by Brian Keene
She laughed; a fragile, wilting sound that was interrupted by a hacking cough.
"Don't suppose you happen to have any methadone on you?" she asked weakly.
Then she traded the light of the torch for the darkness behind her eyelids, and she knew no more.
Grinding her teeth. Hard. Hard enough to feel them wiggle, to feel the blood well up between decaying tooth and receding gum line.
Sweat oozes from her dirt-clogged pores like pus from a zit. It stinks.
The reek makes her vomit and then the smell of that makes her vomit again. She lays in her own shit, feels it covering her quivering buttocks and running down her spindly legs, coating her lower back too, like a warm blanket.
She finds comfort in this.
Comfort in shit. Comfort in Hell
The baby is here with her, somewhere. She hasn't seen it yet, but she can hear it. T-Bone and C and Marquon and Willie and the others are here too, whispering promises of pain and death. She welcomes these promises; holds her arms out expectantly, but death never comes and that makes her cry. The doctors and the nurses whisper in the ether. A John undoes his zipper, and the sound makes her violently shudder.
In between the madness (for she knows that's what this is) the Troll is there. He cleans her face with a cool, wet rag, and whispers assurances, and makes her drink hot chicken broth from a rusty coffee can. She curses the Troll because she didn't ask for chicken broth; she asked for skag. The chicken broth just churns in her stomach and is rejected but he continues giving it to her anyway. She can see bits of debris in his unkempt beard, and perhaps even some pieces of the chicken broth she threw up. For a moment she feels sorry and she sees the concern in his kind, grey eyes; and then it hits again- THE NEED-and she hates him all over again and wants to die. She begs him to kill her, but he doesn't listen.
There are minutes and hours and days of hot flashes and cold flashes and she can't breath (she doesn't want to anyway but it still bothers her that she can't) and cramps-twitches-convulsions-nausea-tremors-and her nose and throat feel like mucous factories and Frankie screams.
And screams.
And screams.
And screams...
And through it all the Troll is there by her side, shushing her and promising that everything will be alright, that it's almost over and maybe he's right-because the baby's cries aren't so loud anymore. She can't hear them anymore. Something inside her dies, and finally, Frankie sleeps.
Frankie opened her eyes. Her bones and muscles ached, her head throbbed, and her nose was running, but she'd never felt better.
The Troll sat in the center of the room, reading by candlelight. When she stirred, he looked up in surprise, smiled, and closed the book.
Frankie glimpsed the front cover-The Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Frankie licked her lips and tried to speak. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.
"Thought I was going to die. I wanted to."
"I was just reading about that," the Troll replied. "Nietzsche quotes Silenus; 'What is best of all is beyond your reach forever; not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you-is quickly to die.'"
Frankie said nothing. The room was surprisingly warm, almost homey.
"How long?"
"Were you out? A little over seventy-two hours by my estimation. Can't be sure because my watch stopped working weeks ago. You're not out of the woods, of course, but you're past the bad portion. Heroin withdrawal usually lasts about ten to fourteen days, but the first three are the real killers."
"How did you-?"
"I used to work at a clinic. I was a counselor. Are you thirsty?"
She nodded, and he brought her a canteen.
"Here, try to sit up," he urged, and placing a hand under her back, he helped her sit forward. Her spine popped, and it felt good.
She took a drink of water. Cold and clean and revitalizing, it imbued her with life as it traveled down her raw throat.
"That's enough," he cautioned, stopping her from gulping. "You've thrown up quite enough. You need to start keeping something in you."
"Thanks," she gasped. "I guess I owe you my life."
He laughed, then patted her leg.
"You owe me nothing. You only owe yourself."
"My name's Frankie," she offered, extending her hand, noticing as she did that the trembling had subsided.
"People called me Troll," he said warmly, clasping her hand. "Welcome to my home."
"You live here?" she asked, not surprised, but feeling a little guilty that she'd trespassed. In Frankie's world, people lived where they could; in alleyways, under railroad trestles, cardboard boxes, anywhere there was space.
"Not this particular room, no. But down here, yes. Been here for a while. Long before things went bad up top."
"You got hooked yourself, didn't you?"
He laughed, a short, brittle, humorless sound. "Not hardly. What makes you think that?"
"I'm sorry. You just seem like a smart guy. Reading philosophy and shit.
And you knew about smack. I figured you got lost in your work."
"No," he said, and grew silent. He stared at the flickering candle flame, and it was several minutes before he spoke again.
"My daughter started snorting heroin. Fifteen years I worked with this, and I was the be-all end-all of drug counseling, wasn't I?
