Dead Highways (Book 3): Discord (10 page)

It was all over in a second.

The jump, that is. Not my life.

The descent had gone better than expected. I got good lift off the windowsill and had sailed the proper distance with relative ease. Even the landing hadn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, though perhaps I’d feel it later. I didn’t jump down feet first, and certainly not head first. I went for something in between, trying to spread the impact across the entire length of my body, rather than have one particular part absorb the full force of the fall. The metal, cylindrical roof of the shed trembled and clanged loudly as I slammed into it.

Part one was complete.

I was proud of myself, and I’m sure those gathered around the window above were proud as well. But the fun wasn’t over yet.

I lay there hugging the roof for a moment, feeling the leftover rainwater soak into the front of my shirt, and listening to the mass of undead surrounding me voicing their displeasure with my successful jump. After being cooped up in the hot house for a few hours, the cool rainwater felt nice against my skin. Once the zombies began throwing themselves against the shed, rocking it and causing things inside to fall over, I figured it was time to get moving.

I needed to get my legs under me so I could stand, but the wet roof wouldn’t allow my shoes much purchase. I drew my knees up and immediately began to slide down. Gripping the damp metal as hard as I could, I gradually pulled myself back up. On my second attempt, I slid back down again, farther than the first time.

Ten feet above, the six were yelling stuff out the window but I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Mixed with the moans of the infected (and my own heavy breathing), it just sounded like a thousand voices shouting underwater, muddy and wordless. This is what it must have felt like to be a mixed martial artist, or some other athlete, having people yell instructions at you from the sidelines. It sure wasn’t helping the current situation. I needed to block everything out, relax, and take it slow and easy.

But that didn’t work either.

I barely moved my knees before I began sliding down again. I clutched at the roof, trying to pull myself up, but inch by inch, I continued to slide. All the good fortune I’d felt upon landing was slipping away as well.

Finally, with every ounce of muscle in my body working to save me, I managed to stop from sliding down any farther. I clung to the roof, exhausted, exhaling deeply. The relief didn’t last long, however, as not a moment after celebrating my small victory, a dead thing wrapped its gangly fingers around my right ankle and began tugging me back down.

I shifted my body to one side and glanced down at the horde of infected a few feet below me. A tall, husky male wearing a dirty baseball cap and a red flannel shirt had me by the foot, and was six inches away from getting my ankle between his snapping jaws. Dying was bad enough. Being eaten alive was worse. Being eaten alive by a zombie that resembled Peaches’ former pimp, Bad Moses, was ironic assfuckery on another level altogether.

The six above were shouting even louder. I still couldn’t hear words, but it was safe to say I needed their help now. Everyone backed away from the window. A moment later Ted appeared with his rifle. He peered down the long scope and pulled the trigger. Two quick shots later and I was free.

I scrambled back up the shed, though something didn’t quite feel right. I still felt a cold and unnatural embrace. I looked down and saw the hand still attached to my foot, cut off at the wrist by the two bullets from Ted’s rifle. The zombie in the hat didn’t seem to miss the hand. He continued to reach up as though he intended to grab me with just the bloody stump. I twisted around to my back and slowly sat up on my butt in the center of the roof.

I carefully inspected the large gray hand, scared to touch it. Somehow the hand was gripping me just as tight as before. I shook my foot, beat my heel against the aluminum roof, but the hand wouldn’t come off.
It remained.
I threw a glance up at the window. The others were watching me again, now totally silent, probably glad that I was the one to jump.

I was certain over the course of the last week or so I’d touched zombie skin before. We all had. It was unavoidable at times. So I didn’t think touching the hand would put me at risk of getting infected, but still I was afraid to touch it. The thought of having to pry each finger open one by one made my body go numb. Unfortunately, I was running out of time. The infected surrounding the shed were pushing against it harder and harder from each side, and I feared with a little more time they might soon bring it down. And bring
me
down with it.

Here goes nothing,
I thought.

I went for the thumb first, thinking that without the thumb supporting the other four fingers, the grip wouldn’t be able to hold. The thumb was as cold as an ice cube, and just as moist and slippery. The skin felt as soft and pliable as Silly Putty, which made it even more surprising that such a delicate thing could have such a firm grip.

With my mouth pulled back in a grimace, I slowly began to pry the thumb open. I could feel the brittle bones beneath the skin crack and break into smaller pieces. A second later, there was one loud snap and the thumb came off completely. I freaked and brushed the loose thumb off me like it was a deadly spider. The thumb slid down the shed roof and landed back where it belonged, with the other dead and rotting things.

I banged my heel against the roof repeatedly, hard enough to put a small dent in the aluminum. The hand shifted around my ankle, but amazingly still wouldn’t come off. My guess was the inside of the fingers, slick and wet like paste, had begun to adhere to my sock.

Well, isn’t that just great.

I had to brace myself against the roof as it began to shake side to side. More things inside toppled over. The foundation was starting to give way, bolts loosening. In no time one of the four walls would likely collapse inward, and as it did, leave me hanging onto an unsteady roof.

“Jimmy, hurry!” Peaches yelled from the window.

I heard that.

I gradually stood up, struggling to keep my balance. Pivoting away from my friends at the window, I turned my attention toward the neighbor’s yard. The dead hand would have to remain attached to my ankle for the moment. Once I was safely off the crumpling shed, I’d finish the job of removing the hand.

