Zombies! (Episode 8): The Good, the Bad, and the Zombie

by Turner, Ivan

  "We've got trouble up top!" someone yelled from behind.

  All of the noise had attracted the zombies on the fourth floor. They had gotten through the door and started scrambling and falling down the stairs. Behind him, Smith could see a dozen of the things.

  "Take them out," he ordered and was answered by gunfire.

  The zombies below were negotiating the stairs well. By sheer numbers, they were pushing forward, compensating for the lack of coordination. It would be less than a minute before the first of them reached the third floor landing.

  "Can we retreat?" he asked.

  "The stairway's clear," Lewinski reported.

  "Get some furniture out of these apartments. The biggest stuff you can manage in under thirty seconds."

  Smith and Bulder set themselves at the top of the landing and began firing into the approaching group. The purpose was twofold. In the first place, they wanted to buy some time for the others to move up. There were twenty of them, including the six survivors. Secondly, the more zombies they killed, the harder it was for the ones behind them to climb the stairs.

  Two officers pushed a couch into the stairwell. Smith and Bulder retreated behind it and helped to topple it down the flight. As with their fallen brethren, the zombies cared little for the obstacle. It slowed them down more, but they were tenacious in their desire to reach the top.

  "Anything else?"

  "We got some chairs," Lewinski said.

  Smith waved them forward and then headed up to the fourth floor. The stairwell was littered with bodies. At the top, his people had cleared out the hallway and were working on the apartments. Quickly and without focus, he began to try and concentrate on a plan of survival. They could continue to clear out the upper floors. Everything was so narrow that he couldn't possibly utilize all of his people and firepower. If they tried to make a stand, they would eventually be overrun. He ordered a check for escape routes. There were none. He radioed his operator outside and ordered fire trucks with ladders. It seemed that their only way out was going to be through a window. The question was, which window. They could barricade the stairwell door and then an apartment door and hope for the best. But Smith wasn't confident that any barricades they could fashion would hold off the zombies for long enough. Their other option was to retreat up the stairs, cleaning out the zombies above them and buying time as they went.

  "Up," he ordered, but the door to the fifth floor landing opened and more zombies poured into the stairwell. As they started down, they were joined by a group coming from the sixth floor. He didn't have a direct line of site because of the winding design, but he could see them as they crashed against the railing. There were a lot of them.

  "What the hell?" Smith shouted as he rushed up the stairs, Bulder on his heels. "How did that happen?"

  "That couch is just pieces of stuffing." Lewinski called from below.

  "Get the people inside an apartment," Smith called back. "Get shooters in the stairway and use the corridor as a fall back point."

  Setting themselves up on the landing between the fourth and fifth floors, he and Bulder began firing. Those firing below had more luck at holding the zombies off. Some misfires by Smith and Bulder caused zombies to fall but they weren't killed. Several of them came tumbling down the stairs. They tried to leap away but there wasn't enough time. Bulder was caught in the avalanche. His leg snapped under the weight of two zombies. Smith cursed and cried for help. While two more officers came in to provide cover fire, he waded into the mess and pulled at Bulder's arms. But poor Bulder had already suffered multiple lacerations to his legs from the tearing nails and biting teeth. He was bleeding excessively and had passed out.

  "Leave him," someone shouted.

  Smith cursed in frustration, refusing to give up even though he knew it was a lost cause.

  "They're on the landing," he heard someone call behind. That meant the fourth floor landing. Their way down would soon be cut off. The two officers who had come to support Smith started to falter. Smith finally gave up on Bulder as one of the creatures reached up under his vest and withdrew its hand bloody.

  "Bastard!" he shouted, tapping the two men on the shoulder and following them down the stairs.

  As reported, there were zombies on the landing and even in the hallway. Several of the officers and even survivors were engaged in hand to hand. Another family of survivors had been discovered on the fourth floor. There were two Hispanic men with strong arms. They fought like animals to protect the three women and four children behind them.

  "Here!" Lewinski shouted to Smith. He was motioning toward the open door of the apartment one over from the stairway. Smith rushed forward, calling the order for the retreat. Everyone in the hallway fell back. One officer, a young woman whose name Smith had forgotten, was caught by the ankle and tripped up. Smith stopped and made to go for her but Lewinski leaned out of the apartment and pulled him back. He was the last one inside as they slammed the door shut and began piling furniture up against it.

