Page 59

Fast.

Four bikes cut across the intersection ahead of us, tires skidding over broken glass as they block the road. Not motorcycles. Bicycles. Mountain bikes patched with duct tape, scraps of metal, and bits of reflective tape that flash in the gray light. The riders wear face masks, each one painted different. Skeleton grin. Devil teeth. Smiley face with Xs for eyes. One with a cartoon dog face that would almost be funny if guns weren’t pointed at us.

A fucking deranged paperboy brigade.

My hand moves toward my bow.

A distinct click stops me.

Then another.

Then three more.

Safeties switching off.

Above us.

Fuck.

Windows. Second floor on the left. Third on the right. Dark gaps between curtains, broken blinds, cracked glass. I can’t spot all of them, but their aim settles over us. A rifle barrel glints in one upper window. Another shadow shifts behind a curtain. Somewhere higher, a boot scrapes against broken glass.

Everything goes still.

The dead groan behind us, distant but closer than I like. The fence breach hasn’t stopped them. They’re coming, slow and tangled and hungry, and now we have kids with guns in front of us and hidden rifles above us.

Just fucking swell.

Jacob’s handgun is still holstered, fingers curled around the grip. He’s waiting. Lyla’s already clocking exits, jaw relaxed, eyes wrong in the way they get when she starts calculating exactly how much blood a plan will cost. Trish’s hand hovers near her pistol, but she doesn’t draw.

Clair is on the other side of me.

I reach over slowly and hook one finger through the belt loop on her jeans.

Her breath catches.

I pull once, sliding her behind my shoulder.

If things go south, not one bullet hits her.

Never again.

I raise my hands slowly. No sudden moves. No reason to escalate.

Yet.

The biker in front dismounts and flips down the stand on his bike like this is a social call. He removes his skeleton mask. Smug grin. Olive skin. Dark hair curling at his neck. Sharp eyes trying too hard to look older than they are.

Seventeen. Maybe?

The others follow suit with their masks, raising their weapons higher. One boy with a chipped tooth and the devil mask dangling under his chin holds a shotgun too big for his arms. Another girl with her head shaved on one side keeps a pistol trained on Jacob, her finger too tight on the trigger. The third, skinny and pale with the cartoon dog mask pushed up over messy blond hair, grips a rifle with shaking hands. His muzzle keeps drifting between me and Trish.

Nervous kids with guns.

Behind us, the first infected shambles into the mouth of the alley, dragging one leg and leaving a dark smear on the pavement. More shadows move behind it.

The kid in front notices. His grin gets sharper, as though the undead at our backs helps him.

“Well,” he says, stepping closer until he’s halfway between us and his group. “Look what we got here.”