by Brian Keene
With some difficulty, I stripped the Chinese guy’s shirt off and put it on so that I wasn’t running around half-naked anymore. Then, I slowly clambered to my feet. My legs were still a bit wobbly and when I stood up all the way, the room began to spin again. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. My head was still throbbing, and I wondered if I’d bumped it when I passed out. I felt my scalp, but there were no new cuts or lumps. The ringing in my ears had subsided. The restroom was quiet. After a few more deep breaths, I opened my eyes again, and was relieved to discover that the dizziness had passed. I stepped over Chinese guy’s corpse and stood in front of the sink. I avoided looking at my reflection in the broken mirror. Instead, I turned on the spigot and cupped my hands beneath it. The cold water felt luxuriant. I splashed my face and head several times. Then I scrubbed the blood and grime away, and dried off with paper towels from the dispenser. When I was finished, I felt alert and awake and reinvigorated.
I opened the restroom door, walked out into the hall and got hit in the face by something long and hard.
Then I passed out again.
***
This time, I came to with a start, fully remembering everything that had happened before. The pain in my head was worse now, and my mouth was pure agony. I moaned, sick to my stomach from the pain. Every time I breathed through my mouth, the air passing over my split lips made me wince. I tried breathing through my nose and found that doing so hurt even worse than breathing through my mouth. My nostrils felt like they’d been stuffed with wet cotton. I tried moving my jaw to alleviate the pressure in my nose and ears, but all that brought was tears to my eyes and more pain. I didn’t think my nose was broken, but it was definitely fucked up.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” a male voice said. “Looks sort of like a sliced plum, if you want to know the truth. I think the nail sticking out of that board caught you dead center.”
I opened my eyes and saw Charles St. John Smith III—he of the long name—staring at me. His expression was placid. Almost serene.
“Hi, Pete. You really lost your shit, didn’t you?”
I parted my mouth to speak and immediately regretted it. A fresh jolt of agony wracked my body. I choked back a scream and squeezed my eyes shut again. When I tried to move my arms, I found that I couldn’t. I prodded my teeth with my tongue and discovered that several of them had been broken. My nausea grew worse. I opened my eyes again and studied my surroundings. I was lying on the floor in the main corridor. Clyde lay across from me. My arms had been bound flat against my sides with black electrical wiring. The covering must have been worn off in some places, because I felt the copper digging into my skin.
Charles was crouched on his haunches in front of me. In one hand, he clutched a length of wood from a skid. A bent nail jutted from one end. My skin and blood decorated the tip of the nail. At five feet, eight inches tall, Charles was anything but an imposing figure. When we’d first sought refuge inside the bunker, the thirty-two year old had weighed about one hundred and forty-five pounds. Now he weighed considerably less. Still, that hadn’t prevented him from knocking me on my ass and tying me up. I flexed my arms, testing the bonds. They held firm. I opened my mouth slightly and spoke in halting, clipped tones.
“Where’s…Chuck…?”
“Downstairs.” Charles nodded his head toward the power plant. “All of them are downstairs. Me, Ritchie and that Chinese guy were the only ones who could climb up the incinerator chute. Damonte and Phillips are both too big, still. I think they’ve been hoarding food. How about you? Do you think they’ve got a secret stash somewhere?”
I tried to shrug, but the wires prevented me from doing more than twitching. They rubbed against my skin, chafing it.
“I think they might.” Charles looked at the wall as he spoke, as if afraid to meet my eyes. “I wasn’t completely sold on this whole eating each other idea. It seems to me that if we start doing that, then we’re no different than the zombies.”
“Then…why?”
“Why did I go along with it?” He shrugged. “Because if I hadn’t, I was afraid they’d turn on me instead. It wasn’t anything personal, Pete. I’ve got nothing against you. But you’ve basically been a loner. You hide out in the movie room all day. You don’t seem to understand the pull Chuck has over everyone else. Some of them are afraid of him, but a lot of the others have bought into his bullshit. I don’t get it. He’s not exactly charismatic or anything.”
“Al…” I spat blood. “Alpha male.”
“Yeah, you might be right. That’s probably it. Anyway, that’s why I’m going along with Chuck’s plan.”
“Because you’re a coward?”
Charles visibly stiffened. “You don’t know anything about me, Pete.”
“I know that you’re afraid of getting your fucking ass kicked.”
“Is that what you think?” He glowered at me. “When I first lived in Philadelphia, I moved there to go to film school, but I ended up playing in a hardcore punk band and running a club called House of Conflict. You ever hear of it?”
I shook my head.
“It was basically a big warehouse. I lived on the block with the other show warehouses and we had a good neighbor policy. We looked after each other, our block and the shows. We all had keys to each other’s places. My place was right next to the legendary Stalag 13. We had better bathrooms and a working washing machine, but Stalag had a skateboard ramp that went from the roof through the backyard. We used to skate on it. I helped bring bands like Unholy Grave, Vitamin X, and Cripple Bastards to play in Philly.”
“And that proves you’re not a pussy?”
