“So,” he said in his deep, caring voice. “You up for some work? Get that body back into shape?”
Marcy groaned. A frown crossed her lips. “Okay. Sure. I guess.”
She reclined on the bed, shoved the covers off, and felt his strong fingers wrap around her calf. Her gut tingled and she sucked on her lip. She thought momentarily that she should venture inside, get a glimpse of what he was thinking, if he was as attracted to her as she was to him, but thought better of it. That would be an invasion, she thought. That would be wrong. So she simply went with it, allowing him to stretch her sore muscles, bathing in his musky, manly odor.
In time, something in her brain stated. He’ll see it in time.
Marcy nodded, gritted her teeth, and went to work.
* * *
Billy made his way up the service stairway, heading for the roof. He’d left Christopher behind with a group of young people, thinking that if Forrest had something to say, he most likely wanted it said in private.
He pushed open the access door and entered the open air. Forrest wasn’t there, so he tramped across the thin, paved surface of the roof, heading toward the front of the hotel. Sure enough, there Forrest stood, thinning hair blowing in the wind, thick chin held firmly in his hand, staring with interest into the heart of the city. Even at rest, it seemed the retired police officer was a study of obligation.
“What is it?” asked Billy, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.
Forrest turned to him and grimaced. “I don’t like this,” he said.
“And you are speaking of…”
He cocked his head. “You hear that?”
Billy followed his lead. He heard the rushing water of the Monongahela in the distance, the cawing of crows, and behind it all an unusual rumbling sound. He nodded. “I do. What is it?”
“Engines. A few of ’em.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. There was a lot of shooting going on, too—more than usual. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Are the gangs on the move?”
“I don’t know.”
When one terror died off, another rose up to take its place. At least that’s the way it seemed. It had been only four weeks ago at most when he’d stood on this same perch with Forrest and Dr. Terry, gazing down at the undead horde as they stumbled and fell over themselves. They seemed so pathetic at the time, like a pitiable group of lemmings whose legs would no longer lead them to the ledge they needed to leap from. They turned on each other, decaying soul devouring decaying soul, until only a few remained. Those that survived were easily dispatched by Forrest and his men, weak and pathetic as they were.
“Anything in nature can starve to death,” Dr. Terry said, his ancient eyes scanning the scene. “Even the unnatural.” Billy found those to be rather profound words, especially coming from such a stoic, grounded man. That was one conversation he made sure to document.
Cleanup took days, with everyone who resided in the Omni helping to cart away the moldering bodies so they could be burned. When the fires were stoked, that’s when he noticed the other plumes of smoke around the city—dark columns that reached for the sky like giant, mystical sandworms, surrounding them. There were other survivors out there, lots of them from the looks of it. The death of the dead seemed to have led to a rebirth for humanity.
A few days later the fighting began. Pops of gunfire drifted to the Omni, the sound ricocheting off the building day and night. Groups of people dressed in rags began to appear, watching the hotel like vultures waiting to descend upon their weakened prey, each faction bearing different colors. Armed and fearless, the invaders pushed Billy and his fellow survivors back into the confines of the hotel, until Forrest and the other retired officers, using training they hadn’t thought they’d need any longer, threatened—and delivered—extermination upon any who ventured within fifty yards of their castle of steel, brick, and glass.
“The gangs are at war,” Forrest had said. “Each wants to claim territory now that it’s safe to move freely. I can only hold them back for so long. Pretty soon they’ll come here wanting what we have, too.”
Billy sighed. It seemed that even the end of the world couldn’t stop old tensions, old prejudices, old greed, from reemerging. Maybe the slate should have been wiped clean, he thought. Tabula Rasa, start it all again. Then he thought of Christopher, of Marcy, of Leon, of Forrest, of Dr. and Mrs. Terry and the rest of his fellow survivors, of the kindness and perseverance he’d experienced over the last few months, and incinerated that notion in his mind’s kiln. There were people worth saving. He was given proof of that each morning when he woke up. So when someone suggested killing their beacon, Billy said they shouldn’t, in hopes that some lost soul in search of a safe haven might find their way there.
He stepped up to the edge of the roof beside his rigid friend and gazed through the chain-link fence—the only thing separating them from a ten-story drop—and wondered if that was nothing but wishful thinking. The sun baked the city, lifting a haze that formed a liquid curtain over the buildings, both upright and toppled. He heard a sequence of muffled pops, likely the report of a cheaply made automatic weapon, followed by something he wasn’t expecting—a bright flash that momentarily blinded him. He grunted, covered his eyes with his hand, and heard Forrest yelp. A moment later he peered through his fingers to see more of that black smoke rise up in the sky. Someone in the distance screamed, and another explosion came after that. After a prolonged moment of silence, the deep, virtually unnoticeable rumble of engines started again.
Billy peered at Forrest. “I do not like this,” he said.
Forrest nodded gravely. “Like I just said.”
“How far away do you think it is?”
“Not sure. Ten blocks, maybe.”
“What should we do?”
“I have no idea.”
