by Jeremy Dyson
“Help me get her up,” I ask.
“Wait,” Danielle hesitates.
“What is it?” I wonder.
“Moving her might be a bad idea,” Danielle explains. “It could injure her further.”
“We don’t have time,” I sigh. “Those things aren’t going to be far behind us.”
Danielle bites her lip, then carefully helps me get the unconscious girl out of the car. I cradle her frail limp body, trying not to jostle her as I move toward the door.
“What happened?” Dom gasps when she sees me carrying Melanie.
“She’s okay,” I say calmly. “Just hit her head.” I can’t be sure if anything I said was true, but I hope it is. I just want to get Melanie inside and out of danger.
Quentin looks down at the girl with an expression like he tastes something bitter. He turns and is about to hammer on the door when it pops open from the inside. In the doorway, a gangly man with wiry hair and a grizzled mustache inspects us from beneath the brim of his tattered baseball cap. His gaze settles at last on the girl in my arms. A few feet behind him, a diminutive black kid with wide eyes and thick glasses shuffles his feet nervously.
A long silent moment passes before the guy with the mustache leans his back against the door to let us pass inside. "Better hurry,” he urges. “A whole army of them are coming right behind you."
Seven
The heavy steel door slams shut behind us, then the room falls into total darkness for several seconds until the black kid clicks on a flashlight. The room looks like a loading bay with stacks of cardboard boxes piled high along the walls.
“This way,” the guy with the mustache takes the flashlight from the kid and leads us out into a dark tunnel. An acrid scent hangs in the air. It takes a moment for me to identify what the smell is. They must keep the horses for the show inside. At least, I hope that is the cause.
“It smells like shit in here,” gags Dom.
“That’s just the horses,” the guy with the mustache explains. “After a day or two you’ll get used to the smell, and then you won’t hardly notice it.”
The unsteady beam of the flashlight stops and turns to illuminate a door on our right. The man with the mustache twists the handle and steps aside to let us in. A faint emergency light illuminates the room. It appears to be an employee lounge, with worn couches and half a dozen large round tables surrounded by metal folding chairs. My arms ache from carrying Mel, so I rush over to the nearest couch to set her down. Danielle kneels down beside Mel to examine her and caresses the girl’s dark hair from her face. I glance around at the small kitchenette, refrigerator, and a pair of vending machines in the room. Then my gaze settles on the kid in the glasses.
"Is it just you two here?” I ask him. The question seems to startle him.
"Just us," says mustache. "I'm Chet, and that's Devin," he says jerking his head at the kid. Devin pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and then lowers his gaze to his black Chuck Taylor sneakers and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“Devin doesn’t say much,” Chet adds.
“Blake,” I say.“You guys work here?” I probe, trying to figure out just what kind of people we are dealing with here. The two of them seem so different that I have to wonder how they wound up in this place together.
“We’re the janitors,” Chet explains. He glances around the room at the rest of us and his gaze pauses on Melanie. “What’s wrong with the girl?” he asks.
“She just hit her head,” I assure him. “It was a rough ride over here. What do you know about what's going on, Chet?”
“Not much,” he sighs. "We were just working in here like usual when this all started. The manager told us he had to run home in the middle of our shift. Never heard from him again. First thing that told us something was wrong was when the power went out. I tried calling the managers and couldn't get any of them on the line. So me and Devin just waited around awhile for someone to show up. We didn’t have a clue that anything was happening until we heard an explosion outside. We couldn't see shit out the front doors, so we went up top and found all hell broke loose out there.”
“Up top?” I ask.
“The roof,” Chet clarifies. “You can see for miles up there.”
“How long has it been since you have seen anyone alive out there?" I ask.
“Not since last night," he said. "You should have seen the highway."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
Chet opens his mouth to speak, but then stops himself and shakes his head. He furrows his brow and tries to find words to articulate the events he has witnessed. "Maybe it's best if you go up and see it for yourself," he says.
