Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse

by E. E. Isherwood

  For a long minute she stayed there, frozen. Eventually her heartbeat came off the roof and she collected herself.

  To see the men on the floor she had to raise her head over the level of her raised feet.

  She let out her breath. The men had backed out of the middle of the room and went back into the shadows. Her eyes had sufficiently adapted and could see a tiny bit more into the back of the store.

  Liza. Do something.

  A quiet conversation—it was the best description she had for it—of hisses crept out from the strange shapes lying on the floor twenty feet away. Her imagination quickly devised a scenario where the workers were discussing what they should do with her. The wealthy wife of a man who would probably pay good money to get her back.

  No, they can't all be bad.

  Still, she wanted to be cautious. She turned herself over and crawled toward the wreckage of the front door.

  Please ignore me, she thought. I’m no one.

  In a couple minutes she’d made it most of the way to the storefront. No one followed her, though she waited against the wall next to a display for fancy jeans. Despite the shadowy men, she was equally afraid of the outside world. Every few minutes someone ran by—often, but not always in the direction the rest of the crowd had gone.

  Across the store a decorative clock indicated it was close to eleven p.m. The sun was very low in the sky, casting deep shadows on everything, but maintaining the necessary light to see. The eternal days were one of the things she loved about summers in her city.

  Knowing the hour was a trigger for her body. It was almost an admission it was time to give up.

  She collapsed with her back along the wall. There were still a few racks of clothes nearby that blocked her view of the street, and there were racks and piles of clothes between her and the creepy guys in the back. Using every bit of energy she had left, she crawled into a pile of soft lingerie and buried herself.

  As quietly as she could, she let out all her tears.

  Then she passed out.

  16

  She woke up feeling like a stray cat. Her eyes opened to the sight of the ventilation pipes and electrical wiring poking out from the half-destroyed ceiling tiles above.

  There was no pretending she was at home.

  She stood up, wary of the back of the store. In the daylight it was easier to see no one was back there—the men had cleared out.

  Yuri, she thought. He’s my only hope.

  Liza stood with wobbly legs. Sleeping on the hard floor—even with the delicates for cushion—had left her right leg tingly from lack of blood flow. She figured she’d had the sleep of the dead if she didn’t wake up at all last night.

  Sleep. That was a rare thing of late.

  The man she was desperate to contact and come save her wasn’t the romantic he once was. There was a time they slept cradled together in their silk sheets, giving her the best sleep of her life. But lately he’d been gone almost all the time. And when he was home, he wasn’t really there. He slept at his desk.

  I had needs, too, Yuri, she reasoned. It had to be justification enough for her dangerous and childish flirting. Now that she needed him, guilt poked its head where it didn’t belong. Maybe tossing it a bone would send it away.

  I’m coming back, my love, she cooed to reinforce her flagging morale.

  Getting back to him would start with a phone call, but her first priority was more immediate. She stumbled out of the pile of clothes, then wobbled to the ruined money counter. Constance kept a small fridge with bottled water and fancy beers. She confided the beers were to loosen the wallets of the boyfriends who’d often bring their lovers to the store.

  The counter and the appliance were ruined, but the bottled waters had scattered across the floor. She hunted them down like Easter eggs before settling into one of the remaining chairs to down it. Unconcerned for proper ladylike behavior she pulled heavily at the small bottle until it was drained. Then, completely out of character for her, she let out a raucous belch. She put her hand to her lips as if to apologize to the other patrons, but quickly spit out anything in her mouth when she saw the crusty dried slime on her fingers.

  That’s enough of this, she said with newfound determination. I’m going to get home. Yuri will find me.

  The next several minutes she got busy building Liza Saratov from the ground up.

  First, she found the proper location. She carefully placed herself out of view of the street, but stayed away from the back of the store where she worried the strange workers still lurked. She stripped out of her ruined clothes, then used several bottled waters to clean off all the grime from her skin and out of her hair. A few cotton pajama outfits were perfect to dry off.

  The leather pants had survived her ordeal in pretty good shape, so she chose the same brand and size when she replaced hers. She complimented it with a long-sleeved denim shirt, choosing to sacrifice a little style for comfort. Since the boutique wasn’t known for athletics, she selected the same style of sandal to complete her ensemble. This time she did the straps properly and they held wonderfully when she did a few test hops.

  When she finally made it to the full-length mirror to look at herself, she could almost pretend everything was normal with her world. She picked through her hair with a comb she’d found among the debris. She also noticed the baton where she'd left it.

  She picked it up and studied herself in the mirror as she held it. She looked nothing like Pavel and his American hero movie stars, but she wasn't helpless, either. She made like she was swinging the club over the head of one of the attackers and made a passable impression as a warrior.

  I wish.

  Engine sounds brought her back to the moment.

  “Yuri,” she said. “I didn’t even have to call him.” He had unlimited money; of course he would find her.

