The pick was in his hands, its handle slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat. Zeke shook with terror but he held his ground, his feet planted to the spot as if he’d grown roots there—and when the rotter came in close, running up with no idea of anything except that it was hungry, Zeke swung and hit a home run. The pick went through the rotter’s left eye and came out the back of its head. Through sheer centrifugal force, Zeke swung around and ripped out the eye, the temple, and part of the brain, which splattered against a boarded window and dribbled downward.

But there was no time to call it a victory.

Rector had leveraged his knee up between himself and the rotter. He threw the creature back, but only a bit; it snapped for his arm, almost caught it, but didn’t quite. Then Zeke was on top of it, taking another swing. His second shot wasn’t as clean as the first, but he clipped it heavily with the side of the pick, knocking it off balance. The rotter fell away, letting Rector climb to all fours so he could retrieve his ax … if he could find it. It’d been strapped to the pack he wore on his back, which had fallen off when the rotter hit him. Where was it?

There.

He seized it and threw it, almost in the same motion. From his position on the ground, Rector lacked the room and the leverage he would’ve liked, but this was a rotter, so when the ax caught it in the throat, it still tumbled backwards, largely without its head.

Zeke reached the twitching rotter first. He yanked the ax out of its throat, dropped it down on the thing’s face once for good measure, and then handed it back to Rector. As he helped Rector up, Zeke asked, “Are you all right? It didn’t bite you, did it? Is your mask still on tight?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah to all of that,” he said, but he sounded drunk. He felt drunk. His head hurt and everything was spinning. He was reasonably certain he was going to faint.

Zeke shoved the ax back into his hands. “I hear more of them—we have to run for the Sizemore House! We’ll get down in the cellar!”

“How will we … how will we find it?”

“We’re two blocks down and one block over. I’ve been counting. Two more blocks, and we ought to hit it.” He retrieved the lantern. “If not, we turn back for the wall and try again. You’re sure you ain’t bit?”

“I’m sure.” He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to pat himself down. There wasn’t time. He shook his head and it still hurt, but it would have to work whether it wanted to or not. “I’m fine. I’m fine, I swear. Let’s go.”