Brian Keene

by Dead Sea (epub)

  More of the creatures blundered into the area, attracted by the gunshot. Before I could reach the curb, they had me surrounded. The stench was brutal. My laughter turned to a scream. I glanced around, frantic, but there was nowhere to go. Just that quickly, the odds had changed. They swarmed toward me, grasping and clawing, gnashing their stained teeth.

  And then the odds changed again.

  "Hey, mister." A child's voice; sounded like a boy. "You'd best duck unless you want to get shot!"

  I couldn't see the speaker. Hoping that my last bullet would be true, I raised the pistol and aimed at the closest zombie. Before I could squeeze the trigger, a thunderous blast rocked the street. I jumped. There was a flash from the second story window of a nearby row home. The creature's head exploded, splattering the creature behind it. The second zombie licked the gore from its lips. Luckily, none of it had landed on me.

  A girl's voice shouted, "Malik, you could have shot him!"

  "I told him to duck. It ain't my fault if he gets hit."

  With a yell, I lowered my head and plowed through the zombies, shoving them aside. It was like pushing slabs of meat. Several toppled over. A few more grabbed at my clothing, ripping it further. I wrestled free of them and ran for the row house where the gunfire had come from. Another blast rang out. I heard something splatter behind me. It sounded wet. Dead footsteps padded after me. I waited for a third shot, but there was none.

  "It's stuck!"

  "Push down on it," the girl hollered.

  "I can't."

  "Give it here."

  "Stop pulling on it!"

  Wondering what they were yelling about, I jumped up onto the concrete stoop and tried the door. It was locked. I turned around and the zombies were drawing closer. Over their stench, I caught a faint whiff of smoke. The fires were getting nearer, too.

  "Hey," I shouted, still unable to see the kids. "Unlock the door!"

  "Can't," the boy hollered back.

  "Why?" My voice cracked.

  "You're a stranger. We ain't supposed to open up for strangers. You might be one of them child molesters."

  The dead clambered onto the sidewalk. A few of them had trouble negotiating the curb. One of them fell over, sprawling in the street. When it got up again, I noticed that its foot was twisted all the way around, the toes pointing behind it. Some of the creatures moaned, but most of them were silent. There was no hint of intelligence in their expressions-just raw, naked hunger. Need. I fired my last bullet and the closest one dropped. My ears rang from the shot.

  "Please," I screamed. "Let me in."

  The children didn't respond, and I thought that was it. I was dead-and then I'd be undead. I pulled my knife, trying to decide if I had the balls to slash my own throat before the creatures reached me. Wondered if I could stab one hard enough in the head to penetrate the skull, and if so, if I could free the knife quick enough to do another one. But then I heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. The first of the horde, a fat zombie with a broken rib poking out of his side, started up the steps. I slashed at him with the knife. It startled the creature. His mottled arms drew back, but then he started forward again.

  The door opened a crack. A young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, stared out at me. Her eyes widened when she saw the zombies.

  "Open up!"

  "You promise not to hurt us?"

  "Yes!" I had to strain to hear her because my ears were still ringing. "I'll promise anything you want. Just open the goddamn door right now!"

  She removed the chain and I shoved the door open and pushed past her. She slammed it behind me and slid the chain back in place. Then she fastened the deadbolt. Finally, she slid a thick piece of wood across the middle of the door; each end fit into brackets that had been nailed into the wall. Someone had reinforced the building, and I doubted it was her.

  "Thanks," I whispered, catching my breath.

  A length of pipe lay propped against the wall. She picked it up, held it out in front of her, ready to strike, and looked me up and down.

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Tasha. Tasha Roberts."

  "Thanks for letting me in, Tasha. My name's Lamar."

  She glanced down at the empty pistol. "That thing got any more bullets?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "We got a shotgun upstairs," she said. "Found it in Mr. Washington's apartment. But we're almost out of bullets and can't get it to work now."

  Fists pounded on the door, slow and plodding. We both jumped.

  "Will that deadbolt and plank hold?" I asked.

