Without even knowing it, Bobby is whistling “Hotel California,” a fatalistic grin on his face the whole time.

  When he reaches out and finds he only has one more grenade, he gives it a kiss and loads it into the launcher. He aims straight up into the air and fires.

  “I’ve always wanted to see if this will work,” Bobby says as the herd is almost on him.

  He opens fire with his M-4 and empties the magazine just as the first Zs lunge. They pile onto him and he begins to wonder if he shouldn’t have saved a bullet for himself. Then a slight thump gets his attention through all the snarls and his grin widens.

  His last thought before the pile explodes is that he hopes when the song is written there’s a line in there about him going out with a bang. Or at the very least with a smile on his face.

  The sound of gnashing teeth is what brings Val out of her semi-conscious stupor. She looks about and realizes she is on top of a massive mound of Zs, all of them twisted and broken from their fall. This realization makes her look up, and she watches as more fall towards her. Rolling to her side, she tumbles down the mound and finds herself tangled in the feet of the Zs still shuffling out of Denver and into the Plains.

  She doesn’t waste time thinking up a plan or worrying about how she’ll get out of the position she’s found herself in, she just reacts.

  Shoving up to her feet, she grabs her blade that is luckily still in her belt and begins to hack and slash every Z around her. She has no delusions that she’ll live, seeing the mass that she’s surrounded by, but she intends to take out as many as humanly possible before she goes down.

  Her blade slices through a head, a chest, a neck. She chops at reaching hands, smashes out chomping teeth, cuts off swinging arms. Zs come at her and she shoves them away, trying to maintain some fighting space as she works her way toward a concrete support. She wants something up against her back so she can really get to work.

  Not that the work will last long, the reality of that hitting home as a Z gets through and bites down on her left shoulder. She cries out at the pain but doesn’t worry about checking the wound. All of the Team uniforms are made of a hemp/poly blend formulated from recycled plastic mined out of the never-ending resource known as Denver’s many landfills. Z bites hurt like a motherfucker but rarely get through to actual skin. The way most Mates die is from bites to the neck or having their uniforms ripped off, exposing the tasty flesh underneath.

  Or, as the weight of the herd presses in on Val, getting crushed to death.

  She stumbles back and tries to keep her balance but only ends up falling on her ass. Hacking and slashing at the Z legs that surround her, pushing herself backward along the ground with her legs. Her back finally butts up against the support and she sighs at the tiny victory. You take what you can when the end comes.

  It was something her mother had said just before…

  Her thoughts are ripped from her as a Z head explodes above her. Then another and another. Over the constant groans of the hungry undead, Val can hear suppressed carbine fire, distant coughs taking out the Zs that surround her.

  She quickly notices a pattern and sees the fire is all concentrated to her left. She pushes her back up the concrete support just as hands reach for her and pull her into the narrow alley that has been created through the undead.

  “Anna Lee?” Val asks, stunned at the familiar face before her.

  “Shut the fuck up, cuz,” Mate Anna Lee Franks says as she pulls Val through the Zs. “Just keep hacking with your pig sticker there.”

  “Come on,” Cole snaps as he stabs a Z through the eye, then shoots another with his 9mm.

  His uniform is covered in blood and torn in several places, but he looks strong to Val, and she’s grateful for that. Anna Lee shoves Val forward, slamming her fist into a Zs face then another to give them more room. Heads all around them burst open as bullets pierce the skulls, sending fetid brains splattering across their bodies.

  It takes a split second for Val to realize that if Cole and Anna Lee are helping her, then who is firing the carbine?

  She looks over her shoulder and sees TL Lafferty standing on top of the mound of Zs, her M-4 barking into the herd. Seeing Val, TL Lafferty gives a barely perceptible nod, then continues her surgical attack. Z after Z falls under her fire as she clears a way for the three Mates to get through the herd. Just as her carbine goes Winchester and her last magazine is empty, Val, Cole, and Anna Lee see a gap in the herd large enough for them to make a break.

