Why didn’t I stay home and watch that Kiefer Sutherland series? She knew the mall was about to close, but she needed shoes for the weekend. That she is still here and in this situation is too much to contemplate. She looks at her watch and sees that it’s nearly four a.m.
I’m about to be raped, murdered or worse by a bunch of Goths . She is kneeling along with four or five other people in front of Macy’s in the enclosed center of Tyrone Mall. There is a fountain nearby, some potted plants and numerous benches. The ceiling overhead is made of metal framing and windows. The mall itself separates into three different arms, one facing south, one east and one west. The north side is the entrance to Macy’s. She knows there is still a fire burning in Macy’s. The smoke is still mingling with the fire sprinkler water and the air is hazy.
He must be the leader. She knows his name is Webb. The other members of his gang call him that often. His skin is as pale as a nice linen paint, youthful and seemingly without blemish. There are too many earrings to count, but she thinks the one through both nostrils is the worst; it isn’t a ring but extends like a toothpick roughly three inches on each side along his cheek like a strange metal mustache. He is dressed all in black, from the beret on his head, the unbuttoned long black trench coat to the combat boots on his feet. She can see a black t-shirt and black leather pants beneath the coat. He isn’t looking at her for the moment, but over at two of his companions. She knows their names too: Tim and Monk. There are five others with them, four girls and one other guy.
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Tim and Monk are holding mops and are using them to poke and prod two young women. The two women are bloody and pale themselves. Both look like they’ve suffered terrible wounds… but neither appears to notice their injuries, frightful as they are. Each time one of the women tries to get to her feet, either Tim or Monk clobbers them with a poke or a wallop to the head that sends them flying. Both of the girls seem to have endless energy and keep getting back up.
“I can’t believe it,” says Tim loudly.
“What’s that?” says Monk.
“I spend most of my life hoping someday to become a vampire and
I end up worrying about becoming a zombie instead. What’s with that? I want to be smart and undead, not a hungry cretin who happens to be undead.”
Monk laughs. “Stop it man, you’re killing me!”
Tim’s eyes are crazy. He isn’t joking around in her opinion. She can see him working himself into a real anger. “Neither one of these bitches would have even looked at you or me before, Monk, but look at them now. They want us bad.”
Webb takes a step toward them. “That’s enough fucking around. Molly and Heidi should be done in the jewelry store any minute. You saw what happened to Randy. Put the zombie bitches down for good— now!”
Randy. Why did I have to see that? Even now she can see his body lying beside the central fountain. How does that saying go… the one her ex-husband used? Oh yeah! He died bad. He was arguing with one of the security guys—some hotshot twenty-year old trying to look tough with handcuffs and a can of mace on his belt. It was pathetic how the security guy, who was basically an empty uniform, tried to confront the big, muscled red-haired teen.
“Yeah, I saw what happened to Randy, Webb. I saw him break that mall cop’s ass,” says Tim. “He punched his ticket all right!”
Webb nods. “But he’s just as dead isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but…” One of the zombies manages to grab Tim’s ankle. He isn’t a big guy and she yanks his feet right out from under him, and he’s falling backward. Tim’s head strikes the tile floor with a smack. Monk shouts. The girl is pulling herself along Tim’s prone body.
Webb pulls a small handgun from his coat. He sights carefully, left hand cupping the right hand that is holding the gun. “Monk, get out of the way!”
Several more of the gang members shout. “Here comes Molly and Heidi!”
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Monk is too distracted by his unconscious friend. The other girl makes a grab for him and he barely rolls away from her. The other zombie is now straddling Tim. Kathy sees a bright flare of light and hears Webb’s pistol bark. The girl’s head snaps sideways with the impact of the bullet and she falls over. Monk is back on his feet and sprinting toward Kathy and Webb.
Webb grabs Monk by the throat. “Slow down dumb ass.” “Let me go Webb! We need to go.”
The other zombie is staggering after Monk. She isn’t moving fast,
but she makes up for it with determination.
