. Blood poured from her wounds. The rain turned it into a river of red.

  Melissa screamed.

  And then the ground around the bus shifted and gave way. A wide crack zigzagged away from the front of the building as the ground subsided. The bus tilted again, and its nose dropped, the rear rising up like some yellow monolith.

  Harwood leaped to the side as a second fissure appeared nearby. Santos was slower to react. The ground beneath her feet crumbled and collapsed, and she fell. She dived onto more stable ground, but that, too, began to break apart.

  Screaming, she slid toward the fissure. She clawed at the ground, trying to gain purchase. Her fingers caught for a moment. Then the chunk of pavement she was holding on to broke away, and she was gone, swallowed up by the earth. A low, rumbling creak came from the town hall, and the front wall shuddered. One of the windows shattered, flinging glass into the street.

  Another fissure appeared, this one nearer the center of the square. Somewhere off to my right, someone screamed, and I turned in time to see a woman vanish into the ground. The earth around me shifted, and a sinkhole opened up to my left. I dodged right then left as the earth gave away again. I stumbled, caught myself.

  People ran about the square as more and more sinkholes opened up, revealing the cave system beneath the town. My first instinct was to run, but the shadow whispered to me. Harwood was still standing near the bus, searching for his own way out. He was exposed, distracted. Now was the time to strike, while the chaos around us had him off guard.

  A grin broke across my face as I loosened my grip on the shadow, removed the machete from my belt, and ran at Harwood.

  Chapter 52

  Harwood

  Some intuition must have alerted Harwood because he turned in time to see me running at him. He calmly raised his gun and fired twice. I dodged left and felt something sting my arm. He pulled the trigger again, but the gun clicked empty. He smiled and tossed the weapon to one side. Then he lowered himself into a slight crouch and waited for me to reach him.

  I slammed into him with my shoulder and drove him back. My feet slid across the ground as I tried to topple him over, but he was bigger than me, and stronger. I changed tack and brought the machete up toward his ribs.

  Harwood might have been a politician, but he knew how to fight. He blocked my attack with his forearm then brought his knee up. Pain shot along my leg, and it went numb. His attack put him off balance, though, and I managed to hook my leg behind his. It wouldn’t have been enough in itself, but the pavement behind him cracked. He stumbled back. I threw my weight against his body, and we fell.

  He grunted as we hit the ground. Again, I tried to slash at him with the machete. Again, he blocked the attack. Iron fingers wrapped around my wrist and dug into my skin. He twisted his hand, and the machete fell from my grip. I made a clumsy attempt at head-butting him and caught him in the mouth. He brought his other hand up and punched me in the head, just beside my eye. My vision doubled. He hit me again, harder and in the jaw this time.

  Reeling from the blow, I tried to land my own punch then another headbutt. Harwood twisted and writhed, easily avoiding my attacks. He elbowed me in the face, and a wave of blackness threatened to engulf me. I still had the second knife, but I was too busy having to defend myself from his attacks to risk trying to get it.

  As he wore me down, Harwood began to pick his strikes—a punch to the ribs left me gasping for air, another to the side of my head made my ears ring. I managed to get in a couple of decent blows, but I was fighting a losing battle. In desperation, I clutched at his face. My fingers found the soft flesh of his cheek. I raked my nails across it, and he let out an angry cry.

  He attacked me again. His fist glanced off my ear. I rolled sideways. He grabbed my wrist, trying to keep me in close, but his fingers slipped on my rain-slick skin. I struggled to my feet.

  A man’s scream echoed across the square.

  The rain lashed at my face and blinded me even as it cleared away some of the disorientation created by Harwood’s punches.

  He was on his feet, too—just a blur, an indistinct shadow bobbing and weaving in front of me. I raised my arms in an attempt to fend off whatever attacks might come my way while I fought to clear my head.

  “You really are a persistent little shit, aren’t you?” Harwood said.

  I wiped the rain from my eyes.

  Harwood was standing a few feet away, eyes blazing with anger. He grimaced and spat. His mouth was bleeding. He smiled and raise
d his arm. He was holding my machete. I could feel the weight of the other knife on my belt, but Harwood was probably too close for me to get to it before he reached to me.

