Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 9

  Her words felt like a slap in the face.

  You. You’ll keep me going. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. It was too crazy; he hardly knew her.

  Tana crossed her arms, scowling. Finally, she sighed and thrust the radio at him. “Here. Take it. You need it more than I do.”

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” Stu asked, slipping the radio into his coat pocket.

  Tana spun toward the door. “Nothing. Hurry up. I need to get back to my child.”

  Stu grabbed her arm and turned her around to face him. “Go with me. You and Davis. We’ll keep him safe. We have these guns now. Those things can’t hurt us.”

  “Screw that! I have two sons, in case you’ve forgotten. I can’t just take off and leave one behind.”

  “He’s not the son you knew. You’ve gotta understand that by now. Think of those things that attacked us earlier.”

  “Things? They’re people. They’re ill, but they’re not monst—”

  Something crashed against the front door.

  Brett ran into the living room. “What the hell was that?” He leveled his rifle at the door.

  Stu raised his hand. “Quiet. Wait.” He removed the gun from the waist of his jeans and thumbed off the safety.

  Suddenly, it sounded as if a dozen pairs of fists were pummeling the door. The hinges creaked, and the wood splintered along the jamb. The security chain rattled.

  “Shit,” Tana whispered, bringing up her own gun. “They’re coming in.”

  The pounding grew louder, more frantic, and was joined by mad, high-pitched howling.

  Stu wet his lips, switched on the laser sight, and waited.

  “Bring it on, assholes,” Josh hollered, readying his rifle.

  The door imploded, and a half-dozen ragged, frantic figures tore in, howling and twitching, a blur of pale faces and wet teeth glinting in the darkness.

  Chapter 16

  Trollhättan, Sweden

  Tomas tried to focus, but the world dissolved to smears of running paint. He blinked away stinging tears and tried to bring up his hand to examine the side of his head. Someone had bound his wrists. A long length of orange electrical cord snaked snugly around and between both hands.

  “What the hell’s this?” He shook his head, and the world slowly swam into soft focus. He struggled to a sitting position. The entire left side of his face was on fire, and he tasted a hint of blood. He ran his tongue along the lining of his cheek, wincing at the sting when he hit a small but deep cut.

  Melanie pushed through the crowd and rushed to his side. Sweat shining on her brow, she knelt, her face a mask of worry. She cupped his face in her warm hands. “Tomas? Are you with me?”

  He nodded, not altogether sure if he was with her or not. She stroked his cheek, her hand trembling.

  “I’m here. I’m all right.” He scanned the room for Christopher and located him in Leila’s arms, his loud crying muffled against his mother’s shoulder. Leila, on the other hand, carried an expression of complete indifference. Her eyes were heavy-lidded; she was obviously drunk.

  Melanie placed a bottle of water to his lips, and he drank greedily. Next, she helped him to his feet.

  “What’s happening, Mel?” he whispered. “Is Christopher all right?”

  “He’s freaking out, as you can imagine. Now, listen. They’re going to send you out into the darkness. With them. You’re going to be sacrificed.”

  Tomas swayed, pretending dizziness, and when Melanie wrapped her arms around him to steady him, he pressed his lips against the cup of her ear. “Do you still have it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be ready to use it.”

  ***

  Morgan locked his meaty fingers painfully around Melanie’s bicep and yanked her away from Tomas. “Time’s wasting.” He had a pistol tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, the butt of the gun partially hidden by his swaying belly.

  Melanie glanced around to see if any of the others were armed, but the dim lighting made it tough to tell. A middle-aged woman clutching a tattered leather-bound Bible against her bony chest stepped toward Tomas. Her graying hair was pulled back into a severe bun that was coming unwound at the crown of her head, and her dress hadn’t been in fashion since sometime in the late 1960s. She stood on the tiptoes of her dour, patent leather lace-ups and kissed Tomas’s cheek. Tomas drew back, a look of disgust crossing his face.

  “One dies so many may live,” the woman croaked.

  “One?” Tomas asked. “How many times have you sent one out to die since you decided you were God’s right hand?”

