Night Resurrected (16 page)

trail of blood you’ve left behind?”

Marck’s jaw shifted. “My real

question relates to you. Elliott was with

Quent in the caves, and I expect you

were too. Which makes you about fifty

years older than me.”

“That’s one hell of an assumption,”

Wyatt replied.

“It’s not an assumption. It’s a fact.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I like to know who I’m dealing

with.”

Wyatt smiled, allowing every bit of

unpleasantness he felt to show in the curl

of his lips. “And why would I do

anything to give you an advantage?” He

tilted his head to listen. “The zombies

are coming closer. I’m finished with

this. Stay or go, your choice.” He turned

on his heel and walked unhurriedly to

the truck.

“What’s your gift, Wyatt? What

power did you gain in the caves?”

Marck’s question followed him,

snagging Wyatt in his smooth climb up

into the truck. But he recovered

immediately and kept going, yet with

more force and jerkiness in his

movements than before.

Holy shit. How could Ian Marck

know about that? How each of the men

who’d been trapped in the caves for fifty

years had acquired a special superhuman

ability?

It was inexplicable but true. Elliott

had discovered the unnatural ability to

heal with his hands. Quent could read an

object’s history merely by touching it.

Fence and Simon, the other two men

who’d been trapped with them, also had

superhuman abilities.

All of them, with the exception of

Wyatt, had noticed a special alteration in

their bodies. He wasn’t certain whether

he simply hadn’t discovered his yet or

whether he didn’t have one. He didn’t

really give a shit, figured it would be

just one more thing to have to deal with

in this new horror of a world. He’d seen

Quent and Elliott, and especially Fence,

try to learn how to handle these changes

and their powerful abilities, and it

hadn’t been pretty. It had been downright

dangerous and frightening in many ways.

It wasn’t bad enough that they had

been thrust into this world—losing

everything they’d loved—but to deal

with extranormal abilities? That just

made things worse.

Still

unpleasantly

surprised

by

Marck’s question, and irritated by the

interrogation overall, Wyatt stumbled

into the dim interior of the truck. There

was a small light in the back. Remy was

up, reading or doing something. Good

God, she’d probably have questions and

demand answers and generally work

hard to piss him off. If she asked him

why he kissed her—

He almost turned around to go back

out, but decided he would give neither

her nor Marck the satisfaction. He’d

faced down gun- and bomb-toting

terrorists in the Middle East, days and

nights without rest, and blazing fires that

went on for days. He sure as hell could

handle a woman.

And damned if his eyes didn’t go

right to her as he came into the back. She

was watching him and the entrance

behind him expectantly. No longer

wearing that skintight tank top, she’d

changed into something more modest—a

loose dark shirt. But there was enough

light to see the elegant curve of her neck

and shoulder, precisely the place he’d

buried his face only a few minutes ago.

Her soft dark hair was tousled and free

of its braid, falling in shadowy waves

against her fair skin. And those damn

blue eyes.

Guilt, guilt, guilt. He thrust it away,

turning it into anger and impatience.

“What the hell did you expect?” he

drawled. “Blood? Broken bones?”

Her expression remained cool. “I

heard the zombies.”

“They’re

coming

closer,”

said

Marck, his voice coming from the front

of the truck. “Might make sense to keep

watch tonight. They’re on a tear. I’ll take

the first watch. Sit in the front seat here.”

Wyatt grunted his assent, then

crawled back into the darkest corner he

could find. “I’ll spell you. Wake me at

two.”

“I’ll take the next shift,” Remy said

firmly. But no one responded, and Wyatt

knew Marck wouldn’t be waking her up.

He settled in and closed off his mind.

Sometime during college, he’d picked up

the valuable habit of forcing himself to

go to sleep instantly, regardless of what

else was going on around him and in his

head. Most of the time, it worked.

It must have worked tonight, too,

despite the whirlwind of thoughts that

plagued him, for Wyatt suddenly came

awake, feeling movement.
Earthquake?

His first thought was instantly

banished as he noticed the rhythm. The

truck was rocking from side to side. But

he was already on his feet, banging his

head on the ceiling as he scrambled over

a slower-moving Remy on his way to the

front. The cries and groans of the

zombies were loud, and even from

inside he could smell the stench.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Wyatt

demanded, shoving into the front of the

truck next to Marck. The violent rocking

jolted him into the other man, but he

stayed on his feet. He heard Remy

shouting something behind him but

ignored her. Dantès was barking

frantically, leaping around, trying to get

out. “Quiet, Dantès!” he commanded.

“Sit.”

“Goddammit, I was trying to keep

them from tearing the door off,” Marck

snapped. “What the hell took you so long

to get here?”

Wyatt bit back a retort as he looked

out. Zombies everywhere. Christ. Thirty

of them, maybe more. He didn’t think

he’d ever seen so many in one place.

They could easily tip the truck over if

they all figured out how to work

together. Or got mad enough.

