Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

air with the sound of teeth on teeth. The implant post glinted in the front of its mouth whenever its jaw opened wide. She could see a crust on the steel that could’ve been old mortar or dried meat.

Cold sweat drenched her clothes. She tried to breathe, but the fear had wrapped around her chest and bound it tight. Her heart was smashing against her ribs, fighting to be free of her chest so it could get away, so it could escape.

The ex’s hands stretched out across the table. Its thighs bumped the edge. It took another awkward step and swayed as the table refused to get out of its way. Another step made the table legs scratch against the industrial carpet, shifting a quarter of an inch before settling back down.

She flinched back and ran into the tool chest. A thin mouthful of air wheezed into her nostrils. Her fists slammed back against the metal drawers.

Lester whimpered. He’d pressed himself against the wall. He chanted something, and it took a second for her brain to realize it was just “no no no no no no” again and again.

Gray hands stretched across the table for her, swinging back and forth through the air. A good five feet separated them from her. The fingertips barely reached past the width of the table.

A thimble of air squeezed between her lips. She focused, pushed, willed herself to take another breath. A deeper one. It filled her chest and put some space between her violent heart and the ribs it had been pounding against. She stopped banging on the tool chest and forced her fists to unroll, her fingers to straighten. She pressed them flat against the drawers.

The ex’s teeth snapped together again and again. Click-click-click-click. It bumped against the table edge again. The impact jarred a few strands loose from its comb-over, and they draped down to hang across one of its milky eyes.

More gunfire echoed from outside. A few shouts and screams. And the sound of even more teeth.

No one was coming to help her. Not anytime soon. Maybe never.

Maybe Cesar hadn’t gotten the fence back up. Maybe he broke the cable. Maybe…

She pushed the thoughts away. They weren’t helping. She needed to breathe. Breathe and stop shaking and deal with this ex, or she and Lester were going to die.

The dead man took another lurching step against the table. The front legs lifted up off the floor, then settled back down. The ex’s gray hands groped the air.

She leaned to the side, grabbed the whimpering man’s shoulder, and pulled him closer to the tool chest. A bit closer to the ex, too, but solidly behind the table now.

Her eyes flitted to the left. The door to the courtyard was about fifteen feet away. Less for Lester and the ex. And she’d closed the gate out of the courtyard to the canopy area, where all the weapons were. They could run for it, but the ex would be close behind them. It might catch her.

To the right was a wall of low windows with a view of the still-standing sections of the south fence. She could try to dive through one of the windows, but she knew she wouldn’t make it. By the time she wrestled her way through the frame, the dead man would’ve taken a bite or three out of her calves, maybe even her thighs.

And that didn’t even consider Lester being almost catatonic with fear. So much worse than her. There was no way she’d get him moving fast enough to avoid a zombie.

Left and right were out. A wall behind her. The ex in front of her. She’d done an amazing job of cornering herself behind the table.

Why the hell hadn’t she grabbed a pistol off the rack? Kennedy and Gibbs and Hector and half the Unbreakables did it right in front of her. What had she been thinking, running inside without grabbing something to protect herself?

She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been running scared. She’d been trying to hide.

Now the ex was in here with her and Lester. And Lester was useless. No more hiding. Now she had to fight.

She was Cerberus, damn it. Not the suit. Her.

Click-click-click-click.

The tool chest behind her held electronic tools and components. Nothing useful unless she wanted to try stabbing the dead man with a soldering iron. The big wrenches and hammers were all in the smaller chest across the room, which made the odds of getting away from the ex seem a lot…

Danielle mentally kicked herself and barked out a single laugh. She’d been so focused on the dead man in the ratty blazer she’d been overlooking the best weapon she had. Literally, looking right over it.

The Longshot sat on the worktable between her and the ex, pointed at the zombie’s hip. The housing was off, but the magazine was still loaded with more hex nuts. The weapon just needed to be cocked.

And fired. The trigger was in the front. Within easy reach of the ex’s hands. And mouth.

First things first. The manual lever was under the dead man’s elbow. The same arm with the ragged cuff.

She took a breath, set her palms against the tool chest, and pushed herself off. Her right foot slid forward. Then her left. Her heart threw a few punches at her sternum, but calmed down. She took another step closer. And another.

The gray fingertips went back and forth in front of her face, stretching and grabbing. One hand swiped at her shoulders. The other almost brushed her nose. Small cracks ran through the yellowed fingernails. One of the thumbs didn’t have a nail at all. The ex swung its arms again and again, like a machine.

Danielle understood machines.

Both arms out. Lean left. Lean right. Every three passes some neuron would go off and the left arm would drop down low. Then it would overcompensate and go high, and then return to normal for three passes. A cycle of five. She watched it happen six times, enough