Cordyceps Trilogy (Book 1): Cordyceps by Duncan Ian

Author:Duncan, Ian [Duncan, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror | Infected
Publisher: Hammerdown
Published: 2012-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Four

Only ten feet separated the two houses, one half of which was a stickweed jungle, and the other, along the newer house, a neat moat of freshly planted sod. Rain had begun to fall. Big, splashy drops pinged in the aluminum gutters.

Four windows were spaced apart down the side of the house, all covered inside with venetian blinds, offering no view of the interior. The first window was tiny, only two by two feet, probably a bathroom. The last window was laid in glass block.

Cole stopped at the second window and examined it, trying to think like a cat burglar, and regretting that Nizzam had lost the crowbar in the canal. The window was builder-grade, cheaply made, and with the crowbar he could have easily pried on the sash until the lock gave. He didn’t want to make any loud noises, though, like shattering the window outright.

Nizzam and Shelley caught up and joined him in the narrow space between the houses. Shelley set the food bag and the jerry can in the grass and Nizzam wriggled out of the heavy pack and let it drop. Cole set aside the smaller backpack and pulled the rifle sling over his head. He was thinking about unloading the rifle and ramming the windowpane with the buttstock. Maybe, if he wrapped a piece of clothing around it to soften the blow, he might only crack the window, and then he could tease out the pieces without making too much noise. Of course, that would leave them without a loaded weapon—only for a moment—but it could be a crucial moment if someone heard them.

The first step was to remove the window screen. No sense in ruining that. The house would be hot inside if the electricity was off, and Cole had an idea of what he wanted—almost a fantasy, it had become so elevated in his mind: a shower, a bed with clean, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a respite from the bugs, no mosquitoes flying suicide missions into his ear canals.

“You want me to find a rock or something?” Nizzam offered.

“No, here, hold this.” Cole handed him the rifle so he could use his fingers to pry out the screen. He had one corner loose when he heard Nizzam say, in a low, croaking voice, “I’m your worst nightmare.” Cole looked back and saw Nizzam holding the rifle low, at waist level, flexing his arms and upper body like Rambo holding a machine gun.

Shelley rolled her eyes.

“That’s loaded, man,” Cole said. “Be careful.”

Nizzam only grunted. He was working to keep his upper lip curled like Sylvester Stallone and trying to make veins stand out in his biceps. The rifle was pointed toward the rear corner of the house. Cole turned back to the window screen. He wiggled one corner of the aluminum frame out of its channel. Then, behind him, he heard Shelley take a sudden, sharp breath and the rifle fire once, twice in quick succession, the silencer: whump, whump.

Cole whirled and saw Nizzam and Shelley staring at the corner of the house.

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