Nightfall (20 page)

Tru shook his head. “Like hell. I'm not babysitting these assholes. You're
not
leaving me behind.”

Mason took the kid to the other side of the room. With their heads bent close together, facing away, Jenna couldn't make out what they said. Tru's body language was all protest, but then he glanced at the others. Anger yielded to resignation.

Jenna could relate. She was numb. That was the only applicable word. She should be terrified at the idea of going outside, but maybe the cold had spiked clear through her brain. Despair and acceptance warred for dominance, with neither emotion particularly strong.

“I don't like it,” Chris said. “It's damn risky.”

Mason focused a narrow stare on him. “You'd rather we all die because you're a pussy?”

Ange glared. “He is not. He's smart and he's being logical. I'm not setting foot out there, and I'm not leaving Penny. Really, can't we make do in here? The pioneers did.”

“Ange,” Jenna said quietly. “They lived in cabins insulated with moss and mud. They were equipped to use fire for heat and cooking, had adequate ventilation. They planned for lives without power.”

Tru slumped against the wall. “We never should've come here.”

So began an hour-long argument. They took sides and spat insults. Eventually Jenna tuned out the angry male voices. She curled up with Ange and let the invective wash over her. If she was going out at first light—and she felt pretty resigned to that possibility—then she needed sleep.

They had to try. And by dawn, shivering with cold, everyone else admitted as much.

“I want Tru at the front entrance,” Mason was saying. “We'll make a straight line out the door, so I need cover fire.”

Tru hoisted his rifle. “I'll take care of it.”

Mason toed the front door, radiating nervous tension. “Soon as we're clear, lock up and stand guard. Sleep at your post if you have to, but don't get jumpy.”

“Me? Trigger-happy?” The kid snorted. “I'm not Harvard over there.”

“Don't joke about this shit.”

Jenna watched Tru sober up, impressed as always.

“You won't have any relief until we get back,” Mason continued. “On the third day, I need someone here at the front door to unlock the padlocks.”

Though nobody thought these monsters could pick a lock, they didn't want to take chances.

Down the hall, Chris's expression drew taut, but he didn't volunteer to pick up his shotgun. “And if you don't make it?”

Mason caught Jenna's eye. “Then you'll have some shitty decisions to make.”

She turned her back on all of them. She couldn't think about leaving Tru and Chris with the decision to kill Penny and Ange, because the alternative was just too disgusting. Neither did she say good-bye, in the end, because she needed to pretend she was coming back.

With Mason in the lead, she stepped out into icy hell.

Mason's boots crunched over the snow. The steady pattern of freeze and thaw had formed bands of ice, topped with the newest layer of fresh powder. Running would be slippery. If they made it across the clearing, he'd consider it a goddamn miracle.

Jenna stood at his side and readied her rifle. A smile curved her lips. He'd have thought she was brain-damaged if he didn't know any better. “Is it always suicide runs with you?”

“Seems that way. Stay out of my line of fire, understand?”

“Yeah.”

Mason checked his rifle, the smooth metal barrel already chilly. “If I fall, you keep going. And vice versa. That seal is the objective.”

“Not each other,” she said tartly. “Got it.”

Her disappointment and sarcasm drilled into his mind, but he pushed it all aside. Useless. Frustrating. And at that moment, dangerous. The dogs at the other side of the compound might still be digging, but he couldn't hear them. They might break off from their task at the first sign of fresh meat. That meant they needed to be wary.

“You're pissed,” he said, his eyes roving over the absolutely still clearing. “I know that, but right now I don't care.”

“When do you ever?”

Mason grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, bringing their faces close. But he never took his eyes off the open stretch of hell between them and the forest—not that the woods would be much better. “Regardless of how you feel, if you shut me out right now, we'll die. I don't know how we do it, but keep your mind open. I can see my own back when you do.”

She shrugged away, eyes narrowed. “You don't want to see what's in my head right now. But this is bigger than you and me.”