“Take the gun, Monk and finish what you started.”
Monk is blubbering. “Hey man, this is all a mistake. I don’t want to
die.”
Webb is merciless. “Take the gun and you won’t. Put her down like
I told you to and we’ll all get out of here.”
Monk takes the pistol. “I never shot a gun before,” he says. He isn’t
complaining about shooting someone, Kathy thinks, just that he doesn’t
know how. Meanwhile the zombie is closer. Webb begins to push Monk
toward her shouting at him, “Do it! Do it!”
There is a crash from inside Macy’s. Kathy turns and sees fire
enveloping the insides of the department store. A wave of heat billows
out. The women with her begin to scream and Kathy turns back around
just in time to see the zombie grab Monk by the shoulders and pull him
forward, as if to embrace him. She hears a series of shots and sees flares
of light reflected from the wet tile floor and on the faces of the two people. “Shoot her in the head dummy!” shouts Webb and that’s when Kathy
snaps. She scrambles to her feet and the woman or girl beside her grabs
her arm. Both stumble to their feet. The other captive women follow
suit and they all scatter, running in different directions.
My car is near Sears, she remembers. The girl is still holding onto
her arm, but appears to be completely panicked. She has a death grip
on Kathy’s arm. Do I need to cut this bitch loose? The savagery of this
thought leaves Kathy stunned, but there it is. She pushes it aside. They
run into a wall of smoke and mist and almost crash into a jewelry kiosk.
Behind them someone fires more shots, but none apparently toward
them.
Both of them duck and run faster. “Stay with me ma’am,” says the
girl, sounding winded. “I won’t leave you.”
You won’t leave me? Kathy can’t help it, she laughs. The girl gives
her a bewildered look. “I was going to tell you…” Kathy trails off. Two men are right in front of them.
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H E LOOKS BACK ONCE, toward the car, as he follows Williams up her driveway toward the house. Tracks is outside the car facing away. Standing guard. The boy is still in the back seat.
“Maybe I should go?” he says, hoping she will agree. He stands behind her as she unlocks the door.
She turns back around and for a moment they are too close together. She’s married. Her face is almost level with his. There is something in her eyes, her expression. He likes the way she looks at him. “Please don’t go. I may need you. My husband…”
“I thought I should offer.”
“No, don’t,” she says. Are we talking about the same thing? She turns back around and opens the door. He follows her inside and through a short entryway. He smells pipe smoke. The house is dark but a flickering light comes from just around the corner. To the left is a doorway. Williams walks past the doorway and turns right into a large living room. Someone is sitting in a recliner facing away from the door and turned toward a big screen TV tuned to a live broadcast. The picture is a bit jittery, but the sound is clear. An Asian man in a rumpled suit leans toward the camera.
“Al Connors here at the Trop with St. Pete City Councilman List. Evacuees are still pouring into the stadium fleeing s
everal riot torn areas across the city. Councilman, what do you think will…”
The person in the chair holds up a remote and the TV mutes. A man in a faded blue robe and slippers stands up and faces them. He is holding a pipe and trying to light the bowl with a match. Even in the shadows he can see that the man is light-skinned with even, regular features and a well-trimmed beard. Williams’s husband is high yellow? The man also has a sullen look to him. “Brenda?” the man asks.
“Yes Morris?” she answers.
“What the hell is this mother fucker doing in my house?” Morris points his pipe at Bronte.
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“This man is my friend. How could you?”
Bronte forces himself to stand still.
“Tell him to get out of my house—this instant!”
“You tell him that.”
“I will Brenda. I’m not a coward. Don’t push me.” Morris is shouting
now. “Armageddon has come. The wicked must be cast out.” Morris’ eyes are wild and his thin-lipped mouth is wide in a snarl of rage. Any trace of a dignified man of the middle class is gone. He reaches into a pocket of his robe and starts toward Bronte.
“Don’t do it Morris,” Bronte says, his own gun already drawn and pointed at Morris’ chest. “I just wanted to make sure your wife got home safe.”