Accommodations on the wall, testimonials on file from former junkies that I'd helped. But when it came to my own daughter, I was blind. I never saw it coming."
Frankie said nothing, listening.
"I don't know why she started. Maybe the divorce,
maybe it was trouble with a boy. I thought we were close. Thought she told me everything. But I guess fourteen-year-old girls aren't really Daddy's best friend, are they?"
He paused, fingers trailing through his scraggly beard.
"She was at a party. Snorted it. The junk had been mixed with some kind of household chemical. I never found out what, but I'm sure you know how it is."
Frankie nodded. She'd seen friends go out the same way. It was brutal.
"She died on the way to the hospital. My ex-wife blamed me. And I couldn't disagree with her. So I came down here."
"I'm sorry," Frankie said.
"Don't be. It's not so bad. You'd be surprised at the types of people you find underground. Stockbrokers and lawyers and medical school dropouts and Liberal Arts majors. People live anywhere they can, and there are worse places to bunk down for the night, believe me. And surprisingly, not all of them are running from something."
"They are now."
"Yes," he agreed. "I suppose they are. But it's not just up there.
They're down here too. Not a lot of humans yet, but the rats are pretty bad."
Frankie shuddered, remembering the zoo.
"It's going to get worse down here too," he continued. "I was actually on my way out when our paths crossed." He motioned to his backpack and gear. "Figured I'd follow the tunnels out to the harbor, and then take a boat somewhere."
"Where would you go?"
He shrugged. "Anywhere but here, I guess. To be honest, I don't know. I need to determine if this is a localized event, or worldwide. An island would be a logical choice, but even those have animals and birds, so the safety and security would be relative. I considered just drifting, far from land. But I don't know if even that would be safe. There're things like sharks to consider. I imagine a school of zombie sharks or an undead killer whale could make quick work of a boat."
"It's hopeless," she sighed. "Sooner or later, they're going to get us all, and we'll be walking around like one of them. You should have let me die; should have caved my head in so I wouldn't get back up."
Troll shook his head. "You saved yourself, Frankie. All I did was watch over you. The feat and the triumph are yours and yours alone. Somewhere inside you, you found the strength to fight-to survive. Your will is a strong one, and that is what you will need out there."
Frankie considered this. Her stomach grumbled and she grinned, embarrassed.
"I imagine you could use something to eat. But first, why don't you clean up." He moved over to some metal shelves in the corner, and rummaged through them. "I don't know how these will fit you," he said, holding up a city worker's maintenance uniform, "but they've got to be better than what you're wearing now. Probably smell nicer too."
Frankie laughed, and gratefully accepted the clothes. He gave her a clean rag and a wash basin with water. Then, like a magician performing a particularly fine trick, he produced a bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo.
Frankie disrobed and began to scrub while he turned his back and prepared dinner. The soapy water ran over her bruises and sores, over fresh track marks and ghosts of fixes past.
Never again. She'd vowed this before, of course, but something inside her meant it this time. Never again.
Troll turned to her, holding a paper plate piled high with granola bars, beef jerky, and apples that had only started to go brown in spots. She heard his intake of breath from across the room, as she stood naked in the flickering candlelight.
She licked her lips. "You took care of me. Would you like me to take care of you?"
"No," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm honored, but there's no need for that. I imagine you've repaid plenty of favors in the past that way, but not now. This is the new you, remember?"
She smiled, more pleased than she could find the words to express.
"You're something else, Mr. Troll." She shrugged into the uniform, and found it fit like a new skin.
They ate, and as she chewed, Frankie thought to herself that everything tasted different now.
"So far," Troll told her, lighting the torch while she reloaded the pistol, "fire has kept the rats away when I came across them. But there are other things down here too, and I don't know how it will work on them. So let me lead."
She nodded, biting her lip.
"Ready?"
She nodded again, unable to speak.
He opened the door into darkness.
They started down the tunnel. Passing a manhole shaft, Frankie saw signs of occupancy in the tiny ledges. Sleeping bags and shelves hung over the rungs of the ladders rising up to the street. There was no sign of the people who dwelled in them.
They walked on in silence, with only the sloshing of their shoes and the sound of their breath as company. The tunnel seemed endless, barreling into the distance beyond the reach of the torch. Troll walked with unerring assurance through innumerable twists and turns.
They came to a section where the floor was covered with muddy water. It stank like the walking corpses in the world above, and a layer of scummy film floated atop it. To avoid stepping in the muck, they walked with their legs spread apart, feet gripping the sides of the tunnel and heads lowered.
