Endurance - Jack Kilborn [91]
The pimply teenager reached for her, his hands stained with dried blood—probably from picking at his face. His reach was so long Deb was unable to hit him even as his spidery fingers encircled her throat.
And then the teen’s head jerked to the side. His eyes—mere millimeters apart—crossed. He flopped to the side, his head bouncing off the floor.
Coming in behind him, someone else reached out for Deb.
Florence.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
With the older woman’s help, Deb was able to stand up. Once Deb was vertical, Florence lashed out her foot, catching a freak in the jaw, knocking him away.
Deb followed Florence through the hole she’d made in the wall of attackers, walking carefully because her treads were wet. The tiny burst of optimism spurred by Florence’s rescue attempt faded quickly when Deb realized there was no place to run.
We can’t get away. There are too many of them.
Florence didn’t seem deterred by this. She kicked and punched like Jackie Chan’s grandmother, and for the moment the freaks gave her a wide berth.
“We should try for the front door,” Deb said. They were now standing back to back, both of them swinging at the surrounding horde.
“I’m not leaving without my family.”
Someone crawled up to Deb, someone with stunted legs like Teddy. He grabbed Deb’s Cheetah, pulling her off balance. Deb smacked him in the face with her mountain climbing leg, the spiked end flaying off a few layers of skin.
“Deb!”
She looked up, at a door that opened behind the staircase.
Mal!
He looked like hell, and was missing his left hand, and they were both probably doomed, but damned if he didn’t smile when she met his eyes.
Following him through the door were two women. One looked like a younger version of Florence. The other was thin and dishevelled but brandishing a scalpel like she wanted to cut the whole world’s throat.
Our odds just got a tiny bit better.
Mal pushed his way through Eleanor’s children, reaching Deb, giving her a quick, gentle caress on her cheek before he wielded a scalpel of his own and began slashing at the oncoming wave of freaks.
For a moment they held their own, and Deb thought they might actually have a chance.
But more of the brood came down the stairs, shuffling toward them like zombies. And even more came through the door under the staircase, dressed in antique clothing.
How many of them can there be?
Then Deb saw something that could be the game-changer.
Eleanor is here.
The matriarch stood next to the stairs, arms folded, looking smug.
It’s like chess. If you capture the king, the rest of the pieces stop attacking.
Deb headed for Eleanor, swinging her mountain climbing leg like a club, clearing a path. Eleanor saw Deb approach, and must have sensed her intent, because she hurried up the stairs. Deb wasn’t good on stairs, but she got ready to follow, to hunt down the old woman and an end to this madness.
Apparently, someone else had the same idea. Shoving Deb aside, the thin woman with the scalpel tore upstairs after Eleanor. Deb fell over, and found herself being pawed and groped on all sides by losers in the genetic lottery.
“We have to go back to the basement!” Mal yelled. “We can’t hold them off up here!”
Someone pulled Deb’s arm—Florence again. She dragged Deb across the floor, to the doorway under the staircase. Mal and Florence’s daughter followed. The door led to a small room the size of a closet, an iron ladder descending into the floor. Deb’s hopes sank even lower.
I’m even worse on ladders than I am on stairs.
“You go first,” she told Florence.
Florence hesitated. “Can you manage?”
“If I don’t, gravity will.”
Florence sped down the ladder. Her daughter was next, leaving Deb alone with Mal. The freaks closed in, shuffling en masse like a giant wave about to wash up against them.
“Ladies first,” Mal said.
“You go.”
“No time to argue.”
“I… I can’t.”
Deb knew she would need to scoot down backwards, feel around for the rungs. It was dark,