Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) (32 page)

Just like the ancient Romans did at
gladiator fights in the Coliseum,
O'Connor thought.

He lowered the crowbar and tossed them all
the bird. That earned him more cheers.

“What the fuck is
wrong
with you
assholes? In a couple of months, you've gone from Americans to a
bunch a shit-eating, murderous-..! You're all beneath
contempt!”

That was when a frigid hand closed on his
arm.

Jake spun, stabbing out reflexively with the
crowbar, which was what saved his life. While it didn't kill her,
the weapon punctured Tracy Dixon's neck just above the spot where
her collarbones met. It passed on through her body and into the
transformer behind her. The point penetrated the machine's housing
and stuck firmly in its inner workings, pinning the once-gorgeous
woman to the metal casing like a horrid butterfly on a pin. The
writer jerked away—leaving a fair amount of shirt in her cold
grasp—and backpedaled out of reach. Although she clawed at the
hardened steel, the dead woman wasn't able to free herself and
remained stuck in place upon his crowbar, struggling clumsily.

Karen approached him on wooden legs and he
pulled off the remains of his CBGB tee. O'Connor prepared himself
as the young creature crossed the last few yards, then lunged at
him mouth wide and ready to feed.

He tripped her.

She went face first into the gravel and he
dove on the corpse, quickly immobilizing its hands behind its back.
He stripped the belt from Karen's fatigues and used it around her
wrists as well, insuring there was no way for her to break loose,
while sitting on her calves. Afterwards he took her by the upper
arms (so she couldn't bite him) and, scooting back, pulled her
upright until her legs folded at the knees. She dropped into his
lap and he swiftly took her under the jaw, preventing her gray
teeth from closing on his shoulder.

It was awful.

She was so cold. The wounds in her chest had
long stopped seeping and her eyes (which had earned her numerous
compliments from Allen and Leo) were full of, well... nothing. No
trace of the girl Jake and his three friends rescued early on
during the outbreak remained. While they’d saved three women that
day. Heather and Karen were dead. Now, only Maggie still lived.

The thing in his arms continued its attempts
to bite him. Even though he was far stronger, it would
never
stop trying. It didn't have the intellect to realize it wouldn't be
able to sate the hunger, which drove every one of the infected on
past the point of human endurance. It would never... ever... know
him. Jake couldn't hold his tears back anymore and they fell on the
uncaring creature's neck, forming lighter-toned streaks on its
gore-smeared flesh. This was all that remained of the young woman
he'd come to know, while locked away in George's safe-house.

A corpse.

A hungry, empty shell.

A monster.

Karen Parker was gone.

It tore at him; knowing that he'd failed both
the girls and Maggie so totally. Jake wept and hoped her father's
ghost would forgive him. He'd tried. He'd done everything he could
think of to keep their group safe. The problem was, no matter how
much he planned, no matter how much they trained, no matter how far
they fled, the dead were everywhere. Which meant people like
Rebecca, Poole, Tompkins, Nichole and all the rest of the Purifiers
would be out there, too. Foster had warned them back in his cache.
The writer had hoped that they'd be able to bypass many of those
left who had snapped, or just lost any inhibitions, due to the fact
zombies
were walking around eating people. But this was too
much.

The thing in his arms wasn't Karen. His mind
new that. But his heart felt like a ten pound, softball-sized,
piece of lead as he watched the monster wearing her body struggle
against it bonds. Holding the creature still, Jake bent and pressed
his lips to its cold, gray forehead. The zombie's eyes didn't hold
any recognition for him when he looked into those dead, yellow
orbs. Only hunger.

“I'm sorry, Karen. I'm so very, very
sorry.”

The creature ignored him.

Still weeping, he took it firmly below the
jaw and by the back of its skull, then twisted the zombie's head
sharply one-hundred and eighty degrees.

The things body jerked and went limp, but it
wasn't dead. He could still feel its jaw moving. Still hungering.
Still trying to bite. Jake laid the remains on the surface of the
gravel yard, walked back around the transformer, and there picked
up a cinder block someone had placed beside it. Evidently, one of
the maintenance crew (maybe even poor dead Dwain) had used it to
stand on as they repaired the unit, prior to the end of the world.
He hefted the block, walked back, and without hesitation, brought
it down on the creature's head.

