Brian Keene

by Dead Sea (epub)

  "I ain't afraid," Malik said-but his eyes said different.

  "I am," Tasha admitted. "I don't want to go out there, Mr. Reed. Please don't make us."

  I squeezed her hand, hoping to calm her down. Instead, she began to cry.

  "I don't want to go. They'll get us. Just like everyone else. All our friends. Momma…"

  Sobbing, Tasha flung herself against me, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Malik started to sniffle, and then he began crying, too. I pulled him to us in a three-way hug. 1 held them while their tears and snot soaked into my already wet shirt. From the street came more shots and screams, followed by a volley of nearby machine gun-fire.

  "Guys," I said softly, "I don't know what else to do. The city is on fire. Don't you see? It's reaching here already. We just can't stay put, and we can't fight them all. All I know to do is run. The water is our only chance. I promise-I promise you that I won't let those things get us. I'll die first."

  I knew deep down inside that I meant it. I'm no hero. Earlier that night, I'd watched a woman get slaughtered outside my apartment and I'd done nothing to help her. A few moments before, when I'd shot the child zombie, it had been more out of instinct than any desire to help the creature's prey. But in the short time I'd known Malik and Tasha, I'd grown fond of them. They seemed like good kids. Brave. Resourceful. Didn't deserve the crappy hand life had given them. They deserved something better; a fighting chance at least. Besides, they'd saved my life. Figured I should return the favor.

  I meant what I said. I'd die before I let the dead claim them. But my promise was a lie, because the minute I was dead, there'd be nothing I could do to protect them. Instead, I'd be hunting them, just like the other zombies.

  Malik pulled away from me and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Then he wiped that on his shirt. After a moment, Tasha stepped back as well.

  "How many bullets we got left?"

  I shrugged in defeat. "I don't know, Malik. I've lost count."

  "Don't matter," he said. "I've still got my stick. If they come at us, I'll take them down while you two run."

  Grinning, I stood up.

  "Okay, here's the plan. We run out into the street and turn right. Stay on the sidewalk if possible and stick close together. Next street up, we're gonna go, left. That will take us out to the old Sylvan Learning Center building. There's a marina near it-some kind of private yacht club for rich folks. If the gates are locked, we'll have to climb. If I remember correctly, the fence is like twelve feet high. Are either one of you scared of heights?"

  They shook their heads in unison.

  "Can you climb?"

  They nodded.

  "Good." I nodded. "Once we're over the fence, we should be good to go."

  "Smooth sailing?" Tasha asked.

  For a second, I didn't realize she'd made a pun. Both of them began to giggle, elbowing each other and laughing at the joke. Then I laughed with them-until a low growl made the sound dry up in my throat.

  It was a zombie dog, a pit bull, the one who'd killed the baby only a few moments before. Apparently, it was still hungry and looking for dessert. It stood at the mouth of the alley, blocking our way into the street and making all my planning and pep talks pointless. It took another step forward, its claws clicking on the bricks. It didn't growl again; just watched us silently with black, staring eyes. A pale white tongue drooped from its mouth. A broken rib jutted from its rancid flesh, and there were large patches of fur missing from its maggot-infested hide. Guts hung out of its open stomach. A big metal tag around its collar said the dog's name was Fred. Despite my terror, I almost started laughing when I saw that. Fred wasn't what you named a pit bull. The people in my neighborhood gave their pit bulls names like Killer or Butcher or Satan. Fred was what you named a good dog, a shy and timid dog, the type to inch toward a stranger with its tail tucked firmly between its legs and its ears drooping down.

  Fred was none of those things. Fred was teeth on four legs. Sharp teeth.

  There was a crackling sound from above us as the roof of the nearest building caught fire. The flames spread quickly, racing along the power lines connected to the roof and then jumping to the next building. The power lines fell to the ground. Luckily, there was no electricity running through them. Another gunshot rang out.

  The dog inched closer. Behind it, at the entrance to the alley, two more zombie dogs appeared. Then another. And another. I raised the shotgun. Fred the pit bull tensed, his haunches flexing beneath matted fur. The other four dogs in the pack filed into the alley and lined up on each side of him.

