Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

by Drew Brown

  “Mandy?” Frank questioned. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Amanda Richmond nodded, turning on her flashlight and gesturing for the honeymooners to follow her. “Steve and my little boy are only a mile away. I have to try and reach them. I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “But, Mandy, what about…” Frank trailed off his appeal, letting it fade into nothing as the three made their way to the door. Amanda Richmond did not look back, although the two honeymooners did, their arms interlocked as they walked out the door. Their uncertainty was etched deep on their faces.

  After they were gone, Budd looked around at the diminished group. Other than Juliette, there was Andy, Frank, the doctor and his wife, the priest with his flask and finally a pair of hotel workers, who were perhaps in their mid-thirties, and had yet to speak. The two of them were sitting at the end of the table, positioned in a dark shadow that almost hid their faces as they huddled together, the man’s arm cast over the shoulder of the female.

  Nine in all had elected to remain.

  Seven were leaving.

  Andy looked around the table. “Can I take it we’re all staying?”

  There were nods from the depleted group.

  “Good. Now, shall we go try an’ talk them others out of leaving? I think they’re making a big mistake.”

  One after the other, the group rose from their chairs.

  Budd was last of all, pulled up by Juliette.

  21

  By the time Andy’s group reached the reception area, which was now grimly shadowed and grey because of the dense clouds that covered the windows, the seven who’d decided to leave were already at the outer end of the Tropical Walkway.

  Budd’s eyes scanned the black and white checkered floor. Many more of the corpses were now shuddering, and he trod a meandering path that kept him as far away from each of them as possible.

  “Stop, please wait,” Andy shouted. He broke away from the group and ran to the Tropical Walkway. Frank followed him closely.

  Still concerned with the movement of the bodies, Budd stopped. The rest of the group halted with him, content to watch Andy and Frank’s last-ditch appeal to the seven from the middle of the reception.

  It was not to be a success.

  Perhaps hurried by Andy’s chase, and worried that some of his followers were frightened by the ominous cloud that covered the ground like an impossibly thick fog, Chris made sure that all of the seven were holding hands, forming a human chain, and then he walked outside. As Budd watched, the seven people marched out into the fog, vanishing one by one only a few feet beyond the threshold.

  The male honeymooner was at the rear of the line, the last to go, and he turned his head to look back into the hotel, staring at the others until his image blurred, faded and finally disappeared. Andy called after them all, hollering into the murk when he reached the open doors. He stood with wisps of the fog creeping inside around him.

  No sound returned. The seven were gone.

  “Hey,” Budd said, and he nodded his Stetson over to the bank of elevators. The red light above the central shaft showed the elevator was on the move.

  It was coming down.

  Unconsciously, Budd adjusted the strap of his rucksack and then gripped the axe with both hands. He ushered Juliette behind him.

  The elevator bell chimed and the doors began to open. A man squeezed sideways through the space and tumbled out into the reception. He got straight to his feet and bolted towards the Tropical Walkway. Only when he saw the group, fronted by Budd, did the male stop running.

  He was slim built, in his late teens or early twenties, with shoulder-length light brown hair that hung limply around his face. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a long-sleeved green T-shirt and a pair of white gym shoes. Budd saw his wide, fearful eyes from across the room, saw his chest rise and fall as he fought for breath.

  “Like, all of you, we gotta get outta here. There’re like fucking zombies all over the place,” the young man called, signaling with his arms to the doors. He had a distinct Californian accent.

  “Calm down, kid,” Budd called back. “What did you just say?”

  “Zombies, dude, I’ve seen zombies,” the young man replied. His eyes roamed the reception room. “There, look,” he said, pointing to one of the shuddering bodies, “that’s how it starts. Any minute now he’s gonna be up and, like, totally ready to eat brains. All of them are.”

  Budd looked around at the twitching bodies. Their number was certainly increasing. Already the ones that moved outnumbered the ones that did not.

  “Those people are dead, son,” the doctor said, stepping forward to stand next to Budd. “They can’t get up.”

  “Tell that to the guy who just got totally eaten on the fifteenth floor. He’s zombie chow now, dude.”

  Zombies?

  Well, to tell you the truth, I was ready to believe almost anything at that point.

  But zombies? You’re kidding me, right?

  The gulf from a floor-shimmying body to a fully-fledged zombie was a big one, at least I thought it was, but this guy who’d brought the news didn’t seem hysterical—well, no more than the rest of us—and that made him difficult to easily dismiss. Especially when I thought back to the man-thing Juliette and I had seen up on the twentieth floor.

  But, come on, zombies? I didn’t think so…

  From the far end of the Tropical Walkway, Frank and Andy’s shouting intensified. Budd glanced towards them and saw that the younger hotel worker was running back into the lobby. He did not get far, but turned into the undergrowth at the position where Budd remembered the wooden shed to be. With the group’s attention on him, Andy waved his arms and shouted, “Over here, quick.”

  “Come on,” Budd said to the young Californian as the rest of the group began to hurry to the Tropical Walkway. “Whatever’s going on, you’d be better to stick with us.”

  The young man nodded and Budd waited for him to catch up.

