Floyd and Cooter exchanged looks.
“Maybe we should split up,” Otis suggested. “Things’ll go faster that way.”
“Oh sheet. I dunno, Otis. We usually hunt together,” Floyd told him. “Bad luck goan against tradition. Ain’t it?”
“Don’ give a sheet. I want to find these fuckers and I want them dead fast.” Beneath the handkerchief, Otis grinned. “We got some fresh pussy to get to.”
Ross reached for the barbed-wire fence. It was about ten feet tall, not impossible to climb. He was about to wrap his fingers around it when someone grabbed his shoulder.
“Don’t,” a voice said. “It’s live.” Tabby let go gently.
“How can you be sure?”
“They wouldn’t risk us escaping. And remember? They have generators.”
“Don’t do it, Dad,” Landry said. “It’s not worth it.”
Ross turned, looking past them, at the leaf-covered hill in the middle of the woods. Zombies were drunkenly swaying their way up, none of them moving fast enough to be considered a threat. There weren’t many. Ross could count their numbers with his fingers. However, if enough were drawn to their location, it would cause problems. At the time, heading for the fence seemed like a good strategy, but Ross realized that Tabby was right—there was no way the rednecks would risk them surviving.
“Shit,” Ross muttered. “What the hell do we do now?”
The zombies’ utterances were growing louder. The smell accompanying their arrival intensified.
“We can run?” Tabby suggested.
“Tired of running,” Ross said. He bent down, picking up the nearest branch. It was a good size, about the length of a hockey stick and the thickness of a dough roller. One of the walkers reached the top of the hill. Ross swung at its head. He cracked the zombie across its face, causing it to lose balance. It fell on its side, tumbling down the hill. The next zombie made it to the top. Ross ended its climb similarly.
“Can’t play King of the Hill forever, Dad,” Landry said.
“Have any better ideas?” Ross said.
“Actually I—”
An arrow zipped through the air and found a home in the tree next to Landry’s head.
It hurt like hell, but he climbed the tree with one arm. Ben and Paul had given him a big boost toward the first branch. He banged his arm on a few branches, nearly screamed from the intense pain that streaked up and down his arm, but he was able to subdue his outburst. Josh got himself halfway up the tree when he couldn’t take it anymore. He had done further damage to his arm, there was no question about it. He jeopardized the healing process for sure. Josh began to worry that his arm might never heal correctly. Well, if this plan goes sour, I won’t have to worry about that, now will I? He maintained a comfortable squatting positing, waiting for the Three Little Pigs to come.
He wouldn’t have to wait long.
“Don’ think I don’ see yer ass up der,” a southern voice said.
Josh looked down and saw one of them—he couldn’t tell which, but it appeared to be the fatter one—standing on top of the Toyota he had tried to plunder. Josh looked beyond the redneck, seeing a head rising from behind the car. It was Ben. He had been hiding beneath the car the whole time Josh was ascending the tree. A few zombies plodded in their general direction. There were no signs of Victoria or Paul.
“I wonder how you should die…” the hunter said. He pointed his rifle at Josh, while lining up the scope with his eye. “Gunshot. Fall from tree. Or zombie.”
“How’s about none of the above, motherfucker,” Ben said, taking the tree branch he acquired to the hunter’s knee. The fat man shrieked as his knee gave, his bulbous body coming down on the windshield, cracking it on contact. The glass spider-webbed from the point of impact. The hunter’s rotund figure slowly rolled down the hood of the car, landing in the wet grass below. Josh watched Ben pounced on him like a jungle cat. Victoria and Paul rushed out of the woods, joining him.
A sick joy ran through Josh as he witnessed his three friends beat the man within an inch of his life. Ben repeatedly hit him with the stick, while Victoria and Paul continuously kicked him. The ribs. The chest. Directly in the face. Josh listened to the sounds of the First Little Piggy’s body breaking with the same satisfaction he would with a new song from his favorite band.
He maneuvered his way through the branches to a position where he felt comfortable jumping. Josh let go of the branches, landing on both feet. The impact left a sting, but nothing compared to the searing pain that ran down the right side of his body.
Josh joined his friends.
Paul had taken the gun from the hunter’s clutches. His handkerchief had been removed, revealing a bloody, almost unrecognizable face. Josh thought it was the one who had been introduced as Cooter.
Ben stepped back from the violent scene. Around them, zombies grew closer.
“We don’t have to kill him,” Ben said. “The zombies will do that for us.”
Paul switched off the gun’s safety. “But I want to.”
Ben placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Killing a human is much different than killing a zombie.”
Paul laughed through his nose. “These people aren’t human. They’re less human than the fucking zombies.”
“That may be,” Ben agreed. “But if you pull that trigger, you’re no better than them.”
Beneath his bloody mask, Cooter chuckled. He meant to say something, but scarlet fluids filled his mouth, sputtering down his chin.
“I disagree,” Paul said, then yanked the trigger.
The gun roared. A dark, red hole appeared on Cooter’s forehead.
Above them, birds screamed while abandoning their nests, fleeing into the bright morning sky.
Floyd Barker followed four shadows deep into the woods. He pulled the trigger on his crossbow, but his targets were too far away. The arrow sailed into the distance, disappeared. He stopped to reload when he heard crunchy footfalls behind him. They were closing in. He abandoned the crossbow, removing the long, segregated hunting knife that had been strapped to his leg. He looked up, seeing a blur rush toward him. He barely caught a glimpse of the monster’s face before it barreled into him. Its tongue hung from its mouth, bloody saliva trickling down its chin. It snarled, a resonating inhuman sound that echoed through the woods. Floyd drove the knife deep into the runner’s chest, but it didn’t prevent the creature from taking a chunk out of his neck. Floyd hollered girlishly as the zombie spit the bloody clump of flesh out and dove in for seconds. Pushing the zombie off by grabbing its tattered shirt and flinging it sideways, Floyd spat obscenities. The zombie stood its ground, snapping at Floyd’s wrist, catching his flesh between its teeth. It peeled Floyd’s skin back like a roll of duct tape. Withdrawing his arm from the creature’s mouth, Floyd screamed when he saw his own bone beneath the torn flesh. His uninjured hand took the hunting knife, plunging it between the zombie’s eyes. The corpse fell to the ground, puss and other infectious fluids bubbling out from the knife wound.
Floyd glanced around, hoping Otis and Cooter heard his screams. However, only figures Floyd saw trudging through the forest were the dead.
He cursed himself and his brothers for being so stupid. Did they really think they were going to survive this? How cocky could they have been? Now he was left alone, bitten and bleeding, his veins pumping the infection throughout his body.
Shee-it, Floyd thought, as half a dozen zombies closed in on him, licking their lips, ready to satisfy their seemingly unquenchable hunger.
“Did you hear that?” Tabby asked. “Sounded like someone screaming.”