She knew what being bitten was like. How the skin broke and tore. How veins got pinched and severed. How muscle fiber felt while being gnawed.
And that’s when Jessie Lee Sloan began to thrash. Violently. Her body clenched and folded like a switchblade, her head and shoulders twisted back and forth, and a massive surge of adrenaline allowed her to flex her legs. The wire broke, and her foot finally came loose.
There was a millisecond of relief—Taylor’s mouth off her knee, her legs stretching out above her—and then she fell.
Jessie Lee landed, face-first, in a pile of her dead friends and neighbors. But she didn’t stay on top, nor did she roll off the side. The corpses shifted to accommodate her weight, parted, and she began to sink into the middle.
She flailed out her arms, trying to climb up, but struggling slicked her in blood and slippery fluids, making her slide down farther. Gory, lukewarm limbs poked her. Pale faces with rictus grins kissed her. More shifting, and a cadaver fell on top of Jessie Lee, sealing her in a decomposing human tomb. This fueled her hysteria, prompting more wiggling, advancing her descent. By the time she exerted enough self-control to stop squirming, Jessie Lee had burrowed halfway into the pile.
It was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that she couldn’t see. The dead were stacked all around, smooshing Jessie Lee on all sides. Her face pressed against someone’s lacerated chest. Her right hand became stuck deep in a fatal neck wound. And the stench … death smelled like rotten carnations, an odor so powerful she tasted it on her tongue.
Jessie Lee tried to twist around and force her head into open air. She shoved the body above her—a man she recognized from church. His midsection bent upward and his head tilted down. Blood dripped from his mouth onto Jessie Lee’s face. She craned her neck, turning away, and it trickled into her ear.
The weight on her chest made it hard to breathe. Being bitten was horrible. Suffocating to death in a pile of corpses was even worse. Jessie Lee kicked out and the pile shifted again, pushing her face into someone’s urine-soaked crotch. Then, abruptly, bodies began to topple, and Jessie Lee rolled toward the back wall of the showers, smacking her head against the porcelain tile.
A moment passed, the dead settling into new positions. Jessie Lee’s legs burned now that the circulation had returned, and the bump on her head brought fresh tears. She moved her hand up to rub it but stopped when she heard footsteps.
Someone was in the shower.
She stayed still, eyes peering through bent elbows and twisted legs, straining to see the entrance. No good; her view was blocked.
Do I call for help? she thought. It might be someone from the gym, someone who could save her.
Or it might be Taylor.
Lowering her eyes, Jessie Lee examined her clothing and found herself drenched in gore. If she didn’t move she would look like just another corpse. He probably wouldn’t even notice her. She held her breath, waiting for Taylor to leave.
“… help me …”
The voice, coming from directly beneath her, made Jessie Lee gasp. She tilted her head and saw she was lying on top of Melody Montague, her elderly second-grade teacher. Less than an hour ago they’d been talking about the wedding.
Jessie Lee stared as the slash in Mrs. Montague’s neck oozed blood. But the wound hadn’t affected her voice, because again the woman said, “Help.”
And she said it louder this time.
Jessie Lee glanced back at the entrance to the shower, then to Mrs. Montague.
“Shh.” She touched her finger to Mrs. Montague’s lips. The old woman didn’t seem to notice.
“Please someone help me.”
Footsteps. Closer. Taylor, or whoever was in the shower room.
“… help …”
“I’ll help,” Jessie Lee whispered, “but you have to be quiet.”
Mrs. Montague’s eyes stared out into space, wide and unfocused. Her chin trembled. She began to shake her head.
Jessie Lee didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Montague was going to draw Taylor’s attention, and then he’d find them and kill them both. She willed her old teacher to stay still, to be quiet.
“… help me …”
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the pile. Through the tangle of bodies, Jessie Lee could see someone standing there.
“… please …”
Squeezing her eyes closed, Jessie Lee placed a hand over Mrs. Montague’s mouth. Mrs. Montague fought against her touch, so Jessie Lee pressed harder.
She needs to be quiet, Jessie Lee said to herself. She needs to hush, or we’ll both die. Please hush, Mrs. Montague.
Mrs. Montague moaned. Jessie Lee adjusted her hand to also cover Mrs. Montague’s nose.
Please be quiet, please be quiet, please be quiet …
In the shower, noise echoed. Jessie Lee held her own breath, held it along with Mrs. Montague, willing the footsteps to go away and leave them alone.
The moment stretched until it was spider-web thin.
Just a little longer, just a little longer, just …
Mrs. Montague stopped struggling.
Jessie Lee shook with effort not to breathe. Bright motes appeared before her eyes even though they were closed.
The footsteps receded, out the shower entrance, back into the boys’ locker room.
Jessie Lee sucked in a breath, then removed her hand from Mrs. Montague.
Her teacher’s lifeless eyes stared, accusing.
I … killed her.
Jessie Lee told herself she didn’t have a choice. They both would have died if they’d been found. Plus, Mrs. Montague was practically dead anyway.
Right?
A sob erupted from Jessie Lee, a long, hard sob that gained in volume until it became a scream.
She continued to scream until the footsteps came rushing back. And it turned out they didn’t belong to Taylor, after all.
“Hello, missy.”
“Oh, please … please help me …”
Jessie Lee reached for the figure over the wall of the dead.
The figure reached back—with a stun gun.
Josh pushed the Roadmaster to 50 mph, which was as fast as he dared on County Road JJ, the only road in and out of Safe Haven. Like many northern Wisconsin roads it boasted knots of turns and hills, all penned in by the woods. Deer leapt out of the tree line on a regular basis, and hitting one bigger than a hundred pounds could prove fatal to more than just the animal.
Josh snatched a look sideways. Duncan and Fran sat in the front seat with him. Fran now wore jeans and a sweater, both too large for her, and her thick blond hair had been tied back with a bright red scrunchie. Duncan’s attire fit better—jeans and a T-shirt from a boy his age. The clothes were loaners from a neighbor down the street. They hadn’t been home, but Fran watched their house when they went on vacation and knew they kept a spare key under the doormat. She was sure they’d understand.
Prior to dressing, Josh had bandaged Duncan’s leg wound. A pellet had stung him, leaving a bleeding welt. Josh didn’t think there were any lodged inside, but an x-ray would show for sure.
Fran’s injuries were harder to dress, especially without anesthetic. That psychopath Taylor had bitten off one of her toes and chewed much of the skin off another. Josh cleaned the wounds, taped gauze around them, and recommended Fran leave her foot shoeless. Fran met him halfway; she wore borrowed open-toe sandals.
Josh tried his cell again. Still no signal. He should be getting one soon, as he got closer to Shell Lake. They’d attempted to use the neighbor’s phone to call 911, but repeated attempts resulted only in a busy signal. It didn’t matter. Josh estimated they were ten minutes away from the hospital.