I have no idea how long I sat there like that—unwilling, or maybe even unable, to move. There were moments that felt as if minutes were dragging past at a snail’s pace, and moments where it seemed as if entire hours had flown by without notice. Even after the sun had dropped behind the buildings, knowing full well that it would be dark soon, I still didn’t move.
Then, as the last vestiges of light streaking dimly across the ravaged shop began to fade, I heard something—a faint scratching noise off in the distance.
I went stock-still, waiting to hear it again.Scraaaatch-scraaaatch.
Rising from the chair, I moved to the front of the building, peering outside.
Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
Whatever it was, it was growing louder. Closer.
Scraaaatch-scraaaatch.
Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
I glanced up and down the street, unable to pinpoint its location. The otherwise silence served as an echo-chamber, making the sound seem as if it were coming from every direction.
Scraaaatch-scraaaatch. Scraaaaatch-scraaaaatch.
The stink of it reached me first—the same putrid stench all the dead carried with them—and moments later a figure emerged from behind an abandoned delivery truck. It limped across the street, its left leg and what remained of its left foot—a bony stub being dragged across the concrete—was the source of the scratching noise.
It continued toward me, soon close enough for me to fully appreciate the sheer horror of its face. Its eyes were milky white—a sign of just how old it was—and the skin around its jaw had been shredded and left hanging in rotten, shriveled ribbons.
I glanced back at the table where my tire iron lay and was debating on whether to kill it or let it pass by, when a familiar sounding hum gave me pause. There was a shout, followed by the sound of tires squealing. As the Creeper swung in the direction ofthe approaching commotion, I dropped down into a crouch, ducking back behind the wall.
A military Jeep was speeding down the street, flanked by two motorcycles. All three vehicles slowed as they passed the Creeper, encircling it.
“Shit,” I whispered, counting six—no, seven people. All of them were armed.
“Y’all, I got this,” a gritty, feminine voice drawled. One of the motorcyclists climbed off their bike; helmeted, with a long blonde braid hanging down her back, she wore a tight red leather jacket that showed off her ample curves.
Instead of using the sawed-off shotgun strapped to her back, she pulled a wooden baseball bat from her saddlebag and charged the Creeper, swinging with all the skill and grace of a pro ballplayer. The bat clipped the Creeper under its chin, shattering whatever jawbones were still intact, and sending it staggering backward. Despite its injuries, it quickly regained its purpose and began careening toward her once again.
“That’s it, sugar,” she taunted, crooking a gloved finger. “Come to mama.”
“Britta!” the driver of the Jeep called out. He was a heavily bearded man wearing military-style camouflage; standing in his seat, his elbows were perched on the top of the roll cage—an impressive DIY made from steel tubing and heavy-duty fencing. “We’re burnin’ diesel and daylight—hurry up and kill that fucker!”
“Patience, Davey—jeez loueez. How many times I gotta tell ya that killin’ is an art form?”
“Your art is gonna make me late for dinner.”
At that, titters of laughter rose from the group.
“It’s beef stew tonight, Brit,” another man called out. “You wouldn’t make a man miss his favorite meal now, would ya?”
Ignoring her companions, Britta swung again, this time catching the Creeper on the side of its face. It folded to one side, toppling over. Unable to get back up again, it began a pitiful crawl forward. Britta backed away slowly, humming a familiar-sounding tune, and swinging the bat around like a baton twirler in a marching band.
The loud crack of a bullet ejecting from its chamber made us both jump—Britta and me. On the ground, the Creeper lay unmoving, brain matter seeping from the newly smoking hole in its skull. The second motorcyclist had dismounted their bike and was currently tucking their pistol back inside their chest holster. Removing their helmet, a fair-skinned face was revealed, with messy, short brown hair cut into a pixie style.
“Dagnabbit, Lei!” Britta huffed. “You’ve gone and spoiled my fun again.”
“You know I hate when you play with them,” Lei replied. Her tone was gentle, yet commanding, and with no trace of the accent that both Britta and Davey possessed.
“Quit your whining, Harley Quinn, and help me load the body.” The man who’d expressed worry over missing his dinner sauntered past Britta, smirking. He was a big guy, well built, who looked to be in early to mid-thirties, but what really struck me was his clean-shaven face. In fact, all of them were well groomed and clean; even their vehicles were clean. It all made sense now—why this town was so tidy, and why there weren’t any Creepers hanging around anywhere. Whoever these people were, I was positive that they had a pretty nice setup somewhere nearby.
The man stopped suddenly, abruptly glancing in my direction. Reflexes in check, I dropped down. His steps picked up again, growing louder as he headed toward me. Heart pounding, I held my breath, my hand poised to grab the gun tucked into my belt. I’d shoot him if I had to, though I doubted I’d get very far with six armed people on my tail, and with vehicles at their disposal. Still, I’d never go down without a fight.
“What’s the holdup, Joe—you see somethin’ in there?”
