Jim caught a glimpse of the wound, and turned away.
'It was an accident,' Quinn insisted. 'I thought he was a fucking zombie!'
'Getm ... out of ... here,' Bates coughed, spraying bloody spittle.
'Steve's right. They'll be ... on us any second. I'll hold them ... off.'
'Bullshit,' Steve told him. 'Jim, strap on his flamethrower. You can carry that and sling your rifle at the same time. You're covering our rear. Frankie, you've got point. Quinn, give me a hand.'
Quinn and Steve used the straps from the rifles to hold Bates's guts in, wrapping them around his waist. Their wadded up T-shirts covered the exit and entrance wounds. They cinched the straps tight, and Bates grew even paler.
They hoisted him to his feet, and he moaned, clutching at his stomach.
'Put your arms around our shoulders,' Steve told him. 'I know it hurts, but you're not gonna die. It takes a long time for somebody to die from a gut shot. We'll get you out of here and fixed up in no time.'
Bates tossed his head, trying to see past the long hair plastered to his face.
'Steve,' he rasped, 'whom ... did you have ... in mind to ... fix me up?
Where are they ... going to operate-in the sewers? Just ... shoot me in the head and ... leave me here.'
'Stop that,' the Canadian pilot answered. 'Just stop that talk. You'll be fine.'
'I'm so sorry, man,' Quinn apologized again.
'Shut up, Quinn.'
'How do I work this thing?' Jim asked, strapping the flamethrower's tanks to his back.
Steve gave him a quick lesson and then they started down the stairs again, Frankie in the lead, Steve and Quinn supporting Bates, Danny behind them, and Jim bringing up the rear.
They only made it three more floors before the zombies poured into the stairwell above them. The creatures opened fire, and the air rang with the soft pop of .22 rifles, the thunder of a .45, and the concussive blasts of a Browning sub-machine gun. Jim unleashed a stream of liquid fire, torching the creatures in midrun. The descent became a running battle. Frankie shot the creatures below them and Jim incinerated anything to the rear. The stairway echoed with gunfire and reeked of burning hair and flesh. The smoke grew thick, and they had to put their clothing over their mouths and noses to filter the air they breathed.
Their eyes stung, and their ears rang from the constant explosions.
A zombie on the next landing shimmied up the handrail and clutched Steve's foot. He tried to shake it off without jostling Bates, and the wounded man groaned. Dirty fingernails clawed at Steve's ankle, slicing into his flesh. The pilot screamed as the nails burrowed deeper.
Danny swung the baseball bat. He brought it down again, shattering the creature's wrist. The hand pulled away. A second later, Frankie shot the zombie from its perch.
Eventually, the pursuit dwindled, and then died. Still, they kept running, moving as fast as they could without jostling Bates or losing Danny, who was having trouble keeping up.
Then they found Branson. His body had plummeted more than twenty stories before coming to rest on one of the landings. His back was snapped. His legs and arms hung askew, splintered and broken, and his head had split open like a melon.
'Guess he won't be coming back again,' Quinn said. 'Lucky bastard.'
Bates croaked, 'We should ... all be so ... lucky.'
Frankie checked her magazines and reloaded. Steve and Quinn caught their breath, grateful for the stop. Danny snuggled close to Jim, hugging him tightly. None of them spoke.
Footsteps pounded after them from far above.
They ran on.
Carson's body wasn't recognizable as a human being, yet the red, raw mass struggled to its feet, controlled by another. His hand had only two remaining fingers and a thumb, but he managed to turn the doorknob. With the combined weight of the birds slamming against it, the door exploded outward, shoving the desk out of the way.
The zombies flew down the hallway, darting through open doorways and soaring down the empty elevator shafts and open stairwells. The thing that had been Carson stumbled along behind them, shedding pieces of meat.
The hallway was quiet, and there were no humans in sight. It wondered where its host's friends had gone. The creature searched Carson's memory, and then traced Branson's trail of blood down the corridor.
Eventually, it found its way to the utility door, and opened it. The
birds followed him, pouring into the stairwell. With each floor they passed, more zombies joined in the chase. The stairway filled with dead bodies, all hurtling downward in pursuit of the living.
SEVENTEEN
'Forrest, how much longer are we going to wait?' Smokey whispered.
The sub-basement was dark, cold, and dank, reeking of smoke from the fires above them. Their only sources of illumination came from a flashlight that Pigpen found on a tool bench, and a battery-operated lantern. The concrete floor was piled high with boxes and storage bins.
Workbenches were heaped with tools and scraps of pipe and wiring.
Spider-webs dangled from the air ducts.
Forrest shifted his weight from foot to foot, guarding one of the doors.
'As long as we have to. We ain't leaving without them.'
Etta found some clean rags in one of the boxes and changed the bandages on Leroy's burned forearm. God
