“You guys done arguing? Can we go?”
Mark and Anders glared at each other while the girl on the ground snarled and reached for them. They kept bickering while the deaders reached out and strained their broken bodies toward the fresh meals of Mark and Anders.
“For fuck’s sake!” Kate said.
Mark, maybe feeling like she was going to bowl him over—with her five-foot-three frame and all—stepped aside. Maybe he was just sick of Anders’s shit and decided to let Kate do something about it. It made sense. If she took care of the problem, then he could keep his relationship with Anders status quo.
Anders moved to block her, but she slid past him like he wasn’t there. Then the sword was in her hand. She brought it down with an exhalation that felt like it came from her feet. Kara’s head opened like a melon. She stopped snarling and dropped to the ground with a thump.
Anders stared at Kate in horror, then cradled Kara’s bloody head in his hands like he was going to hug her.
“That was his sister?” Anne asked.
“She was a deader, and everyone knows it. I did us a favor.”
He stared up at her, eyes livid. Sweat poured down his face to mingle with tears. He rose to his feet and lunged toward her. He left his rifle on the ground, but his sidearm was in hand and pointed at her head so fast it was a blur.
Kate had a choice but not long to make it. She had no doubt she could take the sword and remove Anders’s hand. She could probably take his head off before he got a chance to pull the trigger. They were only a few feet apart, but he still had that thing pointed at her, and the barrel hadn’t wavered an inch.
But Kate was fearless, always had been, and she was not going to let this asshole shoot her down like a dog. She dropped her blade and flew into him. Her eyes never left the weapon as she caught the barrel with one hand and moved to his side so the gun was no longer pointed at her. She stayed as close as a lover as her leg snaked around and checked his stance. She already had control of the weapon, but she slammed it against his chest so hard he would probably be bruised for a week. Barrel now along the length of his chest, she finished the move by pivoting her hips, translating her energy into motion that took him to the ground.
He managed not to pull the trigger because his wrist was bent inward as far as it would go without breaking. Air blasted out of his mouth as he hit the floor. With as hard as she threw him, he might as well have hit a brick wall.
She stayed with him through the move, dropped to one knee and planted the other in his chest, plastering the gun against his body. Kate gave a hard twist to remove the weapon from his hand. She was back on her feet in a split second, gun pointed at his head.
Anders lay next to his sister, covered in her blood. It had pooled around her body, and when he tried to move, his arm brushed against brain matter that was splattered all over the floor.
Kate aimed the gun at Anders’s head and considered giving him the same sendoff. But then she would have to deal with the other two, and that might get hairy. If Anne was a halfway decent shot, she would get Kate before Kate had finished off Mark.
If she took a shot, she would surely turn this room into the gunfight at the zombie-O.K. Corral
“It was for the best, and you know it,” Kate said.
The room was absolutely silent after she spoke. Anne was clearly skittish. She tried to cross her arms across her chest several times, but gave up and affected a ready stance.
Kate couldn’t read the expression on Mark’s face.
“It was,” Mark said after a moment. He placed his hand over the barrel of the gun and pushed it down. Kate let him do it.
Anders got to his feet and brushed off his pants. He moved slowly, like he was getting used to being on his feet again after being at sea. Kate didn’t blame him. The throw had been hard, and the ground was unforgiving. Getting slammed by a girl must have hurt his pride as much as his ass. He would be all right unless he pulled some shit like that again. If he did that, it would be lights out for Mr. Leader of the Pack, and fuck what the others had to say about it.
Anders didn’t look at Kate, so she kept his gun at her side. If he wanted it back, he could ask nicely once they were out of here. His automatic lay on its side a few feet away. He shook his head and let out a keening noise as he stared at his sibling, alone in a puddle of blood and viscera.
Anders stared and stared, but he didn’t say a word. He rolled to his side and grabbed his automatic, but he was careful to keep the barrel pointed down. He planted his other hand on his sister’s face and leaned close. If he kissed her, Kate was going to shoot him out of principle.
