Entombed

by Brian Keene

  “I’d feel a lot better if I had a weapon, too.”

  “Here.” I pulled the screwdriver out of my back pocket and handed it to him. “Use this. It ain’t much, but if you stab somebody, it should do the job. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  I put my ear to the door and listened. It was quiet. Drew had said that Chuck and most of the others were in the lunchroom. Given the silence on the other side of the door, there was a good chance that the hallway was currently unoccupied. If my luck held out, maybe we could make it to the lunchroom without an altercation. If I approached Chuck with deference and respect, maybe this whole thing could be turned around before it went any further.

  “So are we going, or what?” Drew whispered.

  Nodding, I opened the door.

  Chuck and five others were waiting on the other side. With him were the Chinese guy, Emma Straub, Mike Blazi, Jeff Antonio, and Dave Lombardo. I’ve already told you about the Chinese guy. Emma was a young woman who had worked upstairs in the hotel’s candy shop. She’d been very pretty before starvation had begun ravaging her face and body. Mike, Jeff and Dave were documentary filmmakers who had been staying at the Pocahontas and playing lots of golf, until the zombies showed up and ruined their game. None of them were armed but there was murder in their eyes.

  Chuck grinned. “Hi, Pete. Welcome! So glad you could join us.”

  “Shit.”

  I let go of the door. It started to swing shut, but Dave reached out and grabbed it with one hand. I backed up, not wanting to turn my back on them, and felt the flat, hard edge of Drew’s screwdriver press into my shirt, right above my kidney. I stiffened.

  “Sorry, Pete,” he said. “I’m really sorry. Just don’t move, okay?”

  “Drew, what the hell is going on?”

  “They were going to kill me if I didn’t help find you. I’m sorry, dude. I really am. But I didn’t survive those walking fucking corpses just to end up being killed down here.”

  “You stupid motherfucker…”

  “Enough of that,” Chuck said. “Good job, Drew. Now do me a favor? Run upstairs and tell those other worthless ass-clowns to get back down here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re dead,” Drew told him. “And before you do anything to Pete, I think we ought to hear him out.”

  Dave and Chuck stepped toward me. I tried to move away, but all that did was drive the screwdriver harder against my back. Any more pressure and the tip would break my skin.

  “It’s true,” I said. “George and Jim are dead, and Clyde is hurt pretty bad. I left him upstairs. He needs medical attention.”

  “So,” Chuck said, “in addition to Krantz, you’ve murdered two more of my people.”

  “They’re not your people, Chuck. They’re just people—survivors, trying to stay alive. Yes, I killed them, but it was in self-defense, and it was no different than what you plan to do to me.”

  “We’re doing what we have to,” Emma said. “To survive.”

  “Well, now you don’t have to. Don’t you guys see? Krantz, Jim and George—that’s enough to feed all of you for months, if you prepare their bodies now, before they start to rot. You don’t have to kill me. You don’t have to kill anyone! I’ve done all the hard work for you. There’s no reason this has to go on a minute longer. Let’s just all calm down and take a deep breath, okay?”

  Behind me, I felt the pressure from the screwdriver tip ease a little. Drew’s breath tickled the back of my neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  I ignored him.

  The Chinese guy looked at each of us, trying to figure out what was going on. Emma, Jeff and Mike paused, seemingly surprised by this revelation. They glanced at each other, and then at Chuck, who appeared nonplussed. He was still grinning. Dave was not. Dave stared straight into my eyes, unblinking. I glanced down and noticed with some unease that he had a bulge in the front of his pants. Dave liked what was happening, and that made him my first target, should things not play out the way I’d hoped them to.

  Chuck turned to Jeff and Mike. “Go upstairs and get Jim and George’s bodies. Put them with Krantz.

  They nodded, and then stepped toward me. Drew backed up so that I could move aside, and in doing so, removed the screwdriver from my back. Dave had to step aside, as well, so that Jeff and Mike could slip past us and up the stairs. Mike couldn’t meet my eyes, but Jeff did.

  “It was nothing personal,” he told me. “I hope you understand that.”

  I shrugged. “The bodies are down near the blast door, where the forklifts are parked. That’s where you’ll find Clyde, too.”

  “Okay.”

  They started up the stairs, leaving me at the bottom of the stairwell with Drew, Chuck, Dave, Emma and the Chinese guy. Emma and the Chinese guy were still in the hallway. The others were crowded around me, close enough that I could smell their stink. Above us, the echoes of Mike and Jeff’s footsteps quickly faded. I heard the door open and close as they entered the power plant.

