by Brian Keene
I paused long enough to catch my breath and work some of the kinks out of my aching muscles. My mouth still hurt, but the pain in my head had subsided. Then I walked over to the skids, got down on my hands and knees, and peered beneath them. It was dark under the slats, and I couldn’t see or hear anything. There wasn’t even any rat droppings. Dude had always had a habit of pooping on my shoulder when I carried him around. I edged closer, lying my cheek on the cold concrete floor.
“Dude? Was that really you? Are you under there? Come here, ratty. Come here, Dude…”
I lay there for another minute, relishing the coolness against my cheek. Then I stood up again and groaned at the pain. I scooped up the wires Charles had tied me with, and then took off in pursuit of him. I glanced up at the closed circuit security monitor as I ran. The dead were still out there, milling about. They were much more restless than the dead inside with me. I preferred the latter.
I saw no more rats as I ran.
I caught up with Charles just as he was finishing moving the toolbox blocking the door inside the power plant. He didn’t know I was there until it was too late. As he grabbed the door handle, I hurried up behind him and looped the coils of wire around his throat. Then I jerked them hard. He made a choking sound, but I could barely hear him over the generators. He tried to throw himself forward but only succeeded in strangling himself even more. Before he could break free, I turned around, hunched over, and pulled the wires over my shoulder. The lengths bit into my hands, but I ignored the pain and discomfort and yanked harder. Charles kicked and thrashed, but I remained upright and my grip didn’t slacken. Eventually, his movements weakened, and then stopped altogether. He twitched sporadically a few more times, almost like aftershocks. I waited another full minute before finally letting go of the wires. Charles fell to the floor, dead.
“Six more to go.”
I flexed my hands. The wires had cut into both of them, drawing thin lines of blood. I wiped them on my pants, adding to the gore already there.
“Hurry, Pete…Find me…Kill them all and find me…”
“Oh, I plan on it, baby. Don’t you worry about that.” Following Alyssa’s insistent urging, I opened the door and entered the stairwell. “Ready or not, here I come.”
EIGHT
The stairwell still smelled like roasted meat. The aroma hung heavy in the air, and my stomach growled even louder. The hunger pains were just that—pain. It physically hurt me to be so famished. I’d felt them early on, in the long days when we’d first run out of food. But after a while, they had stopped, replaced with the constant fatigue we’d all suffered. Now the hunger pains were back. It felt like somebody was stabbing my stomach with knives. Maybe it was all psychological. Maybe they were just induced by the aroma, but my stomach muscles contracted and I groaned, shivering with both desire and pain.
Flecks of burned flesh stuck to some of the stairs, charred almost to ash, like the blackened remnants you’d find at the bottom of your backyard grill at the end of summer. Some of the skin crunched beneath my feet, crumbling to dust. There was a smeared red, pink and black handprint on one wall, and some scraps of burned clothing on the landing. Strips of charred skin also dangled from the handrails. Powdery ash floated in the air, and the ceiling and walls had sooty patches on them from the smoke. I found one of Drew’s shoes lying on the landing. It was burned black. The leather had cracked and the soles had melted onto the floor. I prodded it with my foot, but the shoe was stuck fast.
“Serves you right, Drew. You backstabbing motherfucker.”
Even though I’d whispered, my voice echoed in the stairwell. The effect was strange and distorted. It sounded like multiple voices all hissing at the same time. Then they all coalesced into Alyssa’s voice.
“You have to be careful from this point on, Peter. They’ll be waiting for you.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m not crazy, Alyssa.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you’re doing what you’ve always done—charging ahead without thinking about the consequences. You always think with your heart and your gut. Never your head. You can’t just rush in there. You’re still outnumbered.”
“Only six to one, though. The odds keep getting better. Reckon I can even them some more before I’m done.”
“You always were cocky.”
“You used to like that about me.”
“It got old, after a while.”
“Is that what happened to us?”
“You know what happened to us, Peter.”
“Yeah. Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I see it clear as day. Other times, it all seems so silly. All of those things that were important. All of those things I couldn’t live with. They don’t seem as clear anymore. Sometimes I can feel the guilt and other times I can’t. I don’t know which is worse.”