His lips moved, but she didn’t hear a sound. Mark moved to place a hand on Anders’s shoulder, but Anders shrugged it off. Mark didn’t look hurt. He just backed up so Anders could stand.
What was his next move going to be?
Kate had the gun in one hand and her sword in the other. If he even thought about pointing that rifle at her, she would slice his throat, then blow his mouth out the back of his head.
Anders grunted but didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He brushed past Kate to the door. Anne followed without a word. Mark was the only one who stayed with her.
“You’re something else,” Mark said.
“Had to be done, and you know it,” she replied.
“He didn’t know that.”
“He should be smart. She was one of them. A faceless creature that needed to be killed. His sister died the minute one of those things bit her.”
“I agree. And I agree that it had to be done. But you might have handled it with a little more subtlety.”
“Who are you, my fucking dad?”
“I’m just saying, Kate, that was his sister. His only living relative.”
“I didn’t know. Recent?” she asked.
“They had a house in Queen Anne that was overrun the second day.”
“Sorry,” she muttered.
Kate looked up into Mark’s face and saw something she didn’t expect: understanding. He should have been on Anders’s side, but he wasn’t. He knew that she’d done the right thing, and he even approved. She didn’t understand why her heart swelled at his approval.
He reached down and brushed an errant strand of hair across her forehead. Her ponytail was probably a mess. Just like his arm was going to be when she chopped his fucking hand off for even thinking about touching her.
But she didn’t. She didn’t even slap his hand away. She just stood there like a twelve year old waiting for a boy to hold her hand for the first time.
“Don’t,” she said at last. Kate turned away, toward the door, all too aware of how little conviction her voice held.
Lester
If Lester had somehow brought his AR-15, he was pretty sure he would have turned it on Grinder and then himself.
“What the hell? Can you push it open?” Their voices echoed in the tiny space. To Lester’s drug-addled mind, it sounded like he was talking into a cup through the straw.
The lid lifted a few inches, then stopped. A small sliver of daylight filtered in. Lester swore the stench of the place caused the beam of light to waver as if it had passed through steam.
“Damn thing is stuck.” Grinder banged against it again.
“Shhh!”
“What do you mean shhh? You wanna be stuck in here all day? They’re gonna find us dead from the smell.”
“No one’s going to find us. Just shut up. Why the fuck is it so wet in here?”
“‘Cause you’re sweating like a damn pig, and so am I. Oh fucking hell, we are so fucking fucked.” Grinder hit the lid again.
“Really? It’s sweat and not cat piss or something like that?”
“Yeah, man. I feel like I’m in a sauna. Same thing I did there, I’m doing here. Breathing through my mouth, man. I bet I smell like a homeless dick, but not in here. In here, the stench just kind of mingles.”
Lester giggled. He had a sudden vision of buckets of sweat getting dressed up and h
anging out in a huge room filled with hot girls who wanted to meet them. It was a candlelight affair, and everyone had to drink expensive wine.
“What’s so funny?”
“The sweat drinking wine.” Then Lester laughed out loud and banged his hand against the side of the trash container.
“I thought you wanted to be quiet. Now you’re acting all crazy and shit. Dude!”
“Dude. See, they dress up in tuxedoes, and they party. Like buckets of the shit, right? When they get going, the sweat flies everywhere. The buckets don’t sweat ‘cause that’s not in the cards for the buckets. The buckets hold the sweat. Get it?”
Lester went into a fit of laughter and kicked his leg up and then down into something that squished. That sobered him up right away.
“Dude. If you roll over on all fours and I get on your back, I can push the lid open. Can you do that?”
“The hell do you mean get on all fours? I ain’t into that kinda shit. And even if I was, in here?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. If I just get some leverage, I know I can get the door open. Come on, Les!”