  Tasha shrugged. "I don't know. This is the first time they've tried to get in. We've stayed quiet. Didn't let them know we lived here. They've left us alone until now."

  I searched the hallway for something more to brace the door with-a potted plant, a bench, even a coat rack-but the corridor was empty. The hallway was dark. Ugly green wallpaper peeled away from cracked plaster, and the dusty floorboards creaked with every step I took. The building smelled of mildew and piss. Outside, the pounding grew louder. I turned back to Tasha.

  "You said that you have a gun upstairs?"

  She nodded.

  "Show me."

  We took the stairs two at a time. 1 had to run to keep up with the girl. Tasha ran through the darkened hallways with the confidence only someone who'd lived there could have. She was skinny, her hair beaded with multicolored beads. Gold earrings dangled from each lobe. She wore dirty red shorts and a pink-and-white striped shirt. Her shoes were old and worn out, and one of the back heels flapped as she ran.

  On the second floor, she stopped in front of a door and raised her hand to knock. Before she could, I stopped her.

  "Your parents? Will they be okay with me being here? Maybe you should warn them first that you're coming in with a stranger. I don't want to get shot."

  Her voice softened and she stared at her feet. "We ain't got no parents. It's just me and Malik. He's my little brother. Momma, she…"

  Hesitantly, I put a hand on her bony shoulder. She jumped a little, but that was all.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to stir up anything bad."

  "I'll be fine." Sniffling, she knocked on the door. "Malik, open up."

  "You okay?" the boy said from the other side of the door. He sounded defiant, but afraid. "That dude with you?"

  "Yes, he's with me. His name is Lamar and he's okay. He ain't gonna hurt us. He just wanted help. Now do what I told you and open the door."

  "Don't boss me."

  "Malik…"

  The door opened, revealing a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old, in a Spider-Man shirt and ragged black jeans. He frowned at me, refusing to step aside.

  "You cool?" he asked.

  I smiled. "Yeah, man, I'm cool."

  "You better be. I ain't no punk. I'm hardcore, G. You try messing with my sister and I'll mess you up instead. And if you think I'm playing, just try me."

  I choked down my laughter, careful not to offend him. The sincerity and ferocity in his voice was really something, and I had no doubts he'd try to do that very thing.

  "Malik," I said, holding up my hands, "I promise, you're in charge. I just needed to hide out here for a second. Okay?"

  "Okay." His attention was drawn to the pistol. "Cool. Can I try that out?"

  "Can't. No more bullets."

  "Damn. Well what good are you then?"

  Tasha waved her hand, angry and dismissive. "Malik, get the hell out of the way and let us in."

  "Don't boss me," he repeated. "What's that noise?"

  "There's dead folks beating on the door downstairs."

  Malik's eyes widened. "Oh, shit. I told you we shouldn't let him in. Now they know we're here."

  "It'll be okay," I assured them. "Just give me a moment to catch my breath, and then we'll figure something out."

  "Damn straight."

  I shook my head. "Did your mother let you talk that way?"

  "What do you
mean?"

  "Did she let you curse like that?"

  "Shit, man. I'm eight years old. I can say what I want. Before she got sick, Momma said I was the man of the house."

  "No she didn't," Tasha said. "Momma told you to mind me. If she'd heard you cursing like that, she'd have washed your mouth out with soap and then beat your ass."

  "Nuh-uh!"

  "Uh-huh!"

  "Enough," I snapped. "Both of you knock it the hell off."

  Tasha got quiet, but Malik frowned at me.

  "You can't tell me what to do. You ain't my father."

  Sighing, I laid the empty pistol on the coffee table. Then I knelt down and looked the boy in the eye.

  "No, Malik, I'm not your father. You don't even know me. But I am a grown-up, and I do know things and I can help you and your sister, if you'll let me. I'd like to help. Would that be okay?"

  He shrugged. "I guess."

  "Good." I stood up and looked around the dismal apartment. It was small and cramped and dusty. Empty food wrappers and dirty plates littered the floor and coffee table. The furniture was threadbare. Soiled laundry lay heaped in piles. On one shelf was a picture of a heavyset woman: smiling, cheerful eyes beaming behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses, her arms around Malik and Tasha.

