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“Ne—Neeko . . . ?” she croaked, but if there was an answer she could not hear it. The noise in her ears was too loud. It took her a thousand years to climb to her feet. Hot smoke scorched her lungs and every breath rubbed her throat raw. “Neeko,” she screamed.
A figure moved in the smoke. Blackened and unreal. Staggering as it moved toward her. Shambling. It was Neeko sized and Neeko shaped, and it moved with artless clumsiness like one of the dead things. It reached for her with gray hands.
Dahlia backed away. Of all the horrors in her world, she could not bear this. Not Neeko. Not him.
She saw his lips move but there were no words.
“No . . . ” she begged.
Dahlia drew her kukri knife and tried to brace against a kind of pain that could not be endured. Neeko stumbled toward her.
She raised the knife.
A voice rang out. Harsh, and loud enough to punch through the incessant ringing in her ears.
“No!” roared Mr. Church.
Dahlia turned to see him come striding toward her, a pistol in one hand, his tinted glasses gone, dark eyes filled with pain and concern. Neeko turned toward him and reached for him instead.
And Old Man Church wrapped his free arm around the little scout’s shoulders and pulled him close.
“You’re okay, son,” said the old man. “You’re okay.”
Neeko clung to him, and Dahlia saw that he was alive. She had not been able to hear him speak because of the ringing. His skin was gray because he was covered with dust. She staggered over and nearly tore him away from Church and kiss
ed him and then crushed the boy to her chest. Then she looked around. Others were not so lucky.
Down on the street level, a Latina who had been one of the helpers manning the wall was struggling to rise, but it was clear the fall had killed her. A huge piece of jagged masonry stood out from between her breasts and her eyes were empty of everything. The black man, John, was backing away from her, shaking his head. Unwilling in the moment to accept it.
Church raised his pistol and shot the woman through the forehead. She puddled down into true death. And John stood there, still shaking his head, tears glistening in his eyes.
Dahlia turned away. The damage to the wall was significant. The RPG had struck a few feet from the top and it was as if a giant had bitten a half-moon shaped chunk out of the peach stucco and cinderblock. The gap was eight feet wide and a yard deep, which meant the bottom edge of it was only seven feet from the ground. An easy climb for a man. If all those dead crammed the walls, the ones in front would be crushed and the others would simply crawl or climb over them to get in. Plus there was a pile of debris at the foot of the wall. In effect, there was no real defense.
“God, look,” said one of the remaining guards on the wall. She did. The Rovers were aiming a second rocket-propelled grenade.
“Down,” she cried, and they all leapt from the wall as the missile tore through the air and detonated. It struck fifteen feet to the right and struck in the middle of the wall, blowing a hole clean through. The gap was only three feet high, but there were cracks all around it.
“Get everyone back to their jobs,” Church said to Dahlia. “Keep them busy. Stick to the plan.”
“We didn’t plan for rocket launchers,” she gasped. “How—?”
“Stick to the plan,” he said again, leaning into it. “We need people on every wall. We need to find every possible weapon. You thought it through, Dahlia, now see it through.”
“But . . . what are you going to do?”
“Buy you some time,” Church said. “We can’t take too many more hits.” He looked around and spotted an armed helper running for the wall. “You! Your gun. Now.”
The man skidded to a stop and looked doubtfully at the white-haired old man. “You even know how to use this?”
Church took it from him without answering. It was a sturdy Weatherby Vanguard RC bolt-action hunting rifle with a twenty-four-inch barrel. He checked the loads and found that he had only three .300 Winchester Magnum bullets.
“Is there more ammunition?”
“Took it from one of the townies,” said the man. “He didn’t have any extra rounds on him.”
“Find more or find me another rifle,” ordered Church as he climbed to a spot between the two breeches. Out on the field the Rovers in protective clothing were still blowing their whistles while the forest continued to vomit forth the dead in an unending stream. They were all coming from the sections of the forest where the Rovers themselves had emerged, suggestive of them having followed the whistles like the children of Hamelin following the Pied Piper. He frowned because there was something about that process that seemed wrong to him.
First things first.
