by Drew Brown
He followed Juliette out the swing-door.
There was very little time.
48
There were screams and shouts, but despite it all Budd could see that Andy and Sam were working as quickly as they could, resistant to the panic that had contaminated the rest of the group. The two of them pulled down the last nailed-up tabletop and then Andy grabbed the door handle. He turned around and let his eyes dart from person to person. “Where’s Frank?” he asked.
“Dead, boss.”
“Damn it,” Andy cursed, and then he struck the handle with his hammer.
Beside the maintenance man, Sam cast his eye for something heavier. Hidden behind a small wooden door, built into an alcove in the wall, was a fire extinguisher. The young Californian took the red cylinder, turned it on its side, and used it like a battering ram, aiming at the lock in the center of the two doors. The wood groaned under the impacts. Andy added his own strength to the blows. Finally, the lock and handle mechanisms cracked apart and the doors swung inward to reveal the unlit foyer of the elevator bank.
A crash at the swing-doors heralded the arrival of the first fast-mover from the kitchen. It skidded to the floor in a whirl of thrashing limbs and then snapped back up to its feet. The whole group of survivors tried to squeeze through the double doors at once.
No one was prepared to stay and fight.
Budd was no different, and with Juliette’s hand clutched inside his own he pushed his way into the darkness, indifferent to the plight of anyone in his way.
Women and children first? Only if they can run faster than me…
He reached the call button and pressed it hard, several times, almost as if the electronics might pick up on his need and respond quicker. As soon as he heard one of the elevators moving, he looked back to the doorway.
Most of the group was inside the foyer, standing by the elevators.
The first fast-mover was now on top of one of Jack’s female companions, the blonde in the black dress. She was pinned down on the restaurant side of the double doors, while the beast, a weedy-looking male wearing a pair of blue jeans and no top, was trying to bite her, bending his head down towards her face.
Fear gave her strength and she kept her arms straight, holding her attacker off as she screamed for help.
The fast-mover snarled and snapped his teeth in frustration.
The blonde woman began to weaken.
“Scarlet,” Jack shouted, charging from the group. He planted a kick into the beast’s upper chest but it did nothing to free the trapped woman; the man-beast merely looked up from his prey to his new aggressor. He hissed through bloodstained teeth.
Sam followed Jack, his carving knife pointed at the shirtless male. He rammed the blade down, plunging it into the man-beast’s neck until it reached the handle and stopped. The tip of the blade had burst out the other side.
The man-beast shot to his feet and scratched at the lodged knife. Blood spilled down his naked chest and he howled in pain.
Jack dragged Scarlet into the elevator foyer. Blood covered her made-up face and a flap of skin hung from her cheek, torn away from beneath her eye.
Above Budd, a bell chimed and one set of the elevator doors slid open. He pulled Juliette inside.
In the restaurant, the man-beast disregarded the weapon that skewered his neck and lunged after Sam, who sidestepped the attack and let the half-naked monstrosity tumble by.
Caroline was not so lucky.
Her eyes had been focused on the elevator and the man-beast managed to catch her trailing foot and yank it out from under her. She fell to the ground, screaming for help that her husband attempted to give until he found himself being manhandled to safety by Andy, who was shouting for everyone to get into the elevator.
A motley collection of fast-movers, including a portly man in a tuxedo, a woman in a blue floor-length dress, and another woman wearing pink underwear and one fluffy slipper, had appeared in the doorway and were scrambling into the dark foyer.
Only a few yards separated the two groups.
Budd pounded the button for the reception.
Andy dragged the doctor inside as the doors started to close.
The majority of the fast-movers got no further than Caroline, descending on her in a frenzy of savage hands and biting teeth, but several of them did make a dash for the elevator, sprinting from the darkness towards the light.
Budd’s breath caught in his mouth as they approached.
“Caroline,” the doctor wailed.
Even if only one of those things got inside, I’m pretty sure it would’ve been curtains. All we had left were a few kitchen utensils and a heck of a lot of bad language, but I doubted that either of ’em would do us any good.
You only need one fox in a chicken coop…
The man-beast in the tuxedo placed his hand on the sliding metal surface of the door, but he was a fraction too late. They closed with a thud and the bell chimed.
Budd exhaled loudly and then looked up to the elevator’s ceiling. He removed his Stetson and ran his hand through his sweat-drenched hair. His bandaged head was pounding but he no longer felt the pain. As they dropped away, the sound of the monsters banging their fists against the closed doors echoed down the shaft in chase.
At the back of my mind—hell, at the front and the middle, too—I wondered ’bout what would be waiting for us at the bottom. We had nowhere else to go…
49
When Budd’s breathing had settled back down, he looked around the lift at his fellow survivors. They were largely quiet and still, except for Reginald, who had collapsed to his knees and was weeping into the palms of his hands. His spectacles rested on the top of his thinning grey hair.