"Okay," I agree. “Let’s go.”
Chet leads Quentin and me back out into the tunnel. There are no windows at all along the long, dark corridors. I know it makes this place safer, but it is still unnerving. We round a corner and the smell of the horse stables intensifies. I scan the doorways we pass, hoping to get a sense of the layout of the building, but it is too dark to see much. If not for the flashlight, the darkness would be nearly pitch black, and it would be impossible to find your way around.
“The lights in the cafeteria were working. Why not the rest of the building?” I ask Chet. My voice echoes off the hard surfaces in the empty hall.
“Those are the emergency lights,” he explains. “They run on batteries. Some of them ran out already. I kept meaning to check them all before all this. Pretty soon we’ll have to figure something else out I guess.”
We round another corner, and Chet shines the flashlight along each of the doors on the left as we pass them. He stops and heads for a door with a sign depicting a stick figure using the stairs mounted in the center. We climb a dark flight of stairs to the second level. The upper floor is carpeted, with white painted walls and glass doorways that lead into a handful of offices. The arrow slit windows on this floor allow just enough sunlight inside to see, so Chet clicks off the flashlight. He leads us down the hall in the opposite direction that we walked on the lower level until we reach a room marked with a maintenance sign. Chet pushes through the door and kicks aside a rolling mop bucket that blocks the way. We ascend a set of metal stairs to the roof, and I have to shield my eyes from the blinding sunlight when the door opens.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I see from the rooftop. In both directions, thousands of abandoned cars clog the Kennedy expressway as far as the eye can see. An army of walking corpses still wanders amongst the vehicles. The scorched remains of several military Hummers form a barricade in front of the toll booths. A couple of corpses cut in half by rounds from the .50 caliber machine guns use their arms to drag what remains of their mangled bodies down the road. I can only imagine what it must have been like when this all started.
“The military started forming that roadblock over there when we first came up top.” He gestures towards the toll booth. “They fought like hell, but those boys didn't last twenty minutes. Those things just swarmed them.”
Across the expressway, several tall office buildings and hotels billow smoke into the sky. Corpses shamble around inside the shattered windows. The tallest building is about ten stories of reflective blue glass, but a quarter of it has been charred to ashes and collapsed. Now, it looks like something took a massive bite out of it.
“A plane came down over there last night,” says Chet. He traces a line with his finger to show the path of the plane, ending at a faint cloud of smoke drifting into the sky. “Clipped the corner of the big building there and went right into that shopping mall. Must have been circling for hours until they finally run out of fuel or something.”
“Jesus Christ,” gasps Quentin. He leans forward and rests a palm down on the edge of the building as though to steady himself. He cups a hand to his mouth and gazes at the battle sight near the tollbooths in shock.
I cross the roof to check the other side of the building and find the undead have indeed followed us here. It’s possible
the corpses won’t notice me up on the roof, but to be safe I crouch down behind the parapet. Chet does the same. A few dozen of the things wander across the main parking lot below. Hundreds of undead are still drifting along the road making their way toward the entrance. The first one to reach the door begins to bang against the glass and moan.
“Told you they was coming,” Chet says. “Sure is a lot of them too.”
“We better make sure those doors can hold them,” I tell Chet. His face looks a bit pale as he stares out at the oncoming horde of the walking dead. He manages a nod, then backs away from the wall and heads back inside.
“Mind if I ask something?” Chet says as we descend the stairs to the maintenance room. “Where was it you were all headed?”
"I don't know," I tell him. “We were in the cemetery. The place was surrounded by a few hundred of those things. The fences were holding, but it didn't seem like that would last. We were hoping to find some food here and take the highway as far from the city as possible."
Chet pauses on the stairs and waits a moment for me to go on. “That's it?” he asks.
"Not much of a plan," I admit. "We thought it might be better where there are fewer people."
