by White, Ben
Click.
"You know her scary look, it's, um, kind of like ... um."
Click. Click.
"Um, Imogen? What do you think Dad would do, if he was here?"
For a long moment there was silence in the stairwell, aside from a muted, repetitive ticking. A soft rustling marked the action of cigarette packet and lighter being pushed back into a pocket, then a single unlit cigarette was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Imogen picked up HopeKiller and used the railing to pull herself up. She glanced down at Zack as he stood to support her, then let out an irritated breath:
"He'd run away."
They reached the topmost floor shortly after that, the door above closed but not locked. It opened easily, and swung shut behind them with a heavy clack.
For long moments both Imogen and Zack stared around. The ground floor had been relatively untouched. The same could not be said for this level. Once it had been protected from the elements by a high, beautiful dome. Now the dome had shattered, been ripped off by the winds, its only remnants being large, broken sheets of thick plastic that lay scattered over the open concourse. The remains of potted plants and flower beds littered the polished white floor—those which hadn't simply been blown away. The benches remained; they were bolted down. There was a wall opposite them, stretching up several metres before meeting the now-missing dome, but part of it had been ripped away, was simply gone, leaving a gaping hole and a drop down to the street below.
Why did we even bother, Imogen thought, as she and Zack made their way towards the monorail platform. Even if the train's here who's going to drive it? Me? I couldn't even drive a car. There's no one here. Not alive or dead.
It seemed that the NOT FOR PUBLIC door had been the only one undamaged by the wind. Every other doorway was open, the rooms beyond exposed; offices and toilets and a playroom for children, toys and books and bright plastic blocks scattered wildly. Imogen and Zack kept to the left side of the concourse, the side with no doorways—just a row of pay lockers, bolted to the wall. There's no sense in taking unnecessary risks, Imogen thought, as they approached the short stairs leading up and around to the actual platform.
There was no train.
There was barely a track.
It hadn't been destroyed by the winds—but the damage was close enough to make no difference. It didn't even make it out over the water before twisting violently, almost wrenched off its support pylons. Further than that was difficult to see, but Imogen guessed it got worse rather than better. In the other direction, towards the inner city, it wasn't quite as damaged—not that it made any difference.
"Well," she said, as she stood there looking at the ruined tracks. "At least—"
"Awwwwwww NO!"
Imogen looked sharply back at her brother—Zack was pulling at his helmet, struggling to get it off as he stumbled around the station. Her chest went tight and cold as she watched, as he wrenched the helmet from his head, but then she realised that this wasn't anything more than a tantrum.
"Zack—"
"It's ... not ... FAIR!" he screamed, his voice breaking shrilly as he hurled the helmet away. It made a hollow sound with each impact against the ground, bouncing away towards the concourse. "IT'S NOT—"
Zack shrieked at the impact of Imogen's hand against his cheek, then yelled out as she slapped him again.
"Shut UP!"
Zack glared balefully up at his sister, then opened his mouth to let out his angry frustration—but the sound that followed was not a high, immature scream. It was a long, croaking, alien howl, soon joined by others, from both far and near. Imogen looked up, past her brother, her eyes wide—there was no question that one of the howls had come from inside the station, on this level. The rooms, she thought. Inside the rooms—
"Come on. Now, Zack."
His tantrum killed by fear, Zack took his sister's hand and held it tight, then pulled her arm up over his shoulder to support her as they started forward.
They saw the first before they reached the concourse, emerging from an open doorway with arms outstretched, its broken fingers twitching reflexively at the empty air. As Imogen and Zack hobbled down the stairs more appeared, from the doorways, a steady stream of walkers hungry and howling, lit by the moon in blurred blue—
"Imogen, they're fast!"
The zombies weren't running, not anything close to it, but it was clear that their pace was easily a match for Imogen's limping progress. Even with Zack doing all he could to help—
"Door," Imogen said. The NOT FOR PUBLIC door was in sight now, their path clear—but the zombies coming from behind and the sides shambled forward relentlessly, dull-lit by the moon's light, grasping blindly for the living flesh they knew was near.
"They're getting closer!"
