Left With The Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  She looked at him, hard-faced once again. “You do know! You’ve probably got more experience with those things than anyone else in the city!”

  Gartrell said nothing, and she turned away from him with a heavy sigh. She rubbed her eyes, then crossed her arms and hugged herself in the gloomy darkness.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t mean to fight with you. I’m just wrapped up a little tight right now, you know?”

  Gartrell knew all about it, and he felt the same way himself. “It’s not a problem. I get where you’re coming from. But thinking about your husband right now…well look, there are other things that are more pressing.”

  Jolie nodded slowly. “Yeah. There are.” She turned back to him and tried to relax, but it didn’t work. She still looked uptight. The kind of uptight where people start to fray at the edges, and that worried Gartrell a bit. He really didn’t need her melting down on him.

  Jolie leaned against the stainless steel stove and regarded him for a long moment. “So tell me why you’re in New York City. Because I’m thinking you’re not really a city boy, are you?”

  Gartrell smiled. “Kind of. I’m from a place called Savannah, down in Georgia. Not as big as New York, but not some hick town with a population of six, either.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  Gartrell shrugged. He figured Jolie wasn’t the kind of person to leave NYC for places like Georgia.

  “So tell me why you’re here,” she asked.

  Gartrell looked back into the living room. The boy was still fixated on the DVD player, but had taken the straw out of his mouth and had the cup in his lap. Jolie walked toward Gartrell and looked in on her son, then turned back to the first sergeant.

  “He’ll be occupied for a bit longer.”

  “Good.”

  “So tell me what you were doing in New York, Dave.”

  “Sure.”

  Gartrell wasn’t much of a story teller—his wife said that whenever he had read his once-small children stories, it sounded like he was reading from a chemistry textbook—so he didn’t embellish anything, just made a straight, unpretentious report. Working to keep the military acronyms to a minimum, he told Jolie how he was tapped to join Major McDaniels on the mission to New York City, where they linked up with Operational Detachment Alpha 331, call sign OMEN. He had known some of the Special Forces troopers from his time as an instructor, so he had gotten along well with them and had no problem inserting himself into their detachment. He also told her of his history with McDaniels, how he felt the black officer was hidebound by regulation and had only a limited ability to adapt. He had the chops to lead a Special Forces unit; but when it came time to step out of the box, he had problems with his emotions clouding his ability to focus on the mission. When he told her of what had happened in Afghanistan, of how the death of one boy might have saved the lives of five Special Forces soldiers, her eyes widened in surprise.

  “You would have killed that boy?”

  “If so ordered, yes.”

  “Was…was that really necessary?”

  “He went back and told his people where we were. They came after us with Taliban. Five of our guys went down fighting.” Gartrell smiled grimly. “Of course, we sent about two dozen of the stinking Talibs to meet Allah in the process. But that’s what we were there for. You understand what I’m saying? McDaniels had the opportunity to balance the scales, and he couldn’t do it. No one wanted to kill that boy, not really. Killing kids isn’t what we’re all about. But letting him go free got a good number of other folks killed. I don’t care about the Taliban, they’re roaches. But our guys? And the whole village, which the Air Force flattened? That didn’t have to happen. The choice was a tough one, but McDaniels called it wrong.”

  Jolie nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I see…”

  Gartrell went on, relaying how the team had linked up with Wolf Safire and his daughter Regina at Safire’s office building. He had come up with a compound, some sort of vaccine, which would prevent humans from transitioning to the walking dead after they had been bitten. The discovery was obviously quite high-value, so an entire Special Forces Alpha Detachment was dispatched to ensure Safire’s safety; McDaniels and Gartrell were Special Operations Command’s appointed babysitters to ensure the Safires made it out. And they had almost done just that. They’d actually made it to their helicopters when the stenches overwhelmed the security forces at the assembly area in Central Park. They had even taken off, while the team’s second helicopter crashed as the zeds rushed it. The surviving helicopter carrying Gartrell, the Safires, McDaniels, and some other soldiers was on its way out when one of the “window divers”—what Gartrell explained were zeds who literally jumped out of buildings to try and get at food—crashed into their helicopter’s main rotor, forcing it to crash land on Lexington Avenue.

