They were still in the back of the precinct near the holding cells; bodies, both zombie and human, were splayed out all around them, unmoving, but they’d made disturbingly little progress forward. They were all still alive and unbitten, but that was all that Elliott could see in their favor. In the corner he could see the EMT from earlier dragging someone away from the battle; he was barking out orders to others trying to save who they could. Fipps looked like a terrifying ninja stork, his long legs stepping over any obstructions without difficulties, using that switchblade to maximum effect by stabbing any zombies that got too close in the eye: the blade was long enough to puncture the brain. Sickening, but effective.
Elliott turned and a gun was thrust in his face, and to his surprise the face on the other end of it was completely human. His hand was halfway to the “I surrender, please don’t shoot” position when the man squeezed the trigger. Elliott closed his eyes, resigned. This is how it ends, he thought.
The gun went off.
Elliott waited to die, and when moments passed and he didn’t, he braved opening one eye. His right ear was ringing and he could feel the warm burn of gunpowder settling on his skin. The man was staring at him, an eyebrow quirked. He had dark brown hair and green eyes lit with intelligence; he was considerably taller than Elliott, even taller than Roger, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence that had nothing to do with the enormous gun he was wielding. He was in a Portland police uniform with a nametag that read, “Higgins.” Elliott recognized him from the photo Junie had stepped on.
He waved the gun over Elliott’s shoulder and said, “Mommy.”
“What?” Elliott asked, the buzz in his ear convoluting every sound.
“Zom-bie,” the other man said more clearly.
Elliott looked behind him and saw a dead zombie right at his feet; its teeth were literally an inch from his shoe. “Oh. Thanks,” Elliott said.
The other man shrugged. “Many rhymes.”
Elliott frowned. “What?”
“Any. Time.”
“Oh.”
A chair leg went whizzing past his head and Roger and Shavian were there beside him, Shavian still swinging the chair but now punctuating each meaty hit with a gunshot. Shavian still looked a little dazed, but unhurt.
All around them the chaos continued. The humans seemed to be prevailing; inside the building anyway, there were only a couple zombies left. It was quiet enough now to hear a strange noise emanating from the back of the precinct: it sounded like a rousing round of “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow.” Elliott exchanged looks with Officer Higgins, who appeared to be reloading; the gun, no longer pointed at him, seemed perfectly normal sized.
Higgins jerked his head towards the back. “Retirement.”
Just then, an older man in his dress uniform came stomping out of one of the windowless back rooms, and when he surveyed the damage all around, he paused, his jaw hanging open. Behind him Elliott could see a large banner stretched across the room that read, “Happy retirement, Captain Cannon!”
“What the hell happened out here?” he demanded.
Higgins gestured around him. “Zombies,” he said.
“Are you seriously telling me you didn’t hear all this racket?” Elliott asked incredulously.
The captain rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those idiots were singing so loud I couldn’t hear a thing.” He sighed. “The end of my days on the force and it’s the end of days. So much for my fucking pension.”
Higgins gave him a sympathetic look, and moved to put a hand on his shoulder, when there was a blood curdling scream from the middle of the room. All eyes turned to look at Shavian, standing there surrounded by dead bodies and with blood splattered on her expensive jeans, shrieking at the top of her lungs. There was nothing around her posing any more threat, but her yowl went on and on. When she was spent at last, she looked around her, breathing hard, her eyes white and wide.
“What the fuck is going on?” she bellowed to no one in particular.
Calmly, Higgins gestured around the room once more. “Zombies.”