by Drew Brown
“Juliette said Carl got hurt.”
“He got bitten when he struggled with it. He lost t’little finger on his right hand. T’thing bit it clean off, but he’ll survive. He’s with his girlfriend at t’moment. She’s not so well.”
“Very sick,” Father McGee pitched in. He wiped at some coffee that had dampened his beard. “Very sick indeed. We must pray for her.”
“The doctor can pull her through, I’m sure,” Frank said. He looked down at his heavily bandaged left wrist, which was resting in a sling. “He thinks it’s just a really bad sprain, maybe a small fracture. He’s given me painkillers. It still hurts, but I’m okay, I guess,” the young man said when he caught Budd looking at the injury.
Budd nodded, smiling. He chose to ignore the earlier comments about the Chinese girl. She’d looked sick much earlier, anyway. A thought did cross his mind, however; the memory of Chris’s hands tugging his legs, pulling him down and very nearly getting him killed. “What about Chris? Is he okay?” Budd asked, disguising his bitterness.
“He’s fine. He managed to hold off t’fast-mover until we intervened.”
“Good for him,” Budd responded, but there was little passion in his voice.
“Anyway,” Andy said, draining the last from his coffee cup, “let me fill you in with what we’ve been doing. As I’m sure Juliette told you, we’ve cleared out all those things an’ secured this floor t’best we can.”
Budd let his eyes wander around the small group as he listened, watching them nod along with Andy’s explanation.
I’d thought Andy had been losing his cool, cracking under the pressure, but now it seemed he’d pulled himself back together. We had a leader—and I was pleased…
“So, we’ve locked t’doors to t’bank of lifts, just in case anything comes up, an’ we’ve barricaded it as well. All of t’bodies of t’things we killed have been put in t’cloakroom. We did our best to wash away t’blood.”
Budd glanced over his shoulder towards the double doors. Nailed across the frames were several wooden tabletops. All things considered, he thought the blockade looked pretty secure.
“T’cargo lift we came up in can only be operated when t’doors are closed an’ latched, so while it’s here it can’t get called down. An’ t’two other lifts in t’kitchen aren’t on t’emergency power circuit, so there’s no danger of any of those things following us up from t’basement.”
“Remembering the send-off we received, no one will want to go back down, boss.”
“Apart from that, there’s a staircase that runs from t’lowest level, all t’way up to t’roof. It was meant for staff use, maintenance people really, an’ it opens onto every floor. It’s also lit by t’emergency power. That will be our method of exploring t’hotel an’ getting up to t’roof to signal for help - well, once these clouds disperse, at any rate. Until then, we’ve nailed it shut an’ barricaded it with filing cabinets. Nothing can get through.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it pretty sorted,” Budd said. He paused for a second. “What if we need to get out in a hurry?”
“You’d better hope you’re good with nail-pliers,” Andy said without any hint of humor.
“I’ll try for the world record, if I have to.”
Sam pulled a deck of cards from the pocket of his faded jeans. “Who’s up for some poker?” he said. “I’m feeling lucky.”
39
“I’m out,” Budd said, dropping his cards face down on the table. Moments later, delayed because he only had the use of one arm, Frank did the same.
Sam scooped up the pile of beer coasters from the center of the table, adding them to his already bulging stock. He looked to Father McGee. “If you’re only opposed to gambling, can’t you, like, just play for fun?”
The old priest shook his head but smiled kindly. “It’s too slippery a slope, my son. I’m content just to watch the three of you.”
“Fair enough,” Sam answered. He returned the discarded playing cards to the deck, which he shuffled with practiced ease.
Budd looked around the restaurant for a few seconds, noting that the clouds above them were getting much darker. It would soon be time to retire to the offices. Both Juliette and Andy had turned down Sam’s offer of a poker match; Juliette to see if she could be of any help to the doctor and Andy to make a final inspection of the various barricades. The hotel worker had also said that he was going to talk to the different groups of people scattered around the floor, aiming to organize shifts of two or three to take turns as guards while the majority of the group slept through the night.
Budd hadn’t volunteered.
Once his thoughts and eyes returned to the table, Budd watched Sam’s speedy hand movements, somewhat amazed by the dexterity the young Californian possessed. “You’re really good at that.”
“I play poker as a profession,” Sam explained with a rueful smile. “I used to travel the world from tournament to tournament. Reckon I’m in, like, the top five players on the planet, dudes.”
“Hey, now the zombies have taken over,” Budd said, “you might well be number one.”
“Totally.”
“Surely you don’t think this is everywhere? It must be a localized thing,” Frank said, scratching at his arm in the sling.
“I’ve seen all the films, man, and it, like, always spreads all over the world. Except in the rubbish ones that have happy endings. I can’t believe they’re really zombies, though. It’s like, really weird.”
“‘Really weird?’” Budd repeated with a smile. “We wake up this morning to find the other guests dead, then the clouds fall to the ground and surround us in a foggy prison, the dead stand up and start to chase us around the hotel and finally, now, we’re drinking coffee and playing poker, discussing the possibility that the world has ended. And all you can say is it’s ‘really weird.’”