Morris doesn’t listen. He keeps coming closer with his hand still in the robe pocket, still ranting and raving. “Why does a police officer need to be protected by a thug like you? Tell me mo—”
Bronte clubs him with the butt of his pistol. The man drops to the floor in a boneless heap.
Williams rushes across the room, and hesitates, as if trying to choose which man to comfort.
“I’m sorry Brenda,” he tells her. “No man calls me that name twice.” While she is caught motionless, still trying to make a decision, he turns and walks out of the house.
“Bronte wait!” she shouts, but he pretends not to hear as he closes the door.
F OR THE FIFTH OR SIXTH TIME, Blake looks into the room beyond the glass and at the ventilation duct access panel in its ceiling. Then he looks at the 6 x 6 inch vent in the room he’s in. No cliché is going to save me. The thought goes round and round as the minutes tick by on the wall clock. Thinking about those things in the other room works for a while. It’s almost interesting to watch them. They aren’t detail minded, or even possessing of any coordination or reasoning to speak of. One of them near the door has his mop in hand and is apparently fascinated by stepping into the bucket’s contents.
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“I’m getting more and more uptight Blank. Know what happens when I can’t take it anymore?” says Technician Hawkins. He puts his cigarettes and lighter on the table and stands up.
Blake is fed up now. “I’m guessing something ugly, eh, just like you Joss? You’re going to do something to benefit yourself.”
Hawkins grins at him, and says, “Come here bait! I’ll use you to distract them, so I can get away.”
The doctor gasps in apparent outrage. “You are no better than they are. Martin is a good man. How could you?”
Hawkins lets his eyes wander down her body. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of Doctor. The longer we wait here with nothing to eat or drink, the weaker we’ll get. I’m not going to die here.”
It’s Morgan. My name is Morgan. Inside the voice cries out, but on the outside Blake stares impassively across the room at the big man, Joss the Hoss Hawkins. “Okay Joss, if you feel like talking, I’ll listen.”
“You sure are a calm little shit, aren’t you Blank? I thought you’d be pissing your pants.”
“You’re strong, not quick, Joss. Maybe another plan?”
“Nah, I think throwing your ass around this room a few times and then using you for a diversion will work for me. Maybe I’ll take the Doctor with me and maybe I won’t.” Hawkins gets up and starts to cross the room. “I’m gonna swat you like a fly.”
“I think you’re going to sweat a lot and get angrier,” replies Blake in a mild voice.
Hawkins frowns and clenches his fists. He crosses the room with his large back muscles flared emphasizing the v-shape of his torso before it sags into a big gut. He kicks chairs out of his way and tries to corner Blake, as Doctor Bastrov cowers near the door.
Hawkins throws a roundhouse punch that Blake ducks neatly and slips past. Blake’s open hand slaps Hawkins’ cheek hard, and then he fades away before he can be grabbed. Hawkins howls and tries to bum rush him into a corner. Blake ducks his outstretched arms again and slips behind him. He delivers a kick to Hawkins’ ass that sends the bigger man crashing into the wall.
Hawkins stands up and turns toward him. He is breathing heavy and there is a defeated look in his eyes. “Smug little bastard.”
“None of this needs to happen Joss. As a team, we might get out of this.”
“Fuck that. I’ve got you by the balls, Blake!” Each word is uttered in a raspy voice.
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“The sooner you realize you can’t win, Joss, the sooner we can make a plan.”
Without a word Hawkins finds the energy to rush him again, and once again, Blake neatly sidesteps him and ducks out of reach. What the… This time Hawkins doesn’t stop but continues on and grabs Doctor Bastrov by the arms and swings her around.
Blake stands motionless, and closes his eyes.
“Gotcha Blake. I told you I would.”
Oh you bastard… Blake feels like he’s been gut punched. Hawkins has her and they are already beside the door. Its over. The words are already there in his mind. Take me instead. Don’t hurt her. All that is required is enough courage and human compassion to utter them. “Don’t…” he begins and opens his eyes.
