Rotter World (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

“Rotters!” screamed Robson. “Two dozen heading our way and closing fast!”

Robson raised his Glock and took aim at the closest one, a young girl in a cheerleading uniform with no skin on the lower half of its face. Its skeletal jaw snapped at him. He fired off a single round, but at this distance his aim was off. The bullet punched into the dead flesh of the rotter’s right shoulder, shattering most of the blade and blowing the bone fragments through the skin. The blast knocked it slightly off balance for a moment, but it continued lumbering toward him, the right arm dangling uselessly by its side. The second round passed through its throat, spilling globs of congealed blood through the entry wound. Adjusting his aim upwards, Robson fired a third round. This one caught the rotter directly between the eyes, the hollow-point blasting off the back of its head. It fell forward with a wet thud.

Beside him, Ari raised her Mauser and took careful aim on a hulking rotter in a New York State Police uniform. She waited for what seemed like an interminably long time to line up her shot, but when she pulled the trigger its head exploded. Ari quickly shifted her aim to the next rotter in line, a young female with blonde hair matted by dried blood and wearing the remnants of a county deputy uniform that only partially covered the gaping hole where its internal organs had once sat. A single squeeze of the trigger and the rotter’s head jerked backward, showering the horde behind it in a cloud of brains and gore.

From up in the gun mount, Caylee aimed her assault rifle at the closest rotter to her line of sight, a road worker dragging its partially severed right leg. She released a three-round burst, ripping its skull apart. Once that rotter collapsed, she switched to another and fired again.

Morphing into his vampiric form, Sultanic jumped up into the Mack’s rear bed and rushed forward to where the remaining fifty-five-gallon drums were stored. Ripping one from its mountings, he jammed his talons through the metal and tore four long gashes down its length, and then tossed it over the side and into the horde. He jumped onto the cab’s roof and turned to Caylee.

“Fire at the drum.”

Diesel fuel onto the asphalt. Once Caylee had a clear view, she squeezed off a three-round burst. Sparks flew as the bullets slammed into the metal, igniting the expanding pool of gasoline. Flames raced across the street in all directions, climbing up the legs of those rotters standing in its path. The fire surrounded the drum and licked at its surface until the excess gasoline inside ignited, generating a fireball that knocked over a dozen of the living dead.

As the flames lit up the night, Robson saw another swarm of more than a dozen rotters a few yards behind the first. He was only vaguely aware of the Angels rushing out of the bus and taking up position alongside him and Ari. As each woman fell into line, they chose a target. One by one, the rotters fell, but for every one the Angels dropped, more seemed to take their place.

Eight rotters, all of them in flames, converged on the Mack’s cab. Whitehouse opened the door to escape, but they were too close, so he slammed it shut. The rotters reached out to him with burning hands, slapping at the door and clawing at the metal. Tiny licks of flame seared the paint. Beneath them, the spreading pool of gasoline flowed under the Mack, catching the tires on fire. The temperature inside the cab rose dramatically. Rolling down the window, Whitehouse climbed out and turned, reaching up to find a handhold on the roof. The rotters moaned at the sight of their prey and began clawing to get at him. Thankfully, the spikes welded around the bottom and sides of the window protected him from their grasp.

Unfortunately, they did not protect him from the fire. As the rotters clasped at him, the flames licked off their outstretched hands and lapped at Whitehouse’s clothes, setting his jacket on fire. Instinctively, he released his hold on the roof to pat out the flames, and fell back into the horde. With his legs still inside the cab, he hung upside down, as helpless as an animal in a slaughterhouse. The rotters pushed against Whitehouse, driving him into the spikes and pinning him against the door. He screamed at the top of his lungs, desperately clawing at the air to get free.

