by SP Durnin
What the hell? Jake thought. Those look like…
The driver's window of a Prelude, a dozen yards ahead and to his left, exploded inward.
He couldn't hear the weapon discharge over the sound of the wind and the 450's engine, but it was pretty clear someone was trying to put a bullet in him. The road was free of obstructions, so Jake opened the throttle wide. The shots had to be coming from one of the hangars to his right, behind the airport fence, so he didn't waste any time zigzagging and concentrated on speed. More rounds peppered the street behind him as he cornered the bike at the first intersection and flew out of sight behind an equipment supply warehouse.
A minute later, still shaking, he slowed the bike and turned onto Broad. He knew with everything that had happened over the last day, crazies were a real possibility. Having it confirmed though scared the shit out of him. In less than twenty-four hours, people had begun to revert to barbarism. Frightened and desperate, many would be equally, if not more dangerous than the repulsive creatures now hunting them. They would have to be very careful of both from now on.
Jake paused to scan the intersection half a mile distant before moving to retrieve his people. Other than the odd crippled ghoul, there were only two that hadn't followed him north. He moved cautiously into the complex, using the buildings as cover when he killed the motorcycle's engine and coasted forward. If the others had to bug out, there was no need to advertise his presence to every creature within earshot. He removed his crowbar from the bikes steering column and began walking quietly toward the lot's far end. Halfway down the row, Kat and Maggie stepped out from opposite carports and began waving at him, both wearing expressions of relief. Kat beamed at him, shotgun in one hand with the other on her hip, showing off her flat stomach under her belly shirt.
"We were getting worried there, hero," she said. "You were gone almost forty-five minutes. A little longer and we'd have come looking for you."
"That would've been a bad idea." He pulled a smoke out of his Tac vest and put it between his lips, but when he tried to light it he couldn't keep his hands steady. He was getting dizzy too.
What's wrong with me? He thought. I shouldn't...
The next thing Jake knew he was sitting under the carport, his back resting against the Beast's front passenger wheel. Laurel was against his one side, Kat the other, and Maggie was kneeling before him, holding his chin as she shone a pen light in his eyes.
"Follow my finger." She released his chin and moved her index finger from side to side in front of his face.
Jake did as he was told, groggily.
"Drink some of this." Laurel pressed a bottle of water she'd retrieved from the Jeep to his lips. "Not too fast."
It was warm, but the liquid felt good going down his scratchy throat. After a few sips, Laurel took the bottle away and recapped it. Maggie pressed two fingers to the side of his neck while she looked at her watch.
"Pulse is normal again. Give it a minute and we'll help you into the bed."
"I'm alright." Jake said. "I was just dizzy."
"You were going into shock," Maggie told him. "Not surprising, considering all that's happened today. Where's your ride?"
"Later." He levered himself unsteadily to his feet. "We need to move before any more of those things come calling."
As if on cue, a chorus of low moans emanated from just around the apartments to the west. A haggard looking man stumbled into view, pursued by five zombies. He bled from several wounds at the creatures' hands and a large chunk was missing from the meat of his upper bicep. He was concentrating on looking over his shoulder, so he didn't notice the dumpster in his path, literally running headlong into it. The impact against the steel knocked him from his feet, then the infected were on him.
Jake pulled his pistol and motioned the others into the Jeep.
"We're not going to help him?" Maggie demanded.
"There's nothing we can do."
"We don't know that!"
He looked at her calmly. "Zombies."
The blonde EMT had no illusions about what happened if one of the things sank its teeth into you.
Jake put a hand on her arm. "Even if we managed to save him now, soon one of us would have to take care of him or he'd turn."
Maggie looked at the struggling dog-pile again, then reluctantly allowed him to pull her to the vehicle.
The creatures looked up as Allen brought the Beast to life, but disregarded the survivors as they sped away and returned to their meal.
