Brian Keene (32 page)

The truck picked up speed, leaving those on the ground behind. Two of the creatures remained on board, and they struggled with the prisoners as the truck squealed away.

One of them, a teenage girl, sank her teeth into the back of her victim's neck and hung on while the man spun in circles, beating at her with his fists. Jim finally was able to push forward, and he shoved both the zombie and the man out the open door. The other zombie turned on him, then teetered, arms pinwheeling, before it dropped out the open space as well. Jim cheered as its head burst upon the road. Still clutching his chest, Martin made his way forward.

"What now?" he wheezed.

"We get the hell off this truck."

The truck's speed increased, leaving the zombies and their victims behind as the yellow line in the middle of the road became a fast moving blur.

"Jump?"

"That's what I'm thinking," Jim nodded. "Wait for the truck to slow around a curve or something and then jump off."

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"Jim, this isn't the movies. You'll be of no use to Danny if you break your leg escaping."

"He's right, Mister." Another man shuffled forward. One of the zombie children's fingernails had gouged two ragged furrows in his cheek, and he wiped at the blood absentmindedly. "You'd be road pizza if you jumped at the speed we're going."

"I've got to try. I can't just stand here and do nothing!"

"What about them?" Martin pointed out the door. A fleeing Jeep sped along behind them. The driver was shouting into the radio, probably reporting that the doors were open on the truck.

"Even if you did land safely, I suspect they'd either 276 run you over or shoot you. What help would you be to Danny then?" Jim punched the wall of the trailer.

The soldier in the Jeep fired at a zombie in the road.

"You wouldn't stand a chance on foot, either," Martin continued. "How many of those things do you think are out there? You said it yourself, Jim. The closer we get to the populated areas, the more of them there'll be."

Jim didn't reply. He stared at the Jeep, then turned back to Martin.

"I want to thank you for all that you have done, my friend." He clasped Martin's hand and squeezed. "I don't have the words to tell you how much it means."

Then, before Martin could blink, he let go, bent his knees and jumped off the back of the truck.

"What the hell?" Ford turned as the Jeep he was riding in swerved into the passing lane.

"What Sarge?"

"Somebody just jumped off that rig up ahead!" He picked up the handset.

"Charlie-Two-Nine, this is Six."

"Go ahead, Six. Over."

"Sharpes, what the hell is going on over there?"
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"We tried telling them their backdoor was open, but their radio's busted. Did you see that guy jump off?"

"Hell yes, I saw. Handle it."

There was a pause, and then "Sergeant, are you sure? Don't you think the zombies will take care of him for us?"

"Handle it before the rest of the men on that truck get the same idea. Six out."

Jim rolled into a ball as he fell; tucking his heels against his buttocks and wrapping his arms around his

277 knees. He'd seen his father demonstrate the maneuver when he'd been younger, and the old man had told him stories of parachuting into the jungles of Viet Nam.

He landed in the grass along the side of the road, and his left side slammed against the ground. A thousand tiny needles of white-hot pain shot through him as he tumbled into the ditch, forcing the breath from his lungs. He continued rolling. When he tried to breathe again, it felt like something was stabbing him in the chest.

Then the motion stopped and he was lying there in the gutter, alive. In pain, but alive.

He took a tentative breath and though it still hurt to do so, it wasn't excruciating. He crawled onto his hands and knees. Nothing seemed to be broken, but his back and side were bleeding, and he'd reopened the gunshot wound in his shoulder.

The truck was speeding away and he saw the men in the trailer cheering him, their arms upraised in salute.

A sudden burst of machine gun fire peppered the ground around him, sending gravel and dirt and bits of rock flying in all directions. Jim scrambled into the woods as the shooter readjusted his aim. Bullets tore through the ground where his feet had been seconds ago. They slammed into trees and whizzed through the weeds as he dived into the heavy brush. Thorns tore at his face and hands.

"Fuck," Sharpes cursed. "I missed him." The driver shook his head in disgust.

"Sergeant Ford can't see right now. That tanker truck's in the way. Want to go after him?"

