The figure stood beside a fallen tree, flies buzzing around but never quite settling. The Inquisitor seemed to favour his left leg, his right shoulder was a hard scab of blood against his robe, and now that he was this close Jonah was sure he could see the end of a snapped-off crossbow bolt pinning the clothing there. The man swayed slightly, and steam rose from his strange mask and from vents in his bulbous goggles. There was so much that Jonah could ask, but he didn’t want to know.
‘I accept,’ he said, and the Inquisitor let out what might have been a sigh.
14
‘We are so fucking fucked!’
‘Hey, not in front of the kids,’ Chaney said.
‘The kids! The fuckin’ kids?’
‘Dude. Please.’ Chaney grabbed the biker’s arm and squeezed. Vic laughed out loud.
More gunfire, more falling bodies, more swearing, the smell of fear from where some of the kids – or maybe the adults – had pissed themselves, more screaming, more thudding of zombie bodies striking the bus and scrabbling for purchase, and five minutes ago when Vic had asked about ammunition Chaney had glanced at him without replying, his look answer enough.
‘Five more minutes,’ Vic said from where he was hunkered beneath the shot-up steering column.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Chaney said.
Glass smashed, someone grunted. And then screamed.
‘Stay back, stay back!’ a biker shouted, and Vic did not look up. He was splicing three wires together, bypassing the ignition, and he had enough to concentrate on without—
‘Shoot her!’ the biker shouted.
‘But she’s Mrs Joslin, she’s our—’
Gunshot, splash, a body hit the bus’s floor, and the children’s screaming changed. It turned crazed.
‘Hurry up, dude,’ Chaney said, crawling over to kneel beside Vic.
‘I’m hurrying.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I’m hurrying! Every time you tell me to hurry I have to answer you, and that slows me down because I need to concentrate here, and—’
Chaney tapped his leg and stood, his gun blasting again.
The biker’s initial assessment of the state of the bus had seemed obviously correct but on closer inspection Vic thought he could fix it. Everyone was pleased to hear that. Scores of zombies now surrounded the bus, and more appeared from around the town every minute. Many more – perhaps hundreds – had gone in the opposite direction, following the others towards Coldbrook. How they chose which way to go, or whether they could perform any thought process that could be described as choosing, was something that troubled Vic. But he’d dwell on it later. Right now he was using Chaney’s bowie knife and a nail-grooming kit as impromptu tools, and the guts of the steering column were hanging above him. The shear bolt and retaining clips had been blasted apart, and these he could repair temporarily. The bigger problem was that the steering lock had been deformed and the starter was smashed. As he finished splicing the wires he touched them to another bare wire. They sparked, and the engine coughed.
‘Done?’ Chaney shouted.
‘Two minutes.’
‘Make it one.’
‘I’ll make it two!’
‘Make it one and a fucking half!’
‘Not in front of the kids, dude,’ Vic said, concentrating on the steering lock, wondering whether he could risk wedging Chaney’s blade in there to try and jimmy it straight, worried that it would snap off and lock the steering completely. As it was now, they’d have about seventy per cent of the steering capability, and to turn right would take a much longer, wider sweep.
But fuck it.
‘Done,’ he said. Chaney grabbed Vic’s belt and pulled him out, hauling him upright in one move and dropping him into the bloodied driver’s seat.
‘You got the duty,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ Vic had only glanced around briefly and what he’d seen was not good. Zombies crowded at the unbroken windows, smashing at them with fists and heads, falling away with bullets in their brains.
‘Out of ammo,’ one of the bikers said.
‘Then piss on them!’ Chaney shouted.