A breathing human.
“Hey!” Bill shouted.
The kid stopped running and spun around, confused. She was female, maybe twelve or thirteen, wearing lime-green sneakers. Her chin was brown with dried blood, and the skin around her eyes was so bruised that Bill wondered if maybe she was dead after all. But she looked up and blinked into the veiled sun and managed an expression so human—fright, relief, and confusion all rolled into one—that Bill’s heart gave an extra twitch in his rib cage.
“Head for the back door,” Bill shouted, waving her around to the rear of the church. She’d have to cross the parking lot and a stretch of lawn, but it was relatively open. Not many bushes from which hungry things could jump out. Bill conducted a quick surveillance to make sure she had a running head start, and then he slung the Winchester’s strap across his shoulder and descended the narrow ladder that ran from the belfry access.
When he reached the vestibule landing, he double-checked to make sure the front door was locked. A group of deaders scratched at it, shielded from his line of fire by an overhang. He didn’t want to deal with them yet, so he sprinted through the nave, ignoring the dead perched in various postures in the pews. Some of them seemed to be bowing and kneeling in a creepy kind of penance. Bill had no idea whether their prayers had been answered, and he doubted if they had any idea, either.
He crossed the altar to the rectory office just off the wing, the route he’d taken to enter the church. The office was a mess, with books and sheet music littering the floor, a filing cabinet overturned, and rumpled liturgical robes draped across the furniture. Blood was spattered across one wall, but no bodies were in sight. Maybe the priest had turned and gone out in search of communion.
Bill flipped the deadbolt and twisted the door handle, triggering the safety lock. He angled the Winchester in his right hand so he could bring it to bear if necessary. He cracked the door open, leaving one boot in place as a stop in case a deader was waiting to push through. Satisfied, he swung open the door and let in the watery light of a dreary day.
“You coming, kid?” he asked, stepping outside onto a narrow portico.
She nearly tripped over a curbstone as she darted onto the lawn, and Bill saw the reason for her panic. Two deaders staggered and shuffled after her. But something about them was off. They were gray-green with rot and bits of bone showed through here and there inside the rags draped along their gaunt frames.
“Double deaders,” Bill muttered under his breath, wondering what that smart-ass scientist on the radio would say about these two fine specimens.
He told the girl to duck, and as she crouched low, still running as best she could, Bill aimed and fired. The bullet sheared a chunk of gray meat off the nearest creature’s shoulder. But it didn’t tear away in a spray of juice and gore. Instead, a soft gray powder arose from the wound as if someone had shaken a dust cloth. The deader wobbled and juddered for a moment, and then continued its pursuit, although it lagged behind its tag-team partner.
Bill levered another round into the chamber, this time aiming for the head of the nearest one. The shot wasn’t perfect—the round punched a hole just above the wrinkled mess lurking inside the eye socket—but it was enough to scramble the brain.
Yet still the thing staggered forward, barely slowed at all.
Bill fired again, this time taking away a fist-sized chunk of skull. The thing still came, the stretched skin of its face giving the impression of a leering grin.
“Out of the way!” the girl yelled, and at first Bill thought she was just going to blow past him and keep running until she reached the end of the world.
But at the last second she swiveled on one foot and turned toward him, pumping her arms as she ran up the steps. “Get inside! You can’t kill them.”
Bill stood to the side as she breezed past him. He gave the two creatures a last look—they weren’t moving fast, but they were steady and didn’t seem to tire—and decided he’d seen enough. He slammed and locked the door behind him as the kid collapsed into a desk chair, panting and wheezing.
“What was that all about?” Bill asked.
“You don’t get it,” the girl said, giving him a skeptical glance.
“Deaders, zombies, and all that,” Bill said, and then, feeling the need to impress her, added, “What some are calling ‘re-animated postmortem entities.’ I’ve been shooting at them for days.”
“These things are more than dead,” the girl said, wiping sweat from her forehead. She wore a leather bracelet on her left wrist that held a little wooden charm.
