Z Walkers: The Complete Collection

by Luke Shephard

  Christ. He inched forward; his eyes adjusted to the dark of the classroom already, and then pressed his ear to the door. There were sounds coming from the other side, yes, but nothing in the nearby vicinity this time. Distant footfalls. Glass breaking. Groans. Hank could hear them all, but there was nothing happening on the other side of the door—unless one of those people had his or her face pressed against the door too, their ear straining to hear for his movements.

  He pulled back at the thought, clenching and unclenching his fists. If the lights were off, maybe the school would stop attracting those people, and since his eyes had adjusted to the dark already, he'd be able to move through the halls unnoticed. After all, this building had been a part of him for a long time: four years as a teen, and now almost eight and a half as an adult. Without trying to be a cliché, he knew the damn place like the back of his hand.

  But where could he wait for Susie? The roof like he'd suggested? It would have been ideal to wait by the curb, but getting out there and sitting in the streetlights probably wasn't the best idea. The roof would be good. He could barricade the door on the indoor stairwell, then hop down the fire escape once Craig's obnoxious pick-up truck roared onto the scene.

  Quietly, he unlocked the door, turning the key slowly to avoid the mechanisms of the locks clicking too much, and then slipped into the hall. It was a different sort of darkness here than the classrooms. No windows offered light from the surrounding neighborhood: it was total blackness here, forcing Hank to rely on his other senses. His ears were hypersensitive as he ducked down low, a hand on the wall to keep him centered as he moved.

  The staircase that led up to the roof was always locked as a precaution. In the past, kids liked to try to get up there to smoke, as if sitting on top of the school was the cool thing to do. Heights always gave Hank a bit of a queasy feeling, but he could push through that if it meant sitting up in the cool spring evening air, free from blood-covered people and groaning drunks.

  He made it about halfway down the hall before the lights flickered back to life. It was then he saw them: dozens of bloody crazies, stunned by the sudden appearance of light, and almost all of them honed in on him immediately. For a moment, he thought that if he stayed perfectly still, blinking his aching eyes in the harsh white light, they might just overlook him—kind of like a T-Rex. Those guys had bad eyesight, right? All they did in the movie was stand still and it went around them…

  Unfortunately, these guys were nothing like the dinosaurs. Whether he was moving or not, they were coming for him.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Hank broke out in a full-tilt sprint, overtaking them easily enough, but their chase was relentless. The halls swarmed with bloody, groaning, groping figures, all gunning for him in his panic. Maybe they could smell fear, and like rabid dogs, they wanted to tear him to pieces for his cowardice.

  As hard as he tried to get to the roof entrance, imagining the empty stairwell behind the locked door, a quiet climb to the roof on top of the second floor, he fell short. There were too many of them. Like ants swarming out of a mound, they poured out of classrooms, some fast, some slow, and all interested in Hank. So, he took a detour, practically tumbling into the janitor's closet and slamming the door in their faces. After locking it, he moved every heavy piece of equipment inside against the door, hoping a blockade would be enough to keep them at bay.

  And then he listened to the pounding of bodies and fists and knees against the wood, wanting nothing more than to shrink in on himself and wish this night was over.

  *******

  A harsh beeping sound woke Hank about of his light slumber, and he shot up in a panic, eyes wide and blinking furiously. He was still alone in the small janitor's closet, the door blocked and locked. It wasn't as noisy out there anymore, and he wasn't sure how long he'd drifted off for.

  The noise came from his phone, whose battery was on the steady decline. Shitty new phones