by White, Ben
"Maybe they're internal 'light wells' or something," Bailey whispered. "The earthquake wasn't strong enough to affect them."
"It was wind, not an earthquake," Imogen said, finally annoyed enough to correct Bailey. Bailey stared at her as they walked along.
"Wind?" she said, finally. "Wind did all this?"
"Apparently."
"But that's ... that's so ... just wind?"
Imogen was silent. Bailey started chattering again, going on about how amazing it was that wind could do this and where could wind like that have come from and maybe it's all these weather control things everyone's doing now and I read an article and my friend says and—
"Mall," Imogen said, cutting Bailey off. There was a familiar-looking concourse ahead, almost identical to the one on the floor above—although in an even greater state of mess.
"Oh my God," Bailey murmured, as they neared it. She laughed nervously. "Um, do you need to pick up anything?"
Imogen was silent—she could hear a low swishing sound. The kind of sound, she thought, made by a zombie walking through piles of clothing. There was purring, too, distant but present.
"Let's not go in there," she said, stopping. Bailey stopped beside her, eyes wide as she listened, then she nodded emphatically.
"This is the wrong part of the complex anyway," she said. "We're on completely the wrong side, the convention was in the south and east parts, we're in the upper part of the west side. Upper west side, haha, um. Um, the northern part of the west side. You know what I mean. We have to kind of head along and then down, I mean I guess we'll have to cross this mall eventually but it'd be better to do it further down. Um, I think, anyway, I don't know. Um, maybe this way?"
They found another corridor to walk down, one that Bailey felt confident would lead them towards the convention area. At least her sense of direction seems good, Imogen thought, as Bailey blabbered on about how strange it was that there weren't any zombies here, not even any dead bodies—
"They probably ran away once the winds started to pick up," Imogen said. "People were smart enough not to stand around gawking while the glass blew in."
"Oh. Maybe. Um, maybe through here? I'm almost certain this will lead us pretty much directly to the convention area, with the booths. Once we're there we'll be able to easily find the cosplay hall."
The new passage Bailey had picked was narrow, with doorways on either side, most of the doors ripped off by the wind. Imogen eyed it doubtfully, but didn't complain. Bailey walked on the left side of the corridor, Imogen on the right. She kept her eyes on the open doorways as they passed—inside were long, narrow rooms with chairs and podiums, all in states of horrendous disarray.
"—so really it seems like such a coincidence, if winds like that came and then people started coming back from the dead right afterwards, that can't just be an accident, right? The winds HAVE to have something to do with it, maybe it's a virus or something that was CARRIED by the winds and they AIIII!"
Imogen jumped at Bailey's sudden, piercing shriek, looked back to see bone claws around the girl's arm, a zombie reaching forward to grab at her head, at least two more behind it—they'd been in one of the rooms on Bailey's side of the corridor.
"IMOGEN HELP ME! PLEASE!"
Imogen hadn't hesitated; as soon as she'd seen the zombies she'd turned and started hobbling away as fast as she could, leaning heavily on her metal pole as she went.
"NO! NO!"
Bailey's defiant yells became panicked sobs and then shrieks of terrified pain. Imogen tightened her mouth and kept her eyes fixed forward—except to glance in the doorways she was passing—and tried to ignore what she was hearing. Soon the narrow corridor ended, opened on to a wider thoroughfare, and the sound of Bailey's death faded behind her.