“Your mind does whatever it has to do to cope. But that’s always been your way.”
“How is it I can hear you, Alyssa?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to turn you off. I don’t need this shit right now. I’m a little preoccupied with trying to stay alive and I don’t feel like being lectured by my ex-wife.”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Peter? If you want me back, then you’re going to have to face up to some of these things. As for how you can hear me, I think you know the answer to that.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think I do, too. I’ve been thinking about it. The only thing that makes sense is that you’re dead. You died of natural causes, and didn’t become a zombie. Instead, you became a ghost. Just like the ghost of the little girl who supposedly haunts the restroom by the blast door. You’re a spirit. Am I right?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see…”
“You’re a ghost,” I repeated. “You have to be. That’s the only way you could have gotten inside here. You and Dude. Dude died. I know that. He died long before any of this shit began, but I swear to God that I just saw him back there. And I’m hearing you. That can only mean one thing. You’re both ghosts. Right?”
There was silence.
“Okay,” I continued, “if you can’t tell me that, then lets talk about something else. Is this bunker really haunted? I mean, other than by you? Is there really a little girl in the bathroom upstairs? I’ve always wondered about that. People have reported seeing her ghost from time to time. Is she really there? Is the bunker really haunted?”
Alyssa didn’t respond. I paused, waiting for a reply, but I could no longer feel her presence. She’d gone again.
I fumbled through my pockets. My fingertips brushed over Jeff’s wooden token, and then the pocketknife. I searched the stairs until I found my trusty and bloodstained screwdriver lying where Drew had dropped it. Then I continued downward. I had nothing against the pocketknife. It was a fine and serviceable weapon, as far as blades were concerned, but I preferred the screwdriver. We’d been through a lot together, that screwdriver and me, and it had served me well. It was one of the few friends I had down here.
I stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, remembering what had happened the last time I’d pushed the door open. Just like before, they could be waiting on the other side for me. I paused, considering my options. I was tempted to go back upstairs and climb down the incinerator chute, but decided that was just as risky. I wouldn’t be able to mask my sound in the incinerator chute the way I could in the stairwell with the noise of the power plant’s generators droning on in the background. Plus, Chuck and the others could have gotten smart and blocked off the chute. If so, I could end up trapped inside, especially if somebody snuck upstairs while I was inside it and blockaded the other end of the chute, as well. I imagined what would happen next in that scenario—Chuck instructing them to fire up the incinerator, and me scrabbling at the walls like a frantic gerbil, praying to die of smoke inhalation before I cooked to death.
Nervous, I took a few steps backward, and then reached forward with the screwdriver. Using the tip, I prodded the do
or open and then dropped down into a crouch, preparing myself for someone to charge through. I was convinced they would. Instead, nothing happened. The door swung shut again. I held my breath and waited, but nobody came. After a few minutes had passed, my muscles began to knot and hurt, so I stood up again and cautiously approached the closed door. I put my ear to it, but heard nothing. Taking another deep breath, I inched it open and peered out into the hall. It seemed empty, at least from my limited point of view. I heard voices, but they were distant and muffled. After listening a little longer, I determined that they were coming from the dining room at the far end of the hall.
I eased the door open wider and stuck my head outside. Carefully looking both ways, I saw that the doors to the dining room were closed and confirmed that the hallway was indeed deserted. Since that could change at any moment, I moved quickly, slipping out into the corridor and then eased the door shut behind me. The conversation from the dining room seemed to grow louder. I told myself it was just my imagination. Then I crossed the hall and tried the doorknob to the library. It was unlocked, and the lights were out inside the room. I hurried inside and shut the door behind me.
