Martin’s attacker ignored the partial scalping and continued to try and eat him. Martin, in turn, stabbed again and again. It wasn’t the most eloquent of attacks, but it worked. Sort of. The creature did let go, and it did fall to the ground, dead. But before it fell to the ground, it bit a chunk out of Martin’s shoulder.
“Ma isn’t going to like this,” he said as he went down the hall. He made his way through countless rooms and paused for a breath when his heart went into arrhythmia. The whittler sat down in a large leather chair and looked around. The lighting was considerably better than where he was before, but he had trouble noting anything else about the room. His vision had blurred.
Martin shook his head and redoubled his mental efforts. He realized both time and the life he knew were fleeting.
Though Martin couldn’t see much anymore, he could still see the oak table in front of him.
“Ah, wood, my old friend,” Martin said, smiling through the migraine that was forming. He took out his pocketknife and began to carve. “I can always count on you to make things right.”
* * *
Like a speeding locomotive with an equipment cart for a cowcatcher, Nick and Clarice burst out of the lab. They barreled over two sets of zombies on their way to the stairs, all the while Clarice praying that the UCK didn’t slip from her grasp. During their descent of the stairwell, she lost her footing, nearly dropping the jar as she grabbed the handrail. Despite their brush with disaster, neither wanted to slow down and kept moving at full steam.
The power was behaving much more predictably on the lowest floor as compared to the others. Whatever the reason, Clarice was grateful for the small blessing. It was short-lived gratitude, however, as the distinct sound of bodies thumping down the stairs foretold what was behind them.
Zombies. Lots of zombies.
Clarice punched in the code for the final doorway. Much to her relief, the data pad chirped in a cordial manner. The door it was attached to via numerous circuits, however, failed to respond fully. It slid open an inch, maybe two, but no further. Clarice’s jaw dropped, and she thumped her fist against the wall. “Doesn’t anything work around here?”
Nick braced himself in front of the door and tried the muscle solution. After a few grunts and a sharp cry, he conceded his sinews wouldn’t be the deciding factor. “Let me see if I can work my magic again,” he said, opening his laptop.
“I don’t think there’s time for that,” Clarice replied. She tapped him on the shoulder and directed his attention to the two zombie trailblazers that came into view. A second later, three others joined them. And judging from the cacophonies coming down the hall, the rest were not far behind.
“Run,” Nick said, almost whispering.
Clarice nodded and did just that.
* * *
While Jack was bent over, extracting his 1941, catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell, ballpoint pen from Ryan’s forehead, Danita entered the physics lab. He turned toward her, pleased to see a longtime friend. From the look on her face, she was glad to see him as well and even seemed delighted that he had found his pen.
Jack asked where she had been, and she asked the same. But as quick as the conversation started, several blinking lights on a nearby wall caught their attention. Jack was the first to investigate.
The lights were small and square. Touching them produced little beeps and chirps from various machinery. Tasting them did the same. However, when Danita mashed a handful of the buttons, a solid, green beam of light shot across the room from a nearby piece of equipment. The beam bounced around beakers and off broken glass, eventually stopping when it hit Ryan’s temple. Other than a sweet, barbeque smell and wisp of smoke it now emitted, the light seemed mostly harmless (and boring).
Jack soon lost interest, and Danita’s boredom quickly followed. The pair wandered out into the hall, catching up on lost time and reminiscing about their finest moments playing Eats as they did. Soon the conversation turned to taxes, and all that Jack knew about them, and so Jack gave a lengthy discourse on the subject.
Taxes icky.
Danita admitted she had a hard time visualizing what they were, but she also said she knew that he had a remarkable palate. And if he said they were icky, then she saw no need to take a bite. She suggested that perhaps people would rid him of the taste of taxes, and if that were true, it would be a good idea to find some. If there was a problem that eating couldn’t solve, she didn’t know it.
Jack thought this was a good idea as well. He said he was also a little jealous that he hadn’t thought of it at first, but he was glad that Danita had decided to include him in on the game.
Two humans suddenly barreled past them, shoving Danita and Jack to the side. One was holding a jar. The other had a pseudo cowcatcher.
Jack righted himself, turned, and stared at the fleeing pair. This was the first free-roaming group of humans he had seen in a long time and he began to salivate. It was common zombie knowledge that free-roaming humans were much healthier than those raised in a barricade.
Jack gave chase, and Danita followed. As they did, other zombies took note of their pursuit. Though Jack wasn’t sure what was going through their partial mindset, he could only assume that his excited body language acted as a beacon for all to join. And an irresistible beacon it was. With every turn of the corner and passing by of a room, zombies far and wide abandoned the ribs they dined on and added their numbers to the horde.
Within five minutes, Jack and Danita had attracted more than a dozen others. The more the mob grew, the more those who saw it quickly joined in. Eventually, not a single zombie in the facility existed that wasn’t part of the pursuit.
A few times the unruly horde found themselves faced with their arch-nemesis, Door. Although it slowed them, the right combination of hitting, pushing, grabbing and twisting caused Door to yield. And despite the delays, the scent of a new meal was never lost.