Laurel checked the intersection with Jake's binoculars, ignoring his protests that he really was fine. His shaking hands told her otherwise. After she deemed it clear, Allen pulled out onto the street. He ran over the crippled ghouls and Laurel dropped the remaining two with impressively placed shots to their frontal lobes. The redhead hopped out quickly, peered through the window on the top-most door of the SWAT van, and her face paled. She hurried back to her seat next to Jake in the bed.
"Two inside. They've turned," she said, shortly.
Allen said nothing and put the Beast in gear.
They continued east.
* * *
The end of their return trip was uneventful, with the exception of Kat shooting a zombie who reminded her of her boss.
That prompted Maggie to request she shoot one that looked like her boss.
Jake finally had to switch places with Laurel's friend, just to be safe. In retaliation, Kat made sure she fell against him while they changed places, as Allen swerved to avoid an abandoned bus. Jake tipped backwards over Maggie and Karen's legs, finally coming to rest against the tailgate, one hand pinned behind his spine. His other had reached out as he fell and ended very high up on Laurel's inner thigh. He would've been sufficiently embarrassed with that alone but Kat, who'd fallen with him, was straddling his hips, pressing her rack in his face. Literally.
"Oops. How clumsy of me." She scooted back along his legs and pulled away.
Jake was about to tell her to stop screwing around when Laurel coughed mildly. He looked at her and she flicked her eyes at his hand, which was only a couple of inches from the crotch of her leather pants.
"Sorry!" Face flaming, he snatched his hand away.
There were giggle fits from the girls, which he pointedly ignored, as he assumed the co-pilot seat.
They entered the alley leading to the enclosed lot at the rear of Jake's building and were stunned by the number of dead that lay scattered at its mouth.
"What the hell..." Allen stared at the two dozen corpses, all missing large portions of their heads. There was blood and brain matter smeared across the walls of the buildings for a good twenty-five yards, beginning about ten feet down the grungy pavement. "Someone blew the living crap out of these things."
Karen kept her face averted, eyes locked on the backpacks. Kat hefted the shotgun (Jake had given it back to her because she pouted), looking back the way they'd come along with Laurel, Desert Eagle ready, and Maggie who held her trusty ax.
Jake stood and looked up at the roof of the carports. "I'll be damned. That sneaky old bastard."
Allen followed his gaze and saw George Foster rise from the garage roof. He walked to the edge, slid down the ladder attached to its center support and unlocked the gate. Al revved the engine, four-wheeled over the bodies in the alley, and the Beast growled into the resident lot. They all breathed sighs of relief when George cranked the steel gate closed and threw its locking bars shut. Jake hadn't understood why Foster previously insisted on a twelve foot wall with a solid steel gate when the contractor told him it would double the cost, but right now he was thankful for it.
Foster was lugging a silenced Heckler and Koch Long-Arm sniper rifle, complete with a large capacity magazine. The writer had seen them used with great success by three snipers in the SAS brick he'd shadowed. The Long-Arm was dead accurate at distances up to eleven hundred yards, and could deliver enough punch to send a Teflon-tipped round through the engine block of a truck.
"Made better
time than I thought ya would," the grizzled chief said.
"I thought you only had the three guns?" Jake helped the girls out of the bed and lowered the tailgate so they could grab their bags, after Maggie half-carried the limping Heather down.
"I said I only had the three handy. 'Sides, looks like ya did alright. I can smell the cordite on yer clothes." George pulled out a Cuban and used a wooden match that he scraped down his cheek to light it. He looked at Maggie and the girls, grinning around his stogie. "Startin' a harem? Thought you were only goin' after one girl."
"We saw them running from a group of those things a few miles back," Jake replied, as Foster led them into the lobby.
George nodded. "Good work, kid."
"Not to break up the male bonding," Maggie said—she still had Heather in one arm and her ax in the other—"but we need somewhere to take five, check the girl's ankle, hide from the zombies. That kind of thing. What floor are we staying on?"
"Don't bother with that." Foster waved towards the elevator. "Shut it down. If there's anything you need at your place, O'Connor, grab it and get your butt back down here. Meet us in my office."
