gatheringdeadkindle

by Stephen Knight

  “I’m Kenisha,” she said by way of introduction.

  “Hi Kenisha. Regina.”

  “Why are you with these soldiers? I mean, it doesn’t seem like you just hooked up with them like we did. Looks like they came for you and your pops, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your father, he’s an important guy?”

  Regina shrugged and smiled. “Not in the big scheme of things, no.”

  “Then why are you with all the soldiers?”

  Regina ran a hand through her dark hair, then rubbed her eyes tiredly. “He’s done research that might be important. It might be something that can help put a stop to this.”

  “No shit? What kind of research?”

  Regina shrugged again. “Something to do with the infection vector. He might have come up with a way to stop it from turning live human hosts into... well, into them.” She pointed down at the shambling figures in the street.

  “Really. You mean he might have a way to kill those things for good?”

  “No, not exactly. Only a way that would keep humans alive after they’ve been attacked by the dead. You know, if you get bitten by one, or get any of their body fluids in a cut or your eye or your mouth, whatever the virus is that’s in them will kill you. And then you’ll become one of them, and run around looking for people to eat.”

  “Damn. For real? If that’s the case, then your daddy’s going to be saint, or something.” Kenisha turned and looked back at Safire, sitting alone in the semi-darkness, his back to them. “He’s a little unhinged, though. Guess I can’t blame him.”

  “My father isn’t as strong as yours,” Regina said with a sigh.

  Kenisha turned back to her, a wan smile lighting up her face. “My daddy? Strong? That’s a joke. He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  Regina shook her head. “I doubt that. He managed to keep you and your sister safe all this time. If we hadn’t shown up, maybe you’d still be safe.”

  “Maybe. But for how long? Until the food and water runs out? Who would be looking for us? Who would even bother to come for us?” Kenisha looked back at Safire. “If your father has some important stuff to pass on, then the government will come for him. That’s the only way we’re getting out of here. Otherwise, we’d be here until those things finally got to us. Or until we just died ourselves.” A hard cast descended upon the girl’s features, and Regina saw that she’d had more than a little bit of time to think about it. Regina realized that she hadn’t. She’d always just assumed that McDaniels and his people would be able to save them. Even after seeing the aircraft crash on the roof, she’d blithely believed that she and her father would be rescued somehow, some way. But looking down at the malignant mass of former humanity that was growing around the ground floor of the building they were in like a cancerous tumor attacking healthy flesh... she was no longer convinced. Maybe this was going to be their last stand.

  More gunshots rang out, tinny and distant, but still audible. Kenisha turned toward the sounds.

  “They’re in the building, aren’t they?” she asked.

  Regina realized that no one had really briefed the Browns on anything since the MV-22 had crashed. She sighed and nodded.

  “It looks that way. They blew up one of the stairways to keep them from getting to us, but they must have found another way. But Major McDaniels is apparently able to keep taking care of them for the moment.”

  “‘For the moment’. So I guess that won’t last forever. How many bullets can one guy have?” Kenisha nodded to the street below. “He’d need hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions.”

  Regina had nothing to say to that. The girl was right, of course. But admitting it aloud might very well capture Fate’s attention and seal their doom, and she wasn’t about to do anything rash. Though she had never been a superstitious person, the events of the past few days had duly informed her that there were things that overshadowed her previous religion of science.

  CHAPTER 21

  McDaniels found he could take the time to take a drink from his canteen on occasion, or even enjoy a small snack if he was willing. The stench had either died down, or he’d gotten used to it, so eating was something he might be able to contemplate. It was funny what a person could get used to, and in the short order. He’d found the stink of the rotting dead to be overpowering at first, then merely rank, and now it barely classified as plain old strong. Either he was made of stronger stuff than he’d thought, or his brain had short-circuited his sense of smell in an attempt to save him from going mad.