  So the team took refuge in an office building and waited for aerial extraction from a Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey. But the timing supremely sucked; the building storm that had lashed out at New York City during the night had caused the tiltrotor aircraft to crash as well, leaving the team stranded overnight.

  And then, the zeds got inside the building.

  Gartrell told her how the Coast Guard had dispatched a cutter to try and evacuate them, and he described in very plain language how the team had fought constantly to cross three city blocks just to get to the East River. It had been the stuff from which nightmares were made; an implacable, seemingly unstoppable enemy numbering in the thousands, intent on running the soldiers and civilians to ground, attacking them again and again. Even as the bodies piled up, the zeds harried them, ignoring their injuries, ignoring the firepower leveled against them, cognizant only of their insatiable hunger. They would go to any length to feed. They were totally, 100% committed in a way that no human being could be. They stripped away the military defenders, a man here, a man there, until finally it was just McDaniels, the civilians, and Gartrell.

  And when the final push came, when they had finally made it to the East River, Gartrell diverted the zombies away from the survivors. The mission had to succeed, so that humanity would have a chance against the rising horde. And if that meant First Sergeant David Gartrell had to sacrifice himself, then so be it. Gartrell didn’t paint any flourishes, nor did he tell her just how deeply terrified he had been, striking off on his own, leading the legion of ghouls away from McDaniels and the civilians with a burning flare and not much else. It was just something that had to be done. The mission had to succeed, or else it was lights out for the entire country.

  Maybe the entire world.

  “And then, I found you at that Starbucks. And here we are, ma’am.”

  Jolie shook her head slowly. “That…that was some story, Dave.”

  Gartrell couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or truthful, so he just nodded. He looked back at Jaden, still staring at the DVD player with rapt attention. His gaze happened upon the dining room table, and the box of shotgun shells sitting there.

  “Those shotgun shells. Where’s the shotgun that goes with them?”

  “I couldn’t find it. I found the bullets in one of the open apartments—some young IT guy who thought he was some kind of big game hunter. Disgusting, really.” Jolie shook her head in obvious disapproval, and Gartrell didn’t volunteer that he was a hunter himself. “Anyway, I meant to go back and look some more, but then it got dark.”

  “Which apartment?”

  She pointed at the ceiling. “On the sixth floor. Apartment A.”

  “You mind if I go up and take a look around? I might be able to find it. And maybe some other stuff. If this becomes more of an open-ended engagement, we might be here for quite some time, and we’ll need to use anything we can find.”

  Jolie reached for a peach in a nearby bowl and began peeling it with a small paring knife. She worked quickly, expertly, despite the wan light in the galley kitchen. She sliced the peach up and put it in a small plastic bowl.

  “His DVD is
almost over. Let me give him some food and keep him distracted, and then you can leave. Take one of the backpacks with you. Knock on the door when you come back, and I’ll let you in. Just three knocks, okay?”

  He nodded. “Three knocks it is.” After a moment, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at him, and he smiled as reassuringly as he could.

  “I’ll be back. I won’t be very long.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re going to get out of this. Believe me, we’ll make it.”

  “Okay.”

  It was obvious she didn’t believe him, but Gartrell didn’t waste any time trying to change her mind. He just returned to the bedroom, got the AA-12 and his body armor, helmet, radio, and knapsack. He went back into the dining area and grabbed one of the backpacks. As soon as Jolie began feeding Jaden his peach, Gartrell quietly let himself out of the apartment.

