No wonder people hated cops.
The ringing continued as he padded through the house and made sure the rest of the windows were shut. He also drew the blinds and triple-checked all the doors. Locked. Secure. Safe—theoretically. Everything this house should have been when this family went away for vacation. If it had been, maybe Collin wouldn’t have been here today. Maybe he would have decided that this neighborhood was too bolted up and he needed to hit something different. Something. Anything.
Hey, as long as he was blaming outside influences, he might as well blame his parents. If they hadn’t screwed around so much when he was a kid, maybe there’d be a college fund for him. It was midday during the school week—he could have been in some class that would in some way shape his very existence.
Instead, he was robbing a house on a street with bloodied-up freaks and blood-curdling screams from neighbors. Tires screeched passed the house, accompanied by the thuds of more bodies.
He couldn’t listen to the ringing anymore. It was better than the screaming, sure, but it grated his fraught nerves almost as bad.
Gripping his phone in one clenched hand, he made his way through the house. Passed the downstairs bathroom and the miniscule laundry room, Collin unlocked a heavyset door and dragged it open. Darkness greeted him, and adrenaline pounded through his limbs as he groped the nearby wall for a light switch.
“Damn it.” He muttered the words softly as the bright white light flickered to life, revealing a neat and organized garage—empty, car gone. He stepped down onto the cement block, his hands on his hips, and surveyed the sledding equipment strung up on the wall, woodworking tools on a small wooden desk, and bikes hanging from the steeped ceiling. He’d hoped for a car. It seemed to be the most effective method to get out of here, and neighbors had already proven that it was a good way to smash the freaks outside and get away untouched.
The temperature difference between the house and the garage was noticeable, and he rubbed at his bare arms, now covered in little bumps from the chill.
Maybe this was for the best. Sure, he would have been stealing a car to potentially save his life, but he wasn’t sure if he could make the jump from petty jewelry thief to automotive bandit.
Would have been nice though. He could have been in a completely different suburb by now. He could have been home. Shaking his head, he made a move for the tools, only to yelp and leap back when something scuttled over his foot.
A pair of rats peered up at him, and he wondered if they judged him for squealing like a fucking girl. Collin glared back, then kicked out at them. The pair scattered, scuttling toward the cement block under the door and squishing in behind it.
Good thing no one was around to see that. His reputation would never recover. Swallowing hard, he stomped over to the tools and looked through them. He handled each one, gauging its weight and handle-ability before pocketing a hammer and a screwdriver. There were a few knives in the kitchen that would probably do him some good—these sorts of people didn’t strike him as the type to have a gun.
The cavalry was probably already on their way. After all, the 911 line had been busy for ten years when he called, which had to mean other people in the neighborhood had looked outside and seen shit hitting the fan. All he had to do was hunker down and wait it out. Make sure none of those bloody freaks found their way into the house, and wait. He could see it now: in an hour, the whole street would be covered in SWAT guys and people in biohazard suits. They’d load up all the freaks, scrape that lady off the driveway, interview and silence potential witnesses (maybe with cash, he thought excitedly), and call it a day.
He just had to be patient.
Collin could do that. He could be patient for something like this.
He flinched when something slammed into the garage door. A cold sweat broke out across his neck and lower back, and he wasn’t about to sit around to see what was making all the noise. Phone in his pocket and tools in hand, he bounded back to the interior of the house and slammed the door behind him. After making sure it was locked, he grabbed the little shelving unit from the laundry room and stuffed it under the doorknob. Even if someone managed to bust the lock, at least there’d be an extra layer of something between him and a freak.
It probably would have been better to find a way to keep his new weapons handy, but Collin preferred having his hands free. The hammer sat nicely in the belt loop of his jeans, but the screwdriver and the pair of knives he grabbed from the kitchen found a new home at the bottom of his backpack.