Jake gave him a wry look. "I think we need somewhere a little more secure than that, Chief. We should…"
George exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I got a panic room."
"I should've known." The writer wasn't surprised. "Is it big enough for all of us? I still have to get Gertrude."
"Already there, boyo," Foster said. "While you were out doin' the hero thing, I packed her up and got her in. I don't think those things can get through the front doors, but I'd feel a whole lot better with us nice an' safe in my little bolt hole. Take the stairs and don't lolly-gag. Cept for us, there's nobody left in the building."
"Alright," Jake sighed, "follow the Chief here and nobody wander off. I'll just be a minute, then we'll head into his bomb shelter."
He made for the stairwell. The stress was beginning to catch up with him. Jake was running on adrenalin, and the crash was sure to come at any time, so he had to be quick. As he started up the stairs, Laurel caught the door before it shut and fell in step beside him.
"I don't mind the company, but you can stay with the others if you'd like. I'm just going to grab a couple things."
"Hey, this could be the only chance I get to evaluate your place," she said, with a smile. "You got to see mine. It's only fair."
He chuckled and started up again. "Just so you know, I don't have any battle axes on my walls. It might be a little disappointing."
They climbed to the fourth floor and Jake unlocked his apartment, sticking his head in for a quick look around before holding the door for her. Even though George said everyone had left, you just never knew.
"If you want something from the kitchen, go for it. I'll be quick." He hurried into the bedroom, grabbed his extra pack, then shoved some clothes and sundries inside. He also added three thick blank journals and a pack of ballpoints. If they managed to survive, it might be important to have a record of their actions—to keep them out of prison if for no other reason. Jake took the photo of himself, his brother, and parents out of its frame and stuck it in his the bag as well, then gazed about.
There was nothing else, really. The unfinished cookbook he was reviewing, a few awards, a bed, the SAS foot locker they'd issued him on his first day. Things that were important in everyday life, now useless junk. Not much to show for twenty-eight years of life, but then Jake had never been one to accumulate possessions. He only kept or bought what was useful and left the bric-a-brac. He occasionally wondered if that was thriftiness, or if he just couldn't decide what he wanted.
Laurel looked through his CD collection as he packed. Jake had many of the artists she enjoyed herself. The Young Dubliners, U2, The Chieftains, Loreena McKennitt, The Ramones, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, Butch Walker, and several collections from various bagpipe and pipe artists.
She began to wander about the room, taking in the things with which he surrounded himself. There was a distinct absence of the normal guy toys. Jake's furniture was older, but well maintained. There was a comfortable couch facing the bay window, not the TV, which told her he didn't like to sit in front of it mindlessly for hours watching sports. There was a serviceable PC and writing desk against the wall, which also held a plaque mounted photo of Jake with a military unit. She read the inscription. To Jake O'Connor, one bloody brave wanker. From: the Boys. Cheers, mate!
There was no glitz or glam. With the exception of the TV and a game system, Jake's home was steeped in culture. One whole wall was lined with bookshelves and she read the spines. The Art of War, The Celtic World, Cuculian, The Hound's Tale, The Tempest, Containing the Beast: Way of the Open Palm and the Closed Fist, The Tao of Jeet Kun Do. Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur was on the first shelf. There were more. Authors like Plato, Yeats, Keats, Frost, Green, Cook, Tolkien, Brooks, Bourne, Monchinski… the list went on and on.
There were also photos of what people called fairy rings in both England and Ireland. Charcoal rubbings of stones with knot-work twining in hypnotic shapes, and a small rock from the slopes of Mt. Tara. Jake had made a real effort to know his heritage. He tried to connect with the past, just as she did with the songs she loved and the music she played. Laurel smiled.
Then she looked outside. She was still gazing out the window when he returned.
"Hey." Jake strode from the back room, bags in hand. "I'm all set here."
He looks wiped. She thought. No sleep for almost two days, fighting those things to make sure I was alright. Doing it again to get us all to safety...
"What's wrong?" He dropped his bags by the door and strode to the window where she stood.
