2013: The Zombies Take Manhattan

by Louise Ann Barton

he is about to harm me, I step back, only to find myself up against the arcade wall. Erik pauses, his deep voice rumbling, "You’re a good person. You don’t deserve this. You should be holed up here with a nice, older man. Someone who would care about you. Take care of you."

  "No," I insist with a pained half smile, "a nice guy would have been overcome by zombies the first time he tried to go outside the gates." I attempt to slip past him sideways and he makes no move to stop me. "You’re the perfect guy to do my shopping," I insist. "And, by the way, we’re nearly out of cat kibble and litter." I turned to leave, then spun around. "And more chocolate bars and toilet paper if you can manage it."

  "I’ll pick that up tonight," he promises.

  "Good! Also, bring back some vitamin E and aloe vera for your injured fingers. Then find another way to ease your pain." Nervously, I gather up the dishes and carry them to the kitchen. The cleanup was accomplished with such speed that, by the time Erik next turned around, I had already grabbed up a few supplies and was fleeing to the safety of the office.

  Slipping inside, I relocked the door and brought up the monitors to check on Erik’s whereabouts. The sound was always turned off for fear he would be drawn to the noise and discover my sanctuary.

  Two days passed and, after breakfast, Erik renewed his efforts to scale the outer wall in his attempt to reach the upper floors. I took this opportunity to explore the secret passage behind the little door.

  Katmandu, master of smoke and mirrors, had somehow slipped out of our sanctuary. As I opened the secret door, he surprised me by darting between my feet and into the tunnel. Not knowing where the passage came out and fearing he would get lost, I was about to shout for the cat to come back.

  Before the words could pass my lips, Katmandu raced a couple of feet inside and came to a dead stop. His back humped and his tail grew bushy, just like a Halloween cat.

  I peered into the tunnel, wondering what had terrified my kitty. Then, fearing it had been a zombie, I was in the act of slamming the portal shut, when a familiar stench reached my nostrils and two jade-green eyes came gliding toward me through the gloom. But Katmandu was faster than the door and came flashing back into the room like a lightning bolt, scrambling to the top of the nearest tapestry. By then the door had banged shut and, with trembling fingers, I shot the latch into place.

  "Erik!" I raced into the hall and screamed his name over and over. The leopard, meanwhile, was throwing its weight against the portal, making it buckle. I moved to the outside door and screamed for Erik a few more times, then was forced to recross the room. Throwing myself against the door, despite the fierce pounding, I pressed the wood firmly with my body and both palms.

  The big cat was now clawing fiercely from the inside, causing the panels to splinter. Just as it seemed the door was coming down, Erik appeared behind me.

  "What?" he asked in a flat voice.

  "The leopard! It had a mate! It got into the secret passage."

  "Huh!" was his response.

  "You have to kill it!" I insist. "Get the crossbow!"

  "Then do I get cake?"

  "Yes!" I scream. "Just get the crossbow!"

  He appeared confused. "I’m not sure where it is," he admitted.

  "You carried it off," I accuse. "After the last time." And still he stands transfixed. "The Pontaut room," I shriek. "Is it there?"

  "Uh, yeah. Under the chair."

  "You hold this door. I’ll go get it."

  He reaches one ham of a hand across my shoulder and braces the door. I slip under his arm and race to the Pontaut Chapter House. There, under the chair, lay the crossbow and its bolts. Grabbing the weapon, I dash back to Erik and thrust it at him.

  "It’s cranked up," I tell him. Just stand back and aim the bolt." I take my turn again, bracing the door while he takes a stand. "Remember, when I open this door, that cat will be right on top of you. So don’t miss." Then add as an afterthought, "And don’t hit me."

  "I know what I’m doing," he insists in that strange voice. When he’s in position, he signals me to open the door. Heart pounding, I release the latch with trembling fingers, then I’m thrown sideways as the door comes flying open. Trapped behind the splintered door, I can’t see what’s happening. There is the sound of the crossbow releasing its bolt and then a thud. Someone … something dead has struck the floor. I push my way free of the broken door and peek out, warily, fearing that the next thing I see will be hungry, jade-green eyes.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Eyes are staring at me, but its Erik’s green eyes, glittering with the excitement of the kill. How bizarre, I think. A serial killer and I have conspired together to cause a violent death.

