The Stones of Angkor (Purge of Babylon, Book 3) (56 page)

The island. Lara. Danny’s bad jokes. Sarah’s cooking.

He was at least heartened that Gaby and Nate had probably made it back to the island by now. He had no way of knowing for sure, but Gaby was resourceful, and even injured, Nate had proven himself to be a good companion for her.

Teenage love in the apocalypse lives after all.

*

When he opened
his eyes again later that night, it was pitch dark inside the truck, and he couldn’t hear the sound of rain anymore, only the soft and steady
drip-drip-drip
of leftover water falling off the sides of the building.

Nightfall.

He could see the whites of Zoe’s eyes. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, hands over her legs. She was staring at him as he stirred awake.

“They’re outside,” she whispered. Her lips trembled, making it sound as if she were stuttering.

He looked down at his watch, the hands glowing bright green in the darkness: 10:39 
p.m.

Will twisted slightly in his seat, grimacing with the pain
(Ignore it)
, and reached into the back for his M4A1 rifle. There, the cold but comfortable feel of well-worn metal. He pulled it forward by the barrel and into his lap. He ran his hands over the carbine, checking to make sure everything was where it should be.

Zoe was looking at the closed garage door in front of them now. Moonlight filtered in through the tiny crevices at the bottom and along the sides, as if the door were glowing in the dark. Figures—thin, gaunt shapes—darted across the other side, never staying at one spot for very long, and the sound of splashing puddles that had accumulated in the parking lot after the day’s rain.

How many? More than two. Possibly five. Likely more than that.

His gun belt was on the floor. He reached down and tugged the Glock gently out of its holster and checked to make sure he had a full magazine inside. He slipped it back into the holster, the slide of the Glock’s plastic polymer against leather like fingernails on a chalkboard. He carefully wrapped the gun belt around his waist and pulled it tight, ignoring the brief flash of pain. He was glad he had swallowed extra painkillers when Zoe wasn’t looking.

His pack rested between the two front seats; he picked it up and calmly, silently searched for the spare magazines inside. He had two spares for the M4A1 and two for the Glocks. All silver ammo. He had given the rest to Gaby.

“What are we going to do?” Zoe whispered, her voice impossibly strained.

He shook his head.
“Nothing.”

Her eyes trembled and widened, over and over again.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispered.

There was a loud
bang!
as one of the ghouls crashed into the steel garage door. The whole building seemed to shake for an instant, before another one of the creatures smashed into the same door just as it was settling.

Zoe almost screamed, but somehow managed to stop herself in time.

“Did you latch the garage doors?” he asked.

Will had dispensed with the whispering now. The ghouls clearly knew they were inside, and he could see the number of figures increasing through the slits. There were so many that they completely overwhelmed the slivers of moonlight that were once visible.

Twenty. Maybe thirty…

Zoe managed to nod back at him, her voice trembling when she answered. “I couldn’t find the keys to lock them in place.”

“It’s okay, neither could I.”

He had looked everywhere the first time they had spent the night at Fredo’s, but the keys were nowhere to be found. The garage doors were simply latched, but not locked. It was one of the reasons why Will didn’t like staying in a place more than once. Betting on the ghouls missing you two times in a row was asking for trouble. Betting on three days in a row was begging for it.

Dead, not stupid.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Zoe said suddenly.

“No.”

She was trying to read his face. Will smiled back at her. He had mastered hiding his emotions years ago. Fear, happiness—things that could be tempered with the right combination of resolve and denial.

He was very aware that there was a way out of this. The hazmat suit. It was still crumpled on the floor behind his seat, where he had tossed it days ago after they escaped the camp. He could put it on and probably survive tonight.
Probably.
He wasn’t entirely confident that was even true. Were the ghouls ordered not to attack
any
hazmat suits? Or just people wearing the uniforms at certain locations?

Too many questions, too many possibilities.

Not that it mattered. There was Zoe to think about. She had saved his life, even when she didn’t have to. He couldn’t pay that back now by grabbing the suit and leaving her to fend for herself. Besides, there was still a way out of this.

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “I just need you to stick with me, okay?”

“I don’t want to die, Will.”

“You won’t.”

Zoe jumped at the sound of footsteps moving across the roof above them. The truck’s windows were open, as they had been for the last three days. He could hear the steady, unmistakable patter of soft, bare feet treading over wet, loose gravel.

Definitely more than one. Probably a dozen…

“Oh, God,” Zoe whispered. “What are they doing up there?”

They’re probing, looking for a weak spot.

He said instead, “I need to get behind the steering wheel, Zoe, and you need to get in the back.”

“Why?”

“Just in case.”

He could tell she wanted to ask,
“Just in case of what?”,
but she didn’t. Maybe she already knew, or maybe she didn’t want to know.

He grabbed her hand when he saw her reaching for the door handle. “No, just climb into the back.”

She untangled her long limbs, then slowly (and so, so cautiously) climbed into the backseat. Will slipped over and settled in behind the steering wheel. He laid the M4A1 across the front passenger seat, the stock facing him for an easy grab. He made sure he knew where the power switches for the windows were—right next to his left arm, along the driver’s side door. That was important, since both front windows were open. He wondered how long it would take them to close. Five seconds? Maybe.

Zoe had left the Ford’s key in the ignition. He could hear her letting out short, labored breaths behind him, like machine guns. He didn’t blame her. The sound of ghouls moving above them was disconcerting. He had been through it countless times, and it still got to him.

