One of Senator Cullen’s bodyguards drew a gun.
“Run, Molly!” Jack screamed.
They took off across the tarmac, hundreds of yards from the fence, nowhere to hide, just running and screaming, still begging for their lives even as the first bullet punched through Jack’s leg. He kept running, told Molly to keep running, saw her head jerk forward and blood arc through the air.
He broke down in sobs as he limped past her, straining every muscle in his body, and still hundreds and hundreds of yards from the fence.
Jack turned. He started back toward Molly. He cried her name, though he knew she was dead. He just wanted to pick her up and take her away from this. He wanted to undo it all. He’d take poor Lily back, he’d go home. He was willing to take it all back — couldn’t he take it all back?
The guard shot him in the throat. He slumped to the ground and crawled toward Molly. He could no longer speak her name. His strength was leaving him in gouts. If only he could touch her again, her face, her hair. If only he could tell her he was sorry.
He almost made it.
Thirty / Dead to Rights
It was nightfall and the snow was still coming down. Dalton was climbing down from his post on the wall, rifle slung over his shoulder. The dogs had started baying inside the guard post. They’d been in there for a few hours and were probably going mad from the confinement. But he didn’t want them running around in this weather at night. They’d just have to put up with it; but at least he could give them some chow and calm them down for a while.
When he opened the door, the dogs ran past him to the gate and began pacing in front of it, making high-pitched whimpers.
They sensed something. Dalton dropped the rifle into his hands and approached the gate. “Back. Get back.”
What could they possibly be on to? Maybe they did just want out after all. But his instincts were sharp, too, and their behavior told him something was wrong. Dalton unlocked and unbolted the gate, muttering into his radio. “Section nineteen, going out for a quick look around.”
He peered through a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. Nothing but falling snow on a flat plain. All the trees and foliage had been cut away to provide a clear view. Not a damn thing.
He turned and saw the dogs backing away from the gate. Kneeling, he patted his knee and called, “C’mere! What is it? You’re gonna have to show me.”
He looked back toward the badlands. Hard to be sure whether or not there was anything out there. He took another look with the binoculars. Nope, not a thing.
Wait. A tiny black shape moving on the horizon. Then another, and another. Then dozens.
Dalton backed through the gate and slammed it shut. He barked into the radio, “Section nineteen! I need backup here… got either badlanders or rotters rushing the gate!”
The dogs already knew which it was. They leapt about him in a panic. He could see nothing but wild terror in their eyes.
“Go,” he said, waving them off. “Get the hell out of here!” They didn’t have to be told twice.
His radio crackled. “Nineteen, do you have a visual?”
“Hold on.” He climbed the ladder and stood atop the Wall. He saw a storm of ragged figures surging toward him. He heard their moans on the wind. There were hundreds, hundreds! Their numbers stretched as far as he could see.
Then a huge rotter broke through the ranks, swinging a hammer over his head, and the gate was blown off its hinges.
Dalton dropped onto his stomach, gasping
“Rotters!” into his radio. He started crawling along the Wall, but grim dread weighed his limbs down and he knew there was no point. He was alone in a sea of undead. And they’d already seen him.
Something was clambering up the ladder. He sat up, shaking, and took aim.
Devour her!
Get up, now — consume her flesh! We need her power!
GET UP!
The Omega could barely move his fingers, let alone move across the room — but the voices screaming in his head urged him on, and slowly, painstakingly, he began tugging his mutilated corpse across the floor.
It was the consumption of the Reaper’s flesh that had thrown open the gates of Hell, had let them into this simple creature’s mind — they, the dead, the damned, untold millions who had passed on under Adam’s watch and who blamed him for their ultimate fate. Murderers, rapists, the architects of atrocities that had shaken entire nations. Masters of terrorism and genocide, they had found themselves cast into a dark abyss where there was no peace, no rest, only bitter suffering. And it was because of him — Death!
So, although there was nothing in this world or the next that could free them from the abyss, they would at least have their revenge against Adam. They would tear him apart.
The Omega pulled the blanket from the woman in white’s nude form and began clawing at her pale flesh. She was strange — half human, half something else entirely — but there was still power lying dormant in her being and they would have it. They pushed the Omega on, as he filled his hands with bloodless flesh and lifted them to his broken mouth.
He swallowed her. She filled him. He stiffened and began to shake.
His body thrashed on the floor and fresh blood, rich red blood, began pouring from the many wounds Adam had given him. And then the wounds, like mouths, began to close.
He threw his head back and vomited into the air. Maggots and bile splattered on the floor around him. All of the corruption was leaving him. The meat of the undead had only a fraction of this effect! New life was surging through the Omega, regenerating him in a matter of moments — and then he collapsed.
VENGEANCE SHALL BE OURS!
Our Legion is now unstoppable — never again will he leave us in ruins — this time we shall destroy him!
Their cries echoed through the Omega’s mind. He struggled to his feet. Newfound strength bore him out into the night.
Long live the new flesh!
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
Adam faced a young white horse. It had been standing alone in this field, grazing, probably separated from an infected family. It eyed him cautiously as he approached.
He stroked its head and whispered, “You’re safe with me.” The horse stood still as he pulled himself onto its back.
To the Great Cities. To Lily.
P.O. Billy Rhodes was charged with removing the undesirables from Gaylen. He knew the truth about Cleveland, that it was a hellhole situated outside the Wall, populated only with the worst of the worst. He didn’t much care. Made his day job a lot easier getting the trash off Gaylen’s streets. Kept the hookers cleaner too.
The guy in the cage, handcuffed in the back of Rhodes’ SUV, looked like a filthy mother. Name was Jarrett Willows. Apparently the guy had seen some bad shit go down back East and had lost his marbles. He’d been picked up in downtown Gaylen, preaching from a street corner about some gibberish that Rhodes couldn’t understand.
The perp was doing it now — muttering “Ia, Ia,” under his breath and rocking in his seat. It was creeping Rhodes the fuck out. He slammed his fist against the cage separating them. “Shut up, Willows!”
The long-haired transient stopped rocking and looked at Rhodes in the rearview mirror. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. Crazy. Smoothing his mustache in the mirror, Rhodes tried to make like he was ignoring the kid — Willows was only in his mid-to-late twenties — but he couldn’t break eye contact.