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He slammed the hood, trapping the screaming Benny inside the trunk even as Tom ripped the sword from its sheath.
Three terrible minutes later, Tom unlocked the trunk and opened it.
Benny was cowering in the back of the trunk, huddled against Tom’s gym bag. Tears and snot were pasted on his face. Benny opened his mouth to scream again, but he stopped. When he saw Tom, he stopped.
Tom stood there, the sword held loosely in one han
d, the keys in the other.
Tom was covered with blood. The sword was covered with blood.
The bodies around the car … more than a dozen of them were covered with blood.
Benny screamed.
Not because he understood—he was far too young for that—but because the smell of blood reminded him of Dad. Of home. Benny wanted his mom.
He screamed and Tom stood there, trembling from head to toe. Tears broke from his eyes and fell in burning silver lines down his face.
“I’m sorry, Benny,” he said in a voice that was as broken as the world.
Tom tore off his blood-splattered shirt. The T-shirt he wore underneath was stained but not as badly. Tom shivered as he lifted Benny and held him close. Benny beat at him with tiny fists.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said again.
He gathered up what he could carry, turned, and with Benny in one arm and his sword in his other hand, Tom ran into the night as the world burned around him.
CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE
EAST COMPTON
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
“This is Billy Trout, reporting live from the apocalypse…”
The car sat in the middle of the street with the radio playing at full blast.
All four doors were open.
The voice on the radio was saying that this was the end of the world.
There was no one in the car, no one in the streets. No one in any of the houses or stores. There wasn’t a single living soul to hear the reporter’s message.
It didn’t matter, though.
They already knew.
