Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Taylor, Keith

  I cast my eyes around the street and panic for a moment when I realize Kate has vanished from beside the car. It’s not until I hear her yell that I realize what’s going on.

  “Get out of the way!” I look up and see Kate clinging onto the cab door of the earthmover, waving me aside. The driver turns the wheel and powers forward towards the car, and as the enormous tires bump against it he pushes a lever and sends the heavy scoop pressing down.

  I run towards the earthmover and yell out for the driver to stop, but the sound of the hydraulics drowns out my voice. I can see right away that his plan to crush Arnold won’t work. The scoop isn’t nearly large enough. It only reaches halfway across the car, and as it pushes down, bending the steel frame with a tortured squeal, the weakened driver’s side window bursts outwards.

  Arnold squirms his way out through the window, falling to the ground as the bench seat of the car folds and cracks behind him. His foot is caught for a moment in the twisted door frame and I imagine I can hear the ankle snap as the crushed frame pins it, but he pulls his foot clear with a yank, tearing off a shoe and leaving a bloody smear down the side of the door.

  I watch, helpless, as he pulls himself to his feet and breaks into a limping run, closing the dozen feet between him and the frozen, petrified kid in the space of a single breath. Karl holds up his gun like a shield, but it does nothing to stop Arnold. The old man takes the kid down like a bowling pin. They both vanish behind a car, and as the engine of the earthmover cuts out I hear Karl’s frantic, petrified screams, broken by dull thumps that sound like a meat tenderizer slapping against a steak. The screams gurgle and fade until the thumps are all that’s left. Steady. Regular. The sound of Arnold’s fists pounding against Karl’s lifeless body.

  “We have to get out of here, now,” I whisper, holding my hand up to Kate. She takes it and climbs quickly down from the JCB. “You too,” I say, nodding at the guy in the cab. “Get out of there.”

  The guy clings to the steering wheel and shakes his head frantically. He’s too scared to speak.

  “Get down now,” I hiss, pointing at the ground. What the fuck is with this guy?

  The driver leans over and grabs the edge of the door. “Fuck that,” he says, shaking his head frantically. Before I can stop him he pulls the door closed, shutting himself, in, and the clapping sound of steel on steel rings out across the street. The thing that used to be Arnold stands from behind the car and swings his head towards us.

  I don’t wait to see what happens next. I hop down from the cab, grab Kate by the hand and set off east at a dead run, the JCB blocking us from Arnold’s sight. Behind me I hear him wail, and as we sprint I have just enough sense to feel ashamed that my first thought is to hope he’ll pick the driver as a target before us.

  We’ve cleared around ten car lengths by the time I hear the JCB engine sputter back to life. I risk a quick look behind me, and I’m horrified enough by the sight to come to a halt. The vehicle plows forward towards the roadblock as Arnold climbs clumsily up the side. I don’t hear the driver’s scream above the sound of the engine, but I can imagine it clearly enough as Arnold forces his way through the open window and into the cab. His legs vanish inside as the JCB hits the roadblock, pushing the cars aside with ease, opening up the road to anyone – anything – that might try to come through.

  Kate grabs my hand and pulls. “Come on!” she cries. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”

  I start sprinting again, struggling to keep pace with Kate as she tears away towards the park. My throat burns with each breath. My legs ache but I keep going, following Kate until we reach Prospect Park West, pass through the gate and burst through into the park. We sprint by a parking lot to our left, through a row of thorny bushes and out onto a broad tree lined jogging trail. Still we run, following the path through the silent, empty park. We pass the baseball diamonds where I play with a team from my local bar every Sunday. We turn left at the calm, peaceful lily pond where I walked with Kate after our first date, then through a copse of thick, dense trees until we burst out onto the broad field where families picnic every warm day through the summer.

  We slow. I almost stumble and trip over my feet as I break out of the sprint into a jog, then a walk. Finally I stop, gaping in awe at the sight ahead of us.

