by Dixon, Chuck
“See, smartass?” Smash snorted when a key slid into the slot. He turned it, and the lock inside answered with an oiled click. He depressed the thumb pedal on the door handle and pulled.
The door remained in place.
Smash tugged harder. He braced a foot on the jamb and jerked on the handle with all his weight. The door remained solid and unmoving in the frame.
“You said you could unlock it. It’s not unlocked. Why isn’t it unlocked?” Jim Kim said in an urgent rush.
“New plan,” Smash said and leapt from the dock.
“What plan?” Jim Kim followed using the steel steps.
Smash stood by the Sorento and pointed along the rear wall of the building.
“There’s a ladder to the roof. We climb up and find a way down. But we need to drive the car closer.”
“What about our stuff ?” Jim Kim glanced back at the messy heap of bags and boxes piled atop the dock.
“Who’s gonna bother it? We get inside, unbolt the rear door and drag it in. Same basic plan, different means.” Smash got behind the wheel. Jim Kim took the passenger seat.
When the engine gunned to life, the headlights fell on two figures stepping from the black shadows between Conex containers. One guy in a supermarket smock stained black with dried blood; another guy in pajama pants with ribs gleaming white through ripped flesh. Their unblinking eyes glowed white in the glare of the lights.
“We need to come back later,” Jim Kim said, gripping the dash.
“To hell with that.” Smash gunned the car forward to slalom between the oncoming dead. The bumper clipped the bagboy hard enough to spill him to the ground. The pajama guy was sideswiped hard. His body struck the passenger door with a wet thud. The impact tore the side view mirror free.
Smash pulled the Sorento close up against the back wall of the building, parking it so that it was situated directly under the bottom rung of a steel access ladder that ended six feet from the ground. The car was inches from the wall on the passenger side.
“You’ll have to get out my side,” Smash said as he exited.
Jim Kim slid over the center console in an awkward scramble. Smash was already on the roof of the car and pulling himself up onto the ladder. The handle of the fire ax waggled where Smash had stuck it through the gun belt slung around his hips.
The crash had taken down one of the infected. The pajama guy lay still, his skull smeared over the asphalt in a shiny-black trail. The bag boy had risen and was limping their way. His thick tongue worked in his mouth, eyes staring in mute hunger.
Jim Kim climbed up on the Sorento, the soles of his sneakers squeaking on the finish. He gripped the handholds and hauled himself up until he raised a leg high enough to place a foot on the bottom rung. The wall was forty feet to the roof where Smash leaned over the edge waiting for him with an outstretched hand to help him clamber over.
Three triangular sunroof structures ran parallel to the length of the building. Smash moved along the sunroofs, cupping his hands around his eyes and pressing his face to the glass. There was nothing to be seen through the grimy glass but a black abyss.
“What are you looking for?” Jim Kim said.
“That back door was bolted from the inside,” Smash said. “That means there’s someone inside?”
“Maybe. More likely, the last person out left through another exit.”
Smash hefted the ax and moved to a hatch set in the roof near big boxy air-conditioning units. The hatch was a trap door set in a raised frame on the roof surface. The door was secured in place by a heavy padlock run through a hasp.
“This might take a while,” Smash said. He raised the ax and brought the blunt end down on the barrel of the lock. It leapt in the hasp, then came to rest unmarked.
Jim Kim walked back to the hoops of the access ladder and looked over the side. The bagboy was pawing his way around the Sorento. Its face turned upwards at the ringing sound of Smash hacking away at the lock. Eyes unmoving and mouth slack, staring up in dull wonder at where its prey had vanished. The obscene tongue moved over lips crusted with dried blood. The gaze locked on Jim Kim. The bagboy’s hands rose to grasp empty air. A gurgling sound escaped from somewhere deep within its rotting torso. Jim Kim could smell the stink of it from where he crouched.
“Motherfuck!” Smash exhaled and sat down on the gravel by the hatch. The ax was across his knees. Fresh sweat had sprung up on his face and neck. Jim Kim stepped closer to see that the surface of the lock gleamed in a few places where the ax blade had scarred the finish.
