four more fell to pistol fire as they reached the ground, before they could close with the troops. As two ran towards him and Kaylee, keening in their monotonous wailing voices, she raised her pistol and fired, knocking one backwards off its feet, as he swung his machete around in a wide arc and cleaved off the top of the other corpse's head as it tried to grapple with him. Meanwhile, a horde of dozens flowed over the barricade in a continual flood.
"We don't have awhile!" He shoved a whistle in his mouth and blew a single long blast, then spit it out.
He started to retreat. "Fall back!" Tapping his ear, he spoke into the microphone next to his left cheek. "Cover us."
Behind him he heard the platoon sergeant shout, "Fire!", and a second later came the pop of mortars going off as the forward squad retreated. Shells screamed as they arced high above, then dropped steeply down on the other side of the barricade. Fragmentation shells went off some twenty-five feet above the ground, while incendiary shells fell to earth. Their explosions lit up the night as the rising fireballs illuminated the surrounding city ruins.
Kaylee had rushed ahead to join her squad, as the two machine gun nests on either flank opened up. Though normally ineffective, their purpose at that point was to slow the macabre advance. Even if a corpse wasn't killed, a .50 caliber slug could still throw it down or tear off one of its legs.
Yet a huge number still got through, forcing the marines to fight the cadavers off before they could retreat further. The snipers fired as fast as they could, and the rest of the platoon had gathered at the fence, shooting through the chain links, but they had to check their fire to avoid hitting their comrades. West stood in the open gate, holding it against any zombies that came near.
"Come on! Move your sorry butts! We don't have all night!"
A few had fallen under the surge of walking dead, but finally they reached the gate, and ran as their friends opened up with everything they had. Kaylee stood off, letting her squad through as she helped cover them. But she wasn't sufficiently armed to hold the cadavers off, and four of them caught her and bore her down. As three held her, fighting and cursing, the fourth began to rip off her clothes, to expose the tender flesh beneath. More dead swarmed around her, and as soon as they had denuded her they knelt and tore into her body with their teeth. Only her head stuck out of the mound of carcasses, and she started screaming as she bent it back. She stared at him, imploring with her sky-blue eyes for help. He hesitated only a moment, but long enough for a corpse to clamp its mouth on her neck, silencing her in a spray of blood. Then several more converged on her head and she disappeared from sight.
Too late, he fired into the grizzly mass, screaming in rage, until his platoon sergeant pulled him behind the fence. One soldier tried to close the gate, but a couple of corpses caught him and pulled out into the mob, but another grunt managed to slam the gate closed even as several cadavers tried to get through.
"Fall back!" the platoon sergeant barked, pulling West with him. The marines complied, and the horde slammed into the fence. It held, swaying under the press of bodies, but everyone knew it would not hold for long.
Regaining his senses, he shook off his top sergeant. "Keep them at it; don't let those bloody zombies press too close."
"Yes, sir." But West didn't pay attention. He focused on Whateley and made a beeline towards him.
Before he could reach him, however, the self-proclaimed wizard made a final, spinning leap, threw his arms into the air, and shouted out a single word. West didn't catch it, but he doubted he would have understood it even if he had.
Whateley closed the book when he reached him. Despite its size, he took it from the marines and cradled it to his chest.
"Are you finished?" He put all the sarcasm he could muster into his tone.
Whateley turned to stare at him. That gaze did not intimidated him as it did others, but the old man did remind him of pictures he had seen of Charles Manson, except his hair and beard were dirty gray-blonde and his eyes were almost black.
"I have just completed the ritual, Lieutenant." His voice sounded strong despite his age and physical condition, and somewhat hypnotic.
"Good, because I really want to tear you apart right now."
"With help so soon on the way?"
"Damn you, we're about to be overrun. We're trapped, with no escape. And I just lost several good men, including Sgt. Summers."
Whateley's expression did not change, but his voice did manage to sound mournful. "A pity; my friends would have loved to make her acquaintance. Oh, well, you have a number of other females that will do as well."
