'You think maybe God could deliver this fucking couch over to the door, too?' Frankie asked, trying to push the sofa. 'Those things are gonna be here in a second.'
'We've got company?' Jim fought to keep the alarm out of his voice. He didn't want to upset Danny further.
'Yeah, we've got company,' Martin answered. 'Lot's of it.'
'The whole damn neighborhood is dropping by,' Frankie muttered. 'It's like an undead welcome wagon out there!'
Jim grabbed the other end of the sofa and helped Frankie position it against the door. His shoulder throbbed as he pushed. Outside, the shouts and cries increased. The stench of rotting flesh enveloped the house like a cloud, making them all gag.
'Little pigs, little pigs, let us come in!'
Danny shivered. 'That's Tommy Padrone, the big kid from down the street. He walked around outside every night and hollered that over and over. I stuck my fingers in my ears, but I could still hear him. It was scary.'
Jim frowned, wondering what other hells his son had faced while he was dealing with his own nightmarish journey.
'Martin, that thing got a fresh magazine?'
The preacher nodded.
'Good. Give it here.'
Martin handed him the rifle. Its weight felt good in his hands.
'Take Danny upstairs. Go to the attic and close the door behind you.'
'Daddy, I want to stay here with you!'
'I'll be up in a minute, squirt.'
'You promise?' Danny sulked.
'I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.'
'Okay. Come on, Mr. Martin. I'll show you my baseball cards and stuff.'
Jim waited until they'd disappeared up the stairs before turning to Frankie.
'So just how many are we dealing with here?'
'Like I said, the whole damn neighborhood. We didn't stick around to count heads. It's not good.'
The clamor outside grew louder.
Jim shook his head in frustration. 'Why didn't the two of you stay in the Humvee? You would have been safe. Now you've led them to us!'
'Well excuse the fuck out of me! We thought you were in trouble. Martin thought maybe you ...'
'Maybe I what?'
She shook her head. 'Forget it. Okay? We've got more important things to worry about.'
'I'm sorry. It's just-he's safe, you know? I can't believe he's safe.
And now I'm afraid it was all for nothing. I may have found my son only to watch us all die.'
'Well then you'd better give me that M-16 to go along with mine, because I sure as shit intend to put up a fight.'
Jim was quiet, appraising her. Then he smiled.
Fists, hammers and crowbars began to batter the door.
Frankie returned his smile.
'Let's do this shit.'
Jim positioned himself at the bottom of the stairway. Frankie crouched down behind the recliner. The pounding on the door increased, rattling it in its frame. In the kitchen, a window shattered. Then another. The stench of decay wafted into the house, stronger now. They struggled to keep from retching.
'Remember-' Jim started.
'-Aim for the head,' Frankie finished.
The door splintered, and a dozen arms forced themselves through the crack. The couch slid an inch, then two. Glass shattered in the kitchen, and then the living room window exploded. A zombie clambered through it, jagged shards ripping its flesh. Frankie raised her M-16, fired, and the zombie tottered to the floor minus most of its brain. Another one crawled through the opening behind it.
'Throw down your weapons, humans! We will make your deaths quick. You have our word.'
'I got a better idea,' Frankie shouted. 'Why don't you all fuck off?'
'Bitch! We shall rip out your intestines and wear them as a necklace. We will feast on your hearts and livers. We will-'
'Here comes the boom, mother-fuckers!'
Frankie squeezed off another shot at the second zombie in the window. Its head disappeared from the nose up. Glass crunched under booted feet, alerting her to the creatures in the kitchen. Five of them started down the hall toward the living room. Behind them, she heard the kitchen door crash open.