  "Do you think more will be coming," he asks in a low growl.

  "Not bloodly likely," I whisper with relief.

  "When do I get my cake?" he demands.

  "Out of chocolate," I admit. "But if you’ll settle for vanilla, the cake could be yours within the next hour or so."

  "Okay," he mutters and is about to resume his climbing activities.

  "Not before you replace this door, mister" I insist. "Just in case something else is creeping about."

  Erik isn’t happy about this enforced servitude, but he sets about repairing the door. "I’m going to skin it and make another rug," he confides, glancing at the body on the floor. "Or maybe I’ll just set it on fire."

  "Good," I agree, "two leopards, two rugs, our own little decorating touch. And reinforce the door, too, please. By then the cake should be ready."

  But before rounding up ingredients, I pluck Katmandu from the tapestry and bundle him off to the safety of the office.

  When the birthday cake is finally placed before Erik, he remarks with disappointment that his good friend, Katmandu, isn’t present for this happy moment.

  "Sorry, Erik," I tell him. "Kitty has been placed in a witness protection program. It seems some big guy had a contract out on him."

  "A cat’s life," he muses aloud.

  "It’s a happy life. And it’s his life," I mutter darkly. "When my kitty dies, it will be of old age."

  "Something to think about," he mutters. And I’m not sure if he is making fun of me or not.

  That night Erik finds a dramatic way to relieve some of his pain. After first torching several zombies, he manages to set a whole block of apartment houses on fire. The blaze lights up the sky, but before the flames can spread, the heavens open and the Fireman hurries back to the castle through the heavy downpour.

  ZOMBIE EVOLUTION

  The following day, while the Fireman is sleeping off his debacle, I venture tentatively in the direction of the secret passage. His huge presence suddenly appears, making me change direction, scurrying to take a seat in the Cuxa Cloister. A strange odor of burnt flesh permeates the halls, but I fear to question him as to the source.

  "Gee whiz, Erik," I complain, "when you burned a whole block, you also burned all the supplies in that area, including El Guapo. Supplies we could have used."

  He hangs his great head. "I didn’t think."

  "Next time, try stripping all the supplies out first. Then the burning. And," I continue, "your hair makes you look like a rock star. Or a cave man."

  "Does it matter?" he mutters.

  "Well, yes, if a zombie grabs it to hang onto you."

  "Then hack it off," he insists. "Can you do that?"

  I gesture for him to sit. Placing a towel around his huge neck and make snipping noises with my shears, I announce. "The barber is in." It’s a challenge to cut the big guy’s hair without invading his ultra-touchy personal space, but I try my best.

  After Erik’s haircut, I take stock of him. Fortunately, there is no need to prompt him to run his clothes through the on-site washing machine or to shower regularly, but his fingernails have really grown wild.

  "Are you planning to use these as claws?" I ask him.

  He looks a bit embarrassed. "I never di
d them myself. Used to have them manicured."

  Wondering idly if those manicurists survived his attentions, I take a seat beside him and sigh before reaching experimentally for his hand. He permits this. After all, I am now the manicurist. I begin to shape his nails with an emery board. Afterwards, I dab a bit of vitamin E to his fingertips. He’s surprised to see how fast his burns are healing.

  "I brought you a present," he announces. "It’s in the kitchen."

  And later, I find that despite the madness of the night before, he’s managed to bring me six eggs without breaking any. Lying beside them on the counter is another gift, a pair of ladies’ size cargo pants.

  A few days pass and it is only then that I realize he hasn’t been hunting me, but I take no chances. Katmandu and I remain in the comfort of our self-imposed, witness-protection program. As I whisper in kitty’s ear, "Better cooped up and stir crazy, than set ablaze." And I make a mental note that, to pass those long hours, it would be good to pick up a few more items from the gift shop.

  That evening, Erik holds one of his rare dinner conversations. Unhappily, it’s about zombies.

  "Saw one in a bus driver’s uniform. He’d gotten into an abandoned bus and started it up. Went cruising down the street." He laughs humorlessly. "Even paused at the bus stops."

  Weary of ploys to try to escape his homicidal attentions and having a hatred of zombie stories, I mutter, "Does it matter?"

  "Can zombies evolve?" he asks, "Perform familiar tasks? What’ll come first? The 10-year cutoff or the evolution?"