“Angela called me Les. Not you, buckaroo! Not you!” Lester screamed at the side of the container and bashed his hand against it again. He sucked in air like it was going out of style and immediately regretted it.
“Stop! You’re gonna attract half the deaders in the city. They’ll surround us, and we’ll die in here. Just you and me, bud. Covered in filth and fucking shit. We won’t die from starvation, though. Know what we’re going to die of?”
“Huh?”
“We’re gonna die of me killing you and then myself!”
“Do you have any weed, man?” Les asked after the tiny space had been quiet for a few moments.
“Just the shit you sold me two days ago,” Grinder spat back.
Les sat back in frustration, banging his head in the process. He rubbed the sore spot and regretted it. His hands were covered in filth, and now his hair was too.
Why did everything have to change? It was just a few nights ago that he and Angela had been enjoying a quiet zombie-free night at home.
She had the stereo blaring through the tiny kitchen while she shook her ass in a pair of shorts so tiny they left her cheeks hanging in the wind. Lester waited patiently and really didn’t care if the food ever got done. He was happy to just watch her, and she knew it.
“What’s on your mind, babe?” she asked as she filled a pot with water.
“Your ass.”
“Don’t you love me for my smile too?” she purred and shot him a hundred watts of the finest whitening the city could offer. Dr. Spectin (sounded like something he had to clean off a sheet once) had a practice not too far from the house and always made time for Angela no matter the procedure and no matter the day. She got them shined up at least twice a year. And Spectin got to look down her blouse.
“Sure, babe. And all your other stuff,” he said in a lackluster tone. They had been together for a while, but he didn’t want to get married, or maybe he did. If he were ever going to drag his lazy stoner ass into a church, it would be for Ange.
“My other stuff, huh?” She sashayed across the kitchen. He had to lean over to watch her as she left his range of sight. He extended his body too far and nearly fell out of his seat. He sat up and considered a hit on the old pipe. Been an hour, might as well. Nothing else to do tonight except Angela. Provided, of course, he kept her in a good mood.
He reached for his baggie of green delight. Had to root around for it. Why the hell was their living room table always so messy? There was a newspaper section from three months ago that he was too damn lazy to toss out. At least two remote controls that seemed to have no fucking use. Some coasters that never saw condensate. An ashtray to catch their roaches, currently partially full. Two weeks ago, they were low on supply and had to peel a few papers to make ends meet. There were few butts too, even though he hardly ever smoked cigs.
There was a half-finished bottle of Coke that was probably warm and most likely a few days old. The funniest was a box of tissue paper that had some kind of stuffed animal wrapped around it. Angela found it at an Oriental store in the mall. The back had a slit where the paper came out. It had looked like a cat, but Les took a lighter to the whiskers and furry back. He said that any pussy in his house had to be bare. Angela smacked the shit out of him for that one.
He was just about to dig around in the roaches to see if any looked promising, when a banging came from the front of the house.
It wasn’t a knock, exactly, more like a giant booming that scared the ever-loving shit out of him. It was the sort of pounding that made his heart scream from zero to DEA in about half a fucking second.
This was it! After all the careful planning and years of successfully hiding his sideline as a drug dealer, they had found him, and now he would be looking at twenty years. Fuck! Lester wasn’t exactly the fit type, and he was apt to have his ass pounded like … well, like the prison bitch he was going to be.
He froze in place, but his eyes went to the semiautomatic butted up against the wall. He was just a few feet away and could have it in hand in the blink of an eye. It was even loaded but carefully set aside without one in the chamber. If there was one thing Les lived for, it was slamming a shell into the breech by racking back the slide.
They probably had guys at the rear, though. They probably had half a dozen assholes back there in their black jackets with DEA splashed across the back in yellow. Guns drawn, ready to bash in the door at any second with one of those big ram things.
