The Extinction Series | Book 4 | Primordial Earth 4 Page 14

  Gritting her teeth, she shoved her way through a gap between two middle-aged women. They screeched at her like banshees, their hostility palpable in the chaotic atmosphere, but she ignored them like the clucking chickens they were.

  With her eyes set straight ahead, Dylan continued to forge a path through the mass of bodies blocking her way. She couldn’t afford to care about anyone else or back down from a fight. It was every man for himself now, and people were desperate to survive. Desperate enough to kill, maim, or steal if need be. And I don’t plan on becoming a victim.

  She avoided the fridges and headed straight for the water, cramming a case of plastic-wrapped bottles into the bottom of her cart. The canned aisle was next, and she focused her attention on protein and vegetables such as tuna, salmon, corn, peas, soups, and tomatoes. Among the dried goods, she found a few protein bars and packets of dried fruits and nuts.

  It was a struggle. Every step of the way was a battle, and Dylan grew increasingly aware of the gun nestled against her hip and the crowbar clenched in her right hand. She hoped she wouldn’t need either weapon, but that was becoming more unlikely with each passing second.

  A toddler stared at her as she passed, its face swollen with tears while its young mother fought to get her hands on diapers and formula. Two men wrestled over a television, and she shook her head in wonder. What did any of that matter now? Three more were kicking another that lay prone on the floor, his head covered with his arms. Blood spattered their clothes, and they looked like savages.

  Averting her gaze, Dylan ran through the last few aisles, grabbing anything useful she could get her hands on. Coffee, sugar, powdered milk, dried beans, rice, batteries, toilet paper, and vitamins.

  Suddenly, a strange woman blocked her way, wielding a steak knife. Her eyes gleamed above nicotine-stained teeth, and her breath smelled of alcohol. “Give me your stuff. Now.”

  Dylan bared her teeth and growled. “Fuck off.”

  The woman waved the knife in front of her face. “I’m not telling you again, bitch. Give me your stuff.”

  “If you want it, take it,” Dylan taunted.

  The woman grabbed the cart with one hand and pulled, still waving her knife in the air. Gripping the crowbar with both hands, Dylan swung it at the woman’s wrist. It connected with a loud crack, and the woman screamed as she dropped the knife from nerveless fingers. Letting go of the cart, she scrambled backward while holding her injured limb. “You bitch! You broke my arm!”

  “You asked for it. Now scram!” Dylan said with a threatening wave of her weapon. The woman ducked away and disappeared into the press of bodies to look for easier prey, though Dylan doubted she’d be able to do much damage with her broken wrist. With a satisfied grin, she resumed her search for supplies.

  As she reached the end of the aisle, the sounds inside the store changed in tone and pitch. Terrified screams rose all around her, a chant taken up by all as it passed around from mouth to mouth. Dylan froze to the spot as she fought to make out the words. When she did, all the blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and numb.

  “The dead!”

  “They’re coming!”

  “Get inside!”

  “Block the entrance!”

  People stampeded away from the doors. They pushed their way deeper into the store to get away from the horror that approached from the outside. Dylan knew only too well what it was, and fear spurted through her veins at the thought.

  Desperation fueled her actions, and she pulled back from the surging mass of bodies before she could be crushed or trampled underfoot. Using her shopping cart as a battering ram, Dylan forged a path to the back of the store where a familiar door awaited.

  Staff Only.

  It led toward the storage room and loading bay at the back of the store, as well as the manager’s office, staff quarters, and bathrooms. She’d spent a few months during the last year working at the supermarket as a bagger. It was the reason she chose this place above all the others that were closer to home. The reason she carried her old keycard in her pocket, praying she wouldn’t need it, but hoping it would still work if she did.

  Dylan reached her destination and pulled up to the heavy iron door, usually locked to prevent easy access. With fumbling fingers, she pulled out her card and ran it through the slot. A negative beep sounded, and the red light shined. “No!”

  Behind her, the screams were growing louder, and she frantically tried again, but to no avail. The store had become a deathtrap. The crush of panicking people grew worse, and she was pushed up against the door with her loaded cart pressed painfully into her midriff.

  Gasping for breath, Dylan scanned the walls and ceiling for an escape. Any escape. Abandoning her supplies was better than dying for them. A few windows set high in the walls beckoned, as did the fire escape on the far side. Could she make it to any of them?

  A shoulder rammed into her side, and Dylan hissed as her ribs exploded in red-hot agony. She almost lost her grip on the cart, but managed to hold on as she fell to the floor.

  She looked up in time to see the nearest rack topple over with a ponderous groan. It crashed on top of her, and only the shopping cart prevented her from being crushed. Bottles of bleach and disinfectant burst on impact, and harsh fumes burned her nostrils.

  Through tear-filled eyes, she gazed around in horror. Many had not been as lucky as her, and several people were trapped or injured. The rest of the store continued its rampage of terror, the crowd killing itself as it tried to escape the dead.

  Even as she stared, jerky figures entered the store and sprinted toward the nearest victims. With guttural growls, they pounced on their prey, digging their teeth and nails into any open flesh they could reach. The coppery scent of blood filled the air, and the masses were whipped into a frenzy as death approached.

