by White, Ben
"Imogen!"
"I see it."
Zack stumbled under Imogen's weight as they changed direction, the crawler purring as it dragged itself after them—the zombies out here were more damaged than most of those inside, nearly all of them with horrible injuries. The dim light made it difficult to see just how damaged this particular crawler was, but its single remaining limb—an arm—was torn and ragged, flesh hanging in strips, exposed muscles glistening dully.
We should have checked the car, Imogen thought, as she forced her protesting legs to take her further onwards. We should have made sure it wasn't working, it doesn't matter that driving it was terrifying, I should have tried.
Now it was too late—dozens of zombies had followed them out, but many seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the underground. When Imogen had last looked back the entrance to the parking garage had been clogged with zombies, standing there like sentries.
There, she thought, as the glow of a streetlight in the near distance gave her fresh strength. The street. We can ... we can ...
Imogen's mouth tightened. I have no idea. Just getting out of that horrible building seemed like goal enough, but now ...
Even once she and Zack had limped onto the street—mercifully free of zombies, at least in the immediate area—Imogen couldn't see the monorail station. It can't still be operating, she thought. There's just no way. The winds would've ... but isn't that what it's designed for? 'Able to withstand typhoon strength storms', I read that somewhere, I'm sure I did. It might ... it might still be there, it might still be working, and anyway, the station is high up off the ground, zombies trickle down, if we could get up there then maybe we could at least rest ...
"Imogen." Zack's voice was small and tired and utterly earnest. She looked down at him, her expression blank. "Thank you for saving me."
Imogen looked away again. "We should head for the monorail station."
"Oh! Do you still have the return tickets?" Zack cringed at the look Imogen shot him. "Do you know which way it is? I can't even see it from here, I can't even see the track, those buildings are in the way I think—oh wow, look at the sky! Look at the sky, Imogen, look at the sunset! What time is it, do you think? I lost my phone and I always used that so I don't wear a watch, you don't wear a watch either do you? Even though you don't have a phone, Curtis said it's so weird that ..."
Zack trailed off. Imogen knew why. Thoughts of others, thoughts of uncertain fates ...
"Come on," she muttered, pulling at her brother. He trudged along beside her, staring at the ground.
The streets were surprisingly clear—there was glass everywhere, and wrecked cars, often on their sides or roofs, and the occasional oddity like a huge tree upside down in the middle of an intersection, roots sticking up into the air, foliage crushed against the ground, or a stack of three wrecked cars, one atop the other, all of them red, or a mass of brightly coloured balloons, hundreds of them, all caught up against the side of a building. There were few working streetlights but it wasn't night yet, not truly. The sun had gone but its light remained, fading but present.
As for zombies ... well, they were around, too.
"It's much better out here," Zack murmured, as he and Imogen limped down a wide street, away from a small pack of zombies lit by a bent and twisted streetlight. "You can see them. I mean, when they're still ages away. It's not like ... not like in there. Um, Imogen, are we going to your secret underground mall?"
"Maybe."
"Do you think there'll be any down there?"
Imogen shrugged.
"It goes pretty much right up into the station, right? I mean there's just that little, um, that street and then the covered bit and then the station ... Imogen, do you think the trains are going?"
Imogen shrugged again.
"If they're not then how will we get home? Is there a bridge?"
"Of course there is."
"Where?"
Imogen had little idea. On the rare occasions she'd visited this side of town she'd always taken the monorail. She could count the number of times she'd been in a car on one hand—and that included the terrifying escape from the parking garage.
"Over there," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Don't talk, you might attract zombies."
This shut Zack up for a few minutes. This was a business district, the buildings tall and many, wrecked cars banked up against them. In the dimness of twilight everything was grey and blue, punctuated by the yellow glow of streetlights or the occasional gleam through a shattered window high above.