  When it was over and all there was to hear was the thumping of fists on the other side of the door, Smith looked around. There were twenty eight people crammed into that small apartment including twelve zombie task force members, four regular police officers, the two Hispanic men, the three women, three of the four children, and four other civilians. One of the women was sitting on the floor, being held by the other two. She was sobbing uncontrollably, as were the children. Some of the other people were talking in hushed tones. Already, the air was stale and hot. Most of the officers had removed their helmets and were wiping their sopping faces with their gloved hands.

  Pushing his way to the window, Smith looked out on the alley behind the building. It was a terrible place for a window. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for a car, let alone a fire truck. There was no fire escape at this window. The nearest one was too far to reach and it was rusted and looked to be dangerous. So much for building inspections. They were well and truly trapped. He looked back to the front door where their makeshift barricade was bouncing with each strike. How long would that hold, he wondered?

  "Who's wounded?" he said, turning back to the crowd. Officer White had been lost.

  No one answered, but a few people looked away from him.

  With thin lips, he repeated his question. "If you're wounded, you'll be sick soon. If you hide it, you put us all at risk."

  There was more hesitation until one of the regular NYPD officers raised her hand. In a moment, she was joined by one of the task force officers. Others joined in. Two more task force officers and another of the police officers. One of the three women and one of the Hispanic men. There were seven people who admitted to being wounded. Smith waited. He looked at the faces of the condemned, then looked away and added his hand to theirs.

  "Jesus, Greg," Lewinski whispered.

  "So what are we going to do?" the first officer to raise her hand asked. "Should we just march out there and die?"

  "What's your name?" Smith asked her. Her shirt had been torn and her nameplate stripped away.

  "Pippen," she said, defiantly.

  "Well, Officer Pippen, we're going to make a break for it."

  "How are we going to do that?" she asked.

  He grimaced. "You and I, and everyone else who's been infected are going to clear a path for everyone who isn't."

  He could tell right off the bat that she didn't like that idea, but he got a strong nod from his task force colleagues and the wounded Hispanic man. In a moment, they had all decided that they would stand behind him. And that was the strength of Gregory Smith. For the rest of his life, however short that might be, people would stand behind him. He pulled his radio and retreated to a window. He contacted his radio operator. If possible, they could use some support from below.

  Grabbing Lewinski, he began inspecting the walls between this apartment and the next. “Do you think we can get through this?”

  Lewinski knocked on it. “It’s probably just plaster and drywall.
Hell, the middle’s probably rotted out.”

  “Everyone stand back.”

  They complied, twenty seven people cramming into one side of the small room.

  He’d seen it done in a movie, once. Fire a spray of bullets in a doorframe pattern and then jump through the perforated wall. Smith fired and managed to create a roundish sort of frame with some bits out of place. He didn’t have the nerve to jump through. He couldn’t risk an injury now. Not when he was going to be an important element of the bait. Going up to the wall, he peered through one of the holes. It was tough to tell, but it looked as if it had punched through into the next apartment. He turned his rifle around and slammed the butt into the wall. A piece came away. Lewinski and the other task force people came to help. Soon they had cleared a hole large enough for them to fit through.

  And repeat.

  Now two apartments over, they had a little bit of room to spread out. The plan was to draw the zombies away from the staircase so that the survivors could rush down. It didn’t guarantee that they would have a clear path to the exit, but it was the best option available to them. With only eight of them infected, it didn’t make for a lot of interference. Everyone agreed that the children and their mothers were the priority. Two people would serve as the hook, going out of the third apartment and running into the fourth. If the door wouldn’t give, then they would be trapped in the hallway with the approaching zombies. It didn't matter. If they did manage to get into the apartment, then they would be trapped in there. Pippen wanted to know what they were supposed to do then. Dying of the sickness seemed far preferable to being torn apart. Smith told her, quite casually, that he would be saving a bullet for himself. She swallowed hard and then volunteered for the duty. Smith was going to take the other spot, but Beck, a task force cop, stepped up. She insisted that Smith was best able to see them safely down the stairs.

  Before they could begin, Beck pulled a cell phone from her pocket and began dialing.

  “Who the hell are you calling?” Lewinski asked.

  “My dad,” she said. “Is it okay if I take a minute to say goodbye?”

  He shut up at that, but spared a glance at the rattling barricade. Others, however, began to follow Beck’s lead. In a moment, the apartment was filled with the buzzing of hushed conversations. Everyone seemed to turn away from the others, heads down and hands covering their free ears. Smith looked around, then went into the second apartment for some privacy.