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"Screw that. We'll tell him we nailed him. Besides, with all these zombies around, the fucker'll be dead in minutes anyway." Schow's voice crackled over the radio.

"Be advised. We have reached the location. Standby." 278 The lead vehicles slowed as the convoy turned down the private lane leading to Havenbrook. The sign at the entrance had once read:

TOMORROW'S FUTURE TODAY

1IELLERTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY Baker remembered passing by it when he'd escaped from Ob and fled south. Since then, somebody had vandalized the sign. Some of the words had been blacked out and the garish, spray painted letters now read:

HELL

TOMORROWS PEAJ>

HELL, PENNSYLVANIA

ENTER. MEAT

They stopped at the entrance. The security fence stretched away on both sides, and the guard post was unmanned.

Schow's smile was tight-lipped. "Welcome to our new home, gentlemen."

"Looks deserted." Gonzalez observed.

"Not according to our friend here." Schow patted Baker on the head, and the scientist pulled away from him.

The rest of the convoy rolled up behind them. During the attack, they'd lost two Humvees and three civilian trucks. Schow had not yet been given exact figures on how many men hadn't survived, but he considered the probable estimates acceptable losses. The only thing that angered him was the irreplaceable loss of the helicopter.

At his order, the tanks crept forward, turrets leveled at the entrance. Nothing moved.

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279 "We've stopped," Frankie said. "Get ready. As soon as they open those doors, we make a break for it."

"They'll have guns-" Julie argued.

"We've got one too," Frankie interrupted her, "and besides. I'd rather swallow a bullet than another one of these pig's dicks." She turned to face the other two women.

"I heard that," a Puerto Rican woman named Maria nodded. "I've got your back."

"Me too," agreed the other. "I'm ready."

"What's your name again?"

"Meghan."

"Alright," Frankie turned back to Julie. "Maria and Meghan are with me on this. Are you? Because if not, Julie, then you're nothing more than the whore they want you to be."

Anger flashed across Julie's face, then slowly subsided.

"I'm no whore."

"Then be a warrior, god damn it. Survive. Live!" Frankie aimed the pistol at the door, and they waited.

"So," McFarland asked, "do we just drive through the front door?" Schow's laughter was short and clipped.

"What do you think, Professor?" He grabbed a fistful of Baker's hair and jerked his head upward. "Look at me when I address you! What do you suggest? Is there anything we should know about before we proceed?"

"I'm not telling you anything!" Baker snorted, then spit on him. His eyebrows arched, Schow calmly wiped the spittle from the silver eagle on his shoulder.

"Then we have no further use for you."

He yanked the pistol from his holster.

280 "Colonel Schow, this is Charlie-Two-Seven." Silva picked up the handset and looked at the officers questioningly.
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McFarland grabbed it from him.

"Go ahead, Sergeant Michaels."

"Sir, we've got the remnants from that orphanage coming up on our rear flank. We thinned their numbers during the last skirmish, but I suspect that some of our men are now with them."

"How far back?"

"A couple miles. They're coming on foot. Sir, there's enough of them that we probably don't want to be caught out here in the open." Still clutching both Baker's hair and the pistol, Schow nodded his head to McFarland.

"Have one of the tanks go through the gate first. Tell them not to knock down that fence. It sounds like we'll need it in a while. After the tank has gone through, send a unit along behind it. If the entrance and the grounds are secure, then the rest of us will follow."

"Yes sir." McFarland began relaying the orders over the radio. Schow twisted Baker's hair savagely, and despite his efforts not to do so, the scientist groaned in pain.

"The United States Government thanks you for your assistance, Professor." Baker grimaced. "Burn in hell, you twisted piece of garbage." Schow raised the pistol to his head and then paused, thinking.

"Captain, delay that order. Have the tank crew stand down."

"Sir?"

"We're going to have the Professor Baker here go in before the tank."

"What?"

"You heard me. Point detail."

Laughing, McFarland gave the orders.

