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Almost within reach.
She looked at it as the door shuddered and shuddered. She thought about what was happening. People acting crazy. People—go on, she told herself, say it—eating people. Marcy had been bitten. Marcy had gone into some kind of shock and seemed to stop breathing. No. She had stopped breathing. Then Marcy had opened her eyes and gone all bitey.
As much as Dahlia knew this was insane and impossible, she knew there was a name for what was happening. Not a name that belonged to TV and movies and games anymore. A name that was right here. Close enough to bite her.
She looked down at Marcy as if the corpse could confirm it. And . . . maybe it did. Nothing Dahlia had done to the girl had worked. Not until she made her fall down and smash her skull. Not until Marcy’s brain had been damaged.
All of those facts tumbled together like puzzle pieces that were trying to force themselves into a picture. A picture that had that name.
Began with a z.
“Aim for the head,” whispered Dahlia, and her voice was thick with tears. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Tammy and Joe kept slamming into the door. The knife was still there. Very good blade. And Dahlia was very strong. She knew how to put her weight into a punch. Or a stab.
“ . . . God . . . ”
When she realized that she had to let go of the door to grab the knife, it changed something inside of her. She waited until the next bang on the door, waited for them to pull back to hit it again, then she let go and dove for the knife, scooped it up as the door slammed inward, spun, met their charge.
Tammy, smaller and faster, came first.
Dahlia kicked her in the stomach. Not a good kick, but solid. Tammy jerked to a stop and bent forward. Dahlia swung the knife as hard as she could and buried the point in the top of the girl’s skull. In that spot where babies’ skulls are soft. The blade went in with a wet crunch. Tammy dropped as quickly and suddenly as if Dahlia had thrown a switch. One minute zombie, next minute dead.
That left Joe.
A freshman boy. Average for his age. As tall as Dahlia.
Not quite in her weight class.
She tore the knife free, grabbed him by the shirt with her other hand, swung him around into the sinks, forced him down and . . . stab. She put some real mass into it.
Joe died.
Dahlia staggered back and let him slide to the floor.
Outside she heard Dault screaming as he ran in and out of rooms, through openings in the accordion walls, trying to shake the pack of pursuers.
Dahlia caught a glimpse of her own face in the row of mirrors. Fat girl with crazy hair and bloodstains on her clothes. Fat girl with wild eyes.
Fat girl with a knife.
Despite everything—despite the insanity of it, the horror of it, the knowledge that things were all going to slide down the toilet in her world—Dahlia Allgood smiled at herself.
Then she lumbered over to the door, tore it open, and yelled to Dault.
“Over here!”
He saw her and almost stopped. She was bloody, she had that knife. “W-what—?”
“Get in here,” said Dahlia raising the blade. “I’ll protect you.”
Yeah.
She was smiling as she said that.
PART THREE
ORC NIGHT