“Well, dude, it ain’t my normal kind of day.”
“Damn straight,” Budd said.
“I also think that Carl and his girlfriend should be locked away. In the films, anyone who gets bit turns into a zombie. Always happens, dudes. Always,” Sam said, dealing two cards to the middle of the table and then one each to Budd, Frank and himself.
“The doctor doesn’t think so,” Frank said, picking up his card.
“Maybe, but he, like, can’t explain why the girl’s getting sicker.”
“No,” Frank accepted.
“I’m just saying that we should keep an eye on them both.”
“You’re probably right,” Budd said after a while.
Frank nodded and, much to Budd’s surprise, Father McGee did the same. “It is better to be safe than sorry,” the elderly priest said, gently stroking his untidy beard. “We can only fathom at God’s greater plan.”
“It’s not God’s plan, Father,” Frank said. “It’s some infectious disease.”
“No, dude, it’s a virus.”
“What’s the difference?” Budd asked, earning a confused look from both Frank and Sam.
“Not sure, dude; but it’s a virus in most films. Some sort of secret government test.”
“Well,” Budd said, “that’s good enough for me. It must be a virus. The government can’t do anything right. Tell you what, guys; I think I’m gonna call it a day.” He got up from his chair as the others said goodnight, and then sauntered back across the restaurant and through the swing-doors into the kitchen. Andy was standing by the cargo elevator, talking quietly with Carl. Neither man looked happy, but, as they did nothing to acknowledge his entrance, Budd headed straight to the other door.
Once inside the offices, he realized how dark it had become. The gloom was more noticeable than in the restaurant, where there was a far larger area of glass to allow illumination. He hurried down the corridor to the right, heading back to where Juliette had cared for him. She was inside the small, grey-paneled room, sitting with her back against the wall and a blanket wrapped around her body. Budd sat down next to her and placed his arm ove
r her shoulders. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Monsieur Ashby,” she answered, forcing a smile to spread across her face.
Budd could see the glistening trail of tears on her cheeks. “Then you’re braver than me, sugar-plum. I feel like it’s the end of the world.”
Despite the fear etched deep on her face, Juliette laughed a little. “Do not leave me tonight,” she said, turning her head so that her wide, brown eyes made the appeal with even more clarity than her words.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Juliette tilted her head so that it was rested on his shoulder, and then closed her eyes, preparing for sleep.
For Budd, it wasn’t so easy.
He’d already slept for most the day, and although it was getting darker outside, he guessed that it was, in fact, still only late evening. Regardless, he realized that without any other source of power, the length of their days would now be dictated by the Sun’s journey around the planet, and not humanity’s more organized but unnatural routine. Determined to try and make the adjustment, but without much hope of achieving it, especially as the pain in his head was getting worse and the coffee in his stomach had nothing to absorb it, he lowered the peak of his Stetson and tried to sleep.
Sleep? Ha…
THE SECOND DAY
40
Although it was not an easy night’s sleep, and for much of it he was wide awake, his eyes roaming the dark room and his ears pricked by any noise, Budd found that he did manage to drift off. So much so that when Andy woke him with a nudge to his arm, the smell of cooking food came as a complete, but entirely pleasant, surprise.
“How’s t’head?”
“Okay, I guess. What’s cooking?”
“A full English,” Andy answered with a smile. “Father McGee said he used to help t’cooks when he was in t’air force before he became a priest. We rummaged up plenty of ingredients during t’night.”
“I’d kiss that man, except I don’t like beards.” Budd said, grinning. He raised the peak of his Stetson. At some point during the night his body had kicked back into its more routine functions. He felt as hungry as he had at any point in his life, and the full-bodied smell of the frying breakfast was impossibly tantalizing. “How long before it’s ready?”
“Five or ten minutes. We’ve laid a table in t’restaurant,” Andy said. “I’ll see you both there, I just have to round up t’rest.”
“See you in a bit.”
Budd waited until after Andy had gone and then lightly stroked Juliette’s face, trying to ease her back into the waking world. “Hey, sleeping beauty.”
Juliette took a few seconds to look at her surroundings. Her eyes settled on the ceiling, where grey light spread from over the top of the partition walls. “Is it morning, Monsieur Ashby?”
“Yep.”
Her nose twitched and her head tilted. She rubbed at her neck. “What is that smell?”
“Breakfast.”
“I am starving.”
Budd pulled away the red blanket that covered them. “You wanna see what’s cooking?”
“That sounds nice,” Juliette said. She stood up and stretched.
Budd got to his feet as well, although he groaned as he did. His back and the tops of his legs were filled with pain because of the way he’d slept.
Juliette smiled at him as he rubbed his lower back, screwing up his face in response to his aches. “We will try and find you something flat to lie on tonight,” she said, humor embedded in her accent.
“Very funny, kiddo. You ain’t gonna feel so great when you’re my age. And I’m busting to use the john.”
“The ‘john?’”
“The toilet.”
“Oh, I see. It is this way.”
