The Final Formula (17 page)

Chapter
17

R
owan sprinted forward to meet
the zombie.

The thing made a grab for him and I gasped, but Rowan dropped into a crouch, avoiding the outstretched hands. Rolling to the side, he kicked out with one leg, knocking the zombie to the asphalt.

Henry sprang forward, landing with a knee in the zombie’s gut and burying his hunting knife in its chest.

“Not the body, the neck,” Rowan shouted. “We need to remove the head.”

“With a fucking knife?” Henry snarled the words and jerked the knife free. He whirled the blade in his hand before hacking into the zombie’s throat.

Rowan didn’t answer, already rising to meet the next zombie.

I tore my eyes from the scene and turned around, looking for something to use as a weapon. My eyes settled on Ginny’s car. Though only ten feet away, I could just make out the contents of the trunk in the dim light. An idea forming, I ran to the vehicle.

“Addie!” Rowan shouted.

I turned toward him.

“What are you—” He didn’t get to finish before a zombie closed in on him.

I bit back a scream, but Rowan ducked just in time. A crossbow quarrel thunked into the zombie’s left eye. The thing staggered back with the impact, but didn’t fall.

“I’m out of quarrels,” George shouted.

Standing here watching wasn’t helping anyone. I pushed up the lid and took a quick inventory. A laundry basket filled with towels and aprons sat to one side. The opposite side held everything the well-prepared motorist could need: a gallon of gas, jumper cables, tire chains, and even a small, short-handled shovel.

I picked up the shovel and the tire chains, overturning a box of assorted tools and highway flares in the process.

“Rowan!” I took several steps in his direction and when he looked up, I tossed him the shovel and chains.

He snatched each out of the air and, in the same motion, slammed the shovel into the nearest zombie’s face.

I hurried back to Ginny’s trunk. I couldn’t let the fight distract me. I lifted the box of laundry detergent out of the basket and grabbed the red plastic gas container.

I squatted beside the crate of lab supplies James had been helping her carry inside. Broken glass tinkled as I righted it. Inside I found a wide-mouthed, 2-liter beaker still intact. I also found a Teflon stir-stick among the glass shards. Perfect. I reached for it and jerked my hand back with a gasp. A slim shard of glass protruded from my middle finger. I gritted my teeth and pulled it out. Blood immediately welled along the minor wound. I wiped it on my pants, hoping it’d be too insignificant for the zombies to notice.

A loud clank rang out and I looked up.

Rowan stood poised with his shovel; one of the well-dressed zombies had gotten too close. The zombie staggered back several paces. He wobbled to a stop and immediately started back toward Rowan.

“Shit.” I turned my attention back to my beaker, dumping in several scoops of detergent. I kept my head down, ignoring the occasional clang of the shovel. I needed to get the viscosity of my mixture right. Once there, I pulled a vial from my pocket: the refined essence of Rowan’s blood. I up-ended the vial, sprinkling the last of the orange powder over the thin paste in my beaker. Now I needed an ignition source. I remembered the flares that had rolled across the trunk when I overturned Ginny’s toolbox. I could—

A groan made me look up, and I found one of the female zombies only a few yards away. She appeared the stereotypical grandma with her helmet of perfect gray curls, flower print dress, and two-inch high heels.

I grabbed up the detergent scoop and my beaker, and climbed to my feet. Wrapping my left arm around the unwieldy container, I cradled it against my body and scooped out a cup of incendiary solution.

Grandma shuffled closer, dead eyes fixed on me. It took me a moment to realize that the soft mewing sound I kept hearing came from my own throat. I prided myself in keeping a level head in times of crisis, but dear God, the dead creeped me out.

I stiffened my resolve and let her shuffle closer before I emptied my scoop across the front of her dress. The adhesive properties of the mixture worked as I’d hoped, and the paste clung to the fabric. I spun away and, in three strides, returned to Ginny’s trunk. Setting the beaker on the carpeted floor, I reached behind the laundry basket, frantically searching for a flare.

The scuff of a high heel shoe was my only warning before a hand settled on my shoulder. Thin fingers dug into my flesh with a strength that pulled a cry from my throat.

