Page 7 of Ghosts of the Dead

“Window,” she says, already moving.

The way she’s taken control of the situation is attractive as hell. This is the most inconvenient time I’ve ever gotten a boner.

She heads to the far side where a broken window is crowded with reaching rotter arms. I move toward the middle, where the door barricade is already splintering.

“One…” she says, sock already burning.

“Two…” I ease the door open a crack.

“Three.” Autumn throws clean and true. Flames bloom outside the window with a satisfying whoosh. The rotters’ moans turn into gurgles.

I throw mine, but a rotter’s arm pushes through at the last second, knocking it from its path. The bottle hits too close to the entrance. Fire rolls inward, and the blast knocks me off my feet. I slam into the bar, then the floor. My ears ring. Dust rains from the ceiling.

My vision blurs, but I still find her through the haze.Autumn, standing near the window with bottle shards scattered around her sockless boots, still holding the lighter, almost makes me believe she’s the guardian angel here instead.

With her eyes locked on me, she doesn’t see the shriveled, decaying arm reaching through the broken window behind her while the rest reel back from the flames. The peeling fingernails stretch mere inches from her head.

4

AUTUMN

The world is burning, and this time I’m on the wrong side of the flames.

Thick, bitter smoke pours into the bar, stinging my eyes and clawing down my throat, choking every breath before I can fully draw it. Heat pulses against my back as the barricade collapses, torn apart by fire and rotters. The front shelves are catching now. Glass bottles explode with sharp pops and flames crawl like starving vines across what remains of the wood. The worst part? Mars isn’t moving.

“Mars,” I cough out his name and drop to my knees beside him.

He’s sprawled behind the bar where the blast threw him. His eyes are closed, blood trickles from his temple, and one arm is splayed across his chest. He’s covered in soot. I press trembling fingers to his throat. There’s a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s alive.

Relief hits me so hard I almost miss the roar of flames creeping closer. I tear a strip from my already-shredded shirt hem and press it to the cut on his head. He doesn’t stir.

“Come on, don’t do this, you stubborn bastard.” My voice sounds small in the flickering chaos.

I glance up for something useful. Smoke thickens around us. The barricade won’t hold much longer with how quickly the flames are eating right through it. Orange light pulses through wall cracks, casting the bar in hellish firelight. Shadows dance across overturned stools, shattered glass, and broken tables. There’s nothing useful here, and we’re running out of time.

“Why did you have to go and get yourself blown up?” I hold my shirt collar over my mouth and squint as I search through the smoke around us.

Broken stools, scattered matches, nothing useful. Then I spot a barstool with wheels mostly intact. I drag it over and position it beside him.

“You’re too damn heavy.” I hook my arms under his and attempt to pull him up. “What do you even eat, bricks slathered in concrete gravy?”

He groans when I try to haul him up, and his head lolls toward me. He comes to enough to help me get him into the chair before blacking out again and becoming dead weight slumped against me.

“Move, move, move.” I push the rolling chair toward the exit and hope it stays in one piece long enough to get us out of here. I have to steer with one hand while the other holds Mars’s arm in place to keep him upright. His other boot drags on the ground, slowing us down, but there’s no time to readjust. I kick the back door open and we lurch into the alley right as the fire reaches the liquor shelves, sending another burst of flames and smoke chasing after us. I slam the door shut, muffling the roar, and suck in a breath that tastes like ash and iron.

The stool breaks and Mars’s unconscious ass slumps against the brick wall. At least the alley is eerily quiet for once.

I crouch beside Mars. He’s unconscious but still breathing, and that’s what counts. Sweat beads along his hairline.The bleeding has slowed, but the bruise on his temple is darkening. I brush sweat from his hair with a sigh, then notice something that sparks hope. Half-buried beside a trash bin sits a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor. Perfect.

Without wasting another moment, I grab the bottle and unscrew the cap, then glance down at my bare feet shoved into boots. No socks. Right, I already used them for molotov duty.

I look at Mars, then at his sock-filled boots. Then at his unconscious face.

“Sorry in advance.” I yank one boot off, shove it into his lap, and pull his sock free. It’s damp with sweat and the smell nearly makes me gag, but I shove it into the bottle, anyway. He would’ve done the same, I’m sure.

I’m wasting precious escape time doing this, but having another cocktail of the apocalypse on standby could save our lives.

“You better live, you stubborn bastard, or I swear I’m stealing your other sock out of spite.” I press two fingers to his wrist and check his pulse again. Slower than before, but it’s not slipping. He should be fine. If he ever wakes up, that is. Of course he’s taking a nap while I do all the work.

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