  Chuck’s grin returned. “Dave, take Pete’s weapon, will you?”

  Flinching, I tightened my grip on the spear. “Are we cool now, Chuck?”

  “Oh, we’re very cool. You’ve done us the favor of providing food for the group. I’ll repay the favor with a quick death.”

  Dave and Chuck lunged at me simultaneously. Dave grabbed the spear and tried to rip it from my hands, but I held on tight. Behind me, I heard Drew cry out in surprise. Without looking, I stomped hard on his foot. He yelped, and I heard the screwdriver clatter to the floor. Chuck grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked hard as I kneed Dave in the balls. The big man grunted, and the air whooshed from his lungs and into my face. It reeked. He stumbled backward, cradling his groin, and slammed into the wall. The door slammed shut, blocking Emma and the Chinese guy from view. I hollered as Chuck pulled my hair. He twisted, trying to force my head down.

  “Let go of me, motherfucker.”

  “This is my bunker,” Chuck spat. “My people. My fucking people! You don’t question me and get away with it, Pete. You made me look bad.”

  I realized then that for Chuck, this wasn’t about survival. It wasn’t about starving to death. It was about power. With a scream, I jerked away from him. A fistful of my hair ripped free. I thrust my spear blindly, jabbing Chuck in the side. Dave moaned on the floor. Chuck yelled something unintelligible. I spun around and with my right palm, I slammed Drew’s head against the wall. Then I ran back up the stairs.

  “Get him!” Chuck’s enraged cry boomed, echoing in the stairwell.

  I heard footsteps pursuing me, but rather than turn around to see who it was, I ran faster, scrambling up the stairs two at a time. My scalp felt hot, and I was pretty sure I was bleeding, but I didn’t care. I rounded the corner and fled up the second flight of stairs. I half expected the door to the power plant to burst open as Jeff and Mike returned to investigate the commotion, but then I remembered that they wouldn’t be able to hear us over the generators.

  Fingers grasped at my shirttail, pulling me backward. I swung the spear like a club, lashing out at whoever was behind me. The spear whistled through the air and then I connected with my pursuer’s head with a loud, solid whack. They grunted, and slipped. I heard them scrabbling on the stairs, along with Chuck’s cursing and commands and Dave’s moans. I reached the door, yanked it open, and bolted into the power plant. There was no immediate sign of Jeff and Mike. The door slammed shut behind me, then banged open again a split second later as Drew charged into the room. I turned and faced him. He was panting hard and his face was red. His eyes widened and he held up his hands.

  “Pete, listen to me…”

  I charged him, my face twisted with rage. Drew’s eyes got even wider. Then he turned around and fled. My spear thrust clanged uselessly against the closing door.

  My first instinct was to chase him, but instead, I shoved my
spear through the door handle so that they couldn’t open it from that end. Then, keeping an eye out for Jeff and Mike, I raced over to one of the work stations I’d spotted earlier. I grabbed a can of gasoline, twisted off the cap and poured the contents into the mop bucket. Then I stuffed an oily shop rag in my pocket and wheeled the bucket over to the door. Using my lighter, I lit the rag on fire. Then, as it slowly burned, I pulled the spear free and opened the door.

  Chuck, Drew and Dave were halfway up the second landing. Drew and Dave were side-by-side. Chuck was just behind them. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Drew’s face was flushed, and his lip was swollen and bleeding. Apparently, Dave or Chuck had convinced him to turn around again. They faltered when they saw me with the burning rag. I held it out, letting it dangle in the air. The flames climbed higher, singeing the hair on my knuckles and hand. I didn’t care. In truth, I barely felt it.

  Without a word, I nudged the bucket forward with my foot and sent it rolling toward the stairs. I dropped the flaming shop rag into it and jumped back. The effect was instantaneous. There was a loud ‘whoom’ and a bright flare as the gasoline caught on fire.

  “Shit,” Dave yelled. “Get the fuck back!”

