Endurance - Jack Kilborn [97]
Florence dropped both knives, grabbing the handle of the pitchfork, pulling it away from its owner. She spun it around, jabbing everything that moved. The horde backed away, staying out of range. There were still at least a dozen left.
Florence advanced again, but felt something rip in her belly. She knew what it meant.
My injury is fatal.
I’m dead.
I don’t have long left.
The old woman ground her teeth together.
But you still won’t get my family.
More freaks came in. With more weapons.
Florence limped into the fray. She kicked until she had no energy to kick anymore. She jabbed at everything that moved, jabbed as her insides burned and twisted, jabbed until her entire universe was reduced to one overpowering thought:
YOU! WILL! NOT! GET! MY! FAMILY!
And they fell. One by one they fell. Eleanor’s terrible progeny. The killers of countless innocents. Florence stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, and then she upgraded the pitchfork to a machete and chopped at the monsters until there was nothing left but a gigantic pile of lifeless, misshapen flesh.
Then, clutching her stomach, Florence collapsed onto the ground.
She was light-headed. And cold. So cold.
The first symptoms of shock.
But it’s okay. I did it.
They’re safe.
My family is safe.
Goodbye, Letti.
Goodbye, Kelly.
I love you both so very much.
“Well, lookee what we got here.”
Florence glanced up. The man who spoke was massive, wearing some sort of padded body suit. Long gray hair poked through the football helmet on his head.
“Y’all do this by yourself, old lady? Shee-it. Momma gonna be upset. Now she gonna have to start all over again.”
The man reached down and took the machete from Florence. She didn’t have the strength to fight him.
“You must be one tough ole bird. Y’all know what we do to old birds ‘round these parts? We cut off their heads ‘n cook ‘em up in a soup.”
The man cackled, raising the machete.
“What’s your name?” Florence asked. It took practically the last of her energy to speak.
“Millard Fillmore Roosevelt,” he said proudly.
“Well, Millard Fillmore Roosevelt. I have a daughter. Her name is Letti.” Florence smiled at the man. “And my Letti is going to fuck you up so bad your momma won’t recognize your dead body.”
And then Florence laughed. She laughed so deeply and heartily that she didn’t feel a thing when Millard chopped off her head.
Letti was torn between worrying about her mother, worrying about her daughter, and worrying about herself.
Mal led the way through the luggage maze, using his cell phone’s screen to illuminate the pathway. The smell started off bad, and then got worse. Letti held her nose and stepped carefully; she didn’t have shoes on.
Kelly got away. And any second now, Mom will be coming up behind us.
Irrational as it was, she kept repeating it in her head, over and over.
“Are you okay?” Deb, the one with the artificial legs, whispered to Letti.
“I’ll manage.”
“You’re Letti, right? I’m Deb. Your mother was a very brave woman.”
Letti noted Deb’s use of the past tense, but she didn’t contradict it.
“I have to find my daughter.”
“We’ll find her.”
We’ll find her any second now.
“Oh, shit.” Mal called back to them. “Ladies, we’ve got a lot of dead bodies up here. And some rats.”
Letti looked down at her bare feet.
“How many rats?” Letti asked.
She found out a moment later. They stampeded her way, covering the ground like a moving, squealing blanket. Letti tried to stay calm, but once the first one ran over her naked toes she freaked out and began to run forward. Within seconds, she caught up to Mal, who was so startled by her he dropped his phone.
The room blinked into darkness. A rat hopped onto Letti’s calf, and she flung it off, backing away, stepping on—
“Jesus!”
The pain rocketed up through Letti’s foot, making her fall onto her butt.
The rats swarmed on her.
Little feet and greasy fur and rubbery tails soon covered every inch of her body. They climbed up her shirt. They got in her hair. Letti squeezed her eyes and mouth closed and kept absolutely still, even though