“It’s just, well, we saw your cars pulling in and thought we were being rescued,” Chet sighs. “Or at least, you might be headed someplace safe.”
"Sorry to disappoint you," I say. “I don’t know that it’s safer anywhere than it is right here.”
"It's alright,” Chet sighs. “I shouldn't have expected as much.” We follow him through the cluttered maintenance room and out into the hallway. “You and your group are welcome to stay if you want. We don't have much in the way of beds, but we have plenty of food to go around. It'll go bad before we could eat it all."
Chet flicks on the flashlight and opens the stairwell door. He leads us back down to the ground floor, through the long dark hallways and back to the employee lounge area. The others watch us enter expectantly, waiting to hear what we have to say. I don’t know what to tell them anymore. Quentin settles in a chair and stares absently at a spot on the floor.
“Well?” Dom breaks the silence. “What are we doing?”
“Looks like we’ll be staying here awhile,” I announce. “Lot of traffic on the highways.”
Dom sighs and fishes for a cigarette out of the pack on the table.
“The good news is we should be safe here awhile. We’re much better off,” I say. My gaze moves back to Melanie lying unconscious on the couch, and it feels like I’m telling a lie. For what feels like a long time, no one speaks.
“I’m going to go reinforce the doors now,” Chet says finally. “I could use a hand.” Chet nods to Devin, and the kid obediently follows him out to the darkened the hallway.
“Hey, wait,” Joey calls them. He sits on the edge of a table, his legs swinging slightly just above the floor.
Chet pauses in the doorway and turns to look at Joey.
“Where are the swords?” Joey asks.
Chet raises an eyebrow at the question. “In the prop room.”
"I told you they were fake," Dom gloats. ”Just props.” She places a cigarette between her lips and lights it.
“No, no,” Chet corrects her. “They're real."
"I knew it," says Joey. He pushes himself off the table and heads for the door. "Where's the prop room?"
“Come on," says Chet. “Give us a hand, and I’ll show you on the way back.”
Joey turns and looks at me as though asking for permission. I nod, and he smiles at Dom, then he follows Chet and Devin out the door.
“Ugh,” Danielle grunts and closes the freezer door. “These ice packs are already warm.” She locates a dish towel and turns on the faucet and soaks the rag in cool water before wringing it out. Danielle returns to the couch and brushes the hair from Melanie’s face, then rests the damp cloth over the swollen bruise on her head.
“Has she been out this whole time?" I ask.
Danielle nods. ”I don't know what else to do for her,” she sighs. “If she has something other than a mild concussion..."
"Like what?” I wonder.
Danielle bites her bottom lip for a moment while she thinks. “Well,” she begins hesitantly. “It could be an injury to the spinal cord. Worst case scenario would be an injury to the brain tissue. Without a CT scan or MRI though, there isn't anything I can do to help her. We just have to wait and hope she wakes up."
My stomach tightens as Danielle gives the prognosis. "You mean she might not wake up?" I ask. “Like she might die?”
"Don't think that," she says. "She could be completely fine tomorrow.” Danielle sees me staring down at the unconscious teenager, and she takes hold of my arm to bring my attention to her. “Remember, you saved her life yesterday. You did everything you could to help her."
The sight of Melanie lying there is too much. I turn and pound my fist on the table behind me so hard it hurts. I don’t know why I ever thought I could keep her safe.
"It's not your fault, Blake." She rests a hand on my shoulder. "I didn't want to tell you. I knew you would beat yourself up over it. Melanie will probably recover just fine."
"She'll be fine," I echo softly, not believing a word of it. I collapse into a chair beside one of the tables in the dim glow of the emergency light. I run my fingers over my unshaven facial hair. Then rest my head in my palms, feeling my unwashed hair. I still feel guilty, even though I know I couldn't have done much to prevent what had happened to the kid in the car.
"You okay?" asks Danielle.
"Yeah," I sigh. I gesture around at the room and everything. “This situation just gets better all the time, doesn't it?"
