MZS- North East

by K. D. McAdams

  Patricks’ broken hockey stick is aimed quickly and thrust through the eye socket of the undead on top. In a smooth dance-like motion, Patrick withdraws the stick and drives it into the skull of the lower undead.

  We wait. There is an unspoken agreement that we will stand our ground here on this landing. Nothing comes.

  “The gun is at the bottom of the stairs in a holster on the body of a policeman,” Parker says.

  “Is the policeman… alive?” Patrick asks weirdly.

  “No. He’s dead-dead,” Parker explains, conveying the non-sentient status of the officer.

  Patrick looks around the group quickly and takes a deep breath.

  “Okay. You and me then. We go get the gun and come right back here.”

  Parker nods and says, “I think we should try and be quiet–“

  “They’re attracted to noise,” Cupcake, Patrick and I finish his thought.

  A brief smile is shared before Patrick and Parker head off down the stairs.

  Patrick reacted so quickly to the arrival of the zombies that had flung themselves from a floor above. He delivered the death strikes swiftly and efficiently. How does taking a life become that routine? I need to get to that level, but I am afraid of what that would make me.

  There is nothing in this stairwell to distinguish it from the last one. The sign says “Floor 5,” and there is another advertisement for the rooftop lounge.

  “Cupcake, we should go up. The rooftop lounge may have food,” I say.

  “We aren’t moving until Pat-O gets back. Plus, what if it’s full off zombies?”

  “I haven’t seen them going up. If they could use stairs, they probably wouldn’t fling themselves over the railings trying to get to us. Plus it may give us a vantage point to better help Tucker.”

  Cupcake slowly bobs his head in agreement. It’s amazing how certain thoughts and tasks become automatic while others, which seem simpler, require huge amounts of effort.

  “When Pat-O gets back, that seems like a good idea,” he says.

  Cupcake and I stand and stare at one another in silence. The presence of Todd and his gruesome cargo consumes the space, but we do not look at him or acknowledge his existence.

  Parker

  Chapter 32

  The leader of this group is steady and efficient. I like that. He seems to care about each of the people with him and they seem willing to let me join them.

  I would prefer if they were a little more organized, but I guess I can’t be picky about my rescuers. In fact, I wouldn’t have guessed who the leader was without having listened to them talk. They were just as disorganized walking down the street as any of the other small groups I watched come into the square.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Shhh!” Patrick gives me a funny look.

  I forgot my own recommendation of silence. How long have these guys been “on,” I wonder? None of them look exceptionally sloppy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all showered this morning, but their eyes all hold a sense of exhaustion.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, the flies are thick. It’s only been an hour since I came upon this grisly sight, but the stench seems more powerful. Not wanting to get too close to a rotting corpse, I stop four steps from the bottom.

  “I got your back. Go ahead,” Patrick says.

  Me? I’ve never held a gun in my life. Why doesn’t he take the gun and give me his hockey stick? Should I suggest that or will it incur his as-yet-unseen wrath?

  “I don’t know how to use a gun,” I offer apologetically.

  “Pretty easy. Point and shoot, a lot like a camera.”

  “What about the can of mace?”

  “They seem oblivious to pain, so I’m not sure that would help.”

  “But there are other people out there that we may need to…”

  They have a man—wait, he said two men—pinned down in the Humvee and he doesn’t remember that there are other survivors who may not be nice. I know there is strength in focusing on the task at hand, but during a moment of rest a leader should be able to reengage the big picture.

  “Look, I don’t feel like standing around down here. Get the gun and whatever else you want and let’s get going. I already know your name, so we need to be careful.”

  What does knowing my name have to do with anything? I want to ask but instead just walk down the remaining steps.

  The gun is on the officer’s right hip but at an awkward angle. I have to get down on my knees to pull it out toward the floor. My first pull is weak and the gun barely moves. The second pull is much stronger, but the gun does not come out. I’ve read about smart guns that only fire when the fingerprints match the owner: could this be a smart holster?

  “There’s a strap over the top,” Patrick says.

  I look more closely and see the thin strip of black leather keeping the gun in place. When I unfasten it, the gun almost falls out. I catch it, but am unprepared for the weight and it nearly brings my hand to the floor.

  A frightening surge of power courses through my body. My grip around the gun tightens and I feel invincible. Compared to the hockey stick and knives, my weapon is superior. I will lead this motley band to safety. Rising to my feet, I strike a superman pose.

  “Easy, killer. Check the gun belt and get extra ammo clips,” Patrick says.

  His comment brings me down a peg. I’m not even sure what an ammo clip looks like. From movie-based knowledge, hiding behind the fear in my brain, a black rectangular shape pops into my head. I now have the faintest clue as to what I am looking for, but I don’t see anything.

  “I don’t think he has any.”

  “He does. Roll the body over and look on the other side. The pepper spray was probably a good idea, too; you should grab that before you roll him.”

  Touching a dead body is not an experience on my bucket list. The pepper spray is an easy accomplishment, so I take that. With both hands full, I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to do this. Spiking from extreme confidence to total fear actually makes me light-headed.