He turned to the kid standing in the doorway to provide cover fire. “Tru, ready?”

“I was born ready.” His tone said he knew it was a cliché.

Jenna primed her weapon. “Let's do this.”

Mason set off at a steady rhythm, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He didn't run, but it wasn't an afternoon stroll either. Jenna's footfalls struck the icy snow at a quicker tempo. He forced himself to inhale through his nose. His lungs would be better served by warmer air from the nasal cavities, and the discipline of those unnaturally controlled breaths kept him focused.

“Anything?” she panted, just back and to the left.

“No. Keep moving.”

“Not gonna stop to admire the trees.”

His backpack bounced with every stride, empty except for ammo. The return trip would be harder, more encumbrance. To think otherwise, that they wouldn't make it back—unacceptable. He centered his focus on the line of trees a hundred yards off.

“Ow. Damn ice.”

Mason felt it too. With every step, the hard snow broke around his ankles and scraped like it didn't want to let go. Wind howled in his ears. And this was only the beginning.

“Mason!” Tru's voice cut across the clearing. “Incoming! Heads up!”

“Keep moving,” he barked at Jenna. “He has our backs.”

Two shots rang out from the outpost door. Running now, Mason seemed able to view the clearing from above. Jenna hung with him, tapping and burning inside his brain. The shock troops had circled, their fangs bared and crusted with rot. Strange dancing currents of frigid air danced around their withered bodies.

He heard them. Panting like he was. Running like he was. It was too soon to stand and fight, or they'd never get away. Tru would buy them time. Draw their wrath.

Damn, Mason hated using the boy like that.

Two more blasts. Echoes ricocheted off the dense wall of trees.

Shouts from Tru overlaid in quick-fire panic, followed by the slam of the front door.

“We're on our own,” he said, breathless.

No amount of discipline could keep his lungs pumping at a steady pace. The adrenaline response was too strong. Each intake felt uneven, burning his throat. He glued his eyes to the trees ahead. If he could get them there, he'd have solid wood at his back—one less side to guard—or he could clamber up and fire from the canopy. So close.

But Jenna did. He felt the sharp jolt of her fear. Three monsters remained, the nearest twenty yards and gaining.

Closing his mind, he hooked his thumb around the trigger. He skidded to a stop, spun, and knelt in one fluid movement. Jenna charged past. Momentum alone would carry her into the trees. With the AR-15 at his shoulder, he squeezed off two quick rounds. His aim was shitty, slugs flying wide in the wind. The beasts gained ground, with the quickest so close he could see its dilated pupils.

Instead of diving away, he held firm. Focus. He took slow aim, sighting away from dead center to where he could better judge their true forms. Then it was just target practice.

The foremost monster slid bloody and still across the icy ground.

The trailing two came up fast. They split in two directions, claws digging against the slip of ice as they cut the distance in half. No bones showed on these two. Their muscles were lean and wiry, jaundiced eyes unflinching. From behind, Jenna's rifle kicked to life. Snow sprayed at the feet of the one on the right, then again.

Mason took her cue and aimed for the one flanking left. His shot shattered its hind leg. The dog yelped and slid full tilt across the slick ground, trailing blood behind it. Another pull of the trigger and it collapsed, skull split in half.

To the right, Jenna's dog lay in a red puddle, the air around it normal and still.

Mason laid his forehead on his bent knee. The muscles of his thighs ached where, weeks earlier, that man-beast's claws had taken hold. Recovery time and little activity meant he was more winded than he preferred.

And they'd only crossed a clearing. Wabaugh was forty miles away. Then forty miles back. With how many monsters in between?

The rest of the pack would come soon, no matter how weak. So they'd leave these six corpses ...

Five.

He counted again. His heart iced over.

“Mason!”

