Nightfall (8 page)

Edna nodded again. “And me?”

Mason closed his eyes. He could shoot her—and he would, if she asked it of him—but not even he was strong enough to look at her directly now. “You'll stay here. As bait.”

“This is a Thompson .308,” Mason said. “You aim it at anything you don't mean to shoot and I'll take your goddamn head off. Got it?”

Tru nodded. The sharp comment he'd been ready to spit out didn't come. He'd never held a weapon before, and that gave him pause. The rifle wasn't like the shooters he played, though it had been a long-ass time since any new games came out. It wasn't exactly a priority for the new regime. But this gun had weight. The wood and metal were smooth beneath his fingers.

The awe didn't last long.

Whenever Mason said it was safe, they practiced. The god of ordnance stalked among them, correcting their stances until Tru's hands cramped. But Mason always acted before an attack. Maybe he could detect the creatures from farther away, sense them somehow. Whatever. He hustled them inside just before the creatures got in range.

The frenzy could last for hours. Angela cradled her girl. Bob sat by Edna pretty much all the time. Tru couldn't sleep when the dogs prowled around the cabin, seeking a way in. He would sit with his knees drawn up, trying not to look at anybody. Mason claimed to have years of experience killing monsters, and now the big dude was trying to get them combat ready before the guidance counselor went all
Alien
on the hardwood floor.

When the dogs gave up, they went back outside. Tru got good at controlling the Thompson. Of everyone but Mason, he was the best shot. Gaming had taught him excellent hand-eye coordination, if nothing else. Funny, the thing his mom had screamed about most might do some good.

No. He wouldn't think about her.

Not everyone would make it, but Tru didn't speak up. He just sank himself in the mindless drills. Fire, reload. Hard to believe, but he was better off now than the dipshits who'd picked on him at Wabaugh. The kids with the shiny cars and the easy cheerleaders—they'd been turned into kibble. Tru had seen them mauled and eaten.

He reloaded and fired and hit the target six times out of seven.

When Mason came by a few minutes later, he narrowed his eyes. “Why aren't you working?”

“I'm as good as I'm gonna be, Pops. You really want me to blow my ammo on that dummy?” He gestured to the target made from pillows and clothing. “We'll need it for the real deal.”

“Show me. Head shot, right now.”

Adults were assholes. With a faint sigh, Tru raised the Thompson, sighted, and blasted the target. A new hole sprang up slightly off center between its drawn-on eyes. “Do I get a hall pass now, Teach? Better yet, can I go inside? She's never gonna get it.” He cocked his head at Angela. “And it's fucking cold.”

“Watch your mouth,” the blonde snapped.

Tru rolled his eyes. “Or what?”

Her green eyes looked as cold as arctic ice. Jenna was her name. Not like it mattered. Their numbers would be whittled down in this suicide run.

Jenna raised her rifle, a Remington, and landed a slug beside his. “I'm in no mood,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “We have a child here. You want to keep messing with me?”

Tru hunched his shoulders. “Okay, sorry. I'll try not to cuss so much.”

The other old folks were too ginger when handling their weapons. They didn't hold them with enough authority, so the kickback threw off their aim. He wanted to tell the big dude to give it up. Some people just didn't have survival instinct.

Then, it was time to go.

“It's three miles over bad ground.” Mason looked pretty badass in his knit cap and camos. Eagle, globe, and anchor on the sleeve. Oldstyle Marines, for sure. “We'll be moving fast, and I'll want you all sharp. Nobody goes off alone—that excludes me. I have to scout to make sure it's safe. When we take off, as far as you're concerned, I am
God
for the day. Any questions?”

Nope. No questions. They'd been over the plan until Tru could recite it in his sleep.

He stopped slouching long enough to present his rifle for inspection. “I'm cocked, locked, and ready to rock.”

Mason nodded. “Good work, kid.”

“You gonna let me try yours someday?” he asked, eyeing Mason's AR-15. A serious piece of weaponry.

The big dude raised an eyebrow. “Hell, no.”