I gripped the lip of the truck to keep her from pulling me away while my other hand continued to fumble for a flare. A moan sounded close to my ear at the same time my fingers slid along a smooth cylindrical surface. I gripped the flare then screamed as teeth sunk into my shoulder.

I let go of the car to tug the cap off the end of the flare. The flare lit much like a match with the abrasive striking surface on the end of the cap. My hands shook so much, I almost dropped it. Tightening my grip on both components, I struck the two surfaces together.

Nothing happened. Did flares expire? What if the thing had been lying in Ginny’s trunk for years?

Grandma pulled me back a step, teeth still clamped on my shoulder. Something warm rolled down my back. I hoped it was blood and not something…from her. She adjusted her oral grip, working her teeth closer together. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t dare pull away. She wasn’t letting go. A struggle on my part would only rip a chunk of flesh from my shoulder. Though she might manage that on her own.

I slid the cap across the end of the flare again. Harder this time. A whiff of sulfur and the flare sprang to light, sputtering weakly.

Grandma had turned me around, our backs to the trunk now. If this flare fizzled, I had no chance of finding another—unless I managed to get free after she took her bite.

Another sputter and the flare caught, burning a bright red. Relief surged through me, but I couldn’t indulge in it. I twisted my arm behind my back and pressed the flare against Grandma’s stomach. I had a second to wonder if I’d made contact with the paste when a mighty whoosh slammed me face-first into the asphalt and sent Grandma flying in the opposite direction. She landed with a metallic thump that told me she’d collided with the car. I guess I should have used a little less essence of Flame Lord.

“Addie!” Rowan shouted and the clang of his shovel followed. I raised my head and saw him swatting zombies out of his path. He worked his way down the side of the car, moving toward me.

I sat up and discovered that Grandma, her dress in flames, had landed in the trunk of the car. With my beaker.

“No!” I pushed myself to my feet and ran. I slammed into Rowan, the impact taking us both to the ground, only yards away from the driver’s door.

“Down!” I screamed at the Huntsman boys.

I didn’t see if they reacted before the whole back end of Ginny’s car exploded.

Now I blow things up on a regular basis, but this was far and away my most stunning accomplishment to date. I turned my head to watch the fireball roar a good twenty feet in the air and hurl Ginny’s car across the lot and through the hedges. Good thing Rowan and I were beside the car and not in front of it. Glass and other bits of shrapnel still pelted us. The crumpled trunk lid slammed down only a few feet away.

“What the hell was that?” Rowan asked. A bleeding gash marred one cheek below his left eye.

I untangled myself from him and sat up. The concussion had thrown the other zombies to the ground, but they were already starting to rise. George and Brian were also on the ground, but they were moving. Where was Henry?

Smoke drifted across the parking lot from the burning ruin of Ginny’s car and the smoldering hedges. Through the haze, four of the five remaining zombies had regained their feet and were shuffling toward us.

Rowan turned to face them, tire chains jangling in one fist while he gripped the shovel with the other. The wind shifted, blowing more black smoke across the parking lot. For a moment, we were immersed in an acrid fog. We both coughed and I rubbed my eyes to clear them.

A moan sounded, and I whirled to find a zombie creeping up behind us. My bleeding shoulder must have drawn him. Crap.

“We’re surrounded,” I said.

The zombie stumbled closer and I stepped back, grunting when my injured shoulder bumped against Rowan’s back. It was the naked zombie. Some time during the fight his incision had come undone. His body cavity gaped open revealing the emptiness inside.

A whimper rose in my throat, and I pressed against Rowan harder, the pain now a welcome distraction.

“Addie?”

“His guts are missing.” I tried to explain my reaction. Rowan must think me the biggest weenie on the planet. “I can see his spine—from the front.” Not only his spine, but his rib cage, too. Red muscle interspersed with white bone. Along the edges, the skin had rolled back reveling the neatness of the cut. No ragged edges. No bleeding. Like meat from the butcher—minus the freezer paper.

Naked Man raised his arms, compressing the y-shaped hole in his torso as he reached for me. I screamed and stumbled back against Rowan once more.

Tires squealed, and I looked up in time to see George’s big 4X4 slide into the lot, Henry behind the wheel.