“Will?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“Was I wrong? For doing what I did? At the camps, with all those pregnant women?”

The question surprised him, especially since she had defended herself so well. But there were very real doubts in her voice now. Doubt, and very real regret.

“No,” he said. “You did what you had to do. No one can blame you.”

“Do you?”

“No. I don’t blame you, Zoe.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and slowly tuned out the noises from above. That was a distraction. He could almost sense them trying to lull him, like sirens grabbing at his attention.

Instead, he focused on the garage door directly in front of him. That was where the danger would come from. It would take too much effort to crash through the roof, but the doors, held down by a simple latch that could be opened from both sides, was the real problem. All it would take was for one ghoul to realize that…

Then he saw the door moving slightly—ever so slightly—and Will put his hand over the key. Behind him, he heard a soft
click
, and grinned at the image of Zoe putting on her seatbelt.

Buckle up, here they come.

Before he had even finished his thought, they threw the garage door open—first one, then the other—with such a sudden explosion of sound and fury that he actually jumped. His senses, already overloaded, went into overdrive when he glimpsed darkness beyond and the ghouls packed into the parking lot.

Then every inch of him erupted into action.

He flicked the key in the ignition and heard the F-150 roar to life about the same time the first ghoul leaped through the door, which was still in the process of sliding open, and landed on the hood, scrambling on all fours up to the damaged window. Will ignored its gaunt face and slobbering mouth—caverns of twisted and brown and yellow teeth—and slammed his fingers down on the power window switches. His right hand was already moving, falling down on the gear shift and pulling it into drive.

The ghoul was perched directly in front of him, glaring through the windshield with intense dark eyes, as if it could will itself through the bullet holes. Will slammed down on the gas pedal just as two—three—
four
more of the creatures flung themselves through the air and landed on the hood with loud
thumps
.

More
plopped
against the windshield and careened off as the F-150 powered forward and burst out of the garage, all four tires spinning desperately under its massive bulk.

The headlights had popped on automatically as soon as he turned the key, and Will saw a sea of ghouls crowding around the parking lot. They seemed to fly at him, landing and bouncing off the hood and windshield and sides of the vehicle like baseballs, each impact denting and cratering but doing nothing to halt the momentum of the almost 5,000-pound vehicle.

He heard the loud crunch of bodies and bones and skulls under the truck’s large twenty-nine inch tires, most of it lost in the roar of a powerful engine designed to tow over 11,000 pounds. Against that kind of brute force, creatures that were essentially bags of skin and bones didn’t stand a chance.

By now both windows were fully closed, though that didn’t stop the ghouls from endlessly smashing into them with their fists—and skulls—anyway. It was a hail Mary of sharp, bony bodies, jackhammering fists, and flailing legs coming from everywhere even as the truck battered its way down Fredo’s driveway and into the streets, splashing puddles as it went. The truck’s magnificently bright headlights flashed across scowling faces and shrunken bodies.

There had to be hundreds.
Thousands.
The streets were lined with them. Wall upon wall of shriveled figures, so many that eventually even the truck began to slow down under the onslaught, the number of crushed ghouls clogging up the tires and undercarriage.

“There’s too many!” Zoe shouted from the backseat.

Gee, thanks for the fine observation, Zoe.

He jerked the steering wheel and took the F-150 off the streets and into the grass. Instantly, he felt the difference in how the vehicle handled, minus the bodies trying to cling to it from every inch of the roof, hood, and sides. He was pretty sure a number of the creatures had leaped into the truck bed and were now clinging on for dear life, but he didn’t have time to look in the rearview mirror to make sure.

Now that he had abandoned the strip mall, he was moving through uncharted territory. Literally. The ground before and around and under him was constantly shifting, from smooth asphalt to concrete to grass and back again. Every bump and hop and sudden dip threatened to send them careening to their deaths. The truck was rising and falling more than it was moving on solid ground. It took all of his concentration not to broadside parked vehicles or take a tree head-on.

And through it all, the cascading sounds of bodies bouncing off the hood and grill and back bumper. The squeal of flesh trying to grapple onto the smooth sides of the truck to no avail. The constant glimpses of marble eyes, like small rain drops of tar, pouring at him from left and right and front and back, and at one point, he swore they were falling out of the sky, too.

We’re going to die. Soon, the truck will run out of gas, and we’re going to die.

Then, like a tunnel opening up in an ocean of nothingness, he saw it in the distance. It was long and lean and looked tiny, but that was only because it was still too far away to see in any detail. It was bright, blinding whiteness in a dark universe. He remembered seeing it days ago when he first drove through Harvest. It was a kilometer away, maybe more.

Doable.

He stepped on the gas and the truck poured it on, crunching ghouls and turning skulls and bones to dust and pulverizing skin into paper. Would that even kill them? He wasn’t so sure. He had seen ghouls moving with half their heads literally caved in, seen severed hands still acting like they had minds. Compared to those things, getting caught under a truck’s tires was probably child’s play.

Behind him, Zoe was screaming. He wasn’t entirely sure why she had suddenly let loose. Was it the fear? The sight of the ghouls flinging themselves at them with wild abandon? He couldn’t really blame her; if he were seeing it all for the first time, he might have lost it, too.

He tuned her out instead and concentrated on the objective in front of him. Literally. It was getting closer, becoming more and more real as the truck tore across the open land. He was leaving the ghouls behind, but he had no illusions that this small victory was going to last. He could outrun them, but only for a little while.