Every Other Day
Page 33
I left Elliot—left him standing there, light blue eyes, cheekbones sharp as any knife. Either he’d survive or he wouldn’t. Either way, I knew without asking that if it came down to a choice, he would have sent me after Skylar, told me to save her, protect her—
Kill them. Kill them now.
I didn’t know the halls of this house as well as the layout of the biology building, but this time, I didn’t have to rely on memory or a mental map or anything other than an unerring sense of where they were.
The things I needed to kill.
The closer I got to the sound of Skylar’s screaming, the more of them there were. I felt like I was swimming in corpses, cutting my way through one after another after another in my pursuit. Around number ten, I lost my knife, left it buried in a corpse still twitching with what was left of its mockery of life. Then all I had was my hands, nails as sharp as blades, and my blood.
I fought my way toward Skylar, my flesh shredded and bleeding, and when I found her, she was still screaming, but she didn’t look scared. She didn’t look hurt. She’d managed to crawl on top of what looked to be a very large safe—easily one and a half times her size—and she’d squished herself back against the wall, just out of range of the yellowed fingernails and white-gray hands groping for her body.
For her blood.
“You okay?” I asked her.
She nodded, then screamed again, the sound piercing the air like a siren—and for a moment, the horde of monsters in between us shrank back.
“Little Sisters’ Survival Guide, rule number thirty-seven,” Skylar said. “Scream before they hit you.”
And then she screamed again.
I didn’t have time to question her logic—or the existence of the little sisters’ survival guide. “Close your eyes,” I shouted, over her shrieks and the wet, gargling moans of the things that stood between us.
Skylar didn’t question the command, and I didn’t have time to think about why I’d given it. She closed her eyes, and I dragged one jagged fingernail across the length of my neck, drawing blood, waiting.
One by one, the horde turned their attention from Skylar to me. One by one, they stopped scrambling for her blood. One by one, their eyes—pupil-less and without color—focused in on the line of blood I’d drawn.
I noticed the red, blinking collars on their necks a second before they lunged—each moving in tandem with the one next to it, with coordination the walking dead should never have.
Zombies were stupid and slow and incapable of anything but eating—their own bodies, others’—but this set moved with purpose, like rats through a maze.
My last thought, in the second before they closed in, was that maybe you could train zombies as easily as Pavlov’s dogs.
At the sound of the bell, circle your prey and eat her flesh.
I had no weapons. No plan. Nothing but my blood and my hands. They were coming, and there were more of them than I’d realized. Despite their increased speed, there was no grace to their movements, no rhythm. Their mouths were open, their bodies jerking as they advanced on me.
I grabbed the closest one by the arm and wrenched it off with a sickening crack, but the monster didn’t blink, didn’t howl. Instead, it returned the favor, evenly spaced, triangular teeth going for the flesh in my arms.
I fought—kicked, punched, tore through whatever flesh I could lay a hand on, but no matter how many times I hit them, or how many of them I took down, there were always more.
I was drowning.
In sweat, in blood, in the smell of death and the mounting pressure of bodies on mine. Hands on mine. Teeth, mouths, flesh on mine.
They were above me and below me. They were everywhere, and I couldn’t tell now where my body ended and theirs began. I couldn’t tell how much of the blood coating my extremities was theirs and how much was mine.
Retreat.
In all the time I’d been a hunter, that was an instinct I’d never felt before. I’d never wanted to run from a fight, never doubted that I would come out on top.
I’d never cared that maybe I wouldn’t.
But right now, in that second, gasping for breath and breathing in rot and raglike skin, I felt like I had to get out of there. Bracing my heels against the ground, I shot forward, lashing out with my elbows and putting enough space between my body and theirs that I could slam the back of my head into something else’s jaw. I felt bones giving way, felt flesh tearing—I saw the opening, and I went for it.
I crossed the room in a heartbeat, and in a single, coordinated motion, the zombies reoriented. The ones I’d laid low climbed to their feet, bones jutting out every which way. They glanced at one another with those soulless, empty eyes, in a gesture far too human to be comforting for me, and then they spread out—half on my left, half on my right, ready to surround and mob me once more.
I could feel their saliva working its way through my system. To a human, it would have been fatal, with a brief detour through madness before the final bow—but even my body had its limits.
I wasn’t losing it. Not yet. But the colors in the room seemed like they’d been dyed neon, and I felt like I was moving in slow motion, each limb weighed down by something soggy and wet.
I felt myself stumble, forced my body to stay upright.
“Kali!” Skylar’s voice broke through my haze, and I realized that she wasn’t squatting on top of the safe anymore. She was standing beside it, and it was open.
I realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t the kind of safe that held money or top secret biomedical plans. It was the type of safe that held guns.
The sight of weapons sent a familiar thrill up the length of my spine, and unconsciously, my body straightened, my fingers curving inward in anticipation of the way they’d feel against a trigger.
I’d always preferred knives to firearms, always felt that people like me were made for killing at close range, not at a distance, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and just seeing the weapons laid out before me, I knew them—inside and out, from safety to barrel.
I didn’t have time to think. I had to move, had to keep moving, because the one thing I had on the zombies was that even though they were faster than any I’d ever seen, even though they appeared to be working as a team and their venom was slowing me down—
I was still faster than a human. And thanks to Skylar, I wasn’t fighting alone.
I ducked and dodged, slammed my way through their onslaught, and got close enough to Skylar that she could shove something cool and metallic into my hand.
Six bullets. Six hits. None of my targets down.
I dropped the gun, and Skylar handed me another one—longer, heavier, possibly illegal. I didn’t question why Bethany’s father might have one. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
My skin sang with contact. My back arched as I shot. The sound was deafening, the splatter horrific.
Shot. Shot. Shot.
There was a rhythm to it, a beauty, and maybe it was sick that I could see that, that I felt each and every bullet like it was an extension of my own body, as they tore through flesh and bone, severing the spinal cord, blowing holes in heads.
With only a few bullets left, a suggestion flashed through my subconscious, Zev’s mind melding with mine so completely that he didn’t even have to speak. Without pause, I followed through on his unspoken suggestion, aiming at the collars around the zombies’ necks.
In rapid fire, the glowing red lights went out. Like someone had doused a fire, the eerie human quality drained out of the zombies’ eyes. Instead of focusing on me, they grappled with one another, undead teeth tearing through undead skin, nails making mincemeat of already shredded flesh.
Without thinking, I shoved Skylar back toward the safe, and with an empty shotgun still in my hand, I surged forward, driving the butt of the gun into a straggler’s forehead as another ripped a chunk out of my right shoulder.
My right hand shot out backward, grabbed the biter by the neck, twisted, tore—and soon there was nothing.
Nothing left in my hands.
Nothing left to fight.
Nothing but corpses.
Don’t look now, Zev said, but you’ve got an audience.
I looked up. Elliot and Bethany were standing in the doorway. Skylar had climbed back on top of the safe, and her legs were dangling over the front.
Kill them. Kill them now.
I didn’t know the halls of this house as well as the layout of the biology building, but this time, I didn’t have to rely on memory or a mental map or anything other than an unerring sense of where they were.
The things I needed to kill.
The closer I got to the sound of Skylar’s screaming, the more of them there were. I felt like I was swimming in corpses, cutting my way through one after another after another in my pursuit. Around number ten, I lost my knife, left it buried in a corpse still twitching with what was left of its mockery of life. Then all I had was my hands, nails as sharp as blades, and my blood.
I fought my way toward Skylar, my flesh shredded and bleeding, and when I found her, she was still screaming, but she didn’t look scared. She didn’t look hurt. She’d managed to crawl on top of what looked to be a very large safe—easily one and a half times her size—and she’d squished herself back against the wall, just out of range of the yellowed fingernails and white-gray hands groping for her body.
For her blood.
“You okay?” I asked her.
She nodded, then screamed again, the sound piercing the air like a siren—and for a moment, the horde of monsters in between us shrank back.
“Little Sisters’ Survival Guide, rule number thirty-seven,” Skylar said. “Scream before they hit you.”
And then she screamed again.
I didn’t have time to question her logic—or the existence of the little sisters’ survival guide. “Close your eyes,” I shouted, over her shrieks and the wet, gargling moans of the things that stood between us.
Skylar didn’t question the command, and I didn’t have time to think about why I’d given it. She closed her eyes, and I dragged one jagged fingernail across the length of my neck, drawing blood, waiting.
One by one, the horde turned their attention from Skylar to me. One by one, they stopped scrambling for her blood. One by one, their eyes—pupil-less and without color—focused in on the line of blood I’d drawn.
I noticed the red, blinking collars on their necks a second before they lunged—each moving in tandem with the one next to it, with coordination the walking dead should never have.
Zombies were stupid and slow and incapable of anything but eating—their own bodies, others’—but this set moved with purpose, like rats through a maze.
My last thought, in the second before they closed in, was that maybe you could train zombies as easily as Pavlov’s dogs.
At the sound of the bell, circle your prey and eat her flesh.