The library was a relatively small room, but all four of its walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They’d been built right into the wall. When the bunker had been operational, the government had kept it fully stocked and updated with everything from medical textbooks to classic literature to the latest mid-list paperbacks or hardcover bestsellers. After the bunker was deactivated and sold to the hotel, the staff had kept the books intact, as part of the overall museum experience. Unfortunately, we’d had to get rid of most of them a few years ago after a silverfish infestation. Now the shelves were mostly bare. There were a few dozen Readers Digest condensed editions that somebody had bought for a quarter apiece at a local flea market, along with various outdated magazines and newspapers. My fellow survivors had added to it after our arrival, but their contributions amounted to nothing more than a Robert Randisi western paperback with its cover stripped off, a self-help pamphlet on the wonders of colon-cleansing, and some bullshit teeny-bopper book about vampire cheerleaders in love with werewolf football players. Most of us hadn’t had time to grab our belongings before fleeing below. Several of the survivors had electronic book readers in their purses, or Kindle apps on their cell phones, but those had been worthless without the chargers, all of which had been left behind in their vehicles or hotel rooms. I remembered how proud Krantz had been in our first few days of the siege. He’d complained about the bunker’s selection of movies and the general lack of entertainment choices, as if he was on vacation or something, but he’d gloated over his e-book reader and the fact that it held over two-thousand books. He’d assured us that he wouldn’t be bored, and that it sucked for everyone else, because he wouldn’t be sharing. Of course, that two-thousand book library of his was gone now, eradicated by something as simple as a dead battery. That had always been the inherent danger of the digital age. Once a civilization’s culture became electronic, that culture lasted only as long as the power was on. Archeologists could dig up ancient Rome and find statues and coins and scrolls, but a thousand years from now, what would they make of those dead little handheld gadgets we’d coveted so much?
I thought of my own books, most of which had been boxed up and put in storage or sold for cash after my divorce from Alyssa. There hadn’t been enough room for them in my new apartment, and I’d had to sell some of the rarer and more collectible ones to pay the lawyer. I wished I had them now. At that moment, I’d have given anything to have them there with me. To smell them and hold them. Feel the weight of them in my hands and hear the pages turn. Before the zombies, there had been nothing like holding a physical book in my hands. Now, in this post-apocalyptic setting, that feeling would be magnified a hundred times, simply because it was a connection to a world and a civilization that was no more—and might not ever be again. My thoughts turned back to the archeologists. If humanity survived the zombie plaque and somehow rebuilt itself, would archeologists a thousand years from now discover the works of Stephen King and Tom Clancy and Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks, and if so, would the people of that era look upon those works as we did the writings of Homer and Byron and Shakespeare? It was a nice thought. I smiled, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Doing so made my face hurt.
The overhead lights were turned off and the only illumination in the library was the soothing red of the emergency light, which always remained on in case of a fire or power outage. I stared at the soft glow. It was alluringly relaxing—a pleasant enough diversion from all the blood and violence and pain. The light did not judge. It did not weigh me. It didn’t see me as a source of hurt or humiliation. Most importantly, it did not want to eat me. I kept staring, and my eyes felt itchy and heavy. I stifled a yawn and fought to stay awake and alert. Despite my very real and constant peril, the adrenalin was retreating in my body. Combined with the hunger and the beatings I’d taken, it left me feeling both nauseous and exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Well, that’s not entirely true. What I wanted more than anything was to eat, but after I’d gorged myself, a nap would be just fine. I’d sleep right here under the lights, bathed in their warmth.
“You can’t sleep now,” Alyssa said. “They’ll find you if you do. Fall asleep now and you’ll never wake up.”
I chuckled. “The way I feel right now? That wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Besides, if I don’t wake up, then I can be with you. We’ll both be ghosts. We can finally be together again.”
“We will be together again,” Alyssa promised. “You just have to find me first.”
“I’m trying.”
“Then you have to try harder. Do whatever you have to do to survive, and then find me.”
I was getting pretty frustrated with Alyssa’s riddles and hide-and-seek games, and was just opening my mouth to tell her so when I heard footsteps in the hall outside. My fatigue vanished, replaced with a new surge of panic. My pulse began to pound again, drowning out Alyssa’s voice. I glanced around, frantically looking for a place to hide. My options were limited. The library had no nooks or crannies. Other than the bookshelves, the room held only a few long tables, a half dozen metal folding chairs, and an empty newspaper display rack. When the bunker had been active, the rack would have held current newspapers from various cities across the country. The government had changed the papers weekly—our tax dollars at work. The newspapers hung from long, grooved wooden poles that looked almost like swords. Other than these, the only other things in the library were a few small plaques that were affixed to the wall and one of the shelves. Each one gave visitors information about the library in addition to the tour guide’s usual spiel.