O'Connor turned his face away. Jake didn't
see how the skull caved in like a brittle, clay jug full of
hamburger. It was enough that Karen's suffering at the hands of
Poole and his Purifiers was over. He didn't need the picture of her
disfigured body in his head, even if he did only survive for a few
more minutes. He glanced at what used to be Tracy Dixon on his way
to the gate. Even though he didn't—and never would—know her name,
he just couldn't bring himself to end her tortured existence. He'd
had enough.

“Finish that one, Jacob,” Poole called,
pointing towards the pathetic creature pinned to the transformer
with his crowbar. “You've earned the right to the kill. I must say,
I'm hard pressed to remember when I've seen such an impressive
display of martial prowess. You may even be equal to Milo in that
respect.”

“Piss off, you cock sucker.”

“
Excuse
me?”
Poole said,
finally becoming irate at O'Connor's public lack of respect.

Jake folded his arms across his wounded
chest, over his heavy heart, and stood unmoving with his back to
the struggling creature. “Fuck you. You want it dead? Bring your
goose-stepping, pansy-ass in here and kill it yourself.”

Poole was nearly incensed at Jake's refusal
to obey. The older man's face reddened and he leaned on the railing
as his nostrils flared. “Milo? If Mr. O'Connor kills that creature
within the next thirty seconds, he can return to his cell. If not?
Put a bullet in his head.”

“No! You
promised
I could have him!”
Nichole cried, waving her arm and pointing defiantly at the
Purifier's leader.

“You need to control your friend, Milo. Right
now. If her insubordination continues, I'll be
forced
to
relieve her of her position and assign her simpler duties. Like
say, in the harem.” Poole's face purpled rapidly.

Tompkins jerked the blonde close and began
whispering intently in her ear. Whatever was said seemed to mollify
her, but she still looked extremely unhappy. Poole's second in
command pulled his Walther and flicked the weapon's safety off.

“Twenty-five seconds, Jacob,” Poole
called.

Jake ignored him and turned to gaze at the
sky. The sun would be setting in the next half hour and he wouldn't
be around to see it. He was done. Karen was dead, the others were
on their way to the secondary location and safety. He just wanted
the end to be quick at this point.

“Twenty seconds.”

He visualized the lovely redhead who was
going to miss him—hopefully only for a short time—and grinned
sadly. He remembered how he'd told Allen and Gertie that he'd meet
them in Pecos. He thought about how
angry
Kat was going to
be when she learned what he'd done. Jake wasn't sure if he was glad
he wouldn't be in the immediate area when that happened.

“Fifteen seconds.”

He raised his eyes and hoped whatever deity
was in charge of the planet had a sense of humor. If not? Well,
Jake believed he'd be looking at an afterlife full of hot lava,
razor blades, and being used as a sex aid by the beautiful but
thorny crotched succubi that populated the lower levels of hell.
Looking across the transformer yard he saw birds nesting on the
generator leads. They'd probably be picking his bones shortly.
While the dead weren't interested in avian prey, even as humans
were becoming scarce on the ground, the feathered little—

His eyes went wide.

“Ten seconds,” Poole called. “Milo? If
you'll—”

Jake spun, simultaneously yanked the crowbar
from Tracy Dixon's throat, and kicked her in her emaciated
chest.

“Well,” Poole gloated, “it looks like
someone's unshakable morals don't actually hold up when it comes to
staying alive. Maybe—”

Then his eyes widened as Jake took off like a
shot through the transformer yard.

“Milo!” The Purifier's leader yelled.

Tompkins raised his weapon and squeezed off a
few shots, but none came close due to Jake dodging through the
eight-foot electrical units. He was heading for the opposite side
of the yard as Poole began calling to his men. Halfway there,
O'Connor climbed atop one of the transformer housings and jumped up
onto the generator leads. These were massive two to three-foot
thick conduits, constructed from heavy-duty, non-conductive
materials. They held multiple wrist-thick cables, which ran from
the plant's gas-powered generators to the transformers within the
fenced in enclosure. And they were his way out.

