Free Thirteen Roses Book Five: Home: A Paranormal Zombie Saga by Michael Cairns Page B

while he checked out her arse, but when she turned he raised his eyes quick. ‘What is it?’
    ‘One of the zombies made it up here. The internal fire escape opens just off the lobby. We thought they’d get bored of climbing stairs long before they made it up here, but apparently not.’
    ‘Where is it?’ He lurched for the door, feeling half zombie himself, and she patted his arm.  
    ‘It’s taken care of, I think they’ve taken care of it. Now take it easy.’
    She pulled open the door and he staggered through. His eyes went instinctively to where Dave had been standing. He was gone. Hours gone, in fact. He growled and thumped the wall. The pain shot down his arm and he ground his teeth together. This was absurd.  
    Ella had already set off down the corridor. Maybe she wasn’t as sure of things as she said. Jackson staggered after her, remaining upright only because he refused to fall over. He was going to go fight the zombie because there was no way they were sidelining him. It started happening the moment he lost his bloody fingers, saving them no less, but it wasn’t happening anymore.  
    They’d turned on him, just like Luke and his cronies had. They all turned on him. It was jealousy, pure and simple. They couldn’t handle the thought that he was God’s chosen. They were racist. If he was some white boy with nice blond hair they’d be bowing before him. He hawked and spat, ignoring Ella’s glare from the far end of the corridor.  
    He reached the door long after she vanished through it, and shoved his way in. The noise made him squint as the screams and shouts wound their way into his head. The stairwell was bare concrete and the sounds of fighting bounced off the walls along with the voices.  
    He took the steps down carefully, one at a time and leaning with his elbow on the rail. He got to the midway flight and stopped. There were two zombies trying to get up the stairs, and five of the ladies opposing them. They were defending themselves with two fire extinguishers and a bunch of random kitchen utensils. They were, at best, not getting killed, which was about the kindest thing he could say.  
    He watched for a moment longer before resuming his descent. He’d taken a few steps before he stopped. What was he going to do? He stared at his wrecked hands and fought to keep his lip from wobbling. He was God’s chosen, but right now he was a cripple, a complete waste of space.  
    He gritted his teeth and climbed back up. He pushed into the hotel and headed for the kitchen. Every few steps he’d stop, sucking in breaths as the walls and floor shifted beneath him. He needed sleep. He didn’t need to make decisions, none of them did. If the stairs were the only way up they just needed to barricade the door and give him time to recover.
    He barged into the kitchen and found a cooker. It was a huge, industrial thing with about twenty rings on the top. A couple of them were gas and he lit one by turning the knob with his elbows. It clicked and burst into life, the flames beckoning him.  
    He stared at it for a moment, waiting for the courage. It was a long time coming. Finally, he tore at the bandages with his teeth. She’d put them on tighter this time, but eventually they unwound and he stared once more at his wrecked left hand. The thumb looked like some weird mutation, sticking out the side while his stumps wriggled and stung.  
    The flames came into focus past his hand and he stared at them. The ends of his fingers were open wounds and would be for a long time. There was no sewing them up. He paused. He should get the weapon now, he wouldn’t want to go through the pain twice.  
    He searched the kitchen and finally settled on a knife blade that had a vicious point but was deeply serrated along the edge. It reminded him of a bone saw from a hospital. It was steel, shiny, and very sharp. He stamped on the handle until it broke apart, then wedged the blade into a drawer with the other end sticking