for him.
Coburn felt a stirring of something inside his own mind—a sepulchered carcass of grief and guilt and shame rising from its psychic tomb and shaking off decades of dead and thoughtless dust. Dead girls. Kayla. Rebecca. This one. All his fault. The zombies were him and though this hunter was not his, it still pointed back through time to when he gave the middle finger to the wrong man.
No! No time for that. No time for sympathy or empathy or grief or any of those emotions. They were unproductive. Useless as a short-sleeved straitjacket, worthless as a vestigial organ.
Just as Coburn started to wonder just how he was going to get past the slashing claws and flicking tongue of this child hunter, the creature withdrew her seeking arms and was gone. Whoosh. Leaving only the pouring rain and stomach-grumbles of thunder.
No time like the present. He hurried past the open drain.
Kayla issued an ominous warning: Remember, JW. Those hunters are smarter than the average rotter .
It was then that, behind him, he heard an equally ominous noise:
A manhole cover being ripped from its mooring.
Coburn lit a fire in his blood and ran like a sonofabitch.
T HEY TOLD G IL about Ellie.
Pete kept the pistol on him as he listened to Aiden tell the story.
“Ellie was one of us. One of the kids who survived. I see the look on your face. You think we’d be the first to go. That we’re vulnerable. Well, fuck you, old man. You’re slow. You’re the weak one.”
Gil wondered why everybody thought he was so old. Then again, he hadn’t looked in a mirror in a long time. His fifty-some years probably looked like seventy-some by now. All leather and stubble and raccoon rings around his tired eyes.
Aiden continued: “Kids are quick. Adaptable. Smart in the right ways—doesn’t matter if we don’t know who the twenty-second president was—”
Grover Cleveland , Gil thought.
“—what matters is what we run faster than you. I’m not saying that all the kids survived. Some kids are real pussies. Their parents start turning to mush-mouthed, brain-eating fucktards and they still want to go and hug Daddy and hold onto Mommy. But those of us who knew the score knew to run. And hide. And we knew where to run and where to hide. This city has a lot of boltholes.”
Gil shot a look at the kid’s dead parents on the bed. Shifting. Grunting. And his brother on the chair staring ahead. All preserved. Saved . As if a cure might appear one day and return them back to normal—a fairy tale. Or was it? Zombies. Vampires. His own daughter with her miracle blood. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy.
It also suggested this kid was a lot more bark than bite.
Wasn’t really a great time to say that, though, so Gil let the kid talk.
“Ellie was one of us who made it until—” And here Aiden started to blink fast, like he was maybe trying not to cry. His hands formed into fists at his sides as if the grief were a real thing, as real as the zombies, and he could just knock its block off and send it packing. “Until she wasn’t. She got swamped. We pulled her out and up onto a fire escape, but not before they bit her leg. She turned.”
“Ellie.” A griefstruck whimper from Princess. Who began to sob, crumpling in on herself like a flower dying in fast-forward. Aiden clapped his hands angrily at her and yelled:
“Princess! Shut up! I’m telling a damn story.”
The girl only wept harder.
Gil moved over to her—Pete tensed his arm and pointed the pistol with greater and more panicked purpose—but he ignored the gun and went to the girl anyway, pulling her tight against him. She buried her face in his shirt, soaking it through with little-girl tears.
“Go on,” Gil said, giving the girl comfort and stifling her tears. “Tell your little story.”
“She’s crying. I don’t like her crying.”
“I don’t like you being a bully, you little thug. Now keep talking.”
Aiden seemed stung.
But damn if it didn’t work.
Coburn felt a stirring of something inside his own mind—a sepulchered carcass of grief and guilt and shame rising from its psychic tomb and shaking off decades of dead and thoughtless dust. Dead girls. Kayla. Rebecca. This one. All his fault. The zombies were him and though this hunter was not his, it still pointed back through time to when he gave the middle finger to the wrong man.
No! No time for that. No time for sympathy or empathy or grief or any of those emotions. They were unproductive. Useless as a short-sleeved straitjacket, worthless as a vestigial organ.
Just as Coburn started to wonder just how he was going to get past the slashing claws and flicking tongue of this child hunter, the creature withdrew her seeking arms and was gone. Whoosh. Leaving only the pouring rain and stomach-grumbles of thunder.
No time like the present. He hurried past the open drain.
Kayla issued an ominous warning: Remember, JW. Those hunters are smarter than the average rotter .
It was then that, behind him, he heard an equally ominous noise:
A manhole cover being ripped from its mooring.
Coburn lit a fire in his blood and ran like a sonofabitch.
T HEY TOLD G IL about Ellie.
Pete kept the pistol on him as he listened to Aiden tell the story.
“Ellie was one of us. One of the kids who survived. I see the look on your face. You think we’d be the first to go. That we’re vulnerable. Well, fuck you, old man. You’re slow. You’re the weak one.”
Gil wondered why everybody thought he was so old. Then again, he hadn’t looked in a mirror in a long time. His fifty-some years probably looked like seventy-some by now. All leather and stubble and raccoon rings around his tired eyes.
Aiden continued: “Kids are quick. Adaptable. Smart in the right ways—doesn’t matter if we don’t know who the twenty-second president was—”
Grover Cleveland , Gil thought.
“—what matters is what we run faster than you. I’m not saying that all the kids survived. Some kids are real pussies. Their parents start turning to mush-mouthed, brain-eating fucktards and they still want to go and hug Daddy and hold onto Mommy. But those of us who knew the score knew to run. And hide. And we knew where to run and where to hide. This city has a lot of boltholes.”
Gil shot a look at the kid’s dead parents on the bed. Shifting. Grunting. And his brother on the chair staring ahead. All preserved. Saved . As if a cure might appear one day and return them back to normal—a fairy tale. Or was it? Zombies. Vampires. His own daughter with her miracle blood. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy.
It also suggested this kid was a lot more bark than bite.
Wasn’t really a great time to say that, though, so Gil let the kid talk.
“Ellie was one of us who made it until—” And here Aiden started to blink fast, like he was maybe trying not to cry. His hands formed into fists at his sides as if the grief were a real thing, as real as the zombies, and he could just knock its block off and send it packing. “Until she wasn’t. She got swamped. We pulled her out and up onto a fire escape, but not before they bit her leg. She turned.”
“Ellie.” A griefstruck whimper from Princess. Who began to sob, crumpling in on herself like a flower dying in fast-forward. Aiden clapped his hands angrily at her and yelled:
“Princess! Shut up! I’m telling a damn story.”
The girl only wept harder.
Gil moved over to her—Pete tensed his arm and pointed the pistol with greater and more panicked purpose—but he ignored the gun and went to the girl anyway, pulling her tight against him. She buried her face in his shirt, soaking it through with little-girl tears.
“Go on,” Gil said, giving the girl comfort and stifling her tears. “Tell your little story.”
“She’s crying. I don’t like her crying.”
“I don’t like you being a bully, you little thug. Now keep talking.”
Aiden seemed stung.
But damn if it didn’t work.
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