  “Perhaps we should just call this a tie?” I said.

  “I think not.”

  I looked over Harwood’s shoulder even though there was nothing there. It was a cheap trick, but it was all I could think of. The movement caught his attention for a fraction of a second. I went for my knife. As soon as I moved, he ran at me.

  My fingers found the second blade. It felt small and wholly inadequate. Harwood was closing quickly. I faked right then dodged left, but the ground in front of me shifted, and a crack opened up.

  It was still narrow enough to jump, but as Harwood readied himself to do just that, a hand reached up and grabbed the edge of the opening. A charred face appeared, and a zombie dragged himself up the side of the fissure. He saw Harwood and snarled, doubling his efforts to get free.

  Then I heard it—the familiar droning drifting across the square. Another zombie appeared alongside the first. Her face was half-blackened by fire. She moved quickly and was halfway out of the ground when Harwood slammed the machete into the top of her head. She fell back, almost dragging him with her before he tore the blade free.

  Two more zombies were climbing out of the hole, blocking Harwood’s path to me. The first was almost on his feet. Harwood considered attacking him then thought better of it and turned and ran.

  All around the square, dozens of zombies were crawling from beneath the ground as the caves below the town vomited up the dead. Isolated groups of humans ran for cover or tried to fight off zombies that had them cornered, but the living were already outnumbered by the dead, and more cracks were opening up by the minute. Another building listed to the side. Dark shapes writhed at its base, and yet more zombies dragged themselves free.

  A car sat in the middle of the road about a block away from the square. Beyond it, two blocks farther but still tantalizingly close, was the main gate. The entire community must have been built on top of a warren of caves because the subsidence had reached the walls. They were twisted and broken. One of the watchtowers had collapsed. Two of the guards were struggling to lift the wreckage to free a third.

  There were two more zombies in an alley near the car, but otherwise, the road to the gate was clear. Convinced that car was the key to my escape, I ran toward it.

  Chapter 53

  Sinkhole

  The zombies from the alley saw me and adjusted their trajectory to intercept. I veered right, trying to lead them away from the car. That decision probably saved my life.

  The ground gave way. A sinkhole, twice the size of the car I was trying to get to, opened up just to my left. I felt myself sliding toward the opening and jumped.

  The pavement collapsed as I landed, and I was suddenly clinging to the edge of a massive hole. I kicked my legs in an effort to find purchase, but there was nothing beneath me. My hands slipped. I slid backward. My blood turned to ice. I clutched at the ground, found a crack in the asphalt, and managed to stop myself.

  Time slowed as my legs kicked in midair. Something touched my ankle. A chorus of moans rose up from behind me. With one last monumental effort, I dragged myself forward, swinging my legs up onto solid ground.

  I lay at the sinkhole’s edge and looked down into an underground cave. Zombies, twenty of them at least, milled around inside it. Somehow, a swarm must have found their way into the caves. The familiar rot permeated the air, but it was laced with the smell of smoke and burned flesh. I had a few seconds to wonder whether the fire had been a natural occurrence or if the previous inhabitants of the town had tried to burn out the infestation, and then the precariousness of my situation came rushing back.

  Part of the collapsed road had formed a sort of ramp. Two of the zombies had already found it and were making their way to the surface. A few of the others had seen me. They shuffled beneath the sinkhole, their arms raised, fingers grasping at prey that was just out of reach.

  I thought the sinkhole might have swallowed up the two alley zombies, but it hadn’t. I forced myself to my feet as they lumbered across the street toward me. They were still too far away to be a real threat and were moving slowly. Still, my head was fuzzy from the beating Harwood had given me, and my body was complaining at the punishment I kept heaping on it.

  I reached the car well ahead of the zombies, and I had time to check it was empty before I pulled on the driver’s door. It popped open, and I was greeted with the overwhelming smell of floral air freshener. I leaned inside and felt a surge of relief. The keys were in the ignition.

  The zombies were still advancing steadily toward me. The closest, a waiter of some kind, twitched his head and let out a loud moan. I clambered into the car and slammed the door closed. The driver’s seat was pushed so far forward I was crammed up against the steering wheel. The waiter moaned again. Somewhere farther away a woman screamed, the sound cut off almost immediately.