  His warning came too late. The mop bucket reached the top stair and tilted over with a loud crash, spilling flaming gasoline toward them. Fire raced down the stairs, licking Drew and Dave’s feet and flowing toward Chuck. He jumped to the bottom of the landing, rolled, and fled down the next flight of stairs. Drew and Dave tried running, too, but they couldn’t outrun the fire creeping up their legs. Both men screamed. Drew tripped and fell, pulling Dave down with him. Their shrieks grew louder as the flames engulfed them. The stairwell filled with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Their hair caught fire next. Despite everything, my stomach grumbled. I closed my eyes to block out the horrible sight, and the smell changed. The stench of burning human flesh became the aroma of roasting pork. I thought back to the day that Alyssa and I got married. The caterer provided an open pit pig roast for our wedding reception, which was held outdoors. All of the guests had agreed that it was a great meal. Whenever anybody talked about that day, the first thing they invariably mentioned was how good the food had been. Alyssa’s father had eaten three servings of roasted pork, and would have eaten more if the disc jockey hadn’t called him front and center to dance with Alyssa to “Daddy’s Little Girl”.

  Drew and Dave were both fully engulfed in flames now. They rolled down the stairs, shrieking and beating at themselves. The smoke made my eyes water.

  The smell made my mouth water.

  The fire alarm began to wail. A second later, the bunker’s automatic sprinkler system kicked on, showering the stairwell with water. Drew and Dave popped and sizzled. I stood there at the top of the stairs, stretched out my arms and tilted my head upward, letting the spray wash over me. I opened my mouth and drank greedily. I groaned in pleasure as the water ran down my head and chest and back. It felt like a baptism. I wondered what Eisenhower’s bronze head would have thought of me, had it been able to see me at that moment. Would it have been proud? And what about Alyssa? If she could have seen me at that moment, would she have seen me for the man I really was? Would she have been proud? Would she have regretted her decision?

  I decided that I really didn’t care anymore.

  “Fuck her and fuck them. Fuck them all.”

  I was tired of being the prey. It was time to become the hunter. Nodding in satisfaction, I ducked back into the power plant and made preparations for war.

  SIX

  The bunker’s sprinkler system was fairly advanced. Only the sprinklers in the stairwell were activated. The alarm bleated for several minutes, though. The shrill wail was audible even over the generators. I knew that Jeff and Mike would hear it, so I hid behind one of the tanks and waited for them to arrive.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Jeff came hurrying along at a trot a few minutes later, looking bewildered. There was no sign of Mike. I wondered if perhaps they had already reached the bodies, and decided that Mike should stay with Clyde while Jeff investigated the source of the alarm.

  In his hurry, he didn’t see me hiding behind the tank. I waited until he’d gone past me. Then I slipped out from behind the tank and sneaked up behind him. I didn’t have to worry about him hearing me. Between the fire alarm and the generators, there was no chance of that. The extreme heat in the power plant had already dried most of the water the sprinkler system had sprayed me with, so I also wasn’t worried about him seeing puddles.

  Despite my caution, Jeff paused. He raised his head slightly and sniffed the air. His back was still turned to me. I assumed he’d noticed the smell coming from the stairwell. Before he could move again, I pulled the box-cutter from my pocket, extended the blade, and rushed up behind him. I looped my arm around his forehead and slashed at his throat with my other hand.

  Cutting someone’s throat isn’t at all like it appears in the movies. When you see Rambo or Michael Myers slit somebody’s throat, it’s always quick and easy and arterial blood immediately starts spraying from the victim’s wound. It wasn’t like that at all with Jeff. I don’t know if I cut too low or too high, or not deep enough, but there was no crimson geyser. He screamed, more from surprise than pain, I think, and tried to pull away. I was surprised that he was still able to make noise. He slipped my hold on him, got free and spun around. There was a thin, red line on his neck, almost like the indentation from a necklace chain that had been worn too long. I don’t think he was even aware of it at first, but then the pain must have kicked in. He reached up slowly and touched the wound with his fingertips, probing it gently, experimentally. When he pushed on it, a few red drops leaked out. Jeff pulled his hand away and looked at his fingertips. More blood began to flow, but it was nowhere near what I’d imagined.

  “You cut me.”

  I couldn’t hear him, but I understood him just the same. I leaped at him, slashing with the box-cutter. The razor sliced him just below the shoulder. When he reflexively reached toward the wound, I swiped the blade across the back of his hand. Jeff tried to turn and run, but I jumped on him, stabbing again and again with the box-cutter. He thrashed and kicked beneath me, but I managed to stay on top of him. I just kept jamming the blade into his back and shoulders and neck and head. Sometimes, the razor got pushed back up into the sheath and I’d thumb it out again, even while I struck him with my other fist. We went on like that for a long time. I don’t know how long, exactly. I know that his struggles weakened, and then ceased, and even after he’d stopped moving altogether, I kept on stabbing and slashing at him. It was exactly like what had happened with George, except that this time I had a knife. My hands, legs and face were splattered with blood, and my clothes were sticky and wet again.

