Dead Sea by Brian Keene Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing to slow it down, apparently. And it wasn't like there were firemen or other emergency personnel to battle the flames. I'd once seen a Civil War documentary on TV. In it, they'd talked about how General Sherman had burned Atlanta to the ground. At the time, I'd tried to picture that. It seemed inconceivable; unreal. But now, I had a good idea what that had actually looked like.
        The kids had lined up the remaining shotgun shells on the windowsill. There were four of them; not nearly the amount I'd hoped for. I had no idea how many the shotgun could hold; indeed, I'd been surprised I was able to figure out how to pump it so easily. Rather than trying to load them into the weapon and risking jamming it or something, I scooped the shells up and stuffed them in my pants pocket.
        Malik frowned. "Ain't you gonna put them in the gun?"
        "Not now. Maybe later."
        "Later? Nigga, do it now!"
        "Hey," I scolded. "You shouldn't use that word."
        "Nigga? Why not?"
        "Because it's not a nice word. It means you're ignorant."
        "I'm ignorant?"
        "That's what it means."
        He stomped his foot. "I'm not ignorant."
        "I didn't say you were. But when you use that word, that's what you're calling other people-and yourself."
        Malik frowned in concentration.
        I turned to Tasha. "You got any other weapons in the apartment? Anything you kids could use against the zombies?"
        "No. But I think Malik is right. You should load the shotgun now. Might not have a chance later."
        "Okay." I sighed. "I'll load it."
        I pulled the shotgun shells out of my pocket. Then I fumbled with the weapon, wondering how they went in. There was a slot on the side, about the same size as the ammunition, but I wasn't sure which way the shells were supposed to face. The kids watched me in bewilderment.
        Malik smirked. "You don't know how to load it, do you?"
        "No," I admitted. "I don't know much about guns."
        "And you calling me ignorant? Here, let me show you."
        He took the gun from me and quickly inserted the shells with his little fingers. Then, with a smug, satisfied grin, he handed it back to me.
        "Thanks."
        "Mr. Washington taught me how."
        "What happened to him?"
        "He got eaten." The boy clammed up then, and stared at the floor. It was obvious that he was reluctant to say any more.
        I checked outside again. The creatures were still coming. The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. We heard a cracking sound, like wood splintering. Tasha and Malik suddenly looked as scared as I felt.
        "Okay," I whispered, "is there another way out of the building?"
        Tasha nodded. "The laundry room, down in the basement. It's got a pair of storm doors that lead up into the alley. And there's the fire escape. But it's broke. Don't extend all the way to the ground."
        "Could we drop to the ground from it?"
        "No, it's too high up."
        "Which side of the building is the alley on?"
        "The right."
        "Do any of your windows face it?"
        She pointed to a side room. "In there. That was Momma's bedroom."
        "Stay here."
        Their mother's room was still full of her presence. It smelled like perfume, lavender, baby powder, and vanilla body lotion. The scents were faint but lingering. It made me sad-in a few more weeks it would probably fade forever. The feeling surprised me. I thought of my own mother, and then pushed those emotions aside. No sense getting maudlin. Not while we were still in danger. The bedroom was dark, but the glow of the fires outside provided light. The bed was made up with a white, lacy comforter and light-green flannel sheets, two pillows, and a ratty old stuffed animal. Dust-covered picture frames and cheap knickknacks lined the top of the dresser. The kids were smiling in all the photos. There were a few books,