  She smiled into the mirror, taking a moment to pull herself together. Her face retained the pretty features she’d cherished throughout her life, though she had to overlook the smudges and lack of makeup. It was easy to ignore the swollen ridge just above her right temple. The lips mimicked a smile, but her eyes remained heavy and sad. The puffiness from crying would normally be worked out with the magic of her foundation and blush, but she could pass as Liza Saratov, now.

  “I’m ready to get back to civilization. I want to put,” she glanced toward the unknown in the back of the store, “this hell hole behind me.”

  She tucked the baton into a belt loop of her pants, but it flopped to the side as she took one last look in the mirror. The image of the fighter mocked her as the weapon bobbed there. So she decided to hold it, instead.

  Finally, the person in the mirror reflected her outward optimism.

  She tried on a real smile, getting it mostly right.

  The gash on her neck was a real distraction. But after the water washed away the gunk and dried blood, the cut wasn’t as deep or serious-looking as she first feared. It reminded her of a dog bite her precious Pookie had once given her. Yuri, being Yuri, said he sent the dog to Vladivostok—though he returned it a few days later, explaining he only wanted to ensure it had no diseases.

  “I’ve got to do something about that.” She eyed the purple bruising and small scabs on her neck a final time, then turned away.

  I need one last thing.

  The object of her desire still hung on a wall hook a little above her. If yesterday’s spending spree had gone as planned, she would have bought it eventually, but she liked to start with lingerie and work her way to the outer garments later.

  When she pulled the black leather jacket off the hook, it spun the hanger on the rod and fell with a crack to the wooden floor.

  Thinking of the people in the back, she donned the coat and trotted toward for gaping hole in the store's front. She thought of how she would present herself to the person who picked her up.

  “I can’t get too cocky,” she allowed, “but I will have to demand they take me to the penthouse. I need to get home.�
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  A few seconds later she giggled, drunk on the thought of going home. “And, I guess we can tip them really well. That should make it worth their while for helping me.”

  She was feeling very much herself as she left the boutique. Even the crumpled Bugatti didn’t sour her giddiness. Her nightmare was over. It was all someone else’s problem.

  On the curb she listened to determine from which direction the vehicle was approaching. Once established—and purposely ignoring that it might go anywhere else—she pivoted and held up her arm as if it were a normal day in the shopping district.

  “Taxi,” she said in a quiet practice voice.

  A few seconds later a black shape sped through an intersection two blocks down. She’d been a little slow, so she didn’t get a good look.

  “Come back,” she said with a quick up and down on her toes. Her arm came down, but only a little. The engine sounds were diminished, but they didn’t go away.

  Several people ran through the intersection just behind it, leaving her to wonder what it was all about. Were they looking for a ride, too?

  “I bet they’re pissed,” she said with conviction.

  A minute later she started to worry they were going the wrong way. Or her ticket to freedom was being punched by someone else. One of those runners. Someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone who couldn't pay a respectable sum.

  “Come back and pick me up!” Her voice broke she yelled so loud. The anger came out of nowhere. Her headache had never really gone away. It made her cranky.

  “Please,” she cried, with far less hostility.

  She focused on the sounds of the city, including her salvation on wheels. Guns went off somewhere in the distance. Explosions continued to shake the street, though they seemed even farther away than the guns. Screams were pretty common, though they came from random directions.

  The electrical humming in her brain rose and fell, and that frightened her. It wasn’t a temporary malady caused by the fall. It was starting to look like it was going to stick with her. To test the cause she put her hands over her ears to block out all the other sound she could. The buzzing continued.

  While she had her hands over her ears, she noticed movement in the shop across the street.

  The problems in the city hadn’t passed her by at all.

  17

  The Rover sped around the corner at high speed. Liza’s stomach became a knot.

  She’d been caught like a rabbit on the green. If she ran, the car would catch her in seconds. The occupants of the boutique convinced her not to go back in. The shapes across the street signified another dead end.

  A million ways to die.

  She lifted her hands to signal the truck, then dropped them when she was sure they saw her. It was the only option that didn’t involve sick monsters.

  “Well, actually—” She remembered the heartless look she’d gotten from her supposed protector.

  The Rover came to a skidding halt right in front of her. Bodies killed yesterday by the police littered the route, but there was room to avoid most of them. She noted there was considerable blood on the front grill of the truck. It could have been from yesterday—except the blood looked wet.

  Across the street, a few of stragglers from the riot came running out. Others came from buildings down the street in the direction the Rover had come from. Farther down, a group of ten or fifteen runners came around the corner, as if they’d been following the truck the whole time.

  None of that seemed to bother the driver. Ilia’s ugly mug smiled at her from behind the wheel. His window was already down. Music blared. “Going my way, baton girl?” he asked smugly.

  She huffed at him before going to the back door. She gripped the handle, but it didn’t open. The people running in the street were coming for her.

  “Hey, open,” she demanded with flowering panic.

  Ilia leaned out, pretending to check the sky for inclement weather. “We didn’t come to pick you up. I just thought I’d say hi before we get back to Yuri.”

  “My Yuri!” she exclaimed.

  “Ilia,” Pavel said under his breath.