  The dead still formed their abominable pile below as gray-white figures clambered over each other with a greedy single-mindedness. McDaniels was no longer amazed—or depressed—that the pile merely reformed every time he knocked it down. He likened the ghouls below to single cell organisms. There was no true complexity to them or their actions, just the most rudimentary of instinct. They needed to feed. Why they needed to feed was unknown to McDaniels, since they were already dead, but at least the reanimated corpses were consistent. He would not have been overly surprised if they suddenly started shouting “Brains! Braaaaaaaaaaains!” like in the old zombie movie he had seen as a freshman in high school.

  So when the pile rose to a sufficient height and the ghouls grew nearer to the stairway he stood on, he raised his M4 and fired a single round through each grotesquerie’s head, sending the corpses sliding down the pile, knocking away others who sought to climb to the top. The mound would disintegrate again, and it would take some minutes for it to reform. McDaniels did some calculations, and figured he had fired off almost sixty rounds since taking up his firing position. To the best of his recollection, he had only missed twice. That was hardly a personal best—he had gone through thousands of rounds without missing a target at the gunnery range—but given the rather low velocity this current threat traveled, it was forgivable. He lowered the assault rifle after repulsing the latest zombie advance and stepped back from the edge. Cartridges clinked and clattered beneath his boots as they rolled off the edge and into the black maw below.

  “Gartrell, this is McDaniels. It’s been a while, first sergeant. What do we have? Over.”

  “Still searching, major. No joy as of yet, over.” The static was still bad, and McDaniels had to work to ensure he understood every word of Gartrell’s transmission.

  “You’ve got to try and do better, first sergeant. Have you looked for a lock box where keys might be kept? What about an office or something down there? Over.”

  “Done it all, major. Going through the entire garage, looking for a hiding place. Over.”

  God damn it. McDaniels knew they were missing something here. Finding the keys to a vehicle shouldn’t have been so hard, unless they were on a person who was offsite. But then what was the point in having such a vehicle if the person who had the keys wasn’t in the area? It made no sense, but this was the civilian world. Nothing had to be codified in the thick volumes that spelled out Army regulations.

  “Understood, Gartrell. I’m keeping the zeds occupied for the moment. Over.”

  “Understood, Six. We were able to bust into the Audi that’s down here, but no keys in it, either. Over.”

  McDaniels thought about that for a moment. An Audi? Then he remembered the single ghoul he and Finelly had taken out up on 27. Earl had said it was the company president, a diehard workaholic who had... well, died hard at work, apparently. McDaniels doubted the man had been anything other than a Type A personality. And Type A personalities were usually over-controlling more often than not...

  “Roger that, Five. Break. Leary, come in.”

  “Six, Leary. Go ahead, over.”

  “Leary, check that corpse we bagged. Go through its pockets, find what kind of keys it has on it, over.”

  There was a momentary pause, then Leary came back on the net. “Roger that, Six. Understand you want me to go through the pockets of the dirty, stinking stiff whose head you blew off and look for car keys. Over.”

  McD
aniels checked the situation below. The dead were massing again. He shouldered his rifle and waited.

  “That is correct, Leary. Report your findings, over.”

  “On it, Six. With the corpse now, stand by.”

  McDaniels watched the undulating pile of the dead rise higher and higher by irregular increments. Sometimes, it grew with almost startling rapidity; other times, it would grow to two or three stories and then collapse as the flesh and bone that made up its underpinnings failed beneath the load. He had no idea how many corpses were at the bottom of the mound, but he was certain they had to be nearly liquefied by now.

  “Six, Leary. Got one key ring. Has two integrated remote keys on it. One for an Audi. The second is for a Ford. Over.”

  McDaniels stepped back from the edge of the stairs, trying to ward off the building sense of anticipation that was rising in his breast. “Leary, any way to know if this is the key we’re looking for? Over.”

  “Only way to find out is to try it, Six,” was Leary’s deadpan reply.

  “Six, Gartrell. You want us to come up and take that key? Or do you want to send someone down with it? Over.”

  McDaniels mulled it over for a moment. “Gartrell, Six. I’m getting worried that these stenches might hear the elevator motors and get curious. Remember, at least part of OMEN is onsite. Over.” As he spoke, McDaniels kept his voice pitched low. The zeds could still hear, so there was no need to give OMEN any additional information… if they could still comprehend spoken words.