I ducked down beneath one of the tables and held my breath. The footsteps halted right outside the library door. Then there was silence. I waited for what seemed like minutes before whoever was outside slowly moved on again. Moments later, I heard the dining room doors bang open and shut.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I crawled out from under the table and stood up. I must have done so too quickly, because my dizziness returned. I reached out and grabbed the table and waited for it to pass. My vision narrowed, as if I was looking down a tunnel, and my ears began to ring again. I bowed my head, closed my eyes and focused on breathing through my nose with short, measured breaths. I sat down on the floor and waited for the spell to pass. This time, it took a lot longer for my senses to return to normal, and even when they did, I still had a slight twinge of vertigo. It got worse every time I breathed through my nose, as if my sinuses and ears were blocked. I tried moving my jaw back and forth to ease the sensation, but it hurt too much to keep doing, and I stopped.
“Blood sugar,” I whispered. “Starvation. Hunger. All the physical exertion and damage I’ve taken today. Exhaustion. Pain. It’s a wonder I’m still awake at all. I need to keep moving. I am a shark.”
“Quiet,” Alyssa scolded. “You’re
talking out loud. Someone will hear you.”
“I don’t care anymore,” I said. “Let them hear me. Let them all come. I’m sick and tired of this shit. All I want to do is sleep, but they won’t leave me the fuck alone.”
“You’re talking funny. Listen to yourself, Pete. Your speech is slurred, and you’re sitting there weaving back and forth like a drunk on a barstool. If they catch you in here, they’ll kill you, and then you’ll never find me.”
“You’re right.” Sighing, I stood up slowly. My muscles ached in protest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that I lied to you and that I hurt you. I’m sorry about Hannah and I’m sorry that—”
Footsteps sounded down the outside corridor again. They were faster than before. I crawled beneath the table just as they stopped in front of the door. I hoped that Alyssa wouldn’t chose that moment to say anything, and luckily, she didn’t. Seconds later, the library door opened. It was hard to see from my vantage point under the table, but I saw one pair of feet and jeans-clad legs standing in the doorway, bathed in the red glow of the emergency light. I held my breath and didn’t move. I was afraid to even pull out my razor knife or screwdriver. Any movement, no matter how subtle or slow, might give my location away. Instead, I waited. The person stepped into the room and slowly crossed the floor. I could hear their breathing from underneath the table. It was loud and rapid. They stopped just a few feet from my hiding place and stood still. I could tell by the direction their feet were pointing in that the intruder was facing in my direction. I tensed, preparing myself to scramble out from under the table and attack.
The intruder lowered one hand, letting it rest beside their hip. Their fingers twitched, as if they were nervous. I could tell by the fingernails that it was Nicole. I’d know those fingernails anywhere. I remembered admiring them back when we’d first come underground. They were long and well-kept and lacquered with purple nail polish with little specks of glitter in it. I’d thought them exotic—not the kind of thing you normally saw in West Virginia. The same could be said of her body jewelry and multiple piercings. She had silver studs or tiny gems not just in her ears, but in her nose, eyebrows, and lips, as well. She’d told me once that her nipples, belly button, labia and clitoris were pierced, too, but had gently rebuffed my efforts to verify this. I’d been disappointed, but not at all surprised. The only gold that Nicole wore was her wedding ring, and she talked about her little boy and her partner all the time. I think she’d grown accustomed to the idea that they were gone, but her grief hadn’t let her move on. Maybe she would have, in time. Maybe she’d have moved on with me. And maybe I would have let her—if she hadn’t been one of the fuckers trying to eat me. Now those fingernails were chipped and faded, and the glitter had long since worn away. So had any emotion or sympathy I’d felt for her.
