At the desk, Jacobs set the tablet down. “What are you doing? She’s not a threat, you moron. She’s just a little girl.”
The look Trask gave him was long, calculating. “And she’d have your throat out in two seconds.”
“I had her calm. I had her sedate, even when I was in the room. We have all the preliminary evidence necessary to pursue this. Are you listening? We could alleviate their aggression. We could fix them!”
“And lead them around like pets? Keep them until they’ve had enough one night, and kill us in our beds?”
Jacobs scrambled up from the desk. “It is our duty to cure them.”
“There is no cure,” Trask said, coming down hard on each word. “No cure but to rout them, and pick them off one at a time until it’s over. There’s no way to play nice and then go home.”
Around him, the other men nodded, their gestures tied to his orbit like moons or planets. Grace watched them. Trask embodied all the qualities vital in a leader. His voice was low and commanding. His face was honest. It promised suffering to anyone who got in his way.
Above them, the ductwork clattered. In the eerie glow of Jacobs’s lantern, the men started, raising their weapons to the ceiling.
Grace crossed to the observation window and pressed her face to the glass. “She’s gone, sir.”
When the ventilation duct dropped down into the observation room, the sound was very loud. The whole apparatus seemed to peel away from the ceiling—a long, shining arc that hung for an instant at its apex, then crashed to the floor with a deafening clang.
Grace watched as a dim figure scrambled out on hands and knees, slashing and clawing at everything in reach. Lank, dirty hair, tattered dress, dark splatters down the front. Then nothing but the smile. The handgun was light, not powerful, but efficient, up out of the holster and in her hand. She put the girl down from eight yards.
Beside the desk, Jacobs lay under the remains of the duct. The aluminum had torn jaggedly, like a mouthful of teeth. Her ears still rung with the sound of metal striking cement and on another plane, laid over the metallic clatter, the shot echoed again and again.
She did not recall crossing the room, but there she was beside him. His cheek had been raked open and he gasped for breath, looking up at her. A dull, shocked look, like he was offended by the treachery of the world. The wound in his side was long. Not a puncture, but a ragged gash, first through the material of the biohazard suit and then through his skin and after that, the subcutaneous fat. The blood was bright, arterial red.
Grace knelt over him and pressed her hands to the wound.
Somewhere in the ducts, a sharp, high-pitched giggle broke loose, echoing down on them like spilled nails.
“Welcome to the zoo,” Trask said behind her.
“You know I’m right,” Jacobs whispered. “Don’t you know I’m right?”
But Grace knew nothing about chemistry or pathology. The mysteries of science were Jacobs’s domain, and the brilliance of his vision eluded her.
He was coughing now, bloody saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. On the other side of an examination table, the dead girl grinned and grinned.
Trask moved closer. He was wearing work-boots and the soles squeaked on the linoleum. “Look at his face. He’s infected anyway. You know it, I know it. Just end it—for him and for us. We need to be strong if we’re going to restore the nation.”
All through the compound came the sounds of scrabbling, shuffling laughing. Grace had a strange, unbidden thought. There is no nation; only people.
Under her palms, Jacobs coughed again. The skin around his eyes had taken on a bluish hue.
Trask had nothing on his side but grim conviction and force of will. A man who was simply not afraid could persuade the masses to follow him anywhere. He might not be a war hero, but he could marshal the survivors.
Above them, the metallic clamor was much louder. Grace lifted her hands.
She raised the gun, held the muzzle to Jacobs’s cheek. His eyes were pained and cloudy. She felt for the trigger and did not think, because it was easier not to.
Steve and Fred
By Max Brooks
Max Brooks is one of the kings of contemporary zombie fiction. He is the author of World War Z—which is currently in the process of being adapted into a feature film—and The Zombie Survival Guide, both of which were huge international bestsellers. Brooks has also published a graphic novel, The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks, and he’s had short stories in the anthologies The New Dead and Dark Delicacies II. Prior to becoming the world’s foremost expert on zombies, he worked for two years as a writer for Saturday Night Live.
