The Dying of the Light (Book 1): End (5 page)

She moved faster than any of the others I’d seen, and was on me almost before I could react. She clung to my leg, trying her best to make a meal of my thigh, and, as I tried to pry her off, I stumbled, falling back against the picket fence surrounding the small yard.

The fence had seen better days; it broke into splinters as I fell against it. I screamed as a huge piece of jagged wood pierced my arm. My balance gone, the girl swarmed over me as I landed hard on my back, and it took every ounce of will I had to fight through the pain from my arm and keep her from biting me as she snarled and spit, saliva and blood flying everywhere.

Suddenly, I saw my opening, and, grabbing her leg with my good arm, I swung her away from me into the stone wall of the house next door at full force. She hit with a sickening crunch and slid to the sidewalk, the creepy moans and gnashing of teeth silenced for good now. I groaned as the pain from my arm hit me again, and struggling to my feet, I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard as I gripped the spike of wood, took a deep breath, and pulled it out fast. I gasped as blood welled up from the wound, thick and black in the near-dark night.

Taking off my belt, I wrapped it around my bicep above the wound and cinched it tight, cutting off the blood flow. I’d have to do a more thorough job of cleaning and washing it later, when I had time, but for now all I could do was get moving again.

My scream had no doubt drawn the attention of every walker within a mile or more. As I retrieved my pack from where it had fallen, I tried to resist that bastard inner voice that told me I was a monster for killing a little girl, even though I would have been food if I’d given her even a ghost of a chance.

You’re still a jackass
, the voice reminded me.
You should’ve checked that yard before crossing the street, asshole
.

My inner voice was not nice. Not anymore. Not after two days in this place.

This time, I checked the yard carefully before entering my little house on Roland Avenue. Not seeing any horror-film nightmares, I moved quietly to the porch and knelt down, covering the darkened interior with the pistol held in my good hand. I knocked softly on the frame of what had once been the front door; shattered and twisted, it hung off of the hinges, glass covering the entryway floor. As it had for the last two days, only quiet stillness answered me.

No moans, no shuffling of dead feet. The house was empty. Even so, the events of the last two days had rapidly instilled new survival traits in my psyche, and I searched the shadows warily as I moved into the entrance hall.

I listened for long minutes at the base of the stairs, waiting to hear any noise at all. I realized after sitting there for fifteen minutes that I wasn’t just listening anymore; I was avoiding going upstairs. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Upstairs I was certain, on some level, that I would find Eric. Or what was left of Eric. Even though I’d searched for him before, I had to do it again. To take one last chance of finding him alive.

Chance failed me, again. Upstairs, downstairs, the basement… all were empty. Eric was gone. There was no way for me to know if he was a zombie, had simply run off, or was hiding somewhere. I had been tempting fate running around looking for them; it was only pure luck that had so far kept me from getting killed, just like Rebecca. At the thought of what I’d done to her, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Just because something was necessary and right didn’t make it easy.

There was a part of me — a large part — that wanted to go out there into the night, searching for the kid, regardless of my chances of making it out alive. It was the right thing to do, danger or no danger. But the odds were almost nil that he was still the boy I remembered. And I had to get out of this town somehow.

It was then that I made the hardest choice I’ve ever made, even though it was clear what I had to do: I abandoned him, knowing full well that it would mean his death, if he wasn’t dead already.

He’s probably still alive, asshole. Hiding somewhere, waiting for you to come rescue him,
Dad
.

Like I said, not a nice voice.

Mentally cataloguing the few possessions I wanted to take with me, I calmly and quickly began stuffing them into another duffel bag I grabbed out of the closet. Without thinking, I used my injured arm, and bit my lip to keep from crying out again.

First things first, dumbass.

I moved into the upstairs bathroom and grabbed the first-aid kit, closing both doors into the room as well as pulling the window shade before turning on the lights. I wasn’t sure that zombies were attracted to light, but there wasn’t any sense in taking unnecessary chances. I’d seen enough horror movies and killed enough of them in the last two nights to know that ‘better safe than sorry’ was always the way to go.

Fortunately the electricity’s still on
, I thought.
And the water.
I turned on the taps and unwrapped the belt, wincing at the fresh flow of blood from the wound, but thankful that the spike had gone all the way through. I was sure there would be splinters, but right now all I could do was stop the bleeding. Dropping the now-shredded t-shirt on the floor, I examined the hole in my arm and saw it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. The splinter wasn’t that large in diameter, though the blood was still flowing freely.

Thanks, Dad
, I thought as I opened the well-stocked first aid kit. As a Marine, he had always insisted on keeping an over-sized kit somewhere in the house, and I was very glad I’d learned that particular lesson. I paged through the simple and well-illustrated field manual in the kit, and followed the directions.

I was amazed at the relative lack of pain as the coagulant powder stopped the bleeding, and I wrapped gauze around my arm after applying a bandage pad. I looked in the mirror when I’d finished.

Well, it ain’t pretty, but it’ll have to do. Hopefully I can make it to a hospital or something when I get to Lakewood.

Popping some painkillers, I repacked the kit, turned off the light and moved back into the bedroom. After putting on a warmer long-sleeve shirt, I picked up the bag once more, this time with my uninjured arm. Now that I’d at least bandaged the arm, the pain had started to fade a bit.

Extra shoes. Extra batteries. Extra clothes and a jacket. Water bottles. The bag was stuffed and bulging by the time I was through, but I didn’t have to carry it very far.

I dropped it next to the bag Monty had given me, and I looked around at the kitchen just once as I paused by the back door, checking the path to the garage fifteen feet away. It was a cozy little house, but there was nothing left for me here now.