I had no weapons. No plan. Nothing but my blood and my hands. They were coming, and there were more of them than I’d realized. Despite their increased speed, there was no grace to their movements, no rhythm. Their mouths were open, their bodies jerking as they advanced on me.
I grabbed the closest one by the arm and wrenched it off with a sickening crack, but the monster didn’t blink, didn’t howl. Instead, it returned the favor, evenly spaced, triangular teeth going for the flesh in my arms.
I fought—kicked, punched, tore through whatever flesh I could lay a hand on, but no matter how many times I hit them, or how many of them I took down, there were always more.
I was drowning.
In sweat, in blood, in the smell of death and the mounting pressure of bodies on mine. Hands on mine. Teeth, mouths, flesh on mine.
They were above me and below me. They were everywhere, and I couldn’t tell now where my body ended and theirs began. I couldn’t tell how much of the blood coating my extremities was theirs and how much was mine.
Retreat.
In all the time I’d been a hunter, that was an instinct I’d never felt before. I’d never wanted to run from a fight, never doubted that I would come out on top.
I’d never cared that maybe I wouldn’t.
But right now, in that second, gasping for breath and breathing in rot and raglike skin, I felt like I had to get out of there. Bracing my heels against the ground, I shot forward, lashing out with my elbows and putting enough space between my body and theirs that I could slam the back of my head into something else’s jaw. I felt bones giving way, felt flesh tearing—I saw the opening, and I went for it.
I crossed the room in a heartbeat, and in a single, coordinated motion, the zombies reoriented. The ones I’d laid low climbed to their feet, bones jutting out every which way. They glanced at one another with those soulless, empty eyes, in a gesture far too human to be comforting for me, and then they spread out—half on my left, half on my right, ready to surround and mob me once more.
I could feel their saliva working its way through my system. To a human, it would have been fatal, with a brief detour through madness before the final bow—but even my body had its limits.
I wasn’t losing it. Not yet. But the colors in the room seemed like they’d been dyed neon, and I felt like I was moving in slow motion, each limb weighed down by something soggy and wet.
I felt myself stumble, forced my body to stay upright.
“Kali!” Skylar’s voice broke through my haze, and I realized that she wasn’t squatting on top of the safe anymore. She was standing beside it, and it was open.
I realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t the kind of safe that held money or top secret biomedical plans. It was the type of safe that held guns.
The sight of weapons sent a familiar thrill up the length of my spine, and unconsciously, my body straightened, my fingers curving inward in anticipation of the way they’d feel against a trigger.
I’d always preferred knives to firearms, always felt that people like me were made for killing at close range, not at a distance, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and just seeing the weapons laid out before me, I knew them—inside and out, from safety to barrel.
I didn’t have time to think. I had to move, had to keep moving, because the one thing I had on the zombies was that even though they were faster than any I’d ever seen, even though they appeared to be working as a team and their venom was slowing me down—
I was still faster than a human. And thanks to Skylar, I wasn’t fighting alone.
I ducked and dodged, slammed my way through their onslaught, and got close enough to Skylar that she could shove something cool and metallic into my hand.
Six bullets. Six hits. None of my targets down.
I dropped the gun, and Skylar handed me another one—longer, heavier, possibly illegal. I didn’t question why Bethany’s father might have one. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
My skin sang with contact. My back arched as I shot. The sound was deafening, the splatter horrific.
Shot. Shot. Shot.
There was a rhythm to it, a beauty, and maybe it was sick that I could see that, that I felt each and every bullet like it was an extension of my own body, as they tore through flesh and bone, severing the spinal cord, blowing holes in heads.
With only a few bullets left, a suggestion flashed through my subconscious, Zev’s mind melding with mine so completely that he didn’t even have to speak. Without pause, I followed through on his unspoken suggestion, aiming at the collars around the zombies’ necks.
In rapid fire, the glowing red lights went out. Like someone had doused a fire, the eerie human quality drained out of the zombies’ eyes. Instead of focusing on me, they grappled with one another, undead teeth tearing through undead skin, nails making mincemeat of already shredded flesh.
Without thinking, I shoved Skylar back toward the safe, and with an empty shotgun still in my hand, I surged forward, driving the butt of the gun into a straggler’s forehead as another ripped a chunk out of my right shoulder.
My right hand shot out backward, grabbed the biter by the neck, twisted, tore—and soon there was nothing.
Nothing left in my hands.
Nothing left to fight.
Nothing but corpses.
Don’t look now, Zev said, but you’ve got an audience.
I looked up. Elliot and Bethany were standing in the doorway. Skylar had climbed back on top of the safe, and her legs were dangling over the front.