"This isn't the way we came to the convention," Zack said, looking around. "Do you know—"
Imogen shrugged Zack away so she could get at her cigarettes—the faint points of light atop a nearby building had sparked the need for hot smoke. She ignored Zack's pointed looks as she stopped to light up, not getting a flame until click number thirteen. Lucky thirteen, she thought, as she put the cigarette in her mouth.
"They might smell the smoke," Zack said, as they started walking again. Imogen smirked. "It's true, they probably can! They're really good at smelling!"
"How do you know?"
"The ... the others said, Jen and that." Zack fell silent, then glanced up at Imogen. "Do you think—"
"Where's your glove? Where's the bag?"
Imogen had just noticed that Zack was no longer carrying it. He looked away sharply.
"I, um—"
"You lost it."
"When—"
"Forget it. Just ... forget it."
"I ... I'm sorry, I just ... it was when, w-when Aaron got—"
"I said forget it."
Zack shut up. Imogen squinted forward at a distant glow.
"What's that ahead?" she asked. "That light."
"Um, which one? Oh, I see. Oh! Is that an entrance? Like a secret entrance to your secret mall?"
The side of the street here was a wall of sorts, made of tall, wide sheets of sturdy plastic that covered the building. Some kind of construction, Imogen thought. Halfway down the block was the entrance, large bricks painted gleaming black surrounding narrow steps leading down. There was a turn at the bottom. The light from within glowed pale green.
"Um," said Zack. Imogen agreed; the stairs looked deeply suspicious. Maybe the reason there aren't many zombies on the streets, she thought, is that they've all 'trickled down' into sub-ground places like this ...
"Down," she grunted. At the worst we'll just have to climb back up again. Well, no, she corrected herself, at the worst we'll be grabbed by zombies and bitten and then—
"I don't hear anything," Zack said. "Do you hear anything? I don't hear anything."
For once Imogen was glad of Zack's shrill blathering. He was right, too—she couldn't hear anything except for the soft, almost pleasant fizzing of the underground's chemical lights. That doesn't mean it's safe down there, Imogen told herself, as she and Zack began down the steps. It just means we can't hear anything. They don't make any noise unless they're purring or moving. No heartbeat. No breathing.
No breathing ...
Which means no oxygen, Imogen thought. Without oxygen, how can their bodies work? Muscles need oxygen—but wait, they don't have blood, just that thick awful brown muck. That doesn't flow, it oozes. Even if they breathed, there's nothing to get the oxygen to their muscles or organs—if they even have organs. But they can move, they're still strong ... their muscles work without oxygen. How can that be?
And part of her said, they're monsters, they don't need to make sense.
And part of her said, there's no such thing as magic.
They were almost at the bottom of the steps now. The pale green glow felt welcoming to Imogen, familiar and soft.
The short passage beyond was narrow and low. The lights above glowed strong. Graffiti halfway down, scrawled in black marker: SHE'S LYING BIZCH.
It could be red, Imogen thought, as they shuffled past. We'd never know.
The thoroughfare itself was empty. Utterly still. The only
sound was the gentle fizzing of the lights.
"Um," Zack said, then put his hand over his mouth. His voice had been low, but still sounded too loud in the empty stillness. He whispered: "Which way?"
Imogen was looking up and down the thoroughfare. Every shop was shuttered here. There were no signs of the wind; nothing to blow around. Except there aren't any cigarette butts lying against the walls, Imogen thought. That's the only difference.
She started walking, Zack beside her, to the left. Naturally they gravitated to the middle of the thoroughfare. The floor was tiled; wide squares that only appeared to be green. The walls were the same, between dirty, graffiti-covered shutters. So was the ceiling, where it wasn't covered with the wide, flat chemical lights.
The shuttered stores ended. Slowly, the thoroughfare narrowed.
Eventually they turned right into a passage. It ramped down and then up and then down again, and then it levelled off. On the walls, every seventeen steps, were frames, gold-edged. Most were empty. The posters in those that were not were old but not faded. They advertised movies that hadn't been in theatres for years. Movies that everyone had forgotten.