The conduits ran four across, giving Jake an
almost eight foot wide, solid (albeit concave and cylinder shaped)
walkway, roughly seventeen feet off the ground. He wasted no time
jogging as quickly as he dared along the leads, passed over the
yard's fence, and headed for the generator building.

“Don't let him get away!” Tompkins yelled,
prompting fully a third of the Purifiers to bring their weapons up
and start firing at Jake’s fleeing silhouette.

He dove forward and sheltered in the hollow
between a pair of conduits, arms over his head as bullets pinged
off the hardened polymer to his left. If he could get to the
generator building, there was a good chance he could make it around
to the river and escape. That wasn't looking to hopeful, however.
Rounds were zinging by, ricocheting off the conduit's exterior and
making it extremely dangerous to
crawl,
let alone stand or
run along their surface. He tried to move as quickly as he could,
knowing that once the Purifiers got a better angle, he was going to
die. Either that, or the dead outside the wall would be too close
and too numerous for him to escape.

Ignoring the shaking in his extremities, Jake
readied himself for a desperate, last-ditch dash for freedom.

That was when all hell broke loose.

It had been difficult getting the thirty-five
pound M134 Minigun into the generator building unseen, especially
in broad daylight. It had taken almost an hour, and was one of the
most nerve-wracking experiences
ever.
Granted, there were
only a few guards on the front gate, but there had been more
walking the walled perimeter, passing by in ten-minute increments.
Her timing had needed to be perfect before she'd moved across the
sixty-yard gap between the Quonset hut and the generator house, to
ensure none of the Purifiers witnessed anything out of the ordinary
and raised the alarm. Also, the weapon alone was large and
ungainly. Never mind the double size, eighty-two pound, “Ironman”
ammunition pack, which held upwards of a thousand rounds for the
battlefield bullet hose. Carrying all that had been a
workout
.

There hadn't been any choice though. She had
far too much emotionally invested in Jake to allow him to sacrifice
himself. She'd been coming back from using the facilities in the
Mimi's hangar when the Purifier's leader had made contact, and
she'd listened in horror as the writer arranged to trade himself
over to them in exchange for Karen's freedom. There was virtually
no chance of this Poole keeping his word, but Jake had been
dead-set to try. If she went to the others about it he'd never have
forgiven her, so she'd come up with a plan.

She'd waited in the shadows under the Hummer
while Jake had unpacked the rear. When he went back inside their
big, pink transport, she'd quickly slit open the boxes of MRE's and
disposed of them around the Mimi's far side, right next to where
he'd offloaded the weapons and most of the supplies. Working
quickly, she'd cut one side out of each box and secured them
together from within with a few strips of duct tape from a nearby
workbench. She'd snagged a spare tactical vest from their vehicle's
stores and stuffed it with full ammo clips for a pair of Glocks she
also took. She's grabbed her zukin/fukumen (ninja mask and hood),
and had pulled one of her black Volcom shirts over her cut off tank
top. She'd chosen to keep the black, leather biker pants,
steel-plated arm guards, and biker boots, grabbed her sword, and
then hopped into the vehicle's bed, securing it shut again. After
stuffing the weapons—along with herself—into the modified boxes,
she'd kept quiet and hoped O'Connor would abandon his foolhardy
idea.

No such luck.

The drive down had been torture. Especially
after Jake had lit a nearby house on fire and begun shooting at the
dead to draw them away from the Purifier's home base. Every sound
had almost caused her to say
Fuck it!
and jump from her
hiding place to insure he was alright.

After he'd gained entry to their little
sanctuary, parked the Hummer, and the guards had taken him away,
she'd then slithered out of the boxes unnoticed. When a pair of men
had come to take the (empty) MRE cases to their other supplies,
she'd killed one of them outright. The other she'd bound in the
garage's eight by eight supply closet, and questioned him quite
firmly with the aid of certain pressure points, a Phillips-head
screwdriver, and the box knife she'd used to create her MRE
camouflage. He'd told her everything she wanted to know in the
first five minutes about Nichole, Karen, all of it. She'd put him
to sleep with a quick blow behind the ear, then insured he wouldn't
make any further trouble with a round from one of her silenced
pistols. She was reasonably sure that Jake wouldn't approve of such
a hardline tactic, but he would be welcome to scold her for it
later, once they both managed to escape the Purifier's camp
alive.