Jim gave him a quick hug, kissed him on the forehead, and then looked up at De Santos.
"Please-go."
"Daddy?"
The Humvee bore down on them. More vehicles crested the hill behind it. Above them, Jim heard the dry, rustling flutter of wings.
"Daddy!"
"I love you, Danny."
Jim charged toward the Humvee.
"Daddy, no! Come back!"
"Let's go, Danny." Don led the crying boy toward the garage. Frankie limped along behind them, casting one last glance over her shoulder at the ruined flesh that had been the Reverend Thomas Martin.
"Rest easy, preacher-man."
"Come on, you sacks of shit. Over here!"
Jim waved his arms over his head, running directly toward the onrushing vehicles. The zombies obliged, swerving in his direction and spearing him with their headlights. The Humvee's engine roared hungrily.
Something buzzed by his ear. Jim felt a fresh burst of pain as a razored beak slashed his palm. He lashed out, but the bird darted away and circled around again. He spared a quick glance upward and saw more bearing down on him.
"Come and get it! Supper time!"
Bullets dug into the earth at his feet.
He ran, praying that De Santos and Frankie could get Danny to safety, praying that safety itself existed. A carrion crow pecked at his hand.
In the distance, over the gunshots, he heard a rumble. Thunder? A helicopter? He didn't know and realized that he didn't care.
Let the sky weep.
He knew how it felt.
The entrance to the parking garage yawned before them like a gaping, ravenous mouth. The interior was pitch-black, and all three of them froze in front of it. Danny squirmed in Don's grip, desperately shouting for his father.
"Danny, stop it," Frankie said. "You'll lead them to us."
"I don't care. I want my daddy!"
Don took a step toward the entrance and paused.
"You think it's safe?"
"There's nowhere on Earth that's safe anymore," Frankie told him.
They walked inside. The parking garage was silent. Frankie heard Don rustling through his pocket, and a moment later, the telltale click of a cigarette lighter. The darkness seemed to surround the flame, as if trying to extinguish it. From far off, they heard gunshots and the roar of motors. Danny cast a glance behind him.
Despite her pain, Frankie knelt down and looked him in the eyes.
"I know you want your daddy, kiddo. I want him to come back too. But right now, he's doing something very brave to help us all. So that means you have to be brave too, okay?"
"But I don't feel very brave."
"That's okay." Frankie winked. "Neither do I. In fact, I feel like I've been run over by a truck."
She stood up and ruffled his hair, but suddenly her knees buckled. Her vision swam. She reached out and
caught herself on Don's shoulder, shaking her head and breathing heavy.
"You okay?" he asked, concerned.
"I will be. Blood loss and shock, I think. Just a little dizzy."
"We'll find a spot to rest."
He raised the lighter higher and peered into the darkness.
"Can't see shit," Don muttered, "but maybe that means they can't see us either."
"Don't count on it. I've seen these things hunt in a pitch-black sewer. Don't know how. Maybe they can smell us or see something we can't. Our auras, maybe. But if they're in here, they can see us."
"Thanks. That's really comforting."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Get us out of here and maybe I'll tell you a bedtime story instead. How about it, Danny? What's your favorite bedtime story?"
"Teeny Tiny Tale," he whispered, suddenly shy and timid. "Daddy used to read it to me when I'd visit him."
Frankie smiled, lost in one of the few childhood memories that heroin hadn't erased.
"The dog says, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.' Is that the one?"
Danny smiled. "That's it."
Then his smile faded. Despite Frankie's best efforts to distract him, Danny was still terrified for his father. He looked over his shoulder again as another muffled gunshot rang out.
They walked deeper into the garage. Don almost tripped over an orange traffic cone. They smelled oil and gasoline, dust and urine. The silence beat at them, and the ghosts of their footsteps followed along behind. A discarded fast-food wrapper rustled under Frankie's foot. They inched forward, comforted by the flickering flame.
Frankie pointed. "There's the stairway to the roof. Let's make for that. Hide inside until Jim gets back."
"Why not just try the roof instead?" Don asked.
"Birds."
"Birds?"
She nodded. "Zombie birds."
"Oh." His laughter was uncertain. "That's kind of silly, isn't it?"
"Sounds like it-until you've seen them strip the flesh off a body in minutes."
Don frowned.
Beside them, Danny repeated the line from the children's book like a mantra: "When all of a sudden, the teeny-tiny woman heard a voice that said, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.'"
His voice trembled with a coming sob, and Frankie's heart broke.
In the darkness, a car door creaked open.
"Give me my bone ..." something answered.
Don dropped the lighter, and the darkness engulfed them.
Branches whipped Jim's face and arms as he shoved his way through a row of bushes. A dead bird pecked at his scalp, drawing blood. Another darted for his eyes. He threw up a hand in defense, and the bird shrieked its displeasure.
Behind him, the vehicles skidded to a stop. Car doors slammed, and gunfire ripped the night. Rounds streaked toward him, and bullets kicked up dirt at his heels. Panting, Jim broke cover and dashed for a narrow strip of woods between the parking garage and a warehouse. The zombies chased him on foot and wing.
He crashed through the trees and slid down a steep embankment. At the bottom, a drainage pipe trickled water into a thin stream. Jim splashed through it, gasping as its coldness soaked through his boots. He spied a rusty pole and snatched it up without breaking stride.
Tree limbs rustled above him. He looked up just as something small and brown and furry detached from a limb-a dead squirrel, missing its tail and a rear leg- launched itself toward him. Sidestepping, Jim swung the pipe like a batter, and the squirrel careened into the ditch.
A cheer went up from the zombies as they started down the embankment after him. It was a game to them, Jim realized. Nothing more than sport.
This was a foxhunt, and he was the fox.
He ducked between two towering oaks and sprinted back up the hill, coming out behind the parking garage. An iron fire escape ladder hung down from the roof, with access points at the second and third levels.
Jim leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He clutched a ladder rung with one hand. A reeking garbage Dumpster stood next to him, but Jim could still smell the zombies over the stink of rotting trash. He heard the rumbling sound again, closer now. Not thunder.