  When I stood up, blood dripped from my fingertips and the edge of the knife. I put the bloody weapon back in my pocket. Then I rolled Jeff over and searched him for anything useful. He had nothing on him except for his car keys and a black leather wallet. I ignored the keys and gave the wallet a cursory examination. It contained a few one, five and ten dollar bills, totally useless in the current environment, unless you were using them to start a fire or as toilet paper. In one of the wallet’s pockets, there was also a round wooden token with the slogan IT IS WHAT IT IS emblazoned on it. That made me grin.

  “It is what it is,” I muttered. “Do whatever you have to do to survive, and if the situation changes, adapt or die.”

  The other side of the wooden coin had the name of what I presumed was a strip club—The Odessa, Lewisberry, PA. After a moment, I stuck the token in my front pocket. Then I rifled through the rest of the wallet. All that was left were some pictures of a woman and two kids. The children looked exactly like Jeff. I didn’t linger on the pictures too long, because looking at them made me feel bad. I closed the wallet, but not before noticing that I’d left bloody thumbprint smudges all over Jeff’s family’s faces. I dropped the wallet on his corpse and stood up. When I walked
away, the soles of my shoes stuck to the floor, and I left red footprints in my wake.

  The fire alarm ceased wailing as abruptly as it had begun. The roar of the generators seemed almost subdued in its absence. There was no way of telling how long I had before Mike came looking for Jeff, or how soon Chuck and the others would recover from my attack and launch a new strike. I hurried over to the stairwell door and jammed my spear through the door handle. Not satisfied with that, I wheeled one of the heavy toolboxes over to the door, as well, and shoved the toolbox against it. Satisfied it would hold, I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and sighed.

  Moving the toolbox was hard work. It was heavy, and would have been difficult even if I wasn’t weak with hunger. When I was finished, I had to resist the urge to sit down and rest. Instead, I rummaged through the toolbox until I found a pencil and a small, pocket-sized tablet. Then I returned to my hiding place behind the machinery and began making a list of everyone that had been inside the bunker when the siege had begun. I crossed off Annie, Ryan, Milo, Rachel and everyone else who had died before the decision to resort to democratic cannibalism had been decided upon. That left a population of seventeen, not counting myself. Seventeen people who had voted to eat me, except for Drew—and possibly the Chinese guy, who might not have understood what they were voting on. But while he might not have understood everything that was happening, he’d stood by Chuck and the others earlier. That made him an enemy. The same went for good old Drew, who had sold me out in the end like some cheap prison snitch.

  I stuck the pencil in my mouth and chewed on the eraser, working up some saliva to ease my thirst as I pondered the situation.

  Seventeen enemy combatants. I crossed off the ones I’d already killed—Krantz, George, Jim, Jeff, Dave and that back-stabbing son of a bitch Drew. True, Dave and Drew could have survived my attack, but if so, they were badly burned at the very least, and shouldn’t be much trouble. With those six out of the way, that left Chuck, Mike, Clyde, Chinese Guy, Emma, Phillips, Nicole, Damonte, Susan, Ritchie, and Charles. I’ve already told you about half of them. Nicole Baez was twenty-five who did body-piercing at a tattoo studio in Lewisburg and had worked at the hotel on weekends. Ritchie Giffen and Damonte Williams had also been Pocahontas staff. Susan Fremont was a local who had been at the Pocahontas to arrange her daughter’s wedding reception. Finally, there was Charles St. John Smith III, or Charles the Third as he’d insisted we call him several times. Charles was from Philadelphia, and worked in the music industry. He’d supposedly been, at various times, a disc jockey at WKDU 91.7, a promoter at punk clubs like House of Conflict and Stalag 13 (which I’d heard of even down here in West Virginia) and had played in a hardcore band. Charles had been passing through when the zombies attacked. He hadn’t even been staying at the hotel. He’d been gassing up his car across the street and fled here when the shit kicked off. None of them were people I’d have expected to go along with Chuck’s insane plan, but evidently, all of them had.