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He shoved her out of the way and brought his sword up in a two-handed grip.
As Nix fell, the match winked out, plunging the room into total darkness.
“Match—match—MATCH!” shrieked Benny.
Suddenly another match flared, and Benny crouched in the corridor between the stacks of crates, sword raised, feet braced, ready to fight to the death to buy Nix enough time to get out and climb down to safety.
The zoms stared at Nix and Benny.
Benny backed up a pace, edging toward the hatch.
Gray eyes, milky and dead, were focused on the two teenagers. They moaned with aching hunger. A strange moan, muted and low.
And they did not attack.
Nix screamed once more and then stopped.
Benny stopped trying to back away.
The zoms stared at them with unyielding need, but they did not move.
And the moment held.
“Benny—?”
All Benny could do was stare.
“Benny,” demanded Nix. “What is—what is—?”
She fell silent too.
The zoms were still seated in their chairs.
Benny licked his dry lips and took a tentative step forward. Toward the zoms. Their eyes shifted to follow him.
The zoms themselves, however, did not.
They could not.
And now Benny could see why. They were all secured to the chairs by rope looped around their ankles, wrists, waists, and throats.
And every mouth had been sewn shut with silver wire.
“Are you seeing this?” Benny whispered.
Nix nodded mutely.
Benny sagged back, sick and disgusted down to a level he could not frame into words. This was so . . . weird, so wrong. So horrible.
On one level he understood the logic of it. Zoms that can’t move or bite are safer. They can be handled without as much fear of the contagion.
But this was . . . awful.
Benny heard Nix retch. Then she sp
un away and threw up behind the packing cases. When she was done, she leaned heavily against the crates, eyes closed, chest heaving. Beads of sweat like tiny diamond chips glistened on her face. She pushed roughly away from him and then turned warily back toward the ghastly scene before them.
“What,” she gasped, “is this? This is crazy. This is wrong.”