  Pinned between the wall and her cart, Dylan was trapped. No amount of wriggling or pushing could get the rack to shift even an inch. Sitting in a puddle of bleach, she closed her eyes and tried to regain a semblance of calm. “There has to be a way out. There has to.”

  A low snarl caused her eyes to pop open, and she found herself looking at one of the infected. He was perched on top of the debris like a hungry wolf, his teeth bared in a threatening grimace. Black veins crisscrossed his pale skin. There was something primal about him, something so wild she knew there could be no reasoning with such a creature. He was no longer human.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she watched him sniff at the crushed bottles of cleaning supplies, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell. An injured woman groaned, and he honed in on her with deadly intensity. Pouncing like a tiger, he tore into the helpless woman’s throat, and her screams were lost in a gurgling fountain of blood.

  Dylan pressed her hands to her lips to contain her screams, but the horror was too overwhelming. Not caring who or what heard her, she twisted around and slammed her fists against the door behind her. “Somebody help me! Please!”

  Undiluted fear coursed through her veins like acid, and she kept yelling and banging until her throat grew raw. A snarl caused her to look back. The infected man prowled toward her on all fours, blood dripping from his chin.

  Dylan twisted to the side, reaching for her gun. Her hand closed on the pistol grip, and she pulled it free from its holster. Breathing hard, she sought to still her trembling hands. Remember your training. You didn’t spend all those afternoons at the range for nothing.

  The infected paused, and his thigh muscles bunched, ready to leap. She took careful aim. He was so close. Too close. It has to be the head. That’s what the CDC said in their last broadcast.

  As she pulled the trigger, a silly thought occurred to her. Why was it always the damn head?

  The bullet drilled a hole between the man’s eyes, and he collapsed with half of his skull missing. The next moment, Dylan fell backward as the door behind her opened without warning. A set of familiar blue eyes gazed down into hers, and she gasped with surprise. “Ben? B
en Randall?”

  “Dylan? Is that you?” he asked.

  She nodded, pathetically grateful to see her old manager. He’d always been good to her, and she prayed he still liked her enough to help her. “It’s me.”

  He grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet. “Hurry. They’re coming!”

  Dylan glanced at the inside of the supermarket and blanched. Every infected inside the space was running toward them, drawn by the gunshot. Her eyes fell on her cart, and her lips compressed. “I’m not leaving my stuff.”

  Jamming the gun back into its holster, she grabbed the cart’s handles and yanked it toward her. It rolled inside, and she slammed the door shut with a yell of defiance. An avalanche of crap had followed the cart, however, and the door caught on a bottle of laundry detergent. “Oh, shit.”

  Kicking at the bottle with her foot, Dylan tried to clear the way, but it was hooked on something and refused to budge. An infected woman reached the entrance and threw herself at it with a screech. Her hand thrust through the opening and reached for Dylan’s face. She ripped out a clump of hair, and tears filled Dylan’s eyes. More infected followed, howling like wolves.

  Desperate to shut the door, Dylan grabbed the woman by the wrist and pushed. “Get out!”

  The infected woman was as slippery as an eel, but Dylan refused to give up. Sharp pain lanced up her forearm as the woman attacked her exposed flesh, but she couldn’t let go.

  At the same time, Ben yanked the blockage away from the door and yelled. “Close it now!”

  Dylan slammed it shut and the lock clicked into place, sealing them inside the storage room. Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing. The infected beat on the door, but the steel was thick, and it only registered as dull thuds. They were safe. For the moment.

  On wobbly legs, Dylan stumbled toward the nearest crate. She wiped the sweat and tears from her face. Everything smelled like bleach, and her clothes were soaked with the stuff. Her scalp burned where she was missing a hank of hair, and her limbs were stiff and bruised.

  Despite this, Dylan managed a tremulous smile as she looked at her rescuer. “We made it. Now, we just have to get out of here.”

  Ben stared at her with a grim expression, his spectacles slightly askew on his face. Somehow, that detail bothered her more than anything else. She’d never seen him with so much as a hair out of place. He was always painfully neat and tidy. “I’m sorry, Dylan, but you’re on your own.”

  The fluorescent light above their heads flickered, casting Ben’s face into shadow for a second. She frowned, unable to comprehend his words. “What do you mean? Surely, it makes sense to stick together. At least until we get out of here.”

  As he shook his head, he pointed at her arms resting on her knees. “That zombie bit you, Dylan. You’re not going anywhere.”

  She stared at him for a breathless moment before dropping her gaze. Her eyes fixed on the tender flesh of her forearm, the skin smooth and unbroken except for a few scratches caused by long fingernails…and a half-moon crescent that leaked tiny droplets of blood. She sucked in a deep breath. When had that happened? She’d never even noticed it during the struggle.

  It was a small wound. Not deep enough to warrant a single stitch, but it was more than enough to kill her. To send the virus tumbling through her bloodstream and into her brain. The world around her faded away as Dylan faced the undeniable truth. “I’m infected.”

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