The door finally fell off its hinges and the dead began spilling onto the roof. Tanner shouted the order and the group opened fire. Bradley was near the edge of the roof, using the edge to support himself in place of his sprained ankle.
Below, the noise drew the attention of the dead. They clamored for their food, trapped on the roof. And the survivors had only so many bullets.
The horde on the roof drew close. One knocked the rifle out of Melissa's grip, while a second, crawling, wrapped its hand around Alex's ankle. A swift kick scattered its brains all over the cement, but the gap it left in the horde was quickly filled. They were being pushed back.
Farley looked at the advancing corpses. Then at Bradley. Bradley would never make it with his injury. And there were so many below that using the fire escape wasn't an option at the moment. He felt his guts tie themselves into a knot as he realized what he had to do, and dashed to the injured man at the edge of the roof.
"AAAUUUUUUUGGGGHHH, FUCK!"
"You did this Conner, not me!" Farley's boot slammed into Conner's side, once again sending Conner to the floor. The pain in his side barely registered as he gripped his left wrist. Farley grabbed the back of his friend's uniform and lifted him back up. Once more he forced Conner's left hand to the table and smashed the back of the man's hand with the machete.
"Tell us! Tell us or I'll take another!"
"SCREW YOU!"
Farley angled Charlene into position again. With a wet, gut wrenching snik Conner's ring finger was separated from his hand. The small stump began spitting blood as the now defunct digit rolled off the workbench and onto the floor, joining his left-middle finger at the foot of the workbench. Willard was giggling madly in the background as pain encompassed Conner's entire being.
"JESUS CHRIST, STOP IT!" Farley slammed Conner's head into the workbench and held his mutilated hand in front of his face, forcing Conner to see the two stumps of what had once been his fingers.
"Tell us what we asked for. Show me that you're willing to cooperate for once!" Conner's anguished screams cut off any reply he might have had. He thrashed about with his free hand, but Willard forced it behind his back and twisted it. "Just tell us! Then the pain will stop, it'll all stop."
"NO!"
"Willard, his other hand." The big man whacked Conner over his head, stunning him. Farley grabbed Conner's right hand and positioned it while Willard twisted the left one around behind him. "Last chance."
Tasting copper in his mouth, Conner spit blood onto Farley's dirty combat boots. For the third time, Charlene sliced through one of Conner's fingers, completely severing it. His right-hand ring finger joined the other two, casualties in a senseless struggle of wills. Before it rolled to the floor, Farley snatched it up and held it in front of Conner's bloodshot eyes. "I'll take them all, Conner. I threw away my life because of you, don't test me!"
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU, YOU FUCKING MONSTERS!" Letting go, Farley watched Conner curl up on the floor while the stumps of his fingers continued to squirt blood, painting the floorboards beneath him a deep rusty red. Willard kicked him in the gut, causing Conner to wheeze as the air was knocked out of him. He tried to scream again as Willard stepped on his left hand with Farley struggling to not be sick as his friend's eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.
Willard put an arm around Farley's shoulder with an almost brotherly sense of pride. "He didn't talk, but I'd say you earned your place in the pack, amigo. C'mon, let's leave him here. We'll let him rot 'til morning, then we take him to the barn and introduce him to the other tough guys who decided not to talk. Sound good?"
Farley brushed the other man's hand away as they strolled out, trying not to vomit and shutting the door behind them. Conner's parting words put a chill in him, a cold that he tried to ignore as a subtle shaking began to take him. Detaching himself from Willard, Farley wandered off, passing the house in the middle of the compound, the command post of this small, walled off slice of Hell he was now supposed to call home. Sick with himself, he offered a tiny, desperate prayer upwards for a pack of cigarettes to ease his inner shivering as he left the shed, and Conner, behind him.
But Conner wasn't the only one they left behind. There, in the lamp's cone of light, lying on the workbench, was Charlene.
Conner began to stir.
