by White, Ben
"It'll help keep the glove on, stop complaining."
Zack shut his mouth, shooting glances at HopeKiller as Imogen cocooned his hand in the thick white bandages. After they were secured she limped away, to the far side of the room, where she'd spotted several lockers while fetching the bolt thrower. They weren't locked, and inside was just what she was looking for.
"Im-o-gen!"
Imogen ignored her brother's protests as she dressed him in the overalls—they were far too big for him, but with the legs and arms rolled up and secured with safety pins they fit well enough, and they were tough and thick.
"This is terrible," Zack muttered.
"You wanted a new costume. Now you're a maintenance worker." Imogen lit another cigarette, inhaling as she eyed Zack. "You look adorable."
"I don't WANT to look adorable—"
"Shoes next."
It took three pairs of thick woollen socks to get the heavy workman's shoes to fit.
"I feel like an elephant," he complained as he stomped around. "And it's HOT and it's ITCHY and why aren't YOU putting any armour on?"
Imogen didn't reply, just picked up Zack's right glove and then took hold of his wrist. It fit snugly with the bulky bandages around his hand, and he winced as she tightened the strap.
"Awww, not the helmet!"
"Do you want a zombie to eat your brains?"
"It doesn't even FIT!"
"It's good enough."
Zack grumbled as he put on the loose helmet, then shrank away as Imogen reached forward—"I can do it myself, your fingernails scratch!"
Imogen allowed her brother to tighten the straps, and after checking them conceded that they were adequate.
"Sit here," she commanded, after Zack was properly dressed. "Don't move. Not at all."
"Huh?"
"Just do it, Zack."
Imogen grabbed HopeKiller from the bench and limped back towards the side of the room, half-smoked cigarette tight between her lips. The lockers weren't the only things she'd noticed while fetching the bolt thrower.
He was lying against a bench, both legs clearly broken. It wasn't clear where he'd been scratched, or bitten. He had on overalls, like the ones Zack now wore, and a grubby brown baseball cap. Caretaker, Imogen thought, as the man slowly raised his head—and became an 'it'. Yellow and brown ichor dripped down its cheeks and its eyes were crusted with brown gunk, but they weren't yet bulging out. Its fingers were whole and undamaged, not yet bone claws. As she raised HopeKiller Imogen found herself wondering why the flesh of the fingers was so often gone, whether it was part of the zombification process or simply a natural consequence of clawing and dragging; maybe dead finger flesh was just that weak.
I suppose it doesn't matter, Imogen thought, and as the zombie raised a shaking hand towards her she swung HopeKiller down. There was a shivery impact as the shard's edge cut through its wrist, and the zombie's hungrily twitching fingers twitched no more. A blunt swipe against the side of the zombie's head sent it slumping to the floor, the impact dull and hard, and Imogen spat the stub of her cigarette at it before gripping HopeKiller tight with both hands. The zombie tried to pull itself around, its left hand useless even for dragging, and its right hand clawed upwards at nothing before suddenly spasming and going limp, HopeKiller's edge slicing easily through tight muscle and tendons. Imogen put her hand out to steady herself against a bench, looking down at the zombie's feeble struggles. It could still bite, she thought. But it can't move. Cripple the arms and they can't do much at all.
"Whoa."
Imogen glanced back, irritated, to see Zack staring past her at the twitching zombie.
"HopeKiller rocks," he said, grinning up at her. Then his grin faded, as he glanced back at the door, and the thudding and scratching that Imogen had been quite successfully ignoring for the past quarter-hour or so came firmly back to her attention. "Imogen, how are we getting out?"
There were two other doors in the room, one in the left wall and one in the right, but both were locked. The door back into the garage was the only exit.
"I mean, even with that—"
A piercing, wild, desperate howl suddenly erupted from the zombie Imogen had crippled. Imogen flinched, and Zack said a word Imogen wouldn't have credited him with even knowing, and the thudding and scratching from outside redoubled in strength.