The passage split in two, left and right. Imogen guided Zack to the left. Three minutes later they emerged into another thoroughfare, and Imogen breathed out in relief as she recognised a particularly virulent piece of graffiti.
"Left," she whispered. "We're almost there."
The ceiling felt lower here, the walls closer. The thoroughfare dipped down and then went level. To the sides were shuttered stores. Those few that were open were a mess, still lit by bright electric lights but empty of people. Zack and Imogen kept to the centre of the thoroughfare. They didn't go near the shops.
Except one.
"Is this—" Zack stopped and winced, then tried again, lower: "Is this the same shop—"
"Yes," Imogen murmured. She was limping around the counter. Behind and beneath were seven long cartons of cigarettes. One was open, five packs missing. She looked back into the shallow depths of the shop, at the mess of clothes—not just clothes.
"What's that?"
"Your new bag," Imogen said, putting it around Zack's neck, over his helmet. The bag was long and dark red with black flames. It wasn't quite leather. It contained exactly fifteen hundred cigarettes.
Zack's eyes were wide as he looked inside.
"Come on."
"We can't eat those."
Imogen let out a snort. "You could try."
They started walking again, Zack shifting and squirming to try to get the bag comfortable.
"It's heavy," he complained. "It's too big."
Imogen said nothing. Her skin was tingling and her heart was beating fast; she'd heard something up ahead. It wasn't footsteps and it wasn't purring. It had sounded like the squeak of a chair being pushed back. Her eyes were wide as they continued forward, HopeKiller held tight.
The voice was low and warning, clear in the silence of the underground:
"Keep your distance."
Imogen felt Zack jump under her arm; her own reaction had been more controlled. Sitting behind a counter, visible from the bare chest up, was the tattooist who Imogen impersonally knew as 'Jigsaw'. He was bald and broken-toothed and had most of his body inked with thick black jigsaw pieces. From what little Imogen had heard about him he had a reputation as a gentle giant, of a fierce appearance disguising a friendly nature.
This was not now evident.
"Don't come closer than that." Jigsaw's voice was calm. "I'm not threatening you. Just being careful."
"We won't come closer," Zack said, nervously. "We're just—"
Zack squeaked as Imogen pinched his shoulder. She inclined her head at Jigsaw.
"Don't stand up," she said. "We're just walking through."
"To the station?" Jigsaw asked. He seemed to have relaxed—a little. "Think it's still there?"
"I hope it is," Imogen said. "It's worth trying."
Jigsaw nodded. "Maybe. That your brother?"
"Yes."
Jigsaw nodded again. "Good. You two okay? Not bitten?"
"We're not bitten."
"If that's true then I'm glad."
"It's true."
"Maybe." Jigsaw raised one shoulder then the other, working stiff muscles. "You've been up on the streets?"
"A little."
"Anyone around?"
Imogen shook her head. "Just zombies."
"Zombies, huh. That what you're calling them?"
Imogen said nothing. Jigsaw smiled thinly.
"Okay," he said. His eyes went to the weapon held tight in Imogen's hand. "Nice bat."
Imogen's silence continued.
"I'm waiting here for my daughter," Jigsaw said. "She knows to come here if there's trouble. Just have to wait for her."
"There's nobody else down here?"
"After the winds stopped everyone went up above. Not me. She'll come here. She knows to come here. I just have to be here for when she does."
Imogen could feel Zack tense.
"I hope she comes soon," she said. Zack shifted, and she squeezed his shoulder. "We're going now."
Jigsaw nodded again. "Good luck."
"To you too."
Imogen guided Zack away. Soon they'd left the tattooist behind; soon enough.
"Do you think—"
Imogen shook her head, cutting Zack off. He fell silent.
Several minutes after that they passed a passage leading out; Imogen turned her head to look at it.
"Oh," Zack said. "That's where we went out. To get to the convention."
