by White, Ben
"Come on," said the boy, shaking his sword at Imogen. "Give us that bag."
Imogen stared up at him, then looked at the girl, then she pushed herself up with the aid of her broken mop handle, and she spoke, a single, flat word:
"No."
"GIVE IT!" screamed the boy.
"There's plenty more in there," Imogen said. "Go and get it yourselves."
"Just give us the bag," said the girl. She had an accent, maybe American.
"Why—"
"IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD! JUST GIVE US THE BAG!"
Imogen stared at the boy, then she put her weight on her good foot and whacked him in the face with her mop handle.
"OW!"
"Grow up," Imogen muttered, as she turned to go, before grunting and falling against the side of the store as the huge sword slammed against her. It was made of plastic and light for its size; being forced to put weight on her bad foot hurt Imogen more than the impact.
"JUST GIVE—"
The boy stopped as the girl tugged on his arm. She pointed—not far away, emerging from a side corridor, was a zombie—a girl, her arms dangling at her sides, her head drooping down, wearing a 'sexy' nurse outfit. Her left eye was bandaged, as were her arms and one of her legs.
The boy and the girl exchanged glances, then turned and started walking towards the zombie.
"What are you doing?" Imogen asked, despite herself. The boy and girl stopped and looked back at her, their expressions identically confused.
"Killing it," said the boy.
"Why?"
"Because ... because we HAVE to kill them," said the girl.
"Why?"
The boy and the girl glanced at each other again.
"The more we kill," the boy said, as if explaining something utterly basic to someone irredeemably stupid, "the better we'll get at killing them."
Imogen had already turned to limp away, shaking her head. She heard the two behind her exchange low words, then glanced back after a few more steps to see them attacking the zombie.
An hour, Imogen thought, as she limped down a side corridor. I give them an hour before they're both dead.
The corridor Imogen had chosen was decorated with a mural along each wall, bright, blocky figures dancing amidst the abstract towers of an arabesque city. Its meaning was lost on Imogen. She was more interested in what lay ahead; a wide 'main' corridor. The blue carpeted floor was covered in glass and comic pages—but not many, Imogen thought. There weren't many in the mall area either. I'm away from the convention area. I'm going in the wrong—
Purrrr.
She'd been pretty, once. Even in death she wasn't as grotesquely deformed as the other zombies Imogen had seen—at least, her face wasn't. Her body was studded with shards of broken glass, mostly in her right side. She was standing here when those windows blew in, Imogen thought, as she watched the zombie turn towards her—it was a few dozen metres away, alone in the corridor. It had on a pink and purple fairy princess costume, the wings torn to shreds.
Young, Imogen thought. Small.
And then, as the zombie shuffled towards her, Imogen added one more descriptor to her list; quick. The zombie wasn't close to running, but it was clear that it could move faster than she could limp.
Imogen had a few seconds before the zombie was close enough to attack her, which she spent limping over to the broken windows. They stretched from floor to ceiling, had made up the entire right-hand wall of the corridor, and looked down onto a small internal courtyard, two floors down, once filled with trees and bushes and benches, now filled with nothing more than broken glass, splintered wood both natural and processed, and a generous scattering of brightly coloured comic pages.
The girl was close now, purring low and constant as she shambled towards Imogen, her head cocked to the left, her mouth open wide, her arms outstretched. Her hands weren't claws, Imogen noticed. Her fingers were intact. Imogen didn't spend any time pondering the significance of this, instead braced her good foot, raised the broken mop handle, and pressed it against the girl's chest.
Quick, Imogen thought, as she tried pushing and the girl stumbled back, but light.
It took effort and patience, and several times Imogen hissed in pain as she was forced to put too much weight on her bad foot, and the way the plastic mop handle bent was quietly terrifying, but eventually she managed to push the zombie to the gap at the side of the corridor. With a final grunt of exertion and a heavy push, she sent it tumbling backwards. It made no sound as it fell, but there was a solid 'thud' upon impact. Imogen limped to the edge to look down, and was gloomily unsurprised to see that the girl was already trying to get up, apparently undamaged by the fall.