I made it to the garage and inside, the door shut and the light on, pistol at the ready. No movement, no noise. The camp stove under the workbench and the sleeping bag from the rafters overhead went into the back of my black 1988 Ford Bronco along with the duffels. I climbed behind the wheel and paused for a moment. This beast was going to draw every one of the monsters for three blocks or more when I started it up; no v8 engine I ever heard ran quiet. Nothing for it, though. Once I was moving, I could just run down any of the bastards between here and I-70. Few things could stop an old-school Bronco once it was at speed, and the over-sized winter tires would keep the big vehicle on the road. And it was a hell of a lot better than walking.

I was as ready as I would ever be.

The first roar of the engine overwhelmed the noise of the big garage door going up, and I rocketed out, the tall radio mast barely clearing the door, even tied back as it was. I didn’t see the first zombie I hit, but bits and brains flew over the windshield as I smashed into it somewhere around the sidewalk and turned out into the street.

I tried to remember the clearest path from my house to the Interstate, given all the abandoned cars and other obstructions on the roads. I’d almost made it to the intersection of Roland and Main, where I was tempted to turn, when I heard what could only be a helicopter overhead.
What the hell is a helicopter doing in Fall Creek?
I wondered as I slowed and checked for zombies, then stopped and stuck my head out the window.

The moonlight glinted off the side of a Blackhawk helicopter as it banked low over the ten or fifteen old buildings the visitor’s bureau referred to as “Historic Downtown Fall Creek.” Army insignia were visible on the side of the craft as it headed in the general direction of the town hall, and I assumed it would be landing in the main square.

That’s my ticket out
, I thought as I rolled the window back up and began moving that way. Just like that, all my plans had changed.
I just have to get there. Somehow. Through a hundred or more zombies that all want to have me for a late supper.

I stopped about half a mile away from downtown, making sure the coast was clear before I parked next to an alley with a fire escape. I got out and grabbed the duffel with all my clothes, some food, and ammo. I wouldn’t need the camp stove or sleeping bag. If it turned out these guys were no good, I could always come back here and head back for the interstate. The duffel went on my back, along with the rifle. Pistol in its holster, I climbed onto the roof of the Bronco and grabbed the fire escape ladder just as I saw the first zombie come around the corner, drawn by the rumble of the big V8. Timing was everything, I guess.

I moved across the roofs of the downtown shopping district quietly and quickly. Fortunately, there were only minor gaps between them, and I lucked out in finding a loose board from one of the signs that I could extend across the larger spaces. Taking it with me each time, I was able to make my way toward the main square.

I dropped and crawled to the edge of the building near the main square, then slowly peeked over the edge. It seemed like a standard Army camp, at least from what I’d seen in movies. There were a couple temporary helipads chalked onto the asphalt, and some tents set up, their sides rolled up to provide ventilation to the scientists working beneath them. I could see a few random flashes of gunfire from the barricades they had set up; the zombies were being drawn by the noise of all the personnel, but were coming to the barricades in dribs and drabs, a few at a time.

I was done with Fall Creek now. I’d seen and done things in the last few hours that I had never thought possible, and I moved back, taking the first fire escape down to the nearest alley, crouching around the corner in the few shadows that were left as the sun began to rise. I hoped that these Army guys would be able to get me out of here.

Beyond the makeshift barricades — a few cars pushed together here and there, and a city bus blocking one street — there were at least two choppers, their blades turning as the Army personnel moved back and forth around their fortifications.

The problem was that I had no idea what sort of story they’d been told about what was going on here. Could’ve been anything, and they’d already seen several of their men go down. What was odd were the scientists they had with them. Obviously not military, they carried themselves differently, and flinched every time a gun went off.

At least there’s none at this barricade for the moment
, I thought. I could count about 30 or 40 lying on the ground in front of it, though. The night hadn’t been completely kind to these guys.

And here came another patrol, within a couple hundred yards of me. I took a deep breath and checked for walkers. None spotted, I lowered my duffel to the ground, and holstered my pistol. Holding the rifle by one hand, I cupped the other and shouted around the corner.

“Don’t shoot, I’m not infected,” I began and jerked back as a fusillade of bullets struck chips off the edge of the building.

Genius, Blake. Pure fucking genius. Why don’t you just fire your rifle in the air to calm them down, now?

From around the side of the building I heard a gruff voice. “God dammit Jenkins, cease fire! Who gave you an order to shoot, you dipshit?”

“Well, sir…”

“Shaddup, asshole, it was a rhetorical question.”

I chuckled. Definitely not an officer, that one.

“All you other assholes will hold fire until I give you a direct order, clear?”

A chorus of sheepish voices answered. “Clear, sir!”

“Good. You, behind the corner there. If you’re human, you’ll come out with your hands over your head, and slowly, or you will by-god die where you stand. You get me?”

I grinned again.
This guy’s been watching too much
Full Metal Jacket
.
“Yes, sir! Hands over my head and slowly, sir!”

I extended the rifle into view around the corner, keeping it pointed
away
from the squad, and lowered it to the ground. I held my hands up and inched around the corner, folding them atop my head as I walked forward, swallowing hard at the sight of no less than 10 M16’s pointed straight at my face.

I was about twenty yards away when the man spoke up again. “Alright, that’s far enough. Turn around.” I did so, barely moving. “You been bitten or otherwise wounded, son?”

“Yes, sir.” I closed my eyes as the rifles rose once more to the shoulders of the young soldiers in front of me, and I prayed that they wouldn’t fire as I yelled. “
Not bitten
! I got a piece of fence through my arm, sir, but I wasn’t bitten.”

“Take off your shirt. Slowly.”