Getting past the stairs was a little tricky as well. Those in the back wanted to be up front, and those up front found navigating the stairwell a slow process. That is, until someone asked the question, Why walk?
It was a first-rate question, one that made the collective body of zombies pause and let out an Errgggghhhh? No one had a good answer, or any answer for that matter. With no plausible reason why they should walk down the stairs, the mob, Jack and Danita included, began throwing themselves down the stairs and over the rails. A few fell a little too far and snapped their necks in the process. This, however, served to be a benefit to the whole, as soft cushions for landing were now in place.
It was a noisy process, but one that worked. And that’s all that mattered.
* * *
Nothing quite ruined a day like being killed for the second time. It made for an afternoon that was fraught with uncompleted tasks and confused states upon awakening. This was something that Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, was well aware of. When he finally opened his eyes, he couldn’t recollect who he was or what had happened. The only thing that he was sure of was that there was something above him.
Ryan stared at the looming object. It was rectangular, off white, and partially illuminated. It didn’t move, talk or even smell. He wasn’t sure if it was watching him, but given its perch above, Ryan couldn’t fathom what else it would be doing. Napping perhaps.
He reached out to touch it, then realized it was a good distance away, some seven or eight feet. Thinking the matter over some more, he decided that this must be the ceiling. Ryan could then think of only one place he might be to have such a view.
He rolled over on to his stomach, and the floor was right there to greet him. He moaned as he pushed himself onto his feet. A splitting headache erupted as he became upright. It felt as if someone had jammed a 1941, catalog product number 31A, green metallic shell, ballpoint pen into his forehead, then gave it a half twist.
Slowly, the fog over Ryan’s mind lifted, and his memory was sharper than ever. There was a stamp. There was a pen. There was a
stab. Ryan knew the only thing that ever included all three in any quantity was an audit. He looked around the room and could find no forms, signed or otherwise, lying around, and therefore, the audit was incomplete at best.
Ryan seethed. His hands reached down and grabbed the lip of the desk, and in one fluid motion, he ripped off a chunk of metal. For the first time since he could remember, his skin tingled with sensation as long-dormant nerve cells sprang to quasi-life. His muscles tightened, relaxed, then flexed again, marveling in their new-found strength and coordination.
Ryan pounded on the desk once for good measure, caving it in. It felt good to vent his frustrations, but he knew that the desk was an innocent bystander. The tax evaders may have escaped a final resting place by sheer luck, but Ryan wasn’t about to let them get away a second time. He was Tax incarnate. He didn’t feel pity, remorse, or fear. And most important, he would not stop—ever—until all the tax evaders paid with their lives.
Chapter Eighteen
“You know, maybe it’s me,” Clarice said, catching her breath and leaning against a set of double doors she and Nick had just run through, “but this place feels never-ending.”
Nick gave a nervous chuckle. “You’ve got no argument from me.” He grabbed a nearby chair and wedged it under the door handles. “That ought to buy us some time.”
Clarice surveyed the room they were in. It was at least thirty feet across with carpet that would eat a week’s pay to clean a drop of wine. Wood paneling lined the round walls, and a large chandelier hung from a domed ceiling. Dead center was a circular, oak table with high back, leather chairs evenly spaced around.
“Wow,” she said. “Too bad the rest of the place isn’t as nice as this.”
“No kidding,” said Nick. “What do you make of that?”
Clarice sniffed the air. “Smells like lavender. Someone had a little too much time and money to spend?”
“No, not the room,” he said and then made a motion toward the other side of the table. “What do you make of that?”
Directly in front of one of the seats was a knife standing upright, its point set firmly in the wood.
Clarice trotted around the table. “I think its Martin’s,” she answered, taking the pocketknife in hand and giving it a turn. Her eyes drifted to the table surface and she grimaced. “There’s also some dried blood and an engraving. It says, ‘take let door.’”
“Take let door?” Nick repeated. “Is that supposed to be, ‘take the left door’ or do you suppose it’s like a riddle?”
“I’d guess it says, ‘take the left door’,” she said, looking up and noting the three equally spaced exits in the room. “Though, which one is the left is up for grabs.”
The double doors they had entered through rattled, and the sound was followed by a series of loud, quick thumps.
“Okay,” Nick said, looking past her and taking a step backward. “I move that we adjourn this meeting.”
“Seconded,” Clarice replied. She reached for the handle of the door next to her and flung it open. On the other side was a spacious closet, filled with books, pamphlets, computer and projector equipment, and one pale and disjointed Martin.
The former whittler lunged at her, arms outstretched like a demented child lusting after its favorite toy. Clarice slammed the door, and Nick pushed a chair under the handle, ensuring that Martin stayed in time out.
“That answers that,” Nick said, slowly backing away from the door.
“Guess that leaves one left,” Clarice said. She shot her fiancé a mischievous smile. “You go first this time, honey.”
* * *
Once the weight of dozens of zombies lifted from his shoulders, Jack pulled himself free of the remaining tangle and exited the stairwell. He wasn’t sure where to go at this point, but there were a number of other zombies filing down the hall, and they seemed happy enough.