281 Pulling him by his hair, Schow opened the door and gestured for Baker to get out.

"It's easy, Professor. Just walk up and ring the doorbell." The soldiers had shut the door again as soon as the convoy stopped. Martin and the others huddled in the darkness, peering through the
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bullet holes and listening to what was going on outside. Martin ignored the shocked and frightened mutterings of his companions, and turned his thoughts to Jim. He knew that the Lord had protected his friend from harm, at least as far as the leap from the truck was concerned. Jim had been up and moving even as they'd passed from sight. But what had his friend escaped into? How many zombies had been involved in the initial attack, and how many still lingered in the area? How many guardsmen had died at their hands, and now joined their ranks?

Jim was on foot, weaponless, and alone amidst the living dead. The only thing in his favor was that single-minded determination and love for his son.

Martin bowed his head and began to pray harder than he ever had in his life. Baker considered his options. If he refused Schow, they would shoot him where he stood. On the other hand, if he re-entered Havenbrook, there was a chance he could run past the gate and hide in one of the buildings. If his theory regarding Ob was correct, however, the complex would offer an even worse fate-death at the hands of the undead. With both Schow and Gonzalez pointing their weapons at him, he turned toward the gatehouse. His

282 feet felt light, as if he were standing on a conveyer rather than walking toward it. His senses were hyper-aware. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. His scalp ached where Schow had pulled his hair. It was quiet, as if the land was holding its breath. No birds or insects-living or otherwise. From behind him, he heard the squawk of a radio set. Somebody sneezed and someone else jacked a fresh clip into their weapon.

Now he was in front of the guardhouse. He'd driven through this entrance twice a day for many years. When he'd fled from Havenbrook, only days before, he'd never expected to see it again. He'd known the guards by name; asked about their children and wives and gave them a bonus at Christmas. Where were they now? Perhaps inside the shack, lurking in the shadows and waiting for him to pass by?

No, that was ridiculous. If they'd returned to their posts after being reanimated, they would have been there when he escaped. Then again, who had vandalized the sign out front? That had been recent-extremely recent. There was a burst of static as a nearby radio squawked again. He heard gears turning as the tank turret tracked his progress.

"Let's go, Professor!" Schow yelled. "We don't have all day. We've got incoming to our rear! Five seconds and I start shooting. Pretend you're selling Girl Scout

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cookies!"

Raucous laughter from the troops greeted this.

Baker took a deep breath, held it, and thought of Worm.

"I'm sorry." He whispered it over and over, like a mantra. Then he walked through the open gate.

283

The wind was blowing in the opposite direction, and Jim heard them coming before he smelled them. Their slurred grunts and curses echoed through the forest. Leaves rustled beneath their shambling feet as they advanced toward his location, trailing after the convoy. A live bird took flight, startled from its hiding place in the branches overhead. Seconds later, it screeched as one of its undead brethren seized it in midair.

Pulse hammering, Jim glanced around, his senses hyper-aware. The road would be quickest, but it was too open. He'd be a sitting target out there. The woods offered protection, but the thick undergrowth that hid him would also slow him down.

Something rustled toward him, and he froze, holding his breath. He caught a rancid whiff as it passed by and his eyes began to water. The zombie was close enough that he could hear the flies buzzing beneath its skin.

It passed him by, slogging toward the road. Jim quietly exhaled, and waited for it to pass from earshot. When he thought it had passed, he broke cover and ran.

Immediately, a hoarse cry sprang up behind him. He'd been spotted.

"Here piggy piggy piggy!"

Running parallel to the road, Jim dashed through the foliage. Branches whipped at his face and jutting roots

284 threatened to trip him with every step. The dead leaves crunched under his pounding feet, attracting further attention.

Something dead erupted from the bushes in front of him and he veered to the right, farther from the road. The zombie hobbled along in pursuit, dragging one useless leg behind it. Armed with a fiberglass compound bow, it launched an arrow at him. The missile whistled over his head, embedding itself in the trunk of an old oak tree.

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Another zombie burst forward, and though Jim didn't know it, the corpse had once been Worm.