But she's out of my way, Imogen thought, as she turned to limp away. That's all that matters.
The blown-in glass walls ended soon enough, replaced by brown walls with moody concept lighting—still intact, Imogen noted. As she walked she noticed an increase in scattered comics, and piles of white cloth—the covers from the booths, she realised, after passing a couple. Which means there should also be—
Imogen froze, kneeling, her hand outstretched to pick up a thin metal pole; the support for a booth. She shivered as she heard it again, a wet, crunching, slurping sound. There was no need to crawl forward and look down the side corridor to know what it was, but she did so anyway. Two zombies were there, one kneeling, the other sitting with its legs outstretched in a way that might have been comical if it wasn't for the fact that both of them were feasting on the body of a large man.
So they do eat corpses, Imogen thought, as she crawled backwards towards the pole, her eyes fixed on the zombies—who seemingly hadn't noticed her. Or maybe they just don't care. They've got a big fat guy to eat, why would they want to attack me?
Imogen's hand shook as she grasped the metal pole. It was thin and long, a few inches taller than she was, and it didn't seem especially sturdy—but it's better than this useless bit of plastic, Imogen thought, as she discarded her broken mop handle with something resembling satisfaction.
Imogen made her way past the feasting zombies as quickly and quietly as she could manage, walking made easier with her new metal pole. The corridor stretched further ahead, but she felt somehow compelled to take the next side passage she found—this one was short, leading to an open area with bench seats arranged around the edges. They were bolted to the floor, like all of the benches in the complex, and hadn't been moved by the wind. Also untouched was the large, rounded sculpture in the middle of the room—it was made of a rough, yellow-white stone, vaguely resembled a feminine humanoid reaching for the sky, and was one of the ugliest things Imogen had ever seen. Above it the room extended through the upper floors to terminate in a glass dome, which had, predictably enough, shattered in the winds. Everything was covered in glass, including the benches. Imogen spent a minute picking a space clear, then sat down with a little puff of weary relief. The seat was hard and comfortable, but as soon as Imogen's legs were off the ground they began to ache. She contemplated having a smoke, but decided against it—not that she didn't want one, but the effort involved in reaching into her pocket, getting out her lighter and the pack, taking out a cigarette etc. just seemed like far too much of a hassle. Instead she let her eyes close and her head fall back.
And almost instantly opened her eyes again and looked around, because the sound coming from the corridor to her left couldn't have been anything but a zombie shambling over broken glass.
Imogen took hold of her metal pole and used it to push herself to her feet, wearily and reluctantly. Before the zombie even came into sight she was limping towards the corridor opposite, the corridor that led to yet another corridor—who designed this place? Imogen found herself thinking, as she squinted to the left and right. It's just corridors and corridors and corridors with no point to any of it.
For no particular reason Imogen chose to head left, staying close to the wall but mostly using the metal pole to support herself. This corridor looked fam
iliar to her—but, she thought, that's probably because everywhere in this stupid place looks exactly the same. There seemed to be more comics scattered around, at least, which meant she was getting closer to the convention area. This is the fourth floor, she thought. I left Zack on the third floor. If I can just—
This line of thinking was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of a still body lying against the wall. It was a man, his bearded face blotchy and red, the blue carpet beneath his swollen right hand made dark by blood. He wore a costume, some kind of orange and black armour. Beside him, presumably fallen from his face, were a pair of glasses, the frames thick and black.
He's still breathing, Imogen realised, after limping a little closer. She steadied herself on her good foot and prodded the man with her metal pole. There was no reaction. She prodded again, a little harder. Still no reaction. Holding her breath, her eyes fixed on the man's still form, Imogen limped closer then crouched down to pick up the glasses. One of the lenses was cracked, but that didn't matter; they didn't fit her prescription. In fact, Imogen thought, frowning as she studied them, I don't think these are real at all. Just prop glasses.
