"Come on, man. I got you." He grabbed the back of the man's jacket, an old Vietnam war surplus jacket, like the kind De Niro wore in Taxi Driver. He tugged on the material, rolling on his side to gain some leverage, and slowly the man's head appeared from the hole. His eyes were wide, and his lips trembled as he gasped for breath. He couldn't imagine the cold the man felt. The man's arms snaked over the side of the jagged hole, spilling and splashing cold water in every direction.
Then Allen heard the crack. The ice was giving way.
"Behind you!" someone shouted from the far shore of the river.
Allen looked behind him and saw the Annies coming. The lead one, a mangled and twisted thing with broken arms and a mouthful of broken teeth, slipped as soon as it hit the ice. It fell, and at any other time, Allen would have laughed. But he saw more cracks form in the ice, spiderwebbing away from the impact of the Annie's body. He turned back to the task at hand, pulling the man from the river. The man was far enough out of the water that he could pull on the man's belt. Allen strained with all his might, still trying to keep low to keep the ice from breaking underneath them. He pulled and pulled, though he could no longer feel his hand. He felt something down by his feet, and when he looked, he realized that the lead Annie had made its way to him, crawling across the ice.
"Oh lord," he said. He rolled over on his back and kicked at the Annie's face. From behind it, he could see two more sliding their way across the ice. He yelled at the man he had pulled from the river. "You gotta move, man. I know you're cold as fuck, but if you don't get yourself off this ice, we're all gonna die."
Something Allen said must have reached the man because he began to crawl across the ice. Epps crawled behind him, pushing the man by his boot soles until they were a little further from the hole. Then the soaked man got to his knees and crawled like a baby for a few feet. The whole time, Allen kicked and wrestled with the Annie, who was halfway up his legs.
He was cold now. He was tired and exhausted, and all he could do was keep the Annie from biting him. He had no chance of killing it. His rifle was pinned underneath his back. The hatchet at his waist was too unwieldy to use from a prone position. He heard more cracking—that faintly musical sound as crystals break apart, and he knew he was going in the river. He pushed the Annie upwards, away from him, even while he felt more pawing at his boots… another Annie.
Not like this, he thought. Not like this.
Blood splattered his face, and he was only faintly aware of the sound of a gunshot echoing through the valley. With the last of his strength, he pushed the Annie into the hole in the ice. He watched its destroyed face press against the ice below him, and then it was whisked away by the current. Allen kicked at the Annies by his feet and began crawling across the ice. His left hand was so cold it felt like it was on fire.
The dead had no idea about ice and physics. They piled onto the frozen surface of the ice with no concern for its integrity. Behind him, from the direction he had come from, there was another gunshot, and he heard one of the dead fall to the ice. There was a great crack, and Allen used the last of his energy to push himself to his feet. They were waiting there on the other side of the river, waving at him with their hands.
He didn't look behind him, but he heard more gunshots, more bodies hitting the ice. Underneath his feet, he saw cracks spiderwebbing through the surface, spreading faster than he could run. The ice broke underneath him, and he plunged into the water, his balls immediately shrinking to the size of peas as the frigid river washed over him.
Not like this, he managed to think before the river swept over him, pulling him under. He struggled to grab something, anything, but then he was under the ice, locked away from the air he needed to breathe. Under the water, he tried to struggle free from his backpack, from his rifle, from the hatchet. These things weighed him down. His exhausted body scrabbled at the ice above. He tried to punch through but could manage no leverage with his weakened arms. His lungs burned, and then he understood that this was the end for him. The light faded from his eyes, and he gave up the fight, choking and coughing. The river kept flowing, carrying bodies to the west.
Epilogue: The Roar of a Million Lions
The Seaside Lighthouse still stood, though Rhodri had seen enough cracks in the foundation to question the sensibility of standing atop it. He knew that it wouldn't be his home for much longer.
Captain Schwenk stood on the prow of his ship, overlooking the roiling waters. Another boat came in, loaded down with people. They rowed like mad, the waves crashing over them,