Imogen stopped, her breathing shallow and wheezy, looking around—this was the mall concourse again but much further down, near to the wide, shattered window. There were more than a dozen zombies nearby, most of them already lurching towards her, the nearest less than a dozen metres away. Imogen stared at it for a full second before she thought to move, putting her hand against the nearby wall and limping along beside it, away from the window—there were two zombies ahead of her, but going into the open would mean she'd be surrounded in a matter of seconds. Except then she saw the crawler, partially hidden beneath a pile of clothing, clawing its way towards her, further blocking her path, and Imogen froze, just froze up, because there was nowhere to go, no safe path, no clear exit, she couldn't even go back out the way she'd come in, they'd be on her before she reached it—with a shuddering breath Imogen forced herself to move, every second she stood still was another second the zombies had to close in on her, and so she gripped her metal pole tight and hobbled straight towards the zombie ahead of her, the one near the wall, and once she was close enough to hear the zombie's purring over the roar of blood in her head she planted her good foot firmly, raised the pole, and pushed it against the zombie's chest. The zombie purred at her, its arms outstretched, but the length of the pole meant it couldn't reach her, not nearly. Imogen breathed out in relief—mindless, she thought, not smart enough to grab the pole. With a firm shove she pushed the zombie over backwards, to fall against the ripped clothing and burst boxes and other junk littering the floor.
Imogen regained her balance and resumed limping forward, around the fallen zombie as it clawed at the air. The other zombies were closer now, she'd lost precious distance by pushing the first over—can't afford to do that again, she thought, as she changed direction to avoid a crawler. It moved fast, faster than she'd predicted and that changed things, meant she had to move as quickly as she could towards the centre of the mall, there was a zombie to her left—no, two, one walker and one crawler, they're easy to miss with all this junk on the floor, four to the right, two behind—
Just keep calm, just don't panic, Imogen told herself, and somehow this wasn't difficult; her mind was clear, a cold tingly feeling spreading through her body as she limped forward, glancing around as she went, marking the zombies, calculating their speed—
Once more Imogen changed direction, heading directly for a zombie to her right, there were four there but widely spaced, there were clear metres between this one and the others and if she could knock it down ... Imogen raised her pole as she walked, hopping forward to thrust it against the zombie's chest, using the resistance to steady herself before it fell backwards—she hopped again as it fell, keeping her pole pressed against its chest, leaning heavily on it, if it slips I fall and I'm dead, she thought. Do NOT slip.
It didn't, and if she'd had the luxury of freedom Imogen would've taken a relieved breath. She did not have this luxury, but the path was clear now, there was a corridor on the other side of the concourse, not so close but without any zombies around it, and Imogen hobbled towards it as the zombies purred around her, the closest a comfortable half-dozen metres away and moving slow—these clothes and things are more of an obstacle to them than they are to me, Imogen thought, as she glanced to her left to see that one of the more distant zombies had fallen—and she saw something else, something odd, there was a group of them against the far wall, clustered together and facing each other as if in conversation—
Imogen forced herself to look away from them, to glance around again, to check that none of the zombies near her were moving faster than before or lunging forward, and she was coolly pleased to see that she was gaining distance, she was quicker than them even with her injured foot, all she had to do—
With a surprised choke Imogen fell forwards, her left foot caught, and she grunted as she hit against the ground, her pole falling beside her, and there was a horribly close purr as the grip around her ankle tightened—she reached out to retrieve her pole then twisted to look at the crawler that had grabbed at her. It was still hidden under a pile of clothes, just its arm visible, then it pulled hard and suddenly its head was there, and its body was revealed—no, its lack of body, there was nothing there, just part of a torso
and one arm and—and it can't do anything, Imogen thought, twisting again to pull herself away, dropping her metal pole so she could use both hands to drag both herself and the zombie clinging to her foot forward—thank GOD for my boots—and she could hear the others now, their soft purring, but even crawling and hauling two-fifths of a zombie she was faster, just barely but that was enough—
Imogen felt a sudden tightness in her chest and a jolt up her spine as a low, crackly howl came from the zombie gripping her ankle—the group of zombies against the wall began shambling towards her, they were coming at an angle but with the zombies behind and to her right it meant that she was trapped, truly trapped. Imogen looked back for her pole but it was too far behind now, and around her there was nothing, nothing but useless, useless piles of clothes, no good to her, no good for anything except for wretched stinking horrible crawlers to hide in—the zombies all around were getting closer, like a net growing tighter and tighter, she couldn't bear to think about how many, and she wondered if they'd just kill her or if they'd eat her and she found herself hoping, hoping desperately that they would tear her to pieces, that they would leave no trace of her, just as long as I don't come back as one of them ...