"It's not so bad here," she reasons. "Just a little dark."
"Better than sleeping with the dead," Dom agrees.
"Only two doors to worry about," Quentin adds. "No sweat."
Maybe we could be worse off than we are here. It isn't this place that bothers me so much, I realize, it's that we have no way of getting away from those things. There is nowhere left to run. We just have to wait here to be rescued, or to die of starvation.
"On the expressway, there were a couple of military vehicles," I explain. "Chet said they had tried to set up some kind of roadblock there yesterday, but I guess there were just too many of those things for them to handle.”
"So what," says Quentin. "You think the military is just gone?"
"I don't know," I sigh.
"Trust me, that's not possible," insists Quentin.
"But just suppose there aren't any more civil defense forces out there. If we lock ourselves in here, no one may ever be coming to get us out,” I say.
“There must be other survivors like us out there," insists Danielle. “There has to be someone who can help us.”
"They are probably in the same kind of situation we are,” I say. “Or much worse.” I regret bringing up the scene on the highway. The truth is, I really don't want to stay here. I don't want to give up on going home and finding my family. I don't want to relinquish what little control we still have over our fate. But I don't know what else to do when every road we take leads to the same dead end.
"I wish we had a better option than staying here, but it doesn't seem like we have anything else,” I admit.
"We're lucky we even made it through this so far," said Dom. "We can't keep running around the city, or we will eventually run out of luck."
There is that word again. Luck. I feel my face cringe.
Quentin walks over and pulls me up by the back of my shirt. "Come on," he said. "We need to get some real food in you, and you'll be feeling better."
I sigh and let him lead me out of the room and back down the dark hallway towards the kitchen. He clicks on a flashlight and then glances back at the break room.
“Look, man,” he whispers once he won’t be heard. “I get it. You're tired of trying to get somewhere and going nowhere instead.” He flashes the light around the hall. “But this here is proba
bly as good as it gets right now. If you can't see that, it's only because you're still looking for something else, something that doesn't exist anymore."
I release a deep breath and expel all thoughts of finding some kind of normality again as the air leaves my lungs. I realize there is no going back to it. I have to figure out how to move on, even when I am trapped in the same place. As we continue down the dark hallway, Quentin directs the beam of the flashlight at the doors we pass until he locates the kitchen. We push through the sliding doors into a room full of stainless steel prep tables and appliances.
"Just what was it you did before this?" I ask Quentin.
He pulls a couple of bottles of beer from a cooler and hands me one without looking at me. He twists the cap off and gulps from the other bottle while he seems to think how or if he wants to answer me. He finishes half the bottle then wipes the moisture from his lips with the back of his palm.
"I worked in a grocery store," he grins.
"Come on," I press him. "You didn't learn to shoot like you do by working in a grocery store."
"No," he concedes. "Didn't pick that up from working there. My old man is a Navy SEAL instructor or was anyway. I was in the training program a while, too. Didn't quite have what it takes, though."
He stares down into the dark opening of the bottle of beer in his hands.
"I would have felt much better yesterday knowing we had a Navy SEAL with us," I confide.
Quentin laughs and shakes his head, and then sets the bottle of beer down on a prep counter behind him and retrieves the flashlight.
"You don't," he corrects me. He pulls open the door to a walk-in refrigerator and shines the light around at the contents.
"I'm just a washed out grocery store clerk,” he explains. He hauls out a big frozen rack of ribs and sets it down next to his beer. “But I do know how to cook a mean rack of barbecue ribs.”
"That's good because I’m not much of a cook,” I tell him.
Quentin twists at the red knobs on the oven and considers the unlit indicator light. I wonder how he plans to cook ribs, or anything for that matter, without power. Quentin glances up around the shelves for several moments, scanning the kitchen items. He locates some large metal catering trays. With his long arms lifts one off a shelf I would need a ladder to reach, and sets it down on the counter.
