Page 85 of Glass Rose
More infected peel away, streaming in my direction.
Then I see them. Gavin, with John on his back, piggyback style, bursting from the far side of the bus. It worked.
This stupid, crazy plan is actually working.
I honk the horn again, drawing the attention of any infected who might have spotted Gavin and John. “Dinner bell’s ringing over here!”
I throw the vehicle into reverse before the infected can cage me in, backing up and leading them further from the bus, away from Gavin and John’s escape route.
Whatever happens next, I’ve done my part. They’ll make it. Gavin will get John to safety, find the boat, maybe even come back for me if I survive the jump.
“Now I just have to get wet, and not the pleasurable kind.”
The bridge railing waits, marking the point of no return. Once I’m over that edge, there’s no going back. Just a long fall into unknown waters.
The infected creep closer, their rotting faces contorted in perpetual hunger. Wait…
One infected moves differently from the others. Faster. More coordinated.
Is it running?
What the?—
Mid-thirties maybe, wearing the tattered remains of a business suit, one arm missing below the elbow. Mutations. Adaptations. It makes horrifying sense… viruses evolve, responding to environmental pressures. Why wouldn’t this one?
“No, no, no.” I accelerate. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
I’m not looking for a man in finance, trust fund, 6.5, blue eyes. Thank you very much. Although the last two I like, but only if it’s Gavin.
The runner—because that’s what it is, a fucking runner—breaks free from the pack, its pace increasing as it narrows those milky eyes on me. Its mouth opens in what almost looks like a grin, black fluid dribbling down its chin.
A sadist, too. Great.
I check the side mirror, trying to gauge how much farther to the bridge railing. Twenty yards, maybe, until it’s safe for me to jump.
My heart hammers against my ribs as the runner gains ground, moving with the unnatural speed of something that doesn’t need to worry about muscle fatigue or pain.
Not fair.
The back of my neck prickles with warning just before a sickening crunch of metal rattles through the SUV. The impact throws me forward, my forehead smacking against the steering wheel as the vehicle crashes to a stop. No airbag deploys.
Stars explode across my vision, warm wetness trickling down my temple. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my sight as I search for the seatbelt release. My fingers are numb, clumsy, refusing to cooperate with my brain’s frantic commands.
The runner closes in, its pace never faltering despite the wreckage littering the bridge. Behind it, the horde continues its relentless advance, slower but no less deadly.
“Come on, come on,” I plead with the seatbelt, finally locating the button.
The strap retracts with a zip, freeing me just as the runner’s face appears at my window, its features contorted, jaw dislocated to reveal—in need of a dentist—blackened gums and jagged teeth.
It smashes his head against the glass, a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward from the point of contact. Another hit like that and it’ll shatter.
I dive for the passenger door, forcing it open and tumblingout onto the hard concrete of the bridge. My knees scrape painfully through my jeans, palms burning as they break my fall, and dizziness threatens to take over.
The runner’s on me before I can fully stand, and we collide with bone-jarring force, my back hitting the concrete as its weight pins me down. The rotting stench is overwhelming, making me gag.
I jam my forearm under its chin, holding those teeth at bay as my other hand grips the knife. Its strength is incredible, inhuman, overpowering my resistance with steady, inexorable pressure.
Lucky for me, it’s not intelligent.
