Intruders (Book 2): The Awakening

by Tracy Sharp

  The shit had probably hit the fan before the door could be locked.

  Maybe Dan was wandering around out here somewhere. She looked up and down the alley, which was thankfully devoid of walking dead people, before stepping into the bakery hallway.

  As she walked through the darkened hall leading to the front of the bakery, Chrissy’s heart rate kicked up. There could be someone still alive in here, somewhere.

  Or there could be dead people. The walking kind.

  As she rounded the soft corner of the counter, she had a brief but vivid flash of memory of her dad picking her up and sitting her on the counter while he ordered. Fred and Nancy, the owners, had known her dad since grade school, and treated her like family. Nancy always gave Chrissy a decorated gingerbread man, her favorite, with a secret smile.

  The memory made Chrissy’s throat tighten. It was the small, wonderful moments like those that made remembering her life before almost unbearable. The moments when she’d felt happiest and most content.

  Chrissy stood still, waiting for any vibrations to let her know that someone was moving around the place. Her feet were attuned to the slightest movement, and she’d grown a kind of preternatural sense of when someone was near. She couldn’t explain it, but the air was different when someone shared a space with you. The air moved around you differently.

  She waited, crouching down and placing a hand on the hardwood floor. Nothing.

  Slowly, Chrissy stood and walked around the counter. The smell in the bakery was different. There hadn’t been anything baked in here for five days. But the remnants of the cookies, breads, and muffins being baked even that long ago filled her nostrils and made her stomach growl.

  Chrissy moved toward the shelves of bagels and muffins and her mouth watered. She grabbed a carrot muffin and shoved a large bite in her mouth. She felt the vibrations in her throat, letting her know that she was making a murmuring noise. Even five-day-old carrot muffin was delicious when you hadn’t eaten much in that long. She finished the muffin, looking around the bakery but stayed discreetly behind the counter and register, out of the view of the window.

  She took a moment to gulp down a small bottle of water from the warm refrigerator, and then grabbed a large bag and filled it with muffins, bagels, and rolls. It might be awhile before she found food again. She tossed a few bottles of water into the bag, and then froze.

  Something moved from the corner of her eye.

  She whirled, the bag gripped in her hand. There. The swinging door to the kitchen was slowly closing. Someone had pushed through it. Where were they now?

  Slowly turning, Chrissy scanned the area, trying to look everywhere at once. Whoever, or whatever, had come through the door couldn’t be far.

  The counter was high, but not so high she couldn’t see an adult walk past it.

  A child?

  Then she remembered. There was one kitchen worker who was wheelchair-bound. She’d seen him bringing out trays of doughnuts balanced on the arms of his chair before.

  Slowly, Chrissy leaned forward, peeking over the countertop. No one was there.

  Something brushed her pant leg, and she did a turning jump backward, slamming into the shelves behind her.

  There he was, wheelchair gone, pulling himself along on the floor. His skin had turned a pasty kind of bluish color, and his once warm brown eyes were now vacant and muddy. His mouth frothed red and opened and closed and he reached for her.

  Years of using a manual wheelchair had made his upper body strong, and his arms and shoulders pulled him along at an alarmingly fast pace.

  Chrissy booted him in the face, and his head snapped backward, but he kept coming.

  She stepped forward and booted him again, but as his head whipped backward this time, his grasping hand clamped down onto her calf and dug into her flesh through her jeans.

  She fell to the floor, the back of her head slamming into a hard shelf behind her. She saw stars, and then shook her head and quickly came back to herself. In a mere second he’d be on top of her, and that would be the end of her. She’d die a horrible, screaming death. Screams that she wouldn’t even hear.

  Hell no.

  She pulled her other leg back and slammed her boot into his face as his open mouth neared her shin.

  Then she brought her boot down again and again. Her boot sank into his face as bone broke. His nose was mashed in. She’d kicked in most of his teeth, but his gums still gnashed. She brought one leg up and slammed it down on top of his skull with all her might. His skull gave way and her foot sank into the mush of his head.

  Disgust rolled over her and she felt a moan travel up her throat, and then she clamped down on it. She didn’t need any more of these things hearing her and shuffling over to see if there was anything alive they could eat.

  She kept her eyes on his ruined face as she pulled herself up. His muddy eyes rolled upward.

  Mashing bone into their brains shuts them right down.

  Good to know. File that one away for future reference.

  She let out a laugh. Something she rarely did because a kid once told her she sounded like a barking seal.

  She didn’t care. No one was around to hear it.

  How do you like me now? she thought. A shudder moved through her. That kid was probably dead.

  ***

  When Chrissy pushed through the back door, leading out into the alley, the snow had slowed to light, dusty flakes. The desire to just lie down and look up at the sky was overwhelming. When she was small, her mom and dad would take her sledding on a huge hill in the park, and she’d always lie in the snow for a few minutes, feeling the flakes land lightly on her face. All was silent in her world and looking up at the snowflakes drifting down was peaceful.

  But any peace she’d have lying in the snow would be short-lived when one of the dead came to gnaw on her face. She needed to push herself.

