Dead Mann Walking by Stefan Petrucha Read Free Book Online

as we watched, one by one, those lights went out.
    They’d spotted us. It dawned on me that there was another really good reason coming here at night was a stupid idea. Mistaken identity. Nobody ever visits shantytowns at night except hakkers, so that’s what they took us for. How could I be so stupid?
    â€œSlow down!” I said.
    Too late. The air in front of the Hummer exploded.
    Turgeon slammed the brakes so hard the shoulder belt nearly crushed my collarbone. As the heat blast hit the windshield, an enormous fire flower blossomed a few yards ahead. I could barely make out the shape of the wrecked car behind it.
    â€œThe chakz are getting more aggressive in their defense tactics,” I said. I was impressed. I opened the glove compartment and found a flashlight. With a click the light came on.
    â€œAre you sure it’s the chakz?” Turgeon said. His voice had gone up half an octave.
    â€œPretty much. Relax. Kill the engine and get out of the car, slow. Once we’re outside, don’t say anything; just stand behind me.”
    He was busy staring at the fire, so I had to tap him and repeat myself. Once he cut the ignition, he pulled a large piece from the same jacket pocket that used to hold the envelopes.
    Looked like a forty-five.
    â€œPut that away,” I hissed. “And don’t take it out again unless I say otherwise.”
    He hesitated.
    I put my hand on the gun. “This is what you paid for, right? My expertise?”
    He gave me that pouty expression again, but shoved it back in his pocket. I wanted to pat him on the cheek and tell him what a good boy he was.
    Instead, I got out, my eyes half on the fire, half on Turgeon. Once I was certain he was between me and the Hummer, I faced the burning car and held up my arms.
    â€œHey! We’re not hakkers, you idiots! You think those lowlifes could afford wheels like this? You think if they could they’d drive it out here and scratch the finish? Hello?”
    Nothing. I pointed to my face.
    â€œI’m one of you! I’m a chak! Hessius Mann! Any of you out there with half a brain left know me?”
    Again, nothing.
    Turgeon nudged me and whispered, “Ask about Boyle.”
    I waved him off. “Shh! They heard me. They’re thinking about it. Keep quiet and watch.”
    I trained my eyes on the edges of the flames, trying to peer into the long, flat darkness between the burning car and the main factory building. That’s when I saw them. They’d blended in so well with the shadows, the dead bushes, the broken bits of concrete, they were as good as invisible until they moved. It was as if they’d planned it that way.
    Chakz. Lots. Five. Ten. Twenty. All shambling toward us. A field of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.
    â€œOh, my God,” Turgeon said. He whimpered and staggered backward.
    I kept my eyes on what was coming and muttered, “You think?”

4
    T he closest was a real walking-dead poster child—a gleet in a construction jumpsuit with a juicy hole in his forehead the size of a golf ball. Arms out Frankenstein style, he looked as if he was leading the others like a parade marshal.
    There’s a song in there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.
    As they came forward, I was more worried about Turgeon. He held his ground, but shook so badly I felt a breeze at my back. I was afraid he’d do something stupid that’d require quick thinking on my part, or at least a phone call to Misty to say good-bye.
    If the shambling didn’t freak him, the moaning would. It rose above the crackle of the car fire, one sandpaper-dry voice overlapping another, making a steady rush, like the ocean on a white-noise machine.
    When a chak moans in torpor, I take it for sorrow, profound sorrow. That doesn’t explain it in a feral. At that point, why moan at all? There’s also the weird fact that when a feral shambles, he moans louder, as if there’s a gear connecting