“What was all that screaming about?” she asked, trying to come up with a settling explanation instead of the current unsettling image she had in mind.
“No clue.” He shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out, though.”
“I think the longer we stay here, the more chance we will,” Clarice said. She inched her way to the door and cautiously peered out of the small Plexiglas window.
“See anything?”
“Nothing,” Clarice said, shaking her head. She squinted and tried to peer into the shadows right as something happened through them, causing her to jump.
“What?”
“God,” she exhaled loudly. “Stupid rabbit scared the hell out of me.”
“What on earth is a rabbit doing up here?”
“No clue. Probably wondering where his carrots are.”
Several more minutes passed. Tensions lowered, and the rabbit never returned.
“I wish we were on a boat,” Clarice sighed.
“Why?” he asked. “You’ve never even been on a boat, and you’ve been to the beach like twice in your whole life.”
“I know,” she said. “But it would mean we weren’t here, and we could put an entire ocean between them and us.”
“Sailing is overrated.”
“No way,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s something romantic and exciting about the sea. And for the last hour I’ve been asking myself, ‘What Would Anne Bonny Do?’”
“Who?” Nick asked.
“Anne Bonny,” Clarice repeated. She tapped the skull and crossbones on her cap. “You know, the pirate? She sailed the oceans during the 18th century and did all sorts of piratey things?”
“Ah, yes,” Nick said as if he were unsure how to answer. “And what did you come up with?”
“Anne would burn the place to the ground and sail off,” Clarice said, dreaming about having some real freedom. “Right now, I’ll settle for sailing off.”
“Since when have you fantasized about being a pirate?” he asked.
Clarice was taken aback. “Since always.”
“Why? They’re dirty and smelly, and you’re not. And they get things like scurvy.”
“I’d avoid the scurvy part and bathe regularly,” she said with a stifled laugh. “Anne was strong, savvy, kicked ass, bucked the family, and went where she pleased. Not to mention as a pirate, she got to down a keg or two.”
“You could be a hippy,” Nick said. “You’d have to forgo the strong, savvy, and ass-kicking parts, but you could still be smelly and intoxicated if you want. I think your family would disapprove of hippy as much as pirate.”
Clarice suppressed a second laugh. “Could you see my brother Chris, Mr. Marine, if I came home a hippy?”
“I don’t think even your relationship with him could withstand that,” Nick replied with a chuckle. He drew a breath and carefully pulled the cord out of the wall socket, wrapped it about itself, and stuffed it in her bag. “Try the door. Might work now that the power is reset.” He then added, “Quietly.”
Clarice carefully approached the door and reached out, half expecting it suddenly to do something disastrous. When it didn’t, she pressed against it as hard as she could, and it slid open. She looked back at Nick with relief. “Okay, where do we go?”
“A few turns should place us at a stairwell,” he replied. “I can’t remember exactly what this place looked like. I should have saved a copy of the floor plan the moment I had it pulled up. There are probably some elevators around, but honestly, I’m not about to trust them.”
“Me either,” she said. “That’s it then? Get to the stairs, and we’re out?”
“Not quite,” he answered. Nick put the computer on standby, folded the screen down, and placed it under his arm. “We don’t have direct access to the surface here. We have to go through the entertainment floor first.”
Clarice waved him to follow and took the first step out of their room. Her heart pounded and nearly broke free of her ribcage as she froze halfway into the hall. She squinted and ducked reflexively into the shadows. “Oh, no way,” she muttered.
“What?” Nick whispered. His feet remained planted an inch behind her and his neck craned for a better view into the hall.
“Tell me that’s just a boot,” she said. “That better be a boot.”
Nick pushed forward, easing around the frozen secretary and into the dark hall. A dozen feet away, barely inside a beam of light from one of the few functioning light sources, quietly lay what had stopped Clarice in her tracks.
Clarice watched, holding her breath all the while, as her fiancé made a cautious approach. He bent down and picked the object up.
“Hey, it’s a boot!” he said a little too loudly for her comfort.
“Shut up.”
Nick snickered and tossed it aside. “Kind of feels like a video game, huh? Random junk tossed onto dimly lit floors and whatnot.”
“Not even close and not even funny.” Her muscles began to relax.
Something moaned from the other end of the hall, interrupting their conversation. It was an all too familiar sound, one that she had heard for the first time only a few days ago. Clarice leaped forward and grabbed her fiancé by the arm, dragging him down the hall until his brain caught up with what was going on. “Move!”
Ragged forms dotted the winding hall. A few more torn figures were plodding around the rooms, going about their business for the most part. One was holding an arm that had been abandoned by its body—another figure found a spare head. Some of the forms turned toward the pair in flight and followed, lumbering along.
Clarice ignored them and continued on her beeline course, making sure Nick was close behind. More than once she stumbled on something that had made a new home on the floor, but she dared not take the time to see what it was. At the end of the hall was a small, steel door with a sign that read: Exit.
“Go! Go! Go!” Clarice yelled.
Nick barely made it into the stairwell before Clarice slammed the door shut. The stairwell was claustrophobic, but at least the emergency lighting was kind enough to illuminate the metal steps before them.
