by Brian Keene
"I'm fine." Jim stumbled back into the showroom. "Looks like the rest of the power finally went out. Wonder if it's just this grid or a wider area?"
"I don't know, but if that cat and all the shooting didn't get them stirred up, this certainly will. We need to go. I didn't get a key."
"That's okay," Jim said, hefting a crowbar. "I found one."
He went to work on the lock box. Breaking into it with the crowbar was harder than he'd thought it would be, and it was ten minutes before he cracked it.
"Shit!"
"What's wrong now?"
"We need the Vin number! After everything that happened, I forgot it!
Run back out and get it for me, but be careful." He grabbed a tablet and a pen off the salesperson's desk and tossed them to him.
Breathing another silent prayer, Martin walked across the lot to the Suburban. The sticker was hard to read now that the lights were off, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Finally deciphering it, he jotted the number down and trotted back toward the showroom.
Halfway across the lot, he smelled it. Like the zombie they'd just killed, but stronger.
Much stronger.
Martin ran back into the building.
Eye's wide, he exploded into the showroom.
"KLKBG22J4L668923!"
Jim rifled through the keys, searching for a matching number.
"What's the last four numbers?"
"8923! But-"
"Wait a minute."
There's something else, Jim!"
"Just a second-got it!" The grin on his face died when he glanced up at the preacher.
"What is it?"
"Sniff the air for a moment." Martin told him. "Do you smell it?"
Jim breathed deep and then gagged.
"Jesus, what is that?"
"They're coming!"
They charged across the lot, reaching the vehicle as the first few zombies loped through the rows of cars. More of the dead stepped out of the cornfield, or shambled across the adjacent parking lots. Dozens poured out of the doors of the Safe Mart next door.
Spying them, the zombies lifted up a horrifying cry, and began to half-run, half lurch toward them.
"Time to go!" Jim shouted and pressed the button on the remote dangling from the keychain.
The door didn't open. He pressed harder and still nothing happened.
"Shit!"
"What's wrong?" Martin demanded, watching in horror as the zombies drew closer.
"It's one of those remote locking systems, and the batteries in this thing aren't working!"
A zombie in overalls and suspenders had almost reached them. It stopped less than fifteen feet away and raised the pitchfork it was carrying, shaking it at them.
"Give it up, humans. Our brothers await release! Surrender now, and we promise we'll make it quick."
Jim's answer was a shot to its head. Gurgling, the creature fell, and the others rushed forward.
Martin raised the shotgun and blasted the passenger window. Knocking glass out of the way with the stock, he clambered through the opening.
His joints groaned and creaked in protest.
Jim picked his targets carefully, waiting till they were close, aiming for the head, and then firing.
"Hurry!"
Martin dropped into the seat, felt something pop in his back, and fumbled with the lock as a white-hot pain raced down his spine. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the latch and opened the door.
Dozens of the creatures swarmed the car lot, and reinforcements were closing the distance quickly. Jim dropped two more in their tracks and then jumped inside, throwing his backpack onto the seat between them. He thrust the key into the ignition and turned. The engine purred to life.
Jim slammed it into drive, and they lurched forward in their seats.
The SUV roared in protest, refusing to budge.
A pair of mottled arms reached through the shattered window, clutching at Martin.
"The emergency break!" he gasped, and shoved the barrel against the zombie's chin. He squeezed the trigger as they sped forward, the roar of the shotgun momentarily deafening them both.
Another zombie jumped in front of them and ran straight toward the vehicle. Jim stomped the gas, running it down. Cursing, it bounced off the bumper and lay writhing in their wake. The impact jolted them, and Martin screamed as another bolt of pain tore through his back. Through watering eyes, he watched as the undead flashed by them. Jim guided the Suburban up the ramp and onto the highway.
"Well now," Jim chuckled, pointing ahead. "Look who it is!"
The cat that had escaped them earlier stood frozen in their headlights.
A second later, it crunched softly under the tires. Jim glance back in the rearview mirror and saw it splattered across the road.
Martin groaned in pain.
"What's wrong?" Jim asked, concerned. "You okay?"
"I'll be fine," he gasped, opening his eyes. "Hurt my back when I climbed through the window, is all. I'm not as young as I used to be."
Leaning forward, Jim turned on the wiper fluid. It sprayed across the windshield, washing the blood away.
"There's painkillers in my backpack. Help yourself."
"Bless you," Martin sighed, and undid the hasp. He reached inside and shuffled through the contents, looking for the bottle. His fingers closed around a photograph, and he took it out, appraising it.
"Is this your son?" he asked.