“I know,” Bill said. “They caught the Klondike Flu and died, and then turned into flesh-eaters. Or else they got bit and became infected that way.”
“Do you even Instagram?” she asked, incredulous. “These gray creepers were dead when all this happened. I saw a video a guy took in a mortuary. A body was under a sheet on a gurney, and then the sheet just starts rising up. The corpse was sitting up, you see. And this was even before the Klondike Flu hit Raleigh.”
“I would’ve heard about something like that,” Bill said. “It would’ve been all over the news. Sounds like a hoax.”
“You think Fox News would cover something like that? You look like you watch Fox News.”
Bill wasn’t sure if that was an insult or not. “I don’t even have a TV. Can’t afford cable and can’t get shit with an antenna these days.”
Something thumped against the rear door.
“They may be hard to kill, but they’re not too smart,” she said. “These two had me cornered in a Whole Foods but I faked them out.”
“Whole Foods is nearly a mile from here. They followed you all that way and you didn’t give them the slip?”
Her lips curled in a pout of defiance. “Give me a break. I’ve been running for three days straight.”
“They don’t seem to move too fast.”
“Have you been chased yet?” She waved at the door. “Maybe give it a try and see for yourself.”
Bill glanced at the door, where the thumping had grown louder and more insistent.
“That’s what I thought,” the girl said.
They waited without speaking for half a minute, the office filled with the muffled thumps. Softer pounding from the front door added to the mix as well.
“We’ve got them at both doors,” Bill said. “No way out for now. My name’s Bill. Bill Flanagan. And you are…?”
“Kit Marr.” The girl leaned back in her chair and sagged with a heavy sigh. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I probably could’ve gotten away anyway, but I figured—”
“Maybe you should just stop at ‘thanks,’” Bill said. “It’s okay to do that without adding an explanation.”
“What are you so uptight about? Besides the zombie apocalypse and natural disasters, I mean?”
Bill studied her. “How old are you?”
She looked away. “Fourteen.”
“So, twelve then.”
“Thirteen!”
“Fine. Where are your folks?”
“Dead. Got scorched by one of Uncle Sam’s bombs. I was in school when the shit hit the fan, and by the time I made it home that evening, all I found was a smoking black hole.”
Her defiant anger made more sense now. “Sorry to hear that.”
“You?” she asked, a little subdued.
“I’m a widower. Don’t have anybody.”
“Well, looks like we’re stuck here, so you have me.”
“Looks like it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Humvee’s return trip to Promiseland was much slower.
The median the Humvee had taken on the way in was now blocked, and Cyrus assumed more survivors had tried to flee and ended up adding to the traffic jam. They’d seen a few headlights last night but hadn’t stopped to interact with anyone. Not many vehicles had the traction and power of a Humvee, but people were desperate enough to give it a t
ry. Even the shoulders were impassable due to people driving into the mud and getting stuck.
The Humvee was crowded with the people they’d rescued from the airport, and three of them were riding on the vehicle’s roof. Others had declined the offer to return to Promiseland, afraid to make the trip across exposed territory.
“What do we do?” Horowitz asked from the driver’s seat, idling the engine. “I don’t think we can plow our way through this.”
“Maybe drive around?” The forest encroached from both sides, and Cyrus didn’t think the Humvee could navigate through the trees.
“You have four-wheel drive,” Ted Weatherby offered from the rear. “You could backtrack and find a field or even a shallow creek, and go from there.”
“Can’t risk it,” Cyrus said. “I don’t want to lose any ground.”
“Surely you don’t expect us to walk it?” Sarah Beth said.
“No, we just cross through this pile-up and find wheels on the other side of it,” Cyrus said. “Repeat as necessary.”
“I don’t like being out in the open,” Private Brown said.
“Looks like it might rain again,” Horowitz said. “If we’re out there when tornadoes hit…”
“No wall clouds are forming,” Weatherby said. “We should be good unless we get some more of that freak hail.”
Cyrus wasn’t about to put the matter to a vote, but he deferred to Sarah Beth on the decision. “What do you think, Mrs. Ingram?”
