“But not the part that counts,” he says and stands up quickly.
Her reaction is immediate and obvious.
“Bastard!” she shouts, voice hoarse with rage and hate.
“HEARD ANYTHING AT ALL from anyone lately?” Anton asks. The pretty young clerk looks up at him and shakes her head. “Maybe they’re all dead? Maybe if we brought a regular TV or radio in here from the break room?”
“That might make us more depressed. Maybe when Debbie comes back you can go get a TV or radio. Anything’s better than sitting here listening to a dead channel.”
“That’s true.” A police van is backing up to the number two loading bay. Anton watches one of the mechanics from the Motor Pool climb out of the passenger seat and use hand signals to guide the van into the recessed bay. “Say Amy, isn’t that Debbie’s boyfriend Larry out there?” he says over his shoulder.
“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” she replies.
“Don’t bother, I’m sure it’s him. We need more people here anyway. Hopefully they have some supplies.” From this angle, Anton can’t see the door go up, but he does see the van begin to back in. “His card worked.”
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“They should have called,” Amy says right near his ear. She has nice eyes and a nice smile, but is way too young and too skinny for his tastes. Still, he does love the close contact that this job demands. None of these women are repulsed by him.
“Maybe they tried. Who knows? Power’s out all over town.” Anton glances at Camera Sixteen and freezes. It’s mounted outside and is focused down First Avenue North, looking toward downtown and the bay. A mass of people are marching like a dark tide toward them. They should reach the Station in about eight or nine minutes judging by how fast they are walking.
“What’s wrong Anton?” she asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They’re coming this way. Look at them, like a dark tide of death.” “Should I call Sergeant Gransky?”
Anton can feel his heart rate pick up. His mouth has gone dry.
“Gransky’s an asshole. He’s no leader. I think that cop that just came in is Dodd. He’s the one that went AWOL after that Domestic last night. He’s always seemed sorta flaky to me. What Larry sees in him, I’ll never know.”
“I almost filed a complaint on that Dodd guy two or three weeks ago. He’s real grabby.”
Despite himself, and the growing mess outside, Anton can’t resist. “What do you mean?”
Amy grimaces, apparently reliving the memory. “I was bent over digging in a file cabinet when he walked up behind me and grabbed a handful—And not just of my ass. He palmed me.”
“Jesus. What made him think he could get away with that?”
“Debbie and Larry were joking around as usual, you know how they flirt. Dodd has been hounding me to go out on a double date with them, but I was being nice each time I refused. I’m new here. He must’ve mistaken my nice refusal for being hard to get. I slapped the hell out of him when he grabbed me. Nice went out the window. At least he doesn’t like me anymore.”
“That may or may not be a good thing,” he says, looking at the bleak look in her eyes.
Her expression softens a bit. “So be it, Anton. Don’t worry about me. We’ve got bigger problems right now.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
THE URGE TO REACH INTO HIS POCKET is almost too much. There is too much going on. Dodd can feel how easy it would be to unravel right now. Too many what ifs are hanging over him. What if Larry can’t get the van in? What will Mitch do if he thinks he’s been double-crossed? Thank God that janitor is here to provide a distraction. If everyone’s focus was on Dodd right now, he might go berserk.
Both Debbie and Dennis are hovering over the little guy. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, maybe stop by dispatch,” Dodd says and runs his card through the scanner. Neither of them look up, but the janitor is giving him a hard look. What’s that about? The little shit couldn’t possibly have a clue. The door slides open. Dodd enters the elevator, hits the button labeled ‘Three’ and slumps against the wall. He rubs his sleeve on his forehead and across his drenched scalp. I feel dirty, both inside and out. How did I end up one of the bad guys? Easier maybe? When the rules get thrown out the window people make it impossible to play fair. The worst though is when no one backs you up. That damn Patterson and Talaski let that piece of garbage wannabe slap me around.
He imagines walking up behind Talaski, gun in hand.
