Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Taylor, Keith

  I shiver despite the warmth of the car. I can imagine it all too well. Waking up to the sound of a crowd running outside. Rushing down to the front door to check out the commotion, only discovering what was going on when it was too late. When they were already through the door. Already beating, tearing and biting. Who knows how many died in their nightgowns? How many were killed before they even awoke?

  Thank fuck I live on a dead end street.

  This must be why I didn’t see anything on the way to the coffee shop. Our place is in an old, sketchy industrial neighborhood that used to be home to a few small factories and warehouses. It’s in the process of being gentrified, but right now the buildings are mostly boarded up and gutted. If the infected are attracted to sound, or light, or... I don’t know, the smell of humans there wasn’t much to draw them to my little cul-de-sac. They must have flowed right by as I slept, drawn by the sound of the fireworks from the boats on the river.

  “Heads up, kids.” Arnold tears me back from my imagination. “We got action here.” He points ahead, a little further down arrow straight Flatbush to the intersection with 7th Avenue. A truck trailer has been pulled most of the way across the road, its rear shunted up against the front window of a Duane Reade, leaving a gap just large enough for a car to pass between the truck and the stores on the other side of the street. On top of the trailer a couple of soldiers – or, at least, guys who look like soldiers to my untrained eye – stand and watch us. One peers through a set of binoculars for a long moment then turns and speaks to his partner, who lifts a hand and waves us closer.

  Arnold pulls the car forward at a little more than walking pace until we’re just a few car lengths from the trailer, and one of the soldiers holds up a hand then waves it in a circle. Roll down your window.

  “Do you have any injured?” he calls out.

  Arnold pokes his head out the window and calls back. “What was that? Speak up, son.”

  The soldier leans forward and yells. “Any injured? Anyone bitten or scratched? No injured allowed.”

  Arnold turns to Kate with a questioning look. She looks at me for approval, then gives him a nod. “It’s OK, we won’t tell.” Fuck that. I’m sure they’re hurting for medical supplies in there, but I'm not about to leave Arnold to fend for himself after he kept Kate safe. If he's infected we'll deal with it later, after he's had the chance to say goodbye to his wife. He doesn't deserve to die out here, all alone.

  “Uh uh,” he calls back. “Nobody here but us chickens. You got survivors in the park? I’m looking for my wife.”

  The soldier doesn’t answer. He lifts a radio and speaks into it for a moment before turning back to us. “Turn right on 7th,” he yells, his voice echoing across the street. “Then continue forward to 9th Street and add your car to the roadblock.”

  At that he waves us through with his gun. Arnold doesn’t wait for anything else. He shifts the car into gear and drives quickly through the gap, his face glistening with sweat and his breathing heavy.

  “Thank you,” he says in a quiet, shaky voice. “I know you should have turned me in.” He shifts in his seat and winces at the pain. The cream leather beneath him squeaks as he moves, and I see it’s stained red. “Don’t worry, Marcy’ll know to have brought a first aid kit. No need to waste supplies patching up an old timer like me.”

  We slowly drive down 7th Avenue, and for the first time since the moment I flicked on the TV this morning I almost feel safe. At each intersection the street is blocked by cars and trucks, some of them piled on top of one another. They must have some kind of heavy plant nearby to shift the vehicles, I figure, or they’ve recruited the Hulk to help them build their roadblocks.

  This continues all the way down to 9th Street, where a yellow JCB with an enormous scoop slowly levers an old cab up onto its hood until it finally falls, upside down, on top of a beautiful silver Porsche 911 ragtop. I can’t help but wince as I watch the windshield cave in under the weight of the cab. It feels like such a waste. The street is thronged with old beaters. Couldn’t they have spared the nice cars?

  A young soldier flags us down, and Kate rolls down her window.

  “OK, guys, you can just pull it into that gap right there.” He points to a break in the cars by the Porsche. “Wedge it as best you can, understand?”

  Arnold leans over Kate and berates the soldier. “Son, I’ve been driving this car fifteen years. She’s like a child to me. Why don’t you just use one of these other cars and leave her be?”