The truck came right at me. I cried out and gave Rowan another shove. We avoided being run down, but Naked Man wasn’t so fortunate. The impact sent him flying, and he tumbled head over naked ass into the hedge bordering the lot.

Henry whipped the truck around, taking down three more zombies in the process before skidding to a halt beside his brothers. Brian clambered over the side of the bed while George pulled open the passenger door.

“This isn’t over,” George told us. “We will have our brother back.”

He climbed in and the truck was moving before he even slammed the door. Tires squealed once more, and with a flash of brake lights, they were gone.

“Inside.” Rowan pushed me back toward the clinic. The zombies were still climbing to their feet, giving us time to run for the door. In moments, I was blinking in the bright florescent light of the clinic’s back hall.

Ginny stood nearby, cell phone in hand. “Should I call the PIA…or 911?”

Rowan sprinted off down the hall.

“No. Wait—” I jumped at the sound of shattering glass. An instant later, Rowan returned with a large, red-handled fireman’s ax.

I opened my mouth, but didn’t get to comment before he hit the release on the back door and shoved it open.

“Rowan!” I started after him.

He whirled to face me and I stumbled to a stop.

“Stay.” He jabbed a finger at the hall behind me. “You’ve done enough.” He disappeared outside and the door slammed in my face.

Stay, my ass. Taking inspiration from him, I pulled the nearest fire extinguisher from the wall and followed him outside.

Rowan was finishing a sweeping kick that took the legs out from under the nearest zombie. It landed on its back, but didn’t get a chance to rise before Rowan spun and brought the ax down on its neck. It took two strikes before the head rolled free.

I swallowed the knot in my throat and hoped I wouldn’t vomit.

Rowan tugged at the ax handle, trying to free it from the asphalt. A second zombie stepped up behind him, hands outstretched.

“Rowan, behind you!”

He spun, dropping into a crouch, and I unloaded a blast of monoammonium phosphate into the zombie’s face. I didn’t expect much. The dead don’t feel pain, nor do they need to breathe. Yet the blast disoriented the creature long enough for Rowan to jerk his ax free. Another kick and chop made short work of the threat.

Working as a team, we took down the rest of the zombies in a similar fashion. When the last zombie fell, we stood in silence, surveying the corpse-strewn parking lot.

I set down my fire extinguisher and eyed his gore-covered fireman’s ax. “We could moonlight for the local fire department.”

Rowan gave me a dark look. “I think you’ve extinguished enough.” He turned and started for the clinic.

Rowan wouldn’t speak to me
on the ride home. I tried to start a conversation a couple of times, but his answers consisted of monosyllabic grunts. The only time he spoke was during his short call to the Deacon, demanding the man come clean up his sister’s mess. When I asked about the Deacon’s response after the call, Rowan turned up the radio—just in time to catch a news story about the reappearance of an Alchemica alchemist. When the DJ suggested that this alchemist was working with the Flame Lord, Rowan changed the station.

I was actually relieved when the manor came into view, but that relief faded when we found Cora waiting in the foyer.

“Rowan.” She hurried to him. “You’re still well? You’re—” Her eyes roamed over him, taking in the dirt, cuts, and bruises.

“It’s superficial. I’m fine,” he snapped, pushing away the hand she’d raised toward his face.

“What happened? How—”

“James’s brothers, a necromancer, and the alchemist.” Rowan waved a hand in my direction.

“The name’s Addie, and if I’d had my vials, I—”

“What?” He rounded on me, and it took everything I had not to step back. “How in the hell could that accomplish anything except make matters worse? You have access to a lab for one day.” He raised a single finger for emphasis. “One freaking day. And you take advantage of me again.”

“Take advantage? I’m trying to save your life, you egotistical ass!”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” He turned on his heel to head deeper into the house.

“Then get me my things and I’m out of here. Now.”

He spun and in two long strides was in my face. “Aren’t you paying attention? You’re all over the local news. The PIA wants you. Those men who attacked the gun shop want you. And it seems even the necromancers are aware of you. There’ll be no peace until we learn more about this formula you may or may not know.”

“What? You think I know the Final Formula? You think I’m holding out on you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I fisted my hands and somehow managed not to punch him. “I’m entitled to my secrets. Especially those that aren’t pertinent.”