The elevator stops and the door slides to the side. He steps onto the short green carpet, worn smooth by a wheelchair tires. Damn stuff always reminds him of a miniature golf green. The dispatch switchboard, an array of phones and several desks and chairs take up most of the room. And right behind it, through an enlarged doorway, is the Security Room. Dodd forces himself to run, even though he’s pretty sure almost nothing can go wrong at this point. He pulls his gun, scurries around a desk and there, framed in the doorway, is Anton sitting in his motorized wheelchair with a puzzled look on his fat face. One hand is holding a phone to his ear, and the other is in his lap. Dodd notices with a laugh that a dinner napkin and sandwich are on his lap also.
“Always hungry, eh Anton?”
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“What are you doing in here with your gun drawn James? There’s no trouble here.”
Dodd levels the gun. “Hang up the phone, Anton. Do it now!”
Anton hangs the phone up, but his hand is now jittering, and his tiny eyes are open wide, almost comically in contrast to his bloated round head.
“What do you want, James? I don’t want any trouble.”
“Override the system to evacuate mode. I want all doors unlocked.”
Anton clenches his teeth. “Those things outside can get in if I do that. Have you looked outside lately, James? Have you?”
“Streets were clear when I came in. Don’t bullshit me Anton. I’m dead serious right now. I’ll kill you if I have to.”
Anton looks like he’s thinking hard. Sweat rolls down one doughy cheek. Or is it a tear?
“You got a count of three, then I’m going to shoot you in the knee cap or something. I’m going to hurt you.”
“Wait! Make me a promise, and I’ll do as you ask.”
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m pointing a gun at you.”
“Promise you won’t hurt her.”
“What? Hurt who?”
“Promise me.”
“I don’t hurt women. I promise. Now, do as I ask!”
Anton punches a series of buttons on his keyboard. His hand hovers over the ‘enter’ button. “You sure you don’t want to re-think this? The doors will unlock if I do this—And there really are a bunch of zombies outside.”
“Do it. I’ll let you turn it back on as soon as I can.”
Dodd watches him push the button, then steps over behind the big man so he can see the computer screen.
When he does, he notices a number of things. Chiefly that a certain desk clerk named Amy is kneeling behind Anton—Hiding. The second thing is that the locks have been disabled. All doors should open normally now. The third is that there are indeed a large number of zombies surrounding the building. Even now, one is pushing his way into the reception area downstairs. Dodd watches the stunned expression on Debbie’s face. He can almost hear Dennis scream, but all the same, the man does stand up and draw his gun. Debbie is frantically pushing the elevator button as Dennis shoots wildly.
Finally, he watches that janitor, Blake, stand up and enter the elevator. He manages to pull Debbie in with him, but Dennis either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He looks a little preoccupied.
“Don’t worry Anton,” says Dodd. “Just keep the bitch away from me, and she has just as good a chance to live as you do.”
Both of them look like they’re in shock. Let them think about that double meaning. Both of them quit watching the lobby drama to see what he is doing. He pulls a small walkie-talkie out of his pocket and switches it on. “All clear Mitch. All the door
s are unlocked.”
“We’re all in this together, James,” says Anton. “We could’ve worked something out. Those things are actually getting inside now.”
Dodd shakes his head. “Nah, somebody would have spooked. It’s better this way, and it’s not like we don’t have plenty of guns, eh?”
“Oh my,” says Amy.
Dodd bristles, instantly angry, assuming she is commenting on his remark. Without thinking, he points the gun at her. She doesn’t notice. Her attention is riveted on the lobby. Blake and Debbie must have got away. Dennis is backing up, fumbling with his gun, trying to reload. Four or five dead people have shoved their way inside and are grabbing for him.
Dodd shrugs. “Why get upset? All jerks should die like that.”
THE WIND SWIRLS WITH MISTING RAIN and something is burning. There is just enough wind to blow smoke toward the west, into the city, but some reaches him. He coughs. The smoke has a chemical smell. Graham’s legs are aching with an antsy feeling.