Then, just to be safe, he pushed furniture in front of all the first-floor doorways. Sure, they were all locked—chain-locked, in the case of the front door—but Collin wasn’t about to take any chances. The number of freaks had doubled since he last looked out the window, looking bloodier and sicker than ever. The woman on the driveway was gone, a pool of dried blood left behind as evidence that she had, in fact, been brutally attacked right before Collin’s eyes.
After watching the freaks meander around on the front lawn for a bit, he grabbed his stuff and headed for the second floor. There was less of a chance of anyone spotting him there, and he could watch the scene unfold from a relatively safe place.
The master bedroom also had a bay window overlooking the street, with lacy curtains and a plush pillow stretched across the bench. Setting his backpack on the floor, Collin gently closed the bedroom door before climbing onto the bench. Legs drawn to his chest, he waited. He watched. He tried to see if he recognized any neighbors he’d seen on his bike rides through the neighborhood, but every… person down there was too fucked up to make a clear ID.
Doesn’t matter. None of it did. Those freaks could stumble onto porches or throw themselves into garage doors all they wanted—the cops were going to be here soon, and then the party would be over. Cops always killed it. They brought down the hammer of the law and spoiled everyone’s fun. In this case, Collin could do with a little fun-dampening.
And so he waited.
And waited.
And, just for kicks, he waited a little more. He watched the horde of bumbling freaks thicken and swell as the day went on, the shifting sun casting stretching shadows behind them. The freaks didn’t really do anything—unless they saw a normal person. Anytime someone ventured outside, Collin watched with rapt fascination as the freaks descended upon that poor soul. Like circling buzzards, they moved with more precision than he’d seen since they arrived. Screams followed, and Collin quickly became accustomed to shoving his fingertips so far into his ears that he was sure he’d popped an eardrum.
Daylight wasn’t especially long in the springtime, but it lasted until just after six in the evening—and even then, the cavalry hadn’t arrived. Once, at about four, a helicopter whizzed overhead. It flew low and loud, and even though it didn’t land anywhere nearby, it caught a couple of the freaks’ attention. Collin’s heart had sank into his stomach as he’d watched it fly away, but watching some of the herd meander after it had lifted his spirits somewhat.
But only somewhat. Night fell, and he soon came to realize he was trapped in suburbia. Alone—just him and the freaks.
Jaw clenched, he climbed off the bay window bench and padded across the bedroom. His stomach emitted a series of angry gurgles, and he figured there was no point in going hungry if he was going to be there for a while. Navigating an almost unfamiliar house at night was no easy task. He bumped his toe on the staircase railing. He tripped over a hallway rug. He nearly had a heart attack when he caught his reflection in the upstairs bathroom mirror.
But he eventually found himself in the kitchen, leaving all the lights off to avoid any unwanted attention. He gulped at the sound of groans in the backyard—apparently the freaks made noise too. Pleased he’d shut the curtains earlier in the day, he cracked open the fridge, then swore softly. Just like before, there wasn’t much in the way of food, but he could make do with what was there for a night.
His dinner consisted of the chocolate pudding cup he’d swiped
earlier, bits and pieces of the molded hunk of cheese, and a half-warmed can of beans he’d dug out of the cupboards. Collin ate at the table, in the dark, wishing he had something else to listen to other than the groans.
At least they were better than the screams. The night was free of those, though he heard something that sounded like a dog’s yelp when he was setting his used dishes in the sink. He dropped the plate, the noisy clatter of ceramic sending a chilly shiver down his spine.
Fuck. Apparently no one—and nothing—was off-limits to these freaks.
Still shaking, he moved through the house and checked all the doors and windows again, then barricaded himself in the living room in front of that flashy flat-screen, ears primed for the welcome sounds of sirens.
***
Unfortunately, it wasn’t sirens that woke Collin. Arms crossed over his chest, he drifted out of a dreamless sleep to find his neck sore.