Sultanic leapt to the edge of the cab’s roof and reached down, holding on to the mirror mount with his right hand while stretching for Whitehouse with his left. Whitehouse flailed around wildly, too disoriented from terror and pain to notice. Not that it mattered, for the rotters already had torn open his abdomen and pulled out his intestines, feasting on the fresh meat. As the last vestiges of life slipped from him, Whitehouse’s legs slipped out of the cab. His torso slid off the spikes and dropped to the ground. Sultanic still reached for Whitehouse, leaning even farther into the horde to save him.

Seeing the new source of food wriggling above its head, a fat female rotter in a blood-encrusted housecoat stretched out its hand and grabbed Sultanic’s wrist in its charred fingers. He tried yanking his arm away, but because he hung over the side of the Mack he did not have the leverage. He could only watch helplessly as the fat rotter plunged its teeth into his forearm, slicing through flesh and tissue. Sultanic howled. He yanked his arm away, leaving a chunk of meat in the rotter’s mouth, which hungrily chewed and swallowed.

At that moment, Caylee reached the end of the cab. She aimed the assault rifle at Whitehouse’s head and squeezed off a three-round burst, putting him out of his torment and ensuring he would not reanimate. Switching to full automatic mode, she emptied the remainder of the magazine into the horde. A few dropped to the ground, quickly becoming engulfed by the flames. More of the living dead were left unscathed by the assault and closed in around the Mack. Caylee grabbed Sultanic by the back of his collar and pulled him to the safety of the dump bed.

Robson barely noticed what was going down around him, his attention concentrated on the approaching rotters. He had taken down two more when the slide on his Glock locked into the open position. As he popped out the used magazine and removed a new one from his belt, an old male rotter with no arms lurched toward him. Robson slammed the magazine into place with his palm and pulled back the slide, but it had moved in too close, not giving him enough room to aim.

Natalie shoved Robson aside just as the old rotter lunged. It sank its teeth into her shoulder.

“No!” Robson yelled. Regaining his balance, he raced over to help.

Natalie barely flinched as the rotter’s teeth yanked at her shoulder. She placed the barrel of her Colt .45 against its left temple. Turning her head and closing her eyes, she pulled the trigger. The rotter’s head distorted as the back of its skull was blown off. Brains and some bone fragments splattered her jacket. It crumpled in front of her.

“Why’d you do that?” rasped Robson, trying not to sound emotional. “Now you’re infected.”

Natalie brushed off the gore. Only then did he notice that her leather jacket was untouched except for a few teeth indentations around the shoulder. Natalie smiled at him and winked.

“I barely felt it. Now pay attention so I don’t have to save your sorry ass again.”

Robson quickly assessed the situation. Most of the raiding party stood on either side of him, plucking away at the horde as if they were in a shooting gallery. The first group had been eliminated with the exception of the five or six still feeding on Whitehouse, so consumed by hunger that they seemed oblivious to the inferno that engulfed them. The remnants of the second group reached the outer limits of the gasoline-fed fire when a volley from the Angels took several down

Behind him, Natalie gave orders as she walked down the line.

“There’re five rotters to our right. Bethany, Sandy, go back up Josephine. Stephanie and Leila, check on Tiara. Ari, make sure nothing’s coming at us from the rear.”

As the Angels raced off to reinforce the flanks, the remaining girls took down the last few rotters from the second group. With the danger now past, Dravko and Daytona approached the pack feeding off Whitehouse, careful not to get too close to the flames. They each fired three rounds, putting down the remaining rotters.

A few rounds of gunfire sounded from their flanks, and then the attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. Silence fell over the area, broken only by the roar of the fire and the sizzling of the corpses as the flames charred their remains.

Robson lowered his Glock, but kept his finger on the trigger in case any rotters came after them from the dark. “Everyone sound off.”

He felt relief as each member of his raiding party called out, first those around him and then the Angels manning the perimeter. Noticeably absent, however, was Whitehouse.

As well as Caylee and Sultanic.

“Caylee?” he yelled. “Where are you?”

“Here,” she cried from the rear of the dump bed. “I need help.”