  The stairwell was as dark in the day as it had been during the night. Gartrell had brought his night vision goggles with him, so he flipped them down over his eyes and navigated through the all-encompassing darkness as if the stairwell was lit by a sunny day. He went directly to the sixth floor and slowly eased open the stairway door. Switching off the NVGs, he stepped into the hallway beyond, blinking because of the bright light that poured in through the windows at either end. He walked to the apartment marked 6A and tried the door knob; it twisted easily beneath his hand, and he slowly pushed it open with his foot, his AA-12 at the ready.

  The apartment beyond had the same layout as Jolie’s below, so he was able to conduct his search quickly and efficiently. He kept his distance from the windows, as the drapes were open and he didn’t want any of the zeds below to see him. One bedroom had been converted into a sitting room; the other held a master bedroom and the décor indicated it belonged to a bachelor. Gartrell could still smell a faint hint of cologne in the apartment. An expensive multimedia setup was in the living room, dark without power and a little dusty from inexperienced housekeeping. Gartrell went through the bedroom first, casing the closet and attached bathroom. He found nothing terribly useful, so he moved on to the sitting room next door. A large bookcase held many tomes on a wide matter of subjects, from geography to biography. He found a letter opener and tossed it into the backpack—it could serve as a bladed weapon when the time came. He also found several tools: hammers, chisels, screwdrivers, even a small hatchet. He added those to the pack as well. The kitchen yielded nothing, and the vague stink emanating from the closed refrigerator compelled him to ignore it. He searched through the closets and found some rugged outdoors clothes on hangars and a couple of pairs of work boots on the floor. The top shelf had scarves, hats, and a box of old photos. Gartrell ignored all of it and moved on to the small bedroom in the back.

  He was startled to find a lion staring at him.

  The bedroom had been converted to an office, a true man cave if ever there was one. A lion’s head was on one wall. Next to it was an impala’s. Facing the lion was a huge water buffalo head, and beside that, a leopard caught in mid-snarl. Gartrell was no stranger to game hunting, but finding these trophies in a small room in New York City was decidedly odd. In the middle of the room sat a desk and a padded chair. Beside the door was a gun cabinet, open and empty. He went through the desk and the built-in bureau, but found nothing other than collectibles from foreign countries, and pictures of a pudgy man in his early thirties posing with various dead beasts: grizzly bears, buffalo, wildebeests, and a huge marlin which must have weighed a thousand pounds.

  Guy’s gonna need to get himself a bigger room to mount that one.

  But still no weapons. Gartrell wouldn’t have been surprised if the apartment owner had taken every firearm he had when he left. It would have been the smart thing to do.

  Still…

  Gartrell returned to the bedroom and shoved the king-sized mattress off the box spring. And there it was—an old but refinished Winchester 42 .410 gauge shotgun, worth probably somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,000. Gartrell picked it up and examined it. The weapon was decades old, definitely a collectible. But to a big game hunter on the run from the zombie horde? Probably not the first weapon of choice, which was why he’d stuffed it under the mattress. No sense leaving it in plain view for it to be stolen by looters, just in case the zeds were defeated before the owner could return to his apartment.

  Gartrell took the gun and left it in the hallway.

  Apartment 6B was locked. He went up the stairs, ignoring the protesting muscles in his thighs and knees. The apartments on the seventh floor were also locked. As he returned to the stairway, a small, slight sound caught his attention. He stopped at the stairwell door, listening. Was it his imagination?

  Then he heard it again. A slight creak from the apartment behind him.

  Gartrell’s right index finger moved to the AA-12’s trigger.

  A kind of rolling sound came from behind the door, and Gartrell watched as something passed through the light beneath the door. Something that didn’t walk, but seemed to glide. Back and forth. Back and forth. And at one point in its transit, a floorboard squeaked. Gartrell moved closer to the door, listening intently. That rolling sound. That squeaking floorboard. As if something on the other side was on wheels…

  A wheelchair. The realization hit him suddenly. Of course, a wheelchair. Whomever—or whatever—was in the apartment was confined to a wheelchair, which probably explained why it was still in the building. Waiting for an ambulette or some other service for the disabled to come and evacuate it. A service which never showed up.

