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The fighting had been over for some time, the last gunshots maybe an hour past, but Steve Burnside thought he might stay where he was for a while, just in case. Besides, it was still raining a little, a bitter ocean wind picking up. The guard tower was safe and dry, no dead people and no zombies wandering around, and he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to head them off… with a little help from the machine gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seri– ously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.
So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.
He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen his… he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he thought a boat might be better – not as far to fall if he screwed the pooch, so to speak. Steve leaned casually against the cement window ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wonder– ing if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out. The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd already looked. He was starving.
Maybe I should head for Europe, get myself some in-ternational cuisine. I can go anywhere I want now, any-where at all. There's nothing holding me back.
The thought was supposed to get him excited for all the possibilities, but it didn't, it made him feel anxious and kind of weird, so he went back to considering his escape. The main gate that led out of the prison was locked down, but he figured if he searched enough guards, he'd find one of the emblem keys. He'd already run across the warden, the late Paul Steiner, but all his keys were gone. So was most of his face, Steve thought, not particularly unhappy about it. Steiner had been a serious dick, strutting around like he was King Turd of Shit Mountain, always smiling when another prisoner got led off to the infirmary. And nobody ever came back from the infirmary -
–snick.
Steve froze, staring at the metal door straight across from the tower. The graveyard was on the other side, and he knew for a fact it was full of zombies, he'd sneaked a look right after plugging the courtyard corpses. Jesus, could they open doors? They were walk– ing vegetables, mush brains, they weren't supposed to be able to open doors, and if they could do that, what else were they capable of…
… don't panic. You've got the machine gun, remember?
All of the other prisoners were dead. If it was a per-son, he or she was no friend of his… and if it wasn't human, or was a zombie, he'd be putting it out of its misery. Either way, he wasn't going to hesitate, and he wasn't going to be afraid. Fear was for pussies. Steve grabbed for the searchlight handle with his right hand, his left already on the trigger guard of the heavy black rifle. As the door swung open, he swal– lowed dryly and snapped the light on, firing as soon as he had the target piimed down. The weapon rattled out a stream of bullets, the handle jouncing against his hand, rounds kicking up tiny foun– tains of mud. He caught a glimpse of something pink, a shirt maybe, and then his target was diving out of the line of fire, moving way too fast to be one of the ca
"Say Uncle."
Steve blinked uncertainly, confused and then re– membered how to breathe again, feeling his cheeks go red as the fear fell away.
"I give," that was totally lame. So much for first im-pressions. "I'm coming down," he said, relieved that his voice didn't break this time, deciding that anyone who could make a joke after being shot at couldn't be all bad. If she was the enemy, he had the 9mm… but friendly or not, there was no way he was going to ask her not to shoot again, that would just make him look worse.
And it's a girl… maybe a pretty one…
He did his best to ignore the thought, no point in get-ting his hopes up. For all he knew, she was ninety-eight, bald, and smoked cigars… but even if she wasn't, even if she was a total hottie, he didn't want to end up taking responsibility for any life besides his own, screw that shit. He was free now. Having someone count on you was almost as bad as having to depend on others… The thought was uncomfortable, and he pushed it aside. Anyway, the circumstances weren't exactly ro– mantic, what with a bunch of diseased monsters ru
Say something cool, play it cool no matter what…
Steve wanted to tell her he was sorry about firing at her, to tell her who he was and what had happened dur– ing the attack, to say something suave and worldly and interesting… "You're not a zombie," he blurted, inwardly cursing even as it came out. Brilliant. "No shit," she said mildly, and he suddenly realized that her weapon was pointing at him, she held it low, but she was definitely aiming it. Even as he froze she took a step back and raised the gun, watching him closely, her finger under the trigger guard and the muz– zle only inches from his face. "And who the hell are you?"
The kid smiled. If he was nervous, he was doing a good job of not letting it show. Claire didn't take her fin– ger off the trigger, but she was already half convinced that he was no threat to her. She'd shot out the light, but he easily could have strafed the yard and taken her down. "Relax, beautiful," he said, still smiling. "My name's Steve Burnside, I'm… I was a prisoner here." "Beautiful?" Oh, great. Nothing a