“They’re, ah, hmm, ‘feeding.’ I already said that. They’re biting. And they’re generally oblivious to one another. But some are following others. Like a herd. Oh, God. They just caught someone coming out of studio nine.”
I bark at Sean. “Focus.”
“Right. They’re going, they’re keeping, uh, parts to themselves. They don’t seem to be gorging on the innards unless it’s the only thing left. The eyes, the neck, tissue around the spine, and muscle. They want those bits, not the insides so much. Y’know how we don’t eat the organs of a turkey at Thanksgiving? That.”
I get two of four screws out. “I have no idea what that means.”
Sean stammers. “It m-means—”
“You’re the brain here.” I keep turning the screws.
“It means that they are...discriminating to at least some degree and are probably feeding for a purpose beyond want.”
Three screws. “So they’re choosing soft tissue and muscle.”
“Y-Yeah.” Sean stammers again. He rubs his glasses. “But we shouldn’t assume anything. The point is, they’re looking for—” he snaps his fingers “—they’re looking for something specific. And they aren’t damaging the brain. From what it took to stop those monsters in here, I think we can safely say the brain is the, well, heart of things.”
The fourth and final screw clings out. I lean back. The cover plate to the vent drops and clatters against the bloody floor. “The brain keeps em going, so they leave it alone. They’re driven. It isn’t random. It’s like hunting.” I shiver.
Sean crosses his arms. “More like awkwardly reproducing.” His eyes flit back and forth. I can almost hear his brain working in overdrive.
I reach for a cigarette in my leather jacket. “How many are getting back up?”
“As long as the brain case is okay, they come back. But if the brain is dead, so are they. Really dead, I mean, as opposed to what the infection does.” He pauses. “Reanimation.” He wipes at his glasses. “Still, on first bite, they aren’t choosy. And whatever this is has sped up even since...Beth. It’s mutated already.” He stares at the floor.
The vent’s almost loose. “How sped up is ‘sped up?’”
“Depends. Depends on how many of your Keefs are working on the corpse. Body weight is arguably a factor. I don’t know. A couple came back as they were being eaten. Then the others backed off. But that doesn’t make any sense.” Sean licks his lips. “You’d think that if they aren’t attacking each other once reanimation takes hold, then that’s because they can smell or sense the infection. But the transfer of the bug through the bites should be immediate. So why are they eating instead of just biting?”
I tuck the crowbar into a belt loop on my jeans. “Fuck should I know?”
Sean coughs. “Or maybe they keep eating until the disease takes hold completely. Someone whose body is fifty percent taken over would presumably still get chewed on, as would someone who’s seventy-five percent and ninety-nine percent taken over. It’s got to be a hundred percent. And when the body fully dies, the infection can take control.”
The vent cover drops. Crashes to the floor of the studio. I say, “Bring it on home, bud.” I look to the open vent.
“Okay. Any living thing’s desire is to spread, to propagate. Our genes do that. We’re gene machines. This is that except at the behest of an infection turning us into a machine for itself. A parasite. So, one of the reasons for the attacks has to be to keep the infection going.”
He talks hard against the glass. Stares out at the carnage. Droplets of spittle decorate the door with his words. “But I have no fuckin idea about the eating. Maybe it’s just reactionary, like, the body’s being told something is there to chew and the body responds by chewing. And I won’t know anything beyond some basic conjectures until we can get out of here and analyze the samples from Declan. Beth said there was something parasitic involved, which makes a certain amount of sense, because these people obviously aren’t in control of themselves anymore—the infection is. Ugh, but, it’s like syphilis, or maybe related to syphilis, which means maybe it’s bacterial. That would make sense since it has to go from one body to another as opposed to a virus which can survive outside.” Sean puts his head in his hands and rubs in frustration. “A new pathogen. But it’s all housed inside the dead flesh. It’s a disease that erodes the body like syphilis, which is to say it can be deleterious to both body and mind, and it’s passed through fluid, the bites, and also commandeers the host. It commandeers the host to seek out... Flesh.” He snaps his fingers again. “Living flesh, non-infected flesh. That’s to spread it.” He taps his chin. “It’s got to be injected into the blood stream.”
