Resident Evil. Retribution

by John Shirley

  She jammed her shoulder hard against it and immediately felt the pushback, the Undead trying to force the door open, growling, the living dead man whining in frustration on the other side like a vicious dog on a short chain.

  “Mommy!” Becky screeched, waving her frantically signing fingers in front of her mother’s face. “What’s happening? Where’s Daddy?”

  Alice couldn’t hold the door much longer. The creature was slowly pushing it open, its slavering, bloody, snarling face pressing into view. She gave it one more shove, with all her strength, momentarily pushing the creature back—then she let go.

  Before the Undead could move, Alice pulled over a heavy shelving unit that stood beside the entrance. The cabinet fell on its side, blocking the door, spilling boxes of Tide and conditioner but jamming the way— at least for the moment.

  There was a gap, still—and several Undead reached through to wildly claw the air, ravenously trying to get at Alice and Becky. And she knew what they wanted. Some half-forgotten nightmare whispered to her, from the deep recesses of her mind.

  They want to eat you. They want to eat Becky— they want to strip the flesh from her body and gobble it down while she still lives…

  Alice looked desperately around and saw only one tiny window. She grabbed a small stepladder leaning near the dryer, carried it past the silently sobbing Becky, to the wall under the window. She opened the ladder, climbed up, knocked the mesh screen away.

  Behind her she heard a scraping sound as the door was being pushed further open, the cabinet raking the floor.

  And she realized that the window was too small, even for Becky.

  Alice jumped down from the stepladder—and Becky ran up to her, pointing at the door, where the Undead were pushing the heavy cabinet further out of the way, inch by inch. There was nowhere to go, nothing with which to fight with. Scanning the room, she saw only a washing machine, a dryer, and dirty clothes in a hamper. The concrete floor was solid.

  So Alice looked up, because that’s all that was left—and remembered the crawlspace.

  3

  Bringing the stepladder over, she climbed it and signed to Becky to bring her a mop. The little girl, her face pale and drawn, a caricature of raw anxiety, grabbed the mop and did as she was told. Balancing on tiptoes atop the stepladder Alice grabbed the mop handle and slammed it hard into the ceiling. The plasterboard material was thin, feebly nailed in place, and the mop handle broke through almost immediately.

  The Undead were scrabbling, snarling at the door, worming over the cabinet, getting in one another’s way—but they were almost through, and they were more than ready to feed…

  Alice cleared enough room to tear at the plasterboard with her bare hands, her strength madly increased as she fought to protect her little girl. Dropping the mop, she clawed frantically, pulled chunks out of the way. Insulation slopped down, fiberglass and dust slithering over her shoulders. She pulled herself up, enough to force her head through. Shafts of light streamed up around her, illuminating swirling motes of disturbed dust.

  Down below, the howling built to a triumphant fever pitch as the creatures crawled over the cabinet. The first one tripped and fell into the room.

  Alice lowered herself back onto the stepladder and jumped down, signing to Becky—even as an Undead, sprawled on the floor, struggling to its feet, took a swipe at her.

  “Grab a hold!” Alice signed. “Climb!”

  Becky scrambled up the stepladder, and Alice lifted her, gritting her teeth, shouting, “Climb!” though her daughter couldn’t hear it.

  Becky reached through the ceiling hole, grabbed the rafters, and Alice pushed her up, lifting her rump and the bottom of her feet. Becky vanished through the hole in the ceiling and Alice jumped up, grabbed a rafter, pulled herself up, feeling muscles beginning to tear with the effort.

  She lifted herself up off the stepladder, and kicked it down flat. The Undead were slow-witted, little more than sheer reflex, and clumsy in most things. They probably wouldn’t be intelligent enough to set the ladder up again.

  How do I know that?

  And then teeth snapped at her kicking feet. She lashed out, felt her shoe connect with a wet, gapemouthed face. She heard the thing stagger back from her, blundering into the others that were coming into the room.