Gray fur pounced out of the trees, straight for him. He caught an armful of greasy fur and stringy muscles. Bared fangs sliced within inches of his face. Fetid breath stinking of death and old meat hit his nostrils. The air felt different, like fighting through mud. His limbs turned leaden, unresponsive. Only by force of will did he wedge his forearm just under the dog's chin, pushing hard against its windpipe. With his other hand he fought to keep razor claws from flaying his arms.

But the dog had momentum from that leap, and the snow undermined Mason's balance. He fell back, his head cracking against the ice. Stars spun before his eyes. Harsh panting narrowed his senses to pinpricks.

“I can't get a clear shot,” Jenna shouted.

“He bites me, you kill us both!”

The others wouldn't make it if he died. He saw it. Felt it. Experiment over. Little group of humans gone—either dog food or freezer burned.

Absolute rage flipped a switch in his head. He powered his legs beneath the beast's soft middle and kicked. The snarling thing flew back, landing awkwardly on its side. Mason scrambled up and drew his nine-millimeter. Jenna's shot and his own hit the dog in two different places—shoulder and rump—sending its body twirling. Another to the head ended its life.

The clearing echoed with the last sounds of gunfire. Dazed, breathless, Mason realized he missed the sound of birds. He used to count on them raising a fuss after discharging his weapon, but now only silence remained.

Until the howling started.

Throughout the woods, like music in surround sound, the howls rose from the roots of the trees to the gray metal clouds. A primal shiver raced down his back, itching his newly healed wounds. The howls gathered and strengthened, but the whining, hair-raising harmonics held no aggression. It was a mourning song. Six warriors sprawled on the field of battle, and these soulless beasts sang.

He'd known they used to be human, but this felt different than abstract knowledge. He didn't like identifying with them. Not in the least.

At the other side of the clearing, a ragged pack of scrawny dogs crept from the trees. Their zombie expressions never altered, just slack-jawed and absent. These were not warriors. They were starving and they wouldn't last much longer. Mason doused a little flicker of hope.

“Mason?” Jenna asked tightly.

“Yeah,” he said, straightening. “No more fight in this lot.”

The knees of his jeans were wet, and blood seeped from a couple of shallow wounds. His head throbbed. But every inch of skin remained free from bite marks. Good enough.

He strode toward Jenna. Her face was pale except where exercise and cold had turned her cheeks into bright red beacons. Green eyes glazed with the unseeing focus of combat. Left to right, over the snow, she watched the clearing—as animal as the rest of them.

Something about her posture and the set of her expression made his heart double pump. A woman ready for anything. She'd had his back, and she was smart enough to cover her own. His pulse spiked in a way it hadn't before, not when running or doing battle. He swallowed, his mouth dry as ash.

“There were seven?” she asked.

Mason pointed back toward the research station. “Tru only bagged two.”

Jenna raised a hand to her brow. Her eyes slid from one corpse to the next, counting. “So one circled to meet us here?”

“I think so. Told you they're learning.”

But then she was Jenna again. The disturbing distance he'd noted in her expression faded. She lowered her weapon and cocked a fist on her hip. “You didn't tell me you were going to stop.”

“Nope.”

“If you had, I could've planned for it. But you don't trust me. Why is that?”

“You don't need to plan. You just need to follow my lead.” He adjusted the backpack and shouldered his rifle. “Let's move.”

They set off at a fast clip, putting space between themselves and the rest of the starving pack.

A few minutes later, she muttered, “God, you can be such a prick.”

“I have one whenever you're ready for it.”

“Bite me.”

“That can be arranged too.”

The woods closed around them like a curtain. Exit stage right. Underbrush laid low by autumn lurked beneath the patchy snow, snagging their feet. The canopy must've kept some precipitation from reaching the ground, because body lengths of dirt stretched dark between the trees. They might make good time if the weather stayed clear.

At least they were moving again. Their strides matched after every third step: his longer, hers quicker. Doubtless she thought he did it to be a dick. In truth, Mason set a hard pace because he knew she could keep up. He didn't tell her so because he needed the distance her anger provided. If he let himself get too close, his attention would be split. Their survival hinged on his focus.