report?" A stupid question, I realized as nothing in this world was ever going to be right again.
"Well," he grudgingly admitted, "this neighborhood is kind of running out of zombies."
"Yes," I agreed, having stood on the ramparts to watch the burnings most nights.
"Which makes for opportunities to shop for better stuff." He sighed, "Even so, it was a hard night. I’m pretty banged up."
Erik had an aversion to being touched by another person and I faced the task of caring for his wounds with as little contact as possible.
"You might consider breaking into El Guapo, that Dominican supermarket," I suggested. You consume great amounts of meat. And they have a big meat locker."
By the time I’d finished treating Erik’s wounds, he had given way to exhaustion and decided to call it quits. He wandered off to his room, calling back over his shoulder. "I’ve got a real surprise for you. Tomorrow!"
Chilling news! I knew from years of watching so many detective shows on TV that serial killers always dehumanized their victims, turning them into objects before having at them. And Eric never addressed me by name. This realization coupled with his constant need to burn someone, and the fact the supply of zombies had dwindled, raised a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. I thought, Oh, goody! A serial killer has a surprise for me.
With kitty in tow and one of the gift shop books, I, too, decided to turn in. As I barricaded my bedroom doors, Katmandu gave me a stern look and put his paw on my cheek. "Don’t give me that face," I scolded. "I solemnly promise to change your litter box tomorrow. If I’m still alive, that is."
The next morning, the Fireman awakened bright and early and, before breakfast was served, he’d gone out onto one of the terraced gardens. When I next looked for him, he was scaling the outer castle wall. Fearing he would fall if I called out and startled him, I hurried inside and awaited his return.
Having, by now, worked up a hunger, Erik came searching for breakfast. He found me in the Unicorn room, working on a tapestry kit purloined from the gift shop. He had come to share my appreciation of the seventh tapestry panel of the Unicorn in captivity, and now he watched with interest as my needle poked nervously, in and out, weaving the colored threads together. He fixed his eyes on me, with that strange, unblinking stare and, finally, he spoke. As usual, he did not address me by name.
"I was thinking. We’ve been lucky so far. But what if the zombies get inside? I was looking for a better stronghold. A place we could stay until I could destroy them. Until I could secure this place again."
"Erik," I murmured, "I thought you told me the zombie population had decreased."
"Yes," he agreed. "But what if they overtake us?" He frowned. "Just one nip, you know."
"Just one nip," I repeated mournfully.
"So, I was thinking," he continued, choosing to have another of his rare conversations, "you remember those upper floors? The unused wing? "He had my attention now and I returned his stare.
"One of the books from the shop," he continued, "said all the walls here are three feet thick. But that’s not true. Some are 12 feet or more. Just like real castle walls, which were often up to more than 49 feet thick. And within that thickness there are small outside windows where no rooms should exist. I’ve checked, but found no discernable doors to those areas."
He stared down at me with purpose. "We need to explore further in case we need a better hideout. One where attacking zombies wouldn’t be able to find its door or window."
I leaned forward, sending my needlework sliding to the floor. "Do you mean to move us to the upper floors? Surely there’s no kitchen or bath facilities."
Erik nodded. "But all the entrances from the rest of the building to the upper floors have been long since sealed. Big heavy stones."
"Erik," I shrieked, "absolutely not!" But, he continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
"Here’s a book that says these walls are supposed to be only three feet. Read it for yourself!" He thrust the book at me and I batted it away.
"The old structure," he continued, "was reassembled here, using original stonework, with new parts added. They kept it as true to the original structure as possible. That means the secret passages were preserved."
"Escape passages were popular in those days," I agreed. "And that could be why some walls only appear to be 12 feet thick. Have you explored inside yet?" I demanded.
"No," he admitted, "but there’s one particular passageway that leads from one of the cloisters to an outside wall on the lower level. In the past, that was sealed. Once you get inside, it leads to several other passageways."
"Where is the door?" I asked wearily.