Jim glanced over. Martin held the photo from the shelter, the one of them with the Soap Box Derby trophy.
"Yep," he said quietly. "That's my son. That's Danny."
They drove into the night.
Baker camped in the janitor's office of a Rest Stop along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Smashing open the vending machines, he ate a dinner of chips and candy and washed it down with warm soda. He'd used the butt of his rifle to break the glass on the machines, and for a brief moment, wondered if anybody would call the authorities. Then he chuckled at the absurdity of the thought.
He wished his only crimes against humanity were mere vandalism and petty theft, but two days of panicked observation had confirmed otherwise.
This was his fault.
The escape from Havenbrook had been harrowing. Fleeing down dark tunnels and hallways, the sounds of Ob's furious pursuit echoed closely behind him at all times. Finally, he'd made it out, but only after an exhausting climb up an elevator shaft.
What he escaped into was far worse.
There was no hole in the sky, no gaping wound from which another dimension could be glimpsed. Baker surmised that the experiment had probably weakened the walls between this world and the place Ob and his brethren came from, blurring the invisible boundaries. Whatever the portal was, it wasn't obvious.
The facility grounds were deserted, and he had no trouble temporarily outfitting himself from the guard shack. He then ransacked the first house he came to and managed to find a hunting rifle and a pistol, along with a supply of food.
He easily avoided the few zombies remaining in Hellertown, simply by sticking to the woods. But it was in those woods, halfway to Allentown, that the real pursuit started.
Baker had forgotten about the fish.
Walking like a zombie himself, the full enormity of what he had helped unleash upon the planet starting to sink in, Baker didn't hear the squirrels until they were almost upon him. He was grateful for the annual hunting trips he'd taken with his colleagues. He managed to drop four of the creatures in quick succession. But while he was reloading, the rabbits emerged from the brush, and the chase began.
Branches and thorns tearing at him, he'd run through the woods, chased by a pack of undead bunny rabbits. Thinking about it in retrospect, Baker could almost laugh, but he was afraid if that he started laughing now, he'd never stop. Something inside of him felt like it was ready to break.
He'd managed to kill or elude his smaller pursuers, as well as an undead turkey buzzard and four human zombies.
That first night, he'd come across a baseball diamond overlooking Allentown. He'd taken shelter inside a portable toilet and was awakened by screams. He'd watched in horror as a group of zombies mounted on offroad bikes hunted down a young couple who were still very much alive.
Baker had considered helping them for a moment, but paralyzed with fear and hopelessly outnumbered, he could only watch from his hiding place as the creatures shot them, aiming to wound, and then feasted upon their flesh.
They're hunting us, he'd realized.
Baker had noted with horrified detachment that while they consumed organs and skin, the zombies left enough intact for the victims to remain mobile.
Soon they were. Inhabited by something else, the humanoid shells rose, joining their brethren. Then they moved on.
Baker spent the rest of that night shuddering in the darkness, unable to sleep.
The next day had been a long, slow, and terrifying trek, until he'd stumbled onto the Turnpike. The highway had been surprisingly vacant; the zombies having moved on to better hunting grounds. He cautiously passed around a few abandoned cars and some orange construction cones, but that was all.
Now that he was settled and relatively safe for the moment here in the rest stop, the fear slid away, replaced by shock and an overwhelming guilt.
He couldn't stop thinking about his responsibility for all of this. He was surely damned, and this was hell.
Swooning, Baker clenched his eyes shut and gripped the corners of the janitor's sink. He wailed, forgetting for a moment that silence was the key to staying alive. The tears were too much to keep bottled up inside-too great to be controlled. A scream of anguish burned in his throat. The tears kept coming, and he crouched there for a long time.
He did not hear the door open behind him.
Baker's back was to it, his shoulders heaving as he cried. He opened his eyes for a moment, peering down into the sink. The room was spinning, and Baker began to shiver, despite the sweat on his brow.
A shadow fell across him.
Baker's legs buckled, and his head struck the rim of the sink as he crumpled to the floor.
Moaning unintelligibly, the figure in the doorway shuffled toward him.
Baker stirred, then froze; his eyes shut. Something moved in the darkness.
"Nnnuuhh."
Oh God! One of them got in here while I was passed out!
He kept his eyes closed; thinking. Judging from the sounds, the zombie was right on top of him. His pistol was inside his pack, which meant it might as well have been on the moon. He was helpless.
The creature warbled to itself in a strange, lilting pattern; as if its tongue had been removed.
"Nnnuuuhh. Nooonah."
Baker realized it was singing.
The thing brushed up against him, draping something cold and wet across his forehead. Water ran into the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks.
