by Bryan James
With my face to the ground, I heard the loud moans, seemingly in my ear. The fetid stench of rot and effluent was heavy in my nose, and limbs moved against my body like a nest of thick, coiled snakes. Judging by the number of impacts, there were at least four of them.
My shotgun had been thrown free, and my arms were at awkward angles. I struggled to get them under me, needing to push up, push away. I knew I could get them off if I could just get into position.
The first bite was a solid pressure on my calf, and barely grazed exposed space before the metal plating and Teflon absorbed the pressure. I squirmed under the pile as the second bite came, the teeth scraping against the top of my head, a low groan accompanying the effort.
Okay body, time to get your shit in gear.
Copy that, mind. Panic on the way.
One arm was under me, and I needed it to be enough. I pushed, my head a fiery mixture of anger and blood lust. My body turned with the unbalanced force, throwing some weight from the pile, and freeing up enough space to move my other arm. I levered it under my body and pushed myself through the thrashing creatures.
Bodies slammed into the pavement next to me as I spun in place, dislodging hands and recoiling in horror from the gnashing teeth. Kate was moving toward me, but I motioned her away, triggering the mechanisms in my jacket and moving my arms forward even as the thin blades locked into position. They made quick work of my friends—a man in a business suit, a small Asian woman in a maid’s uniform, and a hefty horse of a man in a construction uniform of some sort.
As I was stepping away from the pile, I heard Ky yell from across the street, her finger pointed around the corner, where Romeo had disappeared before.
“Your butt should go soon,” said Artan on the comms, and I jumped up onto the bed of the truck that was nearest the wall, hurtling the cab, and sliding down the window.
Hundreds of them were streaming from the front entrance that we hadn’t been able to see from our position before. The large, ornate doors hung at odd angles, broken and shredded, as if people had tried to hide there, but had been discovered.
I reached for my Pathfinder and sighed loudly as I realized it was lost, but drew my machete and sprinted past them as they stumbled into the intersection. I was only feet from the first of them as my boots hit the pavement and I ran toward the park, joining the rest as we jogged down the street.
We moved cautiously but quickly, keeping up the pace, and using small side streets to try to throw them off. We crossed into several parallel streets and moved constantly and carefully. Rhodes occasionally dispatched a lone shambler with his suppressed carbine, but overall, we made a steady progress for twenty minutes. Several times, we were forced to divert to the east, away from the sound by obstructions in the roads or larger groups of the undead, seemingly gravitating to the south.
As we reached a more commercial and renovated portion of the downtown area, Artan stopped us next to a plain, historic looking red brick building. We squatted behind the cover of a large maintenance vehicle, cherry picker still extended to a tangle of wires at the top of a slightly bent utility pole.
“We have choice,” he said. He pulled out his map of the city, pointing at a location roughly ten blocks away, at the intersection of 5th and Pine streets, roughly halfway between our location and Lake Union, the large body of water that abutted the University on the southern side of the campus.
“We go here, or…” he pulled his hand further to the east, marking out the interstate. “We try this place. I know it is not with car. It clear.”
“That’s what Finnigan said at SeaTac,” I said, still doubtful. “Something about an accident at the onramp near the city center. But I still don’t like the exposure. This is the monorail station, right?” I saw the small mark on the detailed map, and knew it from my own research with Kate the night before.
“Yes. But need to go through building. Entrance up.”
Kate shot me a look, and I knew her thoughts. Better to stay in open space where we could run. We were a match for smaller groups, but large groups in confined spaces…definitely a problem.
“Rhodes?”
He looked over my shoulder briefly, eyes still scanning the perimeter carefully.
“Fuck the interstate, man. Those things are death traps nowadays. Gimme the mall and the train line. It’s elevated, so once we’re up, we’re golden.”
I frowned, but after thinking about it again, I begrudgingly agreed. There were no good choices in this world. Only a selection of crap platters on a rotten tray.
“Monorail it is,” I said, and Artan nodded once.
“What’s a monorail?” asked Ky, standing up and following me as we rounded the corner of the truck.
“It’s a train, but it only runs on one track,” I said, amused.
“What’s the point?”
“It’s… I suppose that…”
Shit. I didn’t really know.
“You don’t really know, do you?”
“It’s… No. I got no clue.”
“Uh-huh. And your generation was in control when this crap went down. Remember that. You built stuff just ‘cause you could, then can’t remember why.”
Kate looked back and caught my eye, hearing the exchange. She raised her eyebrows and I shrugged.
The kid was astute, that’s for sure.
“All we care about is that it’s elevated, it’s a solid track that runs from downtown to the Space Needle, which is fairly close to the Lake. Once we get to the Lake, we move north toward the university. It’s just one more chunk of land we get to travel with a lower threat.”
“There aren’t any lower threats here. Just bad choices and worse ones,” she said, and walking away, her loyal canine following.
Man, the kid was two for two.
THIRTY-TWO
So close, but yet so far.
We stood quietly in the shattered remnants of a small bistro, crouched behind the counter and watching the bodies shamble aimlessly down the street in front of us, wandering up and down Union Street as if truly directionless. This was unusual in recent days, as we had only really experienced the herd mentality. They would bunch together and move with a purpose, as if hunting together.