One of the monsters slams against the door. Sean jumps back.
The thing slides a bleeding face against the glass and chews on air.
My brain farts for a moment. I say, “Yeah, time to go.” I grab the edge of the duct and test the weight. Seems like it’ll hold.
The building’s emergency alarm splits the air.
Sean whirls to face me. “There must be people in some of those studios. We can’t just leave. We have to help them, or warn them at least.”
I shake my head. “No.” I think about Helene. “We don’t. We go out there, we die. Unless you’re packing a hazard suit, some fuckin body armor and a shotgun, we are going into these vents and nowhere else.” I drop my American Spirit on the floor.
“But the people. We can’t abandon them. We can’t.”
“We can. Best thing we can do is get the fuck out and spread the word. And we need to be fast. How do we know some haven’t gotten out already?”
Sean’s gaze turns to the door and the gibbering, manic faces of the parasite people on the other side. He exhales. “All right. Just, please, don’t get too far ahead of me.” He bends down. Picks up his bag. He shifts his weight and hoists the heavy package. Slides the strap over his shoulder.
“What’re you, a little girl?” I chuckle. Jump up. Grab the edge of the duct.
My fingers slip.
I tumble back down like the big asshole I am. I pat myself off like it’s no big deal and climb the stacked equipment crates again.
Sean smirks but doesn’t say anything.
I jump again. Find purchase. Pull myself into the vent. “Come on.”
He makes it in one shot.
What a jerk.
The vents are filled with the echoed cacophony that reverberates around us. The building’s emergency klaxon pierces through it all. A headache pounds in my brain. I can hear Sean’s breathing grow labored. Panicky.
He says, “It’s really dark in here.”
I nod at the empty space in front of me. “Yep.”
Each studio we crawl over houses the same horrors. Blood. Ravenous monsters either looking for a meal or finding one. The sounds of the flesh feast torture our ears.
We near what I think is the studio closest to the emergency stairs. I hear a man crying. Peer down onto the set. A thin, elderly guy with a trimmed, graying beard is curled up on the green couch below.
I shout to him. “Hey! Hey, man. Up here.”
Sean’s voice sounds off behind me. “What’s going on?”
“There’s someone down there. I think he’s normal.”
The stranded grandpa turns toward me. “Oh, thank God. You have to help me. Those people out there attacked me.” He holds his arm up.
I knock off the vent cover with my crowbar. “If you can get up here, stack some crates or something, we can hoist you up. We’re trying to get to the stairs. It should be at the end of this vent shaft.” I pause. “I think we can at least get out.” I look at his arm. “What happened to you?”
Grandpa pulls crates underneath the vent. “It was terrible. I was walking some microphones into a studio, and out of nowhere these maniacs came after me.” He keeps working on
his staircase. “Anyway, they aren’t too fast, so I ran away. When I got to this door, one of em surprised the shit out of me.” He stacks another crate. Starts climbing. “The fucker bit me. Can you believe that? Just goddamn happened, too. God, it hurts and feels like a fever out of nowhere.”
Grandpa reaches up.
I turn to look at Sean.
He shakes his head.
Bitten means infected.
I say to the old guy, “Hey...tell you what...How about you stay here and nurse that wound. Wrap it up. Grab a first aid kit from the control room. You don’t want it to get worse.”
He strains his arms. “I’m fine. It’s not too bad. C’mon, help me.”
I can see blood glistening.
Sean said that once the normal body dies, the infection will fight to take complete control and reanimate the corpse. Until this guy really kicks the bucket, his condition’s just gonna deteriorate. He’ll get loopier and loopier—he’ll go the same way Declan did.
It’s no good.