"Wata. Nowhooo beh awwllyht. Aykuhp."
A firm hand patted his cheek softly. Baker willed himself to remain still, fighting the urge to scream.
The flesh against his face didn't feel dead. It was warm and smooth. The creature didn't reek of decay either. Rather, it stank of unwashed armpits and sweat, much like Baker himself.
"Ayk uhp fo Wohrm."
Heart pounding, Baker opened his eyes.
A round, grimy face drooled over him, smiling happily when it saw he was awake.
The boy leaned back on his haunches and spoke.
"Oooayyk! Yaaayy!"
Baker removed the wet rag from his forehead, studying his benefactor.
His age was indeterminate, somewhere between fourteen and nineteen, Baker guessed. Judging by his facial features and deformities, the boy suffered from some form of retardation. Baker couldn't determine what type.
"Thank you," Baker nodded, smiling gently.
"Ellkohm!"
Welcome, perhaps?
Baker turned away to lay the rag on the sink, asking "My name is Professor Baker. What's yours?"
The boy made no reply. Baker looked back over his shoulder. The boy peered up at him curiously.
"Ellkohm!" he cheered again.
"What's your name, my friend?" Baker asked. The boy stared at his lips, brow knitted in concentration. He shook his head in frustration, and continued staring, waiting for Baker to repeat himself.
He's reading my lips! He's deaf!
Baker knelt before him on the floor, forming his words carefully.
"My name is Baker," he pointed to his chest. "What is your name?"
Understanding flickered in the boy's eyes and he clapped.
"Wohrm!" he chirped, poking a thumb at himself.
"Worm?" Baker queried. The boy nodded gleefully, and then pointed at Baker.
"Baykhar?"
"Yes, Baker." He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. "It is very nice to meet you, Worm."
"Nyyyz to eeet oo!" Worm agreed.
Baker laughed, his tears and guilt forgotten for a moment.
Baker shared his vending machine spoils with his new companion.
Conversation was nonexistent, save for Worm's delighted grunts as he devoured the candy bars. He whistled and hooted in enjoyment, and Baker grinned.
How had he survived, alone and without guidance? Baker had no way of knowing.
He tapped Worm on the shoulder. The boy looked at him expectantly.
"Where are your parents?"
Worm's glance fell to his lap, a shadow passing beneath his soulful brown eyes.
"Mmm-myss," he stammered. "Myss eeght Mawmee."
"I don't understand," Baker told him, moving his lips carefully.
Worm reared backward, holding his hands before him like claws. His lips wrinkled back into a sneer, and he squinted his eyes and began to squeak.
"Myss," he said again, crawling around the room on all fours. Then he looked at Baker for understanding.
"Mice?"
Worm nodded excitedly, then stopped, sadness washing over him again.
"Myss eeght Mawmee."
"Mice eight-?"
Worm made hungry sounds and gnashed his teeth.
Suddenly, Baker understood.
?Ate," he whispered, turning away. "Mice ate his mother. And I bet they weren't alive when they did it." Baker's guilt came flooding back, and he grew quiet.
After finishing his dinner, Worm produced a small, brightly colored rubber ball from his pocket, and began to bounce it on the floor, catching it in his palm each time. Baker watched until, finally exhausted, the scientist fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
The nightmares followed him.
The thunderstorms arrived just before dawn, and the two of them awoke to a world that was as dark as when they had fallen asleep. Worm stared at the lightning in fascination, unable to hear the thunder that boomed across the valley with it.
Baker stepped into the parking lot and was drenched within seconds. Fat, cold raindrops splatted against the blacktop like bugs against a windshield.
Resigned to staying put until the storm passed, Baker took the opportunity to explore the Rest Area. Worm followed eagerly along behind him.
They raided a vending machine that dispensed bottled water, along with the rest of the snack machines. Baker paused at a newspaper box; frozen headlines from a not so distant but bygone era staring back at him. The President of Palestine warned that his country's economic problems could destabilize the entire Middle East, while the Israeli army was blocking aide shipments into the state because of terrorism concerns from the newly reactive Hezbollah. Phenyalamime, a popular food additive, had been found to cause cancer. The popular boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland had washed away due to beach erosion and global warming effects. The President was assuring Americans that the Pentagon had not authorized human cloning, despite what sources were claiming.
And then there was the RHIC, and Baker saw his name in print, along with Harding's and Powell's.
He moved on.
Th
e restrooms yielded nothing useful, save for some extra rolls of toilet paper. The lobby sported dozens of tourist attraction fliers and not much else. A full-color road map hung on one wall, and Baker stopped to study it. Worm bounced his rubber ball behind him, singing softly.
