The swarm hit like a storm of rotting pressure.
One at a time initially, each one arriving and drawing the next the way a signal draws a response. Within thirty seconds the windshield was covered. Six of them that I could count, more moving in from the edges of the square, the hundred infected in the open space all receiving the same message and starting toward the same source.
"We are so dead," Mercury breathed.
She stood from the front seat, pressed herself between the headrests and squeezed through to the back, landing on Jenn with the specific gracefulness of someone who had stopped caring about gracefulness.
"You think this thing is armored," she muttered, settling herself.
The infected on the windshield were pressing their faces to the glass. One of them, a naked female whose body told the story of where the infection had found her, pressed her breasts and face hard against the glass, sniffing, biting at nothing. The others joined, rocking the car with increasing force.