Jack was a champion Eats player. He knew that while zombie excitement was a telltale sign of a meal nearby, he also knew better than to get caught up in the rush of the crowds. Instead of risking injury and zigzagging slothfully through the crowd, he kept his pace. Eventually he rounded a corner and found several others, Danita included, staring at a partially open door.
Jack gave his long-lost friend a friendly spasm.
Danita groaned, voicing her frustration.
When Jack reached it, he understood why it was causing her and everyone else so much trouble. Wafting in from the other side was the distinct smell of people. Fresh people. People that were still moving on their own and in a coordinated fashion. Try as the zombies might, the door refused to fully open, and Jack joined in the howls.
Slowly, one by one, the half dozen corpses that had paused there continued on, following the ant trail of their comrades. Jack waited patiently for Danita to work her smarts.
She thumped, and he waited some more. She pondered and mused, and gave a few more thumps in between. Despite all of her thumpings on and around the door, and despite Jack’s very patient and hopeful attitude, nothing happened. The two, saddened, were forced to move on and find someone else to have for dinner.
* * *
Clarice’s legs had had enough. Her thighs and calves made it well known to the rest of her body that the immense amount of hard, stressful running over the past week had finally caught up. They also reminded her brain that should they not receive a week’s worth of rest posthaste, they would seize up altogether. Her brain gently reminded her legs of the penalties for being caught by the pursuing zombie horde. Her legs begrudgingly agreed to work a little longer, but not without storing extra lactic acid to voice their displeasure.
By the time she and Nick reached the security station, sweat drenched her body, and her heart was a few heavy beats away from exploding. But as exhausted as she was, all things considered, Clarice was grateful that they made it there in one piece.
She was about to lean on the door to the station when there was a hiss of air, and it slid open.
“Quick, get in!” Dr. Forbes said, and the pair ducked inside. “I’m so glad to see that you’ve made it down here alive and intact.”
The station itself was in the shape of a quarter circle, Plexiglas covering the curved portion of the wall. There was a solitary, long desk that lined the wall and was currently being used by the only other person in the room. He looked like the caricature of a fat, Swedish chef. On the back wall were a number of notices, bulletins and calendars pinned to three different cork boards, all being out of date by at least a year.
“Thanks for mentioning the busted door back there,” Clarice said.
“I’m truly sorry about that, but we didn’t know it was malfunctioning until we got here ourselves.” Dr. Forbes replied. He double-checked the locking mechanism on the door and seemed satisfied that it was working properly. “Do you still have the UCK?”
Clarice held up the jar. “One UCK, as requested.”
“And the hard drives?”
“In the bag,” Nick replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead and flicking it to the ground.
“Wonderful!” Dr. Forbes exclaimed. “You can’t believe how relieved I am this worked out so well.”
“I thought you said there were four of you,” Clarice commented.
“There were,” the doctor answered. He then continued with a motion to his partner, “Now it’s myself, Gaston, and the two of you.”
Clarice nodded, but said nothing. As much as her curiosity wanted to find out, her imagination was sure she’d regret knowing the specifics.
“If there’s no one else, let’s go,” Nick said. “We brought what you wanted.”
“Shortly!” Dr. Forbes assured. “There is a small hang-up with the emergency egress system.”
“And what would that be?” Clarice asked, hating the idea that their easy strike might be coming to an end.
“Simple, really. The main doors won’t open, and we can’t seem to get the system to respond.”
“I think there’s
a problem,” Gaston said, cutting in.
“I was getting to that,” Dr. Forbes replied.
“No, I mean another problem, docteur,” his partner said while pointing to the monitor. “There are zombies coming this way.”
“Zombies?” Dr. Forbes turned toward the screen. “How many are we talking about?”
Gaston tried counting but ended up stopping long before he was finished. “All of them, I think.”
Everyone at the security station huddled over the plump scientist and stared at the monitor. The doorway to the executive meeting room was open, and a sea of bodies oozed forth.
“I thought you said you closed all the doors from here,” Dr. Forbes said as if he were scolding an intern for improperly labeling the newest batch of theta-kilo.
Gaston shrugged. “I locked all the ones I could. Quite a few were inoperable. I think it’s safe to say they are coming right for us.”
“Don’t you have any weapons?” Clarice asked.
Dr. Forbes shook his head. “No, our only gun lost the hand that it was attached to.”
Clarice cringed. “How long till they get here?”
Gaston whipped out a little tool from a pocket in his pants. “Given their current position in the main conference room, the average forward velocity of the walking dead, and the approximate time it takes to open an unsecured door for a mob this size...a few minutes, perhaps.”
Clarice stared at the long, sliding piece of plastic. “Is that a slide rule? Who still uses one of those?”
Gaston looked back at her in equal astonishment. “I do, mademoiselle,” he replied. “It works without batteries, and I can use it underwater.”
“Design a lot of secret weapons and projects in a fish tank?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Death and Taxes Page 17