Robson ran over to the Mack, followed closely by the other vampires. Caylee stood at the end of the bed, Sultanic’s good arm wrapped around her shoulders for support. He cradled the bitten forearm against his chest, wincing in pain each time he moved. Dravko and Tibor jumped into the bed and lowered Sultanic to the ground where Tatyana supported him. Dravko climbed down to check on his friend. Tibor helped Caylee out of the bed, and then dropped down himself.

Dravko pulled Sultanic’s arm away from his body and turned it to examine the wound. The look in his eye said what everyone else already knew. The bite was a death sentence. “How did it happen?”

Caylee answered. “The rotters bit him while he was trying to save Whitehouse.”

“Is that true?” asked Dravko.

Sultanic nodded. He pulled the arm away and again cradled it against his chest.

Robson stepped forward and patted Sultanic’s shoulder.

“Wh-what do we do now?” asked Tatyana.

“There’s nothing you
can
do,” answered Sultanic.

“Don’t say that,” said Dravko, the desperation evident in his voice.

“It’s true.”

Compton rushed up to the group, with Thompson close behind. The doctor focused his attention on Dravko. “I heard one of your vampires was bitten.”

Sultanic raised his good hand. “That’s me.”

“May I see?”

Sultanic held out his arm and turned it to expose the bite. A teacup-sized chunk had been torn from the forearm. Compton shown a flashlight on the wound, and then turned the beam away.

“I’m sorry.”

Dravko shook his head. “The vaccine you created. Will it cure someone who’s already infected but not yet turned?”

Compton hesitated, taken aback by the question. “I’m not sure. We never tested it that way.”

“We can at least try, right?”

“Forget it,” said Sultanic.

“What do you mean?”

Sultanic looked at Compton. “How long before I turn?”

Compton thought for a moment. “A wound that deep usually turns its victims in eighteen hours. For you it might be a little longer. I’m not familiar with vampire physiology.”

“And we’re still at least a day from Site R.” Sultanic shook his head. “I’ll be one of those things long before we get there.”

“We can at least try,” said Dravko.

“All you’ll do is put everyone else in danger, and then you’ll have to put me down like a dog. I don’t want that.”

Tatyana tenderly placed a hand on his shoulder. “What will you do?”

Sultanic forced a smile. “Something I haven’t done in almost two hundred years. Watch the sun rise.”

“Are you sure?” asked Dravko.

“We’re willing to take the risk of bringing you with us,” added Robson.

“I know,” Sultanic said to Dravko. Then to Robson, “If I have to die, I want to die with dignity.”

“You’ve earned it.” Robson took a few steps back. “Everyone load up. We’re moving out in two minutes.”

Compton and Thompson headed back to the armored car without another word. Caylee followed, but not before she hugged Sultanic, tears flowing down her cheeks.

Tatyana threw hers arms around Sultanic and sobbed. “Good bye.”

He hugged back with his one good arm. “Take care, little one.”

Tibor stepped forward, patted his friend on the shoulder, and led Tatyana away.

When the others were out of earshot, Sultanic turned to Dravko and Robson. “Ironic that I died trying to save a human, isn’t it?”

Robson stepped forward and offered his hand. “There’re a lot of us who would’ve done the same for you.”

“I appreciate it.” Sultanic reached out with his left hand and shook Robson’s.

Dravko placed a hand behind Sultanic’s head and drew him close. When he spoke, his words were choked with emotion. “See you on the other side.”

“Hopefully not for a long time.”

Robson and Dravko left Sultanic and headed for the armored car. As he climbed into the back, Robson took the microphone. “We’ll take point from here on in. Tibor, you’ll follow us. Tatyana, you’ll bring up the rear.”

“Gotcha,” said Tibor.

“Roger that, boss.” Mad Dog replied for Tatyana.

The convoy started up and pulled back onto the main road, maneuvering over the sidewalk to avoid the fire that blocked the street. Sultanic waved to them as they passed. The last image Robson had of Sultanic was of the vampire crossing the street and heading toward the center of the park to wait for dawn.