A one-eyed, three-legged German shepherd stalked towards her, teeth bared. Another rock struck her between the shoulder blades. Her leg, arm and head pounded. Her vision turned red.
Frankie aimed at the dog and squeezed the trigger.
The magazine clicked empty.
"Triple shit."
The circle of zombies tightened around her.
They had to shout to be heard above the noise in the garage. Outside, the creatures pounded on the door with sticks and crowbars and fists.
Danny clutched Jim's shoulder and Jim winced. The re-opened wound throbbed as Danny pressed harder.
"My God," Martin breathed. "They're all around us!"
"We've got to do this quick." Don reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. "You guys get in while I unlock the garage door. Be ready."
"Who's driving?" Jim asked.
"I am," Don answered. "You get in the back with Danny."
"If Frankie's alive ..." Martin began.
Don interrupted him. "Even if she survived that fall, they've got her by now."
"We don't know that."
"Look, do you know how many of those things are outside that door? Get real, man. You can't be sure it's her out there just because you hear an M-16!"
"We've got to look for her," Martin insisted. "She'd do the same for us."
Don sighed. "Okay. When we pull out, if we see her, we'll stop. But let's be clear. If helping your friend is going to get the rest of us killed, then I'm not stopping."
"That's bull!" Martin exploded. "You cold-hearted son of-"
"Fine, Reverend. You go outside and get her yourself. Did you two really travel all the way from West Virginia just to see those things get Danny?
Martin didn't reply.
Don clenched his jaw. "We don't have time to argue."
Jim cleared his throat. "I hate to say it, Martin, but he's making sense. I'm not sacrificing Danny. I'll sacrifice myself before I'll let those things get him."
Martin shrugged.
"Of course. We can't do that. It just seems so ..."
"I know. It sucks."
Don jangled the keys. "Okay then. Here we go."
He thumbed the remote. The alarm system beeped softly in the darkness as the doors automatically unlocked. Don tossed Martin the keys and then crept to the garage door.
"Don't start it yet," Don whispered to Martin. "We don't need to alert them."
The Explorer had been backed into the garage. Jim buckled Danny into the backseat and sat next to him. Martin got in on the passenger side, slid the key into the ignition and gave Don a nervous glance.
Carefully, Don rotated the knob on the combination lock. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes. It was sweltering inside the garage, and the stench of rotting flesh overpowered the usual smells of motor oil, paint cans and lawn clippings. It took him three tries, but then the lock snicked open. He nodded at Martin and let the chains fall.
Swallowing, Martin turned the key. The vehicle roared to life as the heavy steel chains landed on the cement floor.
"They're inside the garage," a zombie in the driveway shouted. "Here! They're in here! Around front!"
Don sprinted for the driver's side and slammed the door behind him. The garage door rattled on its frame as the zombies hammered against it.
"You guys ready?"
Jim and Martin nodded.
With the press of a button, Don locked the Explorer's doors, sealing them inside the vehicle. He thumbed a second button and the garage door began to rise, the electricity coming from the battery on the roof.
Smoke from the burning house next door curled through the crack. As the door rose further, they saw feet, some clad in sneakers or dress shoes, others bare and in various stages of decay.
The door continued to rise.
Don flicked on the headlights.
A dozen zombies stood framed in the garage doorway, shoulder to shoulder, blocking their exit. The one in the middle raised a Mossberg pump shotgun and fired.
Danny screamed.
Wet, cold, and trembling with pain and shock, Frankie glanced around in panic. The German shepherd hobbled toward her on three legs. To her right, six human corpses and an undead cat crept closer. One of the zombies wielded a golf club and two others brandished butcher knives.
Closing in on her left was a creature dressed in the tattered remains of a paramedic's uniform. Its skin was burned black and peeling off in layers. It clutched a small .22 pistol in one charred hand. Behind it stood another, fresher corpse, brandishing a fireplace poker. Frankie was afraid to turn and see what was behind her.
The stench grew worse as they drew closer. She held her breath. The smoke stung her eyes, making them water. Her head swam, and her wounded leg and arm felt heavy, like they were made of lead.
"It will be easier if you don't resist," the burned zombie rasped. Its voice was like sandpaper. "Not as much fun for us, but easier all the same."
"Fuck you," she choked, trying to sound brave. To her ears, the words sounded anything but.
Another corpse stepped closer. Frankie watched in revulsion as a plump worm dropped from its forearm.
"How many humans were with you?"
Frankie recoiled. Its breath was like an open sewer.
The dog growled, a phlegmatic rumble that lost none of its menace. Black fluid leaked from its eyes and nose.
The burned ghoul grabbed her arm. Its fingers felt like cold, raw sausages.
"We counted four of you, plus one in the other house. Are there more?"
She spat in its face. The act winded her and the thickening smoke made breathing torture.
"No matter." It grinned, revealing blackened, broken teeth. "We'll find out soon enough."
The grip on her arm tightened and the rest of them closed ranks. Frankie tensed.
"I hope that when you eat me, you all catch herpes."
Her hand darted for the burned zombie's face, plunging two fingers into its eyes, blinding it. The creature reared back in surprise and Frankie broke free of its grip. Without pausing, she clubbed its head with the empty rifle.
The dog leaped, white fangs flashing in the darkness. Frankie dropped and rolled. The dog fell sprawling beyond her.
Above the shouts, Frankie heard a motor turn over.
"They're inside the garage! Here! They're in here! Around front!"
The haze thickened, obscuring everything except the zombies surrounding her. Taking advantage of the distraction, Frankie plunged into the smoke.
The first shotgun blast shattered the passenger's side headlight. The zombie jacked the Mossberg's pump again, and Martin watched, transfixed as the empty shell floated through the air in seemingly slow motion.
"Shoot it, Martin!" Jim shouted.
"No." Don grabbed Martin's wrist. "Don't waste your ammunition. We don't know how long it will be before we can get more."