  I tensed. "Kids…"

  Fred leaped, trailing his guts behind him like streamers.

  "Run!"

  I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened-just a heavy, metallic click. The shotgun didn't fire. It must have been jammed. Shouting, I bashed Fred in his snapping jaws with the barrel while he was still in midair. Canine blood and teeth flew through the air. The dog landed on the bricks. I turned around and ran, shoving the kids forward, not daring to look over my shoulder. Malik dropped his hockey stick but kept running. Behind us, I heard the pack giving chase. Their feet padded along the alley and their nails tapped the bricks, but other than that, they were silent. No growls or barks. Not even panting.

  If we trip, I thought, we're done for. That's it for us.

  "The shotgun," Tasha gasped. "Shoot them!"

  "Can't-it doesn't work. Keep running!"

  We dashed from the alley and into another side street, free from all the fighting and chaos. Another building burst into flames beside us. We weaved our way around wrecked and abandoned vehicles. The pursuing dogs drew closer. Already I was winded, and both of the kids were gasping for breath. All the smoke in the air and the stench of decay made it even worse. There was no way we could outrun the pack. Even though they were dead, four legs still moved faster than two.

  "High ground," I shouted."We need to find higher ground. Some place where they can't climb."

  Tasha darted toward a parked SUV and scrambled up over the hood. She held her hand down for her brother and pulled him up behind her. The hood buckled under their combined weight. They climbed up over the windshield and onto the roof as I jumped up onto the vehicle as well. Flipping the useless shotgun around in my hands, I gripped the barrel and used it as a club, swinging at the dogs. They jumped and snapped but couldn't reach me. Fred clumsily leaped into the air and his front paws landed on the hood. 1 smashed them with the shotgun and he slipped back down again, his nails scratching the paint with an awful shrieking sound, leaving furrows in the paint.

  We huddled together on the SUV's roof as the pack surrounded the vehicle. My throat burned. 1 tried to work up some saliva so I could talk.

  "What-what do we do now?" Tasha asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Can they get up here?"

  "I don't think so. We're safe."

  "How are we gonna get away?"

  "I don't know, damn it. Let me think."

  The dogs attempted a few more leaps and then gave up. Refusing to leave, they sat back on their haunches and waited. Their dead, black eyes never left us. Death was patient. Desperate, I examined the shotgun, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. I didn't know if I was out of ammo or if it was jammed or what, and like 1 said earlier, I didn't have much experience with guns until the robbery.

  "Can you fix it?" Malik asked.

  "I don't think so," I admitted. "But I can still bash their goddamn brains in with it."

  Tasha watched the pack with wide, terrified eyes. "Are you sure they can't get up here?"

  "I don't think so. We're okay for now."

  "But how are we gonna get away from them?"

  "Maybe they'll lose interest in us," I said. "Go off and find an easier meal. Or somebody might show up and help us."

  "What about the fires?" Malik asked.

  I didn't have an answer for that. The flames leapt from building to building, turning night into day. The kids had
both lost their washcloths and their faces were dirty with soot. I wondered if smoke inhalation would kill us before the zombies did.

  A dead man emerged from a burning bookstore. His shirt sleeve was on fire. As we watched, the flames engulfed the creature's entire body, spreading from its arm to its head and chest, and finally its legs. The corpse kept walking until its brain boiled. Then it collapsed in the street.

  Several more zombies appeared from farther down the block. One was missing a leg and it crawled along the sidewalk, pulling itself by its hands. Its fingernails were gone and the tips of its fingers had split open like squashed grapes. Another one didn't even look dead. Could have just been a pizza delivery man out for a stroll, but its slow-moving, jerky gait was a giveaway. Seeing us up on the roof of the SUV the zombies lurched toward us. The undead dogs didn't acknowledge these new arrivals. They simply kept watching, drool dripping from their jowls.