“Where are you, Louie?” Graham says to himself in a whisper. The soldier wasn’t at his post when he returned. Now Graham is torn between simply heading for the boat or going to look for people. There is a major fire not far away, along with a lot of gunfire. Occasionally bullets sing past, but apparently not aimed at him.
“Be smart and get on the boat.” His voice sounds ragged, probably hoarse from shouting and toxic smoke even at a whisper. The dock gate is still open, only now the planks are slick with rain.
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It’s pathetic, noble and sad, but I have to at least look for her before I get on that boat. Otherwise I’ll always wonder.
He starts walking toward the Pier’s approach. His path leads him around the restaurant and away from the water. A small, jam-packed parking lot stands between him and the approach road. There is an open view of the park that lies beyond and the hellish slaughter that has overtaken the area since he left. Thousands of the walking dead are pressing down to the Pier. Sporadic gunfire and an occasional explosion tears into the group, but doesn’t stop them. And then, it looks like the Vinoy is burning. At the very least, the shops and homes across the street from it are engulfed in flames.
Graham leans against the restaurant wall. A clattering noise in the parking lot causes him to raise his rifle. Someone curses in a low-pitched voice, “Goddamned beer can.”
A group of eight to ten people is rising up from underneath the parked cars and heading his way. Apparently they don’t see him. He’s struggling with whether he should speak up when he hears a familiar voice say, “Be quiet.”
“Fugi, is that you?” he says, before he can stop himself.
“Who’s there?” hisses Fugi’s voice.
“It’s me, Graham, you remember—the dead guy.”
Fugi chokes back a laugh. “We grabbed some other people to go with us. You still coming?”
Graham thinks quickly, eyes on the massed dead, and the slim odds of finding anyone alive. Goodbye Shaunna.
“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here.”
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THEIR BACKS ARE AGAINST THE METAL HANDRAIL and she is huddled next to him. A soft lavender scent envelopes him that is pleasant. Quite the opposite of the trim, athletic Dr. Bastrov, but he isn’t choosy. Her lush figure feels wonderful everywhere it is pressed against him.
“Someone unlocked all the doors,” Debbie says to him in a breathless voice. “I’ll just bet that Dodd guy is behind it. Poor Dennis.”
“Maybe he’ll get away.”
“The worst part of it, Mister… ah, Blake, is that those things can get in now. We’re wide open. Unless we reactivate the system soon, this place will become a deathtrap.”
“What can we do?”
“I know,” she declares, suddenly sounding relieved. She reaches behind her back and fiddles with something attached to the belt around her waist—a cell phone. “I’ll call Nick.”
He wants to ask, but decides to wait. Meanwhile, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open on the second floor.
“Hold the doors, Mr. Blake. I need a better signal.” Debbie steps into the adjoining corridor. Blake pokes his head out and sees the same old familiar closed doors, benches and plaques covering the walls. The carpet on the floor looks like something from the eighties and the lighting is low enough to give the place a sad, neglected air.
Debbie stops a few feet away. “Nick, oh thank God! Listen, I’m in trouble down here at the station. Can you help us?”
The doors start to close but retract when they bump into Blake. He sways on his feet, feeling the need to lay down somewhere. The danger is all that is keeping him awake.
Debbie returns the phone to her belt. He can see in her expression that she isn’t happy. “He’s near the Vinoy. He wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to get back here or not.”
“Looks like we’d better go try to turn the locks back on ourselves.”
He’s not sure, but she might be grinding her teeth.
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“TRY THE COUNTY-WIDE EMERGENCY BAND AGAIN,” says Mills. “That’s it, right there.” Kathy turns a dial and stops when he tells her.
Just a hint of static, but no voices. Dead air.
“Here, let me have the mic,” he says and she hands it to him. “Dispatch, this is Engine Three, Azalea Station, do you copy?” More dead air.
“Dispatch, Engine Three, Azalea Station, over.”
“Everybody’s dead,” Kathy says in a little voice. “Oh God, this sucks.