After spending much of the night fortifying the house, he’d crashed on the living room couch with the hope of getting a few good hours of sleep. At the time, it had seemed inappropriate to sleep in any of the beds. Sure, he was robbing the place, but sleeping in the master bed just felt weird and wrong. Like he was overstepping his bounds. He related the act to rooting through the lady of house’s underwear drawer—creepy.
As he groaned and tilted his head to the side, he found himself wishing he had climbed into one of those cushy beds upstairs. He probably wouldn’t have woken up with a crick in his neck from sleeping at a weird angle on some rock-hard pillow. A dull ache radiated from his lower back too, and he assumed he hadn’t done much in the way of tossing and turning while he slept.
The less sleep-addled his brain became, the more he realized he hadn’t been roused by the aches and pains across his body. Eyes still closed, he slowly deduced that a sound was grating at his ears. Like nails on a chalkboard, something in this house was screeching. He drew in a deep breath, then wriggled his pinky in both ears. Hoping to clear out the sound with a good cleaning, Collin wiped the earwax he pulled out on his pants, then sighed again. The screeching was still there, like a cat stuck on the other side of a bedroom door, eager to get in.
Rats, maybe? Had they found a way in from the garage?
Opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling, enveloped in darkness, Collin wiped the damp drool from the corners of his mouth, then yawned. He sat up with another groan, feeling like some grandpa who needed help getting off the couch. His groan jumped six octaves higher, however, when he found the source of the screeching.
There, on the other side of the downstairs bay window, was a freak. She quickened her pace when they made eye contact, her bloody lips suctioned to the glass and her busted-up nails clawing at the windowpanes. Panicked, Collin crab-walked back until he had mounted the couch’s armrest and fallen to the floor on the other side. To his credit, he was too terrified to curse, though every single fucking expletive he knew was flying through his mind as he cowered out of sight.
The scratching increased, like she was using both hands now, and he heard a low moan through the glass.
He thought he’d done a good enough job covering all the windows, but apparently less than a foot of space was all that freak needed to watch him sleep. How long had she been there? How could she see him in the dark?
After making sure he hadn’t shit his pants, Collin crawled around the back of the couch, then slithered across the floor on his stomach. Moving ever closer to the window, he did his best to stay out of the freak’s line of sight. Then, when he had his chance, he reached up, grabbed the base of the curtain, and pulled it completely closed.
Apparently freak women hated being ignored just as much as real women. As soon as they could no longer see each other, she started pounding on the glass, her moans escalating to throaty yodels.
“Fuck,” he hissed, scrambling to his feet. Sure, glass wasn’t as easy to break as they made it out to be in the movies, but if she beat at it long and hard enough, she’d probably break through.
And he was not about to go out there in the middle of the night to look for a newer, safer hiding spot. No way. No fucking thank you.
All he needed to do was get her fixated on something else. He’d sent clingier ex-girlfriends running in the past, and they were probably only just smarter than some of these freaks.
Hammer in hand, Collin tiptoed across the living room toward the staircase. The new wood still managed to creak as he climbed up, and he winced at a particularly noisy crack on the second step from the top. Every strange sound tugged at his nerves, pulling and plucking and yanking to the point where he just wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep the night away.
But there was no way in hell he could do that if some freak was trying to get in.
He soon found himself in the master bedroom, which overlooked the lawn. Somewhere below, she was trying to get in. Even one floor up, he could still hear her nails on the windows—the sound send chills running up and down his spine. Luckily, he found what he needed in the ensuite bathroom: shampoo and conditioner containers, heavy-set combs, glasses cases, perfume bottles. They were all heavy enough to get someone’s attention—or so he hoped.
Climbing up onto the bay window, he carefully undid all the locks, then opened the window. Thankfully there was no screen, though he probably could have cut through one easy enough. He grabbed one of the glass perfume bottles first, then hurled it toward the street with everything he had. As expected, the glass shattered on impact, littering the street with tiny scented shards. The freak didn’t come running after the first one he threw, but it only took three more to finally get her attention.