  She kept moving. Staying low and stepping carefully, she crept between two buildings, a bank and a barber shop, and peered around the red brick of the credit union her parents banked at. She had an account with twenty thousand dollars in it, which she’d never use.

  Chrissy peered out at the street from behind the brick wall of the bank. There seemed to be more walking dead people now than there had been. The plan to get a bike was squashed. Several of the dead shambled around in front of the bike shop.

  Well, at least she had a backpack full of baked goodies. Maybe she could keep the dead at bay by whipping doughnuts and muffins at them.

  She felt herself snort and realized that she was in some kind of shock. Even the fear was subsiding. She was becoming numb.

  They looked like they were all drunk, staggering around like that. Like the entire street were coming off one hell of a block party.

  She placed a ski glove over her mouth and silently laughed.

  Stop! Get a grip.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, and then scanned the street again. There seemed to be more shadows than there had been before she’d gone into Crumbles.

  Soon the lizard/spider things would come out, and they weren’t as slow and stupid as the dead were.

  That thought got her heart thumping against her ribcage.

  She needed to find a safe place to hide for a while.

  The wind picked up, pushing against her face and momentarily stealing her breath. Her eye was drawn to an American flag flapping silently. It jutted out from the museum down the street.

  The museum. Maybe it would be open.

  She took a single step forward, and then stopped.

  There was movement farther down the street. She stepped back and crouched, sneaking a backward glance to make sure nothing was coming up behind her. When she turned back toward the street, she sank back, and crouched a little lower.

  A group of people were coming down the road, walking like they owned it. They carried axes and cleavers, huge knives and other assorted weapons. They were smart. No guns. Nothing that would make a lot of noise.

/>   Something about these people made the small hairs on the back of her neck lift and her skin crawl.

  There were six men and a single female who appeared to be in her early teens. She wore a full-length fur coat, white with gray streaks through it. The fur moved in the wind like it was the real deal. She wasn’t tall, so the coat skimmed the ground.

  Chrissy knew that coat didn’t belong to the girl. She looked like a young girl playing dress-up in her mother’s fur coat. But did she take it off someone or just grab it from one of the more exclusive stores in Manhattan, a few blocks away?

  The guys all appeared to be in their twenties, and they all wore expensive-looking coats, ranging from full-length leather to long overcoats that looked like they should belong to people with money. It was obvious these guys weren’t used to wearing them. They moved like street gang members.

  So they’d either taken these coats off living or dead people, or looted stores for them.

  But it was the glee with which they moved that gave Chrissy the creeps. Like they were thrilled that the world had ended. Like they were taking over, and this was their world now. They would not only thrive in it, but they would rule.

  Chrissy watched in wide-eyed fascination as the group swung axes, lopping off the heads of the dead, or stabbing them in the heads and eyes. They were amazingly skilled with their weapons and smiled when they took the dead down. They acted like it was a game, like they were in a video game.

  Maybe they thought they were.

  Movement from her left made Chrissy shrink back. A man she recognized as being the bank manager came running down the steps of the bank, waving his arms. She knew that he was shouting, though she couldn’t hear him. From his profile, she saw his mouth opening wide as he tried to get the group’s attention. He was looking for help. He ran toward them, dodging the dead as he went.

  She moved to stop him, wanting to warn him, but it was too late.

  They moved forward; the man she’d decided was the group’s leader grinned like a lunatic. He stood in front of the bank manager, head cocked to the side, feigning interest and nodding his head. Then, in one deadly movement, he swung his cleaver and took the bank manager’s head off.

  Both of Chrissy’s hands flew to her mouth, stuffing back a scream. She turned and headed back into the alley.

  ***

  Chrissy hid, shivering, inside a dumpster, hoping the group wouldn’t decide to go dumpster diving. But judging from the high-end coats they wore, she’d guessed that they wouldn’t bother with the dumpster.

  Her entire body trembled as she waited. She couldn’t hear them, so she couldn’t judge where they were headed or how close they were. She waited as long as she dared —until the sky turned gunmetal gray — before she found the courage to peer over the rim of the dumpster.

  She’d gotten used to the garbage smell and barely noticed it as her eyes moved over the area. She saw a few of the dead wandering past the alleyway on the street. That must mean that the psychos were no longer there.

  Chrissy climbed out of the dumpster, dropping softly to the snowy ground, and crept back between the bank and the barber shop. The crazies were gone. Of course, they could be in any one of these buildings, looking out the windows, waiting for someone else to come along. Someone they could murder for kicks.

  But she had to move. The alien lizards would be out soon.

  Moving carefully but quickly, she ran down the alley until she was directly across from the museum. The flag still fluttered in the air, which had gotten colder since her little stay in the dumpster. She waited, gathered herself, and took a deep breath as she peered at as many shop windows as she could see. She didn’t see any movement behind any of them. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone there, watching her.

  She took one more look up and down the street. It was clear of anything moving. But only for now.

  Go! Now!

  Chrissy sprang from her hiding spot behind the two buildings and ran across the road and up the stairs of the museum. She made it to the front door and yanked at it.

  The door was locked.

  Of course it was.

  She ran down the stairs and around the building. There was a window on the side of the structure, about eight feet up.

