Read Online The Last: A Zombie Novel by Michael John Grist - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael John Grist
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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leaks underneath. He hasn't got any functioning hands to open the door with. He hasn't got the brain for it either.
Still, I don't let go of the handle, not even while I puke, not until one of his kids comes bounding down the stairs, Jemima or Janiqua or whatever, her ice-white eyes pinning me like a bug to the door.
7 – RIDE
I can't do this.
I let go of the door handle and dart to the left as the little girl rounds the bottom of the stairs. I barrel through another door without a second to think and slam it hard behind me, shaking the walls with a loud bang.
How many goddamn zombies?
It's the living room, with two sofas facing each other, a big-screen TV at one end and a faux fireplace at the other, a coffee table, a big piece of Orwellian-looking art on the wall, and scrabbling around in the middle are two more of them.
Shit. Jemima/Janiqua thumps at the door behind me, her dad thumps in the kitchen, and now I'm looking at the mom and the other kid, and it's horrible. I should have stayed in the goddamned kitchen.
They've got crusty dark blood round their mouths, spattered with bits of purple and pink gut. The mess of it spreads to their throats, their hands, their forearms, dressed in pajamas both. The girl has a weird yellow cartoon character on hers, and there's a big splodge of quivery meat right on the creature's stupid yellow face. Their dark hair clings in ratty bands to their chins.
"Oh God," I murmur.
They look up at me. I crane my neck to see what they've been eating. On the floor, fouling the taupe carpet with its well-chewed red and black viscera, lies what looks like half a tortoiseshell cat.
I puke a little in my mouth. Now I see the clumps of brown and black fur sticking to their cheeks. Oh lord. They rear up and come for me, and I start moving. I get one of the sofas between them and me, and they circle round after me, thankfully both coming the same way, and I go round ahead of them.
Shitting ridiculous, is all I can think as we run round a second time, then a third, with them straining to reach me. I have to time it just right so they're both almost on me, or I risk having them come round both sides at once and pincer me.
I scour the room for a way out. The dumbbell bar hangs slackly in my hand, but I'm not doing that again. There's a dining room stretching out into a conservatory beyond the sofa, overlooking the yard, but I have just a few seconds lead time on them, not enough to open the door if it's locked.
I go round the sofa and they follow.
"Wait a second," I bark at them. It has no effect. "Jemima, Janiqua, mom, just wait a damn second!"
Nothing. I get it in my head that maybe I can herd them, and start planning how I'm going to shove the coffee table here and the sofa there, like constructing a maze, but I was never good at Tetris and I can't figure it.
We hit the fifth time round.
"Arrgh!" I shout, and break for the dining room. They follow. I hit the door with time enough to try the handle, of course it's locked, then I'm back to circling, this time round the gorgeous redwood dining table. They clatter after me, and I pull a chair out and tip it over.
The mom hits it hard in the shin and goes down, then the kid follows. It takes them a second to get back up. I use that time to throw another chair at them.
"Sit down!" I shout at them. "Just take a goddamned seat!"
The chair bounces off the mom's shoulder and she falls back, collapsing on her daughter. I throw another chair and another, shouting inane one-liners like, "Have a break, take a load off!" until all eight chairs are resting on them or either side of them.
A brainwave strikes and I shove the table sideways over them, pressing hard against the chairs and locking them skewed against the thick mahogany dresser against the wall, with the mom and daughter tangled up in them.
I stop and pant. I drop and look under the table. For now they're tangled in each other's limbs and the chairs,
Still, I don't let go of the handle, not even while I puke, not until one of his kids comes bounding down the stairs, Jemima or Janiqua or whatever, her ice-white eyes pinning me like a bug to the door.
7 – RIDE
I can't do this.
I let go of the door handle and dart to the left as the little girl rounds the bottom of the stairs. I barrel through another door without a second to think and slam it hard behind me, shaking the walls with a loud bang.
How many goddamn zombies?
It's the living room, with two sofas facing each other, a big-screen TV at one end and a faux fireplace at the other, a coffee table, a big piece of Orwellian-looking art on the wall, and scrabbling around in the middle are two more of them.
Shit. Jemima/Janiqua thumps at the door behind me, her dad thumps in the kitchen, and now I'm looking at the mom and the other kid, and it's horrible. I should have stayed in the goddamned kitchen.
They've got crusty dark blood round their mouths, spattered with bits of purple and pink gut. The mess of it spreads to their throats, their hands, their forearms, dressed in pajamas both. The girl has a weird yellow cartoon character on hers, and there's a big splodge of quivery meat right on the creature's stupid yellow face. Their dark hair clings in ratty bands to their chins.
"Oh God," I murmur.
They look up at me. I crane my neck to see what they've been eating. On the floor, fouling the taupe carpet with its well-chewed red and black viscera, lies what looks like half a tortoiseshell cat.
I puke a little in my mouth. Now I see the clumps of brown and black fur sticking to their cheeks. Oh lord. They rear up and come for me, and I start moving. I get one of the sofas between them and me, and they circle round after me, thankfully both coming the same way, and I go round ahead of them.
Shitting ridiculous, is all I can think as we run round a second time, then a third, with them straining to reach me. I have to time it just right so they're both almost on me, or I risk having them come round both sides at once and pincer me.
I scour the room for a way out. The dumbbell bar hangs slackly in my hand, but I'm not doing that again. There's a dining room stretching out into a conservatory beyond the sofa, overlooking the yard, but I have just a few seconds lead time on them, not enough to open the door if it's locked.
I go round the sofa and they follow.
"Wait a second," I bark at them. It has no effect. "Jemima, Janiqua, mom, just wait a damn second!"
Nothing. I get it in my head that maybe I can herd them, and start planning how I'm going to shove the coffee table here and the sofa there, like constructing a maze, but I was never good at Tetris and I can't figure it.
We hit the fifth time round.
"Arrgh!" I shout, and break for the dining room. They follow. I hit the door with time enough to try the handle, of course it's locked, then I'm back to circling, this time round the gorgeous redwood dining table. They clatter after me, and I pull a chair out and tip it over.
The mom hits it hard in the shin and goes down, then the kid follows. It takes them a second to get back up. I use that time to throw another chair at them.
"Sit down!" I shout at them. "Just take a goddamned seat!"
The chair bounces off the mom's shoulder and she falls back, collapsing on her daughter. I throw another chair and another, shouting inane one-liners like, "Have a break, take a load off!" until all eight chairs are resting on them or either side of them.
A brainwave strikes and I shove the table sideways over them, pressing hard against the chairs and locking them skewed against the thick mahogany dresser against the wall, with the mom and daughter tangled up in them.
I stop and pant. I drop and look under the table. For now they're tangled in each other's limbs and the chairs,
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