Dozens of them.
Bull stopped beside one near the checkout lanes. “Jesus,” he whispered.
It was an elderly woman with her face and internal organs completely missing.
The store speakers crackled softly overhead. Then music drifted down through the darkness. A smooth, mellow guitar.
Christopher Cross.
Stain stared up at the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Bull kicked a shopping cart aside. “Man, this place got cleaned out already.”
“Not all of it,” Nash said, pointing toward the sporting goods section. “Grab what you can and be quick. Mostly guns and all the ammo you can find.”
The bikers spread out.
Bull headed toward the camping aisle, and Stain moved deeper into the store toward the tool section.
Nash and Rico drifted toward the pharmacy counter, stepping carefully over a body sprawled across the tile.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Some slumped against shelves. While others sprawled across checkout lanes like they’d been trampled.
Overhead, the music kept playing.
…sailing takes me away…
Nash rummaged through bottles on the floor. “Jackpot. Painkillers.”
Rico grabbed another bottle and examined the label. “Looks like oxy.”
“Grab all of it.” Nash was shoving his finds into a bag he found on the floor. “I found some percs too. This shit will be priceless on the street.”
Rico nudged one of the bodies aside. "Damn, this is messed up.” He covered his nose with a hand. “And these fuckers smell like skunk ass.”
The corpse rolled slightly.
Then its eyes opened.
Gray.
Empty.
“Uh—”
The corpse grabbed his leg.
“Shit!” he scrambled to his feet. “He’s a damn deadhead!” Rico shouted.
Gunfire erupted in the store at that very moment, coming from the direction where the other two men had gone.
Bull fired twice at a deadhead dragging itself toward him as he was grabbing .223 shells out of the ammo cabinet.
Another body nearby twitched.
Then another.