“Want me to take a turn?”
“No! I promised I’d get us in, and I’m going to get us in. Just give me a minute, okay?” Smash gasped, waving a feeble hand before him.
Jim Kim walked across the roof to the front face of Tool Town. The sun had gone down. Figures moved across the dark lot. They approached between haphazardly abandoned cars and shopping carts. They moved under the shadows cast by dogwood and blue spruce planted in decorative blocks meant to break up the landscape of empty paving. Jim Kim stopped counting after forty-two. There was easily a hundred of the dead shambling, staggering, tripping, and crawling from all over the hundred-acre lot.
Their destination was clear. Tool Town.
The metallic beat of the ax resumed, sending echoes over the large empty space.
19
“You have to stop that!” Jim Kim commanded.
“Bullshit! I have this bitch by the ass…” Smash huffed.
The lock looked much the same as before. A few more shallow gouges. There were more dents to the lip of the door than before.
“You’re making too much noise. You’re drawing attention to us,” Jim Kim whispered.
“So? It’s not like they could climb up here after us.”
“You’re so sure of that? You want to bet on that?” Smash shrugged.
“And even if they can’t get up here, it’s going to be harder to get back down with the crowd that’s gathering,” Jim Kim said.
“We’re committed, Jim. All in. We have to get this fucker open,” Smash said. He levered himself to his feet with the support of the ax and turned back to the hatch.
Jim Kim snatched the ax from his hand and backed away. Smash reached for it. Jim Kim stepped farther away.
“We need to think about this. You always rush in, and I always follow. Let’s take a second and think. Just this one time,” Jim Kim said, backpedaling.
“Okay. All right. I’m beat anyway.” Smash stopped and lowered his hands.
They walked back to the hatch together. Jim Kim crouched to look at the lock. It had a brass barrel and curved shackle of tempered steel. He looked at the blade of the ax. It was nicked all along the edge where it had struck the unyielding lock. He ran his hand around the lip of the door. It was held down snug with little give when he yanked upward. His fingers touched the hasp welded to the door.
“This is white metal. Softer. You should have been chopping here,” Jim Kim said, standing.
Smash bent to look at the hasp. He took the ax from Jim Kim and hefted it before bringing it down on the hasp. Six chops broke the hasp off at the weld and the lock clattered free. Smash hooked the end of the blade under the hatch and lifted. It raised easily on twin scissor hinges. He sniffed the warm air rising from within.
“Doesn’t smell like rotting flesh,” he said.
Jim Kim sniffed and nodded. There was an oily smell, but nothing organic.
“Look at us, Jimmy. Masters of the castle.” Smash smiled and lowered a leg over the side to the rung of a standing ladder leading down into the black interior.
The ladder ended in a utility room. They both stood with eyes pressed closed. When they opened them again, they could see the block-walled room dominated by ductwork growing down through the ceiling like roots from the air-conditioner units on the roof. The room had a strong smell of grease to it. A single door led from the room. It was unlocked. They both sighed with relief. “From here there’s fire stairs down
to the main floor. It takes us to a corridor. Off that are the offices, restrooms, the break room, and storage,” Smash said. He took the cop flashlight from the belt and shone its powerful LED beam before them.
Jim Kim followed cautiously down the fire stairs, a hand on the round railing. They reached the ground floor and moved along the corridor, brushing their hands along a wall. Some rats skipped along before them, staying just ahead of the white beam of light cast from the flashlight. The corridor smelled of stale coffee. That was the overriding odor. The stink of rotting flesh was still absent.
“Hungry?” Smash said.
The ancient smell of coffee imbedded in every surface sharpened Jim Kim’s appetite. He realized that he was starving. Neither of them had eaten since finishing the unfrozen pizzas the night before.
In the storage area, they found pallets loaded with snacks. Case lots of protein bars, candy, pretzels, chips, crackers, and trail mix were piled by stacks of soda, bottled water, and juices in cases and shrink wrap. Some had been gnawed by rats making entrances for themselves. Most were intact.
