keys on the ring and four of them looked like they might fit padlocks. The first failed and he cursed as he dropped them to the floor. It was too awkward, using the keys and holding the gun. On the other side of the door, he heard the thumps and moans. They wanted out and he wanted in. It was a perfect match.
" Hold your horses! " he shouted at them, but that only agitated them more.
With the barrel of the gun tucked under his left arm, he tried another key. It didn't work but he didn't drop them. The third key didn't work and neither did the fourth. For good measure, he tried the two long keys but they fit some other type of lock entirely.
"God damnit!" he screamed, reaching down and grabbing the dead priest by his shirt front. "Where's the key? Where's the key? " When there was no answer to be had, he said, "The hell with you, then." and tossed him to the floor.
Taking careful aim, he fired the gun at the padlock. The lock bounced in its place but didn't shatter. He fired again. And again. He kept firing until the gun was empty of the bullets and the lock was a dented and mangled thing. But still it held. Cursing some more, he popped the clip and loaded in the spare. This time he took aim at the eyelets in the wall. It took two bullets per eyelet (three for one of them) but they eventually fell free of the stone wall. With a cry of triumph, he turned to the door again. He reached for the handle before realizing that he had hardly any bullets left. But it was too late. The zombies were pushing against the handle and the door came open with a groan. He leveled his weapon and fired at the first zombie. He didn't miss. But he didn't hit anything worthwhile. In an instant, they were upon him, grabbing at his arms and legs, tearing at his face and belly. They were ripping his clothing away so that they could get to his flesh. He fired wildly and without direction, emptying the gun without effect. The last thing he saw before his mind shut down was the face of his son, Kyle, scrabbling through the pack so that he could have his pound of flesh.
***
It was getting late by the time Shawn pulled himself up through the sheets and into the waking world. Marcus wasn't in the bed but he could be heard in the other room, clinking plates and glasses and whatnot.
“Good morning,” Marcus said to Shawn as he padded into the kitchen. “Brunch?”
Shawn shrugged. He'd been spending most of his weekends at Marcus' place over the last few weeks, although Marcus himself had been out late most Saturday nights and some Fridays.. He was pretty sure his mom suspected the extent of their relationship but she'd had the decency not to speculate out loud. His dad was clueless, which was better for everyone. Shawn went to the table and sat down. There was a newspaper there and he fiddled with it a moment before deciding it wasn't even worth putting up the pretense of being interested in it.
“What's on your mind?” Marcus said, placing a plate of eggs and toast and bacon in front of him and sitting down opposite.
“Nothing."
“Lies now?” Marcus asked.
“It's not about us,” Shawn told him. “Just some stuff at school.”
“What stuff?”
Shawn fiddled with the paper, then went to his fork. He managed to put a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chew, stalling against the inevitable. “It's Heron.”
“The detective?” Marcus asked bitterly. “Is he giving you grief?”
Shawn shrugged, plowing into his food now. “It's been a few weeks since I was let out and I ain't given him nothing yet.”
“Does he expect you to make things up?”
Shawn shook his head. “I don't think so. He's been pretty good about giving me my space. In fact, I'm pretty sure this whole informant thing was just some bullshit he made up so that he could get me out of jail.”
“Why would he do
" Hold your horses! " he shouted at them, but that only agitated them more.
With the barrel of the gun tucked under his left arm, he tried another key. It didn't work but he didn't drop them. The third key didn't work and neither did the fourth. For good measure, he tried the two long keys but they fit some other type of lock entirely.
"God damnit!" he screamed, reaching down and grabbing the dead priest by his shirt front. "Where's the key? Where's the key? " When there was no answer to be had, he said, "The hell with you, then." and tossed him to the floor.
Taking careful aim, he fired the gun at the padlock. The lock bounced in its place but didn't shatter. He fired again. And again. He kept firing until the gun was empty of the bullets and the lock was a dented and mangled thing. But still it held. Cursing some more, he popped the clip and loaded in the spare. This time he took aim at the eyelets in the wall. It took two bullets per eyelet (three for one of them) but they eventually fell free of the stone wall. With a cry of triumph, he turned to the door again. He reached for the handle before realizing that he had hardly any bullets left. But it was too late. The zombies were pushing against the handle and the door came open with a groan. He leveled his weapon and fired at the first zombie. He didn't miss. But he didn't hit anything worthwhile. In an instant, they were upon him, grabbing at his arms and legs, tearing at his face and belly. They were ripping his clothing away so that they could get to his flesh. He fired wildly and without direction, emptying the gun without effect. The last thing he saw before his mind shut down was the face of his son, Kyle, scrabbling through the pack so that he could have his pound of flesh.
***
It was getting late by the time Shawn pulled himself up through the sheets and into the waking world. Marcus wasn't in the bed but he could be heard in the other room, clinking plates and glasses and whatnot.
“Good morning,” Marcus said to Shawn as he padded into the kitchen. “Brunch?”
Shawn shrugged. He'd been spending most of his weekends at Marcus' place over the last few weeks, although Marcus himself had been out late most Saturday nights and some Fridays.. He was pretty sure his mom suspected the extent of their relationship but she'd had the decency not to speculate out loud. His dad was clueless, which was better for everyone. Shawn went to the table and sat down. There was a newspaper there and he fiddled with it a moment before deciding it wasn't even worth putting up the pretense of being interested in it.
“What's on your mind?” Marcus said, placing a plate of eggs and toast and bacon in front of him and sitting down opposite.
“Nothing."
“Lies now?” Marcus asked.
“It's not about us,” Shawn told him. “Just some stuff at school.”
“What stuff?”
Shawn fiddled with the paper, then went to his fork. He managed to put a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chew, stalling against the inevitable. “It's Heron.”
“The detective?” Marcus asked bitterly. “Is he giving you grief?”
Shawn shrugged, plowing into his food now. “It's been a few weeks since I was let out and I ain't given him nothing yet.”
“Does he expect you to make things up?”
Shawn shook his head. “I don't think so. He's been pretty good about giving me my space. In fact, I'm pretty sure this whole informant thing was just some bullshit he made up so that he could get me out of jail.”
“Why would he do
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