"Shut up and keep walking."
Zack fell silent and pushed up harder under his sister, the door was close now, getting closer, but with every limping step they lost distance from the zombies—
"Right," Imogen muttered, then again, louder: "Right!"
Angles, she was thinking, we can ... we can manipulate them, we can use the distance we have to buy ourselves more distance if we're just smart, if we could just SEE ...
It was hard even to count the zombies around them, probably a dozen or more, there was no time for precision, just distance and direction and speed and the door, the door that remained so far away, never quite reached, and the closest of the zombies was almost within grasping distance, once a boy, short and slim—Imogen paused to bring HopeKiller around, her arm aching with the effort, the shard slicing against the zombie's hand. Two of its fingers fell to the ground, and with a blunt blow she knocked what remained away then shoved her bat's end against its chest, pushing it back. She glanced around—the others were closing fast—then leaned hard on Zack as they continued limping forward. Mistake, she was thinking. I took too long getting rid of it, I should have ... should have done something else, shouldn't have—
"Imogen ..."
"Just keep going."
The door was closer now but so were the zombies, already others were stepping over the one she'd downed, stumbling as it grasped at their legs, and from the left came others, and from ahead too—cringing and grunting with pain, Imogen put more weight on her injured foot, trying to force herself to go faster, but after only a few steps her right leg buckled beneath her with a horribly wrong aching stab. Zack almost fell as Imogen leant hard against him, only just keeping his footing as he pushed Imogen back up—
"It's close," he whispered, both tears and exhaustion in his voice. "Come on, please."
Imogen couldn't respond, her face was pale and clammy, her eyes dull, her body numb, but Zack was right, the door WAS close, just a few metres away, and then close enough to touch, and Imogen collapsed against it, grasping for the handle—
Which didn't turn.
Imogen stared down, disbelieving, and pulled again, then pushed, then wrenched as hard as she could at the stupid thing, but it refused to budge an inch. Only from the inside, she thought. It locked behind us.
"Imogen!"
Panic gave new strength to Zack's voice, and Imogen turned to see the zombies behind them, so close and so many. Without hesitation she limped forward and raised HopeKiller, and she spoke perhaps the last words she'd ever speak:
"Zack, get behind me."
And the nearest shuffled closer, and Imogen swung, and HopeKiller's shard sliced harmlessly through nothing but air—
BRAAAAAAARP.
The noise was impossible, and yet once more it sounded out:
BRAAAAAAARP.
The zombies had hesitated. Imogen brought HopeKiller up in a slow, tired strike that caught one in the leg; it fell heavily.
BRAAAAAAARP. And then another sound, a repetitive, echoing 'tong tong tong', familiar and satisfying, the sound of an aluminium baseball bat being whacked against the ground. Imogen pushed HopeKiller against the chest of another distracted zombie, the shard sinking into resistant dead flesh before it fell b
ackwards.
BRAAAAAAARP.
And now the further zombies were moving away, towards the blast of the foghorn, towards the tong tong tong of the bat being whacked against the ground, and a strong voice called out:
"That's right! Why don't you peckerheads try some REAL meat!"
BRAAAAR—
The portable air horn the man had been using spluttered and died, and he tossed it aside as the zombies neared him. He was tall and well built, wearing dark trousers and a tough-looking jacket with some kind of covering—a poncho, Imogen realised, and he's wearing a cowboy hat. He held an aluminium baseball bat, gripping it with both hands as the first zombie came near.
"Well now, guess you're first, darlin'," he said, his voice clear and calm. The zombie reached for him, and he brought his bat around in a strong swing. There was a firm impact and a squelching crack, and then the man was around the side of the zombie, putting the heel of his left boot against its side and giving it a hard shove, sending it spinning to sprawl flat on its face—but the man wasn't finished. He walked after the zombie, ignoring the others coming for him, and he shoved it again, his foot firm against its backside, pushing it forward across the smooth floor. The zombie scrabbled and bent its arms backwards trying to claw at him, but it was at the man's mercy, could do nothing to stop him from getting it to the gap in the station wall and kicking it over the side.
