The Drumhead

by Richard Correll

  How do you fight something that will never surrender? He felt desperate for an answer but could find none.

  The second window betrayed a single figure. Brett concentrated on the lone form as it peered into his side. She was a small black girl perhaps 13 years old with short pigtails done up like bunny ears. She wore denim shorts to her knees and a shirt whose color had been lost in cement dust. Her attention seemed to be focused to a hypnotized state by the Mannequin figures lounging in the storefront window. A man in a business suit. A woman with anglo features who had been spray painted brown in an afterthought of equality. Her purple dress seemed to catch the little girls’ eye. She drank in the scene with an almost serene ambience. Her attention started to slowly play about the window, for a second she cocked her head at movement on the other side of the looking glass. Her gaze penetrated the other side and made eye contact with Brett.

  The eyes grew so large that her brown pupils seemed to disappear into the rage that took over. Her mouth expanded sideways and downwards as an impossibly large mouth engulfed her features. She threw back her head and howled at Brett without breaking eye contact. The girl charged hard into the glass with such intensity Brett raised his rifle should she break through.

  Thunggggggggg!

  In an instant she staggered back with a look that was dead center between rage, hunger and dismay. Contact with Brett’s eyes was re-established and she charged again. Symons stomach lurched at the velocity of the impact. As the glass vibrated from the collision a man in an over sized pair of docks attacked the glass furiously and bounced off. He staggered backward and charged again. The glass was like rippling water in a pool. More of them moved over to gather behind the girl before taking their turn at the now shimmering obstacle.

  “Sir, “ Esterhaus spoke, his voice weak and strained. “We better get a move on.”

  “Yeah,” Symons watched the glass and waited for cracks to appear. He turned away and began to walk to the exit door with Bradley and Esterhaus. Somehow, Brett felt his feet couldn’t move fast enough.

  The door creaked shut on a room gone dark and lit only by the errant light from the street. Shadows seemed to grow longer and more robust as more than darkness closed in. The glass slowly bent inwards and the metal frame surrounding the window began to feel the pressure. The mannequins passively observed as Macy’s clocks kept time. Before long, dirt would swirl in and settle on the floors. Decay would begin its sleepless process of bringing all things down, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. The clothes so neatly stacked would fade, the timbers that were the skeleton of the structure would become rotten and collapse. The paint on the walls would crack, peel and decompose. All of this would transpire in a place abandoned. There was only one question left. Would time still continue if there was no one left to mark its passing?

  The stairs felt like a modern take on a catacomb. In this part of the building the glamour had been replaced by the practical. Brick, metal and at times timbers replaced the colors of indulgence and consumerism. Brett hauled open the heavy fire door that led to the boiler room without a second glance. He didn’t dare coax the shadows to follow him.

  Try to breathe, he kept his face calm and passive. He sized up the almost nautical looking iron door that was their destination. It had an iron handle and looked heavier than it was. Slowly, people were stepping over the two inch portal rising up from the floor. It was a slow, careful procedure. Many of the people in their care were less than athletic. The last thing needed now was a stumble or careless footfall. They were moving slow enough without walking wounded having them fall further behind.

  Brett carefully handed the crippled boy to Moshood . They had become almost inseparable now. It was a glimmer of hope that kept his fear at bay. You know they’re coming, he read books where the hero pushed terrible thoughts from his mind to concentrate on something else. How the fuck do you do that? Just tell me that right now! He felt his expression change and didn’t care who saw it. How do you do that? They are coming. We can’t fight. There isn’t enough ammunition. There isn’t enough time and before long our cell phone batteries and flashlights will give out and leave us in the dark as they close in. He tried to imagine only hearing them approaching without a sliver of comfort from even a candle.

  “Candles.” Symons thought out loud. “Private Bradley, did you pick up candles?”

  “Yes sir,” Bradley nodded. “They were in house wares.”

  “Atta boy,” he caught himself grinning. Hope, we have some hope. “Private, you are a lean, mean shopping machine.”

  “Thank you, sir.” was the essence of satirical. Bradley’s face

  But they are still coming……..

  “Nooooooo.” It was a slow, mournful sound from Hildgen’s lips. The eyes were panic, her skin a tinge paler. On occasion her head jerked right and left in case no one heard what she had said.

  “C’mon,” Brett had stepped through the portal and held out his hand as Hildgen shrank away. “Ma’am, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Noooooooooooo.” The head shook again.

  Pinder was watching her carefully in the tunnel just behind Symon’s shoulder. Claustrophobia. He was watching her face, thinking of a way to get through the fortress of fear that had just reared up in front of her.

  Pinder glanced back at Esterhaus in the meager light and the Captain made an exasperated motion with his hands. Pinder brought his teeth together and glanced down at the concrete floor as he expelled a breath through nostrils. He placed his hand on Brett’s shoulder and leaned forward.

  “Do you still have your gun?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes were wide and desperate. “I got it.”

