Brian Keene (35 page)

"The gunshots were from downstairs!"

The voices were not human.

Michaels let the door swing shut and staggered toward the restrooms. Several zombies stalked through the front entrance and more were storming down the stairs. He shouldered through the men's room door and glanced around in panic. There were three sinks, four stalls and a row of urinals. No windows, and the only exit was the door he had just come through.

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The zombies shouted to each other in the lobby.

302 Whimpering, he hid inside the stall farthest from the door, and collapsed on the toilet. As he drew his feet up from the floor, he noticed that it hadn't been flushed since its last use. The water inside it was dark brown, and the remnants of months-old feces and urine had congealed into a toxic soup. Michaels gagged and tried to hold his breath. They won't find me in here.

The bathroom door squeaked open and footsteps plodded towards him. Michaels looked down at the floor and froze. Shining quarter-sized drops of blood had dripped from his wounds, leaving a trail brighter than any breadcrumbs.

"Come out, meat, and we'll make it quick!"

More of the creatures crowded into the restroom.

Sobbing, Michaels pointed his rifle at the stall door. The barrel shook, the pain in his arm intensifying. Fear, adrenaline, and blood loss merged with the stench of both the toilet and his pursuers, and nausea took over. Michaels retched, his rifle clattering to the floor as the cramps seized him. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

They forced the door open as the bile spewed forth, and he couldn't even scream as they dragged him out and forced him down onto the cold, hard tiles. He choked on his own vomit as they began to feed.

"Welcome back, wise man." Gangrenous fingers seized Baker by the hair, yanking him to his feet. "I see that you've brought some friends. I appreciate the gesture."

Baker couldn't speak. He coughed as the miasma of cordite and burning fuel and Ob's rotten flesh coated his lungs. The battlefield rang with the screams of the dead and the dying. Bullets whizzed by and explosions peppered the air like fireworks. Both sides were suffering heavy casualties, but most of those killed in the human

303 army were quick to rise again and replenish the ranks of the dead.

"What was the purpose of this, Billy-boy"

"They-they wanted to use Havenbrook as a base of operations."

"Really?" Ob shook his head, stroking the rocket launcher almost lovingly. 'Your kind must learn that your time is over. You are food. Meat. Transport. Nothing more. Your time here is over!"

"I've been wondering about that," Baker ventured, holding a hand over
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his nose and mouth. "Surely you must realize that if the human race is hunted to extinction, then your kind will be endangered as well." Ob stared at him with Powell's dead eyes.

"There are other worlds than these."

Something whined by Baker's head and a hole blossomed in Ob's shoulder. The zombie staggered backward, raising the rocket launcher. Baker flung himself to the ground as a second bullet smashed into Ob's face, destroying his nose and upper lip. The rocket launcher slipped from his grasp as he roared in indignation. His words were unintelligible, but his intent was clear.

"You fucked up, Professor!" Schow stalked toward them both, oblivious to the bullets whizzing by them. He raised the pistol and fired again, this time obliterating the side of Ob's head. The brain glistened through splintered fragments of skull. It reminded Baker of bloody cauliflower. Ob collapsed, twitching in the dirt.

Baker curled into the fetal position as Schow aimed a savage kick at his ribs. He screamed as the heavy boot connected, and something snapped inside him.

"You son of a bitch! Those are my men dying! My men! You led us into a trap!"

He lashed out again, catching Baker in the side of the head. Pain exploded throughout him and his vision grew blurry.

304 Kneeling, Schow pressed the pistol against his crotch. Baker groaned and tried to roll away, but Schow shoved him flat on his back.

"I'm going to put an end to you right here and now, Professor. But it's not going to be quick and it's not going to be painless. I'm going to shoot your dick off. How do you like that?"

He punctuated the threat by pressing the barrel hard into Baker's testicles. Baker screamed.

"Doesn't feel good, does it Professor? It's about to feel much worse. You'll bleed to death, but not before these scumfucks get a hold of you. Most likely, you'll still be alive when they start on you. Then you know what I'm going to do?"

Baker closed his eyes.