He leant over to watch it drop, then hawked loudly and spat after it.
"Okay then," he said, turning to regard the rest of the horde. "Who's next, huh? You? How 'bout you, you hungry for some of this here bat? Well now, here we go—"
The man stepped sharply to the side and gave the approaching zombie a quick tap across the back to line it up, then he brought the bat back, raised his right leg off the ground, and swung. The bat caught the zombie square in the back of the head with a hollow TONG, and it staggered forward and over the edge, flailing as it disappeared.
"YEEEEE-HAW!" the man yelled, before lining up the next zombie. "Okay now, don't let me down here, who's next, you? You gonna be my number three? Well don't be shy now, you don't step up to the counter you don't ... get ... SERVED!"
With another massive swing the man knocked the zombie off the edge.
"THREE! Let's keep on going, I ain't got all night, I got things to do, I'm a busy man! How about you, sweets? You wanna be number FOUR!"
Imogen and Zack could only stare as the man continued to bait and bat the zombies over the edge—he had to pause after the sixth, forcing the others back with the blunt end of his bat to form a kind of rough queue—"Let's get you all sorted out, form an orderly line or we ain't never gonna get this thing done, come on now"—but after that the zombies were at his mercy.
"Wooo-yeah, lucky number seven, LUCK-y NUM-bah SEV-en, come on and take a bite of peach, you know you WANT it, yeeeee-haw! Oh, you say you're number eight, do ya? Well I gotta see your ticket, no ticket no service—BAM!"
The man batted the zombie over the edge, then turned to grin at Imogen and Zack.
"No ticket," he said, before lining up the next zombie. "Number nine, where-are-you~? Is that you, number nine?" He pushed the zombie back, then lined it up and shoved it over the side. "Well hell, I sure as shooting don't see you! Aw hell, you've got something on your face there, fella, let me GET that for ya! Wait wait wait, I didn't get it, let me try again, come on, it's a damned stubborn little SPOT is what it is, one more try, gimme one more TRY—"
With the last hit there was a wet crack as the zombie's jaw shattered, and the man kicked it off the edge before turning to face the last zombie; it had once been a short, overweight woman.
"Guess you're my sweet little number eleven, darlin'," he said, grinning. "Come on, don't you be shy now, I been waiting all night for this dance, come on now, eleven eleven eleven eleven ELEVEN!"
It took a firm shove of his boot to push this final zombie over the edge, and it howled as it fell.
"Music to my god-damned ears," the man muttered, as he looked over the edge. "God-damn, what a mess." He turned to grin back at Imogen and Zack. "And you know the best part?" he said, as he put his bat over his shoulder and sauntered towards them. "The best part is I get to take 'em on all over again once I head back down. Heh, what's left of them, anyhow." He reached up to tip his hat to Imogen. "Howdy there. I'm Zachary."
Zack's eyes couldn't have been wider. "So am I!" he squeaked. "I'm Zack!"
"Well now how about that, ain't that a thing. I tell you what, little man, just so's we don't get ourselves confused or nothing why don't you go on and call me Zed, how's that work for ya?"
Zack could only nod.
"Heh, kind of fits real nice with my last name, now what do you reckon that might be, son?"
"Your ... your last name?"
Zed waited a moment—Zack was wide-eyed and silent—then laughed. "Killer! Now what do you think about that? Ever met someone called 'Killer' before?"
Zack shook his head.
"Well now you have! Zed Killer, damn if that don't sound good to me." He looked at Imogen. "How about you, little lady? What do you go by?"
"Not 'little lady'," Imogen said coldly. Zed laughed loudly, bending over with the hilarity of it all.
"I bet you don't!" he said, straightening. "I just bet you don't. All right then, let's try again. What's your handle, miss?"
"Imogen."
"Now that's a hell of a name. Imogen, huh? Matter of fact I knew an Imogen, way back when, things didn't turn out so well with her." Zed eyed Imogen, his firm gaze making her uncomfortable. "Nah, you don't look like no Imogen to me. Think I'm gonna call you Sue."
