And then they got back up again.
Rob blinked in confusion.
The strangers snarled, revealing teeth that were smeared with blood so dark it was almost black. Then they launched themselves at him.
Once more Rob swung the rondache at one of the strangers. The shield was made of leather-covered wood with plates of metal studded with nails. Although the swords were unsharpened, the shields had to be fully functional or the performers would be crippled if they failed to block. Rob drove the metal edge of the rondache into the biting mouth of the closest attacker, and suddenly black blood and pieces of teeth filled the air. The man went down, but he writhed in the mud, trying to get back to his feet. Rob pivoted and brought his sword around in an overhand cut that packed muscle and gravity into the blow. Even without a sharpened edge, the second man’s head burst apart, showering Rob and the jouster with brain matter and more of the black blood.
They reeled back, spitting out the blood, gagging at the horror of what had just happened.
Then they heard feet slopping in the mud and they turned to see a dozen of the strangers running toward them.
Rob and the jouster exchanged a brief look.
For years they’d played the roles of warriors—swordsmen and knights, Viking raiders, Roman soldiers, even pirates. They’d each fought in thousands of duels, and on their off days they fenced with their peers. They were superb swordsmen and each of them held weapons with which their hands and reflexes and minds were perfectly attuned.
So despite the absolute madness and unreality of this moment, deep in the hearts of each of them some ancient voice cried out a challenge. A warrior’s call to arms. A bellow that would not have been out of place on the medieval battlefields of feudal Europe. As they yelled, their mouths began to curl into fierce smiles as if remembering those ancient days of bloodshed and glory.
With swords in hand, thy rushed forward to meet the charge, hacking and smashing.
The crowd of zombies swept over them in seconds.
But oh, how glorious those seconds were.
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
Dez said, “What in the big green fuck was that all about?”
“Goat has the drives and I just told him that he needs to upload the contents and get them out.”
“I didn’t hear that,” said Dez.
“I did,” said Sam Imura. “And it was mighty damn clever. You think your friend understood what you were saying?”
“Positive.”
“Good.” He took the phone from Trout and removed the cable he’d jammed into it as soon as he realized who was on the other end of the call. The cable was plugged into a small computer strapped to Imura’s forearm, and the captain spent a few seconds tapping keys.
“What’s that?” asked Dez. “You running a trace?”
“Trying to. We already pinged the satellite Goat used earlier when he broadcast Billy’s messages from here. And…” His voice trailed off as he read the display. Then he snapped his fingers and one of his people hurried over with a different sat phone connected to a portable battery pack. Sam snatched the phone and made a call, which was answered immediately. “Sir … we may have caught a break. Goat Weinman is still alive and we’re reasonably sure he has the flash drives in his possession. The call was too short to get an exact fix on him. He’s in Pennsylvania, closing in on the suburbs of Pittsburgh. We need a team monitoring the frequency of his sat phone, and we need people watching the Net. Goat is going to upload videos of Homer Gibbon. Interviews. They should be large files, which means fairly long upload times. Once the first is up we need to capture his computer signature and backtrack him. He may try to upload the Volker files at the same time, so we have to put together a pattern search that includes as many keywords as we think might be in the Volker files. I suggest the Latin names of the parasites. They’re not likely to be in any other uploads tonight. Search on those and then feed that to the ground forces. We’ll need all local and state police in on that, too.” Sam listened for a few seconds, and then said, “No, sir, I don’t think that’s an option. The storm’s getting worse. There’s no way a chopper’s going up in this, which means that my team is too far away. I’m handing the football back to you.” He listened again. “That’s not how I see it, Scott. I do have my priorities straight. I’m not in a position to be of use in the manhunt, but there are other fights worth fighting.”
Trout thought he heard Blair yelling as Sam ended the call. The captain handed the sat phone back to his soldier.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve actually been a big help.”
“If it works out,” said Trout.
“Sure, if it works out.”
“Now what?” asked Dez bitterly. “You and your goon squad waltz off and leave us ass-deep in the alligator swamp?”
Sam smiled. He had a lot of very white teeth. “Actually, Officer Fox, I was rather hoping that I could help you get a few hundred kids the hell out of this particular ring of hell.”
Dez and Trout stared at him.