Entombed

by Brian Keene

  Nicole stood there, still as a statue, and I noticed that there was something in her other hand. I had to look twice, certain that the emergency lighting was playing tricks on my eyes. She was clutching an aerosol can of industrial solvent—the kind used for loosening rusted bolts or lubricating machine gears. The cap was off and a small, plastic straw was sticking out of the nozzle. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the canister, and her thumb remained on top of the nozzle at all times. Her hand was still trembling slightly, and the can jostled against her thigh. When I looked closer, I saw that her legs were shaking, too.

  She’s terrified, I thought. All I’ve got to do is wait for her to turn around, and then …

  I eased my hand behind my back, slowly reaching for the razor knife.

  “Hello?”

  I held my breath.

  “Hello?”

  Nicole’s voice sounded very small and afraid. I stopped moving, and waited. After a moment, she spoke again. This time, she whispered.

  “Pete? Are you there? It’s me. Nicole. If you’re in here, just listen, okay? I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want any part of this. Not anymore. I’m sorry that I went along with it. I don’t know why I did. You were always really sweet to me. I guess I was just scared, and I didn’t want the others to turn on me instead. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

  I have to admit, I was moved by the sincerity in her voice. Yet still I hesitated. A part of me wanted to call out to her, to let her know that it was okay and that she had nothing to fear from me, but a bigger part of me remembered my betrayal at Drew’s hands. This could be another trick—some scheme devised by Chuck and the others to lull me into a false sense of security, and then, when I came out of hiding—straight into the refrigerator I’d go, chopped and butchered like a side of beef. Instead of coming out, I waited. My muscles began to cramp from sitting still for so long, but at least my dizziness had finally passed. My headache throbbed in time with my pulse.

  “Pete? Are you there?” She sighed, and then her voice grew louder. “Oh, screw this. I’m being silly. He’s probably still upstairs. Or dead.”

  A severe cramp shot through my calf. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, but Nicole must have heard my intake of breath, because she gasped and took a step backward.

  “Pete? Is that you? Did you hear what I—”

  “Nicole?” Another pair of legs appeared in the doorway. I couldn’t see their owner, but I knew that it was Damonte by the sound of his voice. “Anybody in there?”

  She hesitated before answering. “No, I thought I heard something, but it’s empty.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up with the can?”

  “I’ve got a cigarette lighter,” Nicole said. “If I came across Pete, and he wouldn’t listen to reason, then I figured I could make a blowtorch out of it.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Didn’t you ever do that as a kid?”

  “Hell, no. My mother would have beat my ass. How does it work?”

  “It’s easy. You just press down on the nozzle and hold the flame into the stream. You just have to be careful not to get the lighter too close to the can or it will blow back on you.”

  Damonte grunted in appreciation. “Check you out. You’ve gone all Rambo and shit.”

  “Well, we’ve got to make due, don’t we? It’s not like we have any guns.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. I wish to hell we did. I’d feel a lot better with a gun in my hand, given what’s going on. Speaking of which, nobody has come down from upstairs yet. I set a trap around the stairwell door just now. Put some glass bottles and aluminum cans and stuff around the door. If he comes through, we’ll hear him. I locked the door, too, so he’ll have to make even more noise if he tries to get in.”

  “Do you think the others are dead?”

  “The one’s upstairs? I don’t know. Like I said, they’re not back yet. Maybe they’ve got him cornered and are waiting him out. Maybe they captured him and are just taking their time coming back. Or maybe…what you said. In any case, I figure better safe than sorry. I locked the incinerator door, too. Just in case Pete tries to come down that way. I figured that makes more sense than having Phillips and I walk around down here, waiting for Pete to show.”

  “Yeah,” Nicole said, “that didn’t make a lot of sense. And Chuck didn’t seem too happy when I told him so.”

  “Speaking of which, Chuck told me to tell you that he wants you to go back to the dining room. He’s already in there. Emma is in there with him.”

  “What about Susan?”

