Iver steps out from behind the door. For a brief second, he considers running back up the hallway. But what good will it do him to keep hiding? There’s still no way out of the house.
I need to get the gun from him. This might be my best chance …
So, he jumps over the bookcase and makes a run for the table, where Fred is still standing with his head through the opening to the attic.
Iver accidentally kicks a book, and Fred hears the noise. He looks down, sees Iver coming at him, and his expression goes from surprise to rage. He lowers the shotgun, which was pointed up into the attic, but the barrel hits the hatch and wins Iver the split-second he needs to reach the table. He grabs Fred’s left ankle with both hands and yanks it hard.
Fred roars as his leg is pulled from under him. He falls onto the table with a crashing bang, the shotgun goes off with an even louder bang.
Iver feels the hail going over his head for the second time, and there’s a sound of shattering glass somewhere behind him. Iver doesn’t waste any time worrying about it.
Get the gun! Get the gun! his mind is shouting at him, and he lunges for the weapon which Fred is still clutching in one hand, even though the fall has knocked the wind out of him and he’s gasping for breath, grinding his teeth.
“Let go!” he wheezes, swatting at Iver with his other hand.
Iver yanks the shotgun as hard as he can again and again, but Fred holds onto it like a dog with a bone. Not until he’s dragged onto the floor is he forced to let go, and Iver stumbles backwards, staring from Fred to the shotgun in his own hands. He fumbles to turn it over and point it at the old guy. He’s never held a real weapon before, so he simply mimics what he’s seen in the movies, and it feels somehow right as his finger finds the trigger.
Fred gets to his feet with a groan of anger and exertion, leaning against the table and glaring at Iver, his eyes watery, his face glowing red with fever, a string of spittle hanging from his lower lip.
“You goddamn piece of shit,” he growls. “You’ve fucked everything up …”
“Stay back,” Iver says, even though Fred is coming closer. “I just want to get out of here.”
Fred says something, but Iver’s attention is caught by a movement from behind the old guy. The lights are low in the living room, and because he’s been busy fighting Fred, it’s not until now Iver notices the broken window and the zombies squeezing through it.
A skinny guy has already made it inside and is getting to his feet, immediately heading for Fred. Two others are shoving to get through the opening as well, one of them being the girl who died just minutes ago out in the driveway.
“Look out!” Iver shouts.
Fred turns around and lets out a roar of surprise. There’s no time to get out of the way, so he simply leans back into the table, trying desperately to get out of the way.
The zombie reaches out his arms and Iver prepares himself mentally to see Fred getting eaten alive.
Then, to his utter surprise, the zombie steers clear of Fred and heads instead for Iver.
Fred glares after it, his face mirroring the same levels of disbelief that Iver is feeling.
He’s infected, a thought flies through his mind. They’re not interested in him anymore.
“I’m … I’m immune,” Fred says, coming to a rather different conclusion than Iver, and he gives off a short, shrill laughter before breaking into a cough.
Iver backs up, his back meeting the wall, as the dead guy speeds up, almost slipping on the books on the floor.
Iver raises the shotgun, takes aim, closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
“Shit!” he shouts, looking at the weapon. “What’s wrong?”
“You asshole!” Fred shouts in a tone of amused mockery. “It’s empty!”
Iver ducks and moves sideways at the last possible moment, the zombie colliding with the wall. Iver turns the shotgun around and uses it instead as a bat, swinging at the zombie, connecting with its cheekbone and sending it to the floor.
Both the girl and two others have made it through the window now, all three of them are coming this way, waddling eagerly right past Fred, as though he wasn’t even there, headed for Iver like slow, heat-seeking missiles.
“You get ’im!” Fred cheers them on. “You kill that little prick!”
Iver goes for the door, but the zombie he just knocked over is getting back up and is blocking the way.
Instead, he runs the other way, placing the dining table between himself and the zombies. The girl, who’s in front, walks right into the table, then begins to make her way around it.
Fred is looking bad now, swaying, blinking his eyes slowly, and he needs to steady himself against the table.
Iver backs up, looking over at the shattered window. More zombies are squeezing through.
I’m not getting out that way …
He looks to the door instead. Reaching it would mean running zigzag between the four zombies closing in on him.
Not that way either …
Iver looks up at his last way of escape. The hatch in the ceiling is still open. Before he can think, Iver jumps onto the table, throws the shotgun up through the hatch, then jumps up himself. He strains to lift his own weight, kicking with both legs in the air to gain momentum.
His right foot hits something, and a hand grabs his left shoe.
“No!” he cries out, flailing his leg wildly, almost losing his grip. Then the shoe slips off and Iver pulls himself up with one final bout of effort.
He rolls onto his back, panting and heaving. From below comes the choir of moaning and the sound of the table begin pushed back and forth as the zombies try in vain to reach the