Imogen hadn't even been aware that she was grasping through the piles of clothes but suddenly there was something hard beneath her hands, something long and thick, and she jerked it free of the pile. She almost laughed when she saw what it was, as the zombies drew ever-closer.
Oh, a cardboard tube, she thought, that's just great, that's just perfect.
As the purring around her grew louder Imogen found herself twisting, found herself driving the tube down against the crawler's head. It was wearing a hat, Imogen vaguely realised, a ridiculous purple hat with cat's eyes on it, and as she watched the hat fell to the floor, to be lost amongst the scattered, dead clothes, and again she drove the cardboard tube against the zombie's face, and again, and again, the other zombies were so near now, one nearby fell—no, it didn't fall, it lurched forward to grasp at her, its claws scraping against her side, Imogen didn't even really notice, she was too busy screaming angry defiance as she drove the half-wrecked cardboard tube against the crawler's head, and its grip weakened, just for a moment but that was all she needed, her wildly flailing foot got free and the zombie that had lurched at her was grasping for her arm but too late, she was already reaching up, another zombie had come near and was clawing at the air above her and she grabbed at its voluminous blue trousers and yanked hard, grabbing with her other hand to pull herself further up, it was trying to claw at her but before it could get her she had her good foot planted and she was shoving it as hard as she could, it was falling backwards and there were no more zombies behind it—
Imogen screamed as her head whipped back, her hair caught, for a moment she kept her footing but then she fell, heavily, a clawful of hair ripped from her scalp as she crashed to the floor, and they were everywhere, above her and around her, the crawler and the lurcher both scrabbling towards her and even the cardboard tube was gone now, had dropped from her hands, and there was nothing. Nothing.
She was blinded, first. Her sight was what they took before anything else. My eyes, Imogen thought. They clawed my eyes out. There was no pain, except in her foot and up her leg. It felt like it was immersed in water that went boiling hot and then freezing cold and then boiling hot again, and there was pressure, pressure from above, but a soft pressure, a comforting pressure—
It was the sound of her own gasping, whimpering breath that brought Imogen back into herself. She was crawling through something—through the clothes, the piles of clothes all around, and through the clothes the zombies were trying to claw her, to get to her, but the layers were too thick, they couldn't scratch through, a claw scraped against her boot but that was all it was, just a scrape, and now she was moving forward, arm over arm, coughing and wheezing and close to throwing up as she forced her weary body forwards, blindly, desperately, no other thought than to get away ...
It wasn't just a bump on her head; Imogen slammed into the wall. Her teeth clamped down hard on her tongue and she made a pathetic blubbering sound as she reached up, tried to get a grip, any kind of grip, anything solid, and the wall was there but it felt so slippery, almost wet, but somehow she found traction enough to get herself to one knee, and from there she hauled herself to her feet, or foot anyway, her good foot down, her bad foot up, just off the ground, and she was leaning hard against the wall, crying into it, she wanted nothing more at that moment than to just stay there, the wall so cool against her cheek, but then she was moving again, pulling herself along as the purring from behind grew louder and closer—a glance back told her that the zombies were all behind her, all clumped together now, a dozen of them, two dozen, so many she couldn't help but let out a burble of uncontrolled fear, and she pushed herself along the wall as fast as she could, as fast as her good leg could take, it was already aching, aching and burning and pulsing with the unfair effort she was demanding of it, she tried to make herself go faster but she couldn't, she just couldn't, and the zombies were still behind her, still keeping pace, and sometimes she was a little faster than they were and sometimes she wasn't, and sometimes she gained, and sometimes they gained, and slowly everything melted into a horrible nightmare, this endless wall under her hands, these endless zombies behind her, this endless concourse designed by some sick madman, when does it end? When does it ever end?