  The soldier shoulders his rifle and leans in the window. He looks like a twelve year old pre-shaver, but he does his best to stick out his chin and act like a tough guy. “Because, sir, we don’t have the keys to these cars. It takes ten minutes for this fucking earthmover to push each one onto the pile, and I need to get this street secured by sundown. Now shut up and wedge the damned car.”

  Arnold turns away from the soldier and puts the car in gear. “Sorry, Bessie,” he sighs, pulling it slowly into the gap. “I guess this is where we part ways.” He coasts it gently up to the Porsche and stops a couple of feet from the front bumper. “You were a good girl.” He pats the wheel and cuts off the engine with a sigh.

  The young soldier turns back from his work directing the JCB and calls out. “Pull it in closer, old timer. I want it wedged right up against that Porsche. No gaps.”

  Arnold reluctantly restarts the engine, shifts into gear and slowly, gently pulls the car a few more inches closer before putting it back into park. There’s still a solid six inches of space between the vehicles.

  “Jesus!” yells the kid. “We’re making a roadblock here. Stop being so fucking precious about it. Pull. It. Closer.”

  Arnold shuts off the engine and calls out. “You know what, fuck you, kid. This is my damned car.”

  “Easy now, Arnold,” I warn, resting my hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble, OK? We have bigger things to worry about than a car.”

  My words have no effect. Arnold seems to have slipped into that recalcitrant state shared by crotchety old people and little kids who flat out refuse to eat their vegetables. I’m sure he knows deep down that he’s acting irrationally. He knows it’s crazy to try to protect a car when the world is collapsing around him, but he’s been pushed too far by an uppity kid holding a gun, and now he won’t move another inch. He crosses his arms and stares down the soldier.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” the kid sighs. He pulls his rifle down from his shoulder and holds it menacingly, pointed at the asphalt in front of the car. “I’ll do it myself. Get out of the car, sir.” Arnold stares straight ahead and tightens his arms. “Get out of the car now.”

  With the final word he lifts the muzzle of the gun and points it directly through the window at Arnold. Kate flinches in the front passenger seat and lets out a panicked cry. She grabs Arnold by the arm and shakes him. “Do what he says, for God’s sake! Arnold, this is crazy!”

  Kate’s voice seems to get through to the old guy more effectively than the gun pointed at his head. He looks at her and sighs, slowly uncrossing his arms, and mumbles. “It’s just...” I can’t see his eyes from the back seat, but I can hear tears in his quivering voice. “Bessie belonged to my son.” He places both hands on the wheel and holds it tight, like he’s holding the hands that used to rest there. “He didn’t leave much when he went to Iraq, but I promised him I’d take care of her until...” his breath catches in his throat, “until he came home to us. And I always did. Washed her every Sunday, rain or shine. Kept her running smooth.” He looks up at Kate with tears in his eyes. “It’s what James would have wanted, you know?”

  Shit.

  The young soldier moves closer, the stock of his gun pressed up against his shoulder. He taps the barrel against the window. “Get out now,” he orders. I can see the barrel shaking a little. This kid has probably never fired a shot in anger. There’s fear in his voice. Panic. His finger twitches over the trigger. He’s liable to do something stupid.

&
nbsp; I slowly, carefully push open the back door, making sure not to startle the kid, but he still wheels around on me, the gun pointed right at my face. “Woah, woah, unarmed! Steady now, there’s no problem. I’m stepping out of the car, OK? Please don’t fire.” I hold my hands palms forward above the door and slowly climb out, taking care not to make any sudden movements. When I’m finally on my feet I gently push the door closed and take two long steps back towards the trunk of the car, just to make sure the kid doesn’t think I’ll make a lunge for him.

  “Please, sir, can you just give him a minute to say goodbye?” I plead. I realize how stupid this sounds, but I guess there’s no other option. “Look, this was his son’s car, and the kid died in the Gulf. He’s not trying to be an asshole, it’s just his last connection with his kid. You’re a soldier, you must understand what it’s like for the parents. Can you give him a break? Please?”