  TL Lafferty aims her frag popper up at one of the supports and fires. Ancient concrete and hidden rebar fly everywhere as the grenade explodes. She launches another and another before she’s taken down under the Zs that fall from above, landing on top of her, pinning her under their broken, rotten bodies.

  She manages to get one arm free and pulls her 9mm from her belt. Hearing the platforms protest and groan, she places the muzzle of the pistol against her temple and pulls the trigger just before a thousand tons of interstate collapses all around her.

  Most of the herd was still centered on the Sector One station platforms, so as Val and the other two finally stop running and are able to look back, all they see is a mound of debris several stories high with only a couple hundred Zs stumbling about. The sea of thousands is no more, and Val gives a pained sigh of relief.

  “You okay?” Cole asks. “Val? Are you injured?”

  “I should ask you that,” Val says, looking at his blood-soaked uniform.

  “Not mine,” he says. “Mostly my Team’s and a few of those eyeless freaks.”

  “You got some of them?” Val asks. “But we didn’t find any up on the platforms.”

  “Fuckers dragged their own off with them as they left,” Anna Lee responds. Almost a foot taller than Val and Cole and built like she’s carved right from the Rockies themselves, Anna Lee spits on the ground and steps on the glob, her eyes looking toward Denver with burning hate. “The mother fucking fucks came out of nowhere and took us fucking down. Not there, then there. Most of the fucking shithead fuckers didn’t even have weapons, Val. No fucking weapons. You fucking hear what I’m fucking saying?”

  “No fucking weapons,” Val says, as she lets that info sink in, thinking of the boy Marshall and how he took down Bobby. “Freaky fast?”

  “Am I not fucking making myself fucking clear here, fucknut?” Anna Lee snarls. “No weapons. Not there, then there. Fast doesn’t fucking explain it. They were like, like… FUCK! I don’t fucking know what they were fucking like!”

  “We were able to get away and started heading back through Denver,” Cole says. “Then the herd came and we had to turn around. It completely caught us by surprise.”

  “Got up on that fucking building there,” Anna Lee points to a far-off shape in the night. “Watched those blind fuckers do the impossible.”

  “What does that mean?” Val asks.

  “They were herding the herd,” Cole says. “No eyes and they were moving the herd along, keeping it controlled. I don’t know how, but they were good at it.”

  “They had bait up front,” Val says. “It drove the Zs right to the platform.”

  “It was insane to watch,” Cole says, sounding very weary as the three start walking again and make their way through the never-ending debris field, toward the eastern end of 470. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Fucking blind fucks!” Anna Lee snaps. “How the fuck can motherfucking people without any fucking eyes fucking do that?”

  “At least you two made it,” Val says. “We wondered when we couldn’t find your bodies.”

  “Wait,” Cole says. “What bodies did you find?”

  “Everyone else’s,” Val says. “Sorry, Cole, but you two are all that made it from DTB One.”

  “FUCKING FUCKERS!” Anna Lee shouts.

  “Shut up,” Val hisses. “Jesus. You’ll bring the rest of the Zs down on us.”

  “There can’t be any left in the city,” Cole says. “That had to be every last Z in Denver.”

  “I don’t think so,” Val says, thinking of the herds DTA saw on their way to the Bell Tower. “There’s still plenty north. We came across a ton of large herds on our way south. No way they could have herded all of those in time to get them down here.”

  Val stops and reaches out, grabbing Cole’s arm.

  “Ow, Val,” Cole says, pulling his arm away. “What is it?”

  “The pyres,” Val says. “We have to light the pyres back up.”

  “You have lost your fucking marbles, girl,” Anna Lee replies. “What we have to do is get our asses back to the Stronghold.”

  “We won’t make it in time,” Val says. “They are probably already heading that way. The only thing we can do is get the pyres lit. Maybe Runners will see them and be able to get to the ones on the Turnpike so the Stronghold has some kind of warning.”

  “You’re not making sense, Val,” Cole says. “Back up and explain what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “That wasn’t the only mega-herd,” Val says. “That was just one of them. They’re building another and going to send it up the mountain. Right for the Stronghold.”

  “Holy fuck,” Anna Lee says. “These blind fucks aren’t just random crazies, are they?”