  Alice pulled herself up further. Becky was kneeling near her on a rafter, trying to tug her mother up, her small hands of no real help. Alice’s legs flailed. She lost her grip, her fingers slick with sweat, and almost fell back through the hole—and felt an Undead clawing at her ankles, reaching its filthy, blood-caked hands to grab at her thighs, rake at her crotch…

  Spurred by a rush of fear she pulled herself up higher, almost halfway through the hole.

  She felt hands grasping and teeth gnawing at the shoe of her right foot, not yet breaking through— and she kicked out viciously, connecting with what felt like a jaw. The grip was gone and she heard the Undead stumble back into the washing machine.

  She could hear more Undead swarming into the laundry room—and knew she wouldn’t be able to fight off all of them. They’d pull her down if she didn’t get through—now, right now.

  With a Herculean effort she pulled herself up, shouting wordlessly with the strain, scratching her stomach and hips in several places. Something clutched at her heel—then she dragged her feet into the attic and crawled up onto a walkway of two unvarnished planks, beside Becky.

  Alice rolled, panting, onto her back, mouth dry, coughing up dust. Becky made her jump a little as she leaned over into her mother’s line of sight, her childish face taut, mouth quivering with sobs.

  Sitting up, trying not to focus on the sound of the frustrated, furious creatures scrabbling about beneath them she looked around, scanning for anything that could help them.

  There, at the other end of the planks—an old cardboard box of sporting equipment. A half-deflated basketball, a worn-out baseball glove, and a worn baseball bat.

  Alice gathered herself in a crouch and crept quickly over to the box, then plucked out the baseball bat.

  Becky was sitting on the planks, hugging herself, rocking in place, staring into space, making tiny little whimpering sounds in her throat.

  They couldn’t stay up here. Sooner or later the Undead would find a way up. And they’d be trapped.

  To one side was a hatch, set into a kind of shallow wooden box. That should go down into the main hallway, she thought. Laid over the rafters was a retracting aluminum ladder.

  Carrying the bat, Alice crept over to the hatch, carefully lifted it up, and looked down. She saw nothing but the floor below. She lowered her head enough to peer down the hallway—it was empty, as far as she could tell.

  She’d have to go down there and scout it out. They needed a way out of the house. Her heartbeat—which had just begun to calm down—resumed its feverish pounding, just at the thought.

  She thought about getting to a phone, to call for help—but her cell phone wasn’t charged, and Todd’s was on him. They didn’t have a landline.

  Just get out of the house.

  Moving as quietly as possible, she set the bat aside and took hold of the ladder. She tilted it up, and lowered it, slowly, on its hinges, down through the hatch to the hardwood floor.

  Alice looked at Becky, smiled reassuringly, and signed.

  Wait a moment.

  Then, picking up the baseball bat again, she began to descend the ladder, moving with exquisite care. She went as quietly as she could, but every step made the ladder squeak. If the Undead heard it…

  She peered down the hall. There was nothing there but the painting, knocked askew on the wall, and the little side table with a flower vase on it just to the left of the ladder. There were no Undead in sight, but she could hear their frustrated scrabbling and growling in the laundry room.

  Hefting the bat, Alice heard a noise up above and looked up through the trap door. Becky was crouching up there, in the attic, shaking visibly, eyes wide, staring d
own at her.

  “I don’t see them,” Alice signed to her. “Come down. We’ll find a safer spot…”

  Becky shook her head, the motion almost a convulsive twitch of terror, and signed a reply.

  “No! No!”

  “They might come up there,” Alice signaled. “We have to get to somewhere safer. Come on.”

  Becky’s mouth quivered, but after a long hesitation she began to descend the ladder, Alice wincing at the squeaking of her daughter’s feet on the rungs.

  When the girl got to the bottom Alice took Becky’s clammy-cold hand in hers. If they could move quietly enough, they just might get away.

  Down in the laundry room, one of the Undead snarled at another, causing Alice to turn sharply that way. Her bat tapped a vase that sat on a small side table. The vase rocked, then fell toward the floor.