  She looked around for something to stand on.

  There was a fallen tree branch a little farther up, near the back of the building. Chrissy ran to it and dragged it, huffing and puffing, toward the window. It was getting dark now. Panic made it hard for her to breathe. Adrenaline shot through her, making her entire body shiver as she pulled and pushed the tree branch up against the wall of the museum.

  When she’d finally positioned it below the window ledge, she climbed up the tree branch and tried to pull the window open.

  It wouldn’t budge. She dug out a word that she’d seen her dad use on a few occasions.

  FUCK!

  Chrissy climbed back down and looked around for something to break the window glass. At the front of the building were large decorative stones, which rimmed the flowers in the spring and summer. Running back to the front of the museum, she moved the snow away with her gloved hands and found a good-sized stone. It took both hands to carry it, and the weight of it felt good in her palms.

  Nothing better bother me now. I’ll bust a head with this thing.

  No longer giving much of a tin shit about noise, Chrissy hauled back with both hands and let the rock fly.

  She didn’t hear the window break, but she saw the glass shatter.

  Without hesitating, she climbed back up the tree branch and felt around for the window lock. She found it easily, thumbed it back, and balancing herself on the branch, shoved the window open.

  She all but dove through the window and landed on her hands and knees.

  When she looked up, her mouth went dry.

  She was surrounded by bones.

  Chapter 11

  The pile of crumpled candy wrappers flattened underneath Griffin’s foot as he stood. He wasn’t sure how long he sat cross-legged with his back against the HVAC, but the twitch in his thigh let him know that it was probably too long. Griffin shook his leg in an attempt to break free of the twitch. He laughed at the idea of this being a new workout move for the future — “shake the dead guy from my leg.” He couldn’t escape the spasms.

  “Stop it, you damn rectus femoris,” he said, massaging his thigh. “Stop it, right now.”

  The twitching thigh gave way to a piercing pain in his abdomen. Griffin clutched just below his belly button. The pain subsided as fast as it came on. He kicked a few of the candy wrappers, realizing just how many pieces he’d eaten. That explained the gut ache, which now was accompanied by an intense need to vomit. Griffin grabbed a bottle of water from his bag and took a few baby sips to try to calm the waves of nausea.

  “Why did I eat so much chocolate?”

  Pain answered quickly with another slap of nausea. Griffin swallowed, deeply and methodically, trying to hold back the fire that burned in his throat. He hated to vomit. The first time was on the spinning teacups ride when he was a kid. He leaned over the side of the ride and spewed all over the family behind him. He was mortified, and his brother Jake laughed to the brink of pissing in his pants.

  Griffin grabbed the side of the HVAC and vomited. He was sure Jake was somewhere laughing. The thought of his brother making fun of him mixed with a little less chocolate in his body eased the sickness. He took another swallow of water and wiped his mouth.

  With a clearer head, Griffin faced the question of what to do now. He couldn’t live on the roof of the museum. There was a chance he could wait it out and hope that Rye made it to New York City. But that would mean having to spend another night on the roof. There was no safety. No escape plan. He’d gotten lucky once. If the aliens came back, Griffin didn’t like his chances. The only option was to leave the roof before sundown.

  The twitching in his thigh returned. Griffin didn’t mind it that much as long as the nausea st
ayed away. He packed his bag and reached for the water bottle containing the alien slime. The roots had multiplied, making it impossible to see through the once clear plastic. The branches at the bottom of the bottle looked to be brittle. A good portion of the green substance seemed to have evaporated.

  “Fascinating. These things have to have some sort of plant-based DNA.”

  A sound below robbed Griffin of thought. There were three bangs, almost like car doors slamming. He walked to the edge of the roof and took a deep breath before facing the fear of heights again. A feeling of falling enveloped him as he peeked over the side. He stepped back before he could get a good look at anything below. This has to be from too much chocolate, he thought, recalling an article he’d read on a science blog about the effects of too much caffeine. The muscle twitching, and now the obvious hallucinations. There was no way he’d heard a car door shut. Rye was still hours from New York. Definitely too much caffeine.

  But to be on the safe side, Griffin inched toward the ledge again. He took another deep breath, something Jake used to tell him would calm him down. It never really worked. But Jake swore by it and he was the most laid-back person Griffin ever met. He stretched his neck, craning to get a glimpse below. And there it was — a new Mercedes-Benz GLA.

  Griffin backed away from the ledge, laughing with each step. “Aliens don’t drive luxury cars,” he said, snatching his backpack. “And zombies don’t drive anything. Why, you ask? ’Cause they’re dead, dummy.” Griffin shook his head at his bad sense of humor and blamed it on too much caffeine.

  He opened the door, careful not to let it slam behind him, and started down the stairs. Whoever was in the museum would more than likely be in the lobby area. Only another four flights of stairs to get there. Typically, Griffin could jog these stairs without even a heavy breath. Earlier in the year, he ran the Boston Marathon, clocking in about an hour over the top finisher’s time. It was nothing for Griffin to put in five miles a day. But today, these stairs were kicking his ass. Between the nausea, the cramps, and the lightheadedness, there wasn’t much room for breathing.