Anton grabbed Nonna, attempting to hustle her back outside while she struggled to reach her rifle.
Leo snatched up a piece of wood from beside the stove. Adam spun just as Leo swung the piece of wood. It connected with the side of Adam’s face.
The blow barely stunned him. He sprang straight at Leo.
Leo brought up the chunk of wood and slammed it into Adam’s nose. He heard the bone break.
The force of the blow slowed Adam, but it didn’t deter him. He just kept coming. He was like a bionic man on steroids.
His hands snagged the front of Leo’s shirt, tearing at him. Leo didn’t have room to swing the wood. Instead, he slammed it repeatedly into Adam’s face. The kid would not back down—not even when his skin was torn and several of his teeth were smashed in.
“Get back,” Nonna ordered. In his periphery, he saw her raise the rifle. Apparently she’d won the scuffle with Anton and gotten her gun.
Leo couldn’t get away. Adam had him by the front of the shirt. His nails tore through the fabric and ripped into his flesh.
The piece of wood was the only thing between Leo and Adam. The kid’s grip was like iron, latching onto Leo like a leach. Panic gripped Leo. He threw all his strength into pushing against the log and trying to shove Adam back.
“Move!” Nonna barked. “Leonardo, get out of the way!”
Leo wanted to move, but couldn’t. Adam was too strong.
Jennifer swung down from the rafters. Her foot clocked Adam in the side of the head.
Back in their high school days, Jennifer had been like a dancer on the parallel bars. Leo had been to several of her gymnastics meets. She could spin around the high bar like a helicopter. She would spin, and spin, and spin. Leo could never figure out why she didn’t puke her guts out afterwards.
Seeing her hanging from the rafter like it was a gymnastics bar wasn’t much of a stretch. Except instead of swinging back up, her stiletto got stuck in the side of Adam’s head. She yelped and went down. She landed on the back of the sofa and flipped off with a shriek.
Bruce had finally shaken free of his stupor. He and Anton joined Leo, both of them picking up pieces of firewood. Leo wielded his piece of firewood like a club. All three of them were ready to club Adam to death with it.
Except Adam wasn’t moving. He was in the puddle on the floor.
Sticking out from the side of his head was the four inch heel of Jennifer’s red stiletto.
Nonna approached, rifle cocked. She prodded the side of Adam’s head. Leo nudged his foot.
Nothing.
Jennifer ran across the small room and threw up in the kitchen sink. Leo glanced her way only for a second before returning his attention to Adam. Jennifer wasn’t his problem. Anton gave him a scathing look before crossing the room to check on her.
“Is he ... is he really dead this time?” Bruce asked.
“Yes.” Nonna let out a long sigh.
Leo fit the pieces together in his mind. Lars had been shot with poison. He’d gotten sick and turned into a mindless monster.
No, that wasn’t accurate. He’d turned into mindless monster who bit his friend. And then said friend—Adam—also turned into mindless, homicidal monster.
It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
Leo wasn’t much into science fiction or horror, but one year he and his football buddies had gone to see George Romero’s Day of the Dead. Someone had come up with the idea of dressing up as zombies for Halloween after seeing the movie. Half the football team had been in on it. It’s the only reason the current madness made any sense.
“Zombies.” Leo let the word drop like a stone. “The Russians are turning people into zombies.”
Chapter 19Rage
DAL BROUGHT THE FIREPLACE poker down yet again, shredding the Rossi junior college sweatshirt with the impact. Lena had crawled away to safety. Dal was distantly aware of her calling to him, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the threat.
“Dal!” Mr. Cecchino clamped his arms around Dal, pinning his arms to his side. “Dallas!”
He couldn’t escape the rage. It clouded Dal’s thoughts, narrowing his entire world to a dark tunnel that consisted only of the threat to Lena. He struggled to swing the poker yet again.
Mr. Cecchino refused to let go, his grip like iron. Dal snarled, struggling to break free—to obliterate the threat to Lena.
“She’s safe, Dal. Lena is safe! She’s safe, son.”
The words reached him, but sanity still eluded him.
Dal’s chest heaved. He flexed his arms, trying to break free. Mr. Cecchino’s grip never wavered.
“She’s okay, son. You did it. Lena is safe.”
The world abruptly snapped back into focus. Dal sucked in a long, loud breath, as though just resurfacing from a deep dive. His legs wobbled beneath him. The fireplace poker fell from his hand, clanging loudly to the concrete.
“There you go.” Mr. Cecchino eased him to the floor. “You’re okay. Everyone is okay.
Dal’s breath rasped in his ears. The silence in the Goodwill shop was thunderous. They’d knocked over no less than three racks in the scuffle, plus several mannequins.
He forced himself to look at the girl he’d killed. Her face and body were a mashed-up mess. Blood spilled across the floor.
Dal thought he might be sick.
Lena crawled across the floor to him. She had bits of blood spattered all over her face and clothing. She squeezed his arm. “It’s not your fault, Dal.”
He shook her off. Lena was not to be deterred. She looped her arms around his waist and hugged him. “You saw her, Dal. There was something wrong with her. She would have killed us.”
Dal shook free of her a second time. She should hate him for what he’d just done. She should loath him for what he was.
“Lena.” Mr. Cecchino looked up from where he knelt on the ground beside the dead girl.