  When I heard the shot, 1 didn't think much of it at first. Figured it was just more of the same from the main battle. But then I noticed that one of the creatures had fallen over face-first onto the pavement. It jittered and then lay still. A second later there was another shot, and one of the dog's heads blew apart. One of its pointed ears careened through the air and skull fragments clattered onto the street. A third shot slammed into the side of the SUV, causing all three of us to gasp. The vehicle rocked gently back and forth. With the fourth shot, the shooter found his mark again, and another dog collapsed.

  "Where's it coming from?" Malik glanced around.

  "I don't know." I studied the buildings and rooftops. It was hard to see any gunfire flashes because of all the smoke and fire. When the fifth shot came, I followed the sound, and on the sixth, I spotted the shooter. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but they were crouched down between a mailbox and some newspaper vendor boxes on the corner. Slowly, the person stood upright and walked toward us, still firing. It was a man, and as he got closer, I could make out the details. Caucasian. Good-looking guy. What some of my friends would call a "bear." Not my type, but handsome just the same, despite the fact that he'd been living the same way we had-without a shower or a clean change of clothes. He appeared to be in his early forties but in good shape, well over six feet tall, and wearing blue jeans and a leather biker vest. He had no shirt on underneath, and thick curls of black chest hair poked out from beneath the vest. His arms were covered in tattoos, and several gold hoop rings dangled from his ear. Several weeks' worth of beard covered his face. He had a pistol in his hands, the barrel still smoking from the rounds he'd just drilled into the zombies. A rifle was slung across his shoulder, as well as a small backpack, and he had two holsters (one of them held another pistol) strapped around his waist, along with some kind of ammo belt. Round objects dangled from the belt. After a moment, I realized they were grenades. Whoever he was, this guy wasn't playing.

  He moved swiftly, his eyes roving and watchful. One of the dogs ran toward him. The pistol jerked in his hands. The dog dropped. Another human zombie closed in on him from the right. The pistol roared and the creature's head exploded. One by one, he brought them down until the street was littered with corpses. Then he looked up at us and smiled.

  "Come on down. Coast is clear."

  Hesitant, I eyed him warily. The kids hid behind me. If he meant harm to us, I knew there wasn't anything I could do to stop him. He must have sensed our suspicion, because he holstered the handgun.

  "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said. "I just saved your sorry asses. So climb on down from there and let's go while we can. There'll be more of them on the way any second."

  As if on cue, another group of zombies lurched into view. They headed straight for us. With one fluid movement, the biker yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and tossed it toward the zombies.

  "You folks might want to duck."

  There was a massive explosion, louder than anything I'd heard that night. I could actually feel it push against my eardrums. Dirt and shards of brick and mutilated body parts rained down onto the street.

  "Hey," Malik said. "Can I have one of those grenades?"

  The biker laughed. "Better ask your father first."

  Malik glanced up at me. "He ain't my dad. Mr. Reed's just been helping us."

  "We saved him earlier," Tasha added.

  The biker arched and eyebrow and looked at me.

  I shrugged. "Yeah, they did. I would have been a zombie dinner if they hadn't helped me. And now you saved us all. Thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  I climbed down off the SUV, and then helped the kids down. The biker stuck out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong, his palms callused and sweaty. I checked out the tattoos covering his arms-a winding snake, a half-naked woman, the Harley-Davidson logo, and several tribal designs.

  He squeezed my hand harder. "Mitch Bollinger."

  "Lamar Reed. And this is Tasha and Malik Roberts." I paused, unsure of what to say next. Living like a hermit, with only Alan for company, had apparently affected my conversational skills.

  "Let's get out of the street," Mitch suggested, releasing my hand, "and away from these burning buildings. We stand here jawing and the smoke will kill us before the dead do."

  "We were going to try for the harbor," I said. "No zombies in the water. You know anything about boating?"

  Mitch nodded; his expression was excited. "A buddy of mine at work had a boat. We used to take it out fishing on the bay all the time. Don't know everything there is to know, but I can navigate, if that's what you mean."

  "Figured if we got out into the bay, we'd be safe from the fires and the dead."

  "Good plan," Mitch said."Can I tag along with you?"

  In truth, I was surprised he asked. He didn't need us, but we needed him. I think he knew that, too. Maybe he was just being polite.