  The kid’s eyes dart from me to Arnold and back again. His finger is still on the trigger and the barrel is still shaking like crazy. I’m terrified that the the slightest breeze might make him twitch. I’ve never had a gun pointed in my face before. My adrenaline is spiking, and I can feel my heart thump in my chest. It takes all my strength to avoid ducking behind the car, but I know the slightest move might set him off.

  Time passes. Who knows how long? Every second feels like an hour with that barrel pointing at my nose, but eventually I see the kid’s trigger finger relax a little. The hyper, agitated look fades from his eyes, and he slowly lowers the gun. I can feel it running down my body as the barrel moves, tracing a line from my head to my feet. I don’t dare take a breath until it’s finally pointed at the ground.

  “OK,” the kid sighs, nodding. “I’ll give him one minute.”

  I duck my head down and look into the car. Kate’s comforting Arnold. His shoulders are shaking, and his head is pressed against the steering wheel.

  “Thank you,” I sigh, taking a long, shuddering breath. “I really appreciate it. I’m Tom.” I hold out my hand, but pull it back when I see the kid take a tighter grip on his gun. “Umm... Can I offer you a cigarette?” I point to my pocket, and with slow, exaggerated movements reach in and pull out the pack.

  “Karl,” the soldier replies, still a little nervous. “I don’t smoke.”

  “OK, well I do, and if I don’t have one now I might have a coronary. You sure know how to make a guy shit himself.” I let out a little chuckle, and start to relax when I see a shy, embarrassed smile appear on the kid’s face.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, speaking like a human for the first time. “Rough day, you know? Between you and me I’m scared out of my mind.”

  I nod in agreement. “You and me both. I’m still hoping I’ll wake up soon. This has to be some kind of fucking nightmare, right?” I light my cigarette and point to his fatigues. “So what are you? Army? Navy?” There are a couple of patches on his shoulders, but nothing I recognize as a branch or rank.

  Karl looks down at his uniform, seemingly embarrassed. “Umm...” he mumbles, “JROTC.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m pretty clueless about the military. What’s that?”

  His cheeks burn red. “Junior Reserve Officers’ Training Corps,” he mumbles quietly, suddenly looking like even more of a scared kid. All of his bluster has evaporated. “I’m in high school. I’m just a cadet.” He shakes his rifle. “I’ve never even used one of these. We train with old M1 Garands, and I never even used live ammo before...” His voice trails off. His lower lip starts to quiver for a moment, but he manages to pull himself together. “And now they’ve put me in charge of building this roadblock. Just me and Gary.” He points to the guy in the cab of the JCB, carefully maneuvering his scoop beneath another car. “I just wanna go home. I don’t wanna do this any more.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that. “There’s nobody else who could help?”

  The kid laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “Last I heard there was a unit from Fort Dix coming to relieve us, but that was three hours ago. Who the fuck knows what happened to them between there and here?”

  “So who’s in charge?”

  Karl snorts. “Some Lieutenant Colonel. I don’t know his name. In charge might be the wrong term, though. There are only a couple of dozen soldiers. Real soldiers, I mean, from the 69th. Most of the battalion was deployed months ago. There’s only a couple hundred reservists left behind, and they’re spread pretty thin across the city. Most of the guys here are either retired veterans or cadets, like me.” He looks down at his oversized fatigues. “We got plenty of uniforms, but no soldiers to fill them.”

  “Jesus,” I gasp, suddenly acutely aware of just how exposed we are here in the street. “I thought this was some kind of huge military operation. You know, battleships off the coast, jets flying overhead, that sort of thing. You’re telling me it’s just a few guys and an earthmover?”

  Karl leans back against the hood of a wrecked car and rests his rifle against the tire. “Yeah, pretty much. I’m only here because I live down the street in Bensonhurst. Guy on the news said FEMA was setting up a camp in the park, but when me and my dad got here there was only the colonel and a few guys. No sign of FEMA anywhere. It’s FUBAR. We’re blocking up the streets as best we can, but who knows what comes next? We don’t have any tents. No cots. No medical supplies. The only food we got is whatever we can find in the stores behind the roadblocks, and who knows how long that’ll last?”

  I get the feeling Karl is only holding onto his cool by a slender thread, and I can’t blame him. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for someone his age to be handed a gun and told to defend a bunch of helpless civilians. He looks like he could burst into tears at any moment. I don’t want to push him, but I need to understand the situation. “How many people came to the park?”

