“Oh, my God,” Åsaa gasps, clasping a hand to her mouth and turning away.
William realizes immediately he made a mistake by painting that picture. But he’s growing more nervous by the minute, and when he’s nervous he tends to just say whatever shit comes to mind.
“We need to open the door and let them out,” William says. “That’s the best way of getting rid of them.”
“What?” Åsaa exclaims, backing up. “No, wait!”
“It’s okay,” William says, holding up his hand. “I’m not doing it yet. Not before you guys are at a safe distance.”
“What about you?” Dan asks, not looking particularly fond of the idea.
“Me and Ozzy will take care of them,” William tells him. “Just go climb onto another car—one that’s tall enough that they can’t reach you.”
“But—” Åsaa is about to object when William cuts her off.
“It’s just a precaution. Once they’re out, I’ll shoot them.”
“Careful not to shoot Ozzy,” Dan says. “And don’t shoot out the tires, either.”
“You’re right, good thinking. I’ll lure them away from the car first. Right, everyone at your stations. Move, move!”
Dan and Åsaa exchange a brief, uncertain look, then Dan runs to the nearest van and climbs up onto the hood. He reaches down and pulls Åsaa up. She’s still just wearing the coat over her underwear, and as she puts up her leg to climb onto the roof of the car, William catches a glimpse of her panties. They’re pink. He feels an unexpected jolt of excitement, then immediately feels guilty and looks away.
He turns to the BMW and the three kids pushing and shoving each other to try and get at him.
Releasing three zombies suddenly feels like a very bad idea. Kind of like opening the cage to the tigers at a zoo. But he knows they move pretty slow, and he should be able to take them out before things get dangerous.
Besides, there’s no time for second thoughts now.
So, William walks briskly around the car, grabs the door handle and opens it. The moans and groans from the kids grow louder as they wrestle to turn around and get at him.
Once the first one—the youngest boy—manages to push himself out of the open door and fall onto the asphalt, though, William is already several yards farther down road.
“Ozzy, heel,” he says, placing the rifle against his shoulder as the German shepherd settles in next to him, whimpering and growling at the kids who have now all squeezed out of the SUV and are getting to their feet. Immediately, they begin staggering his way.
Goddamnit, William thinks, closing one eye. They’re even younger than I thought.
Only the oldest boy is in his teens, the others can’t be more than six and eight. The thought of them being alive probably just hours ago, sitting in the backseat, arguing, joking around, playing on their iPads, with their parents in the front, trying to get them to safety.
And now.
Now they’re all dead.
And they probably killed each other.
William feels his throat tighten up and his finger curled around the trigger is surprisingly unwilling to squeeze it.
Come on. Do it. They’re not kids anymore. You’re doing them a favor.
Ozzy begins barking. The youngest boy is just ten paces away now.
William aims for his head. Then pulls the trigger.
The shot rings out a lot louder than he anticipated—probably, he thinks absentmindedly, because the sound ricochets off the row of cars and slams right back at his eardrums.
The bullet misses its mark, burrowing instead into the shoulder of the girl walking behind the boy, thrusting her halfway around, but not causing her any real concern, as she just keeps coming forward.
“Fuck,” William mutters, scrambling to reload the rifle.
He didn’t take any misses into consideration; he simply took it for granted he would only need three shots to take out the kids. Turns out, a real-life headshot is a heck of a lot harder to pull off than computer games make it look.
He backs up several feet, commanding Ozzy along, noticing how he can barely hear his own voice. He takes aim again, but this time, he kneels down, resting his elbow on his knee. It makes keeping the rifle steady a whole lot easier.
He aims for the boy’s head once more, muttering to himself.
“Come on … you can do it …”
Then Dan’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. William realizes Dan has been calling for him ever since he shot the rifle, but William couldn’t hear him until now.
He gets up and sees Dan and Åsaa, both still standing on the roof of the van, and both jumping and waving their arms.
“What?” Williams shouts.
Dan mouths something that William can’t make out. He assumes they’re upset because he missed the first shot.
“Don’t worry!” he calls back. “I’ll get ’em this time …”
Then, just as he takes a knee, he catches a movement in the sideview mirror of the nearest car.
Right behind him are two zombies.
TWELVE
Iver gets out of the car and looks around. There are still no zombies on this side of the house, but he knows it’s just a matter of seconds before they show up.
Before he left, Chris instructed him to call him up when he got back, so that Chris could lure away the zombies from the front door. But since Iver doesn’t have his phone, he’ll just have to chance it.
He runs to the door, bringing the bag, then bangs the woodwork hard enough that he’s sure Chris will hear him.
Leif joins him, holding the shovel and darting watchful looks in all directions.
“Why didn’t you bring the gun?” Iver asks.
Leif shrugs. “I don’t like firearms.”
Then comes Chris’s voice from the other side of the door: “Iver? That you?”
“Yes! Open the door.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“Someone I met. There’s a woman in the car, too. I told them they could come. Please let us in, and I’ll explain.”
He grabs the handle, but the door is still locked.
“Chris!” he
