late thirties, shoulder length brown hair. His shoulder was bleeding and he looked pretty rough. Rough enough that he could be a zombie, although why he wasn't attacking the preacher, Don had no idea.
Then Danny stepped out from behind the man, spotted his next-door neighbor, and started jumping up and down in excitement. Don gasped. The little boy's hair had gone white at the roots.
Whoever they were, they weren't zombies-of that he was now sure. He motioned for them to open the window and after a moment's hesitation, the old man did.
56
"Howdy!" The preacher had a southern accent, and Don had to struggle to hear him over the battle below. Zombies smashed the windows and climbed into the kitchen and living room. The night erupted with muzzle flashes, and Don heard muffled gunshots from inside the house as well.
"Who-who the hell are you people?"
"I'm the Reverend Thomas Martin, and this here's Jim Thurmond. Danny tells us you're Mr. De Santos."
Incredulous, Don shook his head. "What are you doing?"
"Well, at the moment, we're panicking. They've got us pinned down in this house. We sure could use some help."
"Danny, are you all right?"
"I'm okay, Mr. De Santos! Can you help us, please?"
"Okay, don't move!" He ducked out of the window, searching the attic. It had been unfinished when they'd bought the house, and Myrna had always been after him to turn it into a sewing room for her. He'd gotten as far as laying down wooden planks over the insulation.
He pulled up one of the long, heavy planks, thankful that he hadn't nailed them down, but determined that it wasn't long enough to fit between the houses. Then he spotted the aluminum extension ladder. Puffing hard, he carried it back to the window and checked for zombies. Most of them now seemed to be concentrated around the front of the other house. So far, none of them had shown up with a ladder or rope. Quickly, he slid the ladder out the window.
"Grab it," he grunted. "Damn thing weighs a ton."
Jim and Martin grabbed the other end, preventing it from tumbling down into the yards or the swimming
57 pool. It barely spanned the chasm, but Don pulled on his end and they did the same, releasing the extension. "Let's go," Don urged them. "Hurry!"
Frankie's eyes stung. Her ears rang, and her hands and arms were growing numb. Still, she kept up a steady defense, squeezing off short, controlled single shots. The living room and the bottom of the staircase were littered with bodies, three or four deep. But for each one she dropped, two more creatures sprang up to take its place. They kept coming, despite her efforts. Worse, her magazine was almost empty.
A bullet whizzed by, and plaster dust rained down upon her. More shots slammed into the banister. An aluminum arrow, the kind used for target shooting, bounced off the stairs and birdshot peppered the wall next to her head. She retreated upward a few more steps, then crouched and returned fire. Three more fell-and six rushed in to take their place.
She gagged. "God damn, you things reek."
The stench of decaying flesh was thick. Wincing, she tucked her nose against her shoulder and breathed deep, preferring her own stink to that of her enemies. Then she smelled something else.
Gasoline.
A flash of bright orange light flared in the kitchen, and the zombies began to cheer. The air grew hotter and flames crackled in the background, creeping into the living room. The hair on her arms stood up.
"Oh, you motherfuckers. You dirty motherfuckers!"
"Frankie?"
Jim stood at the top of the steps.
"They lit it, Jim. They lit the fucking house on fire!"
58
"Come on, let's go!"
She raced up the stairs, the first few wisps of smoke following behind her. Somewhere on the first floor, a battery-operated smoke detector began to shriek. She heard the zombies chanting outside.
"The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don't need no water, let these fucking humans burn!"
Jim ran ahead of her. "Into the attic. We've got a way
Then Danny stepped out from behind the man, spotted his next-door neighbor, and started jumping up and down in excitement. Don gasped. The little boy's hair had gone white at the roots.
Whoever they were, they weren't zombies-of that he was now sure. He motioned for them to open the window and after a moment's hesitation, the old man did.
56
"Howdy!" The preacher had a southern accent, and Don had to struggle to hear him over the battle below. Zombies smashed the windows and climbed into the kitchen and living room. The night erupted with muzzle flashes, and Don heard muffled gunshots from inside the house as well.
"Who-who the hell are you people?"
"I'm the Reverend Thomas Martin, and this here's Jim Thurmond. Danny tells us you're Mr. De Santos."
Incredulous, Don shook his head. "What are you doing?"
"Well, at the moment, we're panicking. They've got us pinned down in this house. We sure could use some help."
"Danny, are you all right?"
"I'm okay, Mr. De Santos! Can you help us, please?"
"Okay, don't move!" He ducked out of the window, searching the attic. It had been unfinished when they'd bought the house, and Myrna had always been after him to turn it into a sewing room for her. He'd gotten as far as laying down wooden planks over the insulation.
He pulled up one of the long, heavy planks, thankful that he hadn't nailed them down, but determined that it wasn't long enough to fit between the houses. Then he spotted the aluminum extension ladder. Puffing hard, he carried it back to the window and checked for zombies. Most of them now seemed to be concentrated around the front of the other house. So far, none of them had shown up with a ladder or rope. Quickly, he slid the ladder out the window.
"Grab it," he grunted. "Damn thing weighs a ton."
Jim and Martin grabbed the other end, preventing it from tumbling down into the yards or the swimming
57 pool. It barely spanned the chasm, but Don pulled on his end and they did the same, releasing the extension. "Let's go," Don urged them. "Hurry!"
Frankie's eyes stung. Her ears rang, and her hands and arms were growing numb. Still, she kept up a steady defense, squeezing off short, controlled single shots. The living room and the bottom of the staircase were littered with bodies, three or four deep. But for each one she dropped, two more creatures sprang up to take its place. They kept coming, despite her efforts. Worse, her magazine was almost empty.
A bullet whizzed by, and plaster dust rained down upon her. More shots slammed into the banister. An aluminum arrow, the kind used for target shooting, bounced off the stairs and birdshot peppered the wall next to her head. She retreated upward a few more steps, then crouched and returned fire. Three more fell-and six rushed in to take their place.
She gagged. "God damn, you things reek."
The stench of decaying flesh was thick. Wincing, she tucked her nose against her shoulder and breathed deep, preferring her own stink to that of her enemies. Then she smelled something else.
Gasoline.
A flash of bright orange light flared in the kitchen, and the zombies began to cheer. The air grew hotter and flames crackled in the background, creeping into the living room. The hair on her arms stood up.
"Oh, you motherfuckers. You dirty motherfuckers!"
"Frankie?"
Jim stood at the top of the steps.
"They lit it, Jim. They lit the fucking house on fire!"
58
"Come on, let's go!"
She raced up the stairs, the first few wisps of smoke following behind her. Somewhere on the first floor, a battery-operated smoke detector began to shriek. She heard the zombies chanting outside.
"The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don't need no water, let these fucking humans burn!"
Jim ran ahead of her. "Into the attic. We've got a way
Similar Books