"Stupid," Imogen muttered, low enough that Zack couldn't hear, and she limped away from the zombie she'd crippled, past her brother, to lay HopeKiller down on the bench of its birth.
"Zachary," she said, her voice quiet. "I need you to go to the door."
"What—"
"I need you to do exactly as I say. Go to the door."
Zack obeyed his sister hesitantly, edging towards the door as if it could spring open at any moment. While he moved, Imogen hefted the bolt thrower and pushed the frame away from its end.
"When I say 'go'," she said, "push back the bar lock and push down the handle, then run to your left, to the end of the room. Do you understand?"
Zack nodded, eyes wide.
"Tell me what you're going to do when I say 'go'."
"Push the, um, the lock and o-open the door, then run."
"Run where?"
"To the end of the room."
"Which end?"
"The one without the zombie."
Imogen smiled thinly as she limped to the end of the workbench, pushing down the desire for another cigarette, ignoring the itchiness in her chest. She put down her good foot and leant back against the bench, bracing herself, the heavy bolt thrower solid in her hands. The door was less than two metres away.
"Go."
There was a clack, and a thud, and Zack scrambled back and twisted to get onto his hands and knees, his breathing heavy and panicked as he crawled for the far wall.
Outside dozens of zombies had been pressed against the door, pushed in by the dozens behind them, and the sudden release sent one falling hard against the concrete floor, cracking its skull, purring violently as those behind it surged forward
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
Needle-thin bolts capable of penetrating wood, metal and concrete thudded into the zombies, the impact not enough even to send them stumbling back. Imogen took a short breath and kept pulling the trigger, it fired slow, at least half a second between bolts, and it wasn't doing anything, they were still coming—
There was a crash as Imogen dumped the bolt thrower, cursing herself for an idiot—oh, of course, she thought, attack the zombies with a bolt thrower, THAT'LL work, attack the zombies that don't feel pain and which can't be damaged with a glorified nail gun, Imogen Shroud is just SUCH a smart girl—
"Zack, to the back wall!" she called, as she started to limp back there herself—then stopped, grabbed HopeKiller, glanced to judge, and turned to head towards the left wall, where she'd left the crippled zombie. Claws snatched at her but she leant to avoid them, and now the zombies' numbers worked against them, those at the back were crushing those in the middle against those at the front and several had already fallen, those that were inside the room bumped and jostled by those behind—
"Imogen!"
"Just stay there! Don't say anything! Get up on the bench and don't move!"
Imogen slammed the blunt side of HopeKiller against the wall and floor as she limped along, glancing back every few steps to check that the zombies were following her. Ahead was the crippled zombie, lying forward now, its mouth opening and closing against the floor, and as she neared it let out another howl. Imogen let herself smile, just for an instant, then limped past the zombie to the far corner, then to the wall opposite the door—
And stopped. She leant against the narrow bench there, then pushed herself up to sit on it. The zombies were still spilling into the room, the flow sluggish but constant, and with a neverending source—
Except not neverending. How many were out there? Imogen guessed that there weren't many more than a hundred. This room was shallow but wide. You could easily fit a hund
red people in here, she thought, as the first of the zombies reached the corner and turned to lurch towards her—it caught itself on the bench and stumbled, then fell, collapsing to the floor. Behind it was a line of zombies, two or three thick, stretching to the door, all of them following the same path. Imogen glanced to her left, saw that Zack was where she'd told him to be, on the bench, feet pulled up to be off the floor. He was looking at her, so she pointed to herself, and then to him—he started to crawl along the bench towards her, at which Imogen let out an irritated breath and shook her hand hard.
"Just stay there," she muttered, before raising her voice—I want them to come towards me anyway, she thought—"I'm coming to you!"