  “God sent the flash as a sign,” the woman said. “Those touched by the light are the chosen ones.”

  “What light?” Tomas asked. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  Father Vernon leaned closer to Tomas to make himself heard. “Some of those people claim to have seen a flash of light just before the darkness fell. The light touched some, and she believes those it hit are God’s people.”

  Melanie scanned the crowd again. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts. Most of those faces were terrified and in search for someone to be a leader. So desperate for someone to call the shots, they’d decided to leave their lives in the hands of buffoons like Morgan, Lunde, and Henriksen. Illuminated by the dancing fire in the hearth and the dozens of candles scattered about the tavern, the wide-eyed onlookers appeared like demons.

  Henriksen and Lunde accosted Father Vernon and shoved him into the center of the growing storm of people. Vernon and Tomas stood together as if waiting to be sentenced. The priest’s shoulders trembled, and Melanie knew it was only a matter of moments before the old man broke down in tears.

  A young man Melanie recognized, but whose name she couldn’t remember, stepped forward and bound the priest’s shaking wrists with a length of orange electrical cord.

  The Bible-wielding woman continued her sermon, waggling her book at Tomas and Father Vernon to emphasize her point. “This is God’s judgment. Those not taken are condemned until the final hour.”

  “Get them out of here,” Henriksen said. A couple of strapping footballer-types moved forward, grabbed Father Vernon’s arms, and led him toward the door. The priest didn’t struggle, just slumped his shoulders in resignation.

  “So, God is punishing all of us, then?” Tomas shouted. “These children? A man who has spent most of his life in this village delivering God’s message? I find that hard to believe. But maybe God is hard to believe.”

  The Bible woman let out a shriek of horror. “Non-believer!” She struck Tomas across the face, the slap echoing in the tavern like a firecracker and sending Christopher into a fresh round of wailing.

  Seething, Melanie pushed forward again and, before she even realized what she was doing, balled her fist and slugged the older woman. “You don’t touch him!”

  The woman reeled and dropped her Bible. Her bony hand flew to her injured ear. The place fell into complete, shocked silence for a moment, soon broken by the rumble of male laughter.

  “Shut that harpy up, pretty thing!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

  The woman scooped up her Bible and stood face to face with Melanie, her foul breath hot in Melanie’s face. The weak orange light made her long nose and sharp cheekbones appear too prominent, and she looked very much like a Halloween witch. “You’ll find yourself in Hell, little girl.”

  “Then I’ll see you there.” Melanie met the woman’s bloodshot eyes until the woman turned on her heel and marched away, weaving through the bodies.

  Melanie glanced at Tomas. The woman’s handprint was tattooed in crimson on his beard-roughened cheek. A line of blood trickled from the corner of his lip, and he licked it away. Things were getting out of hand quickly. Her stomach roiled at the thought of bringing out the gun. What if she screwed up and made things worse?

  But how could the situation get any worse? With his wrists bound, Tomas stood no chance of fighting off those things once th
e guys shoved him outside. He’d be nothing more than fresh meat.

  Father Vernon turned and faced his jury. “I’ll go. Perhaps I performed some trespass. No matter what, it is clear that I’ve failed this village.”

  “These people have failed themselves, Father,” Tomas said. “They’ve given up and decided to huddle in here like a bunch of superstitious peasants. This isn’t the Dark Ages.”

  “But it is the Dark Ages, Tomas,” an elderly man cried, dashing forward and gesturing wildly. His white hair spiked out all over his head, and he hadn’t shaved in a while.

  After a moment, Melanie realized the man was William Holmberg, her chemistry instructor in secondary school, but she’d never seen him look less than dapper. In that state, he could have been a homeless man.

  “The night is full of demons,” Holmberg went on, his deep voice distinguished despite his shabby appearance. “We’ve entered the time of unyielding darkness. The last night has fallen.”

  Morgan laughed. “What else could it be, Tom? You tell us. You’re the educated one here.”

  “I-I don’t know,” Tomas answered. “Some sort of atmospheric occurrence? Maybe it was those electromagnetic storms the news mentioned. Or an explosion of some sort has kicked up dust, blocking the sun. Shit, I don’t know! But what I do know is that this is not divine retribution.”

