“Yeah, me too.”
Dodd laughs. “Sometimes that coldness makes me want them more. Sluts! I know a thing or two about them and what they want.”
Blake forces a grin. This guy wants to be liked real bad. That’s not too hard. Always knew I could act.
“Well, Mister Blake, if you don’t mind opening the door and holding it for me. I think I need to help my companion out of the cruiser. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll do that Officer Dodd,” he answers. The card is already in his hand. My first priority is to get a gun, right away, then maybe I’ll get the jump on somebody the next time. He slides the card and waits for the light to turn green. A moment later the door is open. Another police officer runs from behind a reception counter. Blake wonders if he caught him napping. This officer looks unhappy also.
“Who the hell are you?” the guy barks, pistol pointed at Blake’s chest.
“I’m Blake in Maintenance. I work over here sometimes, but mostly at the Coroner’s.”
“There was someone else with you—Where did he go?”
“Oh, that’s Officer Dodd. He’s helping someone out of his cruiser and is coming right back.”
A STOLEN MOMENT, hunched over breathing deeply while the rain falls. Already the sewers are overwhelmed and water is backing up in the street. The sun is almost a memory, merely a molten yellow smudge just above the rooftops in the distance. The things are everywhere, just too slow to take her down. A nightmare that can’t be escaped. Still, the effort to survive must be made. She is small, fast, and in superb condition. Must keep going, find a place to hide.
She resumes running, but at a more reasonable pace, darting in and out between people when necessary, but with direction—Running south on 16th St N.
Up ahead, near the next intersection, she sees several fiery flashes brilliantly outlined in the growing darkness. Then, the sound of shots reaches her. Are people screaming? Hard to hear over her breath and the sound of her feet splashing in puddles.
Somebody is still alive up near the high school.
Or at least they were.
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“ARE YOU READY?” Mills asks. He has one hand, the one holding the keys, pressed against the door and the other still clenching the bat. The psycho, Sid, is next to him and Kathy is behind.
“I’ve never rode in a fire truck,” says Sid. “This should be exciting.” “It is—” A sudden blur and the sound of wood meeting/merging with a human skull. From the corner of his eye, Mills sees Kathy haul her bat around for another swing. Sid is pressed against the glass front of the door, facing toward Mills. His eyes have rolled back, showing only the whites. Sid’s axe drops, clattering to the floor tiles. His body remains pressed up, almost as if he’s still ready to leave.
Another swing and solid meaty connection. This time the impact leaves a splatter of blood both on the glass and on everything nearby. Sid’s body loses the battle with gravity and falls backward to the floor.
A tremor wracks one hand and then Sid is still.
Kathy pushes a strand of hair out of her face.
“Now I’m ready Adam.”
“Mother of God Kathy.”
“It had to be done. I could either sit back and wait for you to do it, or
take my chance when it came.”
“Sounds like the voice of a professional killer.” The sarcasm in his
voice seems to catch her off guard. He has time to wonder if he is
disappointed in her or just shocked by her actions. And why? The guy
was a killer.
“If you can’t handle me pulling my weight, then I’ll go,” she says.
Fortunately, she doesn’t have a good poker face. He can see that she is
freaked out. Her face is pale, almost pasty. Suddenly she steps back
and to the side, bending over not far from the dead guy wearing the
Phil Hendrie shirt. She spends the next two or three minutes vomiting.
He tries to be near, yet keep his distance. There is always the danger of
joining in if you get too close.
Mills looks at his watch and makes himself wait another minute.
Reaches a hand out and she doesn’t resist. Turns her, then pulls her to
his chest. “We both need to be strong for each other. Now let’s get the
hell out of here.” He pushes the door open and they go outside hand in
hand.
Somebody in a trench coat is standing right there, pointing a small
pistol right at them. “Perfect!” the man exclaims. “I really wasn’t happy
about coming to look for you.”