“No. But I remember this one night, after a show at the Stalag. Some friends and I were riding our bicycles to the convenience store on 38th and Walnut, when this drunken asshole almost runs us over. He had to stop at the red light, and I jumped on the hood of his car while my friends tried to flip it over. When they couldn’t do it, the three of us dragged him out of the car and beat his ass right there in the street. I’d lost friends to drunken driving, you know? I’m not afraid of a fight. I got into it with a bunch of Nazi skinheads at a show, once. They were fucking with this black kid and his white girlfriend. It was me against them—five on one, but I never thought twice about it. And believe me, I got in a few good licks before I went down.”
“What’s your point?”
Charles sighed. “My point is that for a scrawny ex-punk with glasses, I can hold my own when I have to. I won’t back down from a fight. Although I prefer when people just do the right thing. It seems so simple.”
“So then do the right thing, Charles. Let me go.”
“No way. Out of the question.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re insane, Pete. Do you realize what you’ve done?” He gestured at Jim, George, Clyde, Ritchie and Mike. “You butchered them!”
“They would have done the same to me.”
Charles shook his head. “No. Not like this. We were going to drug you. You would have just gone to sleep, nice and peaceful. But this…what you did to Drew and Dave…you burned them alive.”
“They shouldn’t have gotten in my way.”
“Drew was your friend.”
“Was is the operative word there. A real friend doesn’t sell you out to a bunch of cannibalistic crazies.”
Charles paused for a moment, as if mulling over my words. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“Maybe we are crazy, but you’re crazy, too. You’re a bad kind of crazy, Pete. There’s no way I’m letting you go.”
“Then stuff your goddamn speeches about doing the right thing.”
“I’m in a hard spot, Pete. We all are. Before Hamelin’s Revenge, I had a deep respect for people and humanity and everything that we could be. I still feel that way, although it’s doubtful we’ll rise up to our full potential anytime soon. But when this is all over, we’re going to need leaders. We’re going to need people to take charge and help re
build civilization. It’s my responsibility to do better, to be better, to be the best of humanity—and hopefully we’re all part of something bigger.”
“So you’ll go along with Chuck just so you can stay alive long enough to get out of here and save the world?”
“If I have to, yes. And to stay alive for Carolyn.”
“Who’s that?”
Charles smiled. “Carolyn Sheffield. She was this hot goth chick back in the day. To be honest, I never thought much of her until this one day when we went record shopping at Smash! in DC, and she bought a copy of Minor Threat’s Out of Step on vinyl. We had this long, involved conversation about how the mixes on the album were better than the mixes on the compact disc. I couldn’t believe this hot girl and I were talking about the mixes of a straight edge hardcore band’s album, you know? I told her that I loved her. And I still do. Being stuck down here—it’s taught me what’s important. Somewhere along the line, I quit taking chances. I got used to working fourteen hour days and taking care of the people who rely on me and trying to make my father proud. He was a retired brigadier general. I would never let him down and nothing makes me happier than to make him proud of me. Sure, I had a mohawk until I started balding, but it was important to me that people take me seriously and believe in me. And that’s a fucking hard thing to do, but while I was focused on all of those things, I stopped doing things just for me. So when we get out of here—and eventually, I believe we’ll get out of here—I’m going to go find Carolyn.”
I laughed. “Now who’s crazy? You don’t even know if she’s alive, man.”
“She’s alive. And when I show up, she’s going to play that Minor Threat record, and kiss me, and all of this will have been worth it.”
At that moment, I realized that Charles had snapped. Maybe it was starvation-induced delirium, or maybe he had cabin fever from being locked up down here for too long, but he was obviously out of touch with reality. Slowly, I flexed my arms again, trying to loosen my bonds. Then I heard Alyssa. She sounded farther away.
“Pete…”
“I’m coming,” I muttered. “Just hang on.”
“What’s that?” Frowning, Charles stared down at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking about my wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married. You don’t have a ring on your finger.”
“Maybe not. But I am married. And when this is over, I’m going to make it right with her. I’m going to do better. You can help, Charles. We can help each other. You let me go, so that I can find Alyssa, and I’ll help you find Carolyn.”
“I wish I could.” His tone was wistful and apologetic. “Seriously, I do. But you’re sick, Pete. I know you don’t see it, but you are. I can’t let you go.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go back downstairs and let Chuck know that I captured you. When I left, he was holed up in the lunchroom with Emma, Nicole, and Susan. I think he wants them for himself. Damonte and Phillips were standing guard. I imagine they won’t be very happy when I tell them what you’ve done.”
“But don’t you see? We’ve got enough now to last us all year! Jim and George said you had a plan to rig something up in the incinerator room to smoke the bodies. Between that and the refrigerator, the meat will be okay. You guys don’t have to kill me now.”
“That’s Chuck’s call,” Charles said. “But to be honest, I can’t see keeping you alive. Not after all of this. Not after what you did to Drew and Dave.”
“Are they alive?”
“Dave still was, when I left, but I don’t think he will be for much longer. His skin…” Charles closed his eyes and shuddered. Then he opened his eyes again. I saw that they were wet.
“What about Drew?”
“Drew didn’t make it.”