They stood there in silence for a while after that, listening to the approaching rumble and holding their breath. Forrest called down to his buddies, telling them to prepare the SWAT equipment just in case. And when a vehicle emerged from around the corner, just outside the industrial district, Billy’s jaw dropped. It was a camouflaged Jeep, with some sort of cannon mounted on its rear. Two other vehicles followed, one of them a huge—and obviously military—armored box of a thing. He heard voices shouting and hands clapping, sounds that came from below their perch on the roof. He pressed his forehead against the fence, shoving it out as far as he could, peered down, and saw waving hands sticking out of the windows.
The signal had worked. For better or worse, someone had come.
“Oh my,” he said. “Do you presume this is for real? Has the cavalry arrived?”
“I don’t presume nothing,” said Forrest.
“And why is that?”
“Because this don’t feel right. Not right at all.”
Billy agreed, and when Forrest bolted for the door and ran down the steep stairwell he was right on the old cop’s heels.
* * *
The hotel appeared before them like an elegantly dressed monster. It was a huge brick edifice with rows of windows, still intact, that glinted in the afternoon sun like a hundred eyes. The place had obviously been built with elegance in mind, but Cody was amazed at how pristine it still looked, even after the end of the world. And there, on the fifth-floor balcony, the constant strobe of the beacon called him onward.
While Herb drove he looked at the man to his rear, who stood behind the mounted cannon, aiming it at the building, his trigger finger appearing itchy.
“Yo, Davey,” said Cody. “Chill out. Sit down. I think the fighting’s done with.”
Davey passed him an uncertain glance, locked the cannon in place, and slipped into the seat, almost taking a tumble when the Jeep ran over a rather large pothole. He grabbed the cardboard box that had been there and almost dropped it. The cover slipped off.
“Asshole!” Cody screeched. His hand shot back and slapped the soldier. He then snatched the box
while Davey glared at him, holding his swelling cheek.
“Be careful with my shit,” said Cody. “Next time you’ll get more than a slap, you fuck.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” replied Davey, handing forward the box’s cover.
Cody massaged the top of the cardboard square, gazing lovingly at the white-framed squares of happiness inside. He picked up the one on top, a Polaroid photo taken only a few minutes earlier, when a crew of thugs tried to get the drop on them while they crawled through the center of the city. It had only recently developed, and a pair of dead brown eyes stared back at him from the center of a dark face. The spic had thought himself brave, Cody assumed, rushing the Jeep with his cheap-ass Tec-9. Those things were notoriously unreliable, and not a single bullet hit even the side of the car. Cody felled him with two shots, the second of which took off the top of his head, then allowed Herb and the rest of the crew finish off the guy’s friends. He’d gotten what he wanted, after all. Another kill, another trophy. Daddy woulda been proud, he thought. After one final glance at the picture, taking in the red puree that had been the dude’s cranium, Cody placed it back among the rest of his conquests, fastened the lid, and slid the box beneath the passenger seat.
“You think there’ll be anything here worth bringing with us?” asked Herb.
Cody shrugged. “I sure as hell hope so. I don’t wanna be out here any longer than I have to.”
The building grew larger and larger in the windshield. The structure seemed alive, writhing under the sun. A strange noise filled his ears. The closer they got, the clearer both the image and sounds became; a squirming mass of people, hanging out of the windows and standing on the balconies, cheering, whistling, hollering. Cody glanced at Herb and grinned.
“I think we hit the fucking jackpot,” he said.
* * *
Marcy was in the middle of her exercises with Leon when Billy rushed into her room. Sweat covered him, as if he’d just finished running a marathon. Christopher hurried in behind him, flustered as well. The calm she’d been feeling scuttled away from her when she noticed the sobering expression on the professor’s face.
That’s when she heard the cheering. It sounded like the type of thing she’d experienced at the Pitt football games she and her ex used to attend. She glanced all around her as if she’d never seen her room before, then fixed Billy with a cockeyed stare and said, “What’s going on?”
“We have company. I need you downstairs.”
“Why?”
“It looks as if the military just arrived.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” asked Leon.
Billy grimaced. “I would say that depends on what they have in mind.”
Marcy nodded. “That’s why you need me, huh?”
“Yes.”
Just as before, Marcy allowed the men to lift her from the bed. Leon and Christopher left the room while Billy assisted her in taking off her nightgown and then putting on a t-shirt and sweats. Never once did she feel awkward or dirty. She sensed the sincerity in his actions, the lack of sexual energy coming off of him.
From there it was out into the hallway and down the rear staircase. Leon stayed in front of her in case she fell while Billy and Christopher supported her from the sides. Her legs felt more and more like jelly with each step she descended and her feet were numb. Whenever she teetered to the side, though, Billy was right there to support her, lending her his strength, just as he had when together they fought off the demon that haunted her soul.
They reached the lobby and Leon threw open the door. Marcy stared in disbelief at the scene before her. It looked as if everyone in the building had congregated there, and the smell of the unwashed masses—like Polish sausages wrapped in dirty socks—made her nauseous.
