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    He scowled at me, and then stalked off into the trees, muttering under his breath. We watched him go, shaking our heads.

    "Asshole," Mitch said.

    "He may be a dick," Tony said, "but he's right. We're all on edge. But this place is zombie free, man."

    A crow flew overhead. Something pink dangled from its beak. I thought I knew what it was. Before 1 could say anything, the wind shifted, blowing from inland out to the sea.

    Mitch cringed. "Oh yeah? Well if that's so, then what's that smell?"

    Deep inside the forest, Hooper screamed.

Chapter Seven

    We ran into the forest and pushed our way through the thick undergrowth. Vines and thorns tugged at our clothing. A few yards beyond the tree line, the foliage abruptly cleared. Sand gave way to a thick carpet of pine needles, and the trees were spaced far enough apart for us to move freely. Hooper screamed again, his voice closer.

    "Cleveland," Runkle shouted, "where are you?"

    He answered with another shriek.

    "Hooper!" Mitch cupped his hand around his mouth."Sound off, man. Let us know where you are."

    "I'm over here! Oh, fuck me. Fuck me running! Ya'll get over here, right now."

    We followed his cries and emerged in a circular clearing. Hooper was in the middle of the clearing, staring upward. We brushed past the branches and stood beside him. Each of us froze, gaping in horror. I felt my gorge rise. I ran to the edge of the clearing and puked.

    Except for the section where we'd entered, the outer edges of the clearing were lined with crosses. Somebody had made them out of fence posts and logs. A zombie hung from each cross, nailed through the wrists and ankles, their legs, arms, and waists tied down with thick coils of bare copper electrical wire. The stench was terrible, but even worse were the flies. Their buzzing filled the clearing. Maggots writhed inside the corpses and fell out of various orifices. They squirmed on the ground. Birds sat on the creatures' shoulders and heads or perched on the crossbeams. They'd stripped the crucified zombies of most of their skin. What remained were pink, wet, human-shaped things-internal organs, lips, tongues, and eyeballs missing. Their nerves and veins hung like limp strands of spaghetti and bones poked through the glistening tissue. One of the zombies raised its blind head, as if sensing our presence, and moaned. Worms burrowed in the empty eye sockets. Bird shit covered an exposed section of skull. The creatures' stench made my eyes water.

    "Jesus fucking Christ…" Mitch bent over and threw up all over his boots.

    I wiped the bile from my lips and rejoined the others. My stomach lurched again. The comic books in my back pocket brushed against my spine. I'd forgotten all about them. I was surprised they were still there.

    The buzzing flies grew louder. Another bird flew off with some intestine. The grayish-purple strand looked just like a big, fat worm.

    Runkle gagged. "Somebody… somebody did this. The zombies couldn't have crucified their own. They're not that smart. They don't function that way. A human being did this."

    "How"-Tony choked-"How did they get them up there? If the bodies were already dead and infected, they'd have turned into zombies before they were finished with the crucifixion."

    "And if they were still alive when they were crucified," Runkle said, "then how did they turn into zombies? How did they get exposed to Hamelin's Revenge from up there?"

    "Maybe they were exposed and then nailed to the crosses before they actually died," Mitch said, gasping for breath. "But that still doesn't tell us why."

    "It was God's will."

    The voice came from behind us. Hooper screamed again, his voice growing hoarse. We all whirled around, weapons raised and ready. A man slowly stepped out of the forest. He was short and thin, and looked to be in his late forties. A few wisps of white hair clung to the sides of his head. The rest of his scalp was bald and shiny. He was dressed in black pants, a white short-sleeved dress shirt, and had a dirty preacher's collar around his neck. A small silver cross was pinned to the collar. Sweat stains covered his shirt and there was mud on his pants. His dirty yellow fingernails were long and ragged.

    Mitch stepped forward and pointed his pistol at the stranger's head.

    "Don't you fucking move."

    The man held up his hands and smiled sadly. "You have no reason to fear me, son. I am a man of God." He had a Hispanic accent.

    "What the hell happened here?" Runkle patted the man down, carefully searching for weapons. "Who did this?"

    The man's smile remained. "I told you. It was God's will. This is the Lord's work. Only he can grant life after death."

    "He's fucking crazy," Hooper muttered. "Just shoot him and be done with it, Runkle. The hell with this shit."

    "Please," the man said. "As I already told your other friend, I mean you no harm."

    "Our other friend?" Runkle stepped away and holstered his weapon. "What are you talking about? You better start making sense."