  The field is full. Bursting with people, with barely a blade of grass to be seen among the thronged crowd. Old people. Little kids. Husbands. Wives. Families. Thousands of them stretching as far as the eye can see, just sitting there as if this is a regular Saturday afternoon. As if they’re here for a picnic, and they’re about to fire up the barbecue and toss a football.

  And barely a soldier in sight. Just a few guys in fatigues overwhelmed by countless civilians. Not a single APC. No Humvees. No tanks. Not even an old Willy’s Jeep.

  These people are sitting ducks.

  They’re all going to die.

  ΅

  :::7:::

  FOOD?

  ARNOLD ROLLS himself from the body of the driver and lands awkwardly in the gap between the seat and the door. His body doesn’t seem to be responding to his commands quite as well as it did just a little while ago. Everything feels a little... creaky, like old, rusted hinges. There’s no pain, though. His body just feels numb.

  His head is foggy, too, like everything has gone a little soft and fuzzy around the edges. Everything apart from the hunger, that is. And the rage. Both are painfully sharp, like needles digging into his brain.

  He rests his back against the door and watches the body for a moment, like a cat watching a dead mouse, waiting – hoping – for it to start moving again. His fists open and close, ready to launch into it once again at the first twitch.

  His heart isn’t really in it now, though. The body had seemed so attractive just a few moments ago, with its yelling and squirming, back when it had been... different. It had been irresistible. The noises it made sent Arnold’s brain fizzing. The way it tried to scramble out one window as Arnold climbed in the other both excited and enraged him. The sound and movement were like catnip. He just couldn’t resist reaching out and grabbing it, catching it by the belt of its pants and pulling it back into the cab. He couldn’t resist pounding until it stopped struggling. It was... satisfying.

  Now, though? Not so much. It just lays there like a rag doll. Still. Grey. Dull. Arnold reaches out and touches it, hoping against hope the movement will start again. If it starts again maybe he can take a bite this time. It seemed so enticing just a moment ago, but now the body holds little interest.

  Still it refuses to move.

  And still.

  Still nothing. This is getting boring now.

  Moldy bread.

  The random synaptic misfires that pass for thought in what’s left of Arnold’s mind dredge up a dusty old memory, back from... back from before, the other time. The memory plays out in his head like a foreign movie without the subtitles. He doesn’t really understand the nuance, but he can just about grasp the general drift.

  He’s standing in a dark room, carefully, quietly reaching for things. Bags. Jars. Knives. He’s putting something together in the darkness by feel, remembering where everything is kept. He moves slowly, trying not to make too much noise. Two slices of bread with something between them. Tasty. He’s been looking forward to this for hours.

  He lifts the thing to his mouth and takes a big bite. Chews. Chews again, then stops. Something tastes wrong. He reaches out to the wall and pushes something, and suddenly the room is painfully bright. He squints his eyes for a moment until they adjust to the light. He looks down at the thing in his hands, and suddenly he understands the problem. The bread is covered in gray and green patches of mold

  Mold is wrong. Doesn’t belong there. Shouldn’t eat.

  It’s in his mouth, wet and mashed up and sticky and disgusting, pressed into the gaps between his teeth. Stuck in the crevice where a molar cracked and rotted to the root years ago. Deep in there, where his probing tongue can never re
ach. Where only a toothpick can free it. He gags, bends over the counter and spits the wet, mashed glob onto the white surface, but he can still taste it. He can still feel the texture of the mold, sticking to him like a sheet of rice paper pressed against the roof of his mouth.

  He gags again, but this time he feels the vomit rise up his throat, hot and stinging. It splashes on the counter and the liquid brings with it thick, wet chunks that stick in his throat on the way up. Something goes the wrong way and lodges somewhere deep in his sinuses. He can smell it. He tastes it in his throat. He can feel it there, coating his tongue. He presses a finger against a nostril and snorts, trying to dislodge the chunk stuck deep in his nose, but it only makes him retch even harder.