  I grinned. "I was hoping you would."

  "Then follow me. I know a shortcut to the marina."

  He strode off onto a side street and we followed him without question. Still didn't know anything about him, but what choice did we have? My gut told me he was okay. If he'd wanted to rob us, or do something to the kids, he could have just gunned me down in the street. He'd drawn his pistol again and held it at the ready as he guided us toward another alley. Malik was fascinated with Mitch's weapons, and asked again for a grenade. Mitch promised him that when we got to safety, he'd teach him all about them.

  "You out of ammo?" he asked, nodding at my shotgun.

  "I don't know," I admitted. "Tell you the truth, I don't know shit about guns. It quit working. Jammed up or something."

  "I'll take a look at it later, if you want. In fact, I think I have some shells in my bag that should fit it. Meanwhile…" He reached behind him and grabbed the rifle slung over his back. Then he handed it to me. I gave the shotgun to him and took the rifle. It was gray and heavy and had a black scope attached to the top of it.

  "That's a Remington seven-ten," Mitch told me. "Looks a lot like the seven hundred, but it's more reliable. At least I think it is. I used to argue about that with people on the gun message boards online. I rescued it from a pawn shop a few days ago, along with the rest of this stuff. It's got a single-stage trigger, better lock time, and a sixty-degree bolt throw so you can be quick with your follow-up shots. Not that you'll need them with that scope. It's bore-sighted, but you may need to adjust it for yourself a bit. Nice gun, though. The three rings really do make a difference. Your magazine box holds four rounds. After that, you'll have to reload. Cool?"

  I stopped walking and stared at him, speechless.

  "Mitch, I don't understand a fucking thing you just said. You want to try it again-in English?"

  He paused, and then laughed. "Sorry, man. Sometimes, I forget that some people don't know as much about guns as I do. My wife used to tell me the same thing when I started going on about them. I'll give you a crash course. The safety is off. Set the rifle against your shoulder, sight through the scope, line up the cross
hairs, and squeeze the trigger. Try aiming at something right now."

  While I sighted on a glass bottle lying in the gutter, he handed the second pistol to Tasha. She needed less instruction than me, and my ears and cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  "What do I get?" Malik asked.

  Mitch looked at me and I shrugged. He stroked his salt and pepper beard, considering the request.

  "Can you throw a Softball?"

  "Yeah," Malik said. "Better than anybody on my street."

  "Can you throw it really far?"

  "Damn straight I can."

  "Here." Mitch handed him a grenade. "Now listen • to me. This is really, really dangerous. You pull this little pin here and throw it as far and as fast as you can. Then get behind something. Can you do that?"

  Malik puffed his chest up proudly. "Find me some dead people and I'll show you."

  "Hopefully," I said, "you won't get that chance. If we can get to the marina without running into any more of those things, that would certainly be okay with me."

  We started walking again, going slowly, all four of us watching for more of the undead. Behind us we heard the crackling roar of flames as the fires continued spreading, punctuated with the occasional gunshot or scream. The smoke wasn't as bad, though-maybe because the buildings in Fells Point were mostly two-stories high and the smoke could rise into the sky easier, instead of getting trapped in the city's concrete canyons.

  "You must have owned a gun store, right?" I asked Mitch.

  "Nope."

  "A gun salesman, then?"

  He shook his head. "No, but you're close. I was a salesman, but not guns. I'm just a firearms enthusiast. I always liked hunting and target shooting."

  "So what did you sell?"

  Mitch grinned. "Bibles."

  "Get the fuck out of here. You look like a Hell's Angel."

  "I'm serious, Lamar. I was a Bible salesman; sold to Christian bookstores and churches and private academies, mostly. I covered my tattoos up with sleeves when I needed to, and took out my earrings. Bibles were my business. Guns are just my hobby."

  I frowned. I don't know what it's like for other gay people, but in my experience, the Christians I'd known had been less than understanding when it came to my sexuality. Of all the people to fall in with as we escaped the city, it looked like we'd joined forces with a possible fundamentalist who would judge me based on some old book supposedly written by the world's most omnipotent bigot.