  “My name’s Sam.”

  “Budd.”

  “Oh, you’re that singer,” Sam said, smiling at Juliette. She had remained with Budd, although her eyes were on the Tropical Walkway. “Oh, what’s your name, you’re, like, French, you’re called…”

  “Juliette,” she said. Her tone was abrupt.

  “Yeah, that’s it, I love your song. Sing some of it for me.”

  “Really, this is not the time,” Juliette replied with a shake of her head. “Monsieur Ashby, we should stay with the others.”

  Budd and Sam watched Juliette walk off, heading for the Tropical Walkway. “So, what, are you like her bodyguard or something?” the Californian asked.

  Budd raised the peak of his Stetson and smiled. “Nah, just her lover.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “Do you think she’d sign me an autograph?”

  “You’d have to speak to her people.”

  “Where are they?” Sam asked, his eyes darting to the rest of the group.

  “Dead, probably.”

  The two of them jogged to catch up with Juliette, who was already on the red carpet. As they progressed, they looked ahead, watching what the others were doing. Frank reappeared from the undergrowth, carrying a long piece of rope, which was looped in a bundle around his right shoulder. As he jogged back to the hotel entrance, he tied one end of the rope around his waist.

  When Budd, Juliette and Sam were midway along the Tropical Walkway, they heard several screams, horrifying shrieks of fear or pain. The cries had come from out in the fog, muffled by the moisture in the air and hidden from view. The noise sent shockwaves of panic through the group; several halted mid-step and some glanced around frantically. The priest took a swig from his flask and made the sign of the cross on his chest.

  Frank handed the bundle of rope to Andy, who tried to object, but the younger man ignored him and, with one end secured around his body, plunged out into the darkness. He vanished right away. Andy fed out more and more of the rope.<
br />
  Budd, Juliette and Sam caught up with the rest of the group, who were standing behind Andy as he toiled with his task. The bundle in the hotel worker’s hands quickly halved in size.

  Without any warning, there was a knock on the glass wall of the Tropical Walkway. The sound had come from outside and the group jumped with fright.

  After a few seconds, it happened again. This time it was further around, closer to the corner that would lead to the doorway. A third knock was only a few feet from the open space, having successfully negotiated the change of direction. Budd thought he saw the cause of the sound; a hand slapped against the glass. Some of the others around him gasped; he guessed they’d seen it too.

  There was blood on the palm, which left a smeared print on the pane.

  Near to Andy, who still battled with the rope, the greyness parted and the male honeymooner staggered into the Tropical Walkway. He collapsed to his hands and knees. His face and blue shirt were covered in blood. The doctor rushed to kneel beside him and Juliette did the same.

  Budd remained still, but realized that Sam was looking at him. “You said zombies, right?”

  “Yeah, dude. Zombies.”

  Okay, so, right ’bout then, the zombie theory didn’t seem quite so far-fetched…

  Mentally, Budd weighed what he thought were their options. “Juliette,” he called. When she looked back at him, he pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder. “Time to, er, you know, make haste.”

  He turned around, intent on heading back into the hotel, but stopped immediately.

  At the far end of the Tropical Walkway, a mauve-suited hotel worker was tottering slowly from the reception foyer. His arms were extended forward, grasping at thin air. His head was tilted to the side and his mouth was wide open. Each step he took threatened to topple him because his movement was unstable, like a baby’s first steps, but still, onward he walked, resolutely approaching the group. His pace, however, was extremely slow, and Budd estimated it would take at least a minute before he was even close.

  “That’s a fucking zombie,” Sam said, “and you people all, like, owe me an apology.”

  “Do you want it in writing?” Budd asked.

  “Pull… in… not… safe… monsters…” came Frank’s voice, deadened by the fog. Andy started to reel in the rope, keeping it as taut as he could so that Frank could retrace his steps.

  After ten long seconds, Frank tumbled in, his arm over the shoulders of another person. The two fell to the ground, landing almost beside the male honeymooner, who was sobbing into the doctor’s chest. Frank had found Chris, the black-haired leader of the group that ventured out.

  Budd spun around carefully, trying to watch the events unfolding by the doorway, but also keep his eyes on the approaching hotel worker. He was the first to see the shapes moving in the grey clouds, darker objects cutting their way through the murky air. There were three figures he was sure of, perhaps a few more a bit further away. “Boss,” he said, pointing out into the fog as it stretched around the approaching shapes.

  A little beyond the doorway, the darkness was ready to part.

  Andy turned to look and Frank’s eyes went with him to the shapes. The younger man immediately recoiled, untying the rope from his waist. “They’re not people,” he said, his voice quivering as he dropped the end of the rope to the carpet. “They’re monsters.”

  22

  Dumbstruck by what Frank had said, the group edged away from the open doors, retreating along the Tropical Walkway, their eyes locked on the shapes that formed outside. The doctor’s wife, alone because her husband was still tending to the male honeymooner, started to scream. Inside the fog, the shadowy figures adjusted their direction and moved towards the shrill sound.

  “Everybody, get moving,” Andy commanded, and he ushered with his arms for the others to go faster. He was the rearmost member of the group.

