by Elisa Hansen
They had to go. They had to get out of there. Carol could charge somewhere else.
“Scott—” But if she told him about the truck, he would want to set it on fire. The thought of her team going up in smoke with the rest of them froze her tongue. She followed him speechlessly through the broken door into a huge garage.
The first thing to hit her was the smell. She knew that smell. The smell of Town Duty, of completed missions, of the end of undead. The bonfire smell. “Devil’s barbecue,” Rosa used to call it.
In the center of the room amid a ring of blackness, lay two charred and twisted metal boxes. Boxes just the right size to each hold a body. Vampire boxes.
“What—” Emily tilted her head back. Scorched black rimmed the garage ceiling, but no residue of burnt wood or kindling lay near the boxes. How had metal caught fire? It looked like they’d combusted from within.
Scott poked at one with the tip of his shotgun. The brittle side cracked open, spilling dark ashes to the floor.
“We have to scatter them,” she said. “Now. Before dark.” Not like vampire ashes could reform immediately, or even in a week, much less a night. Supposedly. But Emily had never taken that risk, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“Obviously.” Scott glanced around the garage. “Who did this?”
She shook her head. Whoever did it was long gone, but they finished what her team started. That explained the abandoned zombie truck. At Suncrest Hill, the commune consisted of seven vampires, but hadn’t she seen one running away that night? Maybe her team destroyed the rest? Only these two survived, and now they were extra crispy toast. What about their human guards? Abducted by whoever did this? Or maybe they did it themselves and took off. Good for them.
“Here.” Scott handed Emily a push broom.
“Where’d you get this?”
He gestured to an open closet at the back of the garage. “Don’t go in there. It stinks.”
“Worse than this?” She cursed her zombie nose, gagging as she splintered the metal with the broom’s corner to push through the ashes. Worst superpower ever.
“Dead raccoon.” With a broom of his own, Scott helped her scoot the mess to the huge garage door. They found the controls to open it and swept everything out to be scattered by the winds of the driveway as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.
Emily took a deep, long breath of relief. Too late she realized what she’d done, and the coughing seized her. She dropped the broom and braced herself against the parking lot wall.
“Are you okay?” Scott asked.
She nodded, wiping her mouth. Zombie problems.
He turned to the wall. “Did you find tires?”
The reminder of the semi made Emily jerk up. It hulked so close on the other side of the wall, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Without her there to rile them up, the zombies had gone silent again. But how long before they sensed Scott?
“Oh, um, no actually.” She couldn’t let him go around to that side of the parking lot. Stepping over the broom, she waved him back into the garage toward the broken door. “There’s nothing here except that forklift. But maybe those would work?” Its tires were way too big for their pickup truck, but she had to get him away from the wall.
He looked doubtful but shouldered his shotgun and followed her through to the loading yard. Once the forklift came into sight, the stupidity of her suggestion became obvious.
“We should just go,” she said. “We’ll find something in town up the road.”
Scratching the back of his head, Scott surveyed the yard. “Yeah. As soon as Carol’s done.”
This would be a good time to tell him she planned to leave Death behind. She tried not to let herself wonder at his whereabouts; his habit of appearing just when she did was the last thing she wanted. She told herself it didn’t matter if he overheard. What was he going to do about it? Plead his case?
She tried to ignore the absurd sinking feeling that accompanied the thought of going on without him.
“Did you fill up the fuel can?” she asked Scott instead.
“Yeah, I left it by Carol.”
As the last of the purple evening light faded into nightfall, Scott passed under the forklift’s mast, jutting sideways like an arm that would never grasp what it reached for. “What do you think’s behind that rolling door?”
Emily glanced up. Scott pointed his gun at the elevated loading dock in the back of the yard.
“I was wondering the exact same thing earlier.”
He crossed to it and grabbed a rung of the ladder built into the wall under the dock. “It’s worth a look.”
Emily waited until he reached the top before following. She’d pretty much given up on the six-foot rule, but keeping him comfortable still mattered.