  Ilia turned to her, anger flaring. “Yeah? Well, you should have taken me up on my offer.”

  Her eyes drifted up to the roof of the Rover. In a different life she could have jumped up there and hung on while the car sped away. It was what she tried to do yesterday, using a much larger roof. And that turned out less than ideal. She accepted the only way out was to get in the Rover.

  Ilia revved the engine, which made her practically wet her pants in fear of being left behind. She imagined the running people upped their game, too.

  She bit her tongue.

  “I’ll do anything you want. Just let me in. Please.”

  Ilia’s face brightened. “You’ll do exactly what I say, won’t you?”

  The runners were close. They’d begun to moan as if to signify victory. One of them from the far side of the street slammed into the other side of the truck.

  “Yes. Anything,” she said breathlessly.

  “Anything,” he agreed. The door locks clicked.

  She yanked at the handle, but still it didn’t unlock.

  “Stop pulling on it, bitch.”

  She pulled on it, sure she heard it click open.

  Ilia hung his head out the window, nervousness in his voice. “Stop! I’ll unlock it.”

  Liza forced herself to stand there and not yank at the door handle. A voice from inside said it was a cruel, final joke. Maybe she deserved to die after all.

  “Open it now,” Ilia screamed. The starved runners were converging on the food trough.

  She tried it and the door swung out. She struggled to get up into the seat, which gave someone a chance to put their hand on her back side.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  In response, Ilia gunned the motor and the car lurched forward even as she fell into the back of the seat. Afraid the man would hold on and pull her out the door, she grabbed onto the middle seat belt. The boarder slid backward, pulling her halfway out with him. The seatbelt saved her. The man's hands slid down her leather pants and he collapsed onto the pavement with a loud yelp.

  The Rover didn’t slow for her as she scrambled back in. Ilia pulled the wheel hard to the right and then to the left, which shut the door with the force of inertia.

  “Sit down and shut up.” He didn’t even look back.

  From nearly every door along the street broken people came out and ran toward the truck. At first she thought they were citizens caught up in the larger spectacle of the riots and they only wanted to catch a ride out. But the truth was they were participants of the riot. Maybe rioters that got hurt.

  She flashed back to the mirror; she had looked like one of them.

  Despite a desperate desire to know what was going on, she kept all the questions to herself. It was enough that she was under the protection of Ilia and Pavel, no matter how she got inside the vehicle.

  He was just kidding. He won't ask for that.

  Sick people continued to dart out of the ruined buildings. In the safety of the truck she saw the stone facades as shocked clowns, their mouths opened wide, their teeth in shattered piles below. The truck lurched to the right; she kept herself from tumbling. Looking back from where they’d come, the pursuit was kind of pathetic. Compared to the day before, the crowd was tiny. Some were down on all fours. As they rounded the corner she confirmed they dressed like workers. As if they all agreed on the mode of travel based on where they came from. The runners on their feet were upstanding Russian citizens, she reasoned, though the looks in their eyes didn’t make her feel any better about it.

  “Everyone’s gone crazy,” she said out loud.

  Pavel heard her. “You have no idea how right you are. You’re lucky we found you.”

  She didn’t feel very lucky, despite how everything went down. She leaned again as the truck took another hard turn, then kept her face forward.

  The electrical n
oise in her head seemed somehow louder now that she was inside the Rover.

  Forgetting herself, she spoke to both men in front of her. “I think I have brain damage.”

  18

  She stewed in her misfortune and pain until something familiar caught her eye on the floorboard behind Pavel’s seat.

  My purse!

  She tried to think where she’d last had it, but could barely remember the time before Ilia plowed them into the crowd. There was no doubt she had it while driving the Bug to the boutique and she was almost positive it went into the store with her. One of the guys must have picked it up.

  No matter. She set her baton next to her and got it. She opened the purse to see what carefree Liza had put in there yesterday.

  The small clutch purse was filled with items she now regarded as crap. Her wallet stuffed with credit cards took up a good portion of the real estate, as did her small makeup kit. Those both went on the floor, though a tiny part of her still wanted to clean up.

  A small bottle came out next—it was better than gold at that moment. She yanked out the magical PMS remover pills and crammed several down her dry throat. She nearly heaved as one broke apart at the back of her mouth. It took several swallows and several tight clenches of her fists to endure the horrible taste.

  Ugg, she thought, as she repeatedly swallowed while watching out the window. They drove across the Moscva River on a wide, flat highway bridge. A few boats plowed the water, giving no indication of the health of their occupants.

  She looked up when Ilia hit the brakes and weaved along the edge of a traffic snarl. Thousands of cars were abandoned on the left half of the highway as well as more cars next door, on an expansive a parking lot.

  “Train station,” Pavel said in monotone. He turned around, knowing her next question. “They aren’t working anymore.”

  “But there are no people,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “Infection,” Ilia replied. “Whole city has it, sweetheart.”

  She leaned back, content to absorb those words before stirring up new questions. It made a lot more sense if all those people had been infected with something. Maybe they were all out on the road to try to find the cure.