Now, staring out over a collection of overturned tables and rotting food under grimy glass displays, we were watching a return to previous behavior. Aimless rambling.
We had skirted into the back door of the building when Romeo alerted us to the large group ahead, masked from even Kate and my enhanced vision by a cloud of smoke from a slowly burning oil fire near a gas station. Now, we were stopped cold.
The windows of the shop still stood, an anomaly in a time when glass was a useless building supply, and shops or stores with any semblance of food—for zombies or humans—were demolished or ransacked with regularity. The downside was that it really smelled.
Fish that had been fresh months before was rotting in a pile of decay and decomposed scales. Cakes and breads were simply piles of mold, while a slow leak from a soda machine near the cash register was dripping slowly onto the tile floor, a puddle of calcified mildew and sticky ooze spreading out and under the counter.
The door was sealed shut, accounting for the lack of intrusion by animals, and the back door had been weakly latched with a small throw-bolt. No creatures inside, so the owner must have locked up and run before anyone met their end within the walls.
It was an old building, and several doors led further into the building. We made sure they were secure and spoke quietly. Artan was in the back, exploring.
“Where’d they come from?” asked Ky, chewing on a small piece of MRE cheese she had fished from a pack. She leaned against the disgusting counter, staring at the menu above the kitchen behind me, eyes hungry for the advertised hamburgers and fries.
“We checked the satellite photos before we left, but they don’t account for milling groups, or ones that migrate out of buildings. There are hundreds of thousands of these things in the area, the
re have to be. Seattle was a huge city, and an even bigger suburban area.” Kate reached out to share the small piece of cheese, but made a face and handed it back to Ky. Ky frowned and flipped it to Romeo, who snatched it from the air.
“Why aren’t they… You know, moving together?” Ky had turned, her head peeking slightly over the counter, and was watching the dirty, rotten creatures shamble in front of the dingy glass walls. We knew their sight wasn’t superb, and they were easily fooled by reflective glass, so we felt some safety despite the semi-transparent surface.
I turned to Kate, slightly concerned.
“I don’t know. We can’t keep up with their habits. They have been banding together for hunting purposes, but this… who knows? Maybe these guys short circuited or something.”
Artan returned to the group and squatted heavily next to Rhodes, who was slowly inserting rounds into his empty magazine.
“We may have roadway,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, toward the back of the shop.
“We just came in from that way,” Kate said, confused.
“No. Other thing. Come me with.” He disappeared.
“You heard the man,” I said, “Go you with.”
She made a face and crouched over, careful in stepping, making sure to stay quiet.
I followed them both into the back hallway, while Rhodes stayed with Ky behind the counter.
Artan stopped in front of an older door, a bronze latch thrown over the handle and a historic plaque attached to the door at eye level. An inscription was carved into the bronze, and I wiped the oxidation off the plaque.
“Historic Seattle Underground. Ticket Required. Tour Hours 9:00-5:00, Every Day.”
Turning to Artan, I smiled.
Kate groaned.
“Underground? You know the underground?”
“Yes, yes. Enough. It run from here, to Pine Street, small sections. Not total.”
“Not total?” Kate asked.
“It some pieces,” he said, motioning with his hands.
In the front of the bistro, a loud noise brought our heads up, and we peered around the small corner to watch as several hands were pressed up against the glass, dirty, black streaks appearing on the already grungy surface. Several faces slammed against the glass suddenly, mouths working up and down slowly, teeth exposed by ruined faces, eyes staring and pressed on the clear glass, startling the three of us.
And then Ky made a noise.
It was barely a whimper. Almost a soft cry. Just a small sound of disgusted surprise.
It was hardly even audible; almost indiscernible as a human sound over the sound of hands moving against the glass.
But they heard it.
“Ky, Rhodes, let’s go,” I said, the decision made.
Scores of hands appeared against the glass, as if a dinner bell had sounded. Faces putrefied by time and decay were pressed into the hard surface, the glass distorting the gray and brackish skin, loose and chipped teeth scraping and squealing, like nails on a see-through chalkboard.
Ky and Romeo shot past, and I heard the first crack.
I pulled my machete loose, and pressed the small button that released the recessed side arm on my thigh. With a small hiss, the gun emerged in its carbon fiber holster, and I pulled it free, checking the clip.
The crack widened, and a spider web of smaller lines shot across the glass, like lightning caught in time.
Rhodes slipped past, and the door crashed open as Kate and Ky poured into the stairwell.
The front windows shattered in a loud cascade of sprinkled glass as the guests arrived for lunch.
I didn’t bother shooting. I just turned and followed them all down the rickety wooden stairs, slamming the door behind me. A large crowbar, among other various construction tools, leaned against the old brick wall of the stairwell, and I jammed the long flat head under the crack in the door, hoping that it would jam the entrance and buy us some time.
Ahead, Artan had turned to the right, and I followed. He and Rhodes had both opted to flip up their night vision and exchange it for bright red lights, the enclosed space seeming to beg for real light.
