Matthew took off and ran through the outer office as the zombie hammered at the door to the principal’s office. He slammed the outer office door closed behind him, then bolted up the hall toward the fourth and fifth grade classrooms, where he’d originally come in. He didn’t know how long the two doors would hold, so he needed to get out of sight as quickly as possible. He headed instinctively back to the classroom he had originally entered from the roof, but just as he reached the door he was suddenly struck by a horrifying thought.
It doesn’t matter where I hide—if they’re in the school, they’ll eventually find me. I can’t hide forever.
He remembered that this classroom—and many other classrooms at this end of the building—actually had doors leading outside. He jumped inside and closed the door to the hallway behind him. Bashing against some desks in the weak light of the morning, he stumbled his way to the back door and threw it open.
Three zombies stood right outside, one of which was so close it grabbed hold of his shirt sleeve.
“No!” Matthew yelled, twisting to free himself from the corpse’s grip. He fought and pulled to get back inside. The other two monsters moved toward him with a dull zeal, their dead eyes seeming to come alive when confronted by the opportunity of cornering live prey.
With a brutal yank, Matthew tugged his shirt sleeve free and fell backward over a chair and desk. He hit the floor violently, almost knocking himself unconscious in the process. He staggered up and got back on his feet as the three zombies picked their way inside. The one closest to him released a dry moan that almost sounded desperate. Matthew leaped away from it and spun back toward the interior door. He pulled it open and darted back into the hallway, rushing headlong into a filthy, stout zombie with a face the color of old newsprint, wide, unblinking eyes like those of a serpent, and a sizable chunk missing its left cheek.
Matthew slammed into it so hard that he knocked it off balance. It stumbled backward and toppled over, but still flailed about in an attempt to get a grip on him. Matthew twisted and squirmed away as the zombie struck the cold, rock-hard tile floor of the hallway head first. Matthew bolted away, running down the hall as fast as he could. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the other zombies from the principal’s office had made it into the hallway. They paid the portly zombie lying on the floor before them no attention whatsoever as they walked right over it, their attention squarely focused on Matthew as he rushed up the hall. Several tripped right over their fallen comrade, causing a minor pile up on the floor. It became more jumbled as the other zombies walked out of that classroom and blundered into the others that were trying to pass.
Matthew pulled away from the group. There was the door at the farthest end of the hall that led out to the playground, and he set his sights on it as his next avenue for escape. His heart sank as he drew near. Visible through the glass some fifty feet ahead, he saw more tottering monstrosities lurking outside. As if sensing his approach, they pressed up against the glass, slapping it with their hands in an attempt to get inside the school. Matthew slowed, despite the grunts and moans from the group behind him. His heart was racing and he was gasping for air. He stood before the door to the playground, knowing that if he threw it open, he was as good as dead.
Behind him the cluster of the living dead advanced toward him. He looked back and saw one of them detach itself from the group and break out into a shambling run. Shards of glass glinted in its skin and hair, and Matthew realized that was the one that had come through the principal’s window. It would be upon him in seconds. His only chance was one of the classrooms, and he charged into the room on his right and slammed the door closed. He frantically shoved desks in front of it, erecting a sloppy and not very formidable barricade in a hasty effort to bar the way. Already, hands beat against the barrier. After moving several desks and chairs, Matthew realized the barrier would not withstand a dedicated attack. Though the zombies were mostly slow and stupid, they had the numbers and infinite dedication on their side. The barricade would only be a minor inconvenience once the door failed. There were no exit doors in this classroom, and the windows were high up on the wall, beyond his reach.
Matthew was trapped.
Gotta get to the windows...
In a burst of focus, he threw his full weight behind the large, metal teacher’s desk, which was thankfully near the far wall. With a squeak of its legs, he pushed it as close up to the wall as he could. He swept the desktop clear in a storm of paper and pens, then manhandled one of the student desks up onto the larger desk.
The classroom door shuddered in its frame as more zombies battered at it.
Matthew climbed up onto his desk contraption, and found that standing on the second, smaller desk would just about get his hands near a window—but not close enough. He needed more height. He jumped down and grabbed a student’s chair and, climbing carefully up on the teacher’s desk, he placed it in the center of the smaller desk. The pounding at the door increased in intensity. The room itself felt like it was shaking from the commotion. The hissing groans from the hallway grew louder and more ferocious. The narrow pane of glass on the door cracked and crazed as dead fists pounded against it. The door rattled harder in its frame.
Matthew managed to climb his way up onto the smaller desk, but his effort knocked the chair to the ground. The sounds it made bouncing across the floor echoed off the classroom walls.
“Fuck me!” he shouted, a phrase he had never uttered aloud before. He jumped right off after the chair and plucked it up from the floor before it had stopped bouncing around. Tucking it under his arm, he fought back up onto the teacher’s desk just as the latch on the door failed with a metallic crack. The door crashed into the barricade, and the moaning howls of the zombie horde seemed to quadruple in intensity as they piled up on the door, pushing it open. Matthew fought to stay calm as the creatures staggered into the mess of desks and chairs forming the impromptu barricade he had erected. Fighting to not rush and lose his balance again, he climbed atop the student desk, working to keep the chair under one arm.