"Not exactly a door," he told me. "It’s an old, ornate, wooden structure. No one would take it for a door unless they knew to search for it. I found such an entrance near one of the cloister gardens. Under an archway leading from one garden to another. Another from a garden to a gallery. I repeat," he added with determination, "since they’ve been sealed off, the only way to and from the top rooms is to scale the outer castle wall."
"Well, that’s a great idea, Erik, but that would be impossible for me or Katmandu. And, by the by, how did you know how thick the walls are?"
"I paced them off," he announced flatly. "And I could carry you up there."
Being terrified of heights and not wishing to be dragged screaming by a serial killer to the upper wing, I asked, "The space inside didn’t match the outside?" He nodded. "And," I added, "not that I wish to pry into your secret life, but where are you getting all the gasoline for your fires?"
"Some from the gas tanks of abandoned cars," he replied, "but mostly from the gas station pumps. Good for me that the pumps don’t make that binging sound anymore as the price tallies. It would be like a dinner bell for the zombies."
"I fear for you," I whispered. "Each time you go out, I fear that you won’t come back. That kitty and I will be alone. And you know I can’t hunt outside for food."
"I’m very careful," Erik rumbled with pride. "And very strong!"
"Just one nip!"
"Don’t jinx me," he grunted.
I rose. "Are you ready for breakfast?" Then memories of a normal life overwhelmed me and my knees went weak. "Oh, God, I wish we had some eggs! Real eggs! It’s been so long. I used all the powdered eggs we had on those cakes."
"I’ve seen chickens," he began. "I could get some."
"Where would we keep them? And they cluck so. Wouldn’t the creatures hear them and investigate?"
He paused, turning this over. "We could think about it."
"Let’s put all of this on hold until after breakfast."
And I noted, this was the longest, most important conversation we’d ever had. And still he hadn’t referred to me by name. Well, Miss Thing, I thought with trepidation, it seems your funeral pyre is still in the offing!
But after breakfast, Erik had already turned his maniacal mind to other matters. And I couldn’t help dwelling on rooms smaller inside, than the outside of the building suggested. I couldn’t help wondering if all of this could be chalked up to a solid thickness of the walls.
I wandered about, pacing off the inside rooms, trying to look at everything with new eyes, and it wasn’t long before I discovered a room that was several feet shorter than the adjoining rooms. On the other side of that wall, there was an old, ornate, wooden piece. If it was the door, it was sealed, and someone had obviously gone to great trouble to make sure it remained shut.
I called excitedly for Erik and raced about trying to find him. Then, to my frustration, saw through a window that, despite overcast skies, he had gone outside to resume his explorations, clinging like a fly to the outer wall.
So it was off to the maintenance office to poke about in the tool boxes. I returned with a chisel and carefully set about removing the seal. It took a bit of muscle, but the door finally popped and I peeked into the gloom.
There was a good-sized passageway, which in the dim light seemed to lead to a staircase. From the earthy odor, I took this to be a secret passage, with a tunnel leading outside. Katmandu poked his nose inside the opening and was deciding to explore, when I grabbed him up and shut the door. Best to wait for Erik before exploring, I decided, fearing zombies might be holed up inside the walls.
But conferring with my resident madman was not to be, at least not for a while. It had poured rain for two days now and I hastened to throw emergency supplies together. Then snatching up the cat, toted it all toward what had become my inner sanctum. After locking ourselves safely inside the curator’s office, all comfy under the circumstances, I stood before the window and peeked wistfully out through the stained glass insets at the beautiful, green world that was no longer mine.
In his present state, Erik wouldn’t notice meals were not being prepared and, unless I revealed myself to him, there was no way he could know I had taken refuge here.
With few respites in the deluge, the torrents continued for another 24 hours, with no sign of stopping. At one point, Erik, having left the Pontaut House, could be heard, his heavy boots stomping through the castle, loudly demanding, "WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?"
Well, I wasn’t about to reveal my presence just to be torched inside the castle. "Make the litter last," I mournfully informed kitty, "We’re going to be prisoners for a bit yet."
Trapped in that office, there was plenty
2013: The Zombies Take Manhattan Page 5