"I—"
"Anyways," Zed said, talking over Imogen's protest, "reckon we oughta head on down, just gotta get myself something first—you two don't mind waiting a tick, do you? Nah, knew you wouldn't."
Zack looked up at Imogen as Zed strode over to the pay lockers against the other wall. "Did you see him kill all those zombies?"
"He didn't 'kill' them. He just pushed them over the edge. At the most he broke a few bones."
"That was amazing! He wasn't even scared, did you see Imogen? Did you see he wasn't scared?"
Imogen didn't reply. She was watching Zed take something out of a locker—a small bag, which he slung over his shoulder. He grinned as he walked back toward them.
"All right then," he said. "Looks as if the last train's up and left, so we'd better mosey on outta here. You two coming?"
Zack nodded eagerly, before noticing Imogen's cold scowl.
"Imogen!" he said. "He's really strong, we'll be safe with him!"
"You're safe with me," Imogen said. "We don't need anyone else."
Zed laughed. "Reckon that could be true—dang if you ain't a spirited little filly! Reckon us living folks best stick together at a time like this, though, what do you say? Ain't no harm in keeping with a group."
"Imogen—"
"Fine," Imogen said. "We'll go downstairs with you."
"Heh, fair enough. Fair enough. You need some help there? Couldn't help but notice you've gone and busted your leg—"
"I can walk," Imogen said. Zack was already there to support her. Zed nodded, thoughtful.
"Reckon you can," he said, before pointing with his bat. "Stairs are this way."
The rest of the station was deserted, and the stairs went clear from top to bottom without interruption. It took them several minutes to get down just a couple of floors, and Zed glanced at Imogen and Zack as they continued to make their slow way down:
"Where were you two when all this happened? Here in the station?"
Zack shook his head. "We were at the convention centre."
"Hell if you weren't, so was I! Love all that stuff, damn comics and cartoons and all of that good sweetness—I tell you what, little man, you are damned lucky with all this new stuff, what I grew up with was crap in a blender compared to what you got now, just got back into it this year and boy-howdy do I got some catching up to do! God-damn but I e
nvy you, son, I do honestly envy you. Hey now, who's your favorite superhero?"
Zack didn't hesitate: "Batman!"
"Ho yeah, me too! Now you know what I love about Batman? He's just a regular dude going up against these damned superheroes with all these fancy powers—he don't NEED fancy powers to take 'em down, now THAT'S a god-damn hero! Always hated that damned uppity Superman—but Batman, yeah, now there's a real badass." Zed glanced around, then ran down the few remaining steps two at a time. "You two come along behind, gonna take me a moment to get in here."
By the time Imogen and Zack got down to the ground level, Zed was busily prying at a board nailed over a shop door—the shop's frontage had been protected by a plastic shutter, but the door remained uncovered. Light shone from inside; it was the only shop that was lit.
"There we go," Zed grunted, as the board came loose. He dropped the hammer he'd been using and picked up his bat. "Come on in, looks like you two could use a rest."
The shop contained heaped clothes and racks piled against one side of the interior.
It also contained several familiar faces.
"Oh," Imogen said, as Jen stood to meet her, Trevor and the others quick to follow. "You survived."
"Thanks to my man Zachary here!" said Keenan, raising his hand for a high-five.
"I'm going by Zed now," Zed said, slapping his hand against Keenan's. "On account of us now having two Zacharies in our little posse."
"I'm so glad you're okay," Jen said to Imogen. She smiled at Zack. "Both of you."
Null was leaning back against the shop counter, arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow at Imogen. "Aaron?"
Imogen shook her head.
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised," said Trevor. He cleared his throat. "But it's good that you and your brother, at least, made it out."
"You were partnered up with that crazy little critter?" Zed asked Imogen. He chuckled as she looked away. "Heh, well, can't say I'm too surprised he got himself dead. Only a matter of time with that kind of fool."
Imogen's eyes were narrowed as she looked around the room. "You're missing someone."
"He didn't die, if that's what you're thinking," said Chris. "We all got out—with thanks to Zachary-slash-Zed here. But then V-Cut decided that he'd be better off on his own, without all of our 'dead weight' dragging him down."