“Sheriff, I just blew three heads off. And they were not—I repeat, not human heads. The ER looks like a slaughterhouse and Lanz is nowhere in sight.”
“Not even a nurse around?”
“Not a live one.”
“Where’s hospital security?”
“Dead.”
He decided not to mention that he was the cause of their passing.
A long silence on the other end, then, “You’re not shittin’ me? You better not be shittin’ me, Clay.”
“I’m telling you I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I think you need the National Guard, or staties at the very least.”
“No staties.”
Clay clenched his teeth. This was no time to get territorial. Something was going on. He was sure that nurse hadn’t shown up for work looking like that. He’d seen enough vampire and zombie movies to know that if you get bit you turn into one. That seemed to be what was happening here. And that meant more monsters were running loose inside—with Shanna.
Shit, what if she got herself bit?
“Sheriff, just send help, okay?”
“I’ll free up somebody—”
“Somebody?” he shouted. “We don’t need somebody, we need a fucking platoon—a full company. The people in that hospital are in deep shit, sheriff. You send in the troops. You send in the fucking cavalry!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call in the staties. But this better be worth it. I’m trusting you, Clay. Meanwhile, you’ll stay?”
“Not a problem.”
“I love when you say that. Just hang around outside until—”
“That will be a problem, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shanna’s inside.”
“Oh, shit. Just wait where you are and—”
“I’m going back in.”
“Wait—”
“Bye, sir.”
He ended the call and slipped the duffel bag’s strap onto his shoulder.
The bag weighed a freaking ton. Clay could feel his collarbone bending under its weight as he walked toward the ER. Well, why not? It held just about everything he’d been working on since last year’s show—all his new pieces and the ones he’d been modifying. They’d been on their way to the Denver convention where he’d planned to show them off and demo a few. Now it looked like he was going to have to put some of them to use.
He had to admit he was excited about this. No, scratch that—he was ecstatic. He had murderous, blood-thirsty monsters to fight. He could throw anything he wanted at them and it was all good. If only Shanna were back home and out of harm’s way, this would be perfect. This had a gun show beat to shit.
He had an old friend and a new piece out and ready. His lovely lady, Alice, the nickel-plated Taurus Raging Bull .454 Casull revolver he’d owned for years, was loaded with Cor-Bon 300-grain JSP flat heads. The .454 Casull could take down a cape buffalo. These babies had a muzzle speed of 1800 feet per second and kicked like the devil himself. He stashed Alice in his belt.
In hand was the newbie, an AA-12 automatic shotgun. Its drum was loaded with thirty-two three-and-a-half inch twelve-gauge shells loaded with #2 titanium alloy shot. He could shoot one round at a time or hold down the trigger and fire at a rate of 300 per minute. A true street sweeper.
It might have to become an ER sweeper.
He stopped inside the doors and looked around. Everything seemed quiet and still—no, wait…
The patient on the stretcher, an elderly, gray-haired woman, was writhing under the safety straps, hissing and spitting teeth. Shit, where were the two EMTs who’d been dead on the floor a few minutes ago?
Suddenly the patient sat up, ripping through the straps. Clay watched, fascinated, as those unreal teeth shredded her wrinkled lips. He hesitated. A little old lady…someone’s granma. But as the teeth sprouted further and talons popped out of her fingertips, he realized this lady would eat her grandchildren without a second thought.
Holding the AA-12 chest high with the stock clamped under his arm, he let fly a round. The number-two shot took off most of her face and slammed her back on the stretcher.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
But then she began to rise again.
“Crap!”
His second shot knocked her flat again and left only her lower jaw hanging, swinging from one hinge. This time she was down to stay.
“Sorry, granma”—and he truly was—”but you weren’t granma anymore.”
His ears were ringing from the loud reports. He always wore ear protectors on the range and had a set in the duffel, but didn’t dare wear them now. He needed to hear these things coming. The racket must have attracted attention. A bloody blond guy in a softball uniform was stumbling toward him with only half the usual complement of talons because he had only half a left arm.
Took two head shots to stop him.
And then a second softball player—bearded with a black eye—lurched around the corner and charged him. He took three rounds.
Toughest damn sonsabitches to kill. He had only 25 shells left in the AA-12’s drum and it was taking two or three shots each to put these monsters down. He hoped there weren’t too many more. He’d brought a shitload of ammo, but not an endless supply.
But what a weapon. He was firing major shot with barely any recoil.
He scoured the ER—all the treatment areas and the wide-open supply room. All clear. He could move on. But how was he going to locate Shanna? He checked his cell and got no service. The in-house lines were useless if he didn’t know what extension she was near.
He moved toward the doors to the hospital proper but stopped just before he pushed through. Anything could be waiting on the other side—a whole army of monsters.
He placed his duffel on the nurse’s station counter, then stepped back toward the entrance where he grabbed granma’s stretcher. He got behind it and started pushing it toward the door. Hard to get traction in the congealing blood all over the floor but he wheeled through it and had built up decent speed when he rammed it through the double doors.
All hell broke loose.
Half a dozen monsters leaped onto the stretcher, tearing at its occupant in a wild, hissing frenzy that lasted all of maybe twenty seconds. They soon realized she was dead and looked around for a new victim.
Clay was already backpedaling when they spotted him. They charged and bunched up at the doorway on either side of the stretcher, elbowing and clawing at each other to be first through. This slowed them—not much, but enough to let Clay put some distance between him and them. He set his feet and raised the AA-12 to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, pulled the trigger, and kept it pulled.
The AA-12 went to full auto then, firing five rounds a second. He sprayed back and forth, two quick passes, left and right at first, and then more deliberate, aiming for the heads, watching them explode. The drum emptied quickly, but during those five seconds he shredded those monsters, all six of them. They went down and stayed down, leaving the doors, the walls, the ceiling, the stretcher dripping blood and brains.
He’d done it. Wiped them out. All of them.
Well, all except one. A guy in a torn-up bloody suit with the back of his head gone was trying to crawl toward him.
Clay watched him and couldn’t resist: “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Did he fire thirty-two shots or only thirty-one?’ Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself.’ “
He was reaching for the Taurus when two more of the damn things appeared in the doorway and charged him.
“Shit!”
Not trusting a hurried shot with the kind of kick a Casull delivered, Clay turned and ran for the supply room. Slipped and almost went down as he tried to grab his duffel from the counter. Missed the handle but kept on going. They were right on his tail. He could hear their hissing, could almost feel their talons slashing the air at the nape of his neck.