CHAPTER 12: THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER

  I flinched, throwing up both hands to shield my face.

  The dark shape slammed into me, sending us both tumbling hard onto the dirt. It didn’t try to tear at my throat. Instead, it pressed against me—cowering as if I were a shield against some greater terror.

  The other two shadows needed no introduction. Their guttural groans and shrill, broken cries told me exactly what they were—more of the hungry dead. One of them clawed itself upright and fixed a hollow gaze on me.

  Luckily, my machete hadn’t fallen far. With a desperate lunge, I seized the handle and raised the blade just in time, bracing it crosswise against snapping teeth lunging for my windpipe. My muscles screamed as I fought the frantic, rotting weight.

  Through the murky light, I saw more of them pouring from the shadows of the forest, rushing Richard and the others. Gunfire erupted in frantic bursts, but the noise only acted as a dinner bell. The howls multiplied, echoing from deeper within the trees.

  THWACK.

  A bullet punched into flesh. The corpse pinning me jerked once and collapsed into a heap.

  “Thanks, Richard,” I gasped.

  Then I remembered the first shadow. I turned toward the thick brush where it had disappeared.

  “What are you doing, Nick?!” Richard shouted. “Run!”

  “Wait,” I called back, my voice low. “…Come here, little one… I won’t hurt you. Come on…”

  The shadow hesitated. Then another rotting figure burst through the brush, lunging straight at me. I had no choice; the golden machete came down in a brutal, decisive arc.

  “Nick! Leave it!” Sebastian yelled.

  I prepared to follow them—but to my surprise, the small shadow emerged from hiding and darted right to my feet. I scooped it up and sprinted for the riverbank, not even looking at it properly. All I knew was that it was alive. And in this world, that was enough.

  Behind us, the pounding swarm of the dead thundered through the trees, giving us no room to breathe.

  “Drop the bag, Sebastian!” Richard shouted. “It’s slowing you down!”

  “Are you insane? This is a fortune!”

  “What good is money if you’re dead?” Richard snapped. “Drop it!”

  Sebastian hesitated, then hurled the bag into a hollow at the base of a tree—no doubt memorizing the spot. But from that very hollow, a corpse erupted. It tackled him, and both tumbled down the steep riverbank, vanishing with a heavy splash into the dark, churning water.

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  For a moment, we froze. A soft whimper in my arms snapped me back.

  “Oh God…” I looked down.

  It wasn’t a puppy.

  It was a lion cub.

  Shock gave way instantly to dread for Sebastian. We rushed to the river’s edge, peering into the rushing current. A head burst above the surface—raw red skin mottled with bruised purple veins. It was the zombie, still snarling, thrashing at something beneath it.

  BANG! Gunfire cracked, and the corpse jerked backward. Michael dove into the river, his powerful strokes cutting through the current as he seized Sebastian and dragged him toward shore.

  Sebastian staggered onto land, trembling from the cold and the shock of almost dying. Richard said nothing; the lesson had been harsh enough. We turned and ran toward the large wooden house looming near the water.

  “The key’s under the rock by the stairs, Nick!” Richard shouted as the first of the pursuers burst from the trees.

  “Got it!”

  I sprinted ahead, dropped the cub on the steps, and heaved aside the stone. A glint of silver flashed in the moonlight. I grabbed the key and bounded up the stairs. But suddenly, the simplest task—sliding the key into the lock—became an impossible ordeal.

  Richard and the others formed a defensive line behind me, firing in controlled bursts.

  “Hurry, Nick! We’re almost out!”

  The lock rattled stubbornly, choked with months of grit. I kicked the door in frustration. The jolt worked—the lock gave way.

  I ushered the others inside. The cub darted in first, scrambling beneath a table. Sebastian slipped in next, and I began slamming the door—but a rotting, ulcerated hand wedged into the gap.

  Michael grabbed the door with me, but more hands clawed forward. Then faces—grotesque and snarling—pressed through the widening crack.

  “Open it!” Richard shouted.

  He had returned from the kitchen hauling a massive hunting rifle. The metallic click of it chambering a round was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. We released the door. The dead surged forward—

  BOOM. BOOM.

  Flame and thunder exploded from the muzzle, blasting the front rank backward in a spray of torn flesh. I seized the moment, slammed the door shut, and dragged a heavy cabinet across it.

  The pounding began immediately—fists hammering walls, bodies slamming against the wood.

  “Basement. Now,” Richard ordered.

  He led us beneath the stairs to a steel hatch. It took some coaxing to get the cub to follow; it nearly snapped at my hand before relenting. Below, Sebastian lit a candle, and Richard secured the hatch with heavy iron bars.

  “Steel plating everywhere,” Richard panted. “It should hold.”

  Michael lay back, raising a glass of wine from Richard's stash. “Hard to believe we’re here… drinking this… after that.”

  The cub watched me warily as I slid a tray of canned meat toward it. It sniffed, then devoured the food eagerly.

  “I’ll call you Ogris,” I murmured.

  “Good name,” Richard nodded. “The biggest surprise in the group.”

  That night, despite the wood groaning overhead and glass shattering as the dead forced their way into the rooms above, we slept. The cold seeped through the vents, and Ogris crept into my chest for warmth.

  By morning, we searched the house. The dead had smashed everything—except one large mirror upstairs. Perhaps they mistook their reflections for kin, or perhaps they feared their own monstrous images. I filed the thought away. If we survived, it might matter.

  We burned the corpses and spent the day reinforcing the house. Ogris lounged in the grass, batting at butterflies. It felt strangely, dangerously peaceful.

  That evening, after more attacks, we retreated to the basement again.

  I lay there wondering: Why did they return? They didn't scent us at the hatch. They searched the house instead. Methodical. Relentless. Did they remember this place? Or were they following something smarter?

  The thought lingered as I drifted into sleep.

  Something wet and cold slid across my cheek.

  I blinked. Sebastian was hovering inches from my face.

  His mouth hung open, torn and dripping with cold saliva. His eyes—bruised, bloodshot, hollow—locked onto mine, as if something inside him was still fighting. His shirt was ripped open, revealing a jagged void where a chunk of flesh had been bitten clean away.

  Sebastian was in the final stage of the turn.