Live, From the End of the World

by William Vitka

  Sean nods back.

  Ben says, “Don’t forget me, man.” He smiles. “Once this is done, you’re taking me out of here.” He slides the door to the studio shut. Starts talking to Sean. I can’t hear what they’re saying, obviously. Both gesticulate at one another. Seems like there’s a lot of explaining going on.

  I lean back against the soft sound-canceling foam of the hallway. Just need a minute to rest. I’ve been awake since before the Schneer-bite insanity even started. And I’m cooked.

  Do I have any stimulants on me?

  Bennies? Dexies? Fuck, caffeine pills?

  Nothing.

  I slip to the floor. Pry my cell outta my pocket. Gotta call Helene. Gotta call Fred. I punch through to my Momma Bear. She picks up.

  I say, “Helene?”

  She whispers into the phone. “They’re outside.”

  “You did everything I said, right?”

  “Yeah, we did. We’re staying low and quiet. There were a bunch of cops and the... whatever they are outside. But the elevator is sealed off. So are the stairs. Everything’s all right so far.”

  “Just hold tight.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  She hangs up.

  I dial Fred.

  Sean and Ben are still going back and forth in the booth.

  I mutter into the phone when Fred picks up. “Headshots.”

  “What?”

  I can hear him typing. Wait, typing? He has the goddamn time to type? The infection must not be inside his building yet. Or at least, not his floor. I say, “The shitburgers outside are corpses animated by some kind of parasite—shooting em in the head shuts em down. The infection command center seems to be the brain. Without it, they stop doing their monster thing.”

  Fred says, “You’re full of shit. Like the movies?”

  “Yeah, just trust me. Listen, I’m in a bad spot. I need you to get to Helene.”

  “Dude, I’m in the newsroom... How would I get over there?”

  “You’re gonna want to leave as soon as possible. Or you’ll be in the jaws of those things. They ain’t strong, but there’s a lot of em. Improvise. Times Online has its own building at Sixty-Fifth and Park, right? I remember the move the web made from the Times headquarters in Midtown. You’re not too far from her. Call Helene. If I can, I’ll get us into an NYPD cruiser. Maybe something with some armor. Stay low, keep moving, you’ll be fine. I’ll bring the car. Then we make our way south. Brooklyn. Backs to the water.” I’m making shit up as I go along.

  Fred says, “Maybe. This is... I could die. You realize that, right?”

  “You’re more likely to die if you don’t move. When the cops showed up, they didn’t do so well. The courtyard of my building is littered with abandoned cruisers and weapons and all kinds of shit. I’ll scavenge. Snatch a car. Blaze over to you and Helene.”

  “That’s suicide. How do you know the roads aren’t fucked? The cross streets in Midtown aren’t wide enough to—”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  Fred ain’t typing anymore.

  I say, “What do you think?”

  “I think it sucks.” Fred grunts. “But I can’t think of anything better. Just promise me one thing, okay?”

  “Name it.”

  “If we manage to survive and then start some new civilization, put at least one LGBT person in charge. Status quo hasn’t really done the world any wonders recently.”

  “You got it.”

  I look into the studio. Sean’s been talking nonstop for almost five minutes. Seems like he’s winding down. I tell Fred, “You’re dead if you stay put. Call Helene. Hustle your butt over there. I’ll meet you two and we’ll run like little monkeys.”

  “It almost resembles a plan.”

  “Wait, Fred? What’s your headline?”

  “Monsters take Midtown.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Fred hangs up. I get to my feet. Sean and Ben strut outta the studio. Ben locks the door behind em with a passcard. He borrows my crowbar. Bashes the card reader so no one can mess with the broadcast.

  He pats Sean on the back. “All set. Dr. Honky, the Science Man did good.”

  Sean turns a little to Ben. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “Whatever. Can we go now?”

  I arch my eyebrows. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” I say to Schaffer, “Boss?”

  He’s been talking with Linda. She seems worried.

  Schaffer says, “We have to take the stairs back down, then head out the front doors.” He looks excited to get back into the fray, but something’s off.