“Good.”
“That doesn’t bother you? He was your friend.”
“Fuck him. Fuck all of you. Go get your cronies. Go crawling back to Chuck like a good little boy. Your father would be ashamed of you.”
He stood up so quickly that I flinched. Charles glared at me, his hands curling into fists. He trembled with anger, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. I cringed, expecting him to kick me, but then he relaxed his posture. Smiling, he calmly stepped over me and walked down the corridor.
“Go on,” I yelled. “Go find Chuck. And when you do, I want you to tell him something. Tell him that I’m going to kill every one of you motherfuckers before this is over!”
My shouts echoed down the hall. Ignoring them, Charles headed toward the power plant. I twisted and flopped, trying to get free of the wires, but they held fast. Charles disappeared through the door, leaving me alone in the corridor. I wiggled to one side and then the other, pulling my legs up to my chest and arching my back. Some of the tension in my bonds eased, but I still couldn’t get free. Frustrated, I rolled toward the wall.
“Alyssa? Help me.”
“I can’t. You have to do it yourself. If you want me back, then you have to prove yourself to me, Pete. You have to prove that you’re worthy. Find me.”
“Hold that thought.”
Gasping for breath, I paused when I reached the wall. In my struggles, I had rolled through a half-congealed puddle of Clyde’s blood. It smeared over my clothes and skin and got into my mouth and eyes and nostrils—but more importantly, it got beneath the wires, as well. After some difficulty, I was able to sit up, and when I did, I was surprised to find that my bonds were much looser. I still couldn’t free myself, but they were no longer so constricting. Pushing my back against the wall, I struggled to stand up. It was harder than I would have thought. I was weak and groggy and my head and mouth still hurt, not to mention that I was doing it without the aid of my arms. Eventually, though, I got myself upright. I stood there, leaning on the wall for support, and swayed back and forth. I experimented with my arms and shoulders and found that I could now stretch them about an inch from my sides. Still not enough to get free, but enough that I had a renewed sense of hope.
“Thanks for your help, Clyde. I really appreciate it.”
I turned away from him and closed my eyes, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass. I don’t know how much time went by. Maybe a minute. Maybe five. I think I might have lost consciousness for a bit. My eyes snapped open when I heard a faint skittering noise at my feet. A rat hurried by, running toward the skids. I was immediately reminded of Dude, my pet hooded rat from when I was in college. I hadn’t thought of Dude in years. Alyssa had made me get rid of him when we moved in together. I’d taken him to my parent’s house, and they’d looked after him until he died. I used to tell myself he died of old age, rather than a broken heart over the fact that his owner had given him up.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Dude? Is that really you?”
The rat stopped, stood up on its hind legs, and stared at me. It tilted its head to the side and twitched its long whiskers. I wondered where it had come from. In all my time working for the hotel, I’d never seen a rat or a mouse in the bunker. Had it been here all along, or had it somehow found a way inside the supposedly impregnable walls? I panicked for a moment, wondering if it was infected with Hamelin’s Revenge, but it didn’t look dead. Indeed, it looked very much alive—and well fed, too. Its belly was round and soft and had a cute little spot of white fur, just like Dude had when he was alive.
“Dude? Hold on a second. You can’t be here. You’re dead.”
The rat squeaked in response.
“Don’t give me that. Even if you’re not Dude, you could pass for his twin.”
The rat squeaked again. It sounded agitated.
“Better get out of here,” I said. “These people are crazy. They’ll eat you if they find you.”
As if heeding my warning, the rat dropped back down on all fours and scurried under the skids. I watched its tail vanish from sight, and then it was gone, like it had never been there. Maybe it wasn’t. I considered that maybe it had been a hallucination brou
ght on by starvation and the beatings I’d taken. If it had been real, and it had come from outside, then I needed to find out how. If a live rat could get into the bunker, then a zombie rat could do the same.
My stomach growled again.
“Wait,” I called. “Come back, Dude!”
The rat didn’t return. The corridor was quiet again. I closed my eyes and wept silently.
Once my dizziness had subsided, I stumbled over to the forklift. Ritchie was dangling there, impaled from the upraised forks. I stared into his dead, glazed eyes. Then I crouched down and placed my head and shoulders against his chest. Grunting, I pushed him backward. It was a difficult task. His insides stuck to the forks and left a gory trail in his body’s wake. The stench was terrible. The squelching sounds were even worse. I turned away, took a deep breath, and then renewed my efforts, pushing him to the edge of the forks. After a final, determined nudge, Ritchie’s corpse dropped to the floor. I maneuvered between the forks and the blast door, and then positioned myself so that the tip of the forks caught the wires behind my back. I wriggled back and forth, driving it deeper. The cold steel slipped under my shirt, and the tension on the wires increased. Then I took a deep breath and began sliding back and forth. The wires rubbed against my chest and arms, digging deep. If I hadn’t been wearing a shirt, I’m sure they would have cut me. The pain was incredible. Just when I thought I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore, I felt the wires go slack. Gasping, I managed to slip free of the bonds. My skin was chafed and my shirt was torn in places, but I was free.