“Maybe if we all stick together, and you guys with the guns can protect us, we can do it,” she agreed.
“We got your back, ma’am,” Brown said with a sudden cockiness. Cyrus was amused at the soldier’s attempts to impress the woman. She was way out of his league, even if she wasn’t already taken.
“What about my back?” asked the clerk from the Hudson shop.
“I can do two at once,” Brown said with a snicker.
“Let’s do it,” Horowitz said, killing the engine and opening his door.
Cyrus got out and helped Sarah Beth from the vehicle, and then the others piled out after them. Cyrus asked one of the men on top of the Humvee if he spotted any deaders.
“Nothing moving,” he said as he climbed down via the metal ladder attached to the rear. Cyrus conducted a head count. Eight people, not counting Brown and Horowitz.
“Private Brown, why don’t you take point?” Cyrus asked.
“I promised these ladies I’d watch their backs.”
“You want to watch something else, but we need your eyes on the job. Use your training. Horowitz can bring up the rear.”
Brown muttered what was probably a string of curse words, but he picked a path between the congested vehicles toward the nearest gap. The pile-up was maybe twenty cars deep, and more were scattered at intervals for miles beyond: tractor trailers, vans, SUVs, sedans, a garbage truck, and even a motor grader. Cyrus noticed that no motorcycles had been abandoned—their drivers had taken to the woods.
He vowed to steal one if the opportunity arose, even if he had to kill the owner. He’d take Sarah Beth and leave the rest of the group to fend for itself.
A couple of the civilians followed Brown, including a man who’d scavenged a handgun from a dead security guard. Cyrus figured Sarah Beth would be safest in the middle of the line, so he urged her forward. A bloody hand slapped the inside of a window beside them.
A young woman, diseased and ravenous, banged her head against the glass, teeth clacking together. In her lap was a stained blue blanket. She’d eaten her own infant.
Sarah Beth nearly fell backward from shock and Cyrus put a supportive arm around her. This was her first close encounter with a zombie.
“Are they…are they all like that?” she asked.
“Plenty are,” he said. “Some of them died from the infection. And others turned after getting bitten. Whatever you do, don’t let them get close to you.”
“The poor things,” she said. “No chance for salvation.”
“Your husband said the Lord will sort it out. But we have a responsibility to take care of each other. And we can do that at Promiseland.”
“‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’” Sarah Beth quoted, unable to tear herself away from the horrifying sight.
“These aren’t neighbors,” Cyrus said. “They’re not even people. They’re certainly not children of God.”
The deader’s banging grew more insistent, her milky eyes glaring at Sarah Beth. The gleam of hunger was somehow more disturbing than the strings of flesh between her teeth and the blood on her chin. The low, raspy growl that emanated from the thing’s mouth was otherworldly. Reverend Ingram was right when he called them demons.
The noise caused movement in more of the vehicles. Cyrus saw at least three zombies thrashing against their seat belts. One, fastened into the driver’s seat, pitched forward and bumped the horn, then remained pressing against it while reaching toward the front windshield at the passing group. The blare echoed across the valley.
Horowitz darted up to the Kia, putting the muzzle of his rifle against the glass.
“Don’t!” Cyrus said. “A shot will just bring more of them.”
“Like that horn won’t?”
Cyrus pushed the man out of the way and opened the door. The odor of rot and disease wafted out. The blaring died away instantly. When the driver, who’d once been a balding man in a business suit, twisted and lunged toward Cyrus, he grabbed the back of the deader’s neck and slammed it against the metal framework. Then he slammed the door, crushing the skull with a sickening crunch.
“Nice work,” Horowitz said.
“Keep them moving,” Cyrus said. “More of them will be along soon.”
When Cyrus rejoined Sarah Beth, he said, “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Cameron said you could handle yourself,” she said. “I see what he means. I’m glad we have you to protect us.”
“I learned it in the ring,” he said. “I’m not proud of it, but it’s just a tool. Violence isn’t a sin if I use it for the Lord.”