  “Here,” Pinder reached through the aperture and handed two metallic globes to Hildgen. “A little extra insurance.” She looked at them for a moment and nodded stiffly.

  “You know how they work?” Pinder inquired. He was feeling the itch of too much time wasted starting to invade his system.

  “You pull the pin and throw it.” Hildgen looked down at the grenades and then toward Pinder for confirmation.

  “Right,” Pinder nodded and spoke quickly. “You only have a few seconds.”

  “Okay,”

  “Are you sure about this?” Symons leaned forward in one last vain attempt.

  “I ‘ll be okay.” She was calming down now. Her greatest fear had been bypassed. “I can hide somewhere.”

  “Okay, then.” Pinder concluded the conversation. We are out of time.

  “Good luck,” Symons made eye contact. One last try.

  “Yeah, you too.” The heavy nautical door creaked shut. Finality.

  As Brett turned away from the door. Pinder caught his eye and the feeling of regret passed between them. Brett wanted to stand up, fling the door open and drag her down here with them. She’d fight him every step of the way. He felt a steady reasoning start to take control.

  She cannot help how she feels. Maybe she can hide, maybe she’ll be safe. Maybe we’ll send help when we get out. Maybe….

  Brett turned and saw others watching him carefully. Was it judgment they felt? For a second, Brett started to walk with Pinder. The Captain nodded to him, his mouth a bloodless line. Symons sighed and consoled himself that there was only so much time. We have to let it go now. Did you really just say that? A cruel, self mutilating part of him thought: really? Remember Maggie? Brett kept pace with Pinder in silence and felt alone as a hundred pairs of eyes passed over him.

  “Hey,” Bestoni’s voice was a whisper as he tapped Pinder on the shoulder. His eyes were colored by shadows. He suddenly had deep crevices in his face where light dared not explore. “You guys might want to see this.”

  “What’s up?” Symons spoke first and then felt disrespectful and apologetically glanced at Pinder. The Captain nodded. Its’ fine, don’t worry. Pinder returned his attention to Bestoni.

  “We’re still getting Wi-Fi believe it or not.” He was tapping his phone with the careful, less confident fing
ers of someone over thirty. “Check this out.”

  The screen on his phone came to life with a freeze frame. It was Molly and the East Indian professor again. The red icon “CNN LIVE” was more than visible in the upper right corner. Even in an apocalypse, network advertising was everything. Brett thought coldly. The lighting was poor, shadowy with a concrete wall background. Was there no longer any time for interviews? What was happening? He took a deep breath and listened. Bestoni’s chubby index finger tapped play,

  “….are these invaders?” Molly’s question began in mid-sentence. Her dark eyes were intense and professional as she held the microphone four inches from the man’s mouth to pick up his answer.

  “First of all, these invaders as you call them can easily be indentified from us.” As he spoke, his bald head betrayed touches of perspiration.

  “How is that?” Molly interjected. Her eyes cast a furtive glance off camera. I know that look, Brett realized. She’s not in a safe place.

  “They have a mutilated, misshapen look about them.” The doctor was speaking quickly now. “They move at a much slower pace.”

  “But what are they?” Another interjection and another look around. Molly’s voice was icy cool and calm. Brett had to admire her professionalism, especially now.

  “Please, this is important.” The doctor raised his voice. “They do move much slower that than we do and are not as strong. But, there is a great danger in underestimating them. They are vicious, indefatigable and usually congregate in large numbers.”

  “Yes.” It was less a word and more an urging to keep going. To keep going quickly.

  “Do not fight them unless absolutely necessary.” The professor’s voice had a sense of urgency. “They are…they are wolves…..animals.”

  “We are talking to Dr. Sandup Singh about what we know up to this time.” Molly gazed into the camera before returning to Dr. Singh. It suddenly occurred to Brett that there was no icon under his or Molly’s name. He was an avid watcher of CNN and Molly. But, he only noticed the absence of studio generated effects now. The implications of this sent his imagination off on a track he tried to shut down.

  Gunshots, distance gunshots. He swore he heard them from the phone’s small speaker. Jesus.

  “Once again, doctor.” Molly ignored the gun fire and pressed the microphone toward The Doctor. “How do we kill or incapacitate them?”

  “A gunshot to the head.” He answered quickly. Were the gunshots getting closer? “A blow to the head with an object like a hammer or baseball bat would do as well. But please, I beg you…..”

  “ma’am!” A voice spoke off-camera. “I’m sorry you have to move. This is not safe.”

  The camera whirled quickly to pick up a black suited security officer with a sub machine gun flanked by two National Guards soldiers. More gunfire, way closer this time. The National Guardsmen had that look. We have to move now!

  “Doctor Singh.” Molly kept the questions coming as she walked at a brisk pace beside Singh. “Who are these things.”

  “Molly, I am sorry.” He faced Hunter and the camera while being hustled along the semi darkened hallway. “This might be disturbing to your viewers but they must know the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “They appear to be the recently dead who have returned to life …….in this state.” His eyes were white, disbelieving.

  “The…..The what?”