At the side of the elevator car, the injured blonde woman was sitting down in the corner with her head leant against the wall. Blood was running from her face, dripping onto her black dress. From the shape of the injury, and the jagged edges of the wound, the damage appeared to Budd to have been made by teeth.
She’d been bitten.
Jack was at her side, his hand on her shoulder, while the other blonde was trying to rip the bottom from her silver dress to make a bandage. Tears streamed down her face.
The way the uninjured blonde reacted to what had happened to her carbon copy answered one of my earlier questions. They probably were sisters…
Aside from those three and the doctor, the only survivors from the original group were Juliette, Andy, Sam, and Father McGee; from the newcomers, the only others were the two women, who were standing at the back holding hands. Budd thought about all of those that they’d lost: Frank, Carl, and Caroline, as well as several people whose names he’d not had time to learn. Although he didn’t know it for sure, he assumed Chris could also be included in their number.
Not that I minded the thought of that slime-ball coward being eaten. I just hoped he’d come back as a zombie so we could kill him again. But what did trouble me was that all of the others had been killed in the last few minutes.
It gave me the unpleasant feeling that the odds of surviving were getting smaller, and seeing the miserable faces of the others around me didn’t exactly lift my spirits. We were now the gambler’s outside bet: the horse with three legs.
And a three-hundred pound jockey…
Budd looked at the display above the doors, judging their downward progress as the red numbers ran backwards, ever decreasing. They were already halfway. Juliette squeezed his hand to gain his attention and then offered a small smile through tightly bound lips. She rested the side of her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair, letting his fingers drop down to caress her cheek.
“I’m sorry for what happened up there, but I couldn’t lock t’door an’ leave t’rest to die,” Andy said, breaking the silence and letting his eyes move between members of the original group. They all looked back at him, except for the doctor, who was too caught up with his own grief to notice.
“You did God’s work, my son. You trie
d to save his children.”
I’d debate God’s work is holding open a door for a bunch of zombies, or sacrificing one set of his children for a smaller set, but, hey, what do I know? I guess that’s why they say the devil’s in the details…
“Thank you, Father. I don’t think that we can stay here any longer. There is nowhere that has enough supplies or light that we could make safe. I suggest we find some kind of transport an’ head out to t’countryside.”
“Dude,” Sam said, “we’re in the center of London. Like, how can we get to the countryside with those fast-movers everywhere?”
“We don’t know they’re everywhere,” Andy replied. “Anyway, we’ll need transport; there’s a bus station about a mile away, or we could use t’Thames.”
“Does anyone know how to sail a boat?” Father McGee asked. After his question was voiced he took another sip from his flask. Apprehensive glances were exchanged around the elevator car. No one volunteered possessing any useful experience.
“The bus station sounds like a good idea to me,” the tattooed woman said. Her partner had given her back her track suit top, which she wore loosely, the zip undone. “A bus will be pretty sturdy.”
“So, is that t’plan?” Andy said.
There were nods of approval, but also some unhappy grunts. Budd made one of these. “You said it’s ’bout a mile away, right? How’d you expect us to travel a mile with those things around? We lost people running across a couple of rooms.”
“What do you suggest?”
Hit the emergency stop, hope we’re found before we starve…
Budd felt the pressure of peoples’ eyes pressing against him. He looked up at the floor counter; they were on level eight and time was short. “Hey, just because I think your idea’s stupid, doesn’t mean I have a better one. We’ll give it a go.”
“Good, we might even find something suitable on t’way. If we do, can anyone here hotwire a vehicle?”
“Give me thirty seconds and I’ll have most things motoring,” Budd said with a smile. He looked up at the display. They were on level one, above the reception area, so there were only a few seconds until the distant hum of the motor ceased and the doors opened.
I wondered what’d be waiting for us, and whether we’d even make it outta the elevator, let alone all the way to the bus station…
Sam shuffled forward to stand next to Andy. The maintenance man’s hammer was at the ready.
Budd released Juliette’s hand and then eased the cleaver from her grasp. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. The touch of her soft flesh brought another smile to his face, but before he could say anything the lift stopped. The bell chimed and his attention flicked to the opening doors.
Beyond them was the frightened face of someone he did not expect to see.
50
Chris was standing a few feet into the lobby. His narrow face was pale, his suit was ruffled and his hands were down in front of his waist, bound together with a shiny pair of handcuffs. When he saw the people he’d abandoned, relief flooded over his features.
Three paces behind him was a man dressed entirely in black. He wore leather boots, combat pants, a jacket and gloves, and he had the stock of a sub-machine gun nestled into his shoulder. The barrel switched from pointing at Chris’s back to the elevator car.
“We’re all okay,” Andy said, throwing up his arms and dropping his hammer. Sam also raised his hands, nodding his agreement to the statement.