“Don’t do it Joss!” she shouts, and it is strange to hear her use Hawkins first name. “Take the little wiggly worm. Look, he’s ready to die for me. Don’t kill me—kill him Joss!”
Blake reels and each word hurts as if she were punching him or erasing all he has held dear. Shut her up, please! Make her take back the hurtful words… Hawkins is laughing. Is that a small, self-satisfied smile on the doctor’s lips, he wonders. I’m nothing to her—just a little wiggly worm. I’ve been lying to myself, living in a dream world.
She looks back at Blake with a pitying expression and Hawkins opens the door. He yanks her off her feet and one pale hand with red fingernails grabs the door frame. She shrieks and Blake is running, despite it all, feeling panic cover over the grief as her hand disappears and the door is left open. Through the window, he sees it all, Hawkins using her like a shield in his initial burst through the door, then tossing her into three or four of the things. Blake reaches the door and he sees Hawkins stop short with one or two of the things clutching him by his legs and another on his back. Others are closing in on him.
I can almost tell what he is thinking. The savage grin on Hawkins’ face transforms into a look of unbelieving terror, the look of a man who knows he didn’t jump far enough to clear a crevasse. Somehow, just as they start to bear him down, Hawkins makes a lunge back toward the door.
Still too slow, Joss. Blake shuts and locks it in the man’s outraged, despairing face.
Sometime later, Blake pulls the curtains and turns off the lights. He settles into a padded chair. Meanwhile in the other room, all the familiar glutinous sounds of the autopsy are audible, none particularly disturbing or unexpected.
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FOR A MOMENT, as she runs across the two lane road, she catches a fragment of Patsy Cline singing, but then it cuts off. Did someone change the station? The parking lot is nothing more than sand, cigarette butts and occasional clumps of weeds or grass. There are two fairly beat-up cars and one nice motorcycle occupying roughly a third of the possible parking spaces.
She can’t really see inside, but the signs that advertise various beers and the one that says OPEN, are still on. In fact, the main doorway is still open. Someone has shoved one of those little rubber wedges beneath it to keep it th
at way.
“Hello,” she says, poking her head through and looking around. “Please, I need help!”
A pile of crates and a large toolbox sit on the floor near the door. The floor itself is made of rough sawn pine with a thread-bare coating of varnish. A bar is against the far wall with chairs and tables in between. There is a doorway at either side of the bar.
Where is the phone? There has to be one… She notices that photos are plastered across the back wall. All kinds. The doorway to the left has a sign above it: ‘Game Room,’ and the doorway to the right has a sign that says: ‘Employees Only.’
Should I go behind the bar or keep looking for somebody? The choice is tough. The thought of being surprised outweighs the thought of immediate help anyway. She takes the doorway for employees. There is a short hallway then a swinging wooden door with a window. So I don’t knock down someone coming the other way.
Voices, just on the other side, stop her before she can peek through the window. “The lights and speakers are working fine now, Jerry. It was just a few blown circuit breakers.”
“That’s great Hank. The hamburgers are almost done.”
“Great, well why don’t I pour us a couple beers and…”
She pushes through the door. These guys sound normal to her. I have to trust somebody to help me.
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“Jumping Jebus!” shouts the man with his back to her. He’s a big stocky guy, wide but not tall. Probably on the edge of middle-age, but still spry enough to spin around like a ballroom dancer. His face goes red when he sees her standing there. Probably embarrassed to be scared by a girl, she thinks. He’s wearing one of those uniform type shirts with the legend: ‘Hello, my name is Hank,’ embroidered over the left side of his chest.
The other guy is facing her across a grill that is built into a counter. He’s not tall either, but has a head full of gray hair, bushy gray eyebrows and a droopy gray mustache.
His gaze takes in the entire picture: the pistol still clasped in one hand, the purse in the other, and her dirty bloody clothes. At the end of the brief examination his eyes are still kind. “Hello, little lady. What can we do for you?”
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