Z Children (Book 2): The Surge by Eli Constant, B.V. Barr Page B

different
reason.
    “Yeah,
I heard it. I heard it the first time when you were busy yanking your panties
so far up your ass crack that your ears were affected.”
    “What
the hell is wrong with you?” she stammered, scared, but still warring with
having to deal with me and my crap.  
    Ignoring
her question, I raced to the spool and grabbed the dangling socket end of the
orange cord. In precious seconds, I’d made a substantial loop and lassoed it
around Chris’s body. When she protested, I looked her in the eyes. What she saw
in my face must have been enough to make her realize that we were on the edge
of getting eaten and worse.
    “Keep
the knot in front of you and hold onto the cord.”
    “What
if I lose my grip?” Her eyes are wide, scared.
    “There
isn’t time.” The noise in the distance was louder now. This time, she heard it.
“It’s basically a rescue sling. Face forward, you can’t fall through. Sorry
about this, Doc.” And then I pushed her over the edge and down the chute, simultaneously
whipping the cord around my waist and leaning back.
     Her
scream pierced my ear drums and I was sure that it would call every Z in the
vicinity to our precise location, but I didn’t really have time to give a shit
and worry. Mouth set in a hard line, I let her down as fast as I could. The
noise was even closer, more distinct—footsteps coming fast, scuffling and
scratching and searching for prey. The Z’s were on the hunt. They could smell
us; of that I was sure—like a dog. And now, to make it easier for them, they’d
heard us. Or, rather, they’d heard her—the idiot’s scream heard round the damn
world. I knew rationally that, even without Chris screaming, it would have only
been a matter of time.
     I
began lower the doc faster, ignoring her ever-more-distant-and-faint pleas for
me to slow down.
    The
instant I felt the cord go slack I dropped it, turned, and drew the Beretta
tucked in my pants. I wanted to go for the .45, but the military flap holster
would have slowed me down. The miniature freak was already airborne as I
snapped off a first shot, dropped, and rolled to the right. The round missed
completely, but the Z missed me too, landing on the ledge and blocking my way
down the cute.
    Refocusing
my gaze and my weapon, I saw, in morbid clarity, what I was facing. And it was
a nightmare. A Cirque du Freak that overshadowed any horror I’d yet
seen. It was an apparition straight out of a filmmaker’s most bizarre and
unsettling dream. The most disturbing film come to life to haunt the living.
     Not just
a Z kid, but a Siamese twin Z.
    They
were conjoined at the hip and, in unison, both heads turned and snarled at me;
the sounds the twins made were identical, a chorus of hunger and predatory
excitement. One head let out a gut-wrenching cry that rocked me to my core and
the second focused on me with murder in its eyes. Then it leaped, leaving the
two by four window barrier in an arc that was amazingly graceful and
coordinated despite its four legs. Its mouths opened and closed. Opened.
Closed. The teeth were stained crimson and black. The eyes were pale, catching
flashes of light that turned them glossy white as it sailed towards me in a
death flight.
    This
time I was ready, and I did not miss.
    The
gun barked three times, the open slide working flawlessly as it fed one round
after another into the chamber. The right head of the creature exploded in an
obsidian spray of fluid and gray matter. The second and third rounds burrowed
into the conjoined Z’s chest, leaving small, but no-less damning wounds.
    Unceremoniously,
the creature fell to the ground. The uninjured head, like a fish out of water,
gasped and clung to life with ferocity. One more bullet to silence it—the
merciful thing to do. Part of me, the disgusting part that thought the ill
children were not worth saving, wanted to leave it on the floor, still
withering and clinging to animation.
    After
I released the fifth bullet to quiet the