There comes a point in life when you must look in the mirror and ask yourself certain basic questions: Who am I? What am I doing with my life? And most importantly: How will I fare when the zombies come? As you survey the vast landscape of zombie fiction, you must appraise each character and ask: Would that be me?
Maybe you’ll be the coward who locks himself in the basement and refuses to help fortify the house, and refuses to let any strangers into your domain, all the while ignoring obvious signs that your child will soon be among the undead. No? Then maybe you’ll be the strong leader of your enclave of survivors who goes mad with power and turns into a sadistic monster more horrifying than any zombie.
Don’t think so? Of course, you know exactly who you’ll be: The hero, the one who perseveres when all others have succumbed. You’ll have the weapons, the car, the steely determination, the girl. You’ll ride into town like a white knight and sort the local zombie problem right out, and ride off into the sunset as the weak gather in the dusk and wave and wonder about your name. That’s the way you’ve always imagined it, right? Well then, our next story should be right up your alley.
Think you know exactly who you’ll be when the zombies come? Well, so do we. You’ll be exactly like the main character in our next tale.
“There’s too many of them!” Naomi shrieked, the sound perfectly matching the skidding of the motorcycle’s tires.
They came to rest just short of the treeline, the Buell’s engine purring between their legs. Steve’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the outer wall. It wasn’t the zombies that bothered him. The lab’s main gate was blocked. A Humvee had collided with the burned-out hulk of what looked like a semi’s tractor. The trailer must have continued forward, turning over as it slammed into the two vehicles. Bright, icelike pools shone where fire had melted parts of the aluminum walks. Can’t get in that way. Steve glanced over his shoulder at Naomi. “Time to use the service entrance.”
The neuroscientist actually cocked her head. “There is one?”
Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. For someone so smart, Naomi sure could be dumb. Steve licked his finger and placed it dramatically in the wind. “Let’s find out.”
The lab was completely surrounded. He’d expected that. There had to be, what, a few hundred shuffling and groping at each side of the hexagonal perimeter.
“I can’t see another gate!” Naomi shouted over the bike’s roar.
“We’re not looking for one!” Steve shouted back.
There! A spot where the living dead had crowded against the wall. Maybe there had been something on the other side: a living survivor, a wounded animal, who knew, who cared. Whatever it was had been tasty enough to entice enough Stinkers to crush some of their buddies against the naked cinderblocks. The pressure had created a solid mass of compressed necrotic flesh, its shallow angle allowing the still-mobile Stinkers to literally walk up it and over the wall.
The “ramping” must have happened at least a few hours ago. The original prey had long since been devoured. Only a few ghouls now stumbled or crawled over the undead ramp. Some of its parts still moved: a waving arm or a clicking jaw. Steve could have cared less about them; it was the mobile ones still slouching over them he worried about. Just a few. He nodded imperceptibly. No problem.
Naomi didn’t react when Steve aimed
the bike’s nose at the ramp. Only when he gunned the engine, did she look straight ahead to his target.
“Are you—” she began.
“Only way in.”
“That’s crazy!” she screamed, loosening her grip on his waist as if to leap off the Buell.
Steve’s left hand instinctively shot out, holding her wrist and pulling it to him. Looking back at her terrified gaze, he flashed his signature grin. “Trust me.”
Wide-eyed and chalk pale, Naomi could only nod and hug him with all her might. Steve turned back to the ramp, continuing to grin. Okay, Gunny Toombs, this one’s for you!
The Buell took off like a rifle bullet, Hansen leaning into the howling wind. Five hundred yards… four hundred… three…. Some of the zombies near the ramp began to notice them, turning and stumbling towards the oncoming crotch rocket. Two hundred yards… one hundred… and now they were massing, grouping into a small, but tight swarm blocking the ramp. Without flinching, Steve swung the M4 out of its worn leather scabbard and with eyes still fixed firmly ahead he bit down hard on the weapon’s charging handle. It was a move he’d only tried once before, that night his Harrier had crashed outside Fallujah. The impact had broken one arm and both legs, but not his warrior’s spirit. He’d tried using his teeth to cock the automatic carbine. It’d worked then, and damn if it worked now. The first round clicked reassuringly into the chamber.