Brown was now nearly past the most concentrated mass of traffic. He climbed atop a truck bed to survey the area. He pointed in the direction of the airport. “Pack of deaders coming this way.”
The news increased the urgency of the group, and a couple of them slammed into each other trying to squeeze between the packed cars. Cyrus took Sarah Beth’s hand and led her on a labyrinthine path through the pile-up. She squeezed hard when a scream erupted behind them.
“They’re in here with us!” somebody shouted, and a panic ensued.
Horowitz fired off a burst of rounds as several people clambered across the hoods and roofs of cars, desperately seeking traction on the slick metal and glass. The Hudson clerk was pulled down behind a U-Haul truck, grabbing at the handle of the rear door. Before Cyrus could react, she was gone, dragged under the truck where her cries and screams were muffled and soon gave way to a deep moan of agony.
“Go help them!” Cyrus bellowed at Brown, who’d maintained his perch in the bed of the truck, unsure of what to do.
“Sharks in the water!” Brown raised his M16 and aimed at the deaders in the distance, but the attack was taking place in the tight cluster of cars where they were largely hidden.
Cyrus stopped long enough to aim at a dark-skinned zombie teen creeping past a Mercedes. His first two shots missed, one of them glancing off the shoulder that sent the zombie into a spin. The zombie regained its balance and turned to the sound of the gunshots, unaffected by the wound. Cyrus shot it just below the eye and it vanished behind the Mercedes.
Only four of the civilians were left now, in addition to Horowitz bringing up the rear. Sarah Beth ran from the screams, and even though she was dressed in her usual fashion of knee-length skirt with a blouse and jacket, she’d donned sensible flat-heeled shoes for the trip. Cyrus sprinted after her, yelling at her to run for the open road instead of the trees.
Once they were clear of the jam, Cyr
us checked a few of the vehicles but couldn’t find any keys. Deaders swarmed after the rest of the group, who were cut off by some zombies that had drifted in from the woods.
“We have to help them,” Sarah Beth said.
“I can’t risk your life,” Cyrus said. “I made a promise.”
“Where did they all come from?”
“They were already here.”
Horowitz and Brown both fired a series of bursts that shattered windshields and punctured sheet metal. Horowitz emptied his magazine and as he dug into his belt to replace it, a deader scrabbled over the trunk of a sedan and grabbed his field pack. Horowitz swung an elbow and caught the thing in the mouth, but the teeth tore through his jacket and stripped his flesh. He spun away, flinging blood, and punched at the deader with the full magazine. While he was engaged, a second zombie slid out of nowhere and dug into his thigh.
Seeing this, Brown sprinted after Cyrus, followed by the last two survivors. Dozens of zombies emerged from the pile-up, giving chase in their stilted, slouching gaits. They moved much faster than a dead thing had a right to do.
Cyrus had a choice to make, and his choice was Sarah Beth, so it was really no choice at all. God would forgive him.
Cyrus dropped to one knee and fired his AR-15 at Brown and the others, laying a sweep of bullets across their path. He intentionally aimed low, taking their legs out from under them. Brown gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief as he fell writhing onto the asphalt. The other two also collapsed, groaning and trying to crawl away from their pursuers.
Sarah Beth opened her mouth in horror but Cyrus didn’t give her time to contemplate his actions. He pulled her to the next vehicle and tried the door. It was locked even though the driver’s corpse was slumped behind the wheel.
The first wave of zombies reached the injured people and fell upon them, growling and moaning around mouthfuls of flesh. Screams pierced the desultory sky, but the heavens gave no response.
“Come on,” Cyrus said. “While they’re busy eating.”
Sarah Beth broke from her stupor and followed him, dragging her feet as if refusing to accept what was happening. Cyrus found a Ford SUV with the door unlocked, dragged the dead driver from the seat, and got behind the wheel. He yelled at Sarah Beth as he kicked the engine to life. She staggered past him as if she herself was a zombie.
Revelation: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Arize Book 2) Page 5