  Melanie glanced at Leila, who remained expressionless, Christopher pressed against her breast. Absently, Melanie touched her ear where Tomas’s lips had pressed and imagined it was still warm from his breath.

  “That doesn’t explain the hysteria that seems to be catching. Either way, I doubt it matters very much.” Lunde took a drink of ale. “What we need is a warm body or two out there to keep those things occupied while we get over to that bodega for more supplies. It ain’t sacrifice; it’s distraction.” He nodded at his cohorts. “Let’s get them out there.”

  The crowd converged, jostling Melanie and shoving her backward, further from Tomas. She lost her balance and grabbed at a table to keep from falling. She felt the gun slip and was afraid she might lose it down the back of her jeans. She faked scratching her back and secured the gun at the top of her waistband. She glanced through the smoke, located Leila, and moved to her side.

  “Are you going to allow him to be put out there without a word?” she whispered. “Are you going to let Christopher watch him die?”

  Leila met her gaze for an instant, but her eyes wavered drunkenly.

  “Don’t you even care?” Melanie pressed.

  “Doesn’t matter. Tomas is better off. He’ll be dead and finished with this torture.” Leila’s breath was sour with wine, and Melanie turned her face away, both disgusted and pitying the woman. Both were emotions she never would have imagined having toward Leila, who was more beautiful and sophisticated than Melanie would ever be.

  “When he’s gone, the decision of what to do next will be mine. We’ll be done with it, as well.” Leila stroked Christopher’s hair as she calmly discussed killing him.

  Melanie was stunned. “I’d never let you do that to him.”

  “You have no say in the matter, Melanie. You’re not part of my family. You’ve never been anything more to me than a pain in my ass.” Leila nodded toward the front of the tavern. “Now, your love is about to be fed to the wolves.”

  Melanie shook her head. “I used to think you were everything I could never be. I thought you must be something special to get a man like Tomas. I assume now, you must have been nothing more than one hell of an actress. You’re nothing but garbage, Leila. Tomas has always known it, too, but he was too good to say anything.”

  “So what? Isn’t it a little late for this proclamation of self-worth? I mean, it is the end of the world.”

  A group ushered Tomas toward the front door. He glanced around and, for the first time, looked truly afraid.

  Melanie slipped her hand up the back of her coat and wrenched the gun from the waistband of her jeans. For a horrifying moment, it snagged on the elastic of her panties, but she managed to free it without notice, and without wounding herself.

  She raised it and fired at the ceiling. The kick snapped her wrist backward, and the report startled her. Someone screamed, then the entire tavern hushed, heads swiveling toward her.

  Ginger-colored sawdust rained down like a dusting of nutmeg. Christopher crushed his tiny hands to his ears and hollered for his father again. Several other children joined him, crying loudly.

  Lunde ambled toward her, ale still in one thick fist, the other hand open in front of him. “You’re going to hurt someone.”

  Melanie raised the gun even with Lunde’s bearded face. “Come any closer, and you’ll be the first. Now, let him go.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Morgan said, stalking toward her.

  “It is,” Melanie answered, her voice more even and sure. “Or I’m going to shoot you.”

  Morgan laughed.

  Melanie grabbed the edge of Leila’s coat and guided her toward the still-locked front door.

  “Tomas isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you.” Lunde took a menacing step toward Melanie. He slung his ale bottle to the floor.

  Melanie suddenly felt she had the starring role in a bad western. Her finger caressed the trigger. More than anything, she didn’t want to fire and hear that awful thunder crack again. The children were quieting, with only occasional sniffles and hiccupping sobs. She sure as hell didn’t want to get that wailing started again.

  “Watch him,” Tomas cried.

  She saw Lunde reach behind his back. Things unfolded so fast, Melanie never had a moment to think. Her every movement was action and reaction. Tomas brought his bound fists up and back down across the side of Lunde’s thick neck. Lunde’s pistol clattered to the floor, a stray round whizzing so closely past Melanie’s face that she felt the breeze of it touch her skin. Tomas shoved the pistol toward her with the toe of his boot, and she snatched it up before anyone else could get their hands around it.

