Raising Innocence: A Rylee Adamson Novel(61)

Bundling Pamela into the last of my dry, clean clothes and letting her wear my leather jacket, we headed back out into the weather toward the station. Alex was slow, and I eased my usual stride so he could keep up.
“Rylee, will he be okay?” She didn’t need to say who ‘he’ was.
“Will is a shifter. He’ll be fine,” I said as we turned the corner. We were only a few minutes away from the station and I could already see the grey exterior. And the flood of cops spewing out of it.
I put a hand out, barring Pamela from stepping ahead.
“What is it?” she whispered, immediately picking up on my tension.
Alex lifted his head and sniffed the air. “Stinkers.”
The flood of officers out of the station eased off, and then came a new—or should I say old and rotting—mess of bodies piling after them.
Hundreds of ‘stinkers,’ as Alex put it, poured out of the main doors, grabbing and biting anything close enough for them. The cops fired into the horde, but the bullets swerved and dodged, sometimes swinging back. Fuck, when would they ever learn?
“Stay with me, no matter what,” I said, jogging toward the zombies. When I was close enough for the officers to hear me, I yelled out over the screams. “Guns won’t work, you morons! Swords, knives, but no ever-loving guns!”
A few listened, but the tide of flesh wasn’t really stemmed. Distantly, I wondered how the FBI and Interpol would spin this catastrophe to the public. Then all thoughts flew from my head as I made my first swing with my sword, slicing a zombie in half with a wet crunch of bone and gristle. The smell of rotting flesh intensified, sharp and lingering along my nasal passages.
Pamela retched behind me.
“Stay with me,” I said.
Alex let out a growl and a zombie coming in fast on my right went down in a flurry of teeth and snarls. For a submissive werewolf, he’d come a long way.
Swing after swing of my swords and the snatch and decapitate technique Alex was employing brought us to the main doors. A peek inside showed that while there were still zombies, there weren’t as many. Maybe thirty in the main room, not too bad at all. I used the back of my hand to wipe my forehead.
Pamela pointed. “They’re coming up the stairs.”
So they were. What kind of game was the Necromancer playing now?
A flicker of movement and the sense that someone was behind me was the only warning I got. I tried to dodge out of the zombie’s hands, but he was a big bastard, with mitts almost as big as Alex’s paws—mitts that pinned my arms to my sides, making my swords pretty much useless.
“Get the fuck off me!” I flung my body to the side and jerked him off balance, but he didn’t let go, not even an inch.
“You will leave my master alone,” he slurred out, his voice a drunken monotone.
I froze, pulled myself together, and answered. “Nope, not until he stops taking kids. He’s a perverted freak of nature.”
The zombie roared, and I knew that the Necromancer was hearing what I said. Good.
“I’m coming for you asshole!” My blood surged, adrenaline pounding through my body even if my arms were pinned. I kicked at the zombie, taking out one of his knees. A second kick blasted out the other kneecap, jagged edges of bone poking out of the ripped flesh. Still he hung on.
The zombie reared back and then his head shot forward, teeth slamming into my lower back just above my hip. Without my leather jacket, he burrowed his face into my flesh like a dog with a bone. The bite and the force behind it sent us both stumbling in through the main doors.
I couldn’t stop the scream that ripped out of me. Alex tackled the big zombie, but the rotter’s teeth were still in me; a hunk of skin and flesh went with the creature. Snarling and twisting, Alex tore the zombie’s head off. I was on my hands and knees, shaking with pain; a quick glance back at my hip made me turn my head away.
The wound was bad. Blood poured out and down my leg, and around my belly. The remaining zombies paused what they were doing and lifted their heads. That much is true about rotters—they love the smell of fresh blood. Like a school of dumb sharks, blood drew them as nothing else would.
I was so fucked.
“Pamela, you need to stop them.” I fumbled to get my shirt off. I had to stuff the bite wound with something, anything to staunch the flow of blood. The straps from my sword sheaths got in my way and I fought with them, panicking.
Pale, Pamela nodded, then whipped her arms outward, flicking all ten fingers. The remaining zombies flew backwards faster than I could blink and smashed against the concrete walls. Pinned there with her magic, they groaned and mumbled, but didn’t fight overly much.