Collin paused mid-throw when he spotted her lumbering across the lawn, abandoning the downstairs window for something more interesting. He bit the insides of his cheeks hard, adrenaline pulsating through his body, and continued to lob more bathroom products into the street. It was working—she was interested, definitely.
The bloody freak moved stiffly, like she couldn’t get her arms and legs to cooperate with each other. Stilted. Slow. But not to be underestimated—the woman’s screams from earlier in the day still rung in his ears.
He ended up clocking her in the head with a metallic glasses case, and Collin stifled his laughter as she staggered to the side, groaning. The freak didn’t seem to understand where the object had come from: she looked up once she regained her footing, bloodied mouth slack, the street lights illuminating her sickly features. It was just as well that she didn’t look back to the house. As much fun as it would have been to pelt her with household goods all night, he didn’t want or need her meandering back to the house to investigate.
If she could investigate. If all freaks were this dim, he may just have a chance.
Once he’d run out of things to chuck out into the street, he closed the window, locked it, then yanked the curtains shut. With his trusty hammer in hand, he navigated through the dark house, making his way to the downstairs bay window to check the curtains. Closed. No foot of space for a freak to watch him sleep anymore. With all the streetlamps blocked out for good now, Collin stood in the pitch-black room, his eyes only barely adjusted to the light, and suddenly found he was short of breath.
Taking in a few gulps of air, he turned on the spot and realized he couldn’t crawl back onto the couch. There was no way he’d be able to fall asleep there, not with the sight he’d woken up to. Instead, he groped around awkwardly until he found his backpack, then slowly worked his way back to the stairs, running the last few steps when something thudded against the front door.
He’d left a few of the upstairs curtains open, mostly from the kids’ rooms, and the dim lighting trickled into the hall like a welcomed guide.
It still didn’t feel right about sleeping in any of the beds, and he didn’t have it in him to see if the pullout couch was easy to assemble. Thankfully, he wasn’t unaccustomed to sleeping on the floor: he’d passed out drunk on enough of his friends’ floors to know that he could do it if ne
cessary. So, while sleeping under the covers was weird, sleeping under the beds was actually probably one of the smarter decisions he’d made tonight. If any of the freaks somehow managed to get in, he had serious doubts they’d look under beds for people.
And when the cops did their sweep, he’d hopefully be out of sight—and out of mind—until they were finished.
With a few grunts and grumbles, Collin got down and crawled under the luxurious master bed, glaring when his hair got caught in the springs. There was just enough space for him to curl up on his side, and he used his arm as a pillow. The carpet was surprisingly soft, but maybe that shouldn’t be a surprise. He was used to carpets so thin that they were practically the same as linoleum tiles. This was something else entirely. He smoothed his hand over the fabric, oddly pleased with its consistency.
Cradling the hammer to his chest, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. In the morning, there’d be cops everywhere. There’d be SWAT and FBI guys storming houses and shooting the shit out of freaks.
Unfortunately, it seemed like sleep just wasn’t in the cards for the night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that woman with her mouth pressed to the glass, looking like she wanted to eat him—literally.
Fuck.
***
Collin woke with a sharp intake of air, his hips and shoulders in agony. Four days of sleeping under the fucking bed, too terrified to leave himself exposed while he dozed, had left him with aches and pains all over his body. On top of the physical hurt, he was just plain exhausted. Anytime he tried to sleep, his nightmares decided to creep back in and scare him into the waking world.
Four days.
Four fucking days with nothing but freaks loitering around the neighborhood, not a cop in sight. He’d seen that helicopter once, a few days back, but since then, nothing. Nothing but screaming neighbors who tried to make a run for it, and the freaks who eventually caught them. He must have been losing his mind, but last night, as the freaks caught a guy probably only a few years younger than him, he thought they were hunting in packs—maybe working together.
Z Walkers: The Complete Collection Page 2
