Page 23 of Dead Vengeance

My heart is in my throat. Can zombies use locks? Do they know how that stuff works? Are these smart zombies or dumb zombies? Fast or slow? Am I the only thing standing between London and a full-blown zombie apocalypse? Because if that’s the case, London is unequivocally fucked.

The door’s opening before I can get a single thought straight, or vaguely imagine doing anything about this mess I’ve stumbled into.

The door’s opening, and there’s a shuffle of boots against the floor, and every time I watched a zombie film I never imagined I’d be the character just standing here, frozen, too scared to move and about to die. But that’s who I am. This is how I die.

Fast, with a sudden smack, the door completes its movement, and there, in front of me, stands zombie Raul, covered in blood from head to toe, his clothes ripped and his face blank just like a motherfucking zombie.

Oh fuck.

Oh holy fuck.

I’m about to die by zombie.

Until, “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he spits out. Normally. Like a normal person talking.

Do zombies talk? I’ve never seen a zombie talk. But come to think of it, why can’t zombies talk? They have voice boxes.

“What?” I ask stupidly, expecting him to lunge any second and take my throat with him.

“Why are you in here? You’re supposed to be out there helping me, not hiding in here like a fucking mouse. Get out there!”

“What? But…”

My eyes rake over him, head to toe. His hair is matted with blood. It’s all over his face. But the arm—the arm that dripped blood through the broken pieces—it’s whole. Normal through the torn shirt. And his face… It was caved in! Now… not even a bruise to be seen behind the rivers of blood.

“You were dead.” I say it as much as a confirmation to myself as information for him. He was dead. He was. I saw it with my own eyes. “Are you still dead?”

“I’m not fucking dead,” he snipes. “Do I look fucking dead to you?”

“Kind of?”

His eyes squeeze to thin slits.

“Have you actually seen yourself?” But even as I say it, relief takes me over. Insane, feverish, joyful relief that makes me grin like a maniac, makes a mad laugh crack out of me. “You’re… Are you not dead? Raul!” I trip forward in my excitement, my hands landing on his arms. “I was so sure you were dead. That whole chandelier, I thought it squashed you flat!”

“What chandelier?” He shoves me off, clearly still the very same guy who refused to shake my hand earlier. “What are you talking about?”

“The one that fell on you! And…” His brow creases. I stall. “Don’t you remember? Oh my god, you probably shouldn’t be standing here. You probably have some kind of head injury. Let’s go sit, and I’ll get you some help.”

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to sit down, mate.”

“Huh?” My words halt. What is even going on here? A ghost dropped a chandelier on my coworker’s head, and no matter how mad that sounds, I know it for a fact. I saw it. And so did…Archer…

Archer went back.

A new, fresh, and overwhelming wave of anxiety takes me. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here with you?”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who? Gravely! Where’s Archer?”

“Oh, well, while you’ve been having a little relax in here, I’ve been dealing with some real shit. Now, if you don’t mind?” He stands aside with a sarcastic bow.

Yep, still an asshole.

It takes everything in me not to shove him into the doorframe on my way past, but I follow his suggestion and step out into the hall.

The relative darkness sets me straight back on my guard. Raul’s not dead, and I’m thankful for that. But there was a ghost. I saw an actual fucking ghost, and it’s almost definitely still around here somewhere. But Archer. Where’s…