Zack nodded and stopped where he was, still on his hands and knees on the bench. Imogen glanced back at the zombies, several were around the corner now, just half a dozen metres away. Others had started to come up the other 'alleys', between the benches. I can afford to wait, she thought. I have a few more seconds. In preparation she let herself down off the bench, gently lowering her good foot to the ground, and she grimaced at herself as she realised that if she'd been thinking she could have moved the benches, made a real maze for them—even blocked off the ends to pen them in, she thought, as the nearest zombie purred and swiped at her, and she started to limp away. With her left hand on the bench she could move quite quickly, but she chose not to, keeping just a few steps ahead of the zombies as they purred and wiped and lurched and fell—they were coming from her right as well, up between the benches, and still more flowed in from the open door. Imogen found herself counting them, as she made her way towards her brother, as slowly as she dared, three dozen, four dozen, five dozen, six—she was halfway across the room now, she could see through the door, there were more zombies out there but not many, and behind them it was clear, utterly clear—
"Imogen, I get it, I get what—"
Imogen just shook her head at her brother and pointed down, and he hopped off the shelf to take up position beside her. She'd sped up a little in the second half of the room, and there was a comfortable gap between them and the zombies behind—but still more were coming from the door, Imogen and Zack were halfway down the side of the room, but—
"Zack, listen to me." Imogen's voice was urgent but not scared. "We're going to climb over the benches. All we have to do is get that doorway clear, you understand? All we have to do is get all the zombies out there into this room and away from that door with a clear path for us to get to it. They'll just keep coming towards us, they're not smart enough to try to trap us, all we have to do is keep enough distance between us and them and we'll be okay, do you understand? Distance is everything, distance is all that matters—Zack, do you understand?"
"Yes, Imogen." Zack smiled at her, a small, brave smile. "That's the most you've ever said to me."
Imogen didn't smile back. "Come on, then."
Although Zack climbed easily over the bench, Imogen had trouble—even with her brother's help she found it hard to get up, and by the time she carefully lowered her good foot to the ground on the other side they'd lost more distance than they could afford. Zombies were crowding in along the gaps between benches and at the sides of the room, and hollow doubt filled Imogen's stomach as she struggled to climb over the second bench—
"They've stopped!"
Zack's shrill voice made Imogen look up—he was right, no more zombies were coming in from the door—but if we can't get to it, Imogen thought, glancing around at the zombies surrounding, then none of this matters.
Except ...
Imogen pulled Zack back off the third workbench, pushing HopeKiller into his gloved hand before taking hold of a broken air conditioner. It was heavy, almost too heavy, but with a deep grunt she raised it up and flung it forward, sending it crashing against the zombie at the end of the gap. The impact was enough to send it falling back, against the zombies behind it—another fell and those that didn't stumbled, and already Imogen was grabbing another big hunk of plastic and metal, a heating unit this time, and once more she hurled it at the zombies, knocking more down—it didn't clear the way, but just slowing them, just slowing them could be enough—
"Imogen!"
Imogen looked back, saw what Zack was warning about in an instant, and the next air conditioner slammed into the zombies at the other end of the gap—wrong place, Imogen thought, I should've done this at the far end, got them all bunched up—
She winced and pushed Zack forward over the bench—while she'd been messing around throwing things the zombies in the next gap had closed in, it was too late to climb over—
"Stay near this side," Imogen said, struggling to get up behind him. "They won't be able to reach over."
"But—"
But what next, Imogen thought, shutting Zack up with a hard glance as she got up onto the workbench, on her hands and knees. The ones over there can't get us. But once the ones on this side get close ...
"Zack," Imogen said, her voice low. "Look. Down the end. There's going to be a gap."
Zack nodded, his young face serious. The zombies were moving up and around, and no new ones were coming from the door, and those at the other end of the room were too far away—
"Go now," Imogen said. "Look, there's the gap, go!"
"But you—"
"NOW, ZACK!"
Imogen snatched her bat back from her brother and shoved him forward, but he didn't run.
"No, come on!" he said.
"I can't run, you have to—"
"NO!" he yelled, grabbing for her wrist—she easily shook his hand free but he grabbed again, tugging. "Together!"
