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It was worse last time, he told himself. Last time, he'd buried himself under three bodies. One was Lieutenant Becker, and Becker's belly had been split open and his guts were all over John. He'd been underneath the corpses so long that, by the time he finally struggled free, Becker's intestines had dried against his fatigues. They'd come with him when he got up. He'd had to peel them off. |
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Hours under those corpses. |
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This won't be as bad, he told himself. |
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He wondered how long Lynn and Cassy could last inside the freezer. |
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They shouldn't have shut themselves in, he realized. With the door shut, the cold would build up too fast. And he wasn't sure whether the door could be opened from the inside. If something happened to him, they might be trapped. |
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He listened. Screams and laughter and shouts still came from the other areas of the restaurant. But he didn't think anyone had entered the kitchen. Not yet. |
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He shoved the body off, got to his feet, took a quick look around, then tugged open the freezer door. |
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Among the bodies of the journalists and two men who'd been killed by them, Lynn and Cassy lay sprawled on their backs. They should pass for crazies, all right, in their soiled wet nightgown and T-shirt. But one glance convinced him that they wouldn't pass for dead. The blood in their hair, on their faces and arms and legs made them look damn gory, but hardly concealed that they lay there stiff and shivering. |
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