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Pulling his shoulder-length dreads back into a thick rubber band, Jason added, “He don’t look like he belongs out here, he’s way too clean. Do you think that maybe there’s a safe zone around?”
“Maybe,” Claudia replied, watching Tommy curiously. She brushed a lock of dark, curly hair out of her face. “But I kinda think we would have heard about any actual surviving communities in the area before now. I mean, he’s obviously well-fed and well-kept, so wherever he’s from, they’re well-stocked. His parents have to be missing him. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re out looking for him.”
“Maybe if we take him to his home, his people might let us stay for a while,” Peter said hopefully. He settled down on a large rock, crossing his arms and stretching out long, boot-clad legs. “If they have supplies, they might have space, maybe even looking for more people.”
“That’s best-case scenario,” Rachael said, rejoining them as Alice continued to talk quietly to the child. “In answer to your question—” She nodded at Jason. “—I want to take him back home, see if we can find his parents for him. It’s got to be nearby, otherwise he’d be dirty and hungry.” The others nodded in agreement. “But it might also be a trap. We just don’t know what we’re going to find there. Jason, you and Alice come with me. Peter, I want you to wait here for a few hours. If we don’t come back, go back to Brett, tell him what happened.”
No one argued.
***
“The Apple Man used to work for my daddy,” Tommy said, hand tucked into Alice’s. He’d grown more animated as the four made their way along the forest path. “And he was always nice to me. He always gave me apples right from the tree, even though he wasn’t supposed to.”
They rounded a large tree in the middle of the path and Rachael stopped in her tracks. A large, broad figure dressed in jeans and a dirty T-shirt faced away from them, short cropped hair dark against his neck, skin bronzed from the sun.
“Apple Man?” Tommy pulled his hand out of Rachael’s and took a step forward. The figure turned slowly, one shoulder sloped lower than the other, head tilted to one side, mouth hanging open.
“Apple Man!”
“Tommy, no!” Rachael reached for the boy, fingers grazing his shirt and missing as he darted forward.
Cursing in Elvish, she bolted after him, pulling her dagger from her hip sheath. The orc was newly turned—Rachael couldn’t see any decomposing flesh, but the closer she got, the worse it looked. Its jaw hung all crooked, like it had been smashed with something hard, its eyes clouded and yellow. Blood and sticky black gore stained the side of its face and shirt collar, a chunk of flesh missing from its neck.
Tommy didn’t notice anything wrong. He ran toward the orc, who took slow, shambling steps forward, reaching for the boy.
“Tommy, stop,” Rachael shouted as she dashed after him, pulling her sword from the scabbard attached to her backpack. “He’s a . . . he’s a Bad Thing!”
Tommy faltered as he heard his own words echoed back, but he was already too close to the orc that was once his friend. It lunged at him, strong hands clenching around his arm. The sound of Tommy’s horrified screams turned Rachael’s stomach to lead and spurred her forward even faster.
Rachael raised her sword. It was an exact and functional replica of the Elven sword used by Arwen in the Lord of the Rings movies. The blade was made from exceptional steel and as Rachael aimed for the temple she prayed her aim was true. The blade glinted in the sunlight, sparks of light playing along the razor-sharp edge as Rachael brought it down, embedding it in the orc’s forehead. The thing stumbled backward, pulling both Rachael and Tommy with it, its hungry moan filling the air as it opened its mouth and leaned down toward the boy. Tommy screamed again, struggling frantically to escape the orc’s grasp. With the strength born of terror, he managed to pull free, running back to Alice.
With Tommy safely out of the way, Rachael stabbed up with her dagger into the back of the orc’s skull. It resisted, hard bone fighting the sharp blade, but Rachael let go of the sword to grasp the dagger’s hilt in both hands, pushing up with all her strength.
The orc crumpled to the ground.
Rachael closed her eyes, crouching down and taking deep breaths to steady her heartbeat and her adrenaline. She still wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to this life. She had only ever lived her life being a hero in make-believe.
Being one in real life was much more stressful.
A crack of a branch to her left, the rustle of leaves to her right, and Rachael grabbed her dagger, pulling it from the back of the Apple Man’s head with a hard tug. She retrieved her sword as a figure darted through the trees, faster than any orc she’d seen. Another shape followed, and she dropped into a fighting stance, ready to leap forward and strike.
“Don’t move,” a voice behind her threatened, and she froze, feeling the barrel of a gun press against her upper back.
— 7 —
THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG
Baskerville plowed the road, slamming into zombies with his massive armored body and then twisting to force the short, razor-sharp blades on his shoulders to slice through leg tendons. I drew my katana and followed, slashing at the falling bodies, taking off arms and heads.
Two of the three defenders were down, sprawled, screaming as the dead fell on them. I hacked the killers away and then hurried over to where the Arab was fighting. He wore the remnants of old National Guard battle dress trousers and jacket, but instead of military-issue boots he had a fairly new pair of Doc Martens. Hockey and kickboxing pads covered most of his body—as it did with the others—but he had a bad bite on the side of his elbow, where the pad was the thinnest. It doesn’t take much of a bite. The Lucifer 113 pathogen was designed to be an ultra-aggressive serum transfer bioweapon. It only takes a drop of blood or spit in an open wound.
I performed a vicious lateral cut with the katana and took off the arm and shoulder of the hand that had the guy by the throat. The zombie staggered, lost balance, and before it could recover, the soldier hit him with what I discovered was the lower third of a long-handled spade. The blade was bent from repeated impacts, but the soldier put some heart into it, catching the zombie just above and behind the ear. The dead body suddenly dropped, proof that the blow had damaged the brain stem.
I pivoted to put my back to his, and we met the rush of more of the dead. I’d counted nine, but now some of the soldier’s friends were getting up and attacking. Baskerville snarled and growled like a timber wolf as he ran interference for us. I used my shoulder and hip to turn the soldier so that I took the brunt of the attack, and after a while we had a rhythm. Baskerville crippled them, they fell toward me and I cut heads. When I couldn’t do better than taking off an arm, the soldier crouched and used his shovel—crushing skulls with the metal end or stabbing through the temple or eye-socket with the jagged end of the broken handle. It was brutal work. The screams of the other two soldiers faded and were gone, and then they got up and came at us, too. I heard the soldier sobbing as we killed his friends.
Maybe I did, too.
The fight seemed to go on and on, devouring the whole day, but when the last body fell I doubt more than two minutes had passed. I sent Baskerville out to run the perimeter and when he barked I ran and killed whatever he found. Five more zombies, three of them in uniform.