"I'm going to wait for the zombie version of you to rise up, and then I'm going to do it all over again. I'm going to shoot out your kneecaps
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and your spine and both your arms. Hell, I might just cut them all off. But not your brain. I want what's left of you to lay here in the dirt, alive."

"Go ahead, Schow," Baker grimaced. "You'll be the first one I eat when I come back."

Ob sat up behind them, tissue and fluid running down the side of his face. His brain, still intact, pulsed from inside his ruined head. He grabbed Schow from behind, wrapping his fingers around the Colonel's throat, and yanked him backward. The few remaining teeth in his lower jaw slavered across the back of Schow's grizzled neck, and Ob squeezed. Baker snatched at the pistol, but Schow clutched it tight. Squirming in Ob's clutches, he thrust it behind his back and squeezed the trigger, emptying the clip into the zombie's chest and abdomen. Ob squeezed tighter, and Schow began to kick and flail.

A burst of machine gun fire raked the ground around them, and Baker spun to see Schow's command vehicle bearing down on them. Gonzalez was behind the wheel,

305 and McFarland sat perched in the gunner's seat, sweeping his machine gun towards them.

Something heavy punched him in the stomach, and Baker tried to breathe, only to find that he couldn't. His mid-section felt warm, and he was afraid to look down.

He fell to the side as the next volley slammed into both Schow and Ob. McFarland cackled madly as the barrage decimated both flesh and bone. Something wet was running down Baker's legs, and he didn't want to look at it. He felt very weak, and still he could not breathe. Grappling with the rocket launcher, he sat up and pointed it towards the vehicle. Schow had been pulped, and the rest of Ob's head had vanished, leaving only a chin and one staring eye.

Baker felt the strength ebbing from him and knew it was only a matter of seconds. He could smell himself now, and the crimson pool spreading around him left no doubt. He braved a glance at his wound and found that his stomach was missing; replaced by something that looked like raw hamburger.

"Oh God..."

He belched and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Still laughing, Gonzalez and McFarland bore down on him.
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"I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm ready to face the consequences." They fired at the same time, and the last thing Baker saw before the beautiful orange flower bloomed was the look of disbelief on both Gonzalez's and McFarland's faces.

The pain in his stomach ceased, and Baker closed his eyes. The explosion felt warm on his skin, and he relished it.

Something was screaming at him from far away, and a second later, he found out what it was.

306 Carrion birds hovered over the site in a thick, dark cloud. Jim remained beneath the shelter of the trees, staring in disbelief. He'd found a pair of binoculars on one of the zombies he had killed, and though he wanted to look away, he found that he couldn't. Instead, he watched in dreadful fascination as the horrors were magnified before him. Schow's forces were decimated. The burned out husks of tanks and vehicles still smoked, their inhabitants smoldering with them. Zombies littered the landscape, each one brought down by some form of head trauma. Dozens more thrashed in the mud; appendages severed, bodies cut in half, but still moving. Hordes of them swarmed about the lawn, feasting on the fallen.

Jim shuddered, noting that many of the creatures partaking in the massacre were once Schow's men. Even worse were the once captive civilians, now freed from bondage but their dead bodies a prisoner of something even worse.

Not all of the humans were being killed. Several dozen had been rounded up, stripped of their weapons, and were now being herded inside the complex. Jim could only imagine what the creatures would do with them. Would they be used for food? Livestock? Or perhaps, something even more sinister?

His shoulders slumped. Martin was nowhere in sight, and Jim could only hope that the old man had not suffered. There was nothing more he could do here.

He started to turn away, and then froze, staring through the binoculars. Baker walked toward the captives, talking to the group of zombies that guarded them. His flesh was burned black in places, and his mid-section was an empty cavity.

Jim lowered the binoculars, gathered as much weapons and ammunition that he could carry, and turned away.

307 Martin was dead. Baker was a zombie. Nothing else now stood between
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him and Danny.

Ob looked out at his kingdom through Baker's eyes, and he saw that it was good. He gave orders regarding the captives, and then traversed the battlefield, welcoming the newly risen and joining in the feast. He had no stomach but it didn't matter to him. He was enjoying this new body. From somewhere far away, Baker screamed.

