“I say we go with sixty-nine first,” Phil whispers next to me.
“I wonder why,” Ricky whispers back.
“What can I say? It’s a lucky number,” Phil replies, his tone serious.
I look back out the window to the ladder, but genuinely can’t work out which apartment it is.
“It’s as good a guess as any,” I finally say as we backtrack to the door. I wipe a hand across my forehead before I try the handle. The door opens inwards, and I slowly push it all the way open to reveal the interior of the apartment.
It’s humid inside, the air filled with the familiar scent of the day, which is drifting in through the broken windows. We move to the center of the apartment as a collective group, but find it to be empty—at least so far.
Phil heads off to the kitchen to check out the cupboards, but I’ve already guessed that they’ll be empty of anything. With the windows out and the door unlocked, it’s obvious that someone has already been in here and cleared it out.
I head over to the broken window, looking out carefully in case any deaders are on the fire escape landing. It’s clear, but to my dismay I do see that we’re in the wrong apartment after all. The ladder is in the next apartment across—A68.
I head back over to Phil, who’s still searching the cupboards even though it’s obvious there’s nothing in them. His stomach lets out a long groan and Ricky comes out of the bedroom next door with his knife held high and his gaze darting around the room. It finally falls on Phil as he realizes that it was the groan of hunger coming from Phil’s stomach and not from a deader, and he lowers his weapon.
“All clear,” Ricky says, closing the door behind him.
“Here too,” Phil says, though since it was an open-plan apartment there had never been any worry of a deader being in the kitchen.
“We need to be next door,” I say. “Wrong apartment after all.”
“Sixty-nine ain’t so lucky after all,” Ricky replies, glaring at Phil.
Phil shrugs. “Guess not.”
We head back to the doorway, but as I put my hand on the handle I hear something moving out in the hallway and I stop.
The slow shuffle of something just outside the door stops, and the telltale sound of growling can be heard. I slowly let go of the handle and turn to Phil and Ricky with a finger to my lips, telling them to shush.
We step away from the door, lest our delicious human scent penetrate underneath to the deader hankering after our meat. And then we wait, watching and listening as the deader beyond tries to get inside. I’ve seen this before one or twice; some deaders retain some knowledge of things from their past lives—where they lived and how things worked—and as the handle begins to turn I quickly reach out and flick the lock on the door, preventing the deader from opening it.
We take another step backwards and I glance warily at Ricky and Phil, who look just as worried as I no doubt do.
“Did it just try the handle?” Phil whispers as quietly as he can, sounding as horrified as I’m feeling at the thought.
Ricky’s expression remains unchanged, though I’m not sure if it’s because he just doesn’t give a damn or because he’s seen this phenomenon before. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen this though—a deader acting with human mannerisms. It doesn’t really matter, not in the grand scheme of things. They’re still just sacks of dead rot infused with just enough life to hunger and thirst for human flesh. And they still need to be put down.
I look toward the bedroom that Ricky came out of earlier and I point toward it. Ricky nods and turns around, and then we all head toward the bedroom, with Ricky going in first.
The room is small, with another door leading into another room, and I presume it’s the bathroom. I don’t notice at first, and neither does Phil as he perches his ass on the edge of the bed and the deader that’s tied to it makes a throaty groan and arches her back in an attempt to get up.
Phil dives up, tripping over his own feet as he falls to the ground, the flash of his blue Hawaiian shirt bright in the dim light.
“Fuckkkkk!” he calls out, and both Ricky and I loudly hush him.
The deader is dressed in what was once sexy underwear. Small torn panties and a lacy pink bra cover most of her modesty, but not all. And her once-blond hair is now crusted and lank as it sticks to the side of her face.
Phil stands up, his eyes on the bed with the deader on it. She snaps her jaws, her gaze moving across all of us hungrily, and I do a full-body shudder. Phil moves around the side of the bed, almost falling over again as he stumbles over another body on the floor. Whoever it was had been up to some kinky shit with this chick. They’re wearing a full-body black latex gimp suit, but I’m guessing the hammer still embedded in their forehead isn’t part of the outfit. The body is bloated and swollen, probably due to the heat of being stuck in that suit for so long—not that I even consider helping them out of it, of course.
Phil nudges the body with his foot. The sound of swishing and then the stench of rot leaking out of the body are noticeable to all of us. When it doesn’t move he heads to the sex kitten on the bed and uses his machete to quickly put an end to her misery by stabbing her through the forehead.
The room falls back into silence and I head to the window to look out, seeing that we’re right next to the ladder and can probably climb across to the other window and then across the ladder.
I turn and look at Ricky and Phil. “We could be waiting all day for that thing to leave, but if we climb over the railing we can get to the apartment next door,” I suggest.
Phil and Ricky come over to look. “Doesn’t seem safe,” Phil says, looking unimpressed with our only option.
“It’s not, but neither is climbing across that ladder between two buildings, yet we’re still intending to do that,” I reply.
Phil looks over his shoulder at the deader on the bed. “I wonder why they didn’t kill her.”