Budd strapped his rucksack over his shoulder and then folded the blanket and left it on the desk. He followed Juliette down the narrow corridor, back towards the kitchen doorway, but instead of turning off she kept on going, passing several other entrances to little offices like the one they had slept in. At its end, the corridor widened out into what Budd guessed had been some kind of staff room.
Along two of the grey-panel walls were lines of comfortable seats, in the middle of which stood a small table with a water cooler and a few utensils for making tea and coffee. There were no windows in the room, but plenty of light cleared the tops of the walls to illuminate the space, enough for Budd to read the signs and letters that covered the notice boards.
Chris was sat on one of the chairs, his head back against the wall and his legs stretched out. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open. A wisp of smoke escaped from between his parted lips. In his left hand were a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and beside him was a small saucer choked with ash and butt-ends. His right hand was down at his waist and a plume of smoke drifted up from between his fingers.
Juliette ignored Chris and walked towards the opposite wall, where there were two single doors, one adorned with the word LADIES, the other with GENTLEMEN. Between them both was a set of double doors, fitted with heavy springs at their tops so that they would close automatically.
Not that they could be easily opened.
Tabletops had been nailed across them and several filing cabinets, turned on their side so they would not topple or roll, held them shut. Remembering what Andy had told him, Budd assumed that the doors led to the staircase.
“There you go,” Juliette said, pointing to the gentlemen’s washroom door. “I will meet you out here.”
“No problem,” Budd answered. He walked inside and let the door shut behind him.
Although the enclosed room had no windows, someone had filled a ledge that run alongside the hand-basins with a dozen candlesticks. The flames flickered, casting shadows in the corners of the room. Budd made out his reflection in the mirror. The part of his bandage that showed beneath his hat was stained red around his temple and the skin around his eyes was dark and sunken.
Other than my wounds and the two-day-old stubble that covered my face, which has a distinguished style to it—more grey than black—I guess I didn’t look too bad. Well, considering all that had happened, anyway…
The staff toilets lacked the luxury of the others he’d seen in the hotel, but they were clean and pleasant enough. He used one of the four urinals and then washed his hands in the sink, using the liquid soap from the dispenser. He removed his rucksack, unzipped the top and rummaged around inside it. The medical supplies he’d taken from the cabinet were gone, but his belongings remained and he pulled out a blue wash-bag. He unbuckled it and took out a cut-throat razor, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He cleaned his teeth first, pleased to freshen up his mouth, and then splashed some water on his face before scraping the sharp blade across his features, removing as much of the stubble as he could.
Budd was almost finished when the door opened and Chris walked in. “You’ve got a toothbrush,” he said. “Let me use it. My mouth tastes like shit.”
Budd gathered his things, returning them to his wash-bag. “Does this look like a communal toothbrush? And even if it was, why would I let someone wipe it around an ashtray?”
“Oh, come on,” Chris pleaded.
Budd squeezed by him, zipping up his rucksack. He paused with his hand on the door handle. “And next time we’re in trouble, if you try and hold me back from running, I’ll feed you to those things myself. I’m a better villain than I am a hero.”
Just ask my ex-wives…
Without waiting for a reply, Budd opened the door and walked into the staff room, leaving Chris alone in the candlelight.
Juliette was sitting on one of the chairs. “You have shaved, Monsieur Ashby,” she said, smiling. “You look much better.”
Budd held out his pack. “There’s a wash-bag in here. And a toothbrush.”
Juliette took hold of the rucksack, her face lighting up and her brown eyes going impossibly wide. “That would be nice,” she said.
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Conscious that Chris would soon be out of the toilet, Budd pointed down the corridor. “I’ll wait in our room.”
41
A short while later, Budd and Juliette walked into the kitchen. They smiled at Father McGee, but he was too involved in his work to return, or even notice, the gesture. Budd looked at the assortment of food being prepared, watching as the elderly priest, with help from Caroline, dashed from grill to grill and giant saucepan to oven, endeavoring to get the different foods ready together.
In one corner of the kitchen, near the long hotplate, Frank had poured two dozen glasses of fresh orange juice and was gathering small white mugs and placing them beside a large saucepan he was boiling on a gas ring burner. The blend of different aromas was so strong that Budd’s stomach churned with anticipation. Merely the thought of hot food was almost too much to bear.
Hand-in-hand, he and Juliette past through the kitchen into the restaurant. Most of the round tables had been moved towards the edge of the room, but several of the rectangular ones had been arranged next to each other, forming an improvised table that had eight seats on each side and one at both the head and foot. Several white tablecloths covered the amalgamation, and each place was laid out with an empty dinner plate and a knife, fork, and spoon. There were more places than the group would require.
Facing Budd and Juliette as they entered, Andy, Sam, and Reginald offered a welcome.
Without a word, Budd laid his rucksack beside one of the chairs and sat down. Juliette occupied the seat next to him. “The food smells great,” Budd said.
“Doesn’t it just, dude,” Sam responded. He was sitting next to Andy, opposite from Juliette, and had rolled the long sleeves of his green T-shirt up to his elbows. He had also removed his bandage. There was no sign of any broken skin, only a lump of swelling an inch or so above his hairline. The bulbous bump gave his head a somewhat lopsided appearance.
