“I am. It’s three,” she confirms, and I start measuring out the gasoline into the glass bottle. “They’re heading right this way. They’re not too far off, either.”
I don’t have to tell her to keep her eyes on the trees. Trusting Hallie to do her part of the hunting mission, I start to prep the firebomb.
The second step is the most important of the three: the fire.
Guns don’t work on lurkers; not unless you’re a sharpshooter who can hit one right between the eyes after you stared them into momentary submission. Within twenty-fours of infection, the monster’s cells regenerate too quickly for any other injury to cause death. Knives don’t make a dent against the high density of their skin. Their otherworldly strength makes it impossible to strike them down, crush them,hurtthem.
But fire… not even a lurker can protect itself from the impetuousness and speed of a hungry fire set right on its path?—
“Got a light?”
Hallie stops biting on her thumbnail though she keeps her eyes on the trees. Brushing her hair behind her ears, she pats her pockets. The right one. Then the left. Then the right one again with a little more intensity.
My temper sparks, beginning to flare the same way the gasoline will as I grit my teeth; already so close to the surfacethese days, it’s all I can do to keep from snapping at Hallie. Bringing the matches separate from the other materials is the only other part of the job I trust her with and... and I let out a sharp huff of relief when she gasps under her breath, then pulls the pack of matches out of the back pocket of her worn jeans.
“Ah…” Her laugh is breathy and fast. The nerves always get the best of her, the closer the lurkers get. “Here they are.”
She moves to hand them to me. However, whether it’s from her nerves or the way she’s still focusing intently on the trees, she misses my palm by a few inches. The matches hit the dirt with barely any sound at all.
My expression softens as I swallow back my frustration. I reach for the matches before Hallie gets the chance.
Scooping them up, I shake the dirt off the matches and set them on the ground by my knee. Before I do anything else, I shrug off my heavy jacket. Since it’s unseasonably warm out tonight, I don’t really need it, but I always wear it—until I’m ready to fight the lurkers with fire. After the first time my sleeve nearly caught and the leather started to shrink and char, it’s become a habit of mine to remove Rory’s old leather jacket whenever I prep my firebombs.
Hallie waits for me to finish before taking it. Without tearing her gaze away from the half-burnt trees, she folds Rory’s jacket neatly. Neither one of us will risk anything happening to it so, quickly and with only the smallest of stumbles, she places it blindly on the asphalt ten feet behind me. It should be safe.
If only we were.
I might not be able to sense the lurkers the way Hallie can—and hell if I can see perfectly in the dark like a lurker—but my eyes usually adjust enough that I’m not blinded out here. Underneath the waning moon, the shadows begin to move. The ragged black cloaks each lurker covers themself in waft in theevening breeze making it seem like they’re swimming between the dying trees, sharks screaming after a single drop of blood.
Even so, my ears catch the sound of steady, plodding footsteps crackling against fallen, brittle tree branches. The air turns sour and cloying, and I begin to breathe through my mouth as shallowly as I can without letting the old, familiar panic rise.
The rotting scent of dead meat is almost too overpowering as the three lurkers move closer to where we’re waiting for them.
They’re coming.
And I’mready.
Once the fire’s lit, all that’s left is the burn.
Lurkers are supposed to be indestructible. That’s why they were made. The Injection was created to erase any and all human vulnerabilities but, then again, no one counted on us being so desperate to survive that we’d resort to setting fire to creatures that used to be our family and friends.
It’s amazing how quickly they catch. As flammable as dry kindling doused in oil, all it takes is one spark, then stand back. Just watch the monsters burn away until there’s nothing left except for a pile of smoldering ash and the fervent wish that, with each and every one we destroy, the world could just go back to the way it was be before the Turning?—
“They’re getting closer,” Hallie whispers. From what we can tell, a lurker’s hearing doesn’t seem to be any better than a survivor’s, but she whispers anyway. We all do. “I can see the one in the lead. The other two are right behind it.”
I haven’t finished with the rig yet. I still have to look.
She’s right.
Lurkers aren’t very fast—their top speed is about half that of an active survivor—but they’re very strong and forever hungry. The creatures will keep on coming, only stopping to feed… unless we put an end to them first.
We have to kill them, and all those like them. I won’t run from a lurker again.
I turn my attention back to the firebomb. I’ve made so many of these simple rigs in the last five months, but it’s essential that I’m careful, that I take my time. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t tedious, or that I don’t get frustrated easily. I do. These handmade bombs work best when they’ve been built to the specific needs of the mission: How many lurkers? Is there anything that might catch fire with the creatures? Dead trees or dried brush that could catch light and blaze out of control? Any forgotten gas lines that might go up with that one spark? Our community wants to kill any of the white-skinned, black-eyed monsters lurking at the edge of the Grave, but the territory must be protected at all costs.
It’s all we have left.
“I’m almost finished,” I announce, my head down. “Keep your eyes on them.”