the vampire into the side of the tunnel. As Coburn fell to the ground, Masterson clambered atop his chest. Weeping. Snot-bubbles boiling up out of his nose.
“I used to be somebody,” Masterson said. Voice hoarse.
He was holding a grenade. The pin was not at home.
Coburn winced. Shit .
Boom , Kayla said, a half-second before the grenade went off.
And the world turned to noise and debris and pain.
PART TWO
ORPHANS
The Conversation: #2
Will I live with him now?
Beats me. Like I know how this works. We’re in new territory here, little girl.
Or maybe I’ll just die. Maybe I won’t exist anymore.
Could be, rabbit. Could be. But I hope not. I really hope not.
Maybe I’ll change him like I changed you.
Who said you changed me?
You’re so funny sometimes.
Yeah. A real laugh riot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I Believe That Children Are Our Future
G ASP.
Oxygen.
Breath screaming through his throat and filling his lungs—felt cool and hot and good and painful, all in equal measure.
Gil lurched upright. Bag still on his head. But someone had vented a hole where his mouth was, and with every breath the plastic whispered and crinkled.
He reached up, panicked, pawing at the bag. He ripped it off and threw it to the ground like it was a bundle of cottonmouth snakes.
Gil found his own crossbow pointed at his head.
And a dirt-caked child was the one pointing it.
“Get up, dickweed,” the boy said. Grungy blond hair covering one eye—a jet of air from pursed lips blew the hair to the side. “I said, get the fuck up, bitch.”
Gil scrambled backward like a crab.
Something hit him from behind—something heavy, wooden. Cracked him over the head—not hard enough to make him bleed, but hard enough to sting. He turned, saw another kid standing there holding a busted chair leg. It was a girl—hair an unwashed tangle, face streaked with fingers of what looked like ash.
Other children filtered into the room upon hearing the commotion. Another six of them. No teenagers, though a few that looked eleven or twelve, including the boy holding the crossbow aloft. Youngest seemed to be a boy of four or so—a porky mole-cheeked dumpling with hair stuck up and clumped with red as if it had been shellacked with strawberry jam. Gil realized with horror that it probably wasn’t strawberry.
His horror deepened when he realized all these kids had weapons. The girl with the chair leg. A pre-teen with bones woven into her pigtails held a folded license plate whose edge was plainly sharpened. A third held a .22 pistol. A fourth had a pair of ice picks, one in each hand. Even the fat little four-year-old dragged an oiled bike chain behind him.
Outside, thunder rumbled. Distant. But closing in.
“You tried to kill my father,” Crossbow Kid said.
Gil stammered, cleared his throat. Saw a pair of feet hanging over the edge of the bed—Mother and Father, respectively, both pairs of feet gently twitching and wiggling with the crude facsimile of life. Nearby, the third rotter—the kid with the bowl-cut and cherub-cheeks—spun idly in the office chair.
He stood, saw the crossbow bolt he’d loosed earlier sticking out of the flesh around the father-zombie’s collarbone.
“That’s your father,” Gil said, horrified.
“What of it, dick?”
“Watch your language, kid.”
“My name’s not kid, dick. It’s Aiden.”
Gil’s forehead furrowed. “My name’s not Dick , Aiden. It’s Gil.”
“Whatever. You tried to kill my father.”
“Yeah,” Gil said. “Except I think he’s already dead.”
That made Aiden angry. He surged forward with the crossbow, which was a mistake—Gil snatched it out of the kid’s hand as a bolt flew free and popped into the wall behind him with a thunk .
Gil quickly backed against the wall, struggling to find another bolt—but Aiden kicked forward a leather belt covered in loops once meant for bullets but now used to house crossbow arrows.
“You looking for these?”
“I used to be somebody,” Masterson said. Voice hoarse.
He was holding a grenade. The pin was not at home.
Coburn winced. Shit .
Boom , Kayla said, a half-second before the grenade went off.
And the world turned to noise and debris and pain.
PART TWO
ORPHANS
The Conversation: #2
Will I live with him now?
Beats me. Like I know how this works. We’re in new territory here, little girl.
Or maybe I’ll just die. Maybe I won’t exist anymore.
Could be, rabbit. Could be. But I hope not. I really hope not.
Maybe I’ll change him like I changed you.
Who said you changed me?
You’re so funny sometimes.
Yeah. A real laugh riot.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I Believe That Children Are Our Future
G ASP.
Oxygen.
Breath screaming through his throat and filling his lungs—felt cool and hot and good and painful, all in equal measure.
Gil lurched upright. Bag still on his head. But someone had vented a hole where his mouth was, and with every breath the plastic whispered and crinkled.
He reached up, panicked, pawing at the bag. He ripped it off and threw it to the ground like it was a bundle of cottonmouth snakes.
Gil found his own crossbow pointed at his head.
And a dirt-caked child was the one pointing it.
“Get up, dickweed,” the boy said. Grungy blond hair covering one eye—a jet of air from pursed lips blew the hair to the side. “I said, get the fuck up, bitch.”
Gil scrambled backward like a crab.
Something hit him from behind—something heavy, wooden. Cracked him over the head—not hard enough to make him bleed, but hard enough to sting. He turned, saw another kid standing there holding a busted chair leg. It was a girl—hair an unwashed tangle, face streaked with fingers of what looked like ash.
Other children filtered into the room upon hearing the commotion. Another six of them. No teenagers, though a few that looked eleven or twelve, including the boy holding the crossbow aloft. Youngest seemed to be a boy of four or so—a porky mole-cheeked dumpling with hair stuck up and clumped with red as if it had been shellacked with strawberry jam. Gil realized with horror that it probably wasn’t strawberry.
His horror deepened when he realized all these kids had weapons. The girl with the chair leg. A pre-teen with bones woven into her pigtails held a folded license plate whose edge was plainly sharpened. A third held a .22 pistol. A fourth had a pair of ice picks, one in each hand. Even the fat little four-year-old dragged an oiled bike chain behind him.
Outside, thunder rumbled. Distant. But closing in.
“You tried to kill my father,” Crossbow Kid said.
Gil stammered, cleared his throat. Saw a pair of feet hanging over the edge of the bed—Mother and Father, respectively, both pairs of feet gently twitching and wiggling with the crude facsimile of life. Nearby, the third rotter—the kid with the bowl-cut and cherub-cheeks—spun idly in the office chair.
He stood, saw the crossbow bolt he’d loosed earlier sticking out of the flesh around the father-zombie’s collarbone.
“That’s your father,” Gil said, horrified.
“What of it, dick?”
“Watch your language, kid.”
“My name’s not kid, dick. It’s Aiden.”
Gil’s forehead furrowed. “My name’s not Dick , Aiden. It’s Gil.”
“Whatever. You tried to kill my father.”
“Yeah,” Gil said. “Except I think he’s already dead.”
That made Aiden angry. He surged forward with the crossbow, which was a mistake—Gil snatched it out of the kid’s hand as a bolt flew free and popped into the wall behind him with a thunk .
Gil quickly backed against the wall, struggling to find another bolt—but Aiden kicked forward a leather belt covered in loops once meant for bullets but now used to house crossbow arrows.
“You looking for these?”
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