  “She’s hiding out in one of the dorm rooms. He sent Phillips to find her and bring her back to the dining room, too. Chuck wants all three of you in there with him.”

  “I don’t care what Chuck wants. You see what’s happening here, don’t you, Damonte? We’re all going crazy—Chuck worst of all. I know exactly why he wants us to stay in there with him.”

  “Yeah, well I ain’t too crazy about it, either. Like I said, he wants me and Phillips to stay out here and patrol the hallways, waiting for Pete to show up. How do you think I feel about that?”

  “Not too good, I guess.”

  “You’re damned straight I don’t. That’s why I locked the doors and set the traps. I’d rather be in the cafeteria with you all, truth be told. You saw what Pete did to Drew and Dave. That shit was vicious. It made your little blowtorch there seem like a toy.”

  “Then why stay out here? Why not just ignore what Chuck tells you?”

  “Because I’m more scared of Chuck than I am of Pete. So are you.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, Nicole. You are. Have you gotten a good look in his eyes? You’re right—what you said earlier. Chuck is crazy. He’s not playing around here. That’s why I’m going along with things. Better not to piss him off. And besides…”

  His voice trailed off. I watched Nicole walk toward him.

  “Besides what?” she prompted.

  “Well…I was going to say that even though he’s crazy, Chuck is still right. I don’t like it, but he’s right about eating Pete. We’re out of food. We’re starving to death. We’ve got to do something.”

  “Yeah, but murder?”

  “You voted for it, too, Nicole.”

  “Maybe so, but it doesn’t even matter now. Chuck said we’ll…he said that we can start with Drew, Dave and Krantz. And any of the others Pete might have killed. That’s enough. Nobody else has to die today. If we can preserve them, that’s enough to last us for months, as long as we ration the…meat…carefully. We don’t have to keep up the hunt.”

  “Chuck doesn’t agree. And to be honest, after seeing what Pete has done, I’m inclined to agree with him. Like I said, you voted for this, too. I’m thinking we made the right decision, choosing Pete the way we did. He’s a fucking serial killer.”

  They stepped out into the hallway and Nicole closed the door behind them, muffling their voices. My temples throbbed and a muscle in my jaw twitched. I sat there until their footsteps had faded, and then I eased myself out from under the table, grimacing at the pain in my joints and muscles as I stood up again.

  Damonte’s final words echoed in my head. A serial killer? Is that what I was? Was that what I’d become? The post-apocalyptic wasteland’s version of Ted Bundy or The Exit or Jeffrey Dahmer? Me? That was ridiculous. I mean, sure, I’d killed some people. In truth, I’d killed a lot of people. A lot. And those things weighed on my conscious the moment I allowed myself to slow down and think about it. The guilt crushed me, just like the regrets I felt over Alyssa and Hannah. But they’d left me no choice. Why couldn’t they see that it had been in self-defense? Nicole was seeing it now. Why couldn’t Damonte and the rest? I didn’t want to kill anybody, but they’d left me no other option. If any one of them had been in my shoes, even for a moment, they’d have reacted in the same manner. None of them would have just off
ered themselves up as a sacrificial lamb. None of us were Jesus. We weren’t going to offer up our flesh and our blood for the others to partake in, thus granting them life via our death.

  A line from Scarface ran through my head—Al Pacino asking, “Who’s the bad guy?” Well, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t the bad guy in this situation. Neither were the zombies, for that matter. The zombies were nothing more than window dressing. Background noise—a catalyst that got us to this point. No, the zombies didn’t matter. The real bad guys were my fellow survivors. Chuck and his people, as he’d called them. They were the real villains.

  The corridor was silent, and I was pretty sure that the coast was finally clear. As I crept toward the door, I patted my back pockets to reassure myself that my weapons were still there. The razor knife was safely tucked away, but the screwdriver was missing. I stopped and did a quick search of the library, looking under the table and carefully scanning the floor, but I couldn’t find the screwdriver anywhere. I remembered picking it up in the stairwell. I’d used it to open the door. Where the hell was it now? I panicked. What if I had dropped it out in the hallway? What if Damonte and Nicole had discovered it there, and knew all along that I’d been hiding nearby? Could their entire conversation have been nothing more than an act? Could Nicole’s seemingly heartfelt-apology have just been a charade, after all—an attempt to lure me out of hiding so that they could finish the job?