No time to aim. He’d have to shoot from the hip. Crack! The closest one’s left eye disappeared, a reddish brown cloud exploding out the back of its head. Steve might have commented on his marksmanship, if only there was time. Crack! Crack! Two more went down, falling like puppets with their strings cut. This time he smiled. Still got it.
The path began to open, but at the blinding speed they were traveling, would it open fast enough? “Oh my god!” Naomi screamed.
With barely half a dozen bike lengths to go before they hit the ramp, Steve squeezed the M4’s trigger, spraying a fully automatic burst of copper-coated tickets to hell. Kiss Satan for me, Steve thought. Or my ex-wife, whichever you see first.
The carbine clicked on empty just as the last zombie fell, and with a soft crunch and a bang, one hundred and forty six horses thundered onto the ramp. With the Buell’s wheels tearing up its putrid surface as they went, Steve and Naomi catapulted clear over the fence.
“OOOH-RAHH!” Steve shouted, and for just a split second, he was back in the cockpit, shrieking over the Iraqi desert, showering fire and death in a star spangled storm. Unlike the AV-8 jump jet, however, this machine couldn’t be steered once airborne.
The Buell’s front tire smashed into the parking lot asphalt and skidded on a puddle of human remains. The impact catapulted both from the custom leather saddle. Steve tucked, rolled, and slammed against the tire of a smashed Prius. The hybrid’s driver, armless, faceless, stared down at him from the open driver’s door. Too bad the “save the Earth” car couldn’t do the same for its owner, he thought.
Steve sprang to his feet. He could see Naomi lying several yards away. She was face down, unmoving. Shit. The bike lay in the exact opposite direction. No way to tell if either of them was alive.
The moans and stench hit him like a one-two punch. He whirled just in time to see the first of the zombie horde begin to slouch towards them. Where the hell was the M4? He’d felt it slip from his grasp as they hit, heard it skitter across the hard surface. It must have gone under a car, but which one? There must have been several hundred vehicles still in the parking lot, which also meant that there must be several hundred undead former owners still on the grounds. No time to worry about that now, and no time to start looking for the weapon. The ghouls, about twenty of them now, advanced slowly towards Naomi’s motionless body.
Steve’s hand first went for the 9mm in his jacket. No. He stopped himself. If the M4 was damaged or lost, his Glock would be their only ballistic weapon. Plus, he thought, his finger’s closing on familiar sharkskin hilt behind his back, it just wouldn’t be fair to Musashi.
SSCHHIING! The ninjatō’s twenty-three-inch blade glinted in the noonday sun, as bright and clear as the day Sensei Yamamoto had presented it to him in Okinawa. “Its name is Musashi,” the old man had explained. “The Warrior Spirit. Once drawn, its thirst must be slaked with blood.” Well, he thought, let’s hope that syrupy crap those Stinkers have in their veins counts.
A zombie loomed in the blade’s reflection. Steve spun, catching it cleanly under the neck. Bone and muscle separated like ice under flame as the still snapping head rolled harmlessly under a torched minivan.
Ground and center.
Another zombie reached out to grab Steve’s collar. He ducked under its right arm and came up behind its back. Another head went rolling.
Breathe and strike.
A third took Musashi’s blade right through its left eye.
Dodge and swing.
A fourth lost the top of its head. Steve now stood only a few paces from Naomi.
Ground and center!
A fifth Stinker found its skull cleaved right down the middle.
“Steve…” Naomi looked up, voice weak, eyes unfocused. She was alive.
“I got ya, babe.” Steve yanked her to her feet, simultaneously slamming Musashi’s blade through the ear of a ghoul slouching between them. He thought about trying to find the M4, but there just wasn’t enough time. Plenty more where we’re going.