Just tell him. Death wasn’t who she wanted him to be. Asshole. He wasn’t even a who at all. And Scott needed to know.
Why was this so damn hard?
Scott eyed the control panel on the wall to the right of the door. “This would be where they received their supplies. There might be all kinds of stuff back there.”
Stuff. Sure. Useful stuff. Tires, even. It could make or break their drive to New York. “Depends if someone else already got to it,” she mused. But it looked in good shape, not tampered with in any way. And the generators had clearly not been activated in ages, so whoever came to the factory earlier, valiantly exterminating vampires, didn’t use the control panel to access the door.
“This isn’t like the garage,” Scott said, poking at the panel. “I can’t get it open.”
Emily pulled her eyes from the rolling door. The teal glow of the panel’s screen cut a crisp shadow in the furrow between Scott’s brows. He sighed loudly and hitched up his loose jeans as he stepped back. “It needs a print or a PIN.”
“Let me see.” She moved beside him. “Wow, it’s a pullscreen. Who was even still installing these?” And outdoors at that. She lifted the shield to pinch at the command, clearing the display, then she scrolled through the menu and twisted to the settings page.
Scott moved along the wall. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw him open a switchboard.
She tugged through options on the screen. “I think it’s—”
A deep-voiced alarm blared overhead, and she jerked back. A rotating light above the door illuminated the dock in a jarring blast of carnival orange.
Scott flipped his gun around and put his back to the wall. “Whatdidyoudo?”
“Nothing!” Emily’s eyes darted over the dark places in the yard below.
A few seconds later, the alarm silenced mid-wail, though the orange light continued to spin. It flashed into the yard’s corners and made the shadows in the forklift’s crannies swell and fade like breathing inkblots. Emily glanced to the door behind them, hoping it would roll up, but nothing happened.
“You must have done something.” Scott lowered his gun and pushed sweaty bangs from his forehead. “That scared the shit out of me.”
Your turn. But Emily couldn’t take the credit. She turned back to the screen. “I wasn’t even out of the menu yet.”
“Are you sure?” He joined her at the panel and reached past her to the screen, but his hand froze above it. It hovered inches from her face. In the teal glow, punctuated by rotating orange, his ragged cuticles wavered like tiny stalks of seaweed. Little curling flakes of skin rimming short stubby nails. Dark, raw. He must chew on them. Chew on them with his teeth. His… So raw… Tangy. They would taste like copper.
“Do you hear that?” Scott whispered.
Emily’s attention snapped to the yard, over to the door with the broken handle.
No.
Oh no.
“I hear it.”
Low groaning seeped from the space beyond. Unmistakable groaning. And not just one groan. The sound festered into a brain-winching chorus of groans.
“Well, shit.” Scott’s gun popped into position, and he backed to the far corner, crouching to take aim.
&
nbsp; No.
Nononono.
Emily staggered to the front of the dock and gaped at the door. How could this be happening? That truck was locked.
The door moved, pushing outward in staccato pops as if stiff on its hinges. As the orange light circled over, she could see thick gray fingers clenching its edge.
Locked!
She smashed it, but it didn’t work. It didn’t. The lock held when she left.
Another bump, and the door flew back, clanging against the wall.
Oh, god, no.
What the fuck had she done?
Zombies filled the doorframe, clawing and snapping at each other. For a minute, the sheer number of bodies kept them back as they wrestled to get through. Then, all at once, they spilled into the yard. Emily jumped against the side wall as the first blast from Scott’s shotgun exploded past her.
“Wait!”
“What?”
“I mean…” Fuck, no, he was right. This was bad. There must have been over a hundred in that truck. And for the moment, she didn’t see anyone she recognized. They had to shoot. Her stupid hand swiped her empty holster.
Shit.
“Do you have another gun?”
Scott focused his aim and shot again from the dock’s corner. Then he dug into his pocket, but all he pulled out was Carol’s ancillary.
Emily attempted to count them as they trundled through the yard, but the spinning light multiplied them impossibly. Slow ones, most of them, but six or ten zagged through, getting ahead of the crowd. Shuddering, Emily shook out her hands and slid along the back wall to Scott’s side. “A gun?”
