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tanks to his back.
Steve gave him a quick lesson and then they started down the stairs
again, Frankie in the lead, Steve and Quinn supporting Bates, Danny
behind them, and Jim bringing up the rear.
They only made it three more floors before the zombies poured into the
stairwell above them. The creatures opened fire, and the air rang with
the soft pop of .22 rifles, the thunder of a .45, and the concussive
blasts of a Browning sub-machine gun. Jim unleashed a stream of liquid
fire, torching the creatures in midrun. The descent became a running
battle. Frankie shot the creatures below them and Jim incinerated
anything to the rear. The stairway echoed with gunfire and reeked of
burning hair and flesh. The smoke grew thick, and they had to put their
clothing over their mouths and noses to filter the air they breathed.
Their eyes stung, and their ears rang from the constant explosions.
A zombie on the next landing shimmied up the handrail and clutched
Steve's foot. He tried to shake it off without jostling Bates, and the
wounded man groaned. Dirty fingernails clawed at Steve's ankle, slicing
into his flesh. The pilot screamed as the nails burrowed deeper.
Danny swung the baseball bat. He brought it down again, shattering the
creature's wrist. The hand pulled away. A second later, Frankie shot the
zombie from its perch.
Eventually, the pursuit dwindled, and then died. Still, they kept
running, moving as fast as they could without
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jostling Bates or losing Danny, who was having trouble keeping up.
Then they found Branson. His body had plummeted more than twenty stories
before coming to rest on one of the landings. His back was snapped. His
legs and arms hung askew, splintered and broken, and his head had split
open like a melon.
"Guess he won't be coming back again," Quinn said. "Lucky bastard."
Bates croaked, "We should ... all be so ... lucky."
Frankie checked her magazines and reloaded. Steve and Quinn caught their
breath, grateful for the stop. Danny snuggled close to Jim, hugging him
tightly. None of them spoke.
Footsteps pounded after them from far above.
They ran on.
Carson's body wasn't recognizable as a human being, yet the red, raw
mass struggled to its feet, controlled by another. His hand had only two
remaining fingers and a thumb, but he managed to turn the doorknob. With
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the combined weight of the birds slamming against it, the door exploded
outward, shoving the desk out of the way.
The zombies flew down the hallway, darting through open doorways and
soaring down the empty elevator shafts and open stairwells. The thing
that had been Carson stumbled along behind them, shedding pieces of meat.
The hallway was quiet, and there were no humans in sight. It wondered
where its host's friends had gone. The creature searched Carson's
memory, and then traced Branson's trail of blood down the corridor.
Eventually, it found its way to the utility door, and opened it. The
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birds followed him, pouring into the stairwell. With each floor they
passed, more zombies joined in the chase. The stairway filled with dead
bodies, all hurtling downward in pursuit of the living.
309 SEVENTEEN
"Forrest, how much longer are we going to wait?" Smokey whispered.
The sub-basement was dark, cold, and dank, reeking of smoke from the
fires above them. Their only sources of illumination came from a
flashlight that Pigpen found on a tool bench, and a battery-operated
lantern. The concrete floor was piled high with boxes and storage bins.
Workbenches were heaped with tools and scraps of pipe and wiring.
Spider-webs dangled from the air ducts.
Forrest shifted his weight from foot to foot, guarding one of the doors.
"As long as we have to. We ain't leaving without them."
Etta found some clean rags in one of the boxes and changed the bandages
on Leroy's burned forearm. God brushed up against her side, purring
loudly, and she shooed him away.
"Get this damn cat out of here," she snapped at Pigpen. "Leroy don't
need his arm getting infected."
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Leroy pushed himself up. "I'm fine. It's just burned. Quit your fussing,
woman. You cluck more than a chicken."
"Don't you talk to me like that, Leroy Piper," Etta's head darted back
and forth like a snake's, "or that burn on your arm will be the last of
your worries!"
"Etta," Forrest snapped. "Keep your voice down! For God's sake, why
don't you just walk upstairs and let those things know we're down here?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but saw the storm brewing behind the big
man's eyes, and shut it again.
Forrest glanced at his wristwatch, and chewed his lip. He looked around
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