With an irritated tut Imogen dropped the glasses beside the man, then her eyes widened as she noticed what he was sitting on—a crowbar! Imogen was just about to reach out to tug it from beneath him when she realised that, like the glasses, it was fake, nothing more than painted wood. With another tut, even more irritated than the first, Imogen pushed herself up and went to walk away.
"I know, I got excited too."
It took Imogen a moment to find the speaker—she was hiding around a corner, just her hand and half of her face visible. When she saw Imogen had spotted her, she smiled and stepped out.
"Are you bitten?" the girl asked. "Or scratched, even getting scratched is enough. Are you?"
Imogen shook her head.
"I was watching you, you didn't look like you are, but your foot—"
"It's just sprained or something," Imogen said. The girl was pretty, short and slim with an honest, wholesome face and deep brown eyes with long eyelashes. She wore a blue and white schoolgirl's uniform and had a light yellow bag at her side. Her hair was the only thing that seemed 'off' about her; it was short and dark and messy. The girl noticed Imogen looking at it and laughed a little.
"I know," she said, raising her hand to try, ineffectively, to smooth it down. "I was wearing a wig, it probably saved my life, if that thing had grabbed my real hair ..."
"Are you bitten?" Imogen felt she had to ask. "Or scratched?"
"No. No, thank goodness. I didn't ... I mean, I wasn't ..." The girl trailed off, took a wide-eyed breath, then smiled at Imogen again. "I'm ... um, call me Bailey. What's your name?"
"Imogen."
"Oh, cool name. That probably has a cool meaning, right?"
"No. It doesn't mean anything."
"Oh. Um. I'm trying to figure out the best way to say this, or ask this or whatever. Um, just, do you want to travel together? 'Travel', that sounds so lame—it's just, you're the first, um, 'survivor', I guess, that I've seen, the first one who hasn't, um ... you know. I'm making such a mess of this." Bailey looked up at Imogen, hopeful. "So ... do you? If we're together, I mean if we're not alone, then we've got to have a better chance of getting out of this alive. Don't we?"
Imogen had been silent and still while Bailey had talked, but now her eyes went down as she considered the offer.
"I'm looking for my brother," she said, after a few seconds. "I don't just want to get out."
"I'm looking for my sister, too," said Bailey. "Um, she's dressed like a harlequin—um, kind of like a clown, in yellow and black, you haven't ...?"
Imogen shook her head.
"Maybe we could look for them both together? Ugh, now I sound desperate, I just—"
"You're right," Imogen said. "Being together would be safer than being alone."
Bailey's smile was wide and relieved. "Oh, yay. Um, good, I mean. Um, just a second."
She stepped into the corridor she'd been hiding in and came back out with a metal pole—just like Imogen's.
"Snap," she said, holding up her weapon. "Maybe this is 'great minds think alike'. Or just ... grab whatever you can, maybe."
"Maybe."
"Um, do you need help walking? Maybe we should move before that guy, you know—"
"I don't need help. But you're right, we should go. Do you know where the costume competition area is?"
Bailey shook her head as she and Imogen started walking, along the main corridor. "Just that it's on the third floor, that's the one below us. I came up here to buy a bag—this one," she said, raising the light yellow bag by her side. "Then I was going to meet up with Ally later. But then—"
"Are you hungry?"
Bailey nodded. "Very. But—"
Imogen had already pulled a bar from her bag. She held it out for Bailey to take.
"Oh, thank you!" Bailey started unwrapping the bar as they walked. "I'm so relieved that I met you, I was really starting to think I was the only person left in the world!"
Imogen had hoped eating might shut the girl up, but apparently Bailey had mastered the art of walking and eating and talking all at once.
"I was in the bathroom while the earthquake was, um, happening or whatever, I just waited in there until it seemed to be over, then when I went out, well, you know how it is, I mean you can see it now—"
"Wait," Imogen said. "Earthquake?"
Bailey looked at her, cheeks bulging. "Yes?" she mumbled, through a dry mouthful of raisins and honey and oats and nuts. "The earthquake that did all this damage."