  The figures began to emerge from obscurity.

  The first one was wearing the uniform of a police officer, and he came stumbling forward with blood across his face and his arms outstretched. His hands were concealed in black leather gloves, but the material was dripping, wet with gore.

  Entrails hung from his fingertips.

  The next to step out of the fog, erratically shuffling forward in Gucci lace-up shoes, was a man in a smart blue suit. His arms were also extended, and his bloody hands opened and closed as if he were reaching for something a little beyond his grasp. At his side came a middle-aged woman, casually dressed in black pants and a purple top, her dark hair hanging loosely around her face. Her gait was the same as the others, like that of someone inebriated, and her mouth was surrounded in blood that dripped down from her small chin to splash into her cleavage.

  Budd counted at least half a dozen more shadowy specters still striving to enter the Tropical Walkway. He watched as Andy took the hammer from his tool belt, but judging from the speed at which these things were moving, Budd was sure that the group would be safe. The monsters were impossibly slow, measuring every short footstep as they advanced. There was no chance they could keep up.

  “Quickly now,” Andy encouraged, putting one arm around the doctor’s wife and guiding her away from the danger. “We have to keep moving.”

  The closest monster was only fifteen feet away, and it let out a long groan, its fingers snatching at the empty air.

  At the other end of the group, with Juliette and Sam behind him, Budd led the way back to the lobby. The hotel worker still approached them, his open-mouthed expression unchanged as they drew nearer. There was still a clear hundred feet between them.

  “What are we gonna do with this guy?” Sam asked.

  Budd looked over his shoulder as he walked. “What do you suggest?”

  “You, like, go and lop his head off, dude.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’ve got the axe.”

  Sam had hit on something I hadn’t considered: while I carried the axe, I’d be expected to take a starring role in any fighting that took place. That wasn’t exactly how I planned to spend my day…

  “Good point,” Budd said. He stopped and thrust the axe into the younger man’s path. “You have it, and you deal with it.”

  “No way, man,” Sam exclaimed, but he took hold of the weapon, a gleeful smile on his face.

  Budd smiled back at him. “Now, go and play with the nice zombie.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot, dude,” Sam replied, his voice laced with sarcasm, but with the axe in his hands he jogged on, leaving behind the rest of the party. Nearing the hotel worker, he slowed his pace until he was standing still.

  The mauve-suited thing kept coming, lurching onwards.

  “Stay where you are, man.” Sam called out. “Please, man, I, like, don’t wanna hurt you.”

  The hotel worker continued on.

  “Kill it, kill it,” Frank shouted. His voice warbled hysterically.

  Sam raised the axe above his head, the shaft trembling in his grip. “Dude, please, stay there.”

  The hotel worker didn’t stop.

  In a flash of red paint and steel, Sam brought down the axe, the weight of the heavy blade adding speed to the descent. The blow landed in the center of the hotel worker’s skull, and cleft it open like a nut. Blood oozed out of the wound as the man sunk to his knees, his arms still reaching for Sam, grabbing at his clothes.

  Sam heaved the axe from its slot in the hotel-worker’s head and then kicked him in his chest. The hotel worker toppled backwards onto the red carpet. His arms and legs shuddered as parts of his brain slipped onto the floor.

  Spots of blood stained Sam’s smiling face when he turned back around.

  “Good shot, kid,” Budd shouted.

  “Come on,” Sam replied, enthused by his successful act of violence. He hurried off to lead the way with the gruesome axe still clutched in his hands.

  Budd looked to the back of the tightly packed group and was pleased to find a gap of nearly sixty feet had developed between Andy
and the first of the monsters from outside.

  They were escaping.

  Very quickly, the group was out of the Tropical Walkway and inside the reception foyer. Sam had waited for them. Their progress slowed as they tried to decide which direction to take. At least two dozen bodies were sprawled across the immense tiled floor, and every last one of them was now moving. A few of them even seemed to be sliding themselves across the polished black and white tiles toward the group.

  “Which way?” Budd said.

  He received a crescendo of different suggestions, all of which he ignored. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he turned to see Andy, his hammer still at the ready. “I think we should head back to t’bar. It’s easy to lock down.”

  While Budd listened, he watched one of the twitching corpses, a female in her early thirties, push her way up onto her knees and then rise upon stiff legs. She was midway between the group and the bank of lifts, and dressed in a beige skirt suit. After a few small, wobbly steps, the woman fell and knocked her head against the tiled floor. She made no attempt to break her fall. Immediately, she started to rise up again, blood leaking from a crack in the side of her skull.

  Budd looked to the door by the reception counter and the route seemed clear. “I think you’re right.”

  23

  Sam led the way as the group neared the entrance to the section of employee-only corridors and rooms. Andy was a few paces behind and covered the young Californian with the beam of his flashlight, ready to guide the way. Frank took up the position at the rear, while the rest of the group strung out between.

  As they went through the door and started down the passageway, entering the blackness and merely following the beams of light ahead of them, Budd looked to Juliette and tried to offer her a reassuring smile.

  She turned away. “I cannot believe you gave the American the axe. It was cowardly, Monsieur Ashby.”