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And he hated it much more when he saw how his words and his tone changed the grin on Homer’s face. The killer licked the blood from his teeth and lips.
“I just said I wouldn’t hurt you, boy.”
“No,” insisted Goat, grabbing whatever thread of a lifeline he could, “listen, listen … you want your story told? I mean really told? Told so that it reaches everyone and everyone knows who you really are? That’s what you want? Then I can give it to you. I’m the one who broke this story. Me and my friend Billy Trout. I got the story out that no one else could. I know how to make sure it gets out.”
Homer narrowed his eyes.
There were sudden screams behind Goat and he turned to see the newly risen dead falling on the dying victims of Homer Gibbon. The infected snarled and growled as they tore into living flesh. Blood sprayed the walls and the screams were high and piercing and entirely without hope.
“You broke that story?” said Homer slowly.
“Yes. Billy and I.”
“I heard that Trout fellow on the news.”
“He’s still inside the town. In Stebbins. He’s at the school.”
The screams rose and rose. Goat cringed away from it, edging toward Homer only because he was closer to the door. If he could get Homer to take him outside, then maybe Goat could make a break for it. The highway was right there. He’d take his chances with high-speed traffic in the rain.
Homer was still studying him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
Then his eyes flicked to what was going on behind Goat.
“Shit,” he grumbled, “those are some persistent fuckers.”
There was no need for Goat to look. The slap of slow feet on the wet floor told the story.
“Please,” begged Goat.
Homer snaked out a hand, caught Goat by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward just as something brushed the nape of Goat’s neck. As he stumbled forward, the cameraman craned his head around to see long, red fingers clutching at the air where his head had been a moment ago.
“I need my laptop,” Goat said. “And my camera bag.”
Homer shrugged. He picked up the MacBook and tossed it to Goat, then snatched the handle of the canvas camera bag out from under a murder victim who was twitching his way back from death. Homer slung the heavy bag on his brawny shoulder and began backing toward the door as the zombies shuffled forward.
“Get your ass in gear,” warned Homer as he grabbed Goat again and hauled him away. Goat staggered toward the door and then thrust through it into the rain. He wanted to slam it in Homer’s face, but the hydraulic door closer was too strong, Homer came outside and he tried to slam it, too. When it resisted him, he leaned his full weight against it. The dead hit the door with enough slack weight to push it several inches outward again.
“Shit,” said Homer, though he did not seem particularly concerned. He still held Goat with one hand and had the other pressed against the glass. He cut a sharp look at Goat. “Listen to me, boy. We got to make a run for the car or they’ll eat your dick sure as God made little green apples. But … and I want you to listen real hard to what I have to say now. If I let you go and you try to run, then you better pray that I can’t run faster than you, ’cause if I catch you then I’m going to bite your dick off and make you eat it. You believe me when I tell you that?”
Goat did. And he said so.
Homer pushed back against the door. “Then let’s go. Car’s unlocked. Go!”
He shoved Goat toward the passenger side and held the door long enough for the cameraman to take a few stumbling steps, correct himself, and begin backing toward the car. Goat clutched the laptop to his chest as if it was a shield. Forty feet away the highway was bright with headlights and fast metal. Could he make it? Then he caught Homer watching him; the killer turned to follow Goat’s line of sight, then turned back and smiled.
“Call the play, son.”
Goat’s heart hammered like desperate fists. Tears fell down his hot cheeks. His legs and muscles trembled with adrenaline and terror.
Go, he told himself. Go, go, go!
A sob broke from his chest as he spun around and reached for the door handle of the metallic green Nissan Cube.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
