Page 6 of Ghosts of the Dead

“Move!” I shout out, barreling straight toward them.

Autumn spins around in time to see me slam full-force into the rotter. I drive it back into the brick wall with a sickening crunch. It snarls and writhes in my grip. This rotter is strong, but I’m stronger. I’ve also brought toys. I jam the barrel of my rifle under its jaw and squeeze the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

The damn thing’s jammed. Safety’s off and the chamber looks fine, but it’s useless and won’t fire.

“Shit,” I curse. Time to improvise. I yank the rifle back and slam the butt into its skull. Bones crack like eggshells and it drops to the ground. A snarl echoes behind me. “More of you came to the party, huh?”

I spin around to find a second rotter closer than expected. I drop the rifle and reach for my knife, then bury it deep in the side of its throat. Black gore sprays out, hissing as it fills the cracks in the hot pavement. The rotter collapses, still twitching. I slam my boot down to finish severing the spinal cord.

The threat is gone. Momentary quiet settles over us.

I exhale and turn back to Autumn. She’s pressed against the alley wall, her face pale and shoulders trembling. Her chest rises and falls in uneven gasps. Her hand is clenched white-knuckled around her wrist.

“You okay?” I move toward her, but slowly, like she’s a wounded animal. Technically, she is.

She swallows hard, and I swear I see flames erupt in her hazel eyes when she glares at me. “Peachy.”

She shifts her weight and sways on the spot. I reach for her arm on instinct to stabilize her, but the second my hand brushes her wrist, she sucks in a sharp breath and jerks back. “Shit, sorry,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Rough landing?”

“Something like that.” She shrugs with one shoulder like it doesn’t matter, but I’ve seen sprains before. Hell, I’ve limped through missions with broken bones and mild concussions, but I always had a team at my back. She may not have backup, but for now, she’s got me.

“You should let me?—”

“I said I’m fine.” She bites the words out, and I let it go. For now. She can snap at me all she wants, but I won’t let her suffer any longer than necessary.

“Alright.” I take another step back to give her space, but we can’t play this game much longer. More groaning echoes down the alley. They’re getting closer. I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, they’re heading straight for us. Truth be told, I’m surprised we’ve had this much luck in a city like this. Normally, we’d either be rotter food or holedup somewhere counting our last bullets. “We seem to keep drawing attention.”

“I need to get out of this city. I should have never let you chase me in here.”

“Let me chase you? That’s how we’re phrasing it?” I start walking backward, keeping my eyes on the approaching threat. “We can argue about that later, but first we need shelter, or we’re not getting out of here at all. At least, not with all our limbs intact.”

She doesn’t argue this time. That alone tells me she’s hurting more than she wants to admit, and I miss the feisty version of Autumn.

We break into a run. Rotters spill into the street, drawn to us like we’re broadcasting dinner bells. Their heads snap in our direction like vultures spotting carrion. I should come back here someday and nuke the whole damn place.

A building ahead catches my attention. Some run-down dive bar with boarded windows and a crooked sign dangling from one hinge. I kick the door open and shove Autumn inside first. The place reeks of stale beer and mildew. I draw two splintered tables in front of the broken door and wedge them with a half-broken pool cue to hold back the rotters. Autumn heads for the back. Good, she can take cover. Then I won’t have to worry about her while I deal with this.

I reach for my rifle, then remember it’s still lodged in that rotter’s skull. “Goddamn it. What the fuck did you drag me into, Jace?”

The thudding is almost immediate when the first wave slams against the barrier.

“Autumn—” I turn to see her behind the bar, sweeping bottles off shelves and clearing space like she’s hosting a party. “What are you doing?”

“Molotovs.” She kicks off her boots, peels off her socks, and jams them into dusty whiskey bottles.

My jaw ticks. I can’t decide if I’m frustrated, or fascinated by this incredible enigma. “You’ve done this before?”

“Lived through a winter with no heat, and a rotter nest twenty feet from my shelter,” she says, calm as hell. This is insanely attractive, but equally infuriating. I could both kiss her and strangle her all at once. Hmm, I wonder if she’d be into that. “Fire solves a lot of problems,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I snort. “Fair point.”

“Here.” She tosses me a bottle and I catch it one-handed without taking my eyes off her.

I can’t help but notice how she’s favoring that wrist. She doesn’t make it obvious, though, by using her good hand now, plus her teeth when necessary. No hesitation, no whining. Nothing but pure grit. She lights the sock with a beat-up lighter that takes three flicks to spark, then hands it to me to do the same.

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