wondered how much juice remained in the rig after gnawing through those sturdy planks. At the end of his final stroke, he pulled the blade out and laid a boot to the wood, kicking the slab free of its remaining fibers.
“Talbert!” Gus shouted and buzzed into the head of a straggler gimp just on the other side of the wall.
Talbert stood not three steps behind him, up to his knees in a growing wall of corpses. Pale faces gleamed under the dome, the only flickers of light in a haunting mob of outlines.
“You made the hole big enough!” Talbert yelled, clipping his shoulder on his way through.
“It’s called a fuckin’ bottleneck , y’moron! Hold them there while I cut through the next one.”
With that, Gus retrieved his bat and sprinted up the curving stairs, the thick layers of his suit steaming him. A few zombies crossed his path on the second-floor landing, forcing him to choose between his two weapons.
He dropped the bat.
There was a feral glee in applying the chainsaw’s whirling teeth to decomposing flesh, but the ferocious back spatter quickly blinded his visor, and he realized it wasn’t the weapon of choice. He tossed the chainsaw, spent precious seconds wiping his visor clean, and slapped it up.
He picked up his bat at the edge of the stairs and cracked two remaining gimps.
Then he hoofed it toward the third landing and the wooden wall barring passage halfway up the stairs.
The lights came back on, illuminating everything.
*
Farther behind, Talbert cringed at the blinding light, still chopping at anything piling through the opening in the first barrier. More dead things shambled into the killing floor of the rotunda, fully revealed, enough to send a chill of worry through the man. He chopped the head off another handyman-type deadhead. An arm reached for him. He hacked it off with one cut, flash-exposing a black cross-section of the forearm. Another zombie squirmed through, its torso slick with slime. It slipped on the stairs and fell.
Talbert crushed the head under a boot heel.
The chainsaw buzzed above, chewing into a wall and distracting him. A zombie hit his chest, driving him back, and he fell hard against the stairs. His unprotected head bounced against an edge. Another gimp slicked through the breach, its face grimy and skeletal, reaching for him.
Talbert tried to move and discovered, with a doped rush of fear, his limbs were responding with a hypothermic sluggishness. A hand wreathed in tatters of skin and musculature pawed at his thigh, nails clawing into armor plating, discovering sections covered only in denim. Fingers sloughed over straps and buckles, digging into jeans…
Grunting, Talbert held the machete across his chest and pushed the blade forward, scalping the gimp’s soft skull as if shaving a sliver of cheese off a stubborn block. Each cut lifted the zombie’s head. He kept cutting, his senses slowly leveling out, feeling fingers clutching at his upper thighs. More zombies squeezed through the glut at the opening in a horrid bloom. Some fell onto his lower legs, squashing the deadhead’s fingers for valuable seconds Talbert needed to push the head back and stab the machete underneath the chin, up into the brain.
The creature’s death-grinning face flopped into his crotch, and Talbert had never felt more grateful for a protective cup than at that exact moment.
Grimacing, he kicked free of the oozing bodies, flipped onto his hands and knees, and crawled away from the stalled bottleneck.
Then something kicked him in his side, plastering him against the wall.
Pain robbed him of his breath, and for several seconds, he fixated on an arrow sticking out just above his hip, where the plates of his body armor were kept in place by straps.
Blood seeped from the wound, dark and precious.
Grimacing, Talbert looked toward the second floor and saw no one, hearing only the buzzing of Gus’s chainsaw somewhere above. The zombies still crawled through the hole in the barrier,
“Talbert!” Gus shouted and buzzed into the head of a straggler gimp just on the other side of the wall.
Talbert stood not three steps behind him, up to his knees in a growing wall of corpses. Pale faces gleamed under the dome, the only flickers of light in a haunting mob of outlines.
“You made the hole big enough!” Talbert yelled, clipping his shoulder on his way through.
“It’s called a fuckin’ bottleneck , y’moron! Hold them there while I cut through the next one.”
With that, Gus retrieved his bat and sprinted up the curving stairs, the thick layers of his suit steaming him. A few zombies crossed his path on the second-floor landing, forcing him to choose between his two weapons.
He dropped the bat.
There was a feral glee in applying the chainsaw’s whirling teeth to decomposing flesh, but the ferocious back spatter quickly blinded his visor, and he realized it wasn’t the weapon of choice. He tossed the chainsaw, spent precious seconds wiping his visor clean, and slapped it up.
He picked up his bat at the edge of the stairs and cracked two remaining gimps.
Then he hoofed it toward the third landing and the wooden wall barring passage halfway up the stairs.
The lights came back on, illuminating everything.
*
Farther behind, Talbert cringed at the blinding light, still chopping at anything piling through the opening in the first barrier. More dead things shambled into the killing floor of the rotunda, fully revealed, enough to send a chill of worry through the man. He chopped the head off another handyman-type deadhead. An arm reached for him. He hacked it off with one cut, flash-exposing a black cross-section of the forearm. Another zombie squirmed through, its torso slick with slime. It slipped on the stairs and fell.
Talbert crushed the head under a boot heel.
The chainsaw buzzed above, chewing into a wall and distracting him. A zombie hit his chest, driving him back, and he fell hard against the stairs. His unprotected head bounced against an edge. Another gimp slicked through the breach, its face grimy and skeletal, reaching for him.
Talbert tried to move and discovered, with a doped rush of fear, his limbs were responding with a hypothermic sluggishness. A hand wreathed in tatters of skin and musculature pawed at his thigh, nails clawing into armor plating, discovering sections covered only in denim. Fingers sloughed over straps and buckles, digging into jeans…
Grunting, Talbert held the machete across his chest and pushed the blade forward, scalping the gimp’s soft skull as if shaving a sliver of cheese off a stubborn block. Each cut lifted the zombie’s head. He kept cutting, his senses slowly leveling out, feeling fingers clutching at his upper thighs. More zombies squeezed through the glut at the opening in a horrid bloom. Some fell onto his lower legs, squashing the deadhead’s fingers for valuable seconds Talbert needed to push the head back and stab the machete underneath the chin, up into the brain.
The creature’s death-grinning face flopped into his crotch, and Talbert had never felt more grateful for a protective cup than at that exact moment.
Grimacing, he kicked free of the oozing bodies, flipped onto his hands and knees, and crawled away from the stalled bottleneck.
Then something kicked him in his side, plastering him against the wall.
Pain robbed him of his breath, and for several seconds, he fixated on an arrow sticking out just above his hip, where the plates of his body armor were kept in place by straps.
Blood seeped from the wound, dark and precious.
Grimacing, Talbert looked toward the second floor and saw no one, hearing only the buzzing of Gus’s chainsaw somewhere above. The zombies still crawled through the hole in the barrier,
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