City of the Dead (8 page)

"Look," Don said. "I'm sorry about your friend. I really am. But if you don't want to join her, I suggest we get moving."

"Where?" Jim asked. "We're fresh out of ideas."

"And places to hide," Martin added.

"My panic room first." Don opened the door and listened. "I've got to reload."

"Your panic room's no good anymore," Jim protested. "They know we're in here now. They'll find a way through. If not, they'll burn this place down as well."

"Exactly. That's why I don't plan on sticking around. It's not safe here anymore."

"Then what?"

"My Explorer is still in the garage. We can all fit in that, easily."

"That's no good," Jim scoffed. "They're all over the place out there. We've seen them rip apart an SUV like it was a can of tuna!"

"I'll take my chances. Especially since helping you has directly impacted my safety here."

Jim bristled. "Listen, you son of a-"

Danny stepped between them and took his father's hand.

"Thank you for helping us, Mr. De Santos, but can you please not fight with my daddy?"

Both men stared at each other for a moment and then softened.

"I'm sorry, Danny." Don patted the boy on the head and then looked back up at Jim. "So you're his real father, then?"

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"That's right."

"I think I met you once, briefly, when you were picking him up for the summer."

"Could be. I don't remember. It was-difficult-being here with my ex-wife and her new husband. I usually didn't stick around too long. It's a long drive back to West Virginia."

"West Virginia. I thought you must be from the South." He nodded at Martin. "You too. The accents kind of gave you away. Your friend wasn't, though?"

"Frankie? No, she was from Baltimore. To be honest, we didn't know much about her. She'd lost a child of her own recently, and was helping us find Danny. And now ..."

"Oh. Well, I'm really sorry. But may I suggest again that we get moving? We shouldn't be standing around here talking. They'll regroup soon."

Jim paused. "I still think it's pretty useless to go outside, Mr. De Santos. But we can't stay here either. So I reckon we'll try this your way."

"Please, call me Don."

"Okay. Don. And I'm Jim."

"Well then, Jim, at the very least, let's go down to the panic room so I can reload."

Another bullet tore splinters from the windowsill as they started down the steps. The taunts of the dead drifted to them on the breeze, along with the smoke from the inferno next door.

"Jim?" Martin's voice trembled.

"What is it?"

"What if we're wrong? What if Frankie's alive?"

Jim didn't reply.

A tear rolled down Martin's lined face.

"Frankie ..."

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When the ladder gave way beneath her feet, Frankie had time only to gasp before plunging into the swimming pool. The aluminum ladder splashed into the pool next to her a moment later. Smoky air burned inside her lungs as the cold, stagnant water closed over her head.

She sank like a stone-two feet, five feet, ten feet- before her boots struck the bottom. She opened her eyes, but couldn't see much in the murky gloom. A spray of bullets ploughed through the water in slow arcs. She dove deeper, flattening out along the bottom, as the gunfire drew closer.

Her hand flailed, closing on the M-16's shoulder strap. As she pulled the weapon toward her, she saw something moving. Something close. It was black and mottled and rotting, but still mobile. The armless zombie. She'd forgotten about it. It swam toward her, kicking its legs and licking its wrinkled lips in anticipation. Desperately, she kicked again for the surface.

The yard and pool stood out in the darkness, illuminated by the blazing house. Frankie's head popped out of the water and she choked, gasping for breath. Immediately, something like a swarm of angry hornets buzzed over the surface. She heard the gunfire a half second later. She ducked below the surface again.

The water stung her eyes, but she opened them anyway, searching for an escape. The bloated creature walked toward her along the bottom, slowed by the water. Frankie darted aside and swung the butt of her rifle, colliding with the thing's head. Despite the fact that the swing was slowed by the water, the blow cracked the creature's skull. She swung a second time and it split open. The zombie sank to the bottom, the gray-black, curdled remains of its brain floating upward.

�

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Her temples throbbed, and her lungs felt like they would explode. She swam to the side, gliding as close to the bottom as she could. She could hear them above her, their shouts distorted by the water. She hovered near the pool ladder.