  He tries to make it to the basin before the next wave arrives, but he doesn’t move quickly enough. Another retch, and the fresh puke joins the rest with a sickening splash on the countertop. Above his gasps he hears the dull, wet spatter of liquid dripping from the counter to the linoleum below. Thick, acrid bile burns his throat as his vision swims through tearful eyes, and a bubble of spit and puke bursts on his lips as he gasps.

  The movie stops playing, and now Arnold understands. The thing next to him is like moldy bread. He thought it was good, but it’s not good. Not now. Now it’s gross. Gone bad. Don’t eat. Only eat the fresh ones. Only eat the ones that move.

  He lashes out and pushes the body further away, suddenly disgusted with it. It slumps against the door of the cab and the head dangles out the open window on its broken neck, like a baseball glued to a Slinky.

  It’s still too close for comfort. Arnold doesn’t want to be trapped in here with it a moment longer. He’s... scared isn’t quite the right word, but it’s close enough to describe the confused stew of instinct, impulse and childlike emotion running through a brain that’s operating on little more than the stem. He twists his body to the right and sees the door he entered through. There’s some sort of catch on it, a black steel stick jutting out from the shiny yellow door. Some dim half-memory tells him he could use it to make the door swing open, but he seems to have forgotten exactly how that would work. No matter. The window is open. He can still think clearly enough to know he can squirm through the gap to escape, just as he squirmed through it to enter.

  It seems a little more difficult this time. He moves more slowly now he isn’t so excited, and his clothes keep catching on things. It takes a long while, but eventually he gets enough of his weight over the edge of the window to tumble out and fall back to the street. He lands on his shoulder and hears something snap, but still there’s no pain. He’s just numb.

  Arnold stands slowly, using the side of the earthmover for support. He can’t really turn his head to the right now. When he tries he feels like there’s something blocking him. There’s something wrong with his right foot, too. He looks down and sees pink and white bone just above his ankle, jutting out from the side like a sharp blade. The foot is bent inwards, and his weight rests on its side. He can still walk, though. After just a few clumsy steps the bone has torn through enough skin that he can rest his weight on the pointed tip. It crumbles a little, but soon enough it seems to smooth to a decent stump. The foot drags uselessly behind it like a sad, deflated balloon.

  Up ahead he sees another body slumped against a car. Small. Dressed in oversized fatigues, the chest and face caved in, and the light brown desert camo scheme of his jacket darkened with blood. Arnold curls his lip in disgust and makes sure to stay well away from it. Moldy bread. Bad. What a waste. He’s hungry now. Famished.

  He bumps up against something hard and turns quickly, ready to fight. It’s a car, the roof crushed down almost flat. Another memory tries to break through, but this one doesn’t come with a movie. It’s just a vague hint of a thought, like a dream that seemed so vivid just a moment ago but now slips just out of reach. Something about this car was important, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything of interest there now. Just a little smear of blood down the side of the door. It doesn’t look appetizing.

  There were more here. More... what’s the word? People. They were in the car. He dips his head beneath the bent door frame and peers into the wreckage curiously, but the broken seats are empty. They were here. He knows they were here, but now they’re not here. His mind no longer has a firm grasp on the concept of time, but the randomly firing mass of flesh still works well enough to tell him that the people must have gone somewhere since he last saw them.

  But where?

  His head jerks up at a distant sound carried on the breeze. Some kind of high pitched feedback squeal, somewhere far away. He turns his head this way and that, trying to home in on the noise. It seems to be coming from everywhere, bouncing through the streets and echoing off the walls. There’s no way to tell—

  No, wait. There it is. It’s coming from somewhere ahead. Through the broken line of cars and down the long, straight road. Whatever it is it’s coming from that direction. That’s where he has to go. He can feel that fizzing sensation return.