  “Understood, Six. So what’s the option?” Gartrell asked over the static-marred channel.

  McDaniels peered over the edge of the stairway. The pile was getting to be about the right size now. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired, taking down one zombie. Its demise did not have the desired effect, so he waited for a suitable candidate to appear, then sent that one back to hell. That did the trick, and the pile imploded suddenly, filling the air with the sounds of snapping bones and bodies striking cement.

  “We’re pretty much out of time, altitude, and ideas on this one, Gartrell. I say we take whatever God throws our way and roll with it. And right now, he’s given us a key that says Ford on it, so let’s get everyone downstairs and check it out. If it’s not the right key, then we try and come up with a Plan C. Over.”

  “If we give up the high ground now, we might not be able to take it back. Over.”

  McDaniels kept his eyes on the massing zeds below and tried to keep the irritation out of his voice when he replied. “Like I said earlier, first sergeant, we don’t exactly have a bonanza of options. If the zeds hear the elevator machinery and figure out what it is, then we’ll get very few opportunities to use it before they come crashing in. If you think there’s a better way, now would be the time to let me know. Over.”

  There was a long pause before Gartrell finally responded. “Negative Six, no better alternatives come to mind, over.”

  “Roger that. Break. Leary, have one of the Night Stalkers go roofside and contact Rapier. We need an update on that Coast Guard cutter. Notify them that we’ll be moving out relatively soon, and it would be simply stellar if the Coasties could get the lead out. While that’s underway, you and Finelly get everyone organized and ready to roll. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six.”

  “Thanks, Leary. Break. Gartrell, Leary will tell you when to send up the elevator. And make sure you send the ropes up as well. If something goes wrong, we might need them. Over.”

  “Six, Gartrell. Ropes are in the elevator. We’ll key in and send it up as soon as we get the word. Over.”

  McDaniels started to respond, but a different sort of activity caught his attention down below. He adjusted his night vision goggles very slightly with his left hand, his right still clutching the pistol grip on his M4 assault rifle. A figure still wearing almost all the accoutrements of a United States Army Special Forces soldier had pushed its way inside the stairwell down below and had turned its pale face upward. Flat, lifeless eyes locked onto him from behind the clear plastic dust goggles it still wore; of course, the Special Forces troops had donned their goggles before boarding the Black Hawks back at the assembly area in Central Park. McDaniels didn’t know the soldier’s name, but he—it?—had been a member of OMEN.

  McDaniels was surprised at the sudden shock he felt. He thought he had prepared himself for this, since he knew that at least some members of OMEN had reanimated and had been responsible for breaching the lobby. But to actually see one of the Special Forces troops as a zed was something else entirely.

  What wasn’t lost on him was the M4 the zed carried in both hands. Slowly, the ghoul brought the weapon to its shoulder and peered through the scope.

  Holy mother of —

  The M4 barked once, and a puff of concrete dust erupted from beneath the stairway McDaniels stood on. McDaniels stepped back as the rifle cracked again, and he was pelted with concrete chips as the bullet immolated itself against the bottom of the stairway over McDaniels’ head. The shot was more wild than aimed; the ghoul with the weapon was constantly being jostled by the other dead as they hauled themselves back onto the pile, and that made the shooter less effective than he would have normally been.

  “Holy fuck,” McDaniels gasped. His heart was pounding a mile a minute as he slowly edged back toward the ledge. Crack! Another bullet slammed into the concrete overhead, leaving a three inch pockmark in its wake. McDaniels shouldered his rifle and fired off three shots in rapid succession. The rounds found their target, but his aim was off. The first round hit the dead soldier’s helmet, but the Kevlar must have turned it. The last two struck the zed in the body armor and sent it tottering back through the lobby door.

  “Six, everything all right down there?” Leary asked. “I just heard several shots. It sounds like you’re in a gunfight, over.”