Ob's laughter drowned out the sound of it in his head, and soon, the screams faded away to nothingness.

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Jim hobbled along the side of the road, sticking close enough to the edge so that he could seek cover in the treeline if he needed to. As near as he could tell, most of the undead in this area, both two-legged and otherwise, were concentrated around Havenbrook. He hoped to travel as far as he could while they were occupied at the site. He readjusted the M-16, shifting its weight in his hands. An identical weapon was slung across his back, and he wore a pistol holstered at his side. The straps on the second machine gun chafed his skin as he walked. He tried to ignore the protests from his aching muscles, but his blistered feet were balls of flame, and the reopened wound in his shoulder trickled blood and pus. His upper arm felt warm where the infection burned in him, and the flesh around the bullet hole was red and puffy.

He had never felt so exhausted. He shuffled northward and swirling clouds of dust, kicked up by his boots, marked his passage. All around him, the land was silent, as if nature were holding her breath. The cornfields did not hum with the buzzing of insects or the chorus of birds. The houses sat like stones, dour and mournful. The sounds of the battle's terrible aftermath faded with every step he took, until they vanished completely.

309 Jim wiped the sweat from his eyes and listened to the silence, losing himself in the strange beauty of the moment. He wished he was more articulate, wished he could define what he felt. He found himself wondering if Martin would have appreciated the serenity, and thought that he would have.

Thoughts of the old man brought a smile to his haggard face, and he began to replay the journey in his mind; Carrie and the baby, Martin, Delmas and Jason Clendenan and the other scattered survivors they'd encountered, Schow and his men, Haringa, Baker-it all flashed before him, leading him to now. This road. This final road. If he could find a car, he'd reach his destination within an hour. If not, he could still be there before nightfall, as long as he kept this pace.
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He patted his pocket and felt the letter he had written to Danny after Jason had killed his father and then himself. Knowing that the letter was safe brought him a strange sense of reassurance. Things would turn out all right yet.

As he plodded along however, his body began to rebel against him. The pain began in his feet and rocketed up his legs; great stabbing spasms that threatened to drop him in his tracks. Refusing to stop, Jim halted only long enough to drain the last few mouthfuls of tepid water from his bottle. Then he cast it aside with the rest of the litter along the road and stumbled on.

He didn't hear the motor until it was almost upon him. The HumVee crept purring up behind him, and Jim whirled, twisting his ankle as he did so. He tumbled to the ground, and lay there sprawled out while the vehicle pulled alongside him.

"No! You're not going to stop me now!" He raised the M-16 and pointed it at the HumVee.

"Jim! Is that really you? Thank the Lord!"

Martin leaned out the passenger window, hands triumphantly upraised in thanks.

"Martin?" Jim exclaimed, and despite the exhaustion 310 in his bones and the pain in his ankle, he sprang to his feet and ran toward the old man. "Martin! I thought you were dead!" They clasped hands, and both of them were crying.

"It would seem that the Lord still wants me to help you, Jim." They laughed, and Martin stepped out of the vehicle and hugged him.

"Come on, let's go find your boy."

"Amen, my friend. Amen."

Jim ducked inside the HumVee and a beautiful but tired looking black woman smiled curtly at him from behind the wheel. Jim nodded at her, puzzled.

"This is Frankie," Martin introduced her. "She was kind enough to give me a ride."

"Give you a ride, hell. I saved your sorry ass and you know it." Martin laughed. "Yes, you did, and I thank you for it. You should have seen it, Jim! A group of them had me surrounded, and Frankie here just
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crashed right into them, driving over them all."

"Thanks for watching out for him."

"No problem."

They rolled forward and Frankie turned her attention to the road. Jim studied her, wondering who she was and what her story had been before all of this. She'd definitely seen some hard times. The echoes of it showed in the lines of her face and the very air around her. Jim had never believed in auras, but Frankie definitely had one. Despite the rough edges, she was beautiful, and Jim had the feeling that her true beauty had only recently begun to shine.