What are we going to do?”
“All it means is that no one is monitoring calls right now. That is
bad, but…”
The truck is idling at the intersection of Tyrone Boulevard and 9th
Avenue North. To their left or north of them is the Tyrone Gardens
Shopping Center, and to the right is a couple of businesses, small one
or two story office buildings.
“I think we should go to the Police Station,” says Mills. “We did talk
to someone there earlier.” He wants to calm Kathy down, but isn’t sure
what to do. For lack of a better idea, he leans over and takes her left
hand in his right.
THE CIGARETTE DANGLING FROM HIS LIPS is almost too much. He must be hoping for a tough guy image, but is falling far short. He’s probably a few years past his thirtieth birthday and is wearing khaki shorts, a Tshirt and some deck shoes. A Tampa Bay Devil Rays baseball hat is in one hand and the gun, a revolver, in the other. He must be all of five and a half feet tall. His fine hair is long, both back and front and swept
back away from his forehead.
“You can get up anytime now, darlin’. It’s safe now,” he says with a
Midwest accent and a slight slurring of his words.
Trish gets her knees under her and stands back up. “Are you the
little girl’s father?”
“Naw, I’m just a friend of the family. Name’s Watkins.” He shoves
the pistol into the front of his pants and then extends his hand to shake
hers. Just watching him do that leaves her stunned, but she manages to
shake hands.
“I’m Trish. Is the girl okay? I tried to help her, but she locked herself
inside the house when I got close.”
“She was out? Wait’ll I tell Paula. We told that girl to stay inside ‘til
we got back.”
You did leave her all alone. Happens every day, just like it used to
happen to me. Short of kidnapping the girl what can I do? I may not
even be able to help her. “Well, as long as she’s safe, I think I’ll be on
my way.”
“You sure? It ain’t safe out here.”
“You aren’t safe in there either.”
“If you want, I’ll give you the key to the house next door. A Canadian
owns it and nobody’s there right now.”
This offer
stops her in her tracks.
“I mow their lawn and trim the shrubs while they’re gone. They
give me a key just in case. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll be back.” He
grins half-heartedly.
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“I’d like to take you up on that, but—”
He nods. “I understand. Well, good luck to you.” “I appreciate the offer and thanks for saving me.” “Not sure if I saved you, but maybe I did. Take care.”
THE DOOR AT THE BOTTOM IS LOCKED, but no match for Tracks. One shot from his shotgun destroys the handle and lock and the door is easily pushed open. All the horrible sounds that were muted inside the building come back now and echo off the water here under the Pier: gunfire, screaming and shouting.
They come out of the stairwell onto a large floating dock. It’s the type that has no pillars, but it is tied off at each corner to give some stability. A pile of flattened cardboard boxes is stacked haphazardly on the dock right next to a moored powerboat with a small pilot house. An old man is standing on the boat, facing toward them, one hand braced on the Pier’s bottom above him and the other holding a pistol.
“Who are you people? What are you doing down here?” “Steady there, sir,” says Bronte. “We’re just looking for a place to hide. Things have gone to hell up there.”
“Is that right? It sure sounds that way too. From what one of the soldier boys told me, I thought they were going to start loading people on boats.”
“What about the cruise ship?” asks Janicea.
“I think she’s full up. They’re just waiting for a few bigshots now.”
Daric notices that the man isn’t pointing his gun at them anymore. His tanned face is weathered like old leather but he looks like a nice man, always smiling with his eyes and his mouth. He’s wearing shorts and an old blue button-up shirt that is open almost to his belly, revealing a mass of tangled gray hair on his chest. The hair on his head is roughly the same gray-white color, but is tousled almost as if he never combs it.
“So what are you doing, sir?” Daric hears himself ask.
The man looks embarrassed. “I was sort of waiting until the last moment. I was going to rescue as many people as I could when the last boat leaves. Of course, when the tide comes in, I’ll be forced to abandon my hiding place.”
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