  "That your mom?"

  Tasha nodded.

  "Anybody else left alive in this building?"

  "No," Tasha said. "Everybody else is gone. They either left or…"

  She didn't have to finish.

  "Mr. Lahav helped us out after Momma died," Malik said. "He let us stay in his apartment. Cooked for us. Read us bedtime stories. I liked him, except when he made us brush our teeth. He said we got to be our own dentists now, so it was important to brush three times a day, even if we didn't eat. But he went out for water and never come back."

  "And how long ago was that?"

  The boy shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe five days?"

  "He's dead by now," Tasha said. "Those things got to him."

  "We don't know that," Malik insisted. "Maybe he got hurt, or trapped. We should go out and find him."

  "Don't be stupid. He's one of them now, Malik. A zombie."

  "No he ain't."

  "He is too."

  "Guys." I held up my hands. "Let's not fight, okay? That won't help us get out of here. Other than Mr. Lahav, is there anybody else in the building?"

  They both shook their heads.

  "Are there any zombies?"

  Tasha shuddered. "No. Thank God."

  "And this shotgun is your only weapon."

  "Yeah," Malik said, holding it out to me, "but I can't get it to work no more."

  "Let me see it." I took the shotgun from him and pumped it, the way I'd seen it done in the movies. An empty cartridge ejected from the side and bounced off the wall.

  "I tried that," Malik said, pouting. "Wouldn't do it for me. Stupid gun."

  Before this, I didn't have much experience with kids. One of my old boyfriends had a daughter (he'd been married for several years before finally coming to terms with the fact that he was gay), but I'd never really interacted with her, and had dumped her father after a few dates.

  "Tell you what." I smiled. "Let me keep this one, and soon as we find more, I'll pick out one more your size. Sound good?"

  He looked reluctant. "I guess so. You best not be tricking me, though. Just because I ain't strong enough to use this shotgun don't mean it don't belong to me."

  "It's all yours, little man. I'm just borrowing it until we find a safer place to stay."

  "Safer?" Tasha asked, confused. "Hold up a minute. We're not going nowhere. Malik and I are staying right here. Momma and Mr. Lahav both told us to-"

  "Listen," I interrupted. "You hear that? They're going to get in. If they can't break the door down, sooner or later one of them will get lucky enough to bust a window. Then we're screwed. And there's something else, too."

  "What?"

  "The city is on fire. That's how you guys found me. I was running away from it when I got trapped down there."

  "Fire?" Malik's eyes grew wide. "How bad is it?"

  "My whole neighborhood is gone. It's spreading block by block and it's coming this way. It'll be here soon. We don't have much time."

  "But if we go outside, the zombies will get us," Tasha said.

  "And if we stay in here," I reminded her, "we'll burn to death."

  "So we're screwed." Malik folded his arms across his chest.

  I patted him on the head and smiled. "Not quite yet."

  My knees popped as I stood up. Downstairs, the pounding continued. I glanced out the window and saw more zombies converging on our building. They were four deep around the door, clawing and shoving each other. More of them emerged from side streets and alleys. I didn't know how they communicated, or even if they did, but somehow they knew that dinner was inside this building. All they had to do was get inside.

  The fires were spreading, too. The entire horizon was now glowing orange and yellow. As hard as it was to believe, it looked like the entire city was going up in flames. The rain we'd had earlier in the day had done nothing to slow it down, apparently. And it wasn't like there were firemen or other emergency personnel to battle the flames. I'd once seen a Civil War documentary on TV. In it, they'd talked about how General Sherman had burned Atlanta to the ground. At the time, I'd tried to picture that. It seemed inconceivable; unreal. But now, I had a good idea what that had actually looked like.

  The kids had lined up the remaining shotgun shells on the windowsill. There were four of them; not nearly the amount I'd hoped for. I had no idea how many the shotgun could hold; indeed, I'd been surprised I was able to figure out how to pump it so easily. Rather than trying to load them into the weapon and risking jamming it or something, I scooped the shells up and stuffed them in my pants pocket.