If he did go for his gun, at least he could go out in some kind of blaze of glory. With his luck, they would shoot him just enough to fuck up his body but not actually kill him. Then he’d be in jail in a little wheelchair and would be even easier meat for the boys of cell block LSYA—–Let’s See Your Ass.
The pounding again. Christ, why did he think of the word “pounding”?
If he did go for the gun, it might be a short fight, and there was Angela to consider. Couldn’t very well drag her into it. He planned to do everything he could to prove she had nothing to do with his side job. They had worked on the story and alibis for as long as they had been together, and he was confident that she wouldn’t do time. How the hell could they put such a hottie behind bars? That would be a crime in itself.
She would visit him for a while, at least until she met a new guy; then it would be adios, amigo. Have fun rotting in jail. Vertigo washed over him as he reached for the AR-15; the floor suddenly felt much closer than it should be. But reality sucked him back to the present and punched him in the gut.
“Fuck, Les. Can’t you get the door?” Angela called from the kitchen. Her voice didn’t have a hint of fear in it.
He rose and decided to forget about the gun. He would just talk his way out of it. Tell the feds that Lester no longer lived here. He was Joe Shmoe who had moved in a few months ago. That was it. They would buy it, walk away and leave him in peace and quiet.
The door was a mile away. The hallway stretched toward the wooden portal that was sure to hold his doom as soon as he opened it. He took a second to check the picture halfway down the hall to make sure it was straight and secured to the wall. It was his stash, his own private cubbyhole that no one, Angela included, knew about. He had a bag of drugs and a sweet little gun with which someone had paid for goods. And another gorgeous ball of misery in the form of a genuine Army-issue fragmentation grenade. He wasn’t ever going to detonate it. He just wanted it to show off to his associates.
Maybe he could tear the picture off, grab the grenade and lob it at the door. Then he and Angela could make their escape in the ensuing chaos. That shit always worked in the movies. They would flee while the house blew up, in slow motion, of course. He wouldn’t even look back as the flames rose into the sky, because he was too cool for that.
He made it to the door, shaking, and checked the side window. He had never put in a peephole. Both sides had a sliver of a window done up in
ornate glass, some etched crap that an upper-class resident had put in as part of a renovation. The problem was that they never got around to doing anything else. The windows looked nice, sure, and they probably cost a small fortune. All the etching and raised glass distorted the view.
Les peeked anyway. He tried not to make the curtains move, but they were right up against the edge of the windowsill. A moth couldn’t get into the tiny space, let alone his questing eye. A little sand garden sat on the sill, something Angela had picked up for him. The idea was to use the little rake to make shapes in the sand. It was supposed to be relaxing. The night she gave it to him, he wrote BLOW ME. They had laughed so hard that there was never a thought put toward erasing the words and making shapes. It became the unofficial welcome to all visitors.
Les did a double take as a figure dressed in tan came into view. There wasn’t a group of a dozen agents with a battering ram, but what in the blue fuck was an Army guy doing here?
Les eased the door open. His eyes were wide, because he was all too aware that he had been as high as a fucking kite not an hour ago.
The guy had all the requisite gear of a soldier. Camouflaged clothing. Bunch of little pouches that would be terrific for hiding bags and bags of drugs. He had a few clients who were in the military, but he never thought to ask one of them to carry stuff back to a base.
“Help you?” Les heard his voice echo off the roof of the porch. Oh God, this guy was going to know there was a weed fest going on here. He could smell it or sense it. They trained them like that, didn’t they? Each and every Army guy was like a drug-sniffing dog, able to detect the slightest hint of wrongdoing. He was going to take one look at Les, rush back to command and report him. Then the real trouble would begin. Shit shit SHIT!
Behind the soldier was a large military transport. A pair of soldiers stood in front of his crappy chain-link fence, writing on a clipboard. Bright flashlight beams marched up the street in various directions. It was eerie. Felt like something out of a whacked-out dream.
Among the Dead Book 2 (Among the Living) Page 15