  “No,” Val says. “TL Lafferty knew something. We found a couple of them and they have these weird marks on their backs. It freaked her out. She sent the captives with Junior, Clank, and Hawks. We headed this way when we saw the pyres.”

  “So maybe those three got them to the trolleys and up the mountain already,” Cole says. “If Lafferty knew something, then that means others do too. The Stronghold will already know shit is fucked at least. They’ll be ready.”

  “Except Junior, Clank, and Hawks weren’t heading to the Stronghold first,” Val says. “They were heading to DTB Two.”

  “Shit,” Cole says, looking toward the mountains still shrouded in darkness. “Ford.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FIEND

  The far-off sounds of grenade explosions reach Clank’s ears just as he rounds a corner and sees Saint Anthony North Hospital. He glances back and can just make out Junior’s puzzled face.

  “What the fuck?” Clank says.

  “Hold up,” Hawks orders quietly, and the two men stop in their tracks.

  Junior sets the boy down for a second, rubbing his shoulders and neck. Clank doesn’t let the woman draped across his shoulders budge. He doesn’t dare put here anywhere after having had to stop to knock her out twice since they left the Bell Tower.

  “What’s up, Hawks?” Junior asks.

  Clank turns toward the echoing explosions but knows he’s too far to see anything. What surprises him though is that he can’t see any of the pyres burning. Not even the Bell Tower one. He’s about to mention this when a low whistle rings out.

  “There you are,” Stanford says as he steps out of the shadows toward the Mates. “Carlyle got here over an hour ago. I was about to send part of my Team to track your asses down. Thought maybe you got lost and were walking in circles.”

  “Ha ha, Ford,” Clank says. “You try carrying a raging pissed-off crazy woman for three hours.”

  “First, no, I don’t think I will try that,” Stanford says. “And second, it’s TL Lee to you, Mate. I may not be DTA, but I still outrank you.” He flips Clank the bird and sticks his tongue out. “So there.”

  “Very becoming of a TL,” Clank says. “You got some folks to help here? My arms are gonna fall the fuck off at any second.”

  Stanford whistles again and three members of DTB Two walk out from behind various hides. One takes the boy from Junior while the other two grab onto the woman and hoist her between them.

  “Carlyle fill you in?” Hawks asks.

  “He did,” Stanford says. “But he didn’t have much info.” He looks at the two captives and frowns. “The way he sounded, I thought you guys were bringing two demons from Hell with you. Looks like a lady and a kid to me.” He leans over as the two Mates with the woman pass by. “And what’s up with their eyes? Carlyle said they’re blind? How the fuck can Lafferty be scared of a couple of blind crazies?”

  “You haven’t seen them move,” Hawks says. “Weird shit.” She looks toward the boy and then back at Stanford. “I’m going with them. He’ll want to see me when he wakes up.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Stanford says as she takes off after the Mates. He watches her go, then nods his head in the same direction. “Come on, you two. Let’s get you some water and chow before we hike it back to the Bell Tower.”

  “DTA is heading down to Sector One,” Clank says, following Stanford to the hospital’s main entrance. “From the sound of things, we shouldn’t stop at the Bell Tower. We need to hustle to Sector One.”

  “Right, that’s what Carlyle said,” Stanford responds. “But I’d like to stop at the Bell Tower anyway. Give us a chance to scope the area before we move on. Those explosions aren’t something I want to run into blind.” He chuckles to himself. “Blind. Like the crazies.”

  “You’re not as funny as you think,” Clank says. “None of this is funny. DTA could be hurting bad down there.”

  Stanford turns on him quickly. “I know that, Mate Withers,” he snaps. “But there is nothing I can do about that right this second. We get the captives secured and send them with Carlyle and half my Team up to the Stronghold like Lafferty wants. The rest of us go to the Bell Tower and assess from there.”

  They walk through the hospital entrance and a red-faced man comes stomping up to Stanford.

