Break!
The door flew open, tearing off its bolts in a rain of rust and splinters. The gloom hurled the noise back at him, an echo of rolling thunder.
Ash staggered through the ragged gap into a tunnel that stretched in three directions, wide, slick, and arched. Brick vaulted over him like the ribcage of a buried giant, every curve slick with condensation. Water threaded the floor, running inthin silver rivulets toward deeper dark. The walls wept moisture, their seams crawling with black moss and pale fungus. The air hung heavy with the reek of sewage and old earth.
He drew a sharp breath, forcing his senses wide open. Sound behaved strangely here, warping, bending, every drip ricocheting down the long throat of the corridor like the ticking of some unseen machine. The darkness unfolded in strata of black and silver, his eyes piercing the shadows enough to see the way. Far-off drips mapped the depth of the place, a slow percussion beneath the city’s buried heart.
Running now, bare feet slapping against wet cobbles, he followed the faint current of air that smelled of rain and asphalt. Passages forked and twisted, collapsing into dead ends, flooded chambers, and blind turns that spiraled back on themselves, their walls ribbed with corroded pipes and crumbling stone. Once, these tunnels must have belonged to something: an abandoned subway line, or older still, sewers from a time when Calgrave’s bones were first laid down. Now they were catacombs of the city’s discarded arteries, clogged with mold and the breath of long decay.
He moved, driven by instinct more than direction, chasing the promise of the surface before the maze could close its jaws around him.
A soft, dragging swish came beneath the dripping. Footfall. The same he’d heard before, rustling outside of his jail.
Ash froze, every muscle locking tight. He pressed himself behind a slick stone pillar, heart thundering against his ribs. He wouldn’t let that bastard catch him again. A damp, fetid stench crawled up his sinuses, meat left too long in a cellar, soaked and forgotten. He waited, crouched low, breath shallow. A silhouette lurched into view from the adjoining shaft.
Ash moved first. He leapt from behind the pillar, slamming into the figure with all his weight. They crashed to the ground,bone and stone meeting with a hollow thud. Ash swung, fist connecting with a skull. The impact split the dry, bloodless skin, and a sharp crack rang through the tunnels. The head lolled sideways, jaw hanging loose, eyes clouded in a milky glaze.
It was a corpse. Walking.
The thing gurgled, a wet hiss escaping its throat as it clawed for him. Fingers like dried sticks raked his skin, then clamped around his neck with the steady pressure of a vise, unyielding, merciless.
Ash clamped onto the wrists, feeling knuckle and tendon under brittle skin. He twisted; the left arm snapped at the joint with a dry pop and dropped, the severed hand scrabbling uselessly across the ground. He wrenched the other arm free, tearing it from the socket with a dull, shredding crack. The thing convulsed, its ruined torso spasming, but it still wouldn’t go down.
Ash scrambled up, chest heaving, the putrefied stink thick on his tongue. “Zombies?” he spat between gasps. “Rick said there were no fucking—”
A murmur cut him off—a low shuffle, followed by another. Then more.
Shapes began to stir in the shadows, dragging themselves out of the dark. Three, five, ten of them. Their flesh was parchment-dry, clinging to bone in gray tatters, veins like black cords under waxen skin. Mouths hung open, as if caught mid-scream, and eyes like white marbles fixed on him, reflecting nothing. They moved with the terrible patience of things that had forgotten how to quit.
Ash spun and bolted down the nearest corridor. He ran blind, taking corners without thought, feet splashing through puddles, breath ragged in the damp air. The sound of pursuit swelled behind him, the dry percussion of limbs dragging throughsludge, the thud of dead footsteps on cobblestone. It filled the tunnels like a single monstrous pulse.
Panic burned up in his chest as every passage curved back into another, each turn birthing fresh silhouettes from the gloom. Wherever he went, they were waiting. He skidded to a halt at the crossroad, realizing the futility of running. The maze had teeth, and he was already in its throat.
A raw scream tore from him, half fury, half despair. They came from all sides now, shambling, persistent, unstoppable.
Chapter Fifty-Six
(1:05 p.m.)
Rick swung the Eldorado to the curb and snapped the engine off, the growl fading into the hiss of rain and thunder. Willow Lane lay under a pall of gray, the kind of washed-out afternoon where the sky hung heavy and close, blurring into the skyline. Water rushed through the gutters, carrying leaves and cigarette butts into the drains. The air smelled of rust and wet brick, of old storms trapped by alleys too narrow for sun.
The rowhouse stood ahead like a monument to decay—a two-story relic sagging under its own age, the brick façade strangled by ivy and streaked with soot. Curtains hung drawn like lids over dead eyes, and a patch of blackened roses wilted in the mud by the stoop. Behind it, the railroad overpass loomed: a concrete leviathan stretching into haze, its pillars sullen monoliths holding up the sky.
Rick darted out into the downpour, eying the house as he rushed toward it. Something about the place crawled beneath his skin, a wrongness he couldn’t name but knew on instinct. A blind beggar shuffled along the street, soaked to the bone, muttering about the living dead and the end of days. His words came in bursts, broken prophecy swallowed by rain, until a passing car’s splash drowned him out. Rick glanced at him and kept moving. Whatever madness haunted this city, he had no time for it. The real thing waited behind that door. He leaped over the steps and slammed his fist against the wood. Once. Twice. A third time, harder.
No answer. Only the rainstorm’s sputter and the whisper of ivy in the wind.
He tried the knob. It held firm. His grip tightened, then twisted. The lock gave with a harsh metallic snap as the deadbolt tore from the frame. The door swung loose, crooked on its hinges, the busted latch clattering to the floor.
Gun drawn, Rick stepped inside. His pulse thundered, but his breathing stayed even, the practiced calm of a man wired for danger. The scent of mold, dust, and damp earth rose to meet him. Rain dimmed to a murmur outside the walls. Somewhere deeper in the house, a pipe ticked with a steady rhythm, the sound small but alive. He stood in the narrow hall, water dripping from his coat, as pale daylight filtered past the curtains and gave the air a spectral glow.
The living room stretched ahead, dim and heavy with furniture. Velvet sofas faced a wide fireplace, their once-rich color dulled by time and dirt. Classical paintings hung in brass frames along the walls, landscapes and still lifes, but no family photos anywhere. A clock on the mantle had stopped at twelve, its frozen hands gleaming in the quiet. There was a trace of old roses and something medicinal in the stuffy air.
Rick moved carefully, Colt in hand, eyes tracking over the armchairs and low shelves. An afghan lay crumpled on the couch. Scattered notes sprawled across an end table beside a half-full teacup. He touched the mug—it was still lukewarm. Whoever had been here had left in haste, not long ago.
He crossed into the parlor, the carpet muffling his steps. A narrow hallway led toward the kitchen, where weak light pooled through a small window. The scent of damp plaster clung to the walls. He brushed past a coat rack. A man’s jacket hung there, slightly askew, as if pulled down in a hurry. Beside it, a woman’s shawl drooped.His mother’s,Rick thought.She’s been gone three months. Only the son’s been coming back.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, listening. There was only the creak of the old house settling. He climbed, each step groaning under his shoes.
