The corridor ended with two doors facing each other. The one on the right was the one she wanted. She tried the handle and was rewarded with the soft snick of the bolt retracting.
She stepped into a dark hall and saw one of the zombies, a hulking, pale shadow standing next to a door, maybe ten feet away. As she raised her weapon, the creature started toward her, emitting soft hunger sounds from its decaying lips. One of its arms hung limply at its side, and although Jill could see jagged bone protruding from the shoulder, it still clenched and unclenched its rotting fist eagerly as it reached out with its other arm.
The head, aim for the head—
The shots were incredibly loud in the chilly gloom, the first blowing off its left ear, the second and third punching holes into its skull just above its pallid brow. Dark fluids streamed down the peeling face and it fell to its knees, its flat, lifeless eyes rolling back into its head.
There was shuffling movement in the shadows at the back of the hall to the right, exactly where she meant to go. Jill trained the gun on the darkness and waited for it to move closer, her entire body wired with tension.
How many of these things are there?
As soon as the zombie cleared the corner, she fired, the Beretta jumping lightly in her sweating hands. The second shot punctured its right eye and it imme-diately collapsed to the dark, polished wood of the floor, the sticky, viscous matter of the blown eyeball flecked across its skeletal face.
Jill waited, but other than the spreading pools of blood around the dead creatures, nothing moved. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of the stench, she hurried to the back of the hall and turned right, down a short, tight passage that dead ended at a rusting metal door.
It creaked open and fresh air flooded past her, warm and clean after the morgue-like chill of the house. Jill grinned, hearing the drone of cicadas and crickets on the night air. She’d reached the final leg of her little excursion, and although she wasn’t outside yet, the sounds and smells of the forest renewed her sense of accomplishment.
Got a secured path now, straight to the back of this place. We can head north, hit one of the logging roads and hike down to the barricade. . ..
She stepped out onto a covered walkway, a mosaic of green stone surrounded by high concrete walls. There were small intermittent openings near the ceiling of the pathway, accounting for the faint, pine-scented breeze. Ivy trickled down from the arched openings like a reminder of the outside world. She hurried down the dim passage, remembering from the map that there was a single room at the end and to the right, probably a storage shed—
She turned the corner and stopped at another heavy-looking metal door, her smile fading as she reflexively reached for the handle; the keyhole was plugged. She crouched and poked at the tiny hole, but to no avail. Someone had stopped it up with epoxy. To the left of the door was some kind of diagram set into the concrete, made of dull copper. There were four hexagonal depressions in the flat metal plate, each fist-sized hole connected to the next by a thin line. Jill squinted at the legend etched beneath, wish-ing that she had a flashlight as she struggled to make out the words. She brushed a thin layer of dust off of the indented letters and tried again.
WHEN THE SUN ... SETS IN THE WEST AND THE MOON RISES IN THE EAST, STARS WILL BEGIN TO APPEAR IN THE SKY ... AND WIND WILL BLOW TOWARD THE GROUND. THEN THE GATE OF NEW LIFE WILL OPEN. She blinked. Four holes—
• Trent’s list! Four crests, and something about the gate of new life—it’s a combination mechanism
for the lock. Place the four crests, the door opens......except that means I have to find them first. Jill
pushed against the door and felt her hope fizzle out completely; not even a rattle, no give at all. They were going to have to find another way out, unless the crests could be found—which in this place could take years.
A lone howl rose in the distance and was joined by the echoing cries of the dogs near the mansion, the strange, yodeling sounds piercing the gentle quiet of the woods. There had to be dozens of them out there, and Jill realized suddenly that escaping out the back door probably wasn’t such a hot idea. She had limited ammunition for her handgun and no doubts that there were more ghoulish creatures wandering the halls, shuffling about in hungry, mindless silence as they searched for their next grisly meal. . . . She sighed heavily and started back to the house, already dreading the cold stench of death and trying to prepare herself for the dangers that seemed to lurk at every corner.
The S.T.A.R.S. were trapped.
Chris knew he had to make the ammo count, so when he left Rebecca, he took off through the dim corridor at a full run, his boots pounding at the wood floor.
There were still only three of them, all grouped near the stairs. He dodged past them easily and sprinted down the hall and around the corner. As soon as he got to the door that led back to the other hall, he turned and assumed a classic shooter’s stance, sup-porting his gun hand at the wrist, his finger on the trigger.
One by one, the zombies reeled around the corner, groaning and stumbling. Chris took careful aim, breathing evenly, keeping his focus. . . .He squeezed the trigger, sending two bullets through the gangrenous nose of the first. Without pausing, he sent a third shot into the center of the next zombie’s forehead. Fluid and soft matter sprayed the wall behind them as the bullets slapped into the wood.
Even as they crumpled to the floor, he’d found his mark on the third creature. Two more muted explo-sions and the zombie’s brow caved inward, dropping it like the bag of bones that it was.
Chris lowered the Beretta, feeling a flush of pride. He was a high-ranked marksman, even had a couple of awards to show for it—but it was still good to see what he could do when given enough time to aim. His quick-draw wasn’t nearly as strong, that was Barry’s forte. . . .
He reached for the door handle, urged into action by the thought of all that was at stake. He figured the Alphas could take care of themselves, they had as much of a chance as he did—but this was Rebecca’s first operation and she didn’t even have a gun; he needed to get her out.
He stepped back into the soft light of the hall with the green wallpaper, quickly checking both direc-tions. Straight ahead, the corridor was in heavier shadow; no way to tell if it was clear. To his right was the door with the sword on the key plate and the first zombie he’d shot, still sprawled lifelessly across the floor. Chris was gratified to see that it hadn’t moved. Apparently head shots were the best way to kill a zombie, just like in the movies. . . . Chris edged toward the sword door, training his weapon left, then right, then left again; he’d had enough surprises for one day. He checked the small offshoot across from the door and seeing that it was clear, quickly inserted the slender key into the lock. It turned smoothly. Chris stepped into a small bedroom, only slightly better lit than the corridor, a single bright lamp on a desk in one corner. It was all clear, unless there was something hiding under the narrow cot ... or maybe in the closet across from the desk. . . .
He shuddered, closing the door behind him. It was every kid’s first set of fears, and had been his, too—monsters in the closet and the thing that lived under the bed, waiting for the careless child’s ankle to come within reach. . . .
And you’re how old now?
Chris shook off the case of nerves, embarrassed at his imaginative wanderings. He walked slowly around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful. There was no other door, no path back to the main hall, but maybe he could find a better weapon for Rebecca than a can of bug spray.