Remy pushed her way between them.

“Oh my God,” she whispered as another

violent jolt sent her falling into Marck.

“They found me.”

Wyatt couldn’t help but glance at

their new companion. He showed up

tonight and all of a sudden a whole band

of

frenzied

gangas

appeared.

Coincidence?

His jaw tightened as the truck tipped

sharply, then slammed back upright.

He’d deal with Marck later. Right now

they had to get out of this mess.

“Get me a torch,” he shouted. “At

least we can try and hold some of them

—” The truck jolted again, cutting him

off, but by the time he’d righted himself,

Remy was there with a rolled up piece

of cloth that was trying to burn on one

end. A pair of
jeans
? Christ, wasn’t

there anything else? Denim burned like

shit.

Marck was doing something under

the steering well of the truck, and Wyatt

realized he was trying to see if there was

a way to get it started. “Not gonna

work,” he shouted, brandishing the torch

out the glassless window. “Gas tank’s

bone dry.”

There was a curse and then Marck’s

face reappeared. “Trying to see if I can

get some wires to spark,” he said, then

disappeared back under.

Wyatt shook his head, wondering

what the hell sparking wires would do to

help. The only way he knew of to kill a

zombie was to smash his brains. Not a

pleasant task, nor an efficient one.

Remy shrieked when the truck jolted

violently, and this time it nearly went

over.

Sonofabitch. Wyatt lunged back to the

window and hung out of it, waving the

soft, sagging torch at the monsters. It did

little to deter them; they merely moved to

Marck’s side of the truck and began to

push at it.

The

group

was

surprisingly

coordinated; zombies didn’t usually

comprehend teamwork. Especially when

there was a potential meal involved.

Wyatt shoved that thought away.

According to Marck’s information, he

and Remy would be safe—if one could

call being abducted by zombies safe—

while Ian Marck would be the one in

danger. And Dantès.

The poor dog was whining and

shoving his head against Wyatt’s arm,

and then Remy, and then back again. He

was just as frightened as the rest of them.

The truck was rocking harder. It was

going to go over any time now, and there

didn’t seem to be anything—

“Remy. You have that bottle of

alcohol? Grab it. And the alcohol pads

in the first aid kit. And the empty

whiskey bottle.” Damn. He knew he

should have saved some of the

Jameson’s. “And whatever books and

paper you can find.”

She gave a little cry as the truck

tipped again, sending her to the floor,

hard, but she leapt up and dashed back

into the darkness, taking Dantès with her.

Marck emerged from beneath the

steering well just as the glass on the

driver’s side window shattered. A thick

zombie hand, gray and putrid with

rotting flesh, reached in blindly, just

missing Ian’s arm.

“Hurry!” Wyatt shouted, smashing at

the hands of zombies as they tried to pull

themselves up, using the empty window

ledge. He still waved the torch, but it

wasn’t burning very well at all.

Remy was back, shoving the small

bottle of alcohol into his hands. He’d

grabbed a piece of something soft from

the floor and now he shoved it into the

bottle, leaving a little tail hanging out.

One small fucking bomb, and maybe a

second one if he got lucky. A few

burning books. That was the most he

could hope for.

The truck rocked again, and he

realized the zombies were now pushing

from both sides—which was actually a

blessing. They weren’t coordinating,

they were fighting against each other.

Good. If they could just hold them off till

dawn,

when

the

zombies

would

leave . . .

He lit the tail dangling from the small

bottle and waited for the cloth to burn

down as low as he could . . . He didn’t

want to wait too long, but—

“Duck!” he shouted, and flipped it

out the window just as it exploded.

Glass shattered against the metal of the

truck door and a few shards even flew

inside.
Fuck.
That was too damn close.

The small bottle bomb had frightened

the zombies enough that they backed

away, but the reprieve didn’t last long.

“Got any other ideas?” Still holding

the smoldering denim torch, Wyatt

called to Marck, who was doing pretty

much the same thing he was on the

opposite side of the cab: keeping the

door closed and using whatever was at

hand to fight them away.

“I’m thinking!” Marck shouted back,

beating at a zombie head with something

he’d found on the bottom of the truck.

“Isn’t there any other way out of this

thing?”

“No,” Wyatt responded over the roar.

“No back door. No rear entrance.” He

crumpled up the page of a book Remy

tossed on the seat behind him, then lit the

ball. When it flared into flames, he

tossed it out the window, then followed

with a second one out Marck’s window.

The burning missiles had effective but

short-lived effects on the zombies: they

caused them to spread out, and one or

two might catch his clothes on fire, but

once they staggered away, screaming

gutturally, the others swarmed back to

the truck.

He threw the last book—damn, it

was the Jack Reacher thriller he’d just

salvaged—and then something was

thrust into his hand. A metal pan.

Excellent. Still holding the makeshift

torch, he swung out the window and

caught one of the monsters in the head

with the pan. The skull crunched and he

fell away, only to be replaced by another