  The kid shrugs. “Too many to count. Hundreds. Maybe a few thousand. The man on the news said... you know, we just thought it’d all be OK if we came down. He said it’d be safe for us here.” He turns away from me, embarrassed, and wipes a tear from his cheek. “And now all I can think is how safe can we be if kids like me are in charge of building the roadblocks, you know? The situation’s gotta be pretty desperate, right?”

  I drop my cigarette and crush it beneath my boot. “Well, you look to be doing a damned good job to me, Karl. I’m sure you’ll make a fine officer. Your dad will be proud.” I feel dumb saying those words. I don’t have a clue if he’s doing a good job, but he seems to straighten his back a little at the compliment. He rubs his moist eyes and smiles awkwardly.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, embarrassed. He stands and points to the car. “OK, we better get this thing moved. You think he’s had enough time?”

  I nod. “Yeah, that should be enough. Thanks, Karl.”

  I walk to the driver’s door of the car and tap on the window. Arnold’s head is still resting against the steering wheel, but he seems to have stopped crying.

  No response. I tap again, but still he doesn’t move. I pull open the door.

  “Come on, Arnold. It’s time.” I place my hand on his shoulder, but I can tell right away that something isn’t quite right. Something... I can’t put my finger on it, but the hairs suddenly stand up on the back of my neck. There’s something I’m missing. Something my conscious mind hasn’t noticed.

  “Arnold? Hey, buddy, can you...” My voice trails off as it finally clicks. I can feel Arnold’s muscles moving beneath my hand. They’re... rippling. Tensing. Bunching together as if he’s preparing himself to get up. But he’s not breathing. His chest isn’t moving. Hasn’t moved since I opened the door.

  “Kate,” I whisper quietly, barely loud enough to drown out the sudden thumping of my heart. “Get out of the car, honey. Quickly.”

  Kate looks up at me with a a puzzled expression. “What—”

  “Now, Kate,” I hiss. “Get out now.”

  She doesn’t see what’s going on, but the urgency in my voice makes her move quickly. She t
urns and fumbles for the door handle, but beneath my hand I can feel Arnold’s muscles twitch and quiver like there’s a light current passing through his body. I tighten my grip, pressing his shoulder down as best I can.

  “Kate, get out!” I yell.

  She finally pushes open the door and tumbles out into the street as Arnold lifts his head from the steering wheel, moving as if I wasn’t even holding him down. Kate kicks her door closed and the old man’s head snaps around to chase the sound, giving me the chance to back away and slam the driver’s door.

  Now he turns back to me, and my fears are confirmed. This isn’t Arnold any more. The twinkle has gone from his eyes. They’re just blank now; dark, unfocused orbs surrounded by ashy skin, hunting for the next target.

  I back away from the car slowly, remembering the little girl I saw in the Prius. I figure I can keep him from attacking if I just move slowly enough, but he proves me wrong. The moment I move a muscle he launches himself at the window, his muffled bellow drowned out by the sound of the JCB engine droning by the roadblock.

  “Karl!” I yell, stumbling back away from the car. “Shoot him!”

  The kid grabs up his rifle, but doesn’t point it at the car. “I can’t!” he cries.

  I turn to him, grab his shoulders and roughly shake him. “Karl, fucking shoot him!”

  The terrified kid lifts his gun up to me and flips it over. “I can’t!” he yells again. “It’s loaded with fucking blanks!” He points to the magazine. “It’s a training rifle. We don’t have enough ammo to go around!”

  “Oh Jesus. Some fucking safe zone.” Arnold continues to throw himself against the door, and I just know it won’t hold out long. A crack has already appeared in the window and it’s spreading with every blow.

  I look around for my bat, and swear under my breath as I realize I left it on the back seat of the car. Far too risky to try to get it back now. The kid’s rifle might make a half decent club, but something tells me Arnold will take more killing than the guy back in the antique store. He’s an old man but he has a good few inches on me, a barrel chest and thick arms. I can only imagine what would happen if he got the chance to launch himself at me.