  Exhausted, I rise, abandoning the cleanup, announcing, "Going to bed." As I begin to toddle off, Erik stands as if to follow me. I whirl on him angrily, "Don’t you dare stalk me!"

  Surprised, he sits back down and, as soon as I’m clear of the garden, I scoot off at top speed before he can change his mind. After all, a sanctuary is only good as long as it remains hidden. Moments later, while cuddling up with the cat, I snort, "Zombie evolution, my foot."

  I sigh, remembering my first rule: If you can’t save your life, at least don’t get eaten. My mind runs in circles trying to decide what to do if the undead did infiltrate the castle. As I finally drift off to sleep, I wonder, if the zombies were attacking, would psycho Erik try to save me.

  THE FIREMAN’S LAIR REVISTED

  The following morning, bright and early, I yank on my new cargo pants. Just as I’m about to leave my hidey hole to see to breakfast, there is a great commotion within the castle. Our resident madman can be heard storming through the halls, roaring, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

  From the monitor screens, it’s plain to see that he’s gone insane. His enormous boots sound like echoing thunder as he continues his tirade from room to room, slamming the heavy portals, seeking me in every possible corner. And since he’s gone completely mad, I have no intention of showing myself. The timing of this latest threat is most unfortunate since I was about to restock the office supply of cat litter and toilet paper. I cradle kitty, mourning, "What to do!"

  Hours later, all becomes quiet again. But I refuse to be tricked so easily and watch the monitors until darkness falls and it seems Erik has decamped in favor of his nightly burnings. Then I slip soundlessly out of my sanctuary and, after relocking the door, deposit the key ring in one of my many cargo pockets. And I’m off to the kitchen.

  I’m almost there when something huge grabs me from behind. Before I can scream, a plastic bag is forced over my head. Erik lifts me so my feet no longer touch the floor and totes me toward the crypt.

  As I struggle, unable to draw a breath, he descends to the gloomy lower level with me tucked under one arm. My head whips wildly about, dislodging the bag. To my horror, the moonlight streaming through stained-glass windows reveals a nest of newspapers in one corner. A red gas can sits beside it. With horror, his intention becomes clear. He’s going to burn me alive, and inside the castle at that!

  With great desperation, twisting and turning, I manage to rip free of the plastic bag, and gratefully gulp in big lungsful of air. The stink of burnt flesh is even stronger down here, and I can’t even guess what horrible thing he’s done.

  Without noticing the missing bag, Erik slams me down on the floor. My wind is knocked out, but I somehow manage to claw at his face, kicking wildly, pushing him off balance. Another kick sends him tumbling backwards over one of the sepulchres.

  Before he can recover, I scrabble along the floor toward the staircase. While Erik is scrambling to get back on his feet, I ascend the staircase on my hands and knees. Gaining the Cuxa Cloister garden, I feel for my keys, and find them still there.

  The roars emanating from the depths of the crypt are comforting as it means Erik is having trouble extricating himself. Before he can gain the upper level and resume the hunt, I head back to my office. Once safely locked inside, my knees give way. Katmandu purrs over to my prone form, trying to cheer me. As we cuddle together, the shouting and stamping begins anew. The insane hunt for a victim is afoot and Erik will not be denied. My furry companion and I cuddle together, trembling, on the floor, until we finally fall asleep.

  JUST LIKE BOGIE AND BACALL

  The following morning I rise and check my injuries in the bathroom’s small mirror. It seems there are bruises everywhere. And Erik’s thundering is somewhere off in the distance, disturbing the museum’s tranquil atmosphere, howling something about breakfast. He sounds normal again, or at least as normal as he ever gets. Can it be safe to venture out?

  The monitors reveal him taking a turn around the Cuxa Cloister garden, with birds singing and bees buzzing. He appears nonthreatening and I wonder if his tirade has worn him out for the time being. Giving Katmandu a kiss and luring him into the sling with the promise of a treat, I head in the direction of the kitchen. As I’m sneaking out a couple of kitty litter bags, a dark shape suddenly looms over me, blotting out the sun. His right cheek is marred by dark red furrows.

  Before I can react, Erik announces he has managed to set up a super sanctuary in the uppermost floors. "In case the zombies attack," he insists.