  Sean says, “Are you sure that’s the only way?”

  “Very fuckin sure.”

  I twirl my crowbar. Breathe once and heavy. Lead my little team back to the stairwell.

  We pass by the other idiots. Stout’s got tissues rammed into his nose. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the emergency door.

  He says, “Where are you people going?”

  I say, “We’re leaving.”

  Stout jumps to his feet. “Out there is death!” The media preacher reaches a fever pitch. “Do not open that door. You’ll just let it in here! You will let death in here.”

  Ben says, “Shouldn’t you be praying or some shit?”

  The young teenager who punched me faces Ben. The other people cower. Some of em head down toward the other studios. Nobody wants to be around to see whatever’s gonna happen.

  The teenage dipshit says, “You helped the people who hurt my father! Shut up, you—”

  Oh, fuck, that little idiot is Stout’s child spawn.

  “—You—”

  Teen Stout’s face goes red. He stammers.

  Oh, boy. Here we go.

  Elder Stout huffs. He watches his son explosively decompress...

  “—Soulless nigger.”

  ...In a remarkably un-Christian manner.

  Ben tilts his head to one side. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Like he doesn’t quite believe what he just heard. He squints at the teenager. Then snaps a right jab and socks the scrawny racist Stout Jr. in the jaw.

  The kid goes reeling.

  Stout moves toward Ben. I kick him in the side. He falls against the wall. Yowls in pain.

  I walk forward. Haul Stout up by his already-broken nose. “Changed my mind,” I say. I stare into the mad godman’s eyes. “I’m gonna leave you up here to rot.”

  Sean steps to the door. Throws it open. He motions at the stairs. “We should go.”

  I lead the way.

  * * *

  There are no infected in the well. But it’s not cuz our barricade worked. It’s cuz they found the food they so desperately wanted. Every few floors, behind the fire doors, we hear the shouts and screams of men and women in agony.

  It’s easy to say this is our fault.

  Some of the emergency exits are open. Down the hallways, we can see em. Papers and debris strewn across the floor. Blood and moaning. That horrible slobbering sound of meat being munched. Cries for help. We keep our movement light. Hope to avoid being spotted.

  Sean tries to convince us to stop and help where he thinks we can. Nobody else in the group wants to listen. He almost manages to convince Linda once, but the majority of us turned our consciences off after the melee in the newsroom.

  One more flight, then we’ll be at ground level.

  I hammer my crowbar into the brain of the lone straggling reanimated that stands between us and the first floor emergency exit. It goes down with a wet thump.

  I pop the door open.

  Weak emergency lighting makes it tough to tell how many things are out there. The massive lobby is dim. The Star Trek security doors are stuck open. The blue-red strobes from the NYPD cars outside don’t help. They screw with our vision. C
ast wild shadows.

  Near as I can see, about a dozen parasite people populate the place. Most are missing enormous amounts of flesh from their arms and faces. Eight feed on unlucky victims near the front desk. Three fight over a chunk of something red. One’s trapped in the revolving doors—looks like a briefcase fell and got stuck.

  Our ragged team steps out of the stairwell.

  What’s the best strategy here? Silent and fleet-footed to avoid detection? They haven’t spotted us yet. Maybe they won’t at all.

  Or should we just move forward and take em out while they’re distracted? The fuckers might follow us otherwise.

  The infected in the revolving door lets out a prolonged, guttural scream. It definitely fuckin sees us. Slathers a pulpy tongue along the glass.

  Other murder machines in the lobby stop munching. They scream in turn. Their teeth gnash. The Keefs head our way.

  Ben shows me his empty hands. “All yours, man. Go get em.”

  Schaffer lunges. He wields his fire axe like Thor’s hammer. Two from the first group fall. I finish a third off with the hook of my crowbar. Linda jabs forward, using her length of pipe as a lance. Sean decapitates the one she skewered.