“Get back.” He straightened in his corner, pumped another cartridge, and took aim.
Emily pressed her hands over her ears as the blast went off. One of the zombies dropped, but the rest surged past the forklift to the base of the dock, the nearest ones disappearing from sight below its edge.
“They can’t get up here.” Scott’s gun drooped, and he fished cartridges out of his sagging jeans pockets. “And Carol’s—”
A blood-caked hand appeared at the top of the ladder. A snarling white-eyed face rose after it.
Scott’s handful of cartridges clattered to the floor.
Emily grabbed his arm. “Give me a gun!”
He wrenched away, his eyes darting between her and the zombie clawing onto the dock. “They’re in the bag.” His shaking hands took three tries to thumb cartridges into the shotgun before he could snap it closed. He fired at the zombie—too fast. His shot went wide.
“Where’s the bag?” She’d just seen it, hadn’t she?
“Scott!” Carol’s voice rang over the groaning howls. Emily turned to see her run into the yard from the factory door, gas jug in hand. She plowed through the crowd shoulder first, bodies falling to the ground in her wake.
Scott moved around Emily and worked to load again, shielding himself behind her as the zombie at the top of the ladder pushed to its feet. It had once been a man, no more than forty. Ribbons of flesh hung from his throat over the broad shoulders of dark blue coveralls like epaulets. Dried blood and old grease streaked his sunken cheeks. His black hair clung to his head in sticky clumps on one side and was entirely gone on the other. The raw exposed scalp oozed green, almost black, in the orange light that circled round and round.
He didn’t look like just a person now. None of them did. He looked feral and ravenous and like everything Emily ever fought to destroy. How did she ever see intelligence in eyes like that? Only one thing filled his brain: the desperate, starving, miserable, anguished desire to eat Scott. The insides of Emily’s cheeks flinched in pain. She clenched her teeth and swallowed thickly.
He had several inches on her, but he wobbled on his feet. A well-balanced kick would send him back over the edge. She put one foot behind her and coiled for it. “Stay back,” she called over her shoulder to Scott.
But before she could launch into the kick, the zombie’s arms shot into the air as his feet flew out from under him. Emily spotted the silver hand around his ankle as Carol flung him into the yard.
She hoisted herself up the ladder, swung the jug onto the ledge, and kicked out behind her. The bodies smack-smack-smacked the ground.
Scott fell to his knees to gather his scattered cartridges, and he pushed past Emily to Carol. “How much charge do you have?”
She twisted to sit at the top of the ladder. “Not enough.” Pulling two handguns from holsters on her hips, she fired at the zombies grappling at her legs. Her bullets hit precisely in their snarling faces, blasting their features clean off. They fell into a writhing, screaming heap at the base of the ladder, but others immediately replaced them. All too quickly, her guns began to click. “Scott, where is the bag?”
He looked up from where he knelt, and his gaze traveled across the yard to the broken door. The crowd obscured them from sight, but Emily could picture perfectly the dusty backpack and lumpy blue duffel bag resting against the wall.
Carol glanced over her shoulder. When she saw his devastated expression, her eyes narrowed. She started to say something but stopped herself and shook her head. “How much ammunition do you have?”
Scott swallowed, and his dazed gaze drifted from her to the sea of zombies. They filled the yard from wall to wall. “I’m…”
Carol’s attention snapped away as undead hands scrabbled over her lap, tugged at her thighs, grabbed her scarf. She shoved the snarling creature down into the pile and kicked ruthlessly at the next two who took its place, her heels cracking ribs. Flicking her scarf over her shoulder, she bent and snatched one below them. She tore off its jaw then hurled the whole body at the three behind it, knocking them to the ground.
For the moment.
