Dead Ice

34

“SHOOT IT!” DOMINO said.

“Shoot it!” Manny said.

Zerbrowski had his own gun out and pointed.

Domino was fighting to keep Nicky from being pulled back into the grave. Nicky’s fingers were digging into the ground like he was trying to grow roots, which let me know the zombie was pulling hard.

“I won’t let him hurt you, Nicky,” I said.

“I trust you,” he said.

“Anita, shoot the damned thing,” Domino yelled.

I kept my eyes on the grave, the shotgun snugged up tight, ready to shoot. “Can you hear it, Manny?”

“Hear what?”

“The zombie.”

“I can,” Nicky said.

“So can I, so what, shoot it!” Domino said.

“Help Nicky pull the zombie up.”

“What?” Domino asked.

Even Zerbrowski said, “Anita . . .”

“Can you hear him?”

“No.”

“Trust me,” I said.

“I do,” Zerbrowski said, “you know that.”

“Thank you. Nicky, can you help Warrington get his face aboveground?”

“If Domino helps steady me and the zombie keeps holding on, yes.”

“He won’t let go,” I said.

“I’ll help you hold on, but this is crazy,” Domino said. He got an even better grip on Nicky. Manny was shaking his head, but he knelt down and helped hold Nicky, though I wasn’t sure either of them needed the help. Zerbrowski stayed with his handgun pointed at the arm and the body underneath.

Susannah came up to the grave and was looking in at the zombie. “Anita, get your guy out of there and let us do our job.”

“Not yet.”

She took off the big silver helmet and said, “Anita, how can you endanger someone you’re dating?”

“Back up, Susannah, give me room to work.”

“Work how?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Warrington, Mr. Warrington, can you hear me?”

The screaming just kept repeating, “Help me! Help!”

“We’re coming, Warrington, we’re coming.”

The scream changed to, “Ms. Blake, Ms. Blake, help me!”

“Jesus,” Domino said.

“What is it?” Manny asked.

“Bring him up a little, Nicky.” I kept the shotgun on him. If he tried to bite Nicky I’d blow his head off, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do that.

Nicky just flexed the leg that the zombie was holding on to, while his hands and one knee dug into the ground so hard that he started to make divots in the dry earth. Domino and Manny held on to him so he didn’t topple back into the grave, which would have been really bad.

The zombie’s hand stayed tight around Nicky’s ankle, and then his head came up above the earth like a drowning swimmer pulled from the sea. He came up screaming, high and piteous, his words lost in the horror of it all, and then he started coughing.

“Warrington,” I said, still aiming at the face.

He coughed harder.

“Bring him up a little higher, Nicky, not too much more yet.”

Nicky crawled farther out of the grave with the other men holding on to him and brought the zombie up so that his upper chest was free, but the other arm was still trapped in the soft dirt. The zombie coughed harder, then started puking up dirt the way he’d thrown up food earlier.

“God help us, he was buried alive,” one of the grave diggers said.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“He was buried undead,” Manny said, his face pale even by moonlight.

When enough dirt had come out, the zombie leaned against the side of the grave but still had Nicky’s ankle in its grasp. I wasn’t sure if Warrington even knew that he was still holding on to anything, or if he was like a drowning victim—once they have hold of anything they don’t let go. It’s how lifeguards get drowned every year trying to save people.

I wanted to help Warrington, but I wasn’t letting him hurt Nicky, or anyone else, trying to save himself. I would help him if I could, but if I couldn’t I’d let Susannah and her dad do their job. Once I had that decision dragged into the front of my head, I was calmer.

“Warrington, can you hear me?” I asked, still pointing the shotgun at his face.

He blinked up at me, but those fine hazel eyes were corpse’s eyes now, half lost in their wasted sockets, color stolen by the moon. His face was waxy and skeletal; all the miraculous humanity had been lost, so that he was just another zombie except for his words.

“Ms. Blake, that is you, yes?”

“It is, Mr. Warrington.”

“I can’t seem to see as well as I usually do.”

“Your eyes aren’t working as well as they did.”

“Is it from being buried?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Are you pointing a gun at me?”

“I am.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“Are you going to keep holding on to my friend’s ankle?”

“Is that what I’m holding on to? I can’t seem to think clearly.”

“Yes, it’s Nicky’s ankle that you’re holding on to.”

“The big gentleman with the odd haircut.”

“Yes, that’s Nicky.”

“I can’t seem to make my fingers work to let go.”