From her previous weapons training by one of Schow's soldiers, Frankie knew that the M-16 was fairly watertight, but the weapon relied on a gas-operated ejection system. The first round should fire no problem. But the others ...

Well, if they didn't, she was dead. Plain and simple. But then, she was probably dead anyway.

Teeth clenched and rifle gripped firmly in one hand, Frankie grabbed the ladder, swung her feet into the rungs and climbed for the surface.

Danny stared at the moldering corpse in horror and put a hand over his nose.

"Is ... is that?"

Don hung his head, fingers sliding ammunition into his empty clips.

"Yes, Danny," he answered quietly, "that's Mrs. De Santos."

Cringing, Danny stepped away and wrapped his arms around his father's leg, hiding his face in Jim's thigh.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Martin said.

Don shrugged, continuing to reload.

"After I-after that," he nodded to the remains, "I made sure the house was secure. I nailed plywood over the doors and windows and the garage door is chained shut. Won't stop them now, I'm afraid, but it should slow them down long enough for us to equip ourselves."

"You stayed in this room?" Jim asked.

"The whole time. Luckily, they didn't know I was in

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here. I still would be I guess, if I hadn't heard you folks come along."

Jim picked Danny up and kissed him on the forehead. This man, Don De Santos, had sat here in relatively comfortable safety while his son had faced endless nights of terror, peril, and hunger alone in the attic next door. He hugged Danny even tighter.

"I missed you, kiddo. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Daddy."

"How much?" Jim nuzzled him.

"This much!" Danny squeezed tighter.

"How much is that?"

"More than 'finity."

They both laughed, and Martin turned away to hide the fresh tears that sprang to his eyes.

"Okay." Don pocketed the extra clips. "I'm ready. Wish I had some ammo for your rifles, but I was never much of a hunter."

Jim grinned. "Even if you were, I don't know that you'd have any to fit the M-16s. They're not exactly deer rifles."

"Like I said, I'm a city boy." Don shrugged. "There's a knife there on the table. One of you can have it if you want."

"I'll take it," Martin offered. "That way, you can carry Danny."

Both father and son seemed to like the prospect, judging by the relieved looks on their faces.

"Not that it will do much good, I guess." The preacher sighed, picking up the blade. "Unless I stick it hard enough to go through their skull." He shuddered, remembering that he'd done that very thing earlier in the day, fending off not a zombie, but a fellow human. It seemed like years ago.

"Why is that?" Don asked, shoving bottles of water

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into a backpack. "Why does it have to go through the skull?"

"Damaging the brain is the only way to kill them."

"Makes sense, I guess. I figured as much. That was what it finally took-for Myrna."

"I liked her," Danny spoke up. "She always let me play with Rocky, and she used to babysit me when I was littler."

"Well," Jim said quietly, "at least somebody was watching out for you."

"What do you mean, Daddy?"

"Nothing, squirt. It just seems like your mother and Rick didn't think. They should have gotten you out of here as soon as this started."

Danny's face clouded. "I wish you wouldn't talk bad about them. I don't like it."

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but Martin interrupted him.

"Danny, I bet you're thirsty after that ordeal. Why don't you have Mr. De Santos open one of those bottles of water for you?"

Danny shrugged. "Okay."

"That a boy."

"Shouldn't we come up with a plan?" Jim asked. "Those things outside know that we're in here."

"It will only take a second," Martin assured him.

"Make it quick," Don said. "That plywood won't hold them off much longer."

Jim put Danny down and he scampered across the room. Martin motioned for Jim to follow him outside the panic room. They stepped into the bedroom.

Once there, Jim turned to him with a grave expression on his face.

"What's up?"

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The old man's whispered tones were harsh. "What's the matter with you, Jim?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean talking about the boy's mother and stepfather like that."

"Don't you dare start on me, Martin. You have no idea what they put me-us-through."

"Guys," Don called from the panic room, "this isn't the time for family politics. They're getting through!"