Emily turned back to Scott. He was sitting on his heels and staring at his handful of cartridges as if they would do him as much good as a handful of walnuts. All blood had completely drained from his face. Emily winced. With his shaggy bangs hanging over his eyes, he looked like a thin, pale version of her brother on that last night in Long Beach. She shuddered as the memory clenched her with icy fingers. Too many of them, scraping at the sliding glass doors of her family’s nice suburban house with its perfect yard. Windows breaking. Dad yelling from the family room. Too many of them and not enough bullets. Not even close to enough bullets.
There was nothing she could do then. Nothing any of them could do.
But Emily damn well would do something now. This was happening because of her. The semi drove here because of her. Her entire team was undead because of her.
Scott would not die because of her.
Emily strode to him and pushed at his shoulder. “Hey.”
He recoiled, clambered to his feet. “Don’t!” He shoved the cartridges into his pocket, then pointed his gun over the edge. He aimed here and there but seemed afraid to fire.
Emily’s hand tingled. He’d felt so warm through his shirt, like he had a fever. She clenched her teeth. “Look, I’m going to get the bags, okay?”
Scott stilled. He looked from her, to the crowd, then back again. His eyes widened. “They can’t hurt you.”
Emily wasn’t so sure about that, but she nodded. “Just don’t shoot me, okay?”
He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Carol, who stomped on the face of each zombie mounting the ladder.
“No,” said Emily. “Don’t let her move.” The pile under her grew body by body. Soon they wouldn’t need the ladder. But for now, her butt on top of it was the only thing keeping Scott safe.
He hesitated another moment, then finally nodded and lowered his gun.
Emily retreated to the opposite end of the dock and crouched at the lip. With the bulk of the crowd’s attention on the ladder, fewer scalps milled below, leaving enough space for her to slip between them.
Could they hurt her? Doesn’t matter.
She slid off the edge, twisting to hang by her hands, then dropped the last couple feet to the ground. The zombie she landed beside snarled and shu
ffled around to face her as she eased up to stand.
Carlos.
Emily remained absolutely still as his milky eyes lifted. She tried to hold her breath before she remembered she didn’t breathe at all. Her lips parted, but she bit her tongue. No recognition in his gaze, nothing. Like he couldn’t see her at all. His head flopped to the side, and a red film burbled from the corner of his mouth.
It’s me, she pleaded with her eyes. Were they as cloudy as his?
Emily waited one moment more, then took a slow step to the side. “I’m just gonna…”
The change was instantaneous; his mouth twisted, a screech exploding from it. It sounded like every screech that ever shattered her nightmares. Emily punched Carlos square in the solar plexus, cutting off the sound, then she shoved past and plowed into the crowd.
She kept her head tucked and led with her shoulder. The web of limbs blurred past in the swirling orange light. She struck out at each in her way, but after the first few toppled, the rest took notice.
The howling pressed in on her, raked her ears. Ragged, sticky fingers snatched at her clothes, clawed at her hair. The snapping jaws became a barrage of castanets as she danced and twisted through the writhing nest. She couldn’t see the bags, or the wall, or the door, but she was getting close. She had to be.
A heavy body slammed into her. Pain shot through her skin as razor teeth grazed her cheek. She shoved the biting face away but felt another mouth clamp onto her shoulder. Big hands gripped her waist, and her feet flew out from under her. Her scalp screamed as her hair tore in the opposite direction.
No!
She kicked and shoved and snapped her own jaws right back, but too many of them piled on. Their weight pressed her to the ground. Her limbs contorted at excruciating angles as teeth snagged her pants and jagged nails dug against her throat. So many of them. Shoving her back and forth, and then she was flattened under dead weight.
Undead weight.
When she screamed, it sounded just like their howls.
Oh, god. Her chest was going to cave in.
What had she done?
She shouldn’t have fought them. She wasn’t a solid metal android. Her talking set them off. She should have snuck through, went around the perimeter. Too late. She should have known better. What had everything since Long Beach been for now? What had he died for? He should have known better. He was shooting them neatly in the hearts. He was such a good shot. But you can’t shoot neatly. Neatly does nothing. They got right back up and piled onto him, dragged him down, tore him apart. And Emily could do nothing but fight her stupid hysterical mother, shove her into the car, speed away from her own father’s howling.