  In an effort to steady myself, I reach out for the stairs. The can of pepper spray hits with a loud “ding” and I try to act like I was putting it down instead of nearly fainting. Next I rest the gun on the step and feel good about moving, even though it feels like I’m in quick sand.

  Placing my hands on the shoulders of the slain officer, I push gently. He barely moves. This was a big man, and with all of his equipment there is easily over two hundred pounds for me to deal with.

  Harder, I think to myself as I adjust my grip. I wonder if there is a reason Patrick’s not helping me? Is there a lesson to learn here, or is he just difficult?

  Struggling for almost a minute yields some progress. Each movement is more forceful than the previous and I realize that nothing will break or ooze on me.

  When the body is rotated almost completely over, I can see two rectangular pouches attached to the belt. Now that I see them, they look obvious. Their snaps pop open easily, but the clips don’t fall out the way the gun did. Using my finger and thumb, I slide the first clip out and drop it in my pocket before doing the same with the second. Even the clips of ammunition are surprisingly heavy.

  What looks like a knife is clipped on the belt just behind the ammunition pouches. I reach down and slide it off and flip it open. The blade looks sharp and I close it quickly. I clip it on my own belt and turn, ready to go.

  “The knife was a good find,” Patrick says approvingly.

  This is the type of compliment that is normal now. I nod in agreement. Patrick is staring at the body on the floor. He has a look of puzzlement in his face.

  “Does he have a vest on?” he asks.

  I look at the officer’s body closely and notice the lines under his shirt. He is definitely wearing a bulletproof vest.

  “Yeah, I think he does.”

  We both stand and stare. It takes a few seconds for me to figure out what Patrick is thinking, but I get there. He is wonde
ring if we should take the vest. We should, I think. Though the undead aren’t shooting people, so it wouldn’t really help against them.

  The other guys are going for headshots, so body armor wouldn’t help for that. It wouldn’t hurt in case they missed, but how would we get it off the officer? We would have to undo his shirt and roll his body all around. It was hard enough just getting to the ammo clips; undressing a dead body would be a nightmare.

  “I don’t think we need it.” I’m not at that advanced stage of depravity where I am stealing clothes off dead police officers.

  “Your call. We gotta get you something for your arms and legs though.” He taps his forearms. I can clearly make out duct tape decorated with umbrellas that looks like its wrapped over a soccer shin guard. He has the same setup on the other arm and both his lower legs.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Let’s get back to the others. I don’t like being separated.”

  Patrick turns and heads back up the stairs. He steps quickly and I can hear that he is being less careful than on our way down. We make good time and I think he feels safer knowing that the group has a gun. It could be that he just wants to get back to his friends.

  The clang of a body hitting a railing and a loud thud echoes through the stairwell. I recognize the sound from the zombie falling onto us from above. Could it have been attracted by the sound of our steps?

  Patrick abandons caution and leaps two steps at a time. He is around the corner and across the next landing before I can push myself for one more step. For a pudgy guy, he is explosive.

  By the time I catch up, he is standing on the fifth floor landing. His friends all appear to be okay, but there is a third zombie body on the pile.

  “Is everyone all right?” I ask, concerned.

  They give me silent nods in return.

  “What do we do now?” Patrick looks at the big guy; I think he called him Cupcake.

  I thought that Patrick was their leader but we suddenly seem to be waiting on orders from Cupcake. The silence is frightening. Drips of blood continue to drop slowly from the body of the boy. They splat into the puddle forming on the landing and each one sounds louder than the last.

  “We should go up to the lounge. Get some food and water. It may give us a better view so we can help Tucker,” the young woman says.

  Patrick looks up the stairs and then down at the pile of bodies. These monsters came from where she is suggesting we go. “Seize the high ground,” floats into my head, like a lesson from a book or a movie. When a character says it, I get the impression that it’s a plan, and easy. Now I feel like it’s a guess and could be hard.

  “Shoot Tucker a text and tell him where we’re headed. Tell him to keep hanging on; we’ll think of something,” Patrick says to Cupcake, before speaking to the whole group. “Me and new guy go first. Laney, you got Todd, and Cupcake, you bring up the rear.”

  “My name’s Parker,” I inject feebly.

  “I know.”

  He adjusts his grip on the hockey stick and bounds up the first few steps. Something tells me he can’t run for long, but his first step is quick. I’m glad they didn’t ask me to go first as some type of initiation.

  Going first would require swift and thorough action upon encountering a zombie. Can I quickly identify an undead person from a living person? Once identified, am I resolute enough to kill them? Is killing them the same with a gun as it is with a hockey stick?

  The last thought is foolish. With a gun I have the luxury of aiming for any spot on their skull. My bullet will do all the hard work if my aim is true.

  Having never held or shot any type of gun in my life, I have to wonder how good my aim will be. I’m also concerned with the sound of the gun going off in the enclosed space of the stairwell. The bodies hitting the railing reverberated loudly; I have to imagine a gunshot would be deafening.

  After two flights of stairs, I see a sign telling us that the rooftop lounge is on the eleventh floor. We have four more flights to go.