  “Six, hit us back with your status, over,” Gartrell broadcast immediately, stomping on McDaniels’ first attempt to reply. McDaniels kept his stance, scanning the roiling mass of dead for any sign of the OMEN trooper. He caught a flash of something in the glare of the chemstick, infrared light reflecting off metal. He had just enough time to make out the outline of an arm protruding from the pile. Gripped in the hand at the end of the arm was an Mk 23 pistol, its muted surface dully reflecting the light. He waited for a moment, his sights trained on the arm as he searched for a face. He found it as one of the zeds shifted to one side, and Sergeant Larrabee’s lifeless eyes met his. McDaniels fired a round through the zed’s face, right below the rim of its helmet. The pistol fell from the outstretched hand, and the corpse sank back into the heaving mass of the dead.

  “All, Six has just been engaged by two zeds from OMEN. I think I bagged one, but the other got away. Both used their firearms. Gartrell, you and Rittenour had better be ready for company, things are a lot more fluid now. Looks like OMEN means business, over.”

  “Roger that, Six. Odd that they would try and shoot you. If they can remember that stuff, surprised they wouldn’t remember they aren’t supposed to shoot superior officers, over.” It was meant as a half-hearted joke, but McDaniels ignored it.

  “I think they want to drop me since I’m interrupting their plan to get to the rest of the group,” he replied. “Looks like they’re willing to sacrifice one meal in order to get into the a la carte line, over.”

  “Sounds like OMEN’s operating at a different capacity than the rest of the stenches, Six,” Gartrell said. “I’ll bet Safire could confirm that, but that’s a discussion for a different day. What’s the op now? Are we still a go with the transfer to the garage? Over.”

  McDaniels thought about it long and hard for a moment as he watched the dead mound reform. He knew he had only eight more rounds in his current magazine, and after that, he had only eight mags left. Not a hell of a lot. It was time to go.

  “We’re on, Gartrell. Once I break station here, the stenches will eventually gain access to the stairs and make their way upstairs, so let’s be damned qu
ick about it, over.”

  “That’s a great big roger,” Gartrell said. “I never liked New York all that much before, so getting the hell out of here is music to my ears. Elevator’s on its way up with the key and ropes, over.”

  Below, the pile of the dead grew once again with single-minded ferocity, the corpses moaning as they added their bodies to the column of twisting, necrotic flesh. There was no sign of any of the OMEN troopers, but he did catch flashes of battle dress in the rancid heap. Other soldiers from the assembly area, or perhaps from the blockades, had joined the mass of ghouls in their attempt to overrun the building.

  “Roger that, Gartrell. I’ve got to hold these things back for a little bit longer, but I’ll be up. Break. Leary, hold the elevator for me unless there’s another incursion. If the twenty-seventh floor is threatened, get the hell out of there, over.”

  “Ah, roger that, Six.”

  “Will see you in about ten. Six, out.”

  McDaniels raised his M4 to his shoulder and squeezed off a round, blasting apart a zed’s skull and sending it tumbling down the pile. He pulled a grenade from its mount, yanked the pin free, and hurled it into the midst of the swarming dead. It exploded, sending a shock wave throughout the stairwell. McDaniels heard a sudden crack, and felt the stairway he stood on shift to the right. With a muted curse, he turned and bolted to the safety of the landing as concrete gave way and rebar twisted. Brass cartridges rained down on the ghouls below as the stairway nosed down into the pit of the dead. The entire stairway followed a moment later, twisting and tumbling as it tore free of the landing and fell with a loud thud, flattening the mound of zombies beneath its weight. A great cloud of dust rose into the air, and McDaniels coughed. Then the landing trembled and shook, and he jumped over the bodies there and ran up the next stairway. He stopped on the sixth floor landing and looked back as the fifth floor landing tilted crazily. It didn’t collapse, but it continued to shake and tremble on overstressed rebar supports. As he watched, the painted concrete cracked and crazed beneath the strain. One of the dead zombies slid across its surface and disappeared into the dark abyss below as cement chips zipped through the air and bounced off the cinderblock walls. Finally, the landing came to a rest, tilted downward. The first few steps on the stairway leading to the sixth floor landing were badly cracked as well. McDaniels figured it wouldn’t take much to get the landing to tear free and tumble down below. If the zeds down there had any capacity left for surprise, they’d likely realize it when the huge slab of concrete fell their way.