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God.
Another of the dead. And another child with a bite.
The small knot of teachers and other survivors lagged behind him, their determination to reach the source of the screams diminishing with every step. Trout couldn’t fault them. Not one bit. After all, what in their lives had ever prepared them for something like this?
They reached the basement and burst from the stairwell into the gymnasium. A big, damp empty space that Trout remembered from humiliating dodgeball games when he was in the fifth grade. That had been his hell year, before the growth spurt that would give him the length of bone and quality of muscle he’d later use in high school baseball and track. The gym was linked to his memories of being a weird, shy, strange little boy who didn’t have many friends. Dez Fox had been his first real friend. When two older boys tried to pants Billy here in the gym, Dez had beat the shit out of them.
He’d been in love with her ever since.
“In there,” gasped Bowers, pointing.
Only a few lights were on, pale cones of yellow that did little to push back the immense darkness. The screams were constant. High and thin. They tore through an open office door at the far end.
Please, begged Trout. Not another kid. Please, please …
The axe was heavy and he knew he’d have to use it on Mr. Maines—whoever he was. There was no Plan B for dealing with those who were s
o far gone that they had crossed over into—
Into what?
Even now Trout had a hard time calling it what he knew it was.
These people were infected.
These people were also dead.
Technically, dead.
Essentially, dead.
And yet they moved around, some of them shambling, some running awkwardly, all of them chasing, hunting, grabbing, biting.
Eating.
The dead consuming the living.
Zombies.
It was madness and Billy Trout’s orderly mind rebelled at it. Death was death and the dead don’t do this. Can’t do this.
The screams told him otherwise.
Despite the pain in his body and the agony in his soul, Trout ran faster.
He was six steps from the gaping doorway when sudden light and noise exploded within.
The deafening blast of a gun. The eye-hurting flash of shot after shot.
Trout skidded to a sloppy halt, lost his footing in something wet, fell, slid all the way to the mouth of the open door.
There was one last blast, one last flash.
The screams stopped.
Trout lay there on the floor. He could hear Bowers somewhere behind him. Panting, mumbling something. Maybe a prayer. Maybe he’d simply gone fucking nuts. Billy wanted to.
Something moved inside the office.