Well, if she just locked herself in a toilet the whole time then maybe she wouldn't know it was wind, Imogen thought. She almost went to correct Bailey, then decided she couldn't be bothered.
"Anyway," Bailey said, after she'd swallowed her mouthful, "if we're going to get out we need to head down, and if your brother was at the cosplay competition then that's on the third floor, so what we really need are some stairs. I think there are some up ahead."
Bailey was right; there were stairs just ahead, wide and white and with dozens of zombies shuffling around near the bottom.
"Ugh," Bailey said, looking down. There was one on the stairs, missing a leg and with only one arm. It seemed to sense the two of them because as they watched it reached up, bone claws clutching at the air. This lasted only a second before it slipped and slid down, grabbing for any kind of hold as it went.
"When you see them like this," Bailey said, "they almost seem harmless. Pitiful, even."
Imogen did not even remotely agree, but she said nothing. The zombie on the stairs was trying to pull itself up again, but couldn't get a good enough grip. As if crying out in frustration, it let out a gurgling howl.
"I hate it when they do that," Bailey said, her voice low and heavy with disgust. "It attracts the others, too, have you noticed?"
The zombies gathered below were already moving, the nearest of them stumbling forward against the stairs.
"Okay, time to go," Bailey said—Imogen was already walking away, leaning on her metal pole. Bailey hurried after her. "Don't you think it's weird that there aren't any emergency stairways around here? How did this place pass safety inspections, that's what I want to know. Even when you find one it's always locked up—"
"I think the zombies are attracted by talking, too," said Imogen, in a not-particularly-hopeful attempt at getting Bailey to shut up.
"Noise, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. But I think it's vibration that they respond to more than anything, like walking or moving. It doesn't matter how quiet you are, they still know you're there. Even if they don't have a head!"
Bailey's chattering continued as they walked down the hallway, Imogen wondering whether the usefulness of having her around was really worth all of this annoyance. But I don't have to like her, she told herself. I just have to tolerate her. She'll be useful if—
"Oh, there's one!"
Bailey wasn't talking about zombies; she was talking about emergency stairways. The door was clearly marked and easy to get to—but it wouldn't budge.
"Yep, just like the others," Bailey said. "It's so weird, you'd think after an earthquake they'd automatically open, not automatically lock! Unless someone locked them on purpose, but why would they do that? It makes utterly no sense. Unless there's something jamming it on the other side."
Imogen wasn't looking at the door. She was squinting back along the hallway. At this distance they were blurred, but the way they moved was unmistakeable.
"Oh," Bailey said, noticing Imogen's tense silence. "Okay, let's get out of here. Um, there might be more stairs over this way, maybe?"
It turned out Bailey was right—through a series of short corridors and a large conference room they found another main hallway with another set of stairs—these ones were clear. Bailey helped Imogen down, then both of them stood at the bottom, surveying the state of the third floor.
"This is even messier than back up there," Bailey said. "Look at all these comics everywhere! It's such a waste, I feel like crying when I see them. Not just comics, either, look—those are books, pages from books and the covers, and those are DVD cases and DVDs and games and, oh ..."
Bailey's voice was tearful as she trailed off. Even the window frames here had been destroyed, but there was a sad inch left at the bottom, with a red and gold comic page stuck to it. There was no wind for it to flutter in.
"This really makes you feel like it's the end of the world," Bailey said, quietly. "That all of these wonderful things have been ruined, and it doesn't even matter because so many worse things are happening."
Imogen wasn't really listening. She was looking out the shattered windows, at the sky—it was late afternoon, there were still hours of sunlight left in the day, but eventually, she thought, the sun is going to set and it's going to get dark and these zombies don't need light to find you—
"Let's move on," she said, and Bailey nodded in agreement.
Walking here was even more difficult than up above, and Imogen almost slipped more than once—but Bailey was always there to catch her, to stand her upright with an apologetic smile. Off the main hallway the comic pages and papers grew thinner on the ground, then disappeared altogether as they walked along long, narrow corridors lined with benches and high windows—curiously unshattered.