It took a remarkable amount of work to concentrate on his escape, with all the crashing of tumbling chairs and desks by the door. Matthew managed to stand upright on the top desk, and as quickly as he could, he worked the chair under himself. The fear was incredible. His body felt like it was on fire. He struggled to block out the screaming moans as the zombies tussled with the barricade. He managed to get the chair under himself and then kneel on it almost in one motion. He saw how close the window was; it beckoned to him, almost like a siren’s call. But he still needed to stand on the chair in order to get a fair grip to work the window open.
That’s when it occurred to him for the first time that the window could be locked. After all this careful climbing, his entire hope could suddenly be dashed by a simple metal lash that would put a quick end to his escape attempt. The room smelled of death now. The zombies were plowing through the desks and chairs, and it was now only seconds before they would be upon him.
Matthew found himself high above the room now, balanced comfortably on the chair but feeling light-headed in the terror. The din below him had his hands shaking. He grabbed at the window handle and pulled. It was locked. He frantically yanked harder as out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the swarm of dead encircling the desk below.
The window wouldn’t budge.
It was only at the last second that he saw the latch—a small key-like metal piece just above the handle. Had he reached for it with the same hand, he would have plummeted. In that very instant the mob of creatures attacked the desks and chair beneath him and immediately pulled the whole stand out from under him.
Matthew maintained his right hand on the handle, where his index finger was actually looped through a ring-like piece of it. In the very instant he’d used his left hand to unlatch the lock, he suddenly felt himself hanging empty in midair for a strange, eternal moment before his whole body swung out and hit against the wall.
T
he jerk on the window broke it half off the frame, nearly dislocating his finger in the process. Matthew thought he was dead as he heard the terrible crack of the metal and splash of breaking glass that followed. Instead he hung suspended against the wall for a moment, still clinging to the latch and broken window.
As fast as he could, he struggled and kicked against the wall as he hoisted himself up. A multitude of hands reached out for him, and he felt cold fingertips brushing against his legs as he simply struck his feet out against the wall and virtually ran its face, pulling himself with all his strength.
Miraculously, the broken window held. He dashed a hand right through the broken pane, finding a finger hold just outside. The cold, damp morning air breathed down on him, inviting him to freedom, rooting him on as the horde pushed itself into a pack just below him. Greedy arms reached as high as they were able, buoyed by the blood-hungry moans and cries from the mob. The stench of the dead rose up—hot and sour and vile.
It was the wall-mounted bulletin board that helped save his life. The rough cork provided just enough traction for his sneakers to grab hold. Without even realizing he’d done it, he gained a foothold on the ledge at the top of the bulletin board as sharp glass nicked the skin of his hand. Just the same, his spirits soared when he found he was temporarily out of harm’s way. The window was open and, with the space and vantage point he’d gained from the bulletin board, he was able to hoist himself right through the window without a problem.
Then more problems began. As the shrieks of the zombie horde were left behind him, and he climbed out into the open air, he hadn’t even noticed the steep pitch of the roof. He climbed out so quickly that, at once, he was falling and suddenly, swiftly, helplessly rolling down the short, gritty section of roof, head over heels. He threw his arms out to try and stop himself, ripping more skin from his damaged hands.
But it didn’t help. A moment later he found himself falling through the air.
CHAPTER 9
WALLACE AND DARIEN
Wallace and Darien rode on down Sepulveda in the big Ford, weaving their way around stalled traffic and large zombie herds. At times, Wallace would have to nurse the big rig up onto the sidewalks to avoid the twisted wreckage of cars and trucks that had been involved in horrible collisions. More than once, Wallace saw the remains of human beings in several vehicles, people who had likely been pinned in the wreckage when the zombies came at them, devouring them right in their seats. With no chance of escape, they’d become nothing more than selections in a buffet line.
Meals on wheels, he thought.
Wallace tried to avoid striking any more zombies than he had to. The Super Duty truck was already pulling to the right, which told him its alignment had been dinged from previous encounters with the dead. He didn’t want to risk damaging it any further. Being trapped without a ride in Los Angeles was a death sentence before the zombie apocalypse had rolled around, and things hadn’t improved since the bottom dropped out. Having no wheels in the City of Angels was now something of greater impact than a merely awkward social disadvantage.
“You know, this is kind of a nice truck,” Darien said after a long moment. “Though I don’t really like the color.”
Wallace shook his head. “Yeah, okay.” As they drove, Wallace kept a sharp eye out. All he saw were zombies, or corpses that had been returned to death’s embrace. The last living people they’d seen had been that crazy crew that was operating out of the store, several hours ago. Since then, it was just them and the dead.
“I don’t understand. Where is everyone?” he asked.
Darien shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a good question. I mean, I guess people have been evacuating over the past few days, but other than that… I don’t know.”