Smash set the flashlight on top of a stack of soda cases. They opened some cases that remained sealed and enjoyed a feast of junk food and warm soda.
“This may have been a good idea after all,” Jim Kim said, his cheeks chipmunk-full of chocolate dipped pretzels.
“Right? Was I right?” Smash grinned and scooped a cracker into a tiny tub of cheese before tossing it into his mouth.
“We could live here for years.”
“I told you I had a plan, bro!”
From somewhere beyond the pool of light rose an animal growl.
Somewhere close.
20
A pair of eyes glowed in the shaking light of the flashlight’s beam held in Smash’s quivering hand. The eyes shone like silver dollars in the dark. Twin moons of menace.
“They growl now?” Jim Kim said, his voice cracking to falsetto.
“It’s an animal. A feral animal,” Smash said. He held the light as steady as he could on the pair of eyes while reaching down to bring the Glock from the holster. He raised the weapon into the dark toward the steady rumbling snarl.
“You don’t want to do that.” It was a voice behind them. Male. Deep. A touch of a Southern accent.
“Uh...” Smash said.
“Lower the piece and get to your knees. Both of you.” The voice came closer. Without turning, Smash and Jim Kim knelt on the floor.
“Place the piece on the floor.”
Smash did so.
“Tips of your fingers only, slide it out of reach.”
Smash flexed his fingers and the Glock skittered over the polished concrete.
“Sit, Wendy.”
The growling stopped. They could hear a panting sound. A dog.
“Lie flat. On your bellies. Hands on heads.” The voice was directly behind them.
They did as they were told. Booted feet moved near. Hands patted them down from shoulders to ankles. The hands emptied pockets and dug beneath their shirts.
“Okay. Come back up on your knees. Hands on heads.”
Smash and Jim Kim came upright. A guy holding a serious-looking rifle stood before them. They both knew it as an M4 from using one to battle terrorists, gangstas, and monsters on their Xbox. Neither of them had ever seen one in real life. This guy looked like he was born with the weapon in his hands. He was a few years older than them and taller. He wore some kind of body armor chest protector over a stained flannel shirt. He had a beard that looked like he’d been growing it a while.
“You the ones making all the noise?” he said. His voice lost its sharp command quality. He lowered the rifle.
“Yeah,” Smash said and swallowed. Jim Kim stared at the guy, his lips pressed shut. Both lowered their eyes to the floor.
“You think that was smart?”
“I’m having second thoughts.”
“Stupid. Wendy and me have been quiet. Living here for weeks. Most of the gomers forgot about us. Wandered away.”
“Wendy?” Smash said, glancing up.
“Come on, girl. Meet the neighbors,” the guy said.
A black and tan German shepherd padded into the circle of light to stand by the guy, nose moving as it sniffed the pair of quaking newcomers.
“You two seem harmless enough. But I’ll take this, so you don’t hurt yourself.” The guy picked up the Glock.
“Now get up on your feet and tell me your story,” the guy said, releasing the rifle to hang on its sling.
21
His name was Richard Cazadesus. After hearing their backgrounds, he told them to call him Caz.
He led them through the dark of the enormous empty space by the Maglite he had snapped to the top rail of his rifle. Caz guided them around tripwires strung at ankle height across the aisles. The wires were hung with cans with ball bearings in them—an alarm system in case anyone broke into Tool Town.
“Not that I needed it with you two,” he said.
They came to a wooden structure built between two shelf towers that lined one of the corridors. It was made of a two-by-four frame sheathed with plywood. It had one entrance, a decorative wooden entrance door with a single windowpane set at eye level. Caz unlocked the door, and the dog trotted in before Smash and Jim Kim.
The interior had a patio chair and table as well as a bunk made from PVC piping with a mattress of flower-patterned seat pads taken from a patio lounger. There were some books and magazines on the table, and a steel ammo box slid under the bed. Caz reached up to snap on a switch, and a couple of battery-powered camping lanterns lit the room in a bluish glow.