THE HOUSE IS THE LAST ONE on the block, right on the bay. It must have just stopped raining. Everything glistens as if dewed. The sun is almost down and he can hear cicadas in the trees all around. Lionel’s mansion is probably three or four years old. Some people go for these massive multileveled piles of concrete with the elevated entryways. That Lionel was one of them made perfect sense. Hadley much preferred his little two bedroom, two bath bunglalow on the golf course to this… whatever it is.
Pitts slows their cruiser and follows the Hummer onto the oversized half circle driveway and stops behind it almost in the street at the far end. Lionel’s cruiser parks beneath a pillared portico at the foot of the marble staircase to the front door.
Hadley hears Marilee grumble something about why are we parking here, but quickly shuts her voice out. As he exits the car he notices the yacht behind the house. “Cripes, that thing must go sixty feet at least,” he hears himself say.
The mayor speaks up, “Fifty-six feet, Jubal. I’ll let Lionel tell you the rest, but it is impressive, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say. There’s even one of those flying bridges.”
“What’s a flying bridge?” asks Pitts.
“Nevermind that right now,” replies Hadley. “Go help Ramos and his men to transfer the equipment and weapons to the boat.”
Lionel’s sidekick, Barney, wanders over. “Mayor Mayes? Could you, Marilee and the Chief please join him on the Yacht as soon as you can?
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We aren’t planning on sticking around long. The food, gas and water are already stowed, so we’re almost ready.”
“If there’s a shower on that thing, we’re coming right now,” says Marilee.
“There are two showers, one on deck and one below…” “Okay Barney, let’s go,” she says, without waiting for the mayor.
Barney shrugs and follows her. The mayor seems nonplussed. “She’s just cranky, Jubal. She’s probably more like Marge than you realize.” He pauses with a grin. “Except her ass is much better.”
The mayor doesn’t wait for his reply. He turns and walks toward the rear of the house, following a little cobbled path.
“If you say so Ritchie,” Hadley whispers, “but you sure make a lot of excuses for her.”
IT’S RAINING HARD AGAIN. Daric can feel it saturating his skin right down to the bone. People are milling about around a stairway that descends down to the water and a floating dock. There are two large tents in front of the Pier’s entrance. A fairly steady stream of people are coming out of the first one with food. The tall man walks right past that tent and takes them to the second. A white soldier out front puts his arm out to stop the tall man. Daric and Tracks stop too.
“What’s up Henry, you gathering strays?” The soldier isn’t tall, but he’s wide and muscular. He has the puffed up look and the aggressive attitude that his Dad told him were the marks of a steroid user. Watch out for them Daric!
The tall man’s face flushes red. “Why do you care what I’m doing Marks? All you’ve been doing is eating and drinking beer. I’ve got an injured child. Now step aside.”
The moment Henry tries to shoulder his way past, the soldier turns his hip and flips him. Henry lands on his back and doesn’t move. Maybe he hit his head?
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Daric feels Tracks’ gentle hand push him
back behind him. He knows the big man is about to do something again. Only this soldier looks every bit as big as Tracks, if not as tall, and is definitely younger.
Tracks is breathing heavier. The soldier must hear him and looks up from the prone figure of Henry. One massive hand yanks the rifle out of the soldier’s hands and the other one grabs him by the throat.
“I developing a dislike for soldier boys,” Tracks says, mouth only inches from the man’s face. The soldier seems completely paralyzed. It’s a mistake not to notice Tracks.
“That man try help the boy. Tracks hurt you bad for that, maybe throw you to the sharks.” The man’s eyes reflect true terror. Tracks drops the rifle, grabs the man with both hands and shakes him.
Someone steps up close to Daric. “Put him down Tracks,” the person says, and then Daric realizes it is Bronte. Bronte has his big pistol out. “I’ll watch him while you take Daric inside. Go ahead, let him down.”
Tracks gives him a final shake and lets him go. The soldier’s legs buckle and he falls to the ground beside the man, Henry. Tracks kneels and gives Henry’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Mistah Henry! He be okay, Bronte?”