“These go where we want, right?” she asked, trying to bolster her morale.
“I think so,” he replied, taking in a few deep breaths. “At the very least they go up, and that can’t be all bad.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ken Saunters, security guard and zombie-killer extraordinaire, trotted down an ill-lit hall with a silver magnum at his side. The facility had set aside a budget for the purchasing and maintenance of a Glock 23, 9mm sidearm, but Ken had used the monies to purchase extra ammunition for his personal Colt Anaconda—a .44 magnum revolver. As far as Ken was concerned, the Glock was fine if all you wanted to do was punch holes in paper, but if something absolutely had to be destroyed on the first shot, only the Anaconda would do. The near three-foot flame it spouted was simply an added bonus.
Ken rounded a corner right as an explosion rocked the hall, shattering a door three rooms down. Fire spilled out from the doorway, and the sprinkler system above engaged with a hiss. As the flames drew back, two corpses, each charred pitch-black, staggered out of the room.
“I’ve got plenty for each of you!” Ken shouted. He snapped off three quick shots. The first flew wide and took out the menacing plastic trash bin behind the pair. The next two shots landed right between each zombie’s eyes, turning their heads into a couple of pink mists.
The bodies fell over like rag dolls, one of which twitched for a few seconds before going still.
A door flew open behind him, and Ken spun around. Two more zombies came into the corridor, arms twisted and mouths hanging open. The one on the left wheezed as it approached, as if suffering from an extreme case of asthma, while the other groaned in the typical brain-eating fashion.
“Plenty for you guys, too!” he yelled. Three more shots fired and two more headless bodies hit the floor with a gooey thud.
With the pist
ol now empty, Ken flipped open the gun’s cylinder and slapped in six more rounds with one of his speed loaders. Ken flicked his wrist, locking the cylinder back in place and secured the now spent loader in one of his pockets.
Ken took the momentary pause in action and glanced at his belt. He had three full speed loaders left, which meant he had a total of twenty-four shots if he counted the rounds already in his weapon. Given the total number of staff in Tau Seven and that most were now zombies, Ken knew he needed a lot more ammo if he was going to deal with the situation appropriately. His glee at finally getting to put all of his training for a zombie apocalypse to good use would only get him so far.
Despite the low ratio of bullets-to-zombies that existed, he was far from feeling hopeless or helpless. There was a security post relatively nearby that would probably be stocked. And if luck was on his side, there might be baddies to shoot along the way—just as long as that number was less than twenty-four.
Ken darted through the shadowy passages and acrid smoke, and despite all the destruction, no living corpses were seen, nor feeding groans to be heard. All that filled his ears was the constant wail of a siren, and all that filled his eyes were the sites of bloodied corridors, toppled rooms, and floors cluttered with trash and overturned equipment.
Once Ken reached the security station, he punched his access code into the keypad and waited. The station’s door slid partially open and stopped. Frustrated, Ken hit the door with his fists but succeeded in only making a hollow thud.
“Let’s go, you piece of crap,” he said, hitting it a few more times.
The door refused to move, despite the intense stares from the guard.
Ken sucked in his gut and decided to try and slide inside. It was a tight fit, one that popped two buttons off his uniform, but he managed to get in nonetheless. Out of habit, Ken hit the inside button to the door, and it instantly slid closed and locked.
“Damnit,” he muttered.
He sucked in a deep breath and took inventory of what was still left. The computer terminal was intact, but judging by the nothing that was on the monitor, it was probably offline like everything else. It looked like someone had been on the keyboard recently as well, bloody hand and fingerprints marking the keys and desk.
The gun locker, however, was untouched.
Ken reached into his pocket for his keys, causing them to jingle as he pulled them out. Once he had flipped through them and had the one he wanted, he put it in the lock and gave it a turn.
Ken grinned once the locker door swung open. There weren’t any boxes of .44 magnum rounds, but that didn’t matter to him in the least. Inside was a Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun with four boxes of shells at the bottom. He holstered his pistol and freed the shotgun from its metal prison.
Now, this is what zombie killing was all about as far as he was concerned—pure, unadulterated firepower. The pattern from the shotgun’s modified choke practically guaranteed a headshot at thirty yards blindfolded. The only thing better might be a minigun, but Ken was reasonably sure Tau Seven didn’t have one of those in supply. If the place was still in business after this, maybe he’d put in a requisition form for one.
A smack, followed by a series of thumps, drew his attention away from the locker and to the security door. Through the narrow pane of thick Plexiglas, Ken saw a handful of zombies milling about. Several more wandered into view a short while later, and soon, a mob of dozens was outside.
Ken knew he needed a game plan, and he certainly wasn’t about to sit back and wait to be rescued, leaving all the fun of splattering heads to outsiders. He sat down in the one swivel chair provided in the room and contemplated his predicament.
Shoot and scoot. That was the key. Range, good. Close quarters, bad. Munched on, very bad.
What he needed to do was keep his distance and drag them along, popping heads as he did. Zombies were too stupid to understand cause and effect anyway, and he was certain they’d play right into his hands.
