"I'll take my chances. Especially since helping you has directly impacted my safety here."
Jim bristled. "Listen, you son of a-"
Danny stepped between them and took his father's hand.
"Thank you for helping us, Mr. De Santos, but can you please not fight with my daddy?"
Both men stared at each other for a moment and then softened.
"I'm sorry, Danny." Don patted the boy on the head and then looked back up at Jim. "So you're his real father, then?"
"That's right."
"I think I met you once, briefly, when you were picking him up for the summer."
"Could be. I don't remember. It was-difficult-being here with my ex-wife and her new husband. I usually didn't stick around too long. It's a long drive back to West Virginia."
"West Virginia. I thought you must be from the South." He nodded at Martin. "You too. The accents kind of gave you away. Your friend wasn't, though?"
"Frankie? No, she was from Baltimore. To be honest, we didn't know much about her. She'd lost a child of her own recently, and was helping us find Danny. And now ..."
"Oh. Well, I'm really sorry. But may I suggest again that we get moving? We shouldn't be standing around here talking. They'll regroup soon."
Jim paused. "I still think it's pretty useless to go outside, Mr. De Santos. But we can't stay here either. So I reckon we'll try this your way."
"Please, call me Don."
"Okay. Don. And I'm Jim."
"Well then, Jim, at the very least, let's go down to the panic room so I can reload."
Another bullet tore splinters from the windowsill as they started down the steps. The taunts of the dead drifted to them on the breeze, along with the smoke from the inferno next door.
"Jim?" Martin's voice trembled.
"What is it?"
"What if we're wrong? What if Frankie's alive?"
Jim didn't reply.
A tear rolled down Martin's lined face.
"Frankie ..."
When the ladder gave way beneath her feet, Frankie had time only to gasp before plunging into the swimming pool. The aluminum ladder splashed into the pool next to her a moment later. Smoky air burned inside her lungs as the cold, stagnant water closed over her head.
She sank like a stone-two feet, five feet, ten feet- before her boots struck the bottom. She opened her eyes, but couldn't see much in the murky gloom. A spray of bullets ploughed through the water in slow arcs. She dove deeper, flattening out along the bottom, as the gunfire drew closer.
Her hand flailed, closing on the M-16's shoulder strap. As she pulled the weapon toward her, she saw something moving. Something close. It was black and mottled and rotting, but still mobile. The armless zombie. She'd forgotten about it. It swam toward her, kicking its legs and licking its wrinkled lips in anticipation. Desperately, she kicked again for the surface.
The yard and pool stood out in the darkness, illuminated by the blazing house. Frankie's head popped out of the water and she choked, gasping for breath. Immediately, something like a swarm of angry hornets buzzed over the surface. She heard the gunfire a half second later. She ducked below the surface again.
The water stung her eyes, but she opened them anyway, searching for an escape. The bloated creature walked toward her along the bottom, slowed by the water. Frankie darted aside and swung the butt of her rifle, colliding with the thing's head. Despite the fact that the swing was slowed by the water, the blow cracked the creature's skull. She swung a second time and it split open. The zombie sank to the bottom, the gray-black, curdled remains of its brain floating upward.
Her temples throbbed, and her lungs felt like they would explode. She swam to the side, gliding as close to the bottom as she could. She could hear them above her, their shouts distorted by the water. She hovered near the pool ladder.
From her previous weapons training by one of Schow's soldiers, Frankie knew that the M-16 was fairly watertight, but the weapon relied on a gas-operated ejection system. The first round should fire no problem.
But the others ...
Well, if they didn't, she was dead. Plain and simple. But then, she was probably dead anyway.
Teeth clenched and rifle gripped firmly in one hand, Frankie grabbed the ladder, swung her feet into the rungs and climbed for the surface.
Danny stared at the moldering corpse in horror and put a hand over his nose.
"Is ... is that?"
Don hung his head, fingers sliding ammunition into his empty clips.
"Yes, Danny," he answered quietly, "that's Mrs. De Santos."
Cringing, Danny stepped away and wrapped his arms around his father's leg, hiding his face in Jim's thigh.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Martin said.
Don shrugged, continuing to reload.
"After I-after that," he nodded to the remains, "I made sure the house was secure. I nailed plywood over the doors and windows and the garage door is chained shut. Won't stop them now, I'm afraid, but it should slow them down long enough for us to equip ourselves."
"You stayed in this room?" Jim asked.
"The whole time. Luckily, they didn't know I was in
here. I still would be I guess, if I hadn't heard you folks come along."
Jim picked Danny up and kissed him on the forehead. This man, Don De Santos, had sat here in relatively comfortable safety while his son had faced endless nights of terror, peril, and hunger alone in the attic next door. He hugged Danny even tighter.
"I missed you, kiddo. I missed you so much."
"I missed you too, Daddy."
"How much?" Jim nuzzled him.
"This much!" Danny squeezed tighter.
"How much is that?"
"More than 'finity."
They both laughed, and Martin turned away to hide the fresh tears that sprang to his eyes.
"Okay." Don pocketed the extra clips. "I'm ready. Wish I had some ammo for your rifles, but I was never much of a hunter."
Jim grinned. "Even if you were, I don't know that you'd have any to fit the M-16s. They're not exactly deer rifles."
"Like I said, I'm a city boy." Don shrugged. "There's a knife there on the table. One of you can have it if you want."
"I'll take it," Martin offered. "That way, you can carry Danny."
Both father and son seemed to like the prospect, judging by the relieved looks on their faces.
"Not that it will do much good, I guess." The preacher sighed, picking up the blade. "Unless I stick it hard enough to go through their skull."
He shuddered, remembering that he'd done that very thing earlier in the day, fending off not a zombie, but a fellow human. It seemed like years ago.
"Why is that?" Don asked, shoving bottles of water
into a backpack. "Why does it have to go through the skull?"
"Damaging the brain is the only way to kill them."