  “Paranoia will destroy ya,” I muttered.

  It didn’t matter. I still had the razor knife and the pocketknife, so it wasn’t like I was totally defenseless. As I turned toward the door again, I glanced at the newspaper racks. On a whim, I walked over to them and grabbed one of the newspaper holders. It looked just like a wooden sword, and when I gave it a few experimental swings through the air, it felt very satisfying. I thought about snapping the tip and turning it into a spear, like I’d done with the broom handle, but decided that I liked it better this way. If I cracked somebody in the head with it, I’d certainly do some damage to them. I was confident that the wood was solid enough to break bones without the rod splintering or snapping. A memory surfaced from when I was a kid—summers spent roaming around in the little strip of woods behind my house, swinging sticks and branches like they were lightsabers. I’d liked the feeling back then, and I liked it even more now. It was comforting. Clutching the newspaper rod in my hand gave me an overwhelming sense of power, as if I were a marauding barbarian making my way through some subterranean labyrinth in search of a princess.

  Which I was.

  “Hang on, Alyssa.”

  I started to worry when she didn’t respond. Even though she’d begun to annoy me, there was something safe about the familiarity of having her ever-present voice in my ear. The bunker felt emptier without it. I hoped again that she was okay.

  Pushing my fears aside, I cautiously opened the door and peeked into the hall. The corridor was indeed empty. If they’d found the screwdriver and set a trap for me, then the surprise was waiting elsewhere. I noticed that there were a half dozen empty bottles and cans lined up around the stairwell door. If I’d opened the door, it would have knocked them all over. Damonte was at least telling the truth about that part, but I still wasn’t completely convinced. I hurried out of the library and then noticed the screwdriver. It was lying on the floor, mere inches away from the library door. How had Damonte and Nicole not seen it lying there? Or had they, and they’d left it there to help bait their trap? My heart rate increased, throbbing so hard in my throat that it felt like I’d swallowed an apple. Glancing around, I bent down and picked up the screwdriver. I expected to be ambushed, but nothing happened.

  Just to be safe, I ducked inside the media room. I slipped the door shut behind me and leaned against it. The lights were out, but my eyes adjusted quickly. It was hard to believe that only a few hours before, I’d been sitting in here watching stoner cartoons and trying not to go crazy from hunger and cabin fever. Eisenhower still lay on his side in a congealed pool of Krantz’s blood. I nodded hello at him, but he didn’t nod back. I felt a sad wave of nostalgia. Other than Drew, that bronze bust of Eisenhower’s head had been my closest friend and companion during these last few trying months. Many times I’d confided in him, laughed at him, and wept to him. He’d offered silent solace. He’d never spoken to me. He couldn’t. Eisenhower wasn’t real. I know that. I’m not crazy. But all the same, that statue meant something to me. I’d grown very attached to him, and it didn’t seem right to let him lie there in a puddle of gore.

  “You’re a mess, Mr. President. Here. Let me give you a hand.”

  Kneeling, I sat my newspaper rod aside and righted Eisenhower again. His cold, hard features were sticky with blood and dirt. I tried to use my shirttail to wipe the mess away, but only succeeded in making things worse. Grunting, I picked him up and put him back on his pedestal. Then I took a step backward and studied him.

  “Thanks for helping me out earlier,” I whispered. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  I winked, half expecting Eisenhower to wink back at me, but he didn’t. The eyes stared, boring into me. The bronze features remained impassive. It may sound silly, but I began to feel uncomfortable under the statue’s gaze. It felt as if Eisenhower were judging me, as if he could see inside of me and was holding me accountable for my actions.

  “You don’t understand,” I whispered. “What other choice did I have?”

