Just as he swings the barrel around there’s a tearing sound as the coat gives way—William doesn’t hear the sound, but he sees her plunges forward as she’s suddenly freed from the restraint, and he cries out and pushes back farther, landing halfway underneath the wheel, his back bending at a painful angle with his legs sprawled over the gear shift.
The woman goes to work on his pants, scratching at them eagerly like a dog smelling a buried bone, and William has a pang of panic as he feels her nails through the fabric.
A thought—surprisingly clear—shoots through his mind: Good thing I didn’t wear shorts, or I’d be dead now.
Then he pulls the rifle back, prying the barrel awkwardly in between himself and the woman. He points it at her mouth and pulls the trigger.
The shot is less deafening this time, probably because William is already rendered deaf, but the effect is certainly there.
The woman’s head is basically split in two, the top half tipping to the side like someone had cut into a boiled egg and opened it up in order to get to the warm stuff inside. The warm stuff inside the woman’s skull isn’t that appetizing, though; it splatters all over the ceiling, looking to William like some sort of clumpy, grey porridge.
The rest of the woman tilts limply to the side and disappears mercifully out of sight behind the seat.
William just lies there for several seconds, hearing nothing, but feeling his heart pound away in his chest and the breath wheezing in and out through his mouth. There’s a hole in the ceiling the size of an apple and the shape of a halfmoon, showing a tiny outline of the blue sky above, and William can’t take his eyes off of it.
Ozzy pokes his head out and looks at him with concern.
“I’m all right, buddy,” William says, his own voice a distant echo. “Thank you for saving my ass. Let me just … let me just regroup for a second …”
William looks up at the hole in the ceiling once more. There’s something very comforting in looking at it. From where he’s lying, it’s pretty much the only thing not covered in brain or blood.
Even though William can barely hear, his sense of smell works perfectly fine, and the sweet, putrid stench of the woman’s brain reminds him of prunes that have gone bad from lying out in the sun. Nausea wells up in his throat.
He can feel the car rocking gently as the dead people outside push and shove at it, and he’s reminded of the open window.
I need to get up. I need to get going. I can’t stay here.
For some reason, his body doesn’t react. William can’t get it to cooperate. He should be afraid. The situation is still very dangerous. But he feels nothing except an eerie urge to just lie here and think of nothing.
I’m in shock, he realizes with bemused detachment. That’s not good. Better get going right now, or I might never get up again.
He tries again to move, and this time, his body listens, though it feels cumbersome, like the connection between will and acting is still fragile. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he manages to climb up onto the seat. He sinks down with a sigh, and Ozzy immediately begins licking his ear, as though rewarding him.
“Thanks, buddy,” William murmurs, moving his jaw in order to make his hearing return. It clicks, and it actually helps a little. Now he can pick up the moans and groans from the zombies outside.
And speaking of … there are so many now, William can barely see through them. At least fifty, but probably closer to a hundred. Seeing them crowd around the car reminds him of that one time he saw Foo Fighters play at Roskilde Festival.
“Shit, buddy,” William mutters. “We got ourselves in quite a mess here …”
He checks the ignition again, still not finding the key.
“Damnit … if I could just turn on the car, we could drive our way out of here …”
He glances sideways at the open window. The tattoo guy is still hanging there, blocking the opening. The bus driver has been shoved aside and two other zombies are now trying to squeeze in. It looks to William like a cartoon where several people try to rush through a doorway at the same time and get stuck. Except there’s no comical effect in this.
They’ll get in sooner or later … and they won’t stop until that happens …
SIXTEEN
Dan lands on the concrete, breaking the fall by grabbing hold of the open door. Still, a sharp pain shoots up through his ankle, making him wince.
Nothing seems to snap or give way, though, which is good. Dan doesn’t have much time to ponder it anyway; the zombies who were surrounding the car he just jumped from are now headed this way.
He throws himself into the BMW and slams the door.
The sounds immediately grow fainter, and he notices also how the atmosphere is different inside the car; it’s cooler, but also there’s a foul smell in the air, like something rotten has been lying around in here. Which isn’t too far from the truth, as the three dead kids were trapped in here just minutes ago.
Dan looks out and up at Åsaa, who’s looking in at him anxiously. He sends her a thumbs-up, and she nods.
Dan looks at the dashboard. He’s never been inside a car this new or big or expensive; his dad was an accountant and earned a decent wage, but he could never have afforded a car like