It was dark, and the smell of must and standing water was thick in the air. I sniffed several times, trying to place something else that was familiar but unknown. It was a dirty smell, but almost animal-like. Not the smell of death, but the smell of filth.
Old wooden beams lined the cement and dirt walls on one side of the odd wooden walkway that stretched out into the earth over old cobblestones and mud. Small rivulets of runoff from the street above trickled slowly through small culverts designed to divert the moisture into drainage pipes, but the water, with no one left to man the drainage system, was backing up. It was pooling under the walkway in some places, and covered the walkway in others.
On our left, it was the underground city as I remembered it. Disused brick walls with decaying wood lining the windows and doorways; old street signs leaned artfully against the bricks; shadowed and empty windows, the interior of the old shops redone and re-imagined, with sample items from a past long forgotten. Horseshoes, old knitting tools, and an old woodsman’s axe were displayed in one dusty window.
Ky let a gasp of wonder escape as we passed a completely preserved general store, complete with hitching post. I winced as I heard the door shatter only a hundred yards behind us. Ahead, Artan had shot up a small set of steps, only to return with a grimace.
“No outside to go this place now. To go to next.”
His English was that of a fourth grader whose daily diet consisted of valium and paint chips, but we got the point.
Kate suddenly stopped in front of me, eyes searching the darkness ahead as Ky jumped slightly.
“What was that?” she asked, turning back to me.
In the thick darkness, I knew that they were behind us. But they could only move two or three wide, and they would go slowly. Their eyes were poor in the pitch black.
I had heard it, but I didn’t know the noise. It was foreign, and the only association I could make with it was impossible.
It had to be impossible.
I urged Kate and Ky forward and whispered loudly to Artan, who had heard it as well and had slowed down.
“Artan, the crash at the onramp that’s a few blocks away—what was it that crashed?”
We stopped again as we heard the sound once more. Closer.
Behind us, a metallic crash echoed in the enclosed space, and the whisper of moans was carried through the tunnel with the air of death about it.
“I do not know this. I know only that it was large truck. Had picture of animals on side. And my brother tell me something with… I don’t know English word… it is luan in my language.”
“We have to go,” said Kate, urging Artan forward, and pushing Ky firmly between the two of us. Behind me trailed Romeo, whose tail had been ducked between his legs since we entered the tunnel. He was beginning to balk at going forward, and I had to nudge him with my boot.
“Luan?” I asked stupidly.
“Luan,” he said, softly repeating.
The darkness ahead had lightened slightly, and in the dim light, I saw what most of the others could not, but I heard Kate gasp as she saw it too.
The body of a large man in a city utility uniform was splayed out on the floor, near a pool of gathering water. Several large piles of waste littered the open space, and I stared at the body as Artan played his light over it, cursing as he saw the scene.
“That man… he is not…”
“No, he wasn’t killed by any of those creatures,” I said. Long gashes, including one across his throat that was so deep that it shattered his spine, crisscrossed the face and neck. The abdomen was torn out, viscera splayed over the dirty floor. A small collection of dirty clothes was bundled loosely on the other side of the pool, and similar gashes ran across the red brick wall behind the body.
“Artan,” I asked, pushing Ky close to Kate and peering into the darkness ahead. “Where do lua
ns live?”
He screwed up his face, thinking.
Rhodes was in the rear now, and he flipped his night vision goggles down, peering to the back.
“Shit, Mike. Danger close, man.”
I heard them and smelled them already. I knew they were there. They were always there.
“Where, Artan?” I wasn’t being careful with my voice.
Kate groaned; she had guessed what I hoped I was wrong about.
“Africa and some others,” he said, and before I could answer, his eyes opened wide, “They have movie with luan in it for childs… luan is the king.”
You have got to be kidding me.
I remembered, then, my brother’s most enduring contribution to the wisdom of ages, most likely drawn from extensive military experience: Life is like a bag of dicks—you never know what you’re going to get… but you can be sure it is gonna wanna fuck you.
Rhodes was allowing his carbine to speak, now. The whispered shots were careful and I heard the bodies fall.
“We need to move, now, man. What’s the holdup?”
I could see them now, and they were hungry. Many in the front ranks had vicious cuts on their faces from the glass windows, thick black blood congealed in the wounds.
“The hold up,” I said, listening to the movement of something large ahead of us, “is that we’re quite literally standing in what I’m fairly sure is a lion’s den.”
THIRTY-THREE
There were a lot of things that I was mentally prepared for during the apocalypse.
I knew the dead were walking, they ate the living, and if you got bit, you died and came back. No problem.
I knew that a good weapon was better than a great screw. Check.
I knew that you never stopped moving, and you took food where you could find it. Sure.
And I knew that people were at their most base and elemental at times when hope had kicked them in the stomach, split their lip, and abandoned them by the side of the road. This was a hard lesson to learn.
But I have to admit. I was not prepared for lions.
Zombie monkeys? Been there, done that.
Penguins, maybe. You can’t trust penguins. All dressed up like some sort of James Bond of the animal world. Creepy little craps.