I tell Grandpa, “I can’t do that. You’ve been bitten.”
Grandpa says, “It’s nothing, really. I’ll have a doctor look at it. Help me up.”
“I can’t.”
“What the hell do you mean? I need a doctor. Help me for fuck’s sake!”
“You gotta stay here. We’ll come back if we make it.”
“Why won’t you help me?”
“It’s complicated. Stay put. Keep the doors closed.”
Grandpa screams. He leaps at me. His bony fingers curl around the ventilation shaft opening.
I shrink back. Bang my head on the metal above me. “Fuck.”
Why can everyone jump better than me?
I bark orders at Grandpa. “Shit, shit, shit. Get down.”
He mewls. “Help me!”
“Get down, now. I’m warning you.”
If I ain’t gonna go back to doing floral shows in Queens as a journalist, I sure as shit ain’t gonna risk being infected for some old fart I don’t even know.
Grandpa struggles. Pulls himself into the duct. He gets his good arm inside. Tries to crawl in.
I hit him with the crowbar.
He shrieks. “Oh my God, what are you doing? Help me. What is wrong with you?” His eyes beg.
I hit his arm again. The old man’s screams bounce down the shaft. The inhuman fiends all around us respond with howls of their own.
“Get the fuck down.” I hit him again.
He starts to lose his grip. He cries. I hit him again. His arm falls. I crush his fingers with the crowbar. He drops. Lies sprawled out among the fallen equipment crates.
He sobs. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Why won’t you help me? This is insane.” He curls up. Holds his mashed fingers to his chest. Screams in agony.
I furrow my brow. “I’m sorry. I just—”
I feel something like remorse, but it passes.
Grandpa’s cries of pain hover over the din until we get to the end of the duct. I peer out the ventilation cover.
We’re at the emergency stairwell.
I pop open the metal grating. It clangs down to the floor. Between the building’s alarm and the psychotic screaming of the infected, I doubt anyone can hear it.
I ease myself out.
Sean hands me his bag and jumps.
No Keefs in the stairwell. That’s excellent news. It gives me a moment’s hope that this whole thing is remained isolated to the third floor.
We hit the stairs. Jog up. Burst into my newsroom. Pant.
I’m pretty sure my lungs are gonna burst.
We run around frenzied journalists. We ignore the terror on their faces. We head for the boss’s office. More than a few people try to stop me. To get my attention. Talk to me. I push em aside and throw open Schaffer’s door.
If I’d been paying attention, I would’ve noticed that there’s only a skeleton crew in the office. Would’ve noticed that the newsroom is practically empty. That people are running away from the newsroom as fast as I’m running through it.
I shout. “Boss. You’re not gonna believe this.”
He turns to me. Tumbler full of whiskey in one hand. He cocks an eye at Sean and my bloody crowbar. “Take a look outside.”
I walk around Schaffer’s big desk. Rummage through my jacket for cigarettes. I put a hand on the glass and stare down through the ashen snow that covers everything in a grey shroud.
There are enormous patches of red all around the building from fallen victims of the outbreak. Dozens of bodies leak crimson into the foot of dark, polluted snow.
Some of the bodies don’t stay stationary for long. They get up. They go after the cars and cabs and tourists and New Yorkers who gawk at the violence.
People scream.
The wail of police and fire sirens choke the air. I can hear the shouts of NYPD soldiers from thirteen stories up. The staccato cracks of gunfire.
Flashing lights on cop cruisers bounce off of the ice and snow. They turn Midtown into a hellish concert.
Schaffer pours Sean a shot of Jameson.
I light a cigarette.
I think about Helene. My Momma Bear.
I think about a headline.
Chapter 10:
QED, You’re Fucked
My eyes go wide. My face goes dumb. Slack. “I’ll assume this is leading the website.”
I think: MONSTERS TAKE MIDTOWN.
Schaffer doesn’t answer me. He and Sean are busy sucking down glasses of whiskey.
