I hit the gas to dodge him. When I did, the bike leapt forward but the snowy ground caused the bike to slide sideways. I found myself choosing between being caught and pulled to the ground by the bike or dealing with the undead youth bent on killing me. I jumped off. The bike fell sideways and slid across the mud. I tried to pull out the automatic, but it snagged on my winter jacket. In a heartbeat, the undead youth jumped at me.
My shashka, the scabbard strapped across my back, was out in a flash. I ducked and bolted sideways. I clambered onto the fence railing in the flower shop parking lot.
Having missed, the youth turned and lunged at me again. I jumped and as I turned sideways, the sword slashed outward.
It had connected. I kept myself upright, slid to a stop, and then turned.
The youth had stopped. For a moment, he stood facing away from me. When he turned, I noticed I had sliced off his hand. I stared at him; he stared back at me. Those milk-white eyes looked something other than dead. Was he thinking? Had he felt pain? Was he considering his next move?
He snarled, the saliva and bloody foam dripping from his mouth, and lunged once more at me.
This time I faced him head on. I held my on-guard fencing stance and let him approach. Reel him in. Patience. Anticipate. He was quick, and his plan was simple: maul me. When he was within striking distance, I lunged. A split second later, he was hanging by his head from my sword, the shashka poking out of the back of his skull.
It took a moment for that strange light in his eyes to go out, and as I stared him down, a strange voice rasped inside my head. Help us.
My stomach shook. I couldn’t tell if the voice had come from the people behind me or the boy hanging off the end of my sword.
“Layla!” Dusty screamed. They had broken through the barricade.
I shook the dead body loose. Taking a moment to rip off my jacket, I freed the automatic and ran back down the line to Main Street. Will and the others had climbed onto the roofs of the trucks and were shooting into the oncoming horde. Another truck pulled up; they shot out the window.
I eyed my options. At the back of Figgy’s Old Vine Tavern was a stairwell leading to an upstairs apartment. It had a perfect line of fire on the street. I bolted up the steps and seconds later was raining bullets down on the oncoming horde. Careful to watch for civilians, I shelled the undead. Accuracy was a problem at this range, but their injured bodies fell and were more easily plucked off by the shooters below.
Moments later I heard a loud BOOM. My ears rung. A cloud of heavy smoke occluded the view for a moment; I then realized what had happened. Jeff was standing a few feet away from the old cannon that once sat outside of the VFW. The cannon had been parked in the center of the street just opposite the barricade. In front of the cannon, several undead lay on the ground, their bodies pierced with kitchen knives and other pieces of scrap metal. Jeff clambered away from the cannon and up onto one of the trucks.
I kept my eye on the barricade and blasted until the clip was empty. Like a complacent fool, I had not brought another.
I heard Jensen scream and watched him being pulled off the roof of the truck into the horde. I raised my gun, but if I shot, I could hit the living.
I pulled out the Glock and headed back down the stairs. Two of the undead who had spotted me met me at the bottom. They were easy marks.
I moved toward the dozen or so undead still straining at the townspeople. I jumped on top of a car and emptied the gun. It was not enough. The undead continued to make their assault.
Having left the Magnum with Frenchie, I was alone with my sword. I then saw Tom swinging axes in both hands and chopping his way through the undead horde. I bounded down and worked the other side of the crowd. Two arrows whooshed past my ear as Buddie Fowley appeared. Buddie had been found alive during the initial sweep. We all knew Buddie for his archery; he was the town’s big game hunter. I turned to see the arrows hit their mark. With our Medieval weapons in hand, the three of us made the last stand for the town. We cut, slashed, and pierced our way through the remaining undead. The war was over shortly after; we had won the day.
Exhausted, I crawled into the back of one of the pick-ups and sat looking at the broken barricade. Main Street trailed off in the distance. The cannon pointed down the long road. A moment later, I heard a single gunshot. Jensen. I heard someone cry. I pulled a cloth out of my pocket and cleaned the bloody goo from the blade of my sword. I stared down the street beyond the broken barricade. Part of me was keeping an eye out for any stragglers. Another part of me was wondering about that voice I’d heard. I wanted to run, but I knew there was nowhere to go.
About ten minutes after it was over, two cars pulled up. I could hear Jamie’s voice in the crowd. He found me a few minutes later.
“You okay?” he asked.
I didn’t know how to answer.
He stepped in front of me, blocking my vision of the road. It broke the trance. “Layla,” he whispered, tipping my chin up toward him. “You okay?” he asked again.