I hardly noticed when it was over, with the last dozen or so zombies retreating into the inner depths of the tunnels. Suddenly there was pin-drop silence. I looked around. Mo’Lock was nearby with two fistfuls of necklaces, Gundy was behind us. In one hand he had necklaces, but the other held a leg. I looked down and saw we were up to our ankles in liquified zombie blood. It was fucking disgusting.

We left the tunnel to gather ourselves as Mo’Lock giddily enthused about all the souls that now had a chance to be free.

It took a moment before we noticed Gundy wasn’t following. When we turned, the big guy hadn’t moved an inch, hovering on the razor’s edge of shadow and light.

“Gundy? You okay?” I yelled.

I could see his big face even at a distance. His expression was like a baby about to cry. He dropped the leg and placed a big hand to his head.

“Head hurts,” he said.

And that was that. Big Hank Gundy dropped dead where he stood. I didn’t need to see his cracked-open skull to know the brains were gone, completely empty save for the thick curl of steam that slowly snaked from the empty skull cavity.

“Fuck,” I said.

We’d wait for Blout before we made our next move.

18

I was pissed about Gundy’s death, if that’s what you can call it—I never did find out exactly what a creep was. I hadn’t even known the guy for ten minutes and now he was a stiff.

I told the Frankenteens to get the hell home. I wasn’t going to risk the kids, not after all they’d been through. Luckily, it took little convincing. They wanted to leave.

Like that, my pathetic army was cut in half. It was just me and Mo’Lock again. No one spoke, so I took the time to smoke and have a few drinks. I fished the leather case out of my sock, unzipped it and stared at the contents.

“What’s that?” Mo’Lock asked. He shambled through the dirt and sat next to me.

I zipped the case and tucked it back in my sock. “Backup plan.”

Before he could ask any more questions, we heard a car door slam a short distance away. Blout was walking briskly up the dirt road with the safe deposit box tucked under his arm as the cab returned to the city.

He spotted his car laying upside down at the bottom of the ditch and slowed, shoulders slumping noticeably at the sight. I was afraid he’d drop the box but he clutched it tightly. I watched and waited, half expecting an attack.

“Nice parking space, asshole.”

I apologized profusely, but Blout wanted none of it. He was focused on the task at hand, saving all his anger for a fresh new ulcer. For whatever reason, he’d been surprising me lately. Maybe he could sense some bad shit coming. I know I felt it.

The box under his arm was large, much bigger than the proverbial bread box. True to his word, Blout hadn’t opened it. He placed it down in the dust outside the tunnel, glanced inside at the aftermath of the fight, and sat down on the ground with a grunt.