  Three more join their reanimated brethren in an attempt to infect us. The first is almost running. I wind up. Swing at its head. Crack it open like an egg. The two slower ones I pierce through the eye sockets. Scramble their brains. Quick and dirty.

  Sean, Linda and Schaffer take care of the final group by following Linda’s skewer-then-decapitate plan.

  The final trapped infected continues its screaming insanity.

  Linda uses the bloody end of her steel pole to push the suitcase clear of the revolving door. The infected spills out. Sean splits its skull with his makeshift machete.

  Ben presses his face against the glass. He peers toward Sixth Avenue.

  The snowstorm rages. It’s already puked out about six inches of ash-grey snow. The weather should give the infected a tough time. Their balance isn’t worth shit to begin with. Still, it looks bad. Dozens of the creatures are out there.

  I tell no one in particular: “We make it to the cars. We pick up some guns on the way. We get my girl. Then we head to Brooklyn. We can make a stand at my place. The structure’s right. All we’d really need to do is block off the courtyard with some vehicles.

  Schaffer says, “I agree about the cars, but I’m not gonna go to Brooklyn. Linda and I have our own plan.”

  I turn to him.

  He’s holding Linda’s hand. She regards me with sad eyes.

  I sigh. Nod. I can’t force em to go anywhere—as much as I want Schaffer and his axe by my side. I say, “Sean?”

  He brandishes his machete. “I’m with you.”

  I’m happy for that.

  Ben says, “Me too. Fuck. I’d rather be in Brooklyn.”

  Schaffer offers me his hand. We shake.

  There isn’t anything to say. Either we’ll see each other again or we won’t.

  You won’t, and you know it.

  Schaffer leads Linda into the cold. I follow. Ben and Sean bring up the rear.

  The infected are goddamn everywhere. I’m sure the maelstrom of snow hides more from view. On the other hand, the storm, the cacophony of the sirens, and the alarms provide cover for us as well.

  It’s a double-edged sword.

  Floodlights in front of the building shine down in blue cones. Snow flutters around em in angry swarms. We hear gunfire. A couple explosions.

  Maybe the NYPD soldiers got the message, I think. Maybe we can retake Manhattan.

  Optimism is almost as dangerous as hope.

  The storm sinks its frozen teeth into my skin. Even through my jacket, hoodie and jeans. My hands go a little numb from poor circulation—thank you, smoking. I tuck the crowbar through a belt loop. Hunch down to pick up weapons dropped by cops who’ve gone undead.

  Schaffer and Linda sprint to the NYPD cruiser closest to the building. They slide into the front seats. Close the doors. Turn the engine over. It starts with a roar. The infected around us rear their heads at the sound.

  The cruiser’s tires scream. Schaffer and Linda shoot backward. Spin. Then head north. Maybe they’re Bronx-bound. A group of Keefs (a gaggle? A pack? A murder? I’m voting for a “Kerfuffle of Keefs” myself) gives chase. A few of em almost run like the bastard inside.

  That could be an issue.

  I’m sorry to see Schaffer and his mighty axe leave, but I’m happy for the distraction. The reanimated followed my old boss and librarian. They leave the rest of us with little to worry about except scavenging guns.

  Sean hefts a shotgun. “Look what I found.”

  Ben rushes over. Skids in the snow. “Pump action, motherfucker. That’ll put a damper on dinner.” He admires the machine.

  “Keep looking,” I say over the din.

  We can’t see a whole lot through the blanket of the superstorm. But I do catch the glow of an enormous, multistory fire to the north around Fifty-Third Street. I hear screams combined with automatic weapons to the west, on Broadway.

  Then there’s a series of ground-shaking thuds.

  Guess the USC’s taking out the bridges.

  Assuming the shakes are from bombings. Not that it’s gonna do anyone outside the city much good at this point. The infection’s already escaped.

  A Keef stumbles toward us.

  Sean aims his new 12-gauge love at it.

  Ben shrieks. “No!”

  Sean lowers it. Makes an embarrassed face. “Oh... The sound.”

  Ben says, “Yeah. The sound. I thought you were Doctor Honky, Smart Guy, PhD.”