  His head spins around at another sound behind him, but he quickly sees that it’s nothing to get excited about. It’s just another one of them, like him. Hungry. Angry. Excited. Can’t eat it, though. The smell isn’t right. Another one appears from behind a car, and then another off in the distance from around a corner, far behind. They all heard the sound, and they’re all moving in the same direction. Some can move faster than him. Some aren’t so broken. Some don’t have to drag a useless foot behind them. It makes him angry to see them walking faster. Jealous. The other ones might get there before him, and all the food will be gone.

  He sets off as quickly as he can move, dragging himself towards the distant sound. It’s stopped now but he remembers the direction it came from. All he can hear now is the slow, steady click and grind of his bone against the asphalt, and the low, curious groans of the others quickly catching up to him.

  He’s excited now, but he doesn’t know how to show it. His mouth doesn’t seem to work like it used to. He wants to speak, but all he can do is groan.

  No matter. He’ll get to eat soon.

  ΅

  :::8:::

  I CAN'T HELP but think of 9/11.

  I remember I’d turned eleven years old a few days earlier, and my party had marked the end of a long, glorious, lazy summer. The school year had officially begun the previous day, September 10th, but my first day back been postponed for a week thanks to some emergency with the plumbing in the cafeteria.

  I didn’t really give a damn about the reason, I was just over the moon to get a bonus vacation week. It felt like magical extra time had been conjured up out of thin air, just like when as an adult you wake up thinking it’s time for work, then feel that soft, warm little thrill when you look at the clock and realize you still have two more hours to sleep. It was fucking fantastic. One more precious week of waking up late and watching cartoons in my pajamas

  Unfortunately my mother had other plans. She had to go to work, and since couldn’t find a sitter on short notice I was packed off to my great uncle’s deli on Fulton Street, a weird little place that stank to high heaven of pickled beets and, forever creeping from the little cubby behind the stock room, stale cigar smoke. Mom said a week of honest work would be character building, much more valuable than anything I’d learn at school, and she was right. By the start of my second day I’d already learned an important life lesson: the smell of pickled beets and old cigar smoke makes me gag.

  I was sneaking in a quick nap on the toilet when Flight 11 hit the north tower, really stretching out that first crap of the day as long as I could, hoping my uncle wouldn’t knock on the door and make me help out in the store. I’d been in there for twenty minutes when I heard a dull rumble and felt the room shake a little. I remember the mirror trembled on the wall, and my reflection blurred for a moment. I had no clue what was going on, of course. No one did, not when it started.

  At first I thought a transformer might have blown somewhere nearby. That w
as usually the answer to any mysterious explosive sound, much to my disappointment. Whenever I heard something potentially exciting I’d always rush as quickly as I could out to the street, hoping I might be lucky enough to find myself faced with a gory car crash or a cool fire, but it was always another damned transformer, overtaxed by the summer heat.

  This time was different. By the time I reached the street there was already a confused crowd gathered around. The traffic had stopped, and people were out of their cars and looking up at the sky to the west where a thick, dark shroud had already started to draw over the city like the ash cloud from an erupting volcano. This never happened, not in New York. Even if one of those city-sized spacecraft from Independence Day really did hover over the city people would barely break their stride. New Yorkers don’t stop unless they’re on fire, and even then it’d have to be a big one.

  I started to run without thinking. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I knew this was exciting. Finally something interesting was going down, and I was there to see it. By the time I reached the Hilton on the corner of Fulton and Church I knew this was big, and when the north tower finally hove into view my sprint slowed to a jog, then a walk. Then I just stood there and gawped, like everyone else.

  You’d have to have been there to really get how it felt. It was just... confusing. The streets were packed with hundreds of people who’d been attracted by the noise. Thousands. Some stood there and watched. Others tried to get as close as possible. A few ran as fast as their legs could carry them in the opposite direction. People kinda laughed and shook our heads at those guys, because... well, if you run away you’re not a real New Yorker, y'know? Nobody wants to be thought a tourist. Certainly not me, Brooklyn born and bred, always eager to make it clear that I was a true city boy.