Chapter 37 Batter Up!
THIRTY-SEVEN
BATTER UP!
JACOB
The dead surge from all sides.
Moans tangle with the crackle of fire, the screams of the dying, the shouts of the fighting. I don’t hear any of it.
I see them.
Lars—grinning like a devil in a blood-soaked carnival. Knife loose in his hand, like this is just another round in a game he’s sure he’ll win.
Pete beside him, white-knuckled on a bat, nerves leaking from every stiff movement.
I crack my neck and knuckles, rolling my shoulders loose. The machete’s grip fits my palm like it grew there.
No nerves. No hesitation.
The second they stepped from the smoke, everything inside me slid into place. The part I’ve buried broke free. Not rage. Not fear. Clarity.
There’s no mercy here.
I step forward, locking eyes with Lars. “Come on, then.”
They charge.
Lars swings wild, blade slicing for my throat. I drop low. Steel whistles past my ear.
Pete comes from the side, bat arcing for my ribs. I pivot, take the blow on my arm. Pain flashes white-hot.
My fist smashes into Lars’s jaw. His head jerks, teeth red.
I spin, boot slamming into Pete’s knee. He buckles with a scream. My elbow caves his nose with a wet crunch. Blood sprays. He drops.
The dead close in at the sound of our fight. Groaning. Clawing. One lunges—jaw unhinged, eyes rotted. I seize the back of its tattered shirt. The name stitched into the bloodstained tag: Chad.
The machete comes down. The head severs clean, thudding to the ground.
Peace.
Rotting fingers claw through smoke and flame. My blade drops, splitting the skull of a woman in a scorched sweatshirt reading #blessed. I pivot, slice the neck of a cheerleader—one pom-pom tangled in her sneaker, the other clenched in her fist.
Pete and Lars fight off their own infected. I glance toward Lyla.
Her blade flashes, silver arcs in the dark. She’s locked in with da Vinci, moving like death—every strike deliberate.
Leon’s behind her, arrows flying with sniper precision. Running low.
“Hold on!”
Joanie’s scream cuts through the chaos.
My machete arcs down, severing the leg of a teenager in a soot-streaked shirt. I look back long enough to see Joanie and Trish dragging Edith and Earl from the wreckage. Earl’s limping but breathing.
Edith, burns down her arm and leg, still shoves Earl toward safety.
“Go help Jacob!” she yells.
Trish hauls her into the van, slamming the door as an infected smashes into it. Bone cracks. Black blood paints the side.
Another corpse latches on to my arm, gold teeth snapping. I rip its hand free, kick it down, and drive the machete through its skull. Bone crunches.
Earl’s beside me a second later, pipe smashing into the head of a backward-capped corpse with Eat Me across the brim.
We fall in back-to-back, swinging fast. Skulls cave. Bones shatter.
Pete’s bat slams into my machete, the jolt rattling my arms.
“Can you hold off the other guy while I deal with Pete?” I mutter, twisting from the next blow.
“Sure, I’ll just take care of the infected too. Anything else, Your Highness?” Earl grins through the blood.
He brings the pipe down like thunder. Another cheerleader crumples. Then he kicks Lars in the chest, knocking him back a few feet.
Pete keeps swinging wildly—desperate to land just one hit.
The air chokes with smoke, blood, and death. Gunfire cracks. Flesh tears. Bones snap.
I’m right at home.
Pete’s slowing—stance sloppy, chest heaving, hands trembling.
I smirk, blood running down my face. “Hey, bud.”
His eyes dart across the battlefield, frantic. His next swing goes wide. “They made me—”
Wrong move.
I feint left. He jerks.
I lunge.
The machete drops midmotion. I don’t need it. My hand snaps his wrist, twisting.
CRACK.
The bat clatters to the dirt. His arm hangs wrong.
He opens his mouth to scream—my fist shuts it. A brutal cross to the jaw sends him spinning to the ground.
Boot meets ankle—SNAP. His scream tears the night.
Behind me, Earl grunts, pipe and bat swinging in relentless rhythm. He circles Lars, keeping his distance, baiting him while the infected start to close in.
“Make it quick, son,” he growls.
“Almost done.”
I stomp his other ankle—CRUNCH. He howls, writhing in the dirt.
Cold peace settles in my chest.
I grip the machete from the blood-soaked grass. Pete’s crawling, dragging twisted ankles through leaves. I grab one and yank him back.
He yells, clawing at the ground, nails digging furrows.
I flip him over. Blood and dirt cover his face. His eyes are wide, pleading.
“Jacob, please—”
I shake my head. “I told you, if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you.”
I drive the machete into his chest with a wet squelch, right under the ribs. He chokes on the scream. I clamp a hand over his mouth.
“This is me making good on that promise.”
I twist. Blood pours hot and thick. His hands clutch his belly, trying to hold in what’s spilling out, but I keep twisting until entrails burst free, sliding down his sides into the dirt.
I don’t blink. I hold his gaze until everything in him dies.
Then I rip the blade free.
Hot blood coats my arm.
With one shove, I kick his body into the hungry hands behind me.
They descend—tearing, cracking, feasting.
Bye-bye, Petey.