Still of Night (Dead of Night 3)

Claudia was six rungs from the top when Rachael heard the incoming footsteps behind her, the sudden flicker of a flashlight throwing long shadows across the wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The shout came from a few feet away.

“GO!” she screamed as Claudia reached the top, arms outstretched to Jason. He grabbed her hands, pulling her from the ladder rung to help her scramble to the top of the wall, handing her the rope to climb down the other side.

Rachael turned before they dropped out of sight, her Elven sword already in hand, threatening. She had to squint into the glare of a flashlight. “Back off right the hell now,” she snarled. “Just let us leave and no one gets—”

She barely caught the blur of movement as someone swung a heavy rake at her. Rachael brought her blade up to try and parry it away, but the edge bit deep into the wood and she nearly lost the weapon. The attacker tried to use the opportunity to pull her knife from her hand, but even half-blinded, Rachael pivoted and kicked out. The flat of her heel hit something solid and the attacker sagged back, losing his grip on the rake. Rachael freed her weapon with a deft snap of her wrist.

Then she spun and dropped into a fighting crouch, legs spread, weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, ready for anything. Three more flashlights flared to life and she was completely blind now.

She never saw what it was that knocked her legs out from under her. Maybe a shovel, maybe an axe handle. Whatever it was whipped her feet into the air and then she was down, landing flat on her back. Too hard, too fast, no chance at all to break her fall. The air was knocked out of her lungs and she made a scream like a dying rabbit as she tried to suck some oxygen.

“This is for you, you fucking bitch,” growled a man’s voice and she had the briefest image of a thick boot moving toward her face. The kick knocked all the lights out of the world and Rachael plummeted into a bottomless pit of darkness.

— 25 —

THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

I didn’t catch up with Snail and his crew of spies, though I found a spot on the dirt shoulder of a feeder road that showed clear signs of bicycle tires. Still biking, though not in the same thunderous style. Whatever. Bicycles were practical, they didn’t need gas, and they were quiet. I gave Snail some grudging points for that.

Baskerville and I scouted along the road in the o

pposite direction, following where the road arced around to the far west corner of Happy Valley, and there we got lucky.

Three bikes were set against trees just off the road and loosely covered with leafy branches. Enough cover to keep away nosy humans, and totally indifferent to the dead. Not that there were a lot of zombies in the area. No real reason there would be. I hadn’t seen many homes or farms within miles, which meant that population was pretty thin on the ground to begin with. Maybe any stray walkers had been cleared out by either the Rovers or the residents of Happy Valley. There were some bones in the weeds, including skulls that displayed clear head trauma.

The bikes were in good shape and the branches had been only recently cut. I let Baskerville sniff the seats and handle-grips of each bike and then told him to find. I gave him the verbal command to find only. Not “find and own,” which would have left me no one alive to chat with.

Baskerville crept off, sniffing the ground, picking up speed as he locked onto a scent. I followed at a light jog-trot, conserving my wind in case there was a fight.

It took my dog twenty-four minutes to find the Rovers. They were crouched down behind a Lexus that had burned to a shell. Like the other crew, they wore too much leather and had grisly trophies around their necks—ring fingers, big toes, and ears.

It’s hard to develop warm fuzzy bunny feelings about guys like that.

The sun was rolling toward the west and the shadows were getting long. I didn’t want to waste what was left of daylight watching these three sit and scratch at flea bites. I was about to do something when they rose and turned and began walking back through the woods. I ghosted them. As they began pulling the foliage away from their rides, I came up behind them, drew my gun and stood with it in a very comfortable and steady two-hand grip. Close enough for easy kills, too far for them to make any sensible moves.

“Yo,” I said, “assholes.”

They whirled, reaching for their guns, but then froze. I was really close and I had them dead to rights. Anyone could see it.

“Do something stupid and I will kill you,” I said.

They looked scared and confused. Only one of them looked dumb enough to try something.

“Lose the hardware,” I said. “Do it slowly and do it now.”

“Who the fuck are—”

“I’m the guy with the gun,” I said, cutting him off. Then I clicked my tongue and Baskerville trotted out of the woods and came up to them. He is a really big fucking dog. The armor and spikes and all make him look like a gargoyle, and not a happy one at that. He seemed to sense which of them was twitchiest and looked him right in the eye. Sure, they all had weapons but they also had no chance at all.

“Take your pick. Bullet in the brainpan or have your nuts torn off.” I smiled. “Third choice is taking your weapons out with two fingers and dropping them on the ground.”

They hesitated for one moment longer, but then one of them—the leader, I later learned—said, “Do it.”

His men disarmed, and they made quite a pile of goodies. Guns, hatchets, skinning knives, combat knives, a couple pairs of wire cutters—probably for taking souvenirs—and one old pineapple-style World War II hand grenade.

“Listen to me carefully,” I said. “If even one of you is jerking me off and trying to hide something, I’ll kill all three of you. Take a moment and then make the right decision.”