“Welcome to my burrow. First two nights here, the size of the place was making me a little crazy,” Caz said and swept some books off the bunk to make a place for them to sit.
Smash looked up to see that the single room had no roof on it. An aluminum ladder leaned against a wall where it allowed escape up onto the steel merchandise shelves on one side of the aisle.
“Always need another way out,” Caz said, noting Smash’s interest. He pulled a couple of Cokes from an open case and tossed them to his guests.
“Looks like you had the same idea as us,” Smash said. Jim Kim sipped silently beside him.
“What idea was that?” Caz said, leaning back in his patio chair, rifle across his knees. The dog lay under his chair, eyes on the newcomers from between the legs.
Smash explained the plan he and Jim Kim worked out. How they’d fort up in Tool Town and outlive and outlast for as long as they could. He explained all of his careful reasoning. He even unfolded the page torn from the legal pad listing all of his survival priorities and offered it for Caz to look at.
“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Just looking for a place for me and Wendy to hole up and try to figure all this shit out. But you lay out an ambitious scenario, boy,” Caz said.
“You got here first,” Smash said.
“It’s a big place. Lots of room. And it’s not like I can throw you out to the gomers.”
“Gomers?” Jim Kim spoke up.
“That’s what I call them. I used to work as an EMT. Drove an ambulance for County General. They’d have these deadbeats show up all the time faking symptoms to get a warm bed for the night. Homeless guys, right? Docs called them ‘gomers.’”
“Why gomers?” Smash said.
“Stands for Get Out Of My Emergency Room.” Smash glanced at Jim Kim.
And gomers it would be.
22
“Sounds like they’re staying,” Doe said around a mouthful of Snickers.
The noise from outside rose in volume as the sun went down. Or maybe that’s just the way it seemed.
Gunfire, shouts and laughter, and breaking glass.
Dinner was some candy bars Doe had stuffed in his pockets in the Walgreen’s. There was a half-bottle of tepid Fiji water in the fridge. They shared it.
They tried calling back to the Coachman on the cell. There was no answer. There could b
e lots of reasons for that.
Doe parked himself in an easy chair by the window where he could listen to the party down on the street. Mostly he watched for signs of fire. They couldn’t sit out a fire. Somewhere in Harrow, the gang had already set something on fire. There was nothing to stop it from spreading to the whole town. Smoke hung in the air, casting a gray haze over the street.
Mercy lay on the sofa with the shotgun across her lap. She watched the crazed shadows race across the ceiling in the glare from headlights racing by below.
“They got some kind of thing on their shirts, some of them,” she said.
“I saw it. One of the truck flies a black flag,” Doe said low from the chair.
“What is it? I couldn’t see.”
“A crow. Or a raven maybe. Perched on top of a skull.”
“What’s it mean?”
“How the hell should I know?” Doe said.
“I mean, what’s it mean that they have their own flag and they mark themselves to be recognized. That means someone in charge, doesn’t it?” Mercy said.
“Always somebody in charge. It’s like in prison. You’re scared, and you try to join up with anybody with a like mind.”
“All the guys I saw are white.”
“That’s like prison, too. Race with race. Whites with whites. Blacks with blacks. Mex with Mex.”
“And no women,” Mercy said in a small voice.
“Try not to think about that. Get some sleep,” Doe said.
“You’re kidding.”
“They’ll be gone in the morning. Then we have to get out of here. Have to be sharp. Try and sleep.”
She didn’t really think she’d done just that until she felt Doe’s hand on her arm gently shaking her awake. He put a hand to her mouth and nodded toward the door of the apartment.
Voices in the stairwell. Doe had the shotgun and took a position behind the sofa where he could cover the door. Mercy moved toward the door, skirting his grasping fingers. She turned the knob as quietly as she could and shot the deadbolt closed. The loud exchange from the hall covered the sound. They sounded drunk. She pressed her eye to the peephole.