by Ash Parsons
“Right,” I say. “And if they are all in the ballroom, or if enough of them are, then it’s only a matter of time before they’re done in there.”
Unwanted images float into my mind’s eye, and the same vision must enter the others’ minds, too, because we all get quiet.
Tearing. Ripping. Eating.
Humans.
Humans with bites becoming more zombies, if that’s how this particular biohazard outbreak works.
We draw even with the first closet or office door. No name on the sign next to it, just a number, 102. Maybe it’s an office, or a meeting room. Or a dressing room.
I put my hand out.
As my fingers curl around the lever, it drops down and the door is yanked open.
I let out an involuntary yelp, which should sound bloodcurdling, because I’m that startled.
Instead I sound like that Muppet who speaks in “meep” noises.
Janet O’Shea looks out at me. She’s holding a slab of wood, what looks like the front piece of a desk drawer, shoulder high like a baseball bat.
“June!” she gasps, lowering her arm.
The scripted words and bad impersonation come out before I think to stop them.
“We’re going to fight our way out, Vivian,” I say.
Janet lets out a relieved laugh, and grasps my shoulder.
“Yes, we are,” she says. “That we are.”
17
Everyone, this is Janet,” I say, sweeping a hand from her to the group.
“Hello.” Janet nods in recognition to Annie and Linus. Of course, she knows them.
Behind Janet I see Human Wasteland actor Simon Wong. He’s in his midtwenties and, like all the others on the show, completely beautiful and full of that actorly magic.
The zombie woman in the stairwell lets out an unholy shriek.
“Why don’t we step back in here, see if it calms our friend down?” Janet takes a sidestep back, holding the door open.
I glance down the hall at the woman zombie.
Maybe out of sight, out of mind?
Or out of braaaaaiiiinzzz.
My inner voice needs to settle down.
“Good idea,” Imani says, hustling past Janet. “I’m Imani Choi.”
“Hello, Imani,” Janet says as Rosa steps inside the greenroom.
“Ms. O’Shea,” Rosa says, sticking out a hand. “I know this is, like, the worst timing, but I am such a huge fan of Fight the Dead.”
“Oh, thank you!” Janet replies, taking her hand and sounding warmly pleased. “What’s your name?”
Rosa’s face has flushed a deep red. “Oh! Rosa García! I’m from Miami. I mean I was, now I’m here! I’m in the certification program at Pinewood Studios. You gotta start somewhere, right? But I’m a filmmaker. I mean, I’m going to be a filmmaker. I . . . well. Anyway—”
Her eyes flick over the rest of us, suddenly self-conscious. “When we get out of this,” she concludes.
“Of course!” Janet says, squeezing Rosa’s shoulder in a bracing, stiff-upper-lip Brittishy way.
“That’s so cool that you’re in film school,” Imani tells her. “My little sister would love to talk to you, I bet, about if there’s a makeup program.”
“Oooh!” I say. “Tish’d be so good at that!”
“Maybe she can help me out and do the makeup for my student short film,” Rosa says, and this frissiony, open-hearted feeling goes through me, just talking about normal things, planning for a normal future.
For a moment, at least.
We all shuffle into the small room. It’s one part greenroom, one part dressing room. Three separate vanity areas, complete with comically large makeup bulb frames, are on the left; beyond the vanity counter is a bathroom.
“Hey, babe,” Mia says, and air kisses over Janet’s cheek.
“Hello, Ms. Fontaine,” Janet replies, smiling but with a little hovering, quirked corner that seems amused at the familiarity.
I guess Mia has had her hustle on since the con opened.
“Simon,” Mia says, kissing the air over Simon’s cheek next.
“Mia, thank God you’re here,” Simon says, moving past air kisses and hugging her properly.
Is it the door closing, or is the zombie in the stairwell actually quieter now that she can’t see us?
“Where are the others?” Linus asks Simon.
“I don’t know. It was bedlam.” Simon gives his head a little shake, tossing his perfect glossy black hair back from his eyes.
I stare for a moment, not just because he’s gorgeous, but also because something is very discombobulating.
Beyond standing in a dressing room with some of the actors I love from my favorite show. And Janet O’Shea.
And beyond the fact that actual zombies are trying to get to us.
And then I realize what it is.
Simon’s hair is clean.
On the show, they always look sweaty, and their hair is always swept back in sloppy ponytails or hanging down in greasy hanks.
It’s odd what elements the show’s producers are sticklers for detail on. Like, it’s the zombie apocalypse, yes, so NO GROOMING SHALL OCCUR.
In my opinion it’s a ridiculous hill to die on, because it’s a television show; just show someone enjoying the last charge of an electric razor they found on a supply run or something . . .
I realize I’m sort of in a shocked, wool-gathering fugue about grooming when I notice Linus has said my name twice.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just tired for a moment.”
Linus turns back to Simon.
“. . . and that led you to hiding out here?”
Apparently, the group of actors on the panel scattered once in the backstage corridor.
