them,” the remaining Zapheads shouted. The display of unity was even more chilling than their bright eyes, as was the lack of fear or even excitement in their voices.
They scattered and advanced into the teeth of the bullets, moving fast but with deliberate steps—men, women, and adolescents, charging through the smoke that drifted across the parking lot. More dropped, but they seemed heedless of the death that drilled the air around them. Maybe on some level they knew the death wasn’t a permanent condition for them.
The gunfire eased to a few sporadic bursts as Shipley’s men apparently retreated. The first line of Zapheads melded into the darkness, only the strange reddish-yellow glow of their eyes marking their presence. The last flare sputtered and fizzed out and the parking lot fell dark again, bullets banging against the flanks of the school buses.
“We need to roll now,” DeVontay said, sensing an opportunity.
“You crazy? Shipley’s men won’t hold back just because we’re human.”
DeVontay let his weapon clatter to the ground. “I need you with me on this, Franklin.”
Franklin tugged on his unruly gray beard. “Ah, hell with it. I’ll take the boy. You take the baby.”
“You sure he won’t be too heavy for you?”
“I’m only sixty-five. Even though I feel a hundred and ten. Assuming my old-man stink doesn’t kill him.”
DeVontay grinned to hide his fear over what they were about to do. “Well, if your heart gives out, I’ll make sure our little friend brings you back.”
“Not funny.” Franklin slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. “Okay, where do we meet up?”
“Head back downtown. Remember that tractor trailer rolled up in the yard of that house? Maybe five blocks down?”
“I can find it.” Franklin tapped his night-vision goggles. “I’ve got these, but how are you going to see?”
“I’ll have the baby. It comes complete with a built-in flashlight.”
The firing was now down to a shot or two every fifteen seconds, and their eyes had adjusted back to the weak light. DeVontay tapped the side of the Suburban as either a good-luck charm or a signal to launch Operation Probably Wind Up Dead, then sprinted around the vehicle and limped toward Stephen and the baby. Franklin veered behind him, both of them running low and silent.
DeVontay couldn’t see their targets, since quite a few dark heaps pocked the pavement, but he moved on memory, judging the direction and distance. A few twin sets of glowing eyes pierced the surrounding gloom, but if the Zapheads were looking his way, they gave no sign. A bullet skipped off the asphalt in front of him, sending up sparks and a spray of fine gravel.
Should have let Franklin lead the way, since he has the goggles.
But he was eager to get this over with, one way or another. Rachel’s body lay in whatever weird state a half-mutant would enter instead of death, and he had no idea how many minutes she had left—if any—before her condition became permanent.
He was determined to grab that baby.
And save Stephen.
And then save the rest of the world.
No problem.
He nearly tripped and a tight band of pain seared his ankle. He thought he’d been shot, but when he looked down, he saw a hand clamped around his leg. A Zaphead on the ground, oozing blood from three big holes, clung to him with grim commitment despite its wounds. It was a black woman, he saw, someone who’d been his age when the solar storms struck, an age she would stay as long—or as many times—as she existed.
DeVontay tried to kick free, but she held tight. He grunted with effort as he drove a boot down onto her chest, sending little spurts of blood out of her wounds. Now he wished he had his rifle, but he figured it would be useless and only slow him down. He let his weight go and drove both knees into her abdomen, but she still maintained her grip.
“Let me go, damn it,” he said in a rough whisper, grabbing her curly hair with both hands. He lifted her
They scattered and advanced into the teeth of the bullets, moving fast but with deliberate steps—men, women, and adolescents, charging through the smoke that drifted across the parking lot. More dropped, but they seemed heedless of the death that drilled the air around them. Maybe on some level they knew the death wasn’t a permanent condition for them.
The gunfire eased to a few sporadic bursts as Shipley’s men apparently retreated. The first line of Zapheads melded into the darkness, only the strange reddish-yellow glow of their eyes marking their presence. The last flare sputtered and fizzed out and the parking lot fell dark again, bullets banging against the flanks of the school buses.
“We need to roll now,” DeVontay said, sensing an opportunity.
“You crazy? Shipley’s men won’t hold back just because we’re human.”
DeVontay let his weapon clatter to the ground. “I need you with me on this, Franklin.”
Franklin tugged on his unruly gray beard. “Ah, hell with it. I’ll take the boy. You take the baby.”
“You sure he won’t be too heavy for you?”
“I’m only sixty-five. Even though I feel a hundred and ten. Assuming my old-man stink doesn’t kill him.”
DeVontay grinned to hide his fear over what they were about to do. “Well, if your heart gives out, I’ll make sure our little friend brings you back.”
“Not funny.” Franklin slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. “Okay, where do we meet up?”
“Head back downtown. Remember that tractor trailer rolled up in the yard of that house? Maybe five blocks down?”
“I can find it.” Franklin tapped his night-vision goggles. “I’ve got these, but how are you going to see?”
“I’ll have the baby. It comes complete with a built-in flashlight.”
The firing was now down to a shot or two every fifteen seconds, and their eyes had adjusted back to the weak light. DeVontay tapped the side of the Suburban as either a good-luck charm or a signal to launch Operation Probably Wind Up Dead, then sprinted around the vehicle and limped toward Stephen and the baby. Franklin veered behind him, both of them running low and silent.
DeVontay couldn’t see their targets, since quite a few dark heaps pocked the pavement, but he moved on memory, judging the direction and distance. A few twin sets of glowing eyes pierced the surrounding gloom, but if the Zapheads were looking his way, they gave no sign. A bullet skipped off the asphalt in front of him, sending up sparks and a spray of fine gravel.
Should have let Franklin lead the way, since he has the goggles.
But he was eager to get this over with, one way or another. Rachel’s body lay in whatever weird state a half-mutant would enter instead of death, and he had no idea how many minutes she had left—if any—before her condition became permanent.
He was determined to grab that baby.
And save Stephen.
And then save the rest of the world.
No problem.
He nearly tripped and a tight band of pain seared his ankle. He thought he’d been shot, but when he looked down, he saw a hand clamped around his leg. A Zaphead on the ground, oozing blood from three big holes, clung to him with grim commitment despite its wounds. It was a black woman, he saw, someone who’d been his age when the solar storms struck, an age she would stay as long—or as many times—as she existed.
DeVontay tried to kick free, but she held tight. He grunted with effort as he drove a boot down onto her chest, sending little spurts of blood out of her wounds. Now he wished he had his rifle, but he figured it would be useless and only slow him down. He let his weight go and drove both knees into her abdomen, but she still maintained her grip.
“Let me go, damn it,” he said in a rough whisper, grabbing her curly hair with both hands. He lifted her
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