“Sure thing,” she replied, a wan smile on her gaunt face.
She liberated Clare and George as I tried to rub some circulation back into my hands.
A couple minutes more, and the four of us were standing in a line against the inner windowed wall, watching Bob struggle to drag one of the wrapped-up desks toward the door. We might’ve offered to help him if he hadn’t decided to tie us up like a bunch of fucking criminals.
By the time he’d finished positioning his makeshift barricade against the building’s solitary entrance, many of the zombified children had climbed the gentle, three-foot slope that encircled the station. We could see their rotting faces through the curtainless windows and hear their juvenile fists banging against the glass.
“Holy shit,” Ranger Bob sputtered, bending over and propping his palms on his thighs. He panted for a few seconds, no doubt reeling from the longest sustained exercise he’d had in decades. “What the fuck was that?”
“Watch the language, Bob,” I quipped, noting the wide-eyed undead scouts bumping against the outer walls and moaning for the tasty meals that awaited them inside. “There are children present.”
Startled, he straightened his back and whirled around to face us.
Without ceremony, Clare banged on the glass. “Open this door,” she demanded.
His eyes widened, as if suddenly realizing his captives were no longer zip-tied to the flimsy chairs in his office. Nervously, he fumbled with his holster and yanked out his Glock, but instead of targeting any of the formerly cute faces now smearing zombie goo on his brand-new windows, he aimed his weapon at me.
Jill sighed. “You’ve gotta be freaking kidding me.” Then, wincing in pain, she grabbed my discarded chair, gently pushed her daughter aside, and, with an anger-fueled burst of energy, swung the chair at the upper half of the door.
Her impulsive stunt could’ve compelled the imbecile to shoot us, but luckily, much of the window blew apart in a hail of glass shards, forcing him to duck his head and lower his weapon.
“Vandals!” he cried, his voice muffled by his forearm.
Quickly, Jill reached through the opening, unlocked the doorknob, and stepped into the front room. The rest of us naturally followed suit.
The shattering glass must’ve incited the zombified scouts outside, as the thuds and moans noticeably loudened. More troubling, however, were the creaking sounds coming from the front door, as more and more kids pushed against it.
“That desk is not gonna hold long,” I observed.
Bob, meanwhile, hastily recovered from my mother-in-law’s so-called vandalism. Uncovering his face, he lifted his gun and pointed the muzzle at me—again.
Seemed quite sexist of him, given that my three female companions weren’t exactly weaklings.
“Hey, asshole,” George shouted.
As Bob pivoted his head toward her, his gun still trained on me, she tightened her fist and punched him as hard as she could. Her initiative would’ve delighted me, if not for the fact that, as the ranger fell to the floor, he squeezed the trigger of his Glock. A bullet whizzed past my left ear, shattering one of the inner windows behind me.
Instinctively, I jumped to the side. “Holy shit!”
Standing over the supine ranger and cradling her knuckles, George flinched. “Sorry, Joe.”
My heart raced from the close call, but I was still intact. “No harm done.”
Clare, meanwhile, plucked the gun from the surprised ranger’s hand and placed it gingerly in mine. Unlike Ranger Ramjet, however, I didn’t point the pistol at him. Instead, I aimed the muzzle at the door, which strained from the pressure of a frenzied undead pileup on the other side.
But the door, still blocked by the unused desk, served as the least of our worries. Despite the din of groans and thunks surrounding us, I discerned the unmistakable sound of cracking glass. Tracing the disconcerting noise, I noticed the face of an obese, ten-year-old boy pressed against one of the front windows, where a faint “spiderweb” had appeared. Likely not because of the overweight kid, but thanks to all the voracious undead souls shoving against his back.
Clearly, the glass couldn’t withstand the pressure for much longer. The other windows seemed equally overburdened, and based on the heavier thuds higher up on the door, it seemed the zombified scout leaders had arrived.
Not for the first time since waking up in my courtyard with a throbbing headache that had yet to abate, I silently wished that someone had had the wherewithal to nuke India when they’d had the chance—before Earth was overrun by zombies and forever torn asunder.
True, I hated the thought of Samir, Dibya, and a billion other innocent people perishing in a nuclear strike, but since they were surely all dead anyway, heading the undead problem off at the pass might’ve at least spared the rest of the world.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Again.
Chapter
13
“Well, hello, Mr. Fancy Pants. Well, I’ve got news for you, pal, you ain’t leadin’ but two things right now: Jack and shit… and Jack left town.” – Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)
The thuds and creaks amplified all around us. No time for wishful thinking. Or napping. Or eating. Or any of the other countless activities I would’ve preferred.
Protecting our little group and surviving the night… that was all that presently mattered.
Unfortunately, the ranger lying at our feet had yet to get with the program. Cupping his bloody nose and lip, he struggled to stand. “What’s wrong with you people?”
“What’s wrong,” George snapped, “is that you almost killed my friend, you piece of shit!”
Stepping backward, closer to the desk blocking the entrance, he shot frightened eyes toward the woman who’d assaulted him. Funny that he now seemed more scared of her than of me—even though I was the one holding the gun.
With his free hand, Bob slipped the baton from his belt and held it aloft, as if daring us to punch him again.
I shook my head, exasperation urging me to stop wasting my time with the moron and pull the trigger already. “Look around, Bob, we’re