Angela still didn't have the knack with her gun. She held it away from her body as if she expected it to go off in her hands. Mason had given her the smallest caliber he had, a little .22, the kind kids used for shooting squirrels. Overall, it didn't bode well for the mission. The sky hung heavy with threatening snow, a gray day for mission impossible. Trees stood as silent sentinels, barren with the threat of the first heavy winter storm. Tru could taste it in the bite of the air, dampness that wouldn't come as rain. Soon everything would be blanketed white.

Jenna had devised an Indian-style back sling out of an old sheet so that Bob could carry the kid. Tru marched with the others, fully geared. Everyone carried provisions from the cabin. The Thompson felt like an extension of his arm. He wasn't worried. His whole life had been a long shot anyway. Either he'd make it, or he'd die wearing a backpack stuffed with cans of tuna.

Then Edna screamed. The monsters were growling in the distance. Howls filled the chilly air.

And holy fuck he wanted to get away from Edna.
Now
. She jerked like the kids who had gone crazy at school. Mason propped her up against a tree and wrapped her convulsing body in a blanket. He'd filled a number of plastic bags with a compound mix of various household chemicals that would pack a nasty punch. Then he circled her with a stream of gasoline, drawing a line with it back toward the woods.

She flailed harder.

“Get back!” Mason hustled away. “Let's move out. Now!”

Bob looked ready to hurl, his gaze glued to Edna's epileptic freakout. Tru couldn't look away either, but he never lowered his rifle. Her fit made the blanket ripple—at least he thought that was why—until she flung the cover away.

Ange screamed.

“Oh my God,” Jenna breathed.

But Tru was speechless.

Edna wasn't a person anymore. She looked
inside out
. And that wasn't even the worst. New limbs protruded from her torso, covered in fine black hair. They all flailed in unison, and her round middle bloated further beneath his horrified gaze. She carried a faint glow like the dogs, corrupted in the same way. Tru wanted to look away, only he couldn't, because her bulging, milky eyes had frozen him in place. He felt like he might piss his pants.

The dogs closed, scenting weakness. She would be their food. Shit, he didn't want to see that.

“I said now, people!” Mason shouted.

This time everyone listened, hightailing it for the woods. Tru fought the urge to look back as the dogs found Edna, their first target. He heard them tearing at her, horrible in a way he'd never dreamed possible. God knew he'd never liked the woman, but nobody deserved to go out like that.

“Jenna, take them,” Mason said. “Go now.” He lit a match at the edge of the clearing and touched off the stream of gasoline.

The blond woman led the way into the woods, but Tru wasn't sure if she was tough enough for the job. Just before he rounded a bend, an explosion cut the air and pushed a mild heat against his back. Edna screamed in agony, then went silent.

Tru swallowed hard. Now
he
was the one who'd be sick.

“Tru!” Jenna called. “Get your ass in gear, you're falling behind.”

“Fine. Coming.”

They hustled on for another ten minutes. Tru couldn't force Edna out of his head.
We could all end up like that. Dog food. Or pulled apart from the inside if we get bit.
His thoughts looped on how they'd used Edna. A sick, twisted, practical plan. One only Mason could have come up with. Tru didn't know if he admired or feared him. Maybe a little of both.

“Stop it,” the big dude growled eventually. “I know what you're thinking, all of you. But she was out of time and she saved our lives.”

The coach only muttered, “You're a son of a bitch,” in reply.

He might give Mason shit, but Bob lacked the skills to lead. Tru didn't doubt the big dude would put him down like one of those demon dogs if the coach tried anything.

Mason shrugged. “If you don't like it, find another party. I don't remember inviting you anyway.”

Tru stifled a quiet laugh. During the rare moments she wasn't high, his mom had always said he'd end up dead in a ditch. She was sweet that way. But if a crappy home life didn't turn you into a murderous sociopath, it laid great groundwork for surviving the end of the world.

The silence was creepy as hell. Mason made it clear they shouldn't yap all the way, but Tru had forgotten what it was like out here. No animals. No insects. Just the sound of their breathing and their feet rasping over dead wood and fallen leaves. He wanted to cover up that unnatural quiet, pretend it wasn't real.