“C’mon!” Steve pulled her through an encroaching swarm and together they ran to the overturned Buell. When he felt the engine roar beneath him—Made in the USA!—he wasn’t surprised. Another roar could also be heard, dull and faint and growing with each passing second. Steve tilted his head to the smoke filled sky. There it was: their ride out of here, a small black speck set against the crimson sun.
“You call a cab?” Steve said, smiling at Naomi. For just the briefest of moments, the beautiful egghead smiled back.
They were only a hundred yards from the lab’s open double doors. No problem there. Four flights of stairs. Steve patted the motorcycle. Again, no problem. “We just gotta get to the heliport on the…” Steve trailed off. His eyes locked on someone—no, something. A ghoul was shuffling towards them from behind a smashed SUV. It was short and slow, and even on foot, he and Naomi could have left it in their dust. But Steve wasn’t planning on leaving. Not just yet. “Keep the engine running,” he said, and for once Naomi didn’t question him.
Even with the rotted skin, the dried blood, the lifeless, milk-white eyes, she’d also recognized Theodor Schlozman. “Go,” was all she said.
Steve dismounted the bike and walked slowly, almost casually over to the approaching ghoul.
“Hey, Doc,” he said softly, his voice cold as arctic death. “Still tryin’ to save Mother Earth from her spoiled children?”
Schlozman’s jaw dropped slowly open. Broken, stained teeth poked through chunks of rotting human flesh. “Huuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaa,” rasped the former Nobel prize winner, his bloody hands reaching for Steve’s throat.
The Marine let him get almost close enough to touch. “As you used to say…” he smirked, “arms are for hugging,” and swinging Musashi like an honor guard rifle he sliced off Schlozman’s fingers, then hands, then forearms before leaping into the air and smashing the Paleoclimatologist’s head sideways with a roundhouse kick.
The brain that had once been hailed as “Evolution’s Crowning Achievement” exploded from the shattered skull. Still intact, it went spinning towards the Buell, landing with a wet splat right at the base of the front tire. Touchdown.
The Marine sheathed his assassin’s short sword and walked slowly back to Naomi.
“We all done?” she asked.
Steve looked up at the approaching Blackhawk. Five minutes till they hit the roof. Right on time. “Just had to take out the trash,” he answered without looking at her.
He gunned the engine and felt Naomi’s arms grip him tightly around the waist. “Back there,” she said, tilting her head to the
spot where he’d rescued her, “did you call me ‘Babe’?”
Steve cocked his head in perfect innocence and spoke the only French he would ever want to learn: “Moi?”
Steve gunned the engine and the brain of Professor Theodor Emile Schlozman splattered under spinning rubber like an overripe tomato. Steve smirked as the bike thundered towards…
Fred closed the book. He should have stopped several pages back. The pain behind his eyes had now spread to his forehead and down his neck. Most of the time he could ignore the constant headache. Most of the time it was just a dull pulse. The last few days though, it was getting almost debilitating.
He lay flat on his back, his skin sticking to the smooth granite floor. He rested his head on the oily, crusty rag that had once been his T-shirt and tried to focus on the center of the ceiling. The light fixture above him almost looked like it was on. At this point in the afternoon, sunlight from the small window struck the bulb’s prism glass bowl. Rainbow sparkles, dozens of them, marched beautifully across the cream-colored wallpaper. This was by far his favorite part of the day, and to think he hadn’t even noticed it when he first arrived. It’s the only thing I’ll miss when I get out of here.
And then they were gone. The sun had moved.
He should have thought of that, planned better. If he’d known what time it was going to happen, he could have read up until then. He probably wouldn’t have even gotten such a bad headache. He should have worn a watch. Why didn’t he wear a watch? Stupid. His cell phone always had the time, and date, and… everything. Now his cell phone was dead. How long ago had that happened?
Way to be prepared, asshole.
Fred closed his eyes. He tried to massage his temples. Bad idea. The first upward motion tore the scabs between skin and fingernail stubs. The pain drew a quick hiss. Fuckin’ idiot! He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. Remember…
His eyes flicked open. They swept the walls. One hundred seventy-nine, he counted. One hundred seventy-eight. It still worked. One hundred seventy-seven.
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