  Eisenhower’s silent admonishment was enough.

  “I’m sorry I got you involved. I’ll make it up to you once I find Alyssa. We’ll restore you to a place of prominence down here.”

  I took another step back and my foot came down in Krantz’s blood. When I withdrew my heel, it made a squelching sound. I wondered where the rest of Krantz was. Had Drew or Dave or one of the others said something about Chuck ordering Krantz to be cut up? I couldn’t remember. Maybe they had, or maybe I just imagined it. For that matter, where was Dave? The last I’d heard, he was badly burned but still alive. Chances were he was in the infirmary. I decided that maybe I should check there next. Like the rest of the bunker, it was just a museum-piece now—an exhibit to give the tourists the authenticity they expected. Most of the original equipment and supplies that the government had kept here when the bunker was still active had been removed and replaced with placards and glass showcases. But the hospital beds were still there, along with a few bigger pieces of medical equipment that the hotel had elected to display. And when we’d first come down here, we’d gathered all the stuff from the first-aid kits scattered at various point throughout the bunker and stored them in the infirmary. If they were trying to save Dave, or ease his suffering until he passed, there was a good chance that was where I’d find him. Perhaps I’d find the others there, too. Or maybe they’d already eaten Dave. Maybe they’d devoured both him and Krantz and Drew, and were now saving me for dessert. Chilled Pete, served with chocolate sauce and fruit topping. Yum-yum. That’s fine dining.

  The longer this cat and mouse game went on, the harder it was becoming for me to think clearly. I was running on adrenalin fumes, and my hunger pangs had become a steady throb, pulsing in time with my other pains.

  “Maybe I should just give up.” I leaned close to Eisenhower’s ear so that the others wouldn’t hear me if they were lurking on the other side of the door. “Maybe I should just take my chances and try surrendering again. I mean, Nicole sounded pretty reasonable back there in the library. Maybe she and I could try to convince the others. Get them to team-up against Chuck or something. That’s got to be better than the alternatives. What’s the point of going on like this? What am I turning into? Maybe Damonte was right, after all. What’s the point of living if I’m no better than those things outside? Why should I keep going on?”

  “I’ve waited so long here…”

  For a split second, I thought it was Eisenhower, but it wasn’t. The voice belonged to Alyssa. She was singing.

  “For a reason to still carry on…”
r />   I recognized the song right away. It was one of her favorites—‘The End of The End’ by Bella Morte. It’s a fair statement to say that most women in West Virginia liked gospel, hip-hop, or country music (or sometimes all three) but Alyssa had always been into gothic and industrial rock. That was one of the reasons I’d fallen in love with her in the first place—not because I was particularly into that kind of music, but because she was. That’s what I’d liked about her—that she was different from the other girls I met.

  And I’d sullied that with my betrayal. Tears welled up in my eyes. I pushed the thought from my mind and took a deep breath.

  “Alyssa? Where are you?”

  “Feels like I’ve been living a lie, and I don’t want to face it alone…”

  I had a flash of memory then, so strong that I almost thought it was really happening again, and that the bunker and the zombies and the divorce and my emotional affair with Hannah had all been just a dream. Alyssa and I had driven up to Charlottesville, Virginia to see Bella Morte in concert. She’d played their music on the way up, and we had dinner and a few drinks in a quiet little pub before the show. It was a good time. In truth, I’d gone along because it made Alyssa happy. It wasn’t really my kind of music or scene. The band was good, if loud, and I’d amused myself for a while by gawking at some of the Goths in the crowd. When I’d got bored with that, I’d pulled out my cell phone and updated my Facebook and Twitter accounts. Then I’d gone to the bathroom and texted Hannah. When I came back a half hour later, Alyssa was annoyed. She hadn’t been able to enjoy the show because she’d been worried about me. When I didn’t return right away, she’d thought something happened. I’d apologized, and lied—telling her there was a long line at the bathroom. Her glance flicked to my cell phone and then back to me. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she’d simply nodded and then turned her attention back to the show.