  There were a few others in there, those who’d had the same idea. Even those who weren’t infected had made calls. With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone and looked at it. How was he to tell Deirdre that he was never going to see her again? How was he to say goodbye to his family? Even as he decided that he was more afraid of this phone call than he was of the infection growing inside of him, he found himself pushing the send button. It was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad?”

  “Hi, Greg. How did it go?” His father had known about the operation today.

  “Not so good, Dad. Have you been watching the news?”

  The emotion dropped from Hank’s voice. “No.”

  “Is Dee there, Dad?”

  “No. She and your mother went out to get some stuff for dinner. ”

  Damn!

  “You could try her cell phone,” his father offered weakly.

  “There’s no time,” Smith said. Others were already putting their phones away.

  "Well, can it wait until you get home?"

  Smith almost broke down then. "I'm not coming home," he choked.

  Hank paused. “You're not coming home tonight? Did it go that badly?”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Smith said, suddenly crying. “I didn’t want to put this on you. I just wanted to hear her voice, you know?”

  “What are you talking about?"

  "It's not just tonight. It's…this is goodbye…"

  "I don't understand," Hank cried desperately. "How can you not ever be coming home? We’re talking on the phone right now and you’re fine?”

  Smith took a deep breath. “Sometimes, Dad, you’re just given a moment.”

  “But…” Hank broke off, also trying to get control. “But, I just got you back.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I love you, Dad, but I have to go now.”

  “Don’t you go, Greg!”

  He was waving Pippen and Beck through the holes in the wall. Pippen gave him a look as she went by.

  “Dee and the kids are really going to need you and Mom. Don’t you let them down, Dad. Don’t you let me down.”

  “I won’t” Hank breathed, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll never let you down again, son.”

  “Thanks. Go Packers.”

  He didn’t feel better as he hit the disconnect button and put the phone away. He went back into the first apartment and took up his position in the front of the crowd. He and Herrera, an infected task force cop, would take the lead. They’d use their rifles and gravity to get as far down the stairs as possible. They knew they’d run into some trouble on the lower levels because of all of the bodies and the furniture they’d thrown down. He guessed they’d cross that rotting, disgusting bridge when they came to it.

  The noise in the room faded into silence as they waited. Two apartments over, they heard a door open. Then they heard shouts. All at once, the banging on the door weakened and then stopped. Pippen and Beck were doing their jobs. Smith climbed up onto the barricade. Looking through the peephole, he could see that the attention of all of the zombies had been diverted left. The hallway was still crowded but they were thinning. He climbed down and began moving away the furniture. He ordered everyone to be as quiet as possible while they were stampeding down the stairs. If they didn’t hit much interference, they’d be able to easily outrun the crowd.

  Small consolation.

  Smith opened the door a crack and peeked through. There was one zombie lingering on the stairs. He was wearing a sweatshirt and carpenter’s pants. He was wearing a damned hardhat. Shaking his head, Smith pulled open the door and charged it silently. The stock of his rifle hit the zombie square in the face and smashed the head against the wall. It made a much louder sound than he would have liked, but the zombies packed into the end of the hallway didn’t notice over the noise that Pippen and Beck were making behind the door of the last apartment.

  The first flight down was clear, but twenty six people filled up a flight pretty quickly. As Smith and Herrera rounded the first corner, they ran headlong into six zombies. There was no way to avoid melee at this point, but Smith didn’t care. What more could they do to him? He and Herrera fought like animals in the confined space. The zombies were awkward and without the threat of infection, there was little to worry about. That didn't mean it was a one sided fight, though. Herrera’s face was scratched and Smith took a bite to the arm. Gunshots from above meant that the zombies there had been alerted to their presence.

  They continued on.

  Scrambling over the corpse barricade was tough. Again, those infected weren’t particularly worried about a scrape or cut, but the healthy people had to tread carefully. Smith, Herrera, and the others did their best to help them over. Some of the zombies tangled up with the ones on the next landing were still moving. Smith pulled his pistol and put to rest as many as he could. He held back, seeing the group over the hurdle. The infected Hispanic man took his place at the front. As the last of the people came down the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the throng of zombies approaching from behind. He grabbed the rear guard, both infected police.

  “Let’s make a stand,” he ordered.