Those things outside, the zombies, Jules’s death and her head rolling about on the floor like that… all of that was thrown in just to scare the shit out of them. And it worked, he thought, but then he chuckled, too. Jules’s and Curt’s noisy fucking in the shower was probably the most-viewed clip on YouTube right now.
“My parents are gonna think I’m such a burnout.” And then he realized that he’d be the one they’d be focusing on right now, and if they didn’t want him to ruin everything for the others, they’d have to—
The window behind him smashed, and Marty aimed a knowing smile at the fiber optic cable still in his hand. They’ll have to come and get me.
He turned to the window, ready to see the cameras and the presenter, so sun-baked that he or she had passed tanned and entered somewhere into the orange spectrum. Microphones thrust at him, producers with fingers at their lips silently pleading for him to Keep the secret a little while longer, and there would be transport to somewhere from where he could view the remainder of his friends’ ordeal…
And though he felt cruel and immature even thinking about it, he couldn’t wait to see what a job they’d made on the fake Marty-Slashed-Up-And-Dead mannequin.
The zombie wasn’t quite as tall as the big one they’d seen outside, but his face was about ten times as horrific. Good job, guys, Marty thought admiringly, and then the zombie’s arm extended and his hand closed around Marty’s throat.
The fingers squeezed hard and Marty felt things grinding in there.
Not so tight! he thought, but he was already realizing his naivety.
What a dick.
The breath was shut off from his lungs, giving way to pain. The thing pulled him to the broken window, spun him around, closed an arm around his throat and tugged him backward.
As Marty folded at the waist and felt the jagged spikes of broken glass scoring and slitting his thighs and back, he was still cursing himself and his foolish thinking. There was no way this could have been reality TV There hadn’t been nearly enough sex.
How could he have been so stupid?
Marty screamed, and it felt as if he was shouting only for himself. The arm across his throat squeezed tighter as the thing tried to drag him backward through the window, and no one could make up that smell, no one could manufacture the fucking breath on that thing.
He struggled more fiercely, pulling himself back in a little even though the pain of the cuts on his back and legs was just starting to catch fire. The thing pulled even harder and Marty clung onto the window frame, refusing to let go or ease up his own pressure for even an instant.
These arms will not move however hard that thing pulls. Judah! Marty thought. That’s the father zombie out there, the father of Patience, whose image started all this down in the basement with Dana. It seemed to make sense, ridiculous though it was. And it seemed suddenly more real than any reality TV could be.
But the zombie pulled harder, tugging him so that his back creaked as he bent in half, hauled through the window, and as he lost his grip he reached around with his right hand for anything he could use as a weapon. He knocked clothes and a pouch of tobacco from the dresser surface, then his fingers closed around his thermos-shaped bong.
The cool night air suddenly kissed his bloodied skin as he exited the cabin. It seemed so much colder, and when he thumped to the ground and saw the thing standing over him, the idea that he’d ever thought it false was just so ridiculous.
Judah swung his hand down. Marty rolled, heard the harsh whisper of metal sticking into soil, looked at the zombie’s hand and saw the blade being tugged from the earth.
A second later and that would have been right through my head. He half stood, but Judah’s other hand knocked him across the shoulders, spilling him to the ground again. Marty didn’t have time to turn his head and watch the blade swinging down for another try, so he rolled to the right and saw Judah stagger as he stabbed the ground again.
Marty kicked out at the hand holding the knife and heard something crumple and snap. But it seemed to make no difference. The zombie pulled the knife up again and turned slightly, and Marty knew that if he didn’t find his feet he’d eventually be pinned to the ground with that cruel blade. And then…
“And then” he didn’t want to think about.
He kicked out at Judah’s legs, and when the zombie took a staggering step backward Marty found his feet, swaying slightly as if the ground was dipping and lifting. Judah fell toward him, one clawed hand reaching for his throat, the other raising the knife to strike again.
Marty shook the thermos shape in his hand, and felt and heard the familiar click-clack as it telescoped out into the giant bong. He’d sure had some fun with this, and it seemed a shame to smash it. But choice had been taken from him. Maybe it had been stolen long ago. Or perhaps he’d never had any choice at all.
He swung the bong into the side of Judah’s head with all his might. The sound Judah made when he hit the ground was like a bale of hay dropped from several feet up; a crunch, and a few snaps. His hand still gripped the blade’s rotten handle, and he writhed briefly before starting to struggle to his feet again.
Fuck this, Marty thought, and he turned and ran for the forest. He could lose this thing out there, outrun it—hadn’t Romero said that zombie’s ankles would break if they ran? He was the expert, right?—and then double back to the cabin, get inside, and plan with the others just what the fuck they were going to do now.
The things were strong but mindless, just living-dead freaks that needed a good shovel swung at their necks or a fire set in their—
Something punched him between the shoulder blades. He gasped and staggered forward, losing his footing and wondering what the hell the zombie could have thrown to have unbalanced him so much. And then he sprawled in the mud and leaves as the cool kiss of pain drifted in, and he knew.
Knife…
The knowledge invited the agony to settle upon him and he gasped, never understanding that such pain could exist. He felt entered and violated, the foreign object probing his innards, heavy and hot in his insides. He reached around with one hand, the movement shifting the rusted metal blade in his flesh. Crying out at last, his fingertips brushed cool metal. But he couldn’t gain purchase.
He brought that hand beneath him and reached with the other, but was no more successful.
Get up and run! he thought. Don’t fuck around here, get up and run, if you can get… up… then do it and… run!
Marty heaved himself up on both hands, screaming as his wounded flesh flexed around the piercing blade, and then he felt hands closing around his ankles. They pulled, he hit the ground face first, and then Judah started dragging him into the forest. Leaves crumpled beneath him, sticks and rocks scraped his groin and stomach and chest, filth getting into his open wounds, and he could barely find the energy to hold up his head.
“Help!” he screamed at last. But his voice was pitiful, and he tasted blood in his mouth. “No! Noooo!”
Judah dragged him, not rushing, keeping a steady pace whatever obstacles he had to overcome. A fallen branch snagged on Marty’s clothing and the zombie pulled on, eliciting a scream from Marty as a sharp stick pierced his stomach and snapped off. He gasped, crying out again, and tried to reach a hand down to explore the new wound. But though he managed to reach a hand beneath him, the dragging prevented him from feeling how serious the puncture was.