He walked on, listening to Angela inhale and exhale as if in meditation. Maybe it kept her calm. Calm was good. And for all his bulk, Bob seemed to be doing okay, even as he carried the kid. Good thing they hadn't been stuck with the decrepit math teacher instead.

Despite the cold, sweat formed on his palms. How long had they been walking? Three miles was the target, but he had no way of telling the time or marking miles. Branches slapped his face as they passed through the trees. There was no path. Out here, he felt so exposed. Anything could eat him.
At least I'd make a bony fucking snack.

And winding up fast food seemed better than the alternative—better than going out in monster form, like Edna.

Mason held up a hand, signaling them to stop just before a clearing. “We're coming up on the worst part of this trek,” he said, rechecking his weapon. He sounded tenser than Tru had heard before. Nervous?
No way.
“I'd hoped to avoid it. But with the gear we're carrying, we wouldn't be able to pick our way across rougher terrain.”

Raw cemetery stench wafted in on the still air, carrying the scent of open graves and putrid flesh. Angela rubbed her nose. “What is it? What's in there?”

“Tru, up on point with me,” Mason snapped. “Jenna, you're rearguard. I want the girl in the middle.” At last he turned to the redhead, his grim face fixed with resolve. “It's a pit.”

Mason crept to the left along the edge of the clearing, focusing on steady, even movements.

On a long list of situations he never wanted to be in again, this one ranked at the top. His gut told him to hightail it. This ragtag cluster of walking meat had no hold on him. He could double back in the span of two heartbeats, grab Jenna from the end of the line, and reclaim their cabin. Because he'd seen pits before. Different terrain. Different human fodder. The end result had been bloody.

Mason didn't need any more scars. Or nightmares.

Tru stepped into the clearing, his pale face serious. Mason had worn that expression in his time—scared shitless but doing his best impersonation of a man.

He knew Jenna had latched onto Penny as her personal symbol of all that was good and worth saving, but Mason couldn't relate to that purity. He respected Penny and the strange vibe she gave off, like the hum of an electrical conduit. But over the last few days of training, he'd started to see Tru differently. The kid was hardened, wounded, and too young to bear it with more than bravado. Mason could relate.

So when the first demon dogs showed, he didn't think. He fought.

“Tru! Flank right. Now!”

He mirrored the kid's movement. Together they formed a pincer around the central graveyard hole. Two pair ran out to meet them. Mason didn't look across the pit to see how Tru handled his opponents. If he could survive, his moment to prove it was now.

Mason stood fast and fired. One of the dogs collapsed, its skull a crushed melon of brain and blood. The other showed no sign of comprehending what had happened, no acknowledgment of its partner's sudden demise. It leaped through the pulsing, unnatural air. All flying fangs and claws, it took Mason's second shot in its gut. The slug ejected through its back, taking bits of fur and spinal bones with it. The thing dropped. Mason stepped on its neck and blew off its head, just in case. Only then could he look straight at its face, like a mirage made solid as its shimmer died away.

A series of four shots rang out on the other side of the pit, followed by a string of curses. Tru's voice cracked with every one, but he still lived.

“Jenna!” Mason cut inward from the trees, nearer the graveyard, and motioned for Tru to do the same. The kid was covered in red. “Bring up the others! Now!”

He felt her presence before he saw her. Yet there she was, a hundred feet away and pointing her rifle the way they'd come, backing slowly around the pit. She felt prickly in his mind now, like even the thought of her was pissed off at him. She'd argued against him going off alone, how he went into the woods to scout.

Tough
, he thought
.

Prick
, came her reply, clear in his mind.

But before he could question that, two more dogs burst from the other end of the clearing. The research station lay a half mile beyond, through a narrow corridor filled with snarls and fangs. Mason shouted a warning, then knelt and fired. One fell, but the other kept coming. The haze around its body acted as optical camouflage, obscuring its fast approach. Mason raised his rifle sideways in both hands, catching the dog between its chin and shoulders. Its trachea smashed against the barrel. Using momentum, Mason lifted his arms and arched back, flipping the growling, frothing dog behind him.