  Morgan spun around and slugged Tomas in the face, driving him to his knees. Tomas was quickly swallowed up by a half-dozen bodies, kicking and hitting as if they were putting out a fire.

  “Stop it!” Melanie screamed. Her breath caught with every dull thud that landed on Tomas’s defenseless body. Lunde lunged at her. Grabbing her wrists, he began prying her fingers from the gun. He smelled as if he hadn’t bathed since well before Solstice. His lank hair was a curtain in front of his bloodshot eyes, his lips curled back from his neglected teeth.

  Grunting, he yanked her index finger back, and she both felt and heard the dull snap, like a dry twig underfoot. She screamed, black spots spreading in her vision for a moment. She fought unconsciousness, determined to get Tomas and Christopher from the tavern of madness. Her lungs seized up, and her breathing came in weak, labored wheezes.

  Tomas was no longer fighting back. Time was getting short. The group of men dragged him across the floor, shoving the old priest aside. Henriksen unbarred the door and tossed the plank aside.

  Melanie refused to let go of the gun, but it was becoming slick in her hand from perspiration. Lunde had the barrel in his fist, pulling and tugging on it, his face a mask of rage and determination.

  Melanie squeezed the trigger again, and the shot thundered in the small barroom. The children resumed their howling, and Lunde spun away, bellowing and gripping the right side of his neck.

  Then, all but the crying children went silent, and Tomas was briefly abandoned. Lunde pulled his hand from his neck and stared at it with an expression of disbelief. “Son of a bitch! She shot me.” His voice rose with panic. “That little bitch shot me.”

  Melanie’s mouth became very dry, and again, she fought to keep from fainting. Her entire hand throbbed like a toothache, and she couldn’t bend her finger. Mentally, she began to count, breathing with the beats. Hold on, Melanie. You can’t fall out now!

  “Who’s next?” she gasped, her teeth gritted against the pain. She pushed
through the crowd and went to Tomas’s side. Leila stumbled drunkenly with her, Christopher still cradled against her chest, wide-eyed, his thumb wedged securely in his mouth.

  Tomas struggled to his feet, fresh blood coming from his nose and a new gash below one eye.

  “Everyone get away from him,” Melanie ordered

  Tomas’s eyes met hers briefly, and he smiled.

  “Now, we’re leaving, and nobody is going to do anything about it.” Melanie pointed the gun at a trembling boy who appeared to be no more than seventeen. “Untie him.” She found she quite liked the instant power that came with wielding a firearm. For the moment, she was untouchable. She was in charge and safe. Her breathing began to calm, her lungs opening, welcoming the dank air.

  The boy seemed to take forever to get the extension cord unknotted, his hands shook so badly. Once Tomas was free, Melanie gave him the pistol Lunde had dropped. Lunde was bleeding out, and nobody made a move to help him.

  Keeping the gun up and ready, Tomas grabbed Leila’s arm and guided her toward the door.

  “I’m not going,” Leila said, pulling away. “We’re staying here.” She hugged her writhing son tightly.

  “No!” Christopher hollered, hysterically kicking his small legs. “I want Daddy!” His face turned a frightening shade of grape-purple.

  Tomas frowned and pulled at her coat. “Don’t be stupid, Leila.”

  Christopher screamed for Daddy again, and Leila relented with a sigh.

  Tomas threw open the door and took a quick glance outside. “Come on. It’s clear. Quickly!” He pressed the button on his keychain, and the Rover’s doors unlocked with a sharp click.

  “Can I come with you?” the young man who had untied Tomas asked.

  Tomas ignored him, but Melanie’s heart broke for him. How long would it be before they sent him out as a sacrifice? “I’m sorry,” she said, climbing into the backseat. Bo licked the side of her face sloppily, overjoyed his people were back with him.

  Henriksen rushed to the door and yelled after them, “How the hell are we going to make it with only one goddamned gun? You’ve just signed our death certificates!”