  "It’s just a big storage area," I snap back. "And without a means of preparing food and no water to drink or flush, it doesn’t mean diddly squat. I’m not going up there," I tell him. "I’d rather shoot myself with the crossbow."

  He smirks. "You’ll have to find it first."

  I’m stunned! The madman has hidden our only weapon again. Worse yet, he probably doesn’t remember where he stashed it. I face him squarely, demanding, "Do you know something about the zombies that I don’t?"

  Erik makes no response, except to point to the cat in the sling across my chest. "I’m taking you both up there now." Then he grabs for me with those huge hands and tosses me over one shoulder. I kick and scream, terrified of heights, terrified of him, but he’s so strong that my efforts are like a leaf in a windstorm. And before I realize it, he has begun to scale the outside of the castle.

  When Erik reaches the roof on the topmost level, he sets me down. Panting with fear, I cling crazily to the gables, while a terrified Katmandu digs his claws into me. Now that Erik has us trapped at the top, we’ll be completely at his mercy. And the cavalry isn’t coming.

  Then, just as all hope is lost, the thunder of helicopter blades fills the sky. It’s a military chopper and it’s headed toward us. Unbelievable! Other humans, still alive. Coming to rescue me! I try to wave to them, to signal, without slipping off the roof. The Fireman stands to his full height, the wind from the blades whipping his clothes, his hair. The chopper circles us. While the men inside are above my line of sight, from where Erik stands, I realize he can see into the interior. A look of surprise crosses his face.

  He reaches desperately for me and I retreat from his grasp. Even more frightening, I can read his lips. He’s calling my name! As I shrink from his touch, the chopper comes around again, tightening the circle. And now I’m trying to crawl across the gables and away f
rom Erik, praying the soldiers will get to me in time.

  The chopper comes nearer and now Erik and the soldier standing by the open hatch are facing each other. Erik swivels his head, shouting to me, but his words whip away in the buffeting air. He’s waving the chopper off, then grabs angrily at it. He’s trying to bring it down with his bare hands! And I fear if he keeps at it, his great weight may overbalance the craft. As I watch, a red mark appears on his forehead, like a burgeoning flower, and he collapses. Dead eyes open, staring at the sky.

  The chopper hovers overhead and a basket is lowered. Cat and I are actually being rescued! I scramble clumsily into the basket and the winch begins bringing me up to the waiting arms of the soldier. As my head becomes level with the floor of the helicopter, for the first time, I can see inside. I can see the faces of my brave rescuers. And what I see chills my blood. I scream, trying desperately to stop my ascent, but efforts are futile.

  The chopper is infested with zombies! Drooling mouths agape. And they’re all wearing military uniforms.

  As the basket is guided through the open door, the nearest zombie reaches for me greedily. By now, I’m kicking and screaming, but he’s every bit as strong as Erik. Just as he would have me, the zombie piloting the chopper collapses face down onto the instrument panel. The chopper wobbles alarmingly, the blades freeze, and it’s about to plummet. Numbly, I realize, Ten years! The pilot’s ten years just came due.

  In the next fraction of a second, it’s as if time stands still. I know we’re going to crash on the museum roof. Coming down hard. With all that fuel. And, one way or the other, it looks as if I’m fated to burn after all.

  The zombie soldiers are making that weird keening sound and the chopper is screaming as it pauses, suspended. Clutching Katmandu, my eyes squeezed tight shut, I recall how badly I’d always wanted to live in the Cloisters. And I actually had … for a few months, anyway. After all, how many people have slept in the Unicorn room! Or had the run of all the expensive items in the gift shop! But between the zombies and the Fireman, my dream had gone all wrong. My wish unraveled.

  Sneaking a peek, I see time is speeding up again, the gabled roof coming up fast. My mind screams in fear at the impending conflagration. I clutch my kitty, sobbing, "We nearly had it all."

  And in the split second before the flames take me, I can see the grounds below. Sections of the iron fence laying flat. Zombies maneuvering tanks up the drive. A military sweep! Rounding up the surviving humans.

  finis

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  LOUISE ANN BARTON

  This great-grandmother is a master storyteller from a family of master storytellers. With a major in business and a minor in law, she holds an MA, a BA, an AAS, a Master Gardener certification, and is an herbalist of sorts. She lectures and