  I turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over twice then caught and roared to life. Maybe my luck was beginning to change. I tapped the throttle. The waiter had almost reached me. I could see the black orbs of his eyes, the thin strands of drool sliding down his chin.

  I put the car into reverse and hit the accelerator. It shifted back a few inches then stopped again. I pressed the accelerator harder. The engine whined, the car’s wheels spinning as they struggled to find any grip.

  The waiter collided with the side of the car. His face hit the window, smearing it with black blood and drool. Clawed hands clutched at me. Shattered fingernails scraped across the glass.

  I switched into drive and accelerated again. The car rocked forward, and then the wheels resumed their useless spinning.

  The waiter smashed his head against the window. The glass held, but the impact split his forehead open. Black blood seeped down his face.

  The second zombie joined the waiter. He threw his substantial weight against the car, and it rocked on its suspension. I had a sudden flashback to the morning I’d woken in the car on the highway.

  The opposite side of the vehicle was still clear, but a few feet away two more zombies were fighting to extricate themselves from a narrow crack in the ground.

  I turned the steering wheel hard to the right, put the car into reverse, and eased down on the accelerator. The wheels spun for a few seconds then caught. The car lurched backward. Its momentum slowed. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel in frustration. Then the tires caught again, and the car accelerated.

  The front corner swung in an arc and hit the two zombies, knocking them over. There was a thump, and the car bucked as it rolled over one of them.

  Gunfire crackled from the square’s direction. Parker and Melissa were still there, running toward one of the smaller buildings. Zombies swarmed around. Clusters of them hunched over the remains of the living unlucky enough to get caught, while others hunted fresher prey. There was a dull crack, and another sinkhole opened up in the road halfway between me and the town square.

  I put the car into drive.

  A group of people ran out of the building Parker and Melissa were heading toward. They shouted at Parker, waving their arms and screaming. A pack of zombies came around the corner of the building. A man slipped and fell. Hands reached out from the ground, grabbed him around the shoulders, and pulled him out of sight.

  I looked away from the square, toward the main gate. Three zombies were making their way down the road in that direction. The ground around the entrance had buckled, and two guards were struggling to get the gate open.

  Another building collapsed. One half sank into the ground and brought the rest down in a cloud of wood and dust. A motorcycle appeared from behind the town hall. It weaved across the square, the rider hunched over the handlebars. He’d almost reached the tree in the middle of the square when the front wheel skidded sideways.

  The bike went down. Sparks trailed after it as it slid across the road. The
rider hit the ground and rolled, his face smacking into the pavement. He slid to a halt and lay there clutching his face until the zombies reached him.

  I took my foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward.

  A zombie in a blue uniform had reached Melissa. She struggled with him, trying to push him away. She managed to tip his head back, and Parker swung a metal bar down onto his skull. The bar embedded in his head, almost splitting it in two. The zombie fell back onto the ground. Parker hit him again and then drove the bar end through his skull.

  I hit the brake again as unfamiliar emotions warred with the shadow, leaving me disoriented and confused. The shadow urged me to leave before the subsidence or the zombies cut me off from the gate. I knew I should, but part of me wanted to help Melissa. No, part of me needed to help her. But there was no way to drive back— the road was too badly damaged.

  Cursing, I rammed the car into park, opened the door, and got out. Glancing over my shoulder at the gate one last time, I ran back toward the square.

  Chapter 54

  The Square

  The town was in chaos.

  Most of the people had been killed or fled. Dozens of zombies wandered around, feasting on the remains of Sanctuary’s inhabitants. A few had been killed, either shot through the head or bludgeoned, but the corpses of the living far outnumbered those of the dead.

  Yet more zombies were dragging themselves out of the ground. When I ran past one of the fissures, I saw a trio of zombies clawing at the rock wall, trying to climb up. A low-pitched murmur permeated the earth beneath my feet.

  Parker and Melissa were fighting their way toward a nearby building with a sign outside that declared it to be a post office. A woman stood in its open doorway, urging them onward.

  A zombie reared up in front of me, his face a blackened mess. I ducked under his grasping arms and drove my knife into the back of his head. He went down, almost taking the knife with him.