Simon went into the greenroom, where he found Janet waiting. She was supposed to go onstage for an “Interview with a Horror Legend” after the panel.
Together, they waited, thinking that the disruption would be taken care of, not realizing the extent of what had started.
“Did you see a skinny girl with white-blonde hair?” I interrupt Linus to ask Simon.
“Sorry, there was a lot going on,” Simon says.
“She came backstage. She can’t be far,” Imani says, squeezing my arm reassuringly.
“What about the scientist guy?” I ask Janet. “Did he get brought back here?”
“The weirdo who interrupted the panel?” Annie asks, incredulous.
“He’s not such a weirdo now, is he?” I ask, but it’s not really a question. “This is his backpack.” I touch the battered navy backpack hanging on the front of me.
“Hey, I meant to ask, how did you know that key was in there?” Linus asks me suddenly. “Or that it was his?”
I explain quickly, about seeing him messing with the doors in the exhibit hall at the end of Autograph Alley. About how I thought he was maintenance, even without a uniform.
And that makes me sound completely clueless now.
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Janet says, squeezing my arm.
“So, what do we do now?” Linus asks. “I take it neither of your phones has a signal, either?”
Janet and Simon shake their heads.
“We should stay here,” Annie says.
What is it with this girl and staying put?
“I’m not staying,” I say. “Y’all go ahead, though.”
Janet meets my gaze, her blue eyes steely. “I want to hear your plan.”
I . . . don’t have one?
But Janet said I was supposed to trust myself. And my instinct to keep moving is tugging at me like a fire alarm going off in my head.
Move, move, move.
I take a deep breath, and try to put the fire alarm feeling into words
.
“I just think we’re sitting ducks here,” I explain. I point the microphone arm at the door. “That’s not a deadbolt, it’s a button lock. We don’t know if any zombies can get through to this hall, but if they do, we are trapped here. There’s nowhere to run.”
Linus is nodding.
Imani speaks up.
“We want to find our friends. They came back here, and since no one else is here now, that means everyone who made it out of the ballroom made it out.”
I nod and Imani gives me a quick squeeze.
“I don’t know what’s out in the lobby,” I say when she lets go. “But I don’t want to wait for zombies to get to me here. And I think that’s just a matter of time.”
Janet nods, and her mouth quirks to the side, a half smile.
“Okay, but what next? After we get into the ballroom lobby?” Rosa asks.
It’s a good question.
On the back of the door is a fire-evacuation map.
I step up to it, jabbing my finger at the diagram. “Okay so the scientist guy said that we were locked in the ballroom. Which didn’t work, as it turns out. Probably because the people compromised the locks from the inside, and that let the zombies break the doors down.”
Imani steps closer to the map and squints at the doors I’m pointing to.
She still smells nice. Like apples. I probably smell like terror and BO.
“He also said that the exhibit hall was locked down,” I continue. “But I’m here to tell you, I think the zombies already got into the exhibit hall.”
“Right.” Imani nods at me. “That guy who bit that kid.”
“Yes,” I agree. “And maybe more people besides him? Like what about that girl with the nosebleed? And remember that other woman we thought was a cosplayer? Not to mention anyone else they may have come into contact with or infected.”
“So what?” Annie asks. “What does it matter if they’re infected? They’re locked in, we’re locked out.”
I turn to her.
“It means that we don’t know how many doors are locked through the building, or if someone has established some kind of evacuation method.” I shake my head, remembering the scientist trying to talk to the audience. “His plan didn’t work, but he had planned something.”
Imani points a manicured nail at our hallway on the fire evacuation map.
“We’re here. This is the stairwell at the bottom. See this hatching up top? That’s the escalators. It’s not far at all. And from there it’s a straight shot either down to the front doors or up to the third floor.”
“Okay, I’m following all this,” Linus says. “But it doesn’t tell me what we should do now.”
“Keep up, handsome.” Mia’s voice has a flirtatious, tough-broad lilt. “It means we should probably make some assumptions. Like that all the exterior doors are locked, for starters.”
“Exactly, just like the scientist said,” Imani agrees.
“And I think we should assume that there is a single point of exit,” I say. “Did you guys see the cosplayers in hazmat suits?”
“Oh God,” Rosa says.
“Right. What if they were trying to get a temperature on . . . the spread of the infection, or whatever. And then they made the call to lock us all up to contain it?” I ask.
“He said that. So, the scientist . . .” Linus’s voice trails off.
“Was trying to help us!” I finish.
Behind us, Annie lets out a high-pitched giggle.
We glance at her. Annie shakes her head, giving an ignore me or go on hand wave.
Stress.
Linus’s British accent makes the terrifying truth less scary, somehow. “I understand. What’s the point of running to a door if the door is locked?”
“Right,” I say. “We might be locked in, with our backs against a wall.”
“A door that is now a wall,” Imani finishes for me, our thoughts running parallel as always.
“So, what do we do instead?” Mia asks, giving me a look like she’s a teacher who knows I’m ready for the verbal quiz.
