The old man's whispered tones were harsh. 'What's the matter with you, Jim?'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean talking about the boy's mother and stepfather like that.'
'Don't you dare start on me, Martin. You have no idea what they put me-us-through.'
'Guys,' Don called from the panic room, 'this isn't the time for family politics. They're getting through!'
Martin put his hand on Jim's shoulder. 'I know they took your son from you, and that's a hard thing. That's a very hard thing. But they put a roof over his head and clothes on his back. Danny loves you-I can see it every time he looks at you. But he loved them too. And for you to say that, especially after whatever he's been through, is an even harder thing. I'm guessing that little boy's hair wasn't turning white two months ago. He's seen his mother and stepfather and everyone around him corrupted by those things. He's still in shock that you showed up, along with a bunch of strangers he's never met. And now his house is burning down and we just got done making him walk the balance beam two stories above the ground. The fact that he's alive and unharmed is nothing short of God's work. I have traveled up the East Coast to help you find him, and we've been through hell together. But we did it. We saved him. So knock off your bullshit right now and let's make sure this rescue wasn't in vain.'
Jim took a step backward, stunned.
'Yeah, I'm sorry. I was out of line.'
'Now look what you did.' Martin smiled. 'You went and made me curse.'
Jim chuckled as they returned to the room. He went over to Danny and picked him up again.
'I'm sorry. Daddy's just tired. I didn't mean to say those things about your mom and Rick.'
'It's okay.' Danny smiled. 'They said bad things about you too sometimes, even before they became monster-people.'
'You gonna carry him?' Don asked.
'I reckon so.'
'Here.' He handed Jim a small hatchet. 'Better carry this then, too. You can swing it with one arm.'
The sound of gunfire broke out again, drifting up from the pool.
'I think that's our cue,' Don urged. 'We better get going!'
'Listen,' Jim held up a hand. 'That sounds like an M-16.'
Don sighed in frustration. 'We're out of time!'
'Is it Frankie?' Martin asked.
Jim shook his head. 'Can't be.'
'She was almost out of ammo, but it could be her-if she survived the fall.'
'Martin-'
'It has to be, Jim.'
Don whipped around. 'She's alive?'
'Move!' Martin shouted.
'That's what I've been saying,' Don snapped.
They ran for the garage.
Frankie stepped out of the shallow end of the pool and opened fire, squeezing off short bursts as she swept the weapon back and forth. When she saw that she was surrounded, she planted her feet, held down the trigger, and allowed the rifle's kick to pull her around in a circle.
'Come on, motherfuckers,' she yelled. 'I got something for you!'
When she let go, she grinned at the bodies lying prone around her-then started again.
Some of the creatures shouted taunts, but the roar of the M-16 drowned them out. She switched to short bursts again, so that she could re-aim the weapon. The inferno raged a few yards away, as Jim's ex-wife's home was reduced to cinders. The heat from the fire roasted her face. She squinted, her eyes watering. Empty brass jackets littered the yard, and smoke poured from the barrel. She continued firing, shredding everything in her path- afraid the weapon would fall apart, but not caring. Heads exploded, and limbs were mangled and torn. What wasn't destroyed in the first barrage was knocked down by the second sweep. The rifle vibrated, sending shockwaves through her body and growing hot in her hands.
A little girl, shorter than the rest, ducked in below her field of fire and swung a croquet mallet. Frankie stepped back, swept the rifle butt downward, obliterated the child's head, and brought the weapon back up in one fluid motion.
'Come on. What you got for me? Huh? What you got? You ain't got nothing!'
Something punched her leg-hard. She looked down and saw blood. A second bullet stung her arm. Another whizzed by, shattering De Santos's kitchen window. A zombie to her right heaved a brick at her. It landed in the yard, barely missing her. The blood continued to flow down her leg and pooled inside her shoe. The wound burned.
'Shit.'
Another object struck the back of her head. A rock, she thought, even as she yelped in pain. Then she saw what it was as it fell to the ground. A white cue ball, now smeared with her blood.
She wondered how much ammunition was left, but pushed the thought from her mind. The magazine held thirty bullets, but in the confusion, she hadn't had time to count her shots. She continued firing, knowing that if she