Martin put his hand on Jim's shoulder. "I know they took your son from you, and that's a hard thing. That's a very hard thing. But they put a roof over his head and clothes on his back. Danny loves you-I can see it every time he looks at you. But he loved them too. And for you to say that, especially after whatever he's been through, is an even harder thing. I'm guessing that little boy's hair wasn't turning white two months ago. He's seen his mother and stepfather and everyone around him corrupted by those things. He's still in shock that you showed up, along with a bunch of strangers he's never met. And now his house is burning down and we just got done making him walk the balance beam two stories above the ground. The fact that he's alive and unharmed is nothing short of God's work. I have traveled up the East Coast to help you find him, and we've been through hell together. But we did it. We saved him. So knock off your bullshit right now and let's make sure this rescue wasn't in vain."

Jim took a step backward, stunned.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I was out of line."

"Now look what you did." Martin smiled. "You went and made me curse."

Jim chuckled as they returned to the room. He went over to Danny and picked him up again.

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"I'm sorry. Daddy's just tired. I didn't mean to say those things about your mom and Rick."

"It's okay." Danny smiled. "They said bad things about you too sometimes, even before they became monster-people."

"You gonna carry him?" Don asked.

"I reckon so."

"Here." He handed Jim a small hatchet. "Better carry this then, too. You can swing it with one arm."

The sound of gunfire broke out again, drifting up from the pool.

"I think that's our cue," Don urged. "We better get going!"

"Listen," Jim held up a hand. "That sounds like an M-16."

Don sighed in frustration. "We're out of time!"

"Is it Frankie?" Martin asked.

Jim shook his head. "Can't be."

"She was almost out of ammo, but it could be her-if she survived the fall."

"Martin-"

"It has to be, Jim."

Don whipped around. "She's alive?"

"Move!" Martin shouted.

"That's what I've been saying," Don snapped.

They ran for the garage.

Frankie stepped out of the shallow end of the pool and opened fire, squeezing off short bursts as she swept the weapon back and forth. When she saw that she was surrounded, she planted her feet, held down the trigger, and allowed the rifle's kick to pull her around in a circle.

"Come on, motherfuckers," she yelled. "I got something for you!"

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When she let go, she grinned at the bodies lying prone around her-then started again.

Some of the creatures shouted taunts, but the roar of the M-16 drowned them out. She switched to short bursts again, so that she could re-aim the weapon. The inferno raged a few yards away, as Jim's ex-wife's home was reduced to cinders. The heat from the fire roasted her face. She squinted, her eyes watering. Empty brass jackets littered the yard, and smoke poured from the barrel. She continued firing, shredding everything in her path- afraid the weapon would fall apart, but not caring. Heads exploded, and limbs were mangled and torn. What wasn't destroyed in the first barrage was knocked down by the second sweep. The rifle vibrated, sending shockwaves through her body and growing hot in her hands.

A little girl, shorter than the rest, ducked in below her field of fire and swung a croquet mallet. Frankie stepped back, swept the rifle butt downward, obliterated the child's head, and brought the weapon back up in one fluid motion.

"Come on. What you got for me? Huh? What you got? You ain't got nothing!"

Something punched her leg-hard. She looked down and saw blood. A second bullet stung her arm. Another whizzed by, shattering De Santos's kitchen window. A zombie to her right heaved a brick at her. It landed in the yard, barely missing her. The blood continued to flow down her leg and pooled inside her shoe. The wound burned.

"Shit."

Another object struck the back of her head. A rock, she thought, even as she yelped in pain. Then she saw what it was as it fell to the ground. A white cue ball, now smeared with her blood.

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She wondered how much ammunition was left, but pushed the thought from her mind. The magazine held thirty bullets, but in the confusion, she hadn't had time to count her shots. She continued firing, knowing that if she stopped to check now, they'd overrun her. Her leg felt like it was on fire. More heads exploded, their owner's bodies flopping to the ground. One zombie's right arm remained hanging by a thin piece of gristle. It gnawed at the flesh until the arm came free, then clambered after her again, swinging the appendage like a club.

"Double shit."