shoulder at Harrigan without taking my eyes off the figure of the tall zombie approaching. I tried to keep my voice calm, but I had to shout over the sound of the drumming rain, and the God-awful thump that was my pounding, racing heart. My voice came out, sounding unnaturally loud in my ears, like a desperate squeak.
Har rigan said nothing. I heard him grunt, and then he cursed again. I heard the crow-bar clang off metal.
I felt like I was kneeling under a spotlight. There was no shelter on this side of the helicopter – no shadow to hide in. Harrigan and I were totally exposed by the glow of the distant fires. I stole a glance sideways to where Jed had taken position at the nose of the helicopter, but I couldn’t see him.
A sudden sense of isolation swept over me. I should have been able to see Jed. He had propped his gun arm on a piece of wreckage near the crumpled front-end of the helicopter. I felt a sudden sense of unease.
“Jed…?”
Nothing. No answer.
I called again, this time more urgently. “Jed.”
There was a nother long moment of silence. I flicked my eyes back anxiously to the line of undead. They were just thirty yards away.
“Jed!”
I heard a scuffle of movement, and then my brother’s voice, tense and harsh from somewhere behind me. “Shut up, jerk weed, and get ready to drop the fuckers!”
I hear d Harrigan groan and strain, like the sound a man makes when he lifts a great weight. The sound went on for long seconds – and then I heard a mighty slam of metal. Harrigan gave a ragged shout of triumph, and I couldn’t help myself – I turned back to stare at the helicopter.
Harrigan was slumped against the broken fuselage of the craft, his chest heaving like a bellows, his face turned up into the rain and the storm, his eyes screwed tightly shut as though racked with some great pain.
Beside him , the cabin door was open – a dark space that held our last hope of survival.
I stuffed the Glock down the waistband of my jeans and turned back to the open cabin door. It was gloomy inside. The man was slumped against the mangled internal frame of the hull, leaning heavily against the safety strap of his safety belt. Beside him, was a teenage girl. She had dark hair. Her eyes were closed and her face was white as marble.
I glanced at the man’s face. He was about my age – maybe a few years closer to forty. He was a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit. His face was wide, his features unremarkable. He had a buzz-cut hairstyle, shaved very short so that my first impression was that he could easily be military. He had that look about him. I reached for his face and cupped my hand under his jaw to feel for a pulse. As I did, the man’s eyes flicked open, bright and clear and sharp. He blinked at me – and then made a slow, low groaning sound. His hand came from his lap to feel for a bump I saw on his forehead that was the size of a golf ball. I gently trapped his hand and eased it back to his side.
“You’re okay,” I said with conviction I did not feel . I wasn’t a doctor. I had no medical training at all – but it seemed like the right thing to say, and I doubted there was any point in telling the man otherwise. It wasn’t going to make any difference…
He stared at me for long seconds, his expression blank, but I sensed there was plenty going on behind his dark eyes. The lump on his head was swelling and turning dark red. I thumped the release catch on his safety belt.
“Do you think you can move?”
The man nodded – and then winced painfully. He turned his head very slowly, as though it were some fragile precious thing made of delicate glass. “Check Millie,” the man said. His voice was croaky. He licked his lips, and then said in an unnaturally loud voice, “she’s my daughter.”
I nodded. The man leaned himself aside and I reached across him. As the man adjusted his position, the girl’s head rolled from his shoulder, and I caught her cheek in the palm
Har rigan said nothing. I heard him grunt, and then he cursed again. I heard the crow-bar clang off metal.
I felt like I was kneeling under a spotlight. There was no shelter on this side of the helicopter – no shadow to hide in. Harrigan and I were totally exposed by the glow of the distant fires. I stole a glance sideways to where Jed had taken position at the nose of the helicopter, but I couldn’t see him.
A sudden sense of isolation swept over me. I should have been able to see Jed. He had propped his gun arm on a piece of wreckage near the crumpled front-end of the helicopter. I felt a sudden sense of unease.
“Jed…?”
Nothing. No answer.
I called again, this time more urgently. “Jed.”
There was a nother long moment of silence. I flicked my eyes back anxiously to the line of undead. They were just thirty yards away.
“Jed!”
I heard a scuffle of movement, and then my brother’s voice, tense and harsh from somewhere behind me. “Shut up, jerk weed, and get ready to drop the fuckers!”
I hear d Harrigan groan and strain, like the sound a man makes when he lifts a great weight. The sound went on for long seconds – and then I heard a mighty slam of metal. Harrigan gave a ragged shout of triumph, and I couldn’t help myself – I turned back to stare at the helicopter.
Harrigan was slumped against the broken fuselage of the craft, his chest heaving like a bellows, his face turned up into the rain and the storm, his eyes screwed tightly shut as though racked with some great pain.
Beside him , the cabin door was open – a dark space that held our last hope of survival.
I stuffed the Glock down the waistband of my jeans and turned back to the open cabin door. It was gloomy inside. The man was slumped against the mangled internal frame of the hull, leaning heavily against the safety strap of his safety belt. Beside him, was a teenage girl. She had dark hair. Her eyes were closed and her face was white as marble.
I glanced at the man’s face. He was about my age – maybe a few years closer to forty. He was a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit. His face was wide, his features unremarkable. He had a buzz-cut hairstyle, shaved very short so that my first impression was that he could easily be military. He had that look about him. I reached for his face and cupped my hand under his jaw to feel for a pulse. As I did, the man’s eyes flicked open, bright and clear and sharp. He blinked at me – and then made a slow, low groaning sound. His hand came from his lap to feel for a bump I saw on his forehead that was the size of a golf ball. I gently trapped his hand and eased it back to his side.
“You’re okay,” I said with conviction I did not feel . I wasn’t a doctor. I had no medical training at all – but it seemed like the right thing to say, and I doubted there was any point in telling the man otherwise. It wasn’t going to make any difference…
He stared at me for long seconds, his expression blank, but I sensed there was plenty going on behind his dark eyes. The lump on his head was swelling and turning dark red. I thumped the release catch on his safety belt.
“Do you think you can move?”
The man nodded – and then winced painfully. He turned his head very slowly, as though it were some fragile precious thing made of delicate glass. “Check Millie,” the man said. His voice was croaky. He licked his lips, and then said in an unnaturally loud voice, “she’s my daughter.”
I nodded. The man leaned himself aside and I reached across him. As the man adjusted his position, the girl’s head rolled from his shoulder, and I caught her cheek in the palm
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