  Patrick’s pace is slowing. I suspected it would, but this is even sooner than I thought. Sweat drips off the back of his long stringy hair and his breathing is labored.

  When he makes the turn onto the next landing, I hear some scuffling. There is a moan and some faint buzzing, but I can’t tell what direction it comes from.

  “Fuck,” Patrick says before grunting a few times.

  I should race up and see what is happening and try to help. Instead I slow my pace and pray that whatever is happening is over when I get there.

  Finally, I reach the landing and see the body off in a corner and Patrick turning to head up the next flight of stairs. The struggle is over. I’m relieved.

  I pause briefly in front of the body and notice that there is very little blood. The boy’s body, in contrast, has been dripping blood for a while now. Even when I think it must be dry, more seems to come. Do the zombies bleed out before they turn or is there another explanation?

  The remaining flights are covered without incident, at least for me. I’m in my own world, thinking about the difference between killing from a distance, like with a rifle, and killing up close with your hands. I decide that the strain from having to do either will have an adverse effect on my psyche.

  On the eleventh floor, Patrick waits outside the door to the lounge. He breathes heavily and watches the stairs anxiously. As each of his friends appears, his expression lightens a little.

  “Made it,” Cupcake reports as he arrives.

  “Let’s catch our breath for a minute. We may have some cleaning to do once we go inside,” Patrick explains. I am glad that he can think ahead like that.

  “Who do you work for?” I blurt out, without even realizing I was thinking it.

  “I’m currently unemployed. Does it matter?”

  “Sorry. I mean where did you get your training? Army, marines, police?”

  “Training? We’re all using the ‘just roll with it’ school of thought,” he says and shrugs, destroying the little confidence I had building.

  McLean

  Chapter 33

  Why does the new guy get the gun? Patrick has been taking the lead and I feel like he’s the one who should have the best weapon. I suppose if he wanted it he could have taken it, though.

  We know the new guy’s name, but I can’t bring myself to use it. It’s weird, because until yesterday I barely knew Patrick and didn’t know the other guys at all. Yet Cupcake, Todd and especially Tucker already feel like old friends.

  I’m so scared for Tucker. Being stuck in that Humvee surrounded by zombies must be terrifying. Even if he is physically safe and comfortable, the mental abuse must be horrendous.

  Terri does not concern me as much. Getting blackout drunk when she held a critical navigation role pisses me off. She gives me the impression that she’s fine holed up all alone somewhere. In fact, she’s probably still passed out and unaware of what is going on.

  “Ready?” Patrick asks.

  The honest answer from me is no. My breathing has just recovered and I could use another five minutes. I haven’t had to kill any of these things yet and I wouldn’t mind putting it off for another day, but if we are outnumbered and overwhelmed I may not have that luxury.

  “I’m going to take Todd and find some cover. I’ll help out when he’s secure,” I explain to Patrick.

  “Hang back a little and let us clear the doorway before you come in,” he says, nodding in response. “Me, Cupcake, then new guy. Got it?”

  Nods all around. It looks like new guy wants to say something, probably remind us of his name. Thankfully he stays quiet.

  Patrick holds up his hand and counts with his fingers; 1…2…3.

  The door flies open and Patrick and Cupcake explode through it. New guy hesitates but then steps in, his head swiveling so fast I’m afraid it will fall off.

  All three men disappear from view. I focus my listening but hear nothing. The seconds inch past in what feels like complete silence. N
ot knowing what they see or are faced with makes my anxiety grow.

  Breathe, I actually have to remind myself.

  “All clear.” Patrick pops his head into the doorway and smiles out at me.

  I push Todd through the door and then follow him in.

  It’s a virtual oasis. No. It’s an actual oasis. Large, comfortable-looking couches, pergolas with fine fabrics gently billowing in the breeze and a long fully-stocked bar greet us in silence.

  My eyes survey the space. I don’t know what I’m searching for at first. Soon I realize that I’m looking for blood, bodies and gore. There is none. This area is clean and appears to have never witnessed the horror that is the undead.

  Finally, we can relax.

  New guy is standing in the middle of the floor. He’s between Patrick and Cupcake, but looks like he’s confused about what to do.

  Patrick walks around the perimeter. He’s pushing aside the blowing fabric and checking then rechecking space behind couches. He’s not yet completely confident that the place is clear and safe.

  Cupcake is behind the bar. He is busy doing something, but I can’t see what it is. As much as I could use a stiff drink, I don’t believe that it’s a priority. Food, and maybe something to barricade the door, is what I want most right now.

  Carefully I steer Todd over to the nearest couch. He sinks down into the cushions and lays back. I watch his eyes close and something resembling relief comes over his face.

  “Todd, can I take him from you?”

  A slight shake of the head is his only response. He’s not ready to give up Jaden’s body yet.

  The scene is confusing for me. I’ve never thought long about someone having his or her head blown off, but if I ever did, it was not like this. There is equally too much head left to say the body is headless but too little left to say the head is intact. What is not confusing is the amount of blood—there is so much blood.