  “I don’t believe what I am telling you but it is the truth. They are dead bodies re-animated.” The Doctor was visibly trying to calm down. He was purposefully slowing his pace to insure he was being heard. “As well, anyone who dies in this crisis will re-animate as one of those…….creatures.”

  “You have confirmation of this?” Damn, Molly’s voice stayed cool. The power of the reporter to not to get emotionally involved in the story. When he met her, Brett thought Molly had mentioned that.

  “Yes, many times.” Singh’s voice was almost apologetic.

  “Ma’am,” A masculine command voice spoke in staccato off camera. “We need to take the Doctor to the shelter.”

  “Just a few more minutes, sir” Singh held up a pleading hand at the voice as gunshots echoed in the background.. “It is urgent people know about this.”

  “Just a minute, that’s all.” The voice spoke it as a warning. The camera whirled past a sign that said: “Hall of Nebraska Wildlife.” They were in the lower level of Congress, near the tornado and bomb shelter.

  “Thank you,” Singh nodded and returned to the camera with his sad but intense brown eyes. “There is one more horrible detail I must tell before our time is up.”

  “Go ahead.” Molly kept her attention on Dr. Singh while gunshots announced themselves like exclamation points to the conversation.

  “There have been reports of cannibalism….”

  “Cannibalism?” Molly interjected after a volley of gunfire threatened to drown out the Doctor. “These things that are trying to kill us…..?”

  “No,” Singh was now detached from his surroundings. “They are consuming the flesh of their victims.”

  “Noooooo…..” someone beside Brett held their breath and whispered.

  “You have confirmation?” Molly asked again. Her voice seemed oddly cold and surreal. Like an amputee in shock.

  He nodded sadly.

  “Ma’am, I am sorry we are out of time.” Two men in black suits stepped forward and carefully moved Dr. Singh toward a re-enforced doorway.

  “Molly….” Singh looked up with gathering shock as he understood what was happening.

  “Ma’am, please understand.” The security man in the suit held up a hand toward the camera. “There is a list of people who go in this shelter.”

  “I understand.” Her voice was calm, matter of fact. “I’ll stay close to the National Guard.”

  “That would be a good idea, ma’am.” His voice had taken on a respectful tone. He had reached the door. “Good luck, Ma’am.”

  “You too, “ Molly nodded “Take care of Doctor Singh.”

  “I will, ma’am.” The door closed with a metallic, conclusive note.

  Molly looked down for a second with a sad smile on her face, half listening to gunfire fading in and out like a distant radio signal. She looked up abruptly at the camera:

  “Are we still on?” Her voice was devoid of the authoritative tone of a broadcaster. “Okay, then.” Molly stepped forward and brought the microphone up to her mouth. She put her game face on and resumed.

  “To sum up what Dr. Singh has said: Find shelter that will hold. Either a basement with a heavy door and impenetrable lock or the upstairs of your house after you made the stairs impassable. Failing both, the attic or roof will do.” She paused for a minute, a turning of the page in her mind to insure all points were covered. Gunfire still found its way into the microphone.

  “If authorities are showing up in your neighborhood and telling you to evacuate, go with them.” Her eyes were unblinking to the camera. “This is not a hurricane party situation. If they are there telling you to evacuate, go with them.”

  “The reason I say if they are there is Dr. Singh has commented to me that many evacuation stations have been over run or abandoned.” She paused and her tone changed slightly. Molly was now speaking to the media. “With this in mind, I ask my colleagues at CNN and the Emergency Broadcasting System affiliates who are using this report to please get confirmation before putting up any evacuation sights to our viewers.”

  “Avoid physical contact with these things, they’re bite has been known to be fatal.” She continued with a slight rise in apprehension. Molly risked a glance here and there off camera for self preservation. “They can be killed with a sharp blow or gunshot to the head. If the brain is incapacitated, then it kills them.” What could have been a shout or scream echoed down the large hallway and Molly abruptly turned toward it. The camera stayed riveted to her as she took a ragged breath and continued:

  “If you are alone and have not been
evacuated,” Molly’s eyes were a little wilder. “Before taking shelter, make sure you have plenty of water, food, supplies and whatever you need to survive.” Molly paused and bit her lip before looking into the camera again. “Wherever you are, you might be there for awhile.”

  “Molly Hunter, CNN, C-SPAN, Emergency Broadcasting System.” She concluded and held her head high and body still to complete the report. Its’ what they’ve always done, reporters are reporters I guess. Right up to the end of the world. Brett thought as he kept watching.

  “Okay,” Molly nodded to the cameraperson behind the lens and made a wave of her hand. “Lets’ go.”

  “That last part shouldn’t be there.” Bestoni observed and then continued with a nod of his head. “Same goes for this guy.” The screen was a freeze frame of the anchor of the network staring into the camera. With time at a standstill it was easy to see the hyper white shade of his skin. The eyes a few degrees wider and the careful, professional expression that was trying mask his panic. Jesus. Is this really happening?