Daric notices that Tracks looks truly worried for the man who tried to help them. Bronte is kneeling beside the man now. He reaches out and touches the man beneath the chin, somewhere on his neck. “He has a pulse Tracks. Help me lift him and we’ll take him with us to see the doctors.”
Tracks brushes Bronte aside, then lifts Henry onto his left shoulder. As a group they cover the last few feet and enter the medical tent.
Something doesn’t seem right. A portable light is lying on the floor and the room looks torn apart. Daric hears himself gasp. Four people have a fifth person pinned and they are…
A hand covers his eyes while another yanks him off his feet. Bronte whispers in his ear, “Hush.”
Bright flashes of light flare from behind Bronte’s fingers, followed by several gunshots. Someone snarls like a dog. Some other people begin to scream.
“Run Bronte, Janice! I’ll follow!” shouts Tracks in his strangled voice.
“We must get to the boats,” a voice shouts, seemingly in Daric’s ear. Bronte’s hand falls away and suddenly Daric has a chance to see what’s going on. Janicea is just ahead of them running, and people are all around them, all trying to force their way down the stairway to the water.
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Daric wonders why they are all so afraid now. Bronte is holding him against his chest with one hand, while the other has the pistol. I must be getting heavy. Bronte doesn’t seem to notice. Janice stumbles on a body at her feet, but manages to keep her feet with a quick lunge. Bronte stops, looks around. The way to the staircase is blocked. At least fifty people are struggling with each other. Daric catches a glimpse down the causeway that leads to the Pier. The rain is making it hard to see far because it keeps getting in his eyes, but it looks like a solid wave of people are making their way toward them.
Dead people.
Daric wants to scream.
“What do we do Bronte?” asks Janicea. “All I can think of is to either
go into the Pier or try jumping the wall and swimming?” Bronte keeps looking at the press of people trying to get to the stair and the people beyond. He looks like he’s calculating or something.
“Let’s get Tracks and we’ll look for another way down. Maybe we won’t have to jump.”
M OST OF THE ROOM IS IN DEEP SHADOW, except where some light still filters in from the eastern-facing glass patio doors. He wonders if the power is out. There is no light coming through the window of the door to the kitchen. Nobody waiting in line to get inspected either.
Outside he hears the rain pick up, pattering on the roof and the metal tables. A little gust of wind rattles the building.
He takes a step or two toward the kitchen. Draws up short. Can feel the hair on the back of his neck and on arms stand up. The oh-so-wise little voice in his head speaks up. Don’t go in there Chandler! You go in there something bad is going to happen for sure.
The gun is in his hand. He’s not sure when he pulled it out. The hammer is thumbed back. He gathers his courage.
The rain gusts a bit harder. “Hello,” he hears himself say, barely above a whisper.
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No answer.
Clears his throat noisily. “Hello,” this time a bit louder. Hears a very distinct thump.
Something clatters onto the kitchen floor. Clipboard maybe? “Hello!”
Becomes aware of his own uneven breathing, rasping in and out.
Feels blood racing through his body. Fresh sweat mingles with the rain in his hair, the salt in it stinging his eyes. I don’t need this. Light flashes through the patio doors.
The doctor is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
SOMEWHERE OUT THERE beyond the darkness that he hides in, he can hear a distant voice screaming. Sometimes he thinks he hears his name, but most of the time it is just the sound of misery, pain, suffering—madness.
He drifts in and out. A voice close by: “Maybe Webby hit him too hard… you think?”
Another voice sounding agreeable: “He was bleeding pretty bad. Maybe his brains are all scrambled?”
“You must be finished with the bitch?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cause you’re over here asking dumb questions. Sometimes you really get on my nerves Monk!”
Finished with the bitch? What the hell does that mean? Only one way to find out.
Sam cracks his right eye open. Just a flutter really.
