From the crackling reports above us, I figured some of Sal’s crewmates were targeting the zombie horde as well.
The more, the merrier.
Particularly since the other passengers were yelling, crying, and generally offering no assistance whatsoever. I wanted to tell those closest to us to shut the hell up—since they weren’t helping my relentless headache either—but I didn’t have the time or energy.
“Is that the same wildling that came after you?” George asked.
Oh, it was her alright. Even from our position on the river, roughly a hundred yards away, I could see the giant, pus-filled blisters and raw, reddened flesh gleaming in the sunlight. The damage, in other words, from yours truly hurling dried frog powder into her hairy face.
Without my binoculars, I couldn’t discern her exact facial expression, but based on the speed and determination she demonstrated as she scrambled over the undead bridge, I assumed she was one pissed-off rougarou.
Thanks to our fancy shooting and Sal’s skills at the helm, the Stargazer had actually widened the space between us and the zombies. I’d thought we were almost in the clear until the wildling had shown up. Suddenly, she posed the greatest threat to us as she rode the wave of zombies to close the gap.
With her gaze fixed on mine, she ran, crawled, and did whatever else was necessary to climb the zombies without getting buried or drowned by them. And having witnessed the heights the wildlings could reach, I couldn’t assume that she wouldn’t be able to leap off the end of the zombie pileup and land on the ferry. Once that happened, I had a feeling she could murder every last one of us before she was through—especially given her unhinged sense of revenge.
No more clever one-liners came to mind. No frog powder would make that distance. But I couldn’t let this bitch win. Not after all the shit I’d overcome.
“Keep shooting,” I yelled, sprinting back to the van. “Reload as much as possible but target the wildling!”
She seemed too wily for ordinary rifles, but maybe they would slow her down long enough for me to finish the job.
In a flash, I clambered into my vehicle, darted to the storage space beneath the couch, and retrieved a weapon that I’d only shot half a dozen times at the range. The Ruger Hawkeye Hunter, a long-range sniper rifle, was a thing of beauty. Awkward and heavy as hell—for me, anyway—but I hoped it would offer the steadiness I required.
After loading it, I hopped out of the van and braced the weapon atop a vintage, cherry-red Dodge Charger parked next to my own vehicle. The kind of car I’d salivated over back in the day—but at the moment, it merely served as a base for my rifle.
“Hey,” some well-dressed, sixtysomething dude hollered, hurrying toward me. “Get off my car!”
I remained lying across the trunk, the rifle poised in my hands, and shot him a don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Yeah, so?”
“So, you’re scratching the paint. Use your own damn car.” He wrinkled his nose as he scanned my baby. “It’s already a disgusting wreck.”
“Yeah, well, that ‘disgusting wreck’ has saved me and my family more times than I can count. While you’ve been sitting pretty on this boat, I’ve been out there fighting off the undead. Can’t expect to survive without getting your hands—and wheels—a little dirty. And since my friends and I are trying to save your useless ass, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
Still walking toward me, the man opened his mouth to retort, but then stopped in his tracks as I chambered a round and flashed him my meanest I’m-about-to-kill-this-creature-then-I-might-shoot-you glare.
Ignoring the jackass, I leaned in, squinted my left eye, and gazed through the scope with my right. Then, I clicked off the safety, located the target—who had gotten a lot closer while I’d verbally sparred with the fucktard nearby—and took my shot.
Naturally, I completely missed.
The Dodge owner guffawed. “You even know how to use that thing?”
“Don’t tempt me, motherfucker,” I mumbled.
But I ignored his smug expression. And I shut out every other distraction, too—the gunfire, the screaming, the zombie pile growing ever closer.
None of it mattered as much as sealing the wildling’s fate. Although I’d encountered the shrewd creatures several times before, I had yet to kill one. But that was about to change. Cuz my life and the lives of my loved ones depended on it.
So, I chambered another round and focused on the scope. Sure, I wished I’d practiced more with the Hawkeye back at the range, before the end of the world had arrived. And yes, I hated being so new at shooting, so uncertain of my skills, especially when it came to hitting someone or something in the head. But I had no time for doubts. I had the bitch in my sights, and she was looking directly at me, with a recognition that, had I not just experienced the scariest fucking few days of my life, would’ve sent chills down my spine.
She seemed to be daring me to shoot her, as if assuming I’d simply miss again.
“Fuck this,” I whispered, then squeezed the trigger and hit my target—right in the forehead.
She seemed to fly backward with the force of the bullet, and the relentless zombie wave soon passed her by.
Good to know they’re not indestructible.
Clare, still standing beside the railing, cheered. “Nice shooting, baby!”
“Can’t celebrate yet,” George hollered. “It’s gonna be close!”
She was right. One corner of the zombie wave had nearly reached the boat, but at what seemed like the last possible second, Good Ol’ Captain Sal managed to complete his turn, straighten the vessel, and propel us up the middle of the Mississippi—too fast for the floundering zombies to