“We go upstairs,” I say. “Maybe we can get a signal once we’re out of this hall. Or if not maybe we can see out once we’re by the exterior windows. And there’ll be fewer zombies up there, I bet.”
“We can find out where the exit point is.” Annie’s voice is quavery, but she’s with us.
She sees it.
A plan.
“I dunno.” Simon winces, letting us see he’s not trying to be hostile to the idea, just cautious. “What if going up is just another trap? What if we’re trapped up there? What then?”
“There’s firefighter roof access up there,” Imani says. “It’s like a hatch door that lets them come in from the roof but lets us get out, too. If we can find it.”
She turns and explains to everyone. “My mom took me all through the construction phase of this place. She’s all about learning opportunities and stuff.”
“Oh, so that’s why you watched the fountain video?” I ask. But really, it doesn’t surprise me. Imani’s mom is so cool.
Imani nods.
“Hothouse flowers in concrete.” She gives me a little hug. “But who cares if it’s concrete?”
Janet smiles at us, a gentle expression on her face, like reliving a memory.
“A group of survivors made it to the balcony of the ballroom earlier,” I say, running my index finger along the edge of the diagram where the balcony would be on the third-floor layout. “If we get up there maybe we can join forces with them.”
“There are no con events on the third floor,” Rosa says, her tone growing more certain as she talks. “That means there might not be anyone else up there!”
“Like the kid said. No people means there will be no people who now might be zombies.” Mia barely looks up from whatever she’s trying to do on her phone.
Linus nods.
“Here’s what I would do.” I take a deep breath, turning back to Janet, who asked for my plan in the first place. “Get to that third floor. Either up the escalator, or the regular elevators since the stairs are . . . compromised.”
Janet gives me a smile and an approving nod.
“Good. Yes.” Mia’s agreement is more like an order.
“Okay,” Rosa says.
Linus hoists his fire extinguisher.
Annie’s chin lifts. Her tear-tracked makeup doesn’t take away from her new determination.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go to that damn lobby door.”
18
We all cluster behind the door in the white hallway. We can’t see into the second-floor lobby area. At the opposite end from us, in the stairwell door, the woman zombie is attacking the window again, banging and thundering at us.
“Remember, to our left is the ballroom.” Imani holds up her left hand and gestures a flat circle area. Then she makes her other hand a blade, like a wall, and holds it perpendicular and solid. “To our right is a wall that is part of the banquet rooms. We’re running along that wall all the way to the end where we’ll reach the escalators.”
Sometimes I wish I could just download Imani’s directional awareness straight into my head, like an upgrade.
But right now I’m just glad she’s right here with me, keeping us all on the right track.
“Got it.” Linus nods at Imani, a crisp motion that conveys both appreciation for the reminder and assurance that we have got this, as a group, we have got this, by Jove.
Somehow the nod conveys all that.
Linus volunteered to lead the way with Janet; and Simon and Mia (now armed with a drawer front piece of her own) agreed to bring up the rear.
I stand with Imani and Annie and Rosa, in the middle. Ready to run. Or to fight.
But mostly to run.
Discretion is the be
tter part of valor and all that.
Now that we’re standing here, at the doorway, getting ready to leave the temporary safety of the backstage hall, my heart is thundering in my chest and my palms are slippery and I’m more than a little bit terrified.
What’s on the other side of the door?
Simon has a vanity stool he’ll swing at any zombies behind us, and Linus has his fire extinguisher. Rosa traded her antenna for a metal table lamp. Imani and I have our microphone stand pieces, and Janet and Mia have drawer planks.
Annie has her defibrillator case.
Oh Lord, what are we doing?
Linus looks over his shoulder back at us.
“Are we ready?” he whispers, but doesn’t wait for an answer.
He pushes the door open, as quietly as possible, while still trying to go fast.
He rushes out, followed by Simon.
Simon takes the door, holding it open for us.
We run out in a clump, following Linus and Janet into the lobby.
So far, so good.
Behind me, I hear Simon let the door fall closed with a bang.
Which means . . .
“Run!” Simon yells, like we’re not already running.
But we kick it up, because now we know that we don’t have to be quiet.
Because we’re being chased.
We get to the escalators. They’ve been turned off.
At the top of the escalators is a makeshift barricade. A heavy potted tree, several upholstered chairs, and a sofa, as well as a janitor’s rolling trash-can cart have all been wedged into the openings at the top of the up and down escalators.
“Dammit!” Linus glances between the barricade and the approaching, shuffling zombies.
I really, really, really want to get up there with whoever had the presence of mind to do that already.
“Go,” Linus says, and he moves aside, letting Janet lead the way onto the escalator. “See if you can climb over it.”
Simon arrives and whirls to face our pursuers.
My breath won’t come, my heart freezes as I see them, lurching, stumbling, coming at us, closing in from the lobby outside the open ballroom doors.
Four zombies. The first, the closest, is a short teenager, reaching toward Simon with clawlike fingers.