100-Days-in-Deadland(53)

We stopped at the door leading from the garage to the house. Streaks of dried blood marred the paint. Clutch reached for the handle and turned it slowly. The hinges protested with a small creak. He looked inside and then took a step in. I immediately followed, checking behind the door and then taking the side of the door opposite from Clutch.

Even wearing a Kevlar helmet with the face shield down, the stench of decay and excrement was overpowering, and I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. No zed had emerged yet, which meant that maybe it hadn’t heard the door open.

Or maybe it just moved slowly.

A zed that I assumed had once been Tom Pierson ambled around the corner right when Clutch took a step forward. It saw us and gave a guttural hiss. I was closer. I swung, cleaving the top section of its head clean off. Some brown goo hemorrhaged from the wound, but not nearly as much as had come from Alan’s head in the back of Clutch’s rig. It seemed like the longer they’d been infected, the less “wet” they were…and a hell of a lot more smelly. I gagged and tried to block the stench that made me think of what moldy cottage cheese, rotten eggs, and putrid ground beef blended together would smell like.

Clutch kneeled by the body, and lifted its shirt. “Looks like someone unloaded a small caliber into him. If I had to guess, I’d say it was done after he turned.” Then Clutch stood, stepped over the body, and moved into the next room.

I followed, hoping the smell would improve. It didn’t. The living room was a mess. Broken glass and suitcases littered the floor. On the coffee table sat a purse with several hundred dollars scattered about. It looked like the guy’s wife was planning an escape. Too bad money couldn’t have helped her. I noticed the pistol then. It was a .22, similar to my first pistol. I picked it up and checked the cartridge. Empty. I frowned and slid the .22 into the back of my belt. “I don’t think she got out.”

Clutch’s lips thinned and he nodded before moving through the room and into the hallway. He took the stairs with silent steps, and I had to concentrate to be as quiet. Upstairs, there were no signs of struggle, though there were clear signs that someone had been in a hurry to pack. Drawers were pulled open, clothes draped the bed.

But no dark stains or bodies.

I checked under the bed while Clutch checked the closet. We repeated the process with the next three rooms. “Clear,” I said, though fear nagged at me. Where had she gone? Had she managed to flee the house before she turned?

We headed back down the stairs and finished off the rest of the ground floor. When we came to the last closed door, I groaned when I saw the blood on the handle. “It had to be the basement, didn’t it.”

I reached over and pulled out the flashlight from Clutch’s belt, and clicked it on. He motioned three-two-one before opening the door. Pitch black and vile stench greeted us. Beneath the smell of decay that haunted the entire house, the basement also smelled of wet earth and mildew.

With no windows to let in light, I realized that this must be a cellar like the one at Clutch’s house. I shone the light down the stairs to reveal dried blood stains on the steps but no movement. I glanced at Clutch. With a shrug, he called out, “Any zed-f*cks down there?”

Something clanked, and then something grunted. The sounds of moaning, shuffling, and banging continued.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sang, shining the light across the floor to draw it out. There’d been plenty of blood, and I suspected this was where Tom’s wife escaped after being attacked. Dark water covered at least a third of the floor, and I realized that without power, sump pumps could no longer do their jobs.

At the edge of the water, the light fell on a horribly damaged carcass of something small that had tufts of yellow fur still attached. I cringed. “Ah, geez. She ate the cat.”

A shape fell forward, and I jumped.

“And there’s the missus,” Clutch said drily.

Mrs. Pierson must’ve been brutally attacked by the man she’d trusted most in the world. Bites spanned the zed’s neck, hands, and arms. Scratches covered its face, but I suspected those were from the cat fighting for its life. The zed stumbled forward, reaching for the light with each step. Clutch pulled out his Glock but didn’t fire.

The zed kicked the first stair step. Bumped into it again. The third time, it fell forward.

“How about that,” I said. “They can’t climb stairs.”

As it dragged itself up, it started the process over again.

“But they never get tired,” Clutch replied. “I bet if it kept at it long enough, it’d get lucky and fall up the stairs.” He fired the gun, and the zed fell backward, its hand making a small splash in the standing water.