  So the question is…is it a person, or a zed?

  The rolling sound suddenly went from leisurely to outright fast and frantic. Something hit the other side of the metal door with enough force to make the doorbell chime gently, and Gartrell leaped back. The dry moan on the other side of the door told him all he needed to know. There was a zed in the apartment, locked up with no place to go and confined to a wheelchair to boot. It was almost laughable, if not so horrible.

  And even worse, the thing on the other side of the door must have been able to sense his presence, or at least had the impression that a hot meal was very close by. It rammed into the door again.

  Gartrell dropped back to the stairwell door and opened it as silently as he could. He stepped inside the dark stairwell, flipped down his NVGs, and slowly closed the door behind him. He found a rubber doorstop on the landing, and he shoved it under the door, jamming it in place.

  Just in case.

  “This is all you got?” Jolie asked when Gartrell returned to the apartment.

  “Who lived in apartment seven A?”

  “Uh…an old woman. I didn’t really know her name, we never saw much of her.”

  “Was she in a wheelchair?”

  “Yes…why?”

  “She’s still in it.”

  Jolie looked at him for a long moment. “You mean she wasn’t evacuated?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Jesus…she’s one of them?”

  Gartrell nodded. “And locked in her apartment, too. I blocked the stairwell door, but I don’t think she’s going to be able to get out. So she was either bitten, or she was infected with the virus and died some other way. Jolie, are you sure there aren’t any zombies in the building?”

  “I don’t think so. But I haven’t been in every apartment.” Jolie looked at him directly, brow furrowed. So…what will we do?”

  Gartrell shrugged. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing? You think it’s a good idea to leave one of those things in the building with us?” Jolie’s voice rose as she spoke, but she caught herself and got under control. She sighed and tried again. “I can’t see how leaving one of those things in the building is a good thing.”

  “I can’t kill it without breaking down the door, and that’ll make a hell of a lot of noise. Right now, it’s contained. We leave it alone until the threat picture changes. It’s not going to be able to hurt us for the time being, I guaran
tee it.” Gartrell sighed and looked toward the small bedroom in the back. “But I am wondering if there’s anything next door.”

  “The Skinners are gone. I told you that.” Jolie looked down at the stained wood floor.

  “Where’s Jaden?”

  “Taking a nap. He didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Gartrell nodded, and then checked his watch. “Okay, I’ve got to get in touch with Big Army. I’ll do it in the back bedroom. Maybe they’ll have an update for us.”

  That perked her up. “Good.”

  Gartrell already wore his headset, so he walked into the back bedroom. Jolie followed him and stood in the doorway as he perched himself on the edge of the bed.

  “Do you want me to leave you alone?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not necessary. This isn’t going to be a very intimate conversation.” He brought the boom microphone closer to his lips and pressed the TRANSMIT button. “Falcon Four, this is Terminator Five, over.” He repeated the call three times before he got a response.

  “Terminator Five, this is Falcon Four.” Falcon sounded a bit rushed. “Listen, we don’t have any aviation assets available to us yet. Are you still at the same location? Over.”

  “Roger Falcon, Terminator’s still at the same pos. Street address is one five four zero Second Avenue, apartment four bravo. Fourth floor residence, over.”

  “Roger that Terminator, good copy. I see it here on the map. Our closest ground units are about thirty blocks north of you, over.”

  “Roger, Falcon. Any ETA on the aviation units? Over.”

  “Terminator, this is Falcon. Units are en route from Pennsylvania, and it’s about a hundred and fifty mile trip, so they won’t arrive for another hour. After that, refuel, preflight, and then whatever’s on the air tasking order. You’re on the list, but I don’t know where you fall in order of importance, sorry. Over.”

  “Roger, Falcon. It would be advisable to try and extract us during daylight if possible. Like I said, I have a special needs child with me, and he’s going to get super-stressed with things in daylight, much less at night. Over.”