  No! If that vase smashed on the floor, the Undead would be upon them in moments. They might outrun the creatures, but there was no telling how many more might be nearby.

  Alice let go of Becky and grabbed at the vase, surprised at the speed of her own reflexes as she caught it an inch from the impact. Water slopped out, a few flowers falling, but she’d kept it from hitting the floor. Gingerly she placed the vase carefully on the side table—

  And an Undead burst from the laundry room door at the other end of the hall. It spotted them immediately, began shambling toward them. It was the same one who’d attacked Todd.

  The only blessing is that it didn’t alert the others— not yet.

  But Becky shrieked in wordless fear—unable to hear her own scream—and Alice scooped the girl up in her arms, still carrying the baseball bat as well. Toting the child, she raced down the corridor to her bedroom.

  The bedroom—where she and Todd had awakened just a short time ago. Her husband smiling at her. A nightmare fading…

  Somehow, she was trapped in yet another nightmare. But this one was horribly real.

  And where was Todd?

  Alice let Becky slip to the bedroom floor, turned, slammed the door in the Undead’s face, and instantly locked it. That gave them a moment to—

  A splintering crash and the Undead’s bloody fist smashed through the flimsy wood. It clutched at her.

  “The window!” Alice signed to Becky, and pointed. “Quick!”

  The girl ran to the window and struggled with the latch, fingers fumbling at it. Alice hurried after her, hearing the crunch of the lock beginning to give way as the Undead thumped itself against the only barrier that stood between the creature and its meal.

  Baseball bat in her right hand, Alice unlocked the latch with her left, forced the window open, and glanced out. Seeing no Undead in the backyard, she helped Becky climb out.

  Hearing the crack of the door breaking open, the rapacious snarl of the zombie, Alice turned, gripping the bat with both hands, completing the turn by swinging the bat hard into the charging creature’s forehead. The bat shuddered with the impact and she felt bone give way. The Undead was knocked off its feet, all the energy of a mother defending her child knocking it back through the air. It fell flat on its back on the bedroom floor and lay there, twitching, blood pooling in the crater she’d made on its forehead, purple tongue flapping in its mouth.

  Hit them in the head, that takes them down.

  She dropped the bat out the window and climbed through, dropping to the grassy backyard where Becky was crouching, whimpering, small hands balled into little white-knuckled fists.

  “Stay close to me!” Alice signed. Her heart was hammering, though no stalkers were in sight. The fear, the spurting adrenaline, her thundering pulse— it was all just the backdrop of life, now. It went on and on, like a maddening car alarm that wouldn’t shut off.

  She took Becky’s hand, and scooped up the baseball bat. They ran to the wooden side gate that led to the front of the house. She could hear sirens, a whole lot of sirens. Maybe the police would be out in the street, or the National Guard—someone who could help them. Maybe Todd would be out there. And maybe he’d be alright.

  Maybe…

  She kicked open the unlatched gate and they went through, stopping at the front corner of the house, where they stopped to stare at the street.

  The quiet, sunny suburban neighborhood had been transformed into a war zone. At least half the houses on the street were afire, huffing smoke and flames. She heard the crack of gunshots, and screams. Two cars, unoccupied and abandoned, were locked in a smoking death grip of twisted metal at the corner. A cop car raced by on the cross street, sirens warbling.

  Alice opened her mouth to shout to them—but they were already gone.

  She saw an older woman she knew, Mrs. Grady, running barefoot across the street a few houses down. They’d exchanged recipes, and June Grady had given her a cutting for some flowers in the backyard. Now Mrs. Grady was running for her life. And the Undead who pursued her… wasn’t that her husband Raymond? He was tottering monomaniacally after her—and yet he’d been in a wheelchair for years, unable to walk.

  The Undead Raymond leapt and tackled his wife, and she went down screaming as he gnashed at the back of her neck.

  Becky made that frightened, unconscious whimper again as she watched Raymond Grady tearing into June with his teeth. Alice covered the child’s eyes with a hand, pressed her close.