  “I’m not a doctor!”

  I put the monster down with my crowbar.

  My hands sting from digging in the snow around fallen cops in the courtyard. The weapons we do find are mix-n-match: Two Glocks, one Beretta 9mm, a mind-bogglingly large Colt .45 revolver and two Remington 12-gauge shotguns. Not bad. I keep the Colt for myself. Symbolic reasons, y’know. Gunslingers always have one at their side. I nab a holster from a leg with no body. Tie it low on my thigh.

  Gear and ammo should be in the trunk of whatever cruiser we steal. At least, that’s what we’re hoping.

  We stay quiet. Try not to attract any unwanted attention. Then carry our haul to an idling cruiser and set everything in the back seat. Ben sits with me in front. Sean gawks at our bullet-spewing bounty. Kid in a candy store.

  He says, “My mom never let me play with any kind of weaponry when I was a kid. I wasn’t even allowed to have a BB gun. Now, hoo boy, look at this.”

  Ben reaches for the radio. He runs up and down the dial.

  Some stations, since they almost all fired their live human DJ staff ages ago, are stuck on an automated music format. Radio-free Albemuth. I find this morbidly hilarious, since conglomerations’ decisions to save money might be actively killing people now.

  And, a la Phil Dick, I believe there needs to be someone at the desk manning the airwaves. Cuz, hey, who knows what can happen on a shift.

  Nobody else in the car understands my smugness.

  I say, “Check our station, just to be sure.”

  Ben punches our company up.

  I expect to hear Sean. On repeat.

  The radio squawks: “Thank you for joining me on a special edition of the Christian Power Hour. I’m Reverend William Stout.”

  I put my head in my hands. “You gotta be fuckin kidding.”

  Ben’s eyes go wide. “My man.” He threw his hands up. “I locked that shit up. I motherfuckin locked that studio.”

  Why didn’t I kill that butterdick Stout?

  My brain’s exploding. Headache. Panic. TV’s fucked. Radio’s fucked. Any chance of getting information out is gonna rely on the Internet. And, of course, my datapad is locked up in som
e lawyer’s office.

  Sean says he left his in the building, too. Forgot it in some studio when I dragged him off to deal with Declan.

  Ben checks his pockets. Shakes his head. Shrugs. “Shit gets crazy when people’re trying to eat you.”

  I slam a fist into the steering wheel. It honks in response. I scream in frustration.

  The radio keeps on: “Earlier, a few...well, they were nonbelievers. They caused great pain to myself and my son. They beat us, they tried to kill the message, but we cannot be stopped! I want you to put your hands together, my listeners, and bow your heads.”

  I hear Sean slip extra shotgun shells into his pocket.

  My fingers play over the curved handle of the Colt in the holster on my thigh.

  The radio says: “I will tell you what is really going on in this festering city-state of New York—what is really going on with the disease that has spread from this modern Sodom and Gomorrah out to you—knocking at your very doors!”

  Ben goes to change the channel. I hold my hand up. Hang on. I want to know how loopy Stout’s gonna get and if there’s more to worry about.

  The radio preaches: “These are the end times. The Rapture is here! Do not run, for you cannot escape God’s Will. Embrace it! Embrace it! If you are truly worthy, then God shall be at your side. If you turn your back on him now, you will be forever punished!”

  I can imagine gobs of spit spraying from Stout’s tongue. Sputtering against the wind cover of the microphone. I see Hitler’s own Goebbels in my head.

  We turn on the NYPD’s own radio. Hope to talk to a cop or someone at Police Plaza. But there’s no voices. Just shouts and gunfire. Moans and howls.

  The cruiser’s computer isn’t much more help. The screen flashes red: EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY. REPORT TO NEAREST PRECINCT.

  I crank the idling cruiser’s engine. The car growls. I hit the fog lights to cut through the shroud of snow.

  Behind that shroud of snow, a hundred infected heads turn to us.

  At the risk of being repetitious: This is fucked.

  Chapter 12:

  Misery Index