3. Chapter 3 #2
Her arms windmill as she tries to back away and a stray hand catches me in the eye, sending Ben’s sunglasses flying.
Dazed, I release her before staggering back.
What commences is something that will no doubt haunt me for years to come because in her haste to get away from me, she runs headlong into the man with the greedy eyes.
His bloody fingers leave patterns on her housecoat as she flails in his arms before he digs into her shoulder and her primal shrieks taint the air.
Dear god, what have I fallen into now?
My first instinct is to help, and I take one step forward before the cop who hijacked my vehicle barks, “Get in the truck.”
I refuse to analyze my relief at his presence and scurry into the truck before sliding across the seat after which he jumps in beside me and starts the vehicle.
The rumble of the engine brings attention I’d rather avoid but the cop quickly reverses and peels out with a scream of the tires against the road.
Through the side mirror, I watch them stagger after us before glancing at the cop.
His ticking jaw and scowl forbid me from speaking and instead, I turn to the road before slamming my eyes closed while we bump and roll over terrain that I assume is the sidewalk to avoid another horde of the monsters.
Only when my new companion swears do I peek through my lashes, glancing over as he opens his door and whistles. My heart jumps into my throat when I look back and find a beautiful Siberian Husky racing across the pavement with a tiny Chihuahua taking up the rear.
Shit.
The Chihuahua isn’t fast enough, and I grab for the door as one of those things drops to the ground and swipes at it. The Husky growls, baring its teeth but the monster is immune and scrambles after the smaller dog.
Thankfully, the Chihuahua veers to the right and I jump out of the car, holding out my arms while it races across the road. On the cop’s side, the husky scrambles over his lap and I hop back into my seat with the tiny trembling dog in my arms before the cop moves forward.
At the intersection, he looks both ways before turning left down another residential street.
I assume he knows far better the direction we should go but I’m still uneasy as he takes back streets I'm unfamiliar with, veering around two cars mashed together. He doesn’t slow for the colorful lumps decorating the road and my stomach lurches when we fly over the bodies like speed bumps, the muffled thump thump echoing in my brain.
Although my companion's face is stoic, I see his hands tighten on the wheel with every turn of the tires. When the smaller dog wriggles in my lap, I set it on the seat before rubbing my hands down my legs.
What did he find back there? I’m assuming either his wife was dead or, well I guess I don’t know except she’s not here and he’s even grimmer than before if that’s possible.
Under normal circumstances, I’d probably be able to summon some sympathy, but my thoughts are turned when something slams into my door, and I shriek and shrink away from the stone-cold gaze of a man wearing a once crisp black suit with a white-collar.
Shit.
I know I’m screwed when the people closest to God weren’t saved. Although I’m not going to lie, I give a brief thought to Father Thomas who took great pride in smacking my fingers with a ruler when I didn’t pay attention during his sermons. If there is a god, he wasn’t spared either.
The thing before me slams his head against the glass without flinching. When he falls back, I peek down to find him clinging to the handle of the door.
How does he not feel pain? Half his body is dragging on the freaking pavement.
“Shit,” I mumble, grabbing for the handle too late and the priest swings away with the momentum while I wave my useless hand in the air.
Luckily, he . . . it is too dumb to figure out how to maneuver and let’s go, only to fall to the ground. When he does, the door swings back and I fumble with the handle while the cop, forced to slow at another intersection of backed up cars, mumbles under his breath.
I’m not quick enough though and another thing blocks the trajectory, grasping at my arm with fingers formed into claws. It’s a scene right out of the horror movie I defied my parents by watching when I was seven years old.
My mom found me later that night staring at the ceiling with the lights blazing in my room. I’m pretty sure I crept a little more cautiously towards my bed for a year afterwards, convinced something was hiding beneath it.
Now that fucking hand curls around my forearm and I think I black out for a moment because when I come to, the dogs are barking, and the cop is screaming, “Get down.”
Immediately, I flatten to the seat, no stranger to following commands without question although I do flinch when the loud report of the gun explodes in my ear.
The thing currently clutching my sweatshirt releases the fabric but the remains of its face sag into a macabre line while its brains splatter the door.
Oh, my fucking god. It’s all I can think as I stare at the bloody chunks painting the interior of the car.
“Hey!” Everything is garbled like listening to the roar of the sea in a shell until the cop says again, “Hey!”
With a blink, I spin around and say, “Shelby.”
“What?” His brows rise.