Budd watched the barrel of the Heckler & Koch MP-5 adjust so that it was aiming at him. He looked past the muzzle of the weapon at the man behind it, giving the gunman a quick once-over before letting the meat-cleaver fall from his hand.
The gunman forced Chris into the elevator with a shove. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with sandy blond hair and a short, well-kept blond beard. Tucked around his ear was a small receiver and a tiny microphone was attached to the high collar of his jacket. In a holster on his right hip was an automatic pistol and there was a big, wooden-handled revolver tucked into a large belt around his waist, which was also strewn with satchels of ammunition and at least two grenades.
For Budd, the most alarming part of all was the cold, calculating stare of the gunman’s pale grey eyes. “Like they said, brother. We’re all on the same team.”
Which, may or may not have been true, but as he was holding the gun, I, for one, hoped that we were. I couldn’t tell if he was a real soldier; there were no giveaways on his uniform, no rank or insignia. But he carried himself like one and he acted like one, so, as far as I was concerned, he was one.
However, it did beg the question as to why he was pointing his gun at us, and not mowing down zombies with reckless glee. I was sure he’d get with the program soon enough…
“You,” the blond soldier said, looking directly at Budd, “step out of the lift and stand over there.”
“Why?”
The soldier answered without the use of a single word; he simply flicked his MP-5.
“Alrighty,” Budd said. He walked to the right as he’d been instructed. “Just don’t do anything stupid now, okay fella?”
“Turn around. Hands against the wall.”
Budd did as he was told and placed his palms against the painted surface.
Even in a post-apocalyptic world, where zombies roam free, people can’t help picking on us Americans. I tell ya, it’s discrimination. The whole planet has yet to forgive us for our meddling. I didn’t vote for the guy in the White House, so do me a favor and quit picking on me…
Budd listened as the soldier took several measured footsteps and then began to pat him down one-handed. The barrel of the MP-5 was jabbed into his lower back. “Normally this sort of thing would cost you a drink, partner.”
Ignoring Budd, the soldier continued his search. The procedure was thorough, first going down the left-hand side of his body, then the right, before going up and down the insides of his legs. Last of all, the gloved hand felt around Budd’s waist and the small of his back.
The soldier took five large strides backwards. “Take off your pack.”
Slowly, not wanting to appear as if he was doing anything beside that which he’d been asked, Budd removed his Stetson and pulled the strap of his rucksack over his head. He dropped the pack to the floor and used his boot to slide it over the tiles to the soldier, who stooped to retrieve it without ever letting the barrel of his gun fall below a deadly level.
In the few seconds it took the soldier to hang the strap over his shoulder, Budd examined the rest of the reception foyer. Positioned in different spots around the room were three more soldiers, all dressed in the same black uniforms and all armed in a similar fashion. The closest was knelt down to cover the multiple entrances that led to the staff areas, while the other two were located by the large door to the Tropical Walkway. One of these was scanning the long foliage-filled corridor, while the second was watching the reception area and giving long, lingering looks over to the elevator.
“Now, face the wall again and place your hands behind your back.”
There were a few muffled voices from the elevator, but the soldier silenced them with a swift move of his gun’s barrel. Budd did as he was told. After a moment he felt the cold grip of steel as handcuffs were applied to his wrists. As soon as they were fitted, the soldier stepped away and raised one hand from his gun to press a button on his earpiece. “Subject secured. Over.”
“Subject?” I went from mildly paranoid to full-on panicky…
There was a pause as the soldier waited for a response. “Subject is not alone, he is with a group of approximately a dozen. Over.”
Silence again as the soldier waited.
“Yes, sir. Over,” the soldier said, and then his hand dropped down from his earpiece. “Right, all of you, out of the lift and line up against the wall.”
One by one, the group came out of the elevator car and stood with Budd, leaning forward with their hands placed against the wall.
Juliette hurried to get next to Budd. “What is happening?” she whispered.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, sugar.”
I wasn’t…
“Silence,” the soldier snapped. He swept his MP-5 from side to side. “Now, I want you all to turn and face me. Do it slowly. Understand?”
The group did what was asked.
The soldier looked them over one after the other. “You,” he said, aiming his gun at the blonde in the black dress. “Step forward three paces.”
With her hands clasped to her injured face, blood evident between her fingers and down her sleeveless arms, the blonde did as she was told. Her companion started to speak, and Jack edged after her, only for the soldier to halt them both with a look from his grey eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Scarlet.”
“Tell me, is that a bite? If it is, I have a remedy.”
A remedy? This sounded more like it…
Scarlet nodded her head a small amount. Her hand was pressed against her injured face and tears streamed from her eyes.
“What’s happened?” Andy asked. “Do you know what’s happened?”
“I ask the questions,” the soldier said forcibly. “Is anyone else bitten?”
The group was silent.