"What could be wrong? People killing each other, zombies everywhere, running for our lives. Oh gods." Laurel put her face in her hands. He'd seen through a lot in the last thirty-six hours, and she didn't want to add watching her cry to the list.
Jake put his arms around her shoulders and held her.
She drew back so she could see his face. "I never thanked you."
"For what?"
"Coming for me. Trying to protect me. My hero."
Jake knew differently. He was just a hack-writer who knew a little bit about survival. He was a fraud. A fake. Otherwise he'd be able to keep her alive and, right now, he didn't have the first fucking clue how to do that.
"Laurel, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Everything so far has just been dumb luck. I was ready to try to reach you alone if Kat and Allen hadn't come with me. I'd never have made it. I wouldn't have been able to help Maggie and Karen and Heather and..." He looked away from her. "I thought you might be dead. It scared the hell out of me. More than those fucking things outside do."
Laurel took him by the chin and turned him back to face her.
"You came. It doesn't matter that you were scared." She held his face in her hands, much as Kat had when he told them his lunatic plan to cross a city full of walking corpses. "Do you really think heroes don't get scared? They're no braver than any other person, Jake. They're just brave for one second longer."
"I'm not a hero."
She gave him a lop-sided smile, kissed him lightly, and picked up his half empty duffel bag while he shouldered his pack. As they walked into the hall, Jake started to pull the door shut, then reconsidered. He tossed the key on the floor inside the doorjamb then turned away. If someone wanted the few items he'd left, they could have them.
Besides, he thought, it's not like I'll get my security deposit back.
Down in the lobby Foster waited, leaning against a column, enjoying his Cuban, and whistling tunelessly. When they exited the stairwell, he pushed off and waved them towards his office.
"The others are settled." He locked the door to the small, no-frills room. It held only a desk, two uncomfortable looking chairs, and four industrial filing cabinets that lined the entire right wall. "Got everything?"
Jake nodded.
George opened the bottom drawer on th
e nearest cabinet, reached inside, and pulled on something in the space behind. There was an audible click and the center cabinet swung away from the wall smoothly, revealing an entrance to the warehouse next door.
"Watch yer heads," he told them.
The ugly warehouse had been vacant for almost thirty years. It was a cinder block job with sheets of plywood over the windows on the first and second floor. There was a gap about four inches wide between it and the other building that Foster owned, and Jake could barely make out the deli across the street as the three of them hunched down to shuffle quickly through. A thick steel plate, recessed a good four feet on each side (as far as he could tell,) sat between the double rows of blocks that made up its four-foot thick walls. He also noticed a deep groove in the floor that would allow the plate to fall into the foundation, effectively sealing the wall against anything short of a wrecking ball.
He followed Laurel's shapely posterior through, feeling a little better as she threw a knowing glance at him over her shoulder and stood up slowly, exaggerating the sway of her hips. Foster came through with a grunt as his knees twinged from stooping, pulled a lever on the wall, and the plate came down causing vibrations to roll up through their feet.
"Welcome to Casa de Foster." George reached into the full-size fridge next to the door, tossed them each a Guinness, and pulled one out for himself. "Make yourselves at home."
The first thing Jake noticed was that the ground and second floor windows were fakes. The reinforced inner walls covered them completely. Iron girders above had been coated against corrosion and the ceiling, which was free of rot, was broken only by stairs running up the back wall. The lower level was split into two parts. One was a machine shop complete with power tools, workbenches, and supplies for making reloads for various weapons, the other was a storage space and workout room.
The second (really the third ) floor, Foster told them, was a large common room with a couple of weight benches, a nautilus gym, three treadmills, am actual pinball machine, some couches, a huge flat-screen hooked to a Bose sound system, about a thousand DVDs, a full kitchen with propane stoves fed from tanks in the garage, four refrigerators, and an office/security room complete with a short-wave set up, satellite Internet connection, and a large map of North America on the wall. There were short hallways leading to the stairs up to the third floor, which Jake recognized as choke points since they turned sharply with the outer walls.