  “What the fuck is this about abandoning the reclaim site and trolleying back up the mountain?” Boyd Manners shouts. The head of Reclamation Crew Eight, Boyd is almost as large as Clank but a good twenty years older. “We have at least a few days more work. I bail now and my crew doesn’t get their full pay and rations. That won’t go over well, and most of them will jump ship to one of the other crews as soon as they get the chance. You have any idea how hard it is to get a crew working right? Do you?”

  “Fuck off, Boyd,” Stanford says, putting his hand squarely on the man’s chest. “Shit has met the fan, and we are getting you out of here before you catch any of the blowback.”

  Boyd looks down at the hand. “You think you can take me, Lee?” He gives a quick laugh. “Everyone watched you get your ass beat by a guy half my size. Look at your face, man. You wouldn’t last three—”

  The last word ends in a high-pitched squeak as Stanford’s knee nails Boyd in the groin. The huge man clamps his hands over his crotch and falls to the floor. He’s curled up in a fetal position and retching as Stanford steps over him.

  “Nice talk, Boyd,” Stanford says. “When you can breathe again, you’ll want to gather your crew. We are evacing your asses in ten minutes.”

  “Dude, way harsh,” Junior says. “You gotta learn to use your words, Ford.”

  “TL Lee,” Stanford smiles, wagging a finger, “don’t make me remind you again, Junior.” He grins and points. “Chow is there, water there. Help yourselves. I have a Team to chat with before we move out.”

  A twitchy young man, barely able to grow a full beard, stands before Stanford, his eyes darting left and right.

  “Tommy? Focus, brother,” Stanford says. “Can you do what I need you to?”

  “Sure, sure, no problem,” Team Mate Tommy “Tommy Bombs” Leister says. “How many you want? One trolley? Two?”

  “I want all of them,” Stanford says. “Once we get RC Eight loaded up with the salvage and our folks, then whatever trolleys are left, you’ll rig to blow.”

  “All of them, Ford?” Team Mate Breena Lang asks. “Why the fuck do you want to blow all of them? That means we all hump it up the mountain. Sure you don’t want to leave one?”

  “I’m sure,” Stanford says. “And it’s TL Lee, Breena. Come on, you guys have to remember that.”

  “Not happening,” Team Mate Carlito Schuemaker says.

  “Nope,” his twin sister, Carlotta Schuemaker agrees. “Ford is as good as you get.”

  “The disrespect,” Stanford says, smiling. “I like it. It’s a page out of my playbook.”

  “Who’s going with the trolleys?” Team Mate Margo Horton asks. “The ones you don’t intend to blow.”

  “I should get to work,” Tommy Bombs says, his right eyelid twitching. “Gonna need a few things to make it work. All at once, Ford, or one at a time?”

  “One at a time,” Stanford says. “That way you can set them off as needed.”

  “I won’t be able to see them,” Tommy Bombs says. “I’ll be on a trolley going up the mountain.”

  Stanford smiles wider.

  “Oh, come on, Ford,” Tommy Bombs says, shaking his head back and forth. “I gotta stay? No, man. Not cool. Not cool.”

  His right arm begins to shake, and he has to hold it with his left to keep it still.

  “How the fuck did you get put in charge of demolitions?” Lang asks.

  “It soothes me,” Tommy Bombs says. “Only thing that stops the shaking, you know? Calming. Peaceful.”

  “Fucked up,” Lang replies.

  “How are you splitting us up?” Team Mate Shep Wilcox asks. Tall, but not overly muscular, Shep would have been the perfect strong forward for a college basketball team. But those don’t exist anymore. “I’m going deep, so who’s going up?”

  “Thanks, Shep,” Stanford says. “Way to step up.” He looks at his Team. “Volunteers? I’m not going to ask any of you to go deep if you don’t want to. It sounds like DTA has already hit the shit. Whatever we’re dealing with is nasty, or there wouldn’t be eleven hundred frags going off.”

  “I’m deep,” Lang says. Average height and size, Breena Lang is known for one thing amongst the Teams. She’s faster than most Runners. She shoves the red bangs out of her eyes and nods at Shep. “You and me, big guy. We’ll fuck ‘em up and shit in their mouths.”