Ken stood, walked over to the door release, and held his breath. Hopefully like last time, it would get stuck a quarter open.
He adjusted his grip on his shotgun and hit the button.
The door slid partially open once again, and the zombies on the other side paused mid stagger and turned to face him.
Ken stuck the barrel out, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
* * *
Jack, distracted from pursuing his smell by the sight of a meal, was chasing a group of three people when the door ahead slid shut with a hiss. On the other side of the door’s Plexiglas pane stood three people who were catching their breath. At first, their eyes were wide, faces sweaty, and corners of their mouths turned downward. One was even crying. But all of that changed when Jack reached the door and gave it a few solid blows with his fists. The nearest one jumped and lost his footing. The other two abandoned their worried looks and traded them for bouts of hysterical laughter as they helped their companion back up.
Jack did not appreciate their frolicking behavior, especially at his expense. To his dismay, however, he could do nothing about it. Even more frustrating, this was the fourth group of people that had gotten away from him.
Jack hit the door one more time for good measure and howled. Apparently, being a zombie in the middle of an underground facility with a bunch of trapped humans was not all that it was cracked up to be. Jack decided that whoever had included doors into the final design of Tau Seven should have his brains splattered across a smorgasbord for everyone to feast upon. What he really thought was, Doors, bad, but it amounted to the same thing.
Jack, however, could be patient. He knew that. Danita knew that. His unhappy meals would come to know that. And so Jack decided to wait in front of this latest door until his meals came out or something better came along, even if it took a day. Or a month. Or a year. After all, he had time.
But something did come along, and it came quickly. And that something was his smell, tantalizing his nose as it wafted down the hallway to his right. Since there were no doors blocking him from following it, Jack decided to abandon his post. With a little luck, resuming this pursuit would yield something scrumptious to gnaw on.
He traveled down the corridor and stopped. The smell came from near his feet, and so he bent over to examine this new development. At the base of the wall was a vent, and so was his odor. But as far as Jack could see, both in and out of the vent duct, he was still the only Jack around.
Eventually, Jack decided to move on, frustrated and confused. It wasn’t long before the same process repeated itself, once, twice, and then whatever other numbers came after two. He found his smell. He tracked his smell. He found himself staring at the base of a wall, or up at a ceiling vent, irritated that he could never find the source. Jack soon despised these vents and their trickery.
But Jack’s mood brightened when he stumbled on a large group of undead, all milling about a small area. They were pushing and nipping at each other like a pack of sharks, which told Jack all that he needed to know. Dinner was served, and the bloodied door that stood in their way was the only thing stopping a feeding frenzy.
A tug of war developed between Jack’s two current thoughts. On the one hand, he wanted to continue tracking the smell that seemed ever so close, even if it did drive him crazy. On the other hand, he wanted to know what was going on at this particular door. His dilemma even manifested itself physically, walking him in circles as the two desires took turns at moving his legs.
Finally, thought number two’s patience, or at least its stalling, paid off. The door beeped its friendly little tune and slid partially open. On the other side was an angry-looking meal that was armed with a black, hollow stick.
Two seconds later, the stick roared, belching flame and boasting a loud crack.
A former tech, once known as Steven, slid to the floor in a bloody heap, sans head.
The rest of the zombies looked at their fallen friend.
Someone commented how lucky the now dead-dead zom
bie was, even admitting that he was jealous that the now dead-dead zombie got to lie very, very still. Standing, eating, and groaning were nice and all, but doing nothing was even better.
Everyone agreed, including Jack. He suggested that when they finished here, they should find Danita and have her incorporate such prizes in all games henceforth.
Someone else asked if any more of these prizes might be given out, and what it would take to earn one. Though they had heard about Eats from other zombies (and they having heard it from still others, until the chain worked its way back to Danita), they were all unclear on a number of issues and wanted clarification before the game progressed any further.
In the middle of this discussion, the man behind the door pumped the weapon, aimed, and fired again from his hideout. The next shot hit Marshall, once the sous chef in the cafeteria, square in the bridge of the nose. He, like the ex-tech, slumped to the floor without protest.
The rest of the horde, Jack included, turned toward Ken and snarled. A few battered at the door, but none could squeeze through the tiny opening. They pushed, pulled, and tore at both each other and the door, all the while rattling on about how unfair it was that Ken gave away yet another prize so haphazardly. He didn’t even bother to consult anyone on the matter. Not to mention, no one could recall Marshall having earned any points thus far. And according to the basic gameplay instructions Danita had come up with, someone with at least one point should have gotten the prize.
In the middle of this argument, a third zombie was shot, and the survivors decided that something must be done. Shortly after that, the guard killed his fourth, and they all agreed that the time to do something was now.
Joan, one of the better Eats players in the back of the mob, pointed out that the more they stood in front of this door, the more this human gave good prizes to zombies with no points. Sadly, she admitted, she didn’t know what to do about it.
Jack suggested that they leave. The smell of Jack reinforced his idea.
Someone else suggested that they eat the man instead, but the door continued to get in the way every time the mob tried.
Death and Taxes Page 12