From "The Surrogate"
Shasta watched as her hostess poured coffee into two cups before setting the pot on a ceramic hot plate. She then added a touch of brandy and a drop of honey to her own.
"And what would you like?" She gestured to the dozen silver or ceramic containers spread across the top of a glass-shelved cart standing at her left elbow.
Shasta gave them all a quick glance. "Just...a little milk, please." She felt too nervous to ask for anything else.
She saw the corners of Ms. MacCandels 's mouth twitch in a quickly suppressed smile. That made her feel even worse. It seemed to her the woman toyed with her, and not for the first time she asked herself why she sat in the breakfast nook of her mansion having high tea. A $25-a-trick street whore meant nothing to a woman of her social and financial standing. With interests in real estate, biotechnology, mining and banking--to name only a few--she wielded a lot of power in Colorado. And she used her enormous wealth to support universities and hospitals around the country, provide endowments to the arts and sciences, establish scholarships and fellowships, and donate huge sums to many charities, both public and private.
Still, she was there, and that meant there had to be a reason. One thing she knew for certain, if Ms. MacCandels did want something from her, she would undoubtedly get it. She had a reputation for being ruthless in her business dealings, even cutthroat, and rumors of foul play followed her like her own shadow. She would simply take her time, and play her games, and try to break her before making her demands. Knowing all that did not ease Shasta's nervousness, but it could help her give the old bitch a good fight.
Ms. MacCandels passed the cup across the frosted glass table top and then turned to the cart on her right. It carried platters of fruit, muffins, cookies, slices of cake and pie, and candies. Shasta's mouth watered just looking at it all. She rarely got the chance to see that much food, much less eat it. Her pimp took the lion's share of her nightly take, so she considered herself lucky if she had twenty dollars to her name. Fortunately she could live on that, being as she made her home in the basement of an abandoned, rat-infested tenement. But to keep herself reasonably well-dressed and groomed, certain sacrifices had to be made, such as food. However, she didn't want to give her another chance to humiliate her, so over the protests of her stomach she politely refused more than a plate of fruit.
Ms. MacCandels, however, had no such compulsions. She took a sample of everything, big samples at that. Shasta envied how the woman could eat so much and still remain trim, but that wasn't her only desirable characteristic. She had to be at least sixty, but looked less than half that. In point of fact, she had the kind of face many in Shasta's profession, including herself, would kill for. Each feature looked delicate and finely sculptured, except for her full, wide lips and her large, soft brown eyes. Her face had a round shape with no plumpness as well as being well framed by her shoulder-length hair. Its blue-black color contrasted with her milky complexion so that her face stood out. Any prostitute could have an alluring figure, with the proper combination of costume and props, but a face like hers was impossible without measures most street tarts could not afford.
"So, my dear, tell me: what's it like to be a 'working girl'?"
Shasta grimaced in distaste. Everyone asked her that, even her johns. She got so sick of hearing it, but she realized that Ms. MacCandels also used it as part of her little mind game. Well, she
felt sick and tired of playing that, too. She knew the bitch had her outclassed. She decided it would be better to go straight to business and skip all the society-style sparing.
She slowly and carefully set her fork down, trying to calm the fluttering in her stomach. Determined she might be, but it didn't relieve her anxiety. "Ms. MacCandels--"
"Oh, please dear, call me Clarrisa. We are, after all, going to be friends."
She hesitated as she did a mental double-take. The interruption startled her, but her statement unnerved her.
What did she mean by friends?
Momentarily gaining control of herself she began again. "Clarrisa, I..." She paused, her voice cracking when a stray thought occurred to her. Not all of her "clients" were men. That actually didn't bother her, but who knew what a woman like Clarrisa MacCandels considered good clean fun between the sheets?
Clarrisa feigned a concerned look. "Yes, dear, is something wrong?"
So, the bitch is enjoying this too. That made Shasta so angry that her hesitancy fled in the face of it.
Alright, damn it! Let's get this over with. Say it. The worse thing that can happen is I'll be sent back to my pimp empty-handed. Just say it.
"Clarrisa."
That's good. Sound confident, keep your
A Deliberation of Morality Page 11