I grab the bottle of Jameson. Walk over to my bag. Dig through it to get to my backup phone—just a little burner. My datapad is long gone. It’s off in some (likely dead) lawyer’s office.
I call Helene. Think, Please pick up while the phone rings.
The screams and gunfire outside make it hard to focus.
CANNIBAL CORPSE CARNAGE, I think.
What the hell am I gonna tell Helene to do? Duck and cover?
There’s a hint of panic in her voice. “Baby?”
My stomach settles. A little.
She says, “Baby, what’s going on? Why are you using your backup? I keep hearing crazy shit over the office radio.”
“Can you see anything outside?” I rub my forehead. “Look out your window. Is there anybody running around?”
“No. I mean, nothing like what they’re saying on the radio.”
Which means the infection hasn’t gotten to the East side yet. But it will.
I think: MURDER MACHINES MAUL MANHATTAN.
I say, “It’ll take too long to explain. Just listen. Everyone outside is dangerous. Do not go outside. What I want you to do is go to your floor’s elevator and pull the emergency stop button, okay? Jam it up.”
There’s a pause that I take to be nodding, even though I can’t see her.
I say, “Then I want you and your coworkers to take a desk or something and force those fuckin elevator doors open. You have to make sure that that thing does not leave your floor.”
She breathes on the other end of the line. Deep, slow. “You’re scaring the hell out of me. What’s going on?”
“Listen, you’ll be fine as long as nobody comes into your building. You guys have to barricade yourselves in. You have to seal yourselves off.”
“Sure...sure, we can do that. I can do that.”
“I know you can, Momma Bear.”
I hear gunshots and tires screeching outside.
BULLETS OVER BROADWAY, I think.
Then there’s the muffled thump of an explosion somewhere nearby.
On the phone, silence. Helene sniffles.
I say, “Things are gonna get bad. As long as you guys seal your floor off completely, you’ll be all right. Just remember that. And I’m coming for you.”
I’m lying, of cour
se. I have no idea if she’ll be safe. I have no idea how long it’ll take me to get over to her.
I wipe sweat from my brow.
Sean and Schaffer are both at the windows. Sean waves me over.
Helene says, “I’ll be all right. Promise you’ll come.”
Sean waves more and more. Like a little kid.
I say, “I promise. Just make sure nobody can get to your floor. Cut off that elevator. Block the emergency exits. Throw shit down the stairwells. Desks, big chairs, choke it up.” I think of every horror movie I’ve ever seen. “Just make sure nothing can get to you. Once that’s done, get inside your office, lock your door and push everything against it. Don’t let anyone in.”
Silence.
“Can you do that for me, Momma Bear?”
“I will.”
“I love you.”
She makes a kissing sound. Hangs up the phone.
I scratch my neck. Walk to the window with the bottle of booze in hand.
Schaffer says, “They broke through the first line of NYPD soldiers.” He snatches the whiskey from me. “The fuckers are fanning out. They’re heading...everywhere. Whatever’s doing this, it’s fast.”
I look down at the frenzied orgy of violence. It’s a confusing sight. The sun takes refuge below the horizon. Streets lights pop on. Odd shadows appear below. Dark forms crawl through the dirty slush of snow and blood. If they’re normal, they won’t be for long.
Sean says, “The cops were here in force once the emergency alarms went off. They should have been able to take the creatures out pretty quickly, when the numbers were smaller. Or, rather, when there were only like fifty of them instead of however many there are now. But they didn’t know about headshots.” He sips from his glass of whiskey.
The NYPD soldiers unload on the veritable horde of flesh-hungry monstrosities as they pour from my building’s entrance. Plenty of unlucky passersby have fallen. More reanimate in the courtyard.
Every bullet the soldiers fire lodges itself in the monsters’ body mass—doing little or no damage to the walking meat. They might as well throw pebbles into tar.
Live, From the End of the World Page 10