Wallace grunted. Thousands had fled, of course, in various directions. Many more, he suspected, had simply met horrible deaths before they could escape. Like some terrifying pack animals, Wallace presumed zombies tended to operate in horrendous hordes. From the looks of things, they could mass in numbers that were absolutely astounding, wherein hundreds and even thousands of these creatures had stormed entire city blocks and ravaged the inhabitants in a remarkably short time. The sheer numbers brought traffic to a standstill in many places. People were attacked right in their cars by fearless, unfeeling zombies that broke through windows with their hands and heads and fed on the living. High-rise offices and apartments were stormed by masses of these monsters. People were trapped inside, as if by fire, fighting to try and stop them or else barricading themselves inside as these swarms swept into their buildings, finding any and all living persons in every nook and cranny. Wallace noticed several LAPD cruisers in one intersection, parked as if the officers had tried to make a stand. Hundreds of cartridges gleamed in the sunlight. Scraps of uniforms lay scattered across the blood-streaked street. He slowed slightly as he pulled past the scene, looking for the opportunity to pick up a couple of pistols. However, a score of shambling monstrosities turned toward the truck from their position on a far corner, and that made stopping and searching a no-deal situation. He accelerated away.
And zombies apparently begat zombies. Each person who wasn’t eaten in and around the brain and brain stem would reanimate in a very short time and return as one of the undead. For many people this came as a result of even a small bite or, he believed, a scratch from one of the infected monsters. The disease that was behind this epidemic would take hold of a person in a matter of hours from even a minor cut and then that person would become one of that unholy legion.
“I want to go to the airport,” Darien said suddenly.
Wallace thought she was joking and ignored the statement. She’d indicated before that that had been her intention, but seeing this new, awful world, how she could seriously still be considering that plan was beyond him.
“Did you hear me?” she said. “I want to go to the airport.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting the hell out of this city, that’s why.”
“Darien.” Wallace tried to strike a reasonable tone. “Do you really think there are any planes left at LAX?”
“I’m getting the hell out of here, okay? You said you’d help me get to the airport. We got a frickin’ car, so now I’d like you to keep your word and get me the hell over to LAX.”
“There aren’t—” Wallace stopped himself. “Okay,” he continued. “Okay, I’ll get you over there.”
He glanced over at her and saw the fear and brewing madness on her face. It reminded him that he didn’t know this woman at all, that she could be capable of anything. And the long and short of it was, she was probably interfering with his ability to get to Matthew. So far, she hadn’t done anything that he couldn’t have done himself. It made sense to get her out and away on her own as soon as possible.
But it wasn’t that easy. As they moved northward toward the airport, more and more abandoned cars began to appear on the street. At some point above Manhattan Beach, the flow of abandoned northbound cars filled both sides of the road, coming and going. He was still finding space to drive along, but it was getting tighter and he found he had to pull up onto the sidewalk more often to squeeze by chaotic clusters of damaged or deserted vehicles.
“Look at this,” he muttered, motioning toward the unmoving sea of metal and fiberglass before them.
“Is this the right way?” Darien asked impatiently. “Maybe we should get over to Route 1?”
“I don’t think it’s going to be any better, but… who the hell would have thought that the traffic in this stupid city would only get worse if a zombie apocalypse happened?”
They were both silent for a moment and then Darien started laughing. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Wallace. This is really, really crazy.”
“Yeah, I know. I know.”
It wasn’t but two blocks later that the road did become impassable. The dark picture of the cars jammed into the roadway at all odd angles w
as made even more disturbing by the disarray Wallace began noticing around them. Many of the stores had had their windows smashed in. Sidewalks and surrounding areas were littered with all manner of debris. Piles of trash—baby diapers, food containers, plastic bags, discarded luggage, even lost shoes and strollers lined the sidewalks. It was as if the mass of humanity that had been trapped in their cars took flight on foot instead of waiting for the inevitable to come to them.
Not that it had mattered. On closer examination, Wallace saw evidence of a great slaughter—blood-stained clothes and possessions, severed limbs, and the picked-over bones of what had at one time had been human beings. Flies swarmed, and created sickening mounds of maggots that gorged themselves on whatever dead flesh was left. It was gruesome.
Darien gave voice to his unspoken thought. “Let’s get out of here.”
Wallace stopped the truck and put it in reverse. He backed the truck up over the sidewalk he had just climbed onto. It was then that a crowd of creatures surrounded the truck, surging into its tailgate. Both Wallace and Darien screamed involuntarily as the truck was literally enveloped in zombies. In a span of just a few seconds, at least thirty ghouls surrounded the truck, pressing at every window, climbing in the bed, and bounding up on the hood.
Wallace desperately floored the accelerator even though he couldn’t see much through the rear window other than leering zombies. The truck zipped backwards for fifteen feet before it slammed violently into a fire plug, then wheeled up against the side of a store front.
“Oh my God!” Darien screamed. Her lip had been cut bloody in the jerk of the collision.
Wallace fought to get the truck moving forward again, but while the engine raced, the vehicle didn’t budge. He checked to see if the transmission was in gear. It was. He dropped it through the lower gears, but got the same result. The truck began rocking from side to side like a ship in heavy seas as the corpses attacked it. Wallace feared they might actually be able to overturn the big Ford at any moment. He worked helplessly to get the rig moving again, but it simply wouldn’t go.
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