Imogen didn't have time to argue—the zombies were already closing. She swung HopeKiller at the hand of the nearest and sliced through its palm, then let Zack tug her forward, limping after him along the middle of the bench. Zombies grasped at them from both sides, claws scraping against the leather of Imogen's boots and the hybrid weave of Zack's work shoes—too far, Imogen thought, too far to grab, they can only—
She grunted and struck back with HopeKiller, nearly severing the hand that clutched at her, the fingers fell loose and she pulled herself forward, letting out a groan of pain as she put her injured foot down to steady herself—looking ahead she saw that the gap was still there, but just barely—
"Jump! Zack, JUMP NOW!"
To Imogen's relief he did, leaping forward between the hordes to the left and right, there was a crawler near the doorway that reached up as he stumbled towards it, but Zack leapt once more, clearing the zombie and disappearing through the open door.
Imogen could only glance up to see her brother's escape—as he'd leapt another zombie had grabbed at her right ankle, jarring her brace, and as she'd pulled her foot away the brace had come loose—it was still attached to her boot but now dangled free, a nuisance rather than an aid, and she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but balance there on her left foot, zombies all around, the gap was gone, Zack was gone, and more claws scraped against her foot, and one hand scrabbled for a grip and found it—
Imogen hurled herself forward. Her right foot pushed against the wood of the bench with a blinding, gut-twisting burst of pain, and then she was falling, the concrete floor coming up to meet her—
Cold agony ripped through her arm. Her right leg pulsed with burning pain. HopeKiller skittered across the floor, fallen from loose fingers. Sudden pressure against her left leg told Imogen that a zombie had lurched forward to fall upon her; others would follow, she knew. I don't have to do anything, she thought. All I have to do is lie here. No more choices. No more pain.
Imogen Shroud chose to die.
Half of the lights weren't working properly. They flickered and buzzed with an angry, disapproving noise. So what, they said. You expected us to work? Why should we? What have you done for us lately?
Except that made no sense. The winds didn't reach the parking garage. All of the cars here were fine. The doors weren't ripped off their hinges. And the zombies down here were more i
ntact than those up above. Why would the lights be broken? Why would they refuse to work properly?
The alarms had stopped. The car alarms. How long did it take for that to happen? Or had someone switched them off? But who could do that? Who would do that?
Still there was the purring. It echoed from everywhere, cruel in its constancy.
"—so get UP, get UP!"
Imogen blinked, aware suddenly that her eyes were open. There were lights above. There were cars around. The angle of everything was far too low.
"Come ON, get UP!"
Her left leg was raised. I don't remember doing that, she thought.
Then she saw Zack, saw that he was holding her by the leg, saw that he was dragging her—
"Zack," she mumbled, pushing herself up—he dropped her leg to grab her arm, helping her. "I—"
"We have to keep going!"
The purring came mostly from behind. Imogen looked back to see the horde behind them, spilling out of a distant doorway. The room, she thought. The workshop. How did I get out?
"Imogen!"
Zack's urgent voice brought Imogen back to herself—and brought back awareness of the pain in her leg and her hand. Mostly in my leg, she thought, as she stared distantly at her palm. This isn't so bad.
"Imogen!"
With her brother's help, Imogen got up onto her feet—or foot, anyway. The plastic brace dangled irritatingly from her right boot, no use at all. It was only with Zack's support that she could walk, slowly moving forward, easily outpaced by the zombies behind them.
"They're getting closer," Zack said. "I went in and I grabbed you and I killed that one by the door, I got HopeKiller and I hit it and it was trying to get me but I got it! Just like you did, I hit its arms and it couldn't grab me, or you, I mean I had to drag you out past it, it even tried to bite you but it couldn't, then ... then ..."
Imogen saw that her bat was sticking from the bag Zack carried.
"And these yellow arrows, these arrows show the way out, so if we just follow them, all the zombies are behind us, well most of them, I saw a couple but not close, so we just ... we just have to get out, right? We're almost out, Imogen! We just need ... to ..."