Seraphina's Revenge: A Rebirth In The Apocalypse Novel

Chapter 372: Numbers Don’t Lie

The only problem was that the Saint Eaters weren’t close to breaking at all.

They had the number, they had the weapons, they knew that it was just a matter of time before Sera and the others were so exhausted that they would just fold like puppets.

One of the Saint Eaters finally got close enough to put a shotgun against Lachlan’s back. He fired.

The blast blew through flesh and muscle. Lachlan stumbled forward. He caught himself on one hand before he faceplanted into the pavement.

The massive wound began to knit back together, but it was too slow. Elias grabbed him, pressed his hand over the torn flesh, and forced it closed.

"Stay up," Elias said.

"I’m up," Lachlan said through his teeth. He turned around, grabbed the man with the shotgun, and hit him so hard his head snapped sideways and stayed there.

Sera looked at the crowd behind them, then at Zubair. "Take the back," she said. "I’ll clear the front."

He nodded.

She went forward alone.

Men fired at her. Bullets hit her face, neck, chest. Skin split and closed. She hit their line like a hammer.

She ripped two men apart and threw the pieces into the ones behind them. Blood made the ground slick. The men at the very front saw that and started to back up again.

"Stop retreating!" someone yelled. "There are only five of them!"

Alexei heard that and almost laughed. It was wrong. They weren’t five. They were a single entity that orbited a single heart.

He pushed his ice out again, this time harder.

It flowed under all of them now, even under the men who were trying to circle. Boots lost grip. Men fell. Trucks couldn’t move. The whole street became a frozen floor with fire on top of it.

Zubair sent his fire over the ice in a straight path toward the men at the back.

Flame rolled low, under the gunfire, and reached them before they could jump. Coats caught fire, the men screamed, and still it wasn’t enough. Some of those burning dropped their rifles to pat the fire out.

That was enough to open another gap.

"Forward," Zubair said.

They stepped up.

Alexei swung his arm into another man’s face.

Ice-covered knuckles crushed bone. He grabbed a second man and slammed him into the burning truck. Lachlan took the opening and kicked another up against the diner wall. Sera reached the next rank and started again. Elias stayed behind them, breathing hard, eyes sharp, hands red.

Then, finally, Alexei heard it.

Clicks.

Not from them. From the Saint Eaters.

The men at the back had emptied their magazines. Some reached for more and found nothing. Others had ammo but could not reload fast enough while slipping on ice and dodging fire. The steady stream of bullets slowed.

"They’re emptying," Alexei said.

"So are we," Elias said.

It was true. None of them had a rifle with a full magazine anymore. Most of the guns on the ground were damaged, out of ammo, or too far away to grab without getting shot.

But it didn’t matter.

Because even with fewer bullets, the Saint Eaters were still too many.

They started grabbing pipes, knives, chains, anything they could pull from trucks. They rushed with bare hands. They tried to dogpile. Three, four, five men at a time jumped on Lachlan. Three tried to pin Alexei’s arms. Two tried to hold Sera down.

It didn’t work for long, but it definitely slowed them down.

This was what Rourke had wanted—numbers piled on until the five could not move.

Alexei knocked two off him and froze the third to the ground. He looked up through the smoke.

More men were still coming. The town behind them was full. The road beyond the sign was full. The sound of engines in the distance said there were still more.

They were in the middle of it.

And there was no clean way out yet.

The line collapsed.

Alexei’s boots slid on blood and ice as the next wave crashed against them. He shot one man, then another, until the rifle clicked empty. He dropped it, pulled his knife, and met the next body head-on.

Lachlan was beside him, breathing hard, every muscle flexed. His shirt was torn open, blood slick across his chest. He swung a length of rebar like a club and split a man’s skull. Another lunged in; Lachlan caught him by the vest and hurled him five meters.

"There are too many of them!" Elias shouted as he frantically looked around. "We can’t keep going this way!"

Zubair answered through clenched teeth. "Then we burn them."

Flame rolled over the closest trucks. Tires blew. Men screamed. The fire painted every shape in orange light. They kept coming anyway.

Sera tore through the center, silent now. Every man who reached her fell. Nothing could stop her, but the crowd kept pressing from the sides, cutting the team off from each other.

Alexei moved right to cover her flank and froze the ground, but the pressure didn’t ease. He felt the air thicken, heat from Zubair on one side and the stench of blood from Sera on the other. Bullets struck him again—arm, shoulder, thigh. They hurt but didn’t stop him.

Lachlan’s breathing changed. It deepened, heavy and fast, chest rising like a drumbeat. Sparks crawled across his skin and didn’t fade. His eyes went bright white for a moment, then blue.

"Lachlan!" Elias called.

But there was no answer.

His laugh turned into a growl. He dropped the rebar and grabbed the next man with his bare hands. Lightning snapped from his palms. The man’s body convulsed before it even hit the ground.

His skin darkened—blue, veined with light. Every muscle swelled. His shirt tore apart as bone and sinew stretched. Teeth lengthened. He roared, and the sound rolled through the street louder than the fire.

The Saint Eaters froze for a heartbeat.

Then they fired everything they had at him.

The bullets hit and bounced off. Some tore through his skin, but the wounds closed as fast as they opened.

Lachlan charged forward.

He ripped through the nearest men, claws and lightning moving together. Each strike dropped another. He was twice his normal size now, veins glowing under the skin, eyes bright as arcs.

Alexei covered his side. He caught one man trying to shoot Lachlan from behind and drove the knife into his ribs. The blade snapped. He dropped it.

The heat was unbearable. Zubair’s fire met Lachlan’s light, and the air itself began to shimmer. Alexei’s lungs burned with every breath.

Then the cold came.