She was led to the center of the assembly, where Dr. Terry and his wife stood, facing the doorway. There was an anxious energy about them that didn’t fit with the rest of those in attendance. Marcy tried her best to hold off the onslaught of foreign emotion, but the pressure of it all began to overwhelm her.
“Breathe deep,” Billy whispered into her ear. “Breathe slow.”
She did as instructed, and the pressure in her skull slowly dissipated. She glanced again at the Terrys, attempting to stem the flow of sensation to theirs and theirs alone, and felt paranoia and distrust permeating off of them.
“They don’t like this, either,” she said.
“I know,” replied Billy.
The front door then opened, and eight men stepped into the hotel. They all wore military fatigues, their boots polished and shining, which seemed out of place in the relatively grimy world she’d grown accustomed to. Though the occupants of the Omni tried their best to keep up with their cleanliness, the lack of running water made maintaining proper hygiene an iffy proposition at best. Each of the soldiers also wore a sash—of varying colors—that looped from their right shoulder to beneath their left armpit.
Marcy moved to the side so she could see the men more clearly. They were of mixed age, with the one in front appearing to be no more than twenty years old. He had a head of shaggy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and carried himself with an authority that made her think he was in charge. Those behind him followed his lead, and when he barked at them they listened, which proved her theory. She didn’t like the way he moved, the way his shoulders swayed with each stride he took, like he was some sort of James Dean wannabe. Using the breathing trick again, she concentrated on him, trying not to let in more than she could handle.
She gasped and stepped back.
“What’s wrong?” Leon asked, his eyes wide with concern.
Marcy opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Her vision began to waver, and then there were hands on her shoulders, supporting her, keeping her upright, refusing to let her fall.
* * *
The reception area was packed, and Cody heard Garret Underhill, another of the soldiers under his command, whistle. Garret was always whistling through his teeth like that, but most of the time his reasons for doing so didn’t warrant such a reaction. It was the one thing the guy did that grated on Cody’s nerves, but at least this time the situation called for it.
His eyes scanned the crowd, amazed by not only the numbers but also the apparent cleanliness of the people. Most of the survivors they’d run across during the long trek north had been tattered, starving folk, so filthy he swore he could draw images on their flesh the way he used to on his rear windshield after four-wheeling in the bayou. It was as if they’d become savages, lost touch with the simple traditions connecting them to their humanity. But these people appeared to have preserved their customs—their clothes were relatively dirt free, they all wore shoes, their hair was trimmed and proper, and though a definite stink did fill the room, they seemed to at least attempt cleanliness. There was also another odor lingering just below the pong of body odor, a scent that made Cody grin when it entered his nostrils, for over the last half-year he’d come to the conclusion he would never experience it again.
Perfume.
It was because of this, he realized, that Garret whistled. Not the scent exactly, but the bearers of the scent. Females. Lots and lots of females. Some young, some older, some attractive, some not, most white, some black, and some brown, but feminine nonetheless. Cody hadn’t seen women in such large numbers since the day he’d returned from Afghanistan, when he stepped off the plane and saw the cheering crowd that greeted him and his fellow soldiers. For the first time since he’d seized a young Afghan girl for his own pleasure while crossing through a small desert village (her Polaroid was among the first he’d taken of a person, still stowed away in his box in the jeep; such a sad waste of beauty, he thought), he felt butterflies in his stomach.
Herb sidled up beside him and elbowed him in the ribs. Cody glared but breathed deep, trying to focus on anything but the sea of boobs and vaginas before him. The sea then parted, revealing a distinguished-looking old man wearing thick black glasses, leaning on a cane. A woman
stood at his side, arm-in-arm with him, her face only slightly less wrinkled than the old man’s.
But it was those who stood behind the pair that gave Cody pause. Twenty men, at least, all dressed in navy blue uniforms with holstered handguns on their hips and either rifles or shotguns held firmly in their hands. A quick glance around showed that there were many others holding firearms in the crowd, maybe not as professional looking but still plenty equipped to do major damage. Herb elbowed him again, and this time Cody turned.
Cops, mouthed Herb.
“I know,” Cody whispered out the corner of his mouth.
The old man kissed the woman on the cheek, unwound his arm from hers, and stepped forward. The cop in the center of the pack—a stocky, middle-aged guy with a wide jaw and thinning brown hair—followed him. They approached slowly, measuring their steps while eyeing Cody and his men with caution. When they stopped, giving themselves ample distance, the other cops marched alongside, flanking them. Cody’s finger twitched over the butt of his pistol. These people were organized. They knew what they were doing. If he made a wrong move, he and his boys were goners.
“Hello,” he said.
The old man’s expression remained stoic. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice demanding.
“Sergeant Cody Jackson, Sir,” Cody said, snapping his heels together and shouting as if responding to a drill instructor. “Twenty-third regiment, Alabama Brigade, U.S. Army, Sir.”
Cody grinned secretly as he watched the tough old cop loosen up with his reaction.
The old man chuckled. “At ease, soldier.”
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