  She saw others, at the end of the block, running from the Undead: an old man running from an old woman; a woman running from her twelve-year-old daughter; the Reverend Granger, naked from the waist down, chasing another man, his choir director. The Reverend’s arms were extended, fingers clutching…

  And there seemed to be simply nowhere to go from here.

  4

  Alice heard a gurgling snarl coming from the backyard. The Undead had climbed out the window. There was no going back, and there was no staying here—either way they would find her. And Becky.

  Strange—how all this wasn’t entirely strange. There was a distant resonance of familiarity, almost déjà vu quality about it all. She knew, somehow, that the bite spread some kind of infection—it killed, and then it resurrected, but what it raised up was soulless, ravening, and existed only to feed on human flesh. It was a kind of inverted, diabolic mockery of the resurrection of Christ.

  The opposite of a savior, arisen…

  But how did she know all that? She shook her head, trying to clear it, wasn’t sure of anything— except that she had to find somewhere, someplace that was safe—where she could protect her daughter.

  Alice took a deep breath—then, head swimming, she took Becky firmly by the hand, and, half dragging her, led the way to the street. She had a vague notion of finding an empty house, one not already overrun, something she could barricade.

  Just get to that house, across the street. It’s not burning, it looks quiet. Ignore the screams. Don’t look…

  From her left a car horn blared, jarringly close, and Alice turned to see a Prius bearing down on her, a young dark-haired woman behind the steering wheel— the car’s wheels screeched as the woman slammed on her brakes, and Alice was frozen, overwhelmed, clutching Becky to her…

  The car skidded to a stop, the bumper two inches from Alice’s left hip.

  A young Latino woman leaned out the window.

  “What the hell are you doing, lady!” she shouted. An odd question, given all that was happening.

  “I’m sorry, I…” Alice looked down the street, where four Undead held a shrieking woman down, feeding on her—eating her alive. Becky was weeping silently now, face pressed against her mother.

  “What’s going on?” Alice muttered.

  “Get in!” the woman in the Prius yelled.

  Alice glanced back at her house.

  “My husband—he’s still inside.” He might be. Or he might be shambling along the street, snarling, face bloody…

  “Get in the car!” the woman shouted again.

  She stared—didn’t she know this woman? The young Latino woman was dressed casually, with a light
tan jacket. Her face seemed terribly familiar. The name Rain came into Alice’s mind.

  But from where?

  Alice led Becky to the back door of the car, wondering if a vehicle would be safer than an empty house.

  And then a horde of Undead, scores of them, came shambling around the corner behind the Prius, like some hideous gore-spattered parody of marathon runners. Their mouths were all open—growling, howling, squawking, spitting up blood, gasping with psychotic hunger.

  The woman in the car looked over her shoulder.

  “Told you…”

  The horde was close—there was no time to argue. Alice opened the car door, bundled Becky through it and jumped in beside her.

  The horde reached the back of the Prius, and an Undead who’d once been a young man jumped onto the car as the young woman accelerated down the street. She drove right over a body, and Alice watched in a side mirror as the bump of going over the corpse shook the Undead off the back. It fell into the street with a crunching thud that would probably have killed a human being.

  But not the living dead. It just lurched to its feet and came after them, its neck broken, its head wagging with each step.

  “Rain” floored the accelerator.

  “Buckle up,” she muttered.

  Alice saw to it that Becky was buckled in, then she put on her own seat belt, feeling absurd worrying about seat belts when the neighbors had turned into murderous zombies.

  They passed a group of Undead wandering blindly down the street, mouths agape, eyes milky white. One of them, a woman, still clutched her purse. But her lips were dripping red foam.

  “What is all this?” Alice wondered, aloud. Was it the end of the world? Prophesied Judgment Day? Had the Trump of Doom sounded while she’d slept?

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” came the reply. “One minute I’m coming back from my morning class, the next—”

  “Why are these people—” Alice shook her head in numb incomprehension— “doing this?”

  “Those things are not people. Not anymore.”