“What?” Ricky asks as both he and I turn around to look. Not that I want to. This chick is fifty shades of fucked up, from her breast implants (made all the more obvious by her emaciated body) right down to the shit-covered underwear she’s wearing.
“She was still alive, but he,” Phil says, nudging the gimp deader on the floor, “was killed.”
We all ponder on that for several moments, all coming to the same conclusion at roughly the same time.
“Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick,” Ricky says, turning away. “Let’s get out of here.” He reaches for the window latch and opens it, and we all climb out the window and onto the ledge beyond.
Three floors didn’t seem so high last night, yet now as I look down at the ground below us I realize how high it actually is. I think about O’Donnell falling. She had only been on the first floor; it was enough to kill anyone, no doubt. Three floors and you’d be pulverized, surely.
I grab at the ladder, noticing that it’s secured on the other side by some rope, but not on this side. I stand up straight and look around us, my gaze falling on all the windows and buildings surrounding us. This ladder was put here for a reason. What if that reason is to lure people to their deaths? Surely this is too simple a getaway.
“What are you waiting for?” Ricky asks, looking back inside the building.
I look down again, but there are still no deaders below. The apartment on the other side looks clear too—at least from what I can see. Now is the perfect time to get going. I glance at Ricky, my mistrust evident on my face, and he does nothing to dissuade me from that thought as I watch a small smile quirk his features.
“This was your plan, you can go first,” he says, sweat glistening on head. He normally shaves all his hair off, but I guess he’s not had chance the last couple of days and it’s now growing back. There’s even a thin layer of bristles across his jaw as well.
Never one to back down from a challenge, I nod and tuck my hatchet through the belt loop of my pants. “Sure thing, buddy.” I turn to Phil. “Keep hold of this end while I go across.”
And then I climb up onto the railing and get down on all fours and begin making my way across the ladder. Do I really think that Ricky would try and tip me off the ladder in revenge for O’Donnell getting killed? Not really.
But if there’s one thing that I’ve learned in this life, it’s that you can’t trust anyone or anything. Especially where revenge or jealousy is concerned.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The air is hot and unmoving. Each slow crawl forward feels like moving through molasses as my muscles protest and begin to seize up. I want to glance back and make sure that Phil is still holding the ladder, but I can’t. I need to focus on moving forward—not looking behind me or down, or at any of the many windows where someone could be watching and waiting.
It’s like life, really. You can’t look back or change your plan once you’re set on a path; you just have to keep moving forward, determined to get to the other side and make it out of the current situation without dying. There’s always going to be another drama, another nightmare on the other side. But you have to live with the knowledge that you’re on the right path and you won’t be swayed from it, no matter what, or you’ll most certainly plummet to your death.
I make it to the other side, sagging with relief and almost sliding off the ladder to the fire escape ledge like melted butter. When I regain my composure, made all the harder by the fact that I held my breath all the way across, I standup, seeing that Ricky is already on his way over. He looks just as shit-scared as I was, which is good to know.
He gets off with more grace than I did, and then Phil is left to come across on his own, in the knowledge that no one is holding the other end of the ladder for him. The thought must cross his mind about halfway across, because his look of nervousness turns into absolute horror when he reaches up to push his glasses up his nose and the ladder wobbles.
As he tries to get off, his leg slips off the edge and both Ricky and I grab for him before he can fall. He looks like he’s going to puke as we drag him over the edge and onto the relative safety of the fire escape ledge.
We take a moment to reacquaint ourselves with not being suspended three flights up, with nothing to stop us falling to our bloody deaths, before heading through the apartment window as quietly as we can.
The place has been cleared of everything, though. Furniture is missing, and crockery, and as we check around we find that even clothes are gone. The only thing remaining in this apartment is the large flat-screen television. Not much use for it since there’s no electricity, I guess.
“I don’t like this place,” Ricky whispers once we’ve checked that the place is clear of deaders.
“Me neither,” I agree. “Let’s get out of here then.”
“Which way are we going, though? Up or down?” Phil asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.
I’m not sure, if I’m being honest. The streets look pretty empty from every window I’ve looked out of, and there are vehicles dotted around. Whether any of them work or not is another matter, though. The building is definitely secure from further deaders getting in, though, as the barrier looks intact all the way around, meaning the only thing we have to contend with is whatever is inside. Yet I have a feeling that it’s going to be empty. If someone took the time to clear out all the furniture from this apartment, then they would have made sure to clear most, if not all, of the apartment building. Surely. Right?
“Down,” I finally answer. “We need to get out of here and get back to Haven.”
Phil and Ricky don’t argue. Instead they follow me as I head toward the door. I lean my ear against it, listening for any signs of movement on the other side, but it’s silent beyond. Finally satisfied, I roll my shoulders, pull my hatchet out of the loop of my pants, and open the door.
It’s dark beyond, but not the pitch black of the other side. This building is modern on the inside, and there’s a window at either end of the hallway, letting in more light. I look both ways, seeing that it’s clear, and then we step out into the hallway and go in search of the stairs.