Cockroaches scuttled blindly through the mud, living on rotted leaves and detritus from the streets and buildings. Albino fish spawned in the water by the dozens. Frankie wondered if they were some type of deformed goldfish, flushed down here long ago. Some of them had grown too big to fit completely in the water. Unable to swim properly, they flopped through the scum, gulping noiselessly in the suffocating oxygen.
But that was it. No human or rats, zombified or otherwise.
Troll led on tirelessly through the vast network of catacombs.
Eventually, they arrived at a crossroads of sorts. Several tunnels of varying height and angles merged together into an open area.
"This way," Troll whispered, the first sound he'd made in over an hour.
"Then it's just another mile or so to the harbor."
He continued forward, and Frankie followed close behind. This new tunnel was almost perfectly straight. The ceiling rose and sank like the underbelly of a roller coaster, but the floor was dry, and her cramping legs were grateful.
Eventually, she felt a cool draft on her face.
That was when the first sound came from behind them.
They both turned. Troll held the torch high, just as a second splash echoed down the corridor.
"Quickly," Troll urged, grabbing her arm. They started walking, briskly; not yet running.
More sounds, closer now. A clicking. The sound of nails or claws.
Lots of them.
Then the smell. That all-too-familiar reek of the undead.
Troll pushed Frankie ahead of him. Then he stopped and turned, thrusting the torch forward.
Dozens of beady red eyes reflected back at him from the darkness.
The rats charged, spilling towards them like a brown wave coming down the tunnel. They made no sound, save the clicking of their claws as they scurried forward.
"Go!" He shoved her forward and she almost fell. Catching herself, Frankie ran, not sparing a glance behind. Her footsteps pounded against the tunnel. Troll's breathing was harsh behind her. The sounds of pursuit grew stronger. The rats began to squeal, and the sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Frankie fumbled for her gun.
"That's no good!" Troll shouted. "By the time you pick off one, ten more will be on you! Just run!"
She obeyed him, flying ahead. She'd gone several yards before she realized he wasn't behind her.
Troll stood in the center of the tunnel, legs spread wide, blocking it with his girth. He held the torch before him like a flaming sword, sweeping it back and forth. The army of undead vermin cowered, the menace in their eyes almost palpable.
"Troll!"
"Go," he screamed at her, not looking back. "I'll meet you outside!"
Frankie stood rooted, and took a step toward him.
"God damn it, girl," he hollered. The rats paced back and forth, testing the limits of the fire. "Survive, Frankie! You've got a second chance.
Don't blow it."
Something small and brown and furry dropped squeaking from the ceiling, and Troll swung at it with the brand. It erupted into flame, and the rest scampered back. He thrust it at them, growling.
Reluctantly, Frankie ran...
...and that was how she found herself standing here; in a wide, swampy area close to the Fells Point Marina, enduring her baptism of acid rain. The SylvanLearningCenter skyscraper and the Inner Harbor Marriott towered over her, their windows dark and brooding.
She waited for a long time.
Troll never emerged from the sewer.
Eventually, Frankie limped on, her tears swallowed up by the rain.
Interstate 64 skirted only a few sparse towns as it wound through the mountains of West Virginia and into Virginia, and Martin breathed a prayer of thanks for that. The lack of populated areas improved their chances to avoid encounters with the undead.
Jim drove toward the rising sun, while Martin experimented with the radio, scanning both the AM and FM frequencies. All the stations were playing twenty-four hours of non-stop silence.
Thick fog covered the highway, but Jim kept the speed at a steady sixty-five, ignoring Martin's pleas to slow down. Other than the morning mist, the road was clear. Both of them had been surprised by the lack of vehicles. They'd seen only half a dozen abandoned cars, and most of those had been at the last exit.
Still, to make the old man happy, Jim agreed to wear his seatbelt.
"How's your back?"
"Getting better," Martin grunted. "I reckon those pain killers you grabbed at the gas station did the trick."
They passed the exits for Clifton Forge, Hot Springs, and Crow; each town sitting far off the highway and shrouded by the mountains. The trees masking Crow glowed orange, and wisps of black smoke were beginning to drift through the forest and onto the road.
"Should we stop?" Martin asked.
Jim passed the exit and didn't slow.
"No. There's nothing we can do there."
"But if the town's on fire and there are people still alive-"
"Then they're probably better off. Besides, if there are people still left there, maybe they're the ones who started it. Maybe it was th
e only way to save themselves."
Martin considered this quietly.
"You know," he said a few minutes later, "we haven't seen any other survivors since we left White Sulphur Springs."
"Yeah, but we haven't seen any zombies either."
"This is true. Still, you would think we'd have seen more. Where do you suppose everybody's gone?"
"If you mean the zombies," Jim answered, "I don't know. You've got to remember, the towns in this part of the state are small and spread out.