"Yes."
"It feels like really ages ago."
Imogen was silent.
"Why didn't we come back the same way—"
"We got here. That's all that matters." Imogen looked down at her brother. "The station's not far now. We have to go up again soon."
"I know. I ... maybe I like it better down here, though."
Imogen breathed in and out, through her nose.
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I know."
The wide road beside the station wall was lousy with wrecks. The block opposite was choked with weeds but clear of buildings, littered with cars like some bizarre experiment in vehicular agriculture. The station complex itself had been damaged by the wind; the few windows on this side had been blown out, but more obvious were the large chips and dents that pockmarked its walls. Cars, Imogen thought, looking up as she and Zack limped along. The wind threw the cars against the side.
Twice along the wearying path to the station entrance she and Zack were forced to step off the pavement and onto the road, their way blocked by a wreck. Twice they looked away, unwilling to see even a glimpse of those who had been inside the cars when the winds had come. There was something particularly awful about the thought of being trapped inside a metal box while unseen forces acted upon you.
None of the streetlights were working here, except one, far across the street, still standing straight and tall and shining bright and clear, apparently untouched by the horrors of the day. Imogen avoided looking at it as they walked along. She didn't want to be reminded.
There was a pile of cars near the covered road. There seemed to be no reason that they should be piled up here. As Imogen and Zack made their way past they heard a thumping from the pile, repetitive and dull. Not a survivor, Imogen thought, pulling Zack's shoulder to stop him from looking. No one survived that.
As they left the pile behind and approached the covered road, another sound sounded out through the still evening; distant, echoing, sharp and clear.
"Was that a gun?" Zack asked. Imogen had stopped, her head raised, her mouth a thin line. The sound did not repeat.
Imogen limped on.
It was dark along the covered road, despite the lights set above. They were too far apart and too dim. Imogen and Zack limped from dull pocket of light to dull pocket of light, the stretches between filled with imagined monsters.
But only imagined. No zombies, Imoge
n thought, daring to hope that perhaps, just perhaps the nightmare could be over. Maybe they just came from the convention centre, maybe the ones we saw on the streets were those who went out the main entrance. Aaron said the whole country was affected but he could've just imagined hearing that, he could've just made it up as part of some twisted fantasy, maybe that was it, maybe ...
The station was still, deserted. It seemed in a better state than the convention centre had been, but, Imogen considered, that's probably only because there was less here to throw around. Some freestanding signs, computers and monitors lay heaped behind the help desk, a few bags and other personal items were scattered over the floor. Once the winds got strong, Imogen thought, people ran. But where? They didn't just vanish. A sudden, horrible image came to her, of everyone running outside and being picked up by the wind and disappearing into the clear blue sky.
Her jaw was tight as she limped on.
Near where they'd entered the station was a door, hanging loose on its hinges, clearly marked 'NOT FOR PUBLIC'. As Imogen pushed the door open and limped through, Zack beside her, she felt neither pleasure nor satisfaction.
Beyond were narrow, starkly lit corridors leading to narrow, starkly lit stairs. The steps were high and getting up them was tiring; Imogen doubted she could have managed it at all without Zack's help. There were sounds in the stairwell, dull distant thumping and a low, intermittent creaking, and what sounded like hushed conversation muffled by distance.
"Is that people?" Zack whispered, as he and Imogen sat and rested. "That sounds like people!"
Imogen just shook her head. Seconds later the noise faded, replaced by lonely silence.
"We're ... we're going home, right?"
Imogen glanced at Zack, then reached into her pocket and brought out her cigarettes. "Where else would we be going?"
"I don't know, I just ... I just wanted to ask."
There was the click of Imogen's lighter failing to catch.
"Hey, um, if Grandpa was here what do you think he'd say?"
Click.
"I think he'd be yelling at the zombies, it'd be pretty funny I bet."
Click. Click.
"And, um, and Mum would maybe just look at them how she does."