  Malik frowned. "Ain't you gonna put them in the gun?"

  "Not now. Maybe later."

  "Later? Nigga, do it now!"

  "Hey," I scolded. "You shouldn't use that word."

  "Nigga? Why not?"

  "Because it's not a nice word. It means you're ignorant."

  "I'm ignorant?"

  "That's what it means."

  He stomped his foot. "I'm not ignorant."

  "I didn't say you were. But when you use that word, that's what you're calling other people-and yourself."

  Malik frowned in concentration.

  I turned to Tasha. "You got any other weapons in the apartment? Anything you kids could use against the zombies?"

  "No. But I think Malik is right. You should load the shotgun now. Might not have a chance later."

  "Okay." I sighed. "I'll load it."

  I pulled the shotgun shells out of my pocket. Then I fumbled with the weapon, wondering how they went in. There was a slot on the side, about the same size as the ammunition, but I wasn't sure which way the shells were supposed to face. The kids watched me in bewilderment.

  Malik smirked. "You don't know how to load it, do you?"

  "No," I admitted. "I don't know much about guns."

  "And you calling me ignorant? Here, let me show you."

  He took the gun from me and quickly inserted the shells with his little fingers. Then, with a smug, satisfied grin, he handed it back to me.

  "Thanks."

  "Mr. Washington taught me how."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He got eaten." The boy clammed up then, and stared at the floor. It was obvious that he was reluctant to say any more.

  I checked outside again. The creatures were still coming. The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. We heard a cracking sound, like wood splintering. Tasha and Malik suddenly looked as scared as I felt.

  "Okay," I whispered, "is there another way out of the building?"

  Tasha nodded. "The laundry room, down in the basement. It's got a pair of storm doors that lead up into the alley. And there's the fire escape. But it's broke. Don't extend all the way to the ground."<
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  "Could we drop to the ground from it?"

  "No, it's too high up."

  "Which side of the building is the alley on?"

  "The right."

  "Do any of your windows face it?"

  She pointed to a side room. "In there. That was Momma's bedroom."

  "Stay here."

  Their mother's room was still full of her presence. It smelled like perfume, lavender, baby powder, and vanilla body lotion. The scents were faint but lingering. It made me sad-in a few more weeks it would probably fade forever. The feeling surprised me. I thought of my own mother, and then pushed those emotions aside. No sense getting maudlin. Not while we were still in danger. The bedroom was dark, but the glow of the fires outside provided light. The bed was made up with a white, lacy comforter and light-green flannel sheets, two pillows, and a ratty old stuffed animal. Dust-covered picture frames and cheap knickknacks lined the top of the dresser. The kids were smiling in all the photos. There were a few books, mostly paperbacks by Toni Morrison, Chesya Burke, and some cheesy African-American romance titles, along with a well-worn copy of the Holy Bible.

  I moved to the window and stared down at the alley-a narrow slice of pavement running between the apartment buildings. An empty paper bag fluttered by, but there was no other movement. So far, the alley was free of zombies. They'd stupidly clustered their forces at the front. It occurred to me that maybe I was giving them too much credit. They didn't know tactics or planning. The only knew hunger. Need. They'd seen their prey go in the front door, so that was where they'd gathered. In a way, it was kind of pathetic.

  So the alley was clear. The question was if it would stay that way in the time it took us to get down to the laundry room. And even then, what was waiting for us down in the streets?

  One step at a time, I thought. Just get down to the laundry room first.

  I walked back into the living room. The kids stared at me expectantly.

  "You guys still have water?"

  "Yeah."

  Tasha took me into the kitchen, where they'd lined up plastic buckets and jugs full of rainwater. Mosquito larvae squirmed in some of them. She explained that they'd been putting the buckets out on the roof. I had the kids wet down their clothes and I did the same again with mine. I also grabbed three more washcloths and soaked them down. I explained how they would help with the smoke if the fires got too close. Then we were ready. The kids still looked frightened, but they didn't argue or give me any lip.