They’d been killed minutes later anyway.
He held the comfortable weight in his hand—not yet—and then put it back in his pocket. That left his knife; and while it was a good one, it was the wrong weapon when the zombies all carried swords.
“Zac…”
He glanced at the undead squad. The guy in the middle had grown and was now a head taller than the others and moving slower. They all kept pace with him, but they hadn’t stopped. Forty meters and they were fanning out.
Even if Fletcher and he ran, there was nowhere to run to. Where was the damn boat?
“We need to take out the big guy.” Then maybe all the zombies would die, again.
“You going to cut his head off with that toothpick?” Fletcher nodded at the knife.
“When I get close enough.” Bullets didn’t work, but he had two more flares and if nothing else he would slow them down so Fletcher could escape. He shrugged off the backpack, glad to be rid of the weight of the gold. There’d been more priceless artefacts in one tomb than he’d seen on any job, and they were all destined to end up in a private collection of some prick who didn’t have the balls to get what he wanted himself.
Fletcher gave up wasting bullets and sat up. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to take what they paid us to steal and go.”
“There’s no boat.”
“It’ll be coming.” Bastards were probably sitting out there watching, waiting to pick over their corpses when the blue skinned undead had crawled back to the barrow.
“I’m not leaving.”
“It’s an order.” If they both stayed, they’d die on the beach. He’d give Fletcher the chance he needed. “Make sure the bastards pay out my share.” His sister’s kids wouldn’t end up like him, military fodder and then for sale to the highest bidder. “It’s been fun, but these jobs pay well for a reason.”
Fletcher stripped off his gear. Bullet-proof vests were useless out here and a dead weight in the ocean. It would be better to be taking the gold.
Thirty meters. Hurry up.
“Come with me.”
“I’ll follow.” Neither of them believed that lie. Fletcher stared up at him. “Go.”
Fletcher put on both bags, then walked toward the ocean.
Zac pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the grass. It took a few tries to get a fire going, and the breeze grew stronger as though trying to blow the flames out. The waves went from slapping the beach to pounding the sand. Even nature fought against them. He glanced over his shoulder, Fletcher was thigh deep, a black shadow in moonlit ink.
Zac faced the dead. Twenty-five meters. The one on the left outer edge broke away, his stride lengthened as he grew bigger, then ran. Fuck, the dead could hustle when they wanted. Zac ran towards him, and fired a flare. But the fucker didn’t even slow, even as his clothes burned. On the sand the undead warrior finally stumbled and fell. Zac drew his knife to behead the monster, but when it rolled over it was no longer a man.
It had become a skinless seal.
He stepped back, bile rising in the back of his throat. The seal-thing humped its way into the water.
No.
He fired the last flare at it. Flesh erupted from the seal’s side. It glanced at him, bared yellow teeth and barked before it flopped into the ocean. Zac had to stop it from reaching Fletcher even though he didn’t want to touch it. He ran into the ocean and leaped on top of the seal. But there was no fur to grab, and his fingers slid off slick muscle and blood and gore. He plunged the knife into the beast. The seal rolled, and Zac expected to be crushed beneath its weight or drowned. He kicked and stabbed again. Heat spread over his hand. The seal thrashed and tossed him off. Its tail slammed into him and he drew water instead of air into his lungs. He pushed off the seabed and broke the surface, barely waist deep in water.
“Fletcher!” He tried to see the man amongst the waves in the dark. “Zombie seal.”
He laughed, the desperate kind that only bubbled out when everything was fucked. He couldn’t see Fletcher, but he saw the seal bob to the surface, not dead and Zac had lost his knife in the fight.
The seal vanished.
A few seconds later Fletcher screamed—an awful cry that made Zac want to swim toward him to help. But there was nothing he could do, except join him in death. Given a choice, Zac didn’t want to drown. He’d rather face his attackers.
Zac turned back to the burning beach. His ankle gave way. Broken or sprained, it didn’t matter, the joint wouldn’t have the chance to heal. He limped his way toward the weapons Fletcher had dropped on the ground.
The undead warriors watched on the other side of the flames. What were they waiting for? He was sure they could’ve walked through the fire. They could’ve each grabbed a limb and ripped him apart already.
But they stood guard, watching.
The wind tugged at his hair and chilled his wet pants. If he pissed himself, no one would ever know, but he didn’t want that to be the last thing he did. He swallowed and glanced at the guns and knife on the beach.
The dead didn’t move, but knowledge pricked at the base of his skull. He knew that as soon as he picked up a weapon they would attack, and it would be over. He fought, or he ran.
The boat wasn’t coming.
The gold the man had paid for now lay on the ocean floor along with Fletcher. Killed by a seal with no skin—at least Fletcher hadn’t lived long enough to have nightmares. Zac shuddered and blamed the icy knives of wind. The flames in front of him didn’t offer heat or safety.
He shouldn’t have bothered with them, but he liked the illusion. The undead on their side
