Cruel World(139)

“That’s enough. Just hold the f*cker,” Bracken said. Rough hands grasped Quinn’s arms and hair locking him in place. The gun barrel pressed against his forehead, and through the red-tinted glaze that covered his eyes, Bracken leaned closer. “You’re a fighter; I’ll give you that. But the good fight is done.”

The barrel pressed harder.

Quinn closed his eyes, picturing Alice and Ty, his father, Mallory, Graham, Foster, Teresa.

A base thrumming filled the air.

The barrel’s pressure diminished.

The croak came again followed by others.

Quinn opened his eyes and looked past the throng of people to where Thomas ran toward his perch. The soldier’s boots clanged up the metal steps to the top of the barricade. He froze. And even across the distance through the falling rain, Thomas’s words were clear.

“Oh my God.” The soldier twisted toward the group. “You led them right to us!”

A giant hand snaked over the top of the concrete barrier and encircled Thomas’s head. It flexed, and there was a sound like an egg cracking on a tabletop. The arm yanked the soldier’s limp body up and over the wall in a flail of lifeless legs and arms.

Cries erupted from the marauders, and the hands that held Quinn released him as they grabbed for weapons. Bracken had turned partially to the side, his pistol still inches from Quinn’s face.

Quinn whipped his hand up and grabbed the gun by the barrel, snapping it one way and tipping his head the other.

The gun went off. His hand jerked with the recoil, heat flaring in his palm. He tightened his grip and twisted, yanking the pistol from Bracken’s fingers.

He rolled to the side as Bracken launched a kick at his chest. The gritty mud dug into his skin, but he kept moving, his momentum bringing him to his feet. Bracken had something in his hand. It flashed silver as he leapt forward, driving the long-bladed knife toward Quinn’s heart. Quinn sidestepped and swung the pistol around, connecting the handle with the side of Bracken’s head. The man stumbled as Quinn tossed the gun up, spinning the grip into his palm.

Bracken turned, slicing the air with his blade.

Quinn fired.

The knife blade carved a path an inch from Quinn’s stomach before falling to the ground. Bracken brought both hands up to his chest where a perfectly round hole pumped dark blood onto his shirt. His eyes found Quinn’s, surprise and disbelief filling them to their brims.

Bracken stumbled backwards and tipped off his feet, thudding to the ground in a splash of bloody water and moved no more.

The air was filled with shouts and gunfire, but below it all was the deep, sickening vibration coming from outside the walls. Quinn ran several yards to his left and dove behind a semi-collapsed tent before rising enough to look around.

Bracken’s army was on the walls and firing through gaps in the concrete pillars. They yelled incoherently—no real orders or defined direction, only panic and disarray. Several of the men were turning in circles searching for something. And when one of them spotted Bracken’s lifeless body, they ran to him, crouching by his side before standing and scanning the tents.

Quinn ducked back down. Rain dripped off his nose, and he rubbed the blood from his eyes again before chancing another look. The two men were closer, their attention torn between the tents and the battle raging behind them. One of them yelled something, and a round shredded a hole in the tent beside Quinn’s head. He brought the pistol up and fired twice at both men, re-centering the sights after each recoil. There was a cry of pain as one went down clutching his stomach. The other turned and ran, firing blindly over one shoulder.

Quinn stood and was about to run toward the opposite end of the camp when one of the tall barricades began to rock. Long fingers wrapped over its top and pulled. The barrier tipped and fell outward, tearing away the weak supports that bound it to the others on either side.

Beyond the wall was a sea of pale flesh.

Thousands of stilts lurched toward the walls, their long bodies twisting and turning as they clawed their way forward.

The first stilt stepped into the compound and roared. Someone shot it through the chest. It cried out and fell to its knees, swiping a woman off the scaffolding as it dropped. The woman screamed and hit the ground hard on her side. She tried to regain her feet, but even from the distance he stood, Quinn could see her arm hanging away from her body at an odd angle. The wounded stilt reached out with the last of its strength and pulled her to its mouth, biting the top of her skull off, her scream drowning in its throat.