We reach the empty elevator shaft first, seeing that the doors are pulled wide open. I stick my head inside the black hole, using Ricky’s shitty flashlight to look down below, but the light doesn’t penetrate far enough. The sound from below, however, does.
The unmistakable noise of deaders is coming from in there, and I pull my head back out before looking to Phil and Ricky with a pained expression. We move on, finding the doorway to the stairs near the end of the hallway, and we push through into it with me using the flashlight once again. The stairs have plenty of deaders on them, but the bodies have all been dragged out of the way, like someone cleared a path.
Everything feels intentional right now—the ladder, the cleared apartment, the elevator shaft, even right down to the path being clear of bodies—yet we’re unable to do anything but head the way we’re being herded. So far all of it has kept us safe, so if we’re being herded, surely that’s a good thing?
I head down the stairs, flashlight in one hand, hatchet in the other, with Phil and Ricky close behind until we hit the ground floor. The air is thick and dry, almost as if you can chew it, and I know that beyond this door it’ll probably be worse. It has to be reaching midday, and that’s the hottest part. Traveling on foot, whether running from deaders or walking home, is going to be hellish, especially since we still have no food or water. I can only hope we find a well-stocked vehicle that works, so the journey isn’t all on foot.
I press on the handle of the emergency exit, and am half-blinded by the bright sunshine outside. I don’t quite realize how used to the dark my eyes have gotten until they have to readjust to the light.
When they do, I see that we’re standing in an empty alleyway with nothing more than years-old trash for company. It’s the best damn sight I’ve seen in a long time.
We all step out and let the door shut quietly behind us before heading around to the front of the building and out into the main town center. There was a war here—a real war—and buildings and cars are merely shells of their former selves. Skeletal bodies are scattered the ground, both deader and human alike. The whole scene—the town, the bodies—reminds me of my own humble beginnings, and brings me back to when it all first happened, when the dead first rose and hell broke loose.
We had no clue what we were doing, or what we were really fighting. We were just trying to survive, in any way we could. And if it meant killing other humans—other non-infected—along the way, so be it.
That’s how I survived.
In a town, just like this. I killed anything and everything that got in my path.
I swallow, a chill trailing down my spine. I notice Phil staring at me, his eyebrows tugging into a frown. He takes the lead, probably partly to do with the haunted expression on my face, and I fall back, taking the rear as my memories fight with my mind. I don’t want to remember, but it’s hard not to when confronted with a mirror. And this place is just that.
I didn’t see it last night—we had been running for our lives, deaders at every turn and death imminent—but today, now, I can see it. This town is like every other small idealist town in America, and that’s why it reminds me of home.
We run down the center of the road, ducking behind cars and vans that are haphazardly crashed as we hope to evade any further contact with the deaders. There are too many here for us to fight; we discovered that last night. We just need to get out of here.
I look up, seeing that we’re standing beside an emergency response vehicle, and I peer through the window to see if there are any weapons inside. It’s unlikely, but you never know. A hand slams up against the inside of the glass as whoever’s inside is awakened by me.
I jump back, causing Ricky and Phil to do the same, and I’m about to walk away when I realize with horror that the person inside isn’t dead. They aren’t a deader, they’re human, and they’re alive. At least just barely.
“Guys?” I say as Phil and Ricky start to walk away.
“Shit,” Ricky says.
“Dog shit,” Phil agrees.
“What do we do?” I ask. Of course the humane thing would be to get them out of there and take them with us. But since we’re already half-starved, dehydrating, and miles from home, the thought of bringing along another person makes me curse myself for ever looking through that window.
The person stares back at me—a man, I realize—his eyes gray and ringed in darkness as if he’s seen too much horror already. His cheeks are pointy and prominent on his starved face. He opens his mouth to say something, but his words are barely a whisper so they’re inaudible to us.
“What’s he saying?” Phil asks.
I shake my head without even looking at him.
“Open the door, we need to get him out of there.”
I shake my head again.
“We can’t,” Ricky says, voicing exactly what I’m thinking. “We can’t,” he repeats.
“Guys, we have to. He’ll die if we leave him there,” Phil says, grabbing me by the shoulders to look at him.
“We’ll die trying to save him. The best thing we can do for him now is to put him out of his misery,” I reply, shrugging off Phil’s grip.
“We can’t just kill him!” Phil’s voice rises, and it’s my turn to turn and glare at him until he lowers it again. “That’s murder, we can’t do that. He’s done nothing.”
“He’ll get us all killed if we bring him with us. He’s too weak, and we’re starving ourselves. We have nothing to offer him but a long, long walk back to Haven. He’ll die on the journey—if the zeds don’t kill him, that is.” Ricky steps forward as he speaks, his stare intent on the person inside, who’s still trying to say something to us.
Remorse and shame are running through my veins like wildfire, but Ricky is right: the humane thing to do is to put him out of his misery. But I know I can’t do it. I’ve done too much bad in my life, and though this would be a sacrifice for the better, I know I won’t be able to do it.
Odium IV: The Dead Saga Page 22
