somewhere came the cry “They’re over the wall!”
More of those creatures, men and women but not men or women,
moved with unnatural hitching gaits through the crowd in the yard. Ryan thrust
his way into the gaudy house, breasting a stream of half-naked sluts screaming
as they raced out.
The first thing that hit him when he entered was an eye-searing
stink of smoke. It was more than the potbellied stove could possibly account for
unless the chimney had gotten blocked. He took a wild flying guess that wasn’t
the case.
Behind the bar the Thin One flailed vigorously at three
no-longer-human opponents with an aluminum baseball bat. It made musical
thunking sounds as it bounced off bone lightly padded by muscle or skin, off
joints and skulls. Family members, employees and patrons wrestled with enemies
whose skin, bluish in the lantern light, was cratered with running open sores.
Some were missing big chunks from their bodies, even arms.
A wag driver grabbed the arm of an elderly man to try to pull
the oldie off a comrade. The arm came off in his hands. He stared at it in comic
amazement as the changed oldie sank his few remaining teeth into the second wag
driver’s neck.
Plunkett and crew were nowhere in sight. Fleeing sluts, guards
and customers were blocking the stairs. Ryan began shoving them bodily out of
the way. As strong as he was, their fear was stronger. He didn’t make much
progress.
Smoke began rolling along the hollows of the ceiling between
the beams. The gaudy house was well and truly on fire.
Loomis tumbled down the wooden stairs, wearing only his shiny,
black leather pants. “They’re already changing!” he screamed, catching himself
on all fours.
Buck-naked and baby-pink, Boss Tim Plunkett lurched down the
stairs behind his sec chief. His hairy, fish-pale belly hung low, obscuring his
genitals. Blood gushed from his torn-out throat. His voice box and airway were
apparently still intact, or mostly so. As he banged from rail to wall and back,
clutching his blood-gouting wound with one hand, he kept croaking, “Help
me!”
He toppled, to land on his gut with a massive crash.
* * *
S HUDDERING ORANGE FIRE erupted from the combined watch- and water tower,
followed a beat later by a roar of full-auto blasterfire. Pressing the hand that
held the pistol grip of his M-4000 scattergun to pin his battered hat against
his head, J.B. reached with his free hand to snag the back of the man’s flannel
shirt Krysty Wroth wore. He dragged her to the ground.
Bullets cracked right over their heads, where their bodies had
been an eye blink earlier. Headlights popped as the burst raked the Tundra’s
front.
The burst went on, sweeping the length of the big RV. Metal
flexed musically.
“Shit!” Krysty exclaimed. That startled J.B. The redhead
normally didn’t use bad language.
Then he smelled gasoline and understood why she cussed. Krysty
threw herself over him, grabbing him so they both rolled sideways over the cold,
trampled earth, away from the fuel-leaking RV. It also took them out of the
dubious cover of the wag’s thin-gauge metal walls.
The burst hammered on. Good way to burn out a barrel fast, the
armorer in J.B. noted. Inevitably, the bullets struck a spark. The big wag lit
up with a fat pillow of blue fire and a low but loud whump.
J.B. felt a wave of heat wash over him as he came to rest on
top of Krysty, looking down into her green eyes. He grinned.
“I better climb off,” he said. “Don’t want any
misunderstandings with Ryan.”
“Reckon he’d understand,” she said.
The machine gun lashed back across the crowded yard. J.B. could
tell humans were getting hit. They fell and stayed down. The triple-strange
creatures—the rotties—kept shambling along despite repeated torso strikes.
“Look out!” Krysty gritted. J.B. tipped his face to the ground
as bullets stitched right to left not two feet in front of him. Ricochets whined
over him, gouts of dirt tapping the front brim of his
More of those creatures, men and women but not men or women,
moved with unnatural hitching gaits through the crowd in the yard. Ryan thrust
his way into the gaudy house, breasting a stream of half-naked sluts screaming
as they raced out.
The first thing that hit him when he entered was an eye-searing
stink of smoke. It was more than the potbellied stove could possibly account for
unless the chimney had gotten blocked. He took a wild flying guess that wasn’t
the case.
Behind the bar the Thin One flailed vigorously at three
no-longer-human opponents with an aluminum baseball bat. It made musical
thunking sounds as it bounced off bone lightly padded by muscle or skin, off
joints and skulls. Family members, employees and patrons wrestled with enemies
whose skin, bluish in the lantern light, was cratered with running open sores.
Some were missing big chunks from their bodies, even arms.
A wag driver grabbed the arm of an elderly man to try to pull
the oldie off a comrade. The arm came off in his hands. He stared at it in comic
amazement as the changed oldie sank his few remaining teeth into the second wag
driver’s neck.
Plunkett and crew were nowhere in sight. Fleeing sluts, guards
and customers were blocking the stairs. Ryan began shoving them bodily out of
the way. As strong as he was, their fear was stronger. He didn’t make much
progress.
Smoke began rolling along the hollows of the ceiling between
the beams. The gaudy house was well and truly on fire.
Loomis tumbled down the wooden stairs, wearing only his shiny,
black leather pants. “They’re already changing!” he screamed, catching himself
on all fours.
Buck-naked and baby-pink, Boss Tim Plunkett lurched down the
stairs behind his sec chief. His hairy, fish-pale belly hung low, obscuring his
genitals. Blood gushed from his torn-out throat. His voice box and airway were
apparently still intact, or mostly so. As he banged from rail to wall and back,
clutching his blood-gouting wound with one hand, he kept croaking, “Help
me!”
He toppled, to land on his gut with a massive crash.
* * *
S HUDDERING ORANGE FIRE erupted from the combined watch- and water tower,
followed a beat later by a roar of full-auto blasterfire. Pressing the hand that
held the pistol grip of his M-4000 scattergun to pin his battered hat against
his head, J.B. reached with his free hand to snag the back of the man’s flannel
shirt Krysty Wroth wore. He dragged her to the ground.
Bullets cracked right over their heads, where their bodies had
been an eye blink earlier. Headlights popped as the burst raked the Tundra’s
front.
The burst went on, sweeping the length of the big RV. Metal
flexed musically.
“Shit!” Krysty exclaimed. That startled J.B. The redhead
normally didn’t use bad language.
Then he smelled gasoline and understood why she cussed. Krysty
threw herself over him, grabbing him so they both rolled sideways over the cold,
trampled earth, away from the fuel-leaking RV. It also took them out of the
dubious cover of the wag’s thin-gauge metal walls.
The burst hammered on. Good way to burn out a barrel fast, the
armorer in J.B. noted. Inevitably, the bullets struck a spark. The big wag lit
up with a fat pillow of blue fire and a low but loud whump.
J.B. felt a wave of heat wash over him as he came to rest on
top of Krysty, looking down into her green eyes. He grinned.
“I better climb off,” he said. “Don’t want any
misunderstandings with Ryan.”
“Reckon he’d understand,” she said.
The machine gun lashed back across the crowded yard. J.B. could
tell humans were getting hit. They fell and stayed down. The triple-strange
creatures—the rotties—kept shambling along despite repeated torso strikes.
“Look out!” Krysty gritted. J.B. tipped his face to the ground
as bullets stitched right to left not two feet in front of him. Ricochets whined
over him, gouts of dirt tapping the front brim of his
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