"WHO DESIGNED THIS GODDAMNED PLACE?"
There was no answer. Yelling drained Imogen still-further. She had nothing left. Nothing left to give and yet still the wall stretched onwards, still the zombies kept coming, not just from behind but from ahead too, dozens more, they all knew her, they all wanted her, and she knew then that they would never stop, that they would hunt her forever, that it didn't matter what she did, where she went, who she was with, they would find her and they would touch her and they would turn her into one of them—
Imogen was beyond reaction when her hand passed through the wall and she fell into some kind of corridor, crawling now on her hands and knees, forcing each movement, there were doors along the walls, doors ripped open, rooms beyond, rooms containing things, Imogen didn't even react as a zombie lunged at her from a doorway, just kept crawling, and it was too far away, so far away, joining the dozens and dozens behind her as they funnelled into the small corridor, all of them purring together, all of them intent on catching her and sinking their claws into her back, any second now, any second now I'm going to feel them, I hope it's quick, I hope it's so quick, they'll claw out my spine and I won't feel anything and they'll surround me and make me nothing ...
Imogen was barely thinking now, as she crawled endlessly onwards, delirious with exhaustion and fear, the fleeting, dreamlike notions going through her head scattered and broken: zombies bite. Makes new zombie. Zombies eat. No new zombie. Do they know? Do they choose? When will they stop? When will they stop?
The impact was hard and jarring. Comics, Imogen thought, peeling herself off the floor. More comics. She was aware that she was crying now, as she kept crawling forward, hands and knees slipping against the loose pages covering the floor, and she fell again, her teeth clicking sharply together as her chin connected with the ground, and once more she picked herself up, once more she crawled forward, and behind her there was a horrible thudding sound, something new, some fresh terror, thudding and thudding and thudding—
Imogen realised she was looking back, that she had stopped crawling, that the zombies behind her were having as much trouble with the comics as she was, that they were slipping, that they were falling, and when they fell they fell back against others, and they fell too, and something else, something even more amazing, she'd gained distance on them, they were a few dozen metres behind her, I'm faster than them—
Crawling is faster than limping.
Imogen wanted to hit herself in the head. Of course it is. Of course crawling is faster than limping, of course it's easier—I know this place. I
know this place!
Surrounding her as she crawled forward were piles of white cloth and heaps of ruined comics and dozens of long metal poles—but I don't need one of those, Imogen thought happily, I can crawl! I can crawl and zombies can't, not as good as me, I know I've been thinking of the ground ones as 'crawlers' but really they're more 'draggers' and—
I know this place, too!
Imogen's elation faded in an instant as she took in the sheer number of zombies around her. There were dozens behind, following her. There were an impossible number ahead, waiting for her. This was the wide room used for the cosplay competition, now apparently Zombie Central. The nearest turned to regard Imogen with bulging, dead eyes, then it began lurching towards her. Cursing herself for crawling like this, Imogen dragged herself to the nearest wall, I can't do anything on my hands and knees, I'm useless down here—and the following zombies were behind, and more zombies in the room were taking an interest in her, and she had nothing, nothing at all, not even a weapon—
Except then she saw it.
Blurred.
Distant.
But absolutely present—and in an area that was miraculously clear.
With her face blank with exhaustion and shiny with sweat Imogen pulled herself up against the wall then turned, and she glanced around for the slightest of moments before shuffling forward, towards the zombies that shuffled towards her, too many to even count to both the left and the right as she moved between them, forcing herself onwards, her focus absolute, her goal clear, and their grasping claws did not touch her, and when they lurched forward she was already gone and they fell hard against the floor, and then she was there and so it was, and she let herself fall to her knees, and her hand slid around cool, hard wood, and she used her fresh hope to push herself up, its blunt end against the floor, her full weight on her good foot.