Chapter Fifty-Seven
I’M NOT SURE WHAT’S CAUSED more death in the past hour: the humans fighting the zombies or the humans fighting the humans. The wall is torn down, and death is at every corner.
Not only are the newly born zombies more vicious than the shamblers we typically deal with, but they’re people I know. Cooks, medboys, laborers. It’s uncanny, knowing the human and zombie versions of someone. Smiles twisted into snarls. Bright eyes made destitute. Laughs turned to moans.
My blood boils with pure hatred for Chandler.
She may have found a way to slow the virus, but these dying people are turning into zombies in seconds.
Maybe it’s not too late for damage control.
Maybe we can save the Split. Maybe I, Greeley, Jasper, and anyone else with big guns can kill the proliferating zombies. Make it a game of Whac-A-Mole.
Jasper and I sprint through town, doing our best to shoot down zombies while dodging bullets aimed at our heads. Because the Egals still want me dead.
Priorities, people.
Egals run out of the rectory with armfuls of cans, bags of flour, and full boxes balanced over their shoulders. The truth settles in. This is the end of the Split.
“Nothing left for you in there, Satan-lover!” A five-foot stub of a man jumps in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest. Ah—Mrs. Patty’s husband, come to defend her honor.
I’m not doing this right now.
I shove him out of the way, and he falls to his knees with a dramatic squeal.
The inside of the rectory is a flurry of movement, people elbowing one another to get whatever supplies they can get their hands on. Two zombies lie splat on the ground, their skulls crushed, probably from being stomped on. A trail of blood leads to Chandler’s office, but the door is closed.
I jiggle the handle. “It’s locked,” I say to Jasper. He lifts a foot, and with one, two, three kicks, he busts the door down. “You’ve always wanted to do that, haven’t you?”
Jasper smiles. As we burst into the office, the smell of evergreens wafts over me, mingling with coppery blood and gunpowder. I nearly keel over and vomit. “Your sister and these goddamn car fresheners. What was her deal?”
“Greeley always had one in her car, back in the day.”
I grimace. “Let’s search her desk. Grab anything you can find.”
My eyes widen at a whimper from behind the desk. Zara’s curled into a ball on the floor, mascara dripping down her cheeks, red lipstick smeared all over her chin. Her elbow is gashed. That explains the blood trail. “What’re you doing here?”
“Same thing you’re doing,” she says through sobs. Hate and pity start a war in my chest. “Trying to survive.”
“Get up,” I say. “The Split’s going down. You need to get out.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I reach down and yank her up by the arm, then give her the knife in my pocket. “Run toward the gates, as fast as you can.”
“I can’t,” she says. “I’ll die.”
I scowl into her scared, wide eyes. Eyes that I detest, but not eyes that I want dead. Because I see myself in them. I see who I was a few weeks ago. Unable to take care of myself. Lost. Living just to survive. “Did Chandler ever tell you anything about the experiments?”
“Experiments?” she asks. “What experiments?”
So Chandler didn’t trust Zara with this information. Who did she trust it with—just the doughboys? Peter, Indy, Fred . . . Where is Fred? “Forget it,” I say. “Time for you to go.”
Zara yells, “I’m not going anywhere, Kota. Get that through your thick skull!”
“Cool it,” Jasper says, stepping between us. “She’s saving your life.”
“Bullshit. She’s trying to get back at me for stealing her boyfriend.”
I laugh. “If anything, you did me a favor. That said, I don’t have time to argue. You want to stick around and hide in the rectory? Let the zombies finish you off? Fine by me.”
Jasper and I wrench open desk drawers. A boom echoes through the building, and the ground shakes.
Screams erupt from outside the office. Dust shimmies from the ceiling.
We exchange a look and stuff our arms with papers, then roll them up and shove them into our pants.
No time for sifting through. We’ve got to take everything and get the hell out of here.
After we’ve loaded ourselves up with all our bodies can hold, we make a run for it.
“Wait!” Zara says. “Don’t leave me!”
Her eyes are frantic, flicking throughout the room.
“Your choice,” I say, sensing her inner turmoil. “Come or stay. Decide.”
Zara doesn’t move.
Another boom.
The ceiling collapses. Zara lets out a final shriek as tiles fall directly onto her, smashing in her skull.
I scream, horrified. She made her choice, but still . . . she was so young.
At least it was quick.
Jasper shoves papers under his armpit and grabs my hand. “Bombs,” he says. “We’ve got to go.”
“Roger that.”
The next several minutes are a soot-coated flurry of carnage, rubble, and bullets. My heart races as Jasper and I sprint toward the gates.
We’ll make it out.
I repeat it like a mantra.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register that my legs are in excruciating pain, but the thoughts are fleeting, easy to ignore.
Sparks erupt in the sky as we run through the center of town. Not bombs—fireworks. To our left, I see him. Fred. The goon is setting off fireworks. Chandler knew what she was doing. Fred will kill us all.
Behind us, a motorcycle rumbles. “Jasper, Kota—hop on!” Sweat glistens like a halo on Chief’s bald head. He halts the bike, and we hop on. Jasper squishes me against Chief’s back. I’m a Chief-and-Jasper sandwich. Chief twists his head around and shouts, “Hold on tight. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”
Sparkling gold fireworks erupt and shimmer like fluorescent sprinkles, and it all hits me at once.
My mind erupts with gruesome images of death: Peter.
Chandler. Zara. Hundreds of people died, and I played a part.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my tongue to keep from puking.
Metallic blood fills my mouth. Who have I become?
I press my forehead into Chief’s back and grip his shirt so tight my fingers go numb.
You did what you had to do to survive.
“Hey,” says Jasper. “Kota, I’m here. You don’t have to hold on. I’ve got you.”
As my vision slowly fades to black, I know that I’m safe. Jasper’s got me.
It’s over. It’s done.