The neighbor’s chain-link fence was about six feet from the shed, and roughly two or three feet shorter in height. The second jump was easier than the first in that I wouldn’t have to land on an object, I’d be landing on the grass in the neighbor’s backyard. I would have to jump out farther to make it over the fence, but I also had a larger surface to jump from than the windowsill. Only issue was the surface of the roof was very wet and unsteady, meaning I’d have a chance at slipping during takeoff. The key was to set my feet, keep my balance coordinated, and get a solid push off.

I removed my backpack and tossed it over the fence. The less weight the better. I considered sending Sally and my bowie knife (which I had thought about naming David) over the fence as well, but then changed my mind. If the worst should happen—if I slipped and fell or for any reason didn’t make it over the fence, at least I’d have a way to protect myself. And by protect myself I don’t mean by killing zombies or in any way saving my life. If I fell into the pit of zombies below I’d be as good as dead. I mean protect myself by taking a bullet to the head. Sally could be my last line of defense to avoid the agonizing pain of being eaten alive.

Breathing slow and deep, trying to calm my racing heart, I stretched my legs as far apart as I could and bent my knees. Using my arms to help propel me forward, I jumped off the shed.

A second later, I landed on the other side of the fence, slipping in the wet grass and falling onto my side next to my backpack.

Part two was complete.

All at once, a rush of pain hit my right knee. I groaned and rolled to a sitting position, inspected the sore spot. There was a ragged tear in my pants, some blood trickling out of a small cut near my kneecap. Must have banged it on a rock when I slipped in the grass.

The good news (besides making it over the fence) was I wouldn’t have to worry about breaking anymore rotting fingers off. The dead thing’s hand had fallen off when I landed in the wet grass. Pale blobs of detached skin from the fingertips remained on my black sock, like old sticky glue leftover after removing a bandage. Yeah, it was just as disgusting as it sounds. First chance I got I’d remove my socks and burn them. The hand lay a few feet away, closer to the chain-link fence. Behind the fence, the hundreds of zombies stopped focusing on the shed and turned their collective energy to pressing their ugly, drooping faces into the metal links.

I stood up, put my backpack on, and peered up at the two-story window. Ted nodded and gave me the ok sign. I did the same back.

Ted held his backpack in his hands, the end of the rope he’d crafted attached to the straps. He pushed some of the excess rope out of the open window, and then pulled back and underhand tossed his bag in my direction. The bag sailed through the air, the tail of the makeshift rope streaming out behind it, and landed in the grass a few feet in front of me. The backend of the rope remained in the upstairs window, securely attached to a post on the queen bed’s wooden headboard.

I hurried over and grabbed Ted’s backpack, carried it toward the neighbor’s house, pulling the rope tighter. I dropped the bag outside a downstairs window. The window I needed to reach was just above on the second story. I ran along the rear of the house and stopped at the backdoor.

It was locked.

Damn.

I glanced around, looking for another way inside. Even if I could get to the front door, which I couldn’t with the thousands of infected out on Hollygrove Street, it would probably be locked too. This wasn’t one of those nice Canadian neighborhoods I’d heard about where people don’t lock their doors. This was a poor neighborhood in New Orleans, one of the most dangerous cities in the United States.

I hustled back over to the side of the yard. The infected were glad to see me return, moaning and pushing in closer. The five-foot high fence was the only thing keeping them from saying hello in a more personal way.

“Door locked?” Ted shouted.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna have to break the window. There’s some bricks over there,” he said, pointing to a stack of concrete blocks by the gate.

I picked up the top block, making sure there weren’t any snakes or spiders hiding inside, and carried it over to the window. It was heavier than it looked. I set it down so I could get a better grip. Then I picked it back up and heaved it at the downstairs window. The glass reacted appropriately, shattering into many large pieces, while the concrete block toppled to the ground.

I carefully reached up between two broken shards of glass, flipped the window lock, and lifted the window open. From my backpack, I grabbed my spare shirt and used it to sweep the broken glass off the windowsill. Afterward, I shook the small bits of glass off and returned the shirt to my bag.

The next second I was in the neighbor’s house. A bedroom. First thing I did was take out Sally. I stood still, staying quiet and listening for any sounds of movement. Hearing nothing, I left the bedroom and scurried onward through the dark house. I didn’t stay in each room long enough to take inventory of the surroundings. If I didn’t see any dead things, I moved on in a hurry.

The layout was similar to that of the previous house, with the stairs being near the front door. Before going up, I looked out a front window across from the staircase. Thousands of zombies were packed outside, filling the entire street as far as I could see in both directions. They hung out in the front yard as well, though lucky for me their attention was on the house next door. Should they notice me inside, they’d surely turn their attention toward breaking down the front door—breaking through the windows, and then we’d be stuck again, no better off than we were before, no better off than we still were.

Unless I could do something about that.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and crossed the second story hallway. I pushed open the door to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, let Sally go in first. Seeing and hearing nothing unusual, I rushed inside and opened the bedroom window. Ted and Robinson smiled at me from the window across the way. After Robinson gave me the thumbs up, I left the room and ran back downstairs. No need to go back out through the broken window. I unlocked the backdoor, headed into the yard and around the corner to the side of the house where Ted’s bag lay.

With the makeshift rope still attached, I tossed Ted’s bag up toward the open window on the second floor. It took me four tries to successfully get the bag caught on the windowsill. I ran back around the house, inside and up the stairs.

I grabbed the backpack barely hanging on and pulled the rope tight. There was very little excess rope to worry about. Ted had eyeballed the distance between the houses damn near perfectly. I untied the end of the sheet from Ted’s bag. The master bedroom didn’t have a fancy headboard attached to the bed, so I had to tie the loose end of the sheet to the metal frame. I repositioned the bed against the wall with the window, pulled the sheet as tight as I could, and then began tying.