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DEATH ANGEL
The other bikers were also fierce, but none were as massive or as unbearably terrifying as Death Angel.
The wooden sword in Morgie’s fist felt ridiculously fragile and useless. Beside him, Riot lowered her slingshot, letting the steel ball roll out. If it came to a fight, they were never going to beat that inhuman monster or his people. Never in a million years.
The bikes passed so close to the semi that the two teens could see the tread on their tires and the mud-caked boots on the foot pegs. Morgie and Riot clung to each other’s hands, knowing that death was one tiny moment away.
But the bikes rolled on, leaving behind a cloud of dust that hung like a pall over the parking lot. Morgie and Riot dared not move until the sounds of the bikes dwindled and then faded. Silence blew like a winter wind beneath the big rig, chilling them and the whole day.
Slowly, very slowly and carefully, they got to their feet, still holding hands. They stood there, weak and sick and trembling. Never before in his life, not since the world expanded for him beyond the walls of his town, had Morgie Mitchell ever felt this young. This small.
This helpless.
68
DAWN WAS A PALE PROMISE on the horizon when they wheeled their quads outside and continued on their way.
“Asheville today,” said Morgie. His voice sounded weak and fragile even to his own ears. Riot just shrugged. “Look… we’re both sick, and getting sicker. If Asheville is still there, then there will be doctors. Hospitals.”
She nodded weakly.
They plunged into the woods, following a road that was badly overgrown. The forest was vast and lush, and no attempt had been made to keep it from reclaiming the highway that cut through it. Only the movement of zombie swarms had trampled down the tall weeds and crushed some of the persistent shrubs that grew out of the many cracks in the asphalt. Where young trees stood, the marks of the swarm simply went around them.
“How many do you think came through here?” asked Morgie, studying the massive swath the shamblers had cut through the overgrowth.
Riot shook her head. “Way too many.”
They rode on.
Several miles in, they rode along the French Broad River, which was a brilliant blue ribbon laid haphazardly through the forest. Sunlight sparkled on the rippling water and birds bobbed near the bank, watching the quads with unreadable eyes. Morgie had an irrational desire to stop his bike, strip to the skin, and dive into the wat
er as if it was some healing bath that could wash away the red rash and all of his other pains, inside and out. He gazed longingly at it as the miles rolled away beneath his tires.
I should never have left home, he thought. Never.
As if in reply, the blisters on his skin seemed to all flare at the same time. It was like being spattered with hot cooking grease, and he hissed. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, that it sent a wave of nausea through him and he had to stop, jump off the bike, and throw up.
Riot stopped to wait. It did not take Morgie long, but he walked down to the river’s edge and plunged his face into the clear, pure water. Despite the day’s heat, the water was shockingly cold, and he kept his face under for as long as he could. Then he leaned back on his heels, sputtering and gasping as water sluiced down under his carpet coat and body armor.
“You alive down there?” called Riot.
Morgie grunted. “Define ‘alive’…”
He splashed a few handfuls of water on his face and over his hair, then got up and climbed shakily back to the road.
They drove on, moving more slowly now since both of them were so out of it. They made frequent stops. Neither could keep down any food. Morgie felt like he was more asleep than awake. Or, maybe, more dead than alive. The drone of the motor was muffled, as if he was going away, deeper into his own dark thoughts.
Neither of them was paying much attention, and had no warning at all when a pair of motorcycles burst from the woods to their right. Riot screamed as the lead bike slammed into her quad.
“Riot!” screamed Morgie as the big motorcycle knocked her quad right off the road. Two wheels lifted, and the whole machine canted over and rolled down the hill. Morgie saw Riot tumbling on the slope a few feet away, having either dived or been thrown free from the quad. Even so, the force of her fall sent her bumping and churning down toward the water.
Out of the corner of his eye Morgie saw something rushing at his face, and he threw himself sideways as the blade of a farming scythe slashed through the air where his neck had been. He fell out of the saddle, and the quad kept rolling until it smashed into a pine tree. Morgie hit hard, tried to tuck and roll, bungled it because it was all happening too fast, and instead flopped hard onto the weedy asphalt. The air left his lungs in a whoosh, but he forced himself to twist again as the wheel of Death Angel’s bike roared past, inches from his face.
Morgie scrambled up, coughing weakly as he did so, fighting pain and nausea. The bike that hit Riot was twenty feet behind him, and Death Angel was turning his for another run. That gave Morgie only a scant few seconds. Run, help Riot, or fight. Those were his choices, and none was good. Only one made any real sense, though.
He ran to his quad and tore the bokken from its holder, and instead of waiting for Death Angel to come at him, Morgie charged the monstrous ravager. The killer grinned as if amused by the attack and he gunned his bike with one hand while raising the scythe with the other. It was a testament to the biker’s massive strength that he could handle the cumbersome tool as if it was a small hatchet.
“This is my meat,” he bellowed to his companion. “Get the girl. I want to hear her scream.”
