Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [109]
“Let’s give them something to be afraid of,” Edward said. I felt him move, and his gun fired twice. A high-pitched squealing filled the night. The ghoul on my car leaped to the ground and hid. But there were more of them moving in from all sides. At least fifteen of them had been left behind for us to play with.
I fired and hit one of them. It fell to its side and rolled in the gravel, making that same high-pitched noise, like a wounded rabbit. Piteous and animal.
“Is there anyplace we can run to?” Edward asked.
“The maintenance shed,” I said.
“Is it wood?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t stop them.”
“No,” I said, “but it will get us out of the open.”
“Okay, any advice before we start to move?”
“Don’t run until we are very close to the shed. If you run, they’ll chase you. They’ll think you’re scared.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No, why?”
“They’re afraid of fire.”
“Great; we’re going to be eaten alive because neither one of us smokes.”
I almost laughed. He sounded so thoroughly disgusted, but a ghoul was crouching to leap at me, and I had to shoot it between the eyes. No time for laughter.
“Let’s go, slow and easy,” I said.
“I wish the machine gun wasn’t in the car.”
“Me, too.”
Edward fired three shots, and the night filled with squeals and animal screams. We started walking towards the distant shed. I’d say maybe a quarter of a mile away. It was going to be a long walk.
A ghoul charged us. I dropped it, and it spilled to the grass, but it was like shooting targets, no blood, just empty holes. It hurt, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
I was walking nearly backwards, one hand back feeling Edward’s forward movement. There were too many of them. We were not going to make it to the shed. No way. One of the chickens made a soft, questioning cluck. I had an idea.
I shot one of the chickens. It flopped, and the other bird panicked, beating its wings against the wooden crate. The ghouls froze, then one put its face into the air and sniffed.
Fresh blood, boys, come and get it. Fresh meat. Two ghouls were suddenly racing for the chickens. The rest followed, scrambling over each other to crack the wood and get to the juicy morsels inside.
“Keep walking, Edward, don’t run, but walk a little faster. The chickens won’t hold them long.”
We walked a little faster. The sounds of scrambling claws, cracking bone, the splatter of blood, the squabbling howls of the ghouls—it was an unwelcome preview.
Halfway to the shed, a howl went up through the night, long and hostile. No dog ever sounded like that. I glanced back, and the ghouls were rushing over the ground on all fours.
“Run!” I said.
We ran.
We crashed against the shed door and found the damn thing padlocked. Edward shot the lock off; no time to pick it. The ghouls were close, howling as they came.
We scrambled inside, closing the door, for what good it would do us. There was one small window high up near the ceiling; moonlight suddenly spilled through it. There was a herd of lawnmowers against one wall, some of them hanging from hooks. Gardening shears, hedge trimmers, trowels, a curl of garden hose. The whole shed smelled of gasoline and oily rags.
Edward said, “There’s nothing to put against the door, Anita.”
He was right. We’d blown the lock off. Where was a heavy object when you needed it? “Roll a lawnmower against it.”
“That won’t hold them long.”
“It’s better than nothing,” I said. He didn’t move, so I rolled a lawnmower against the door.
“I won’t die, eaten alive,” he said. He put a fresh clip in his gun. “I’ll do you first if you want, or you can do it yourself.”
I remembered then that I had shoved the matchbook Zachary had given me in my pocket. Matches, we had matches!
“Anita, they’re almost here. Do you want to do it yourself?”
I pulled the matchbook out of my pocket. Thank you, God. “Save your bullets, Edward.” I lifted a can of gasoline in one hand.
“What are you planning?” he asked.
The howls were crashing around us; they were almost here.
“I’m going to set the shed on fire.” I splashed gasoline on the door.