Free Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught by Drew Brown Page B

wife, the priest with his flask and finally a pair of hotel workers, who were perhaps in their mid-thirties, and had yet to speak. The two of them were sitting at the end of the table, positioned in a dark shadow that almost hid their faces as they huddled together, the man’s arm cast over the shoulder of the female.
    Nine in all had elected to remain.
    Seven were leaving.
    Andy looked around the table. “Can I take it we’re all staying?”
    There were nods from the depleted group.
    “Good. Now, shall we go try an’ talk them others out of leaving? I think they’re making a big mistake.”
    One after the other, the group rose from their chairs.
    Budd was last of all, pulled up by Juliette.
     
     
21
    By the time Andy’s group reached the reception area, which was now grimly shadowed and grey because of the dense clouds that covered the windows, the seven who’d decided to leave were already at the outer end of the Tropical Walkway.
    Budd’s eyes scanned the black and white checkered floor. Many more of the corpses were now shuddering, and he trod a meandering path that kept him as far away from each of them as possible.
    “Stop, please wait,” Andy shouted. He broke away from the group and ran to the Tropical Walkway. Frank followed him closely.
    Still concerned with the movement of the bodies, Budd stopped. The rest of the group halted with him, content to watch Andy and Frank’s last-ditch appeal to the seven from the middle of the reception.
    It was not to be a success.
    Perhaps hurried by Andy’s chase, and worried that some of his followers were frightened by the ominous cloud that covered the ground like an impossibly thick fog, Chris made sure that all of the seven were holding hands, forming a human chain, and then he walked outside. As Budd watched, the seven people marched out into the fog, vanishing one by one only a few feet beyond the threshold.
    The male honeymooner was at the rear of the line, the last to go, and he turned his head to look back into the hotel, staring at the others until his image blurred, faded and finally disappeared. Andy called after them all, hollering into the murk when he reached the open doors. He stood with wisps of the fog creeping inside around him.
    No sound returned. The seven were gone.
    “Hey,” Budd said, and he nodded his Stetson over to the bank of elevators. The red light above the central shaft showed the elevator was on the move.
    It was coming down.
    Unconsciously, Budd adjusted the strap of his rucksack and then gripped the axe with both hands. He ushered Juliette behind him.
    The elevator bell chimed and the doors began to open. A man squeezed sideways through the space and tumbled out into the reception. He got straight to his feet and bolted towards the Tropical Walkway. Only when he saw the group, fronted by Budd, did the male stop running.
    He was slim built, in his late teens or early twenties, with shoulder-length light brown hair that hung limply around his face. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a long-sleeved green T-shirt and a pair of white gym shoes. Budd saw his wide, fearful eyes from across the room, saw his chest rise and fall as he fought for breath.
    “Like, all of you, we gotta get outta here. There’re like fucking zombies all over the place,” the young man called, signaling with his arms to the doors. He had a distinct Californian accent.
    “Calm down, kid,” Budd called back. “What did you just say?”
    “Zombies, dude, I’ve seen zombies,” the young man replied. His eyes roamed the reception room. “There, look,” he said, pointing to one of the shuddering bodies, “that’s how it starts. Any minute now he’s gonna be up and, like, totally ready to eat brains. All of them are.”
    Budd looked around at the twitching bodies. Their number was certainly increasing. Already the ones that moved outnumbered the ones that did not.
    “Those people are dead, son,” the doctor said, stepping forward to stand next to Budd.