I’m still in the car! Slumped over and bleeding pretty bad, but alive! I wonder if… he feels around the steering wheel column. Yes! The keys are in the ignition.
Through the driver’s side window he sees a hairy guy wearing black jeans, combat boots and a white wife-beater undershirt. Guy must be going for the Wolf Man look. His brown hair is past his shoulders and he has muttonchops. Hair is visible from either the front or the back of
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his T-shirt. He has a vacant look, almost as if he’s switched off. “I’d swear she started to like it, Tim,” he says to the other guy, who isn’t in Sam’s view.
“Trust me Monk, none of them really like anything you give them. No matter how enthusiastically. Now just shut up will ya!” says Tim. “Take her off the back of that car and come help me.”
“Help you do what, Tim?” Monk says, over the shoulder. Sam watches him turn and disappear. Unless he sits up straight he won’t be able to see over the windshield.
“I may have to cut the rings off this woman’s hand. I can’t get any of her rings off.”
Sam sits up in the driver’s seat. The pain is bad, but manageable. Tim’s head is just visible in front of his car but he’s looking away over toward Monk.
Make a quick plan and go for it. If the car doesn’t start, I’m probably a dead man.
Sam turns the ignition, hears the engine turn over and floors the gas pedal. Tim stands up halfway and takes the hood square in the chest. He disappears followed by a couple of thumps. Sam spins the wheel, trying hard to line up with Monk who is running toward a small body on the trunk of a car.
—Natalie’s nude body, bent over face down on the trunk of an Oldsmobile. Why doesn’t she move?
Rage mounts within him like a pot boiling over.
Monk dodges around the car and in his panic runs out onto a large empty section of parking lot. He seems to be running toward Sears. Sam notices three people outside the service entrance: Kathy, Adam and another one of these creeps! And, that creep is pointing a gun.
Make it count. Don’t die a loser.
A heartbeat or two later Monk falls in front of Sam’s car and the left front tire rolls right over him from buttocks to head. Sam manages to maintain speed and needs only a slight correction of the steering wheel to line up on the back of the man holding the gun on Adam and Kathy.
“One more guy,” Sam murmurs. He can feel dried blood on his face crack
and flake off. “One more and my work is done here.”
Sam pushes his foot to the floor and the engine roars. The last guy, some freak in a trench coat, turns almost in time to avoid being hit, but the bumper catches him with a crunch that tosses him against the wall. There is a fleeting glimpse of Adam and Kathy, then the tires strike the curb and the car flies up and over onto the sidewalk.
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At over seventy miles an hour the car plows through a light pole and into the glass doors to the mall.
An explosion follows.
SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE a small anguished voice shouts: “Mom!” Soaking wet and out of breath, Trish stops behind a hedge. No telling
where the voice came from. A block over to her left maybe? A child’s
voice certainly. The falling rain is muffling all sound. The light is fading
fast. She is close enough to the high school now to hear occasional shots,
but no sign of anyone living.
Just a vast gathering of the dead; a mostly silent mass hunting the
still living, breathing minority. The odds of surviving are too long. She
realizes no safety will be found here. A side street, one lane each way,
beckons to her with only a few of the dead ones wandering about. Might
as well. She jogs left and onto the center of the road.
The houses are all single story, block houses built in the fifties as
vacation houses or veteran housing. Two bedrooms and one bath. Not
many garages. No imagination or eye toward beauty. Small yards with
minimal landscaping and almost no trees. Lots of cars, though. What do I do?
True darkness is about to descend on St. Pete, the type only familiar
when the power goes out.
Not the time to be looking for a place to hide. Oh God. If I can find a rock, I may be able to break into a car. Tire irons
always kill people in the movies. Don’t think I’m up to another drive at
night, but I’d sure like to find a flashlight or a gun—or both! She makes her way into the yard to her left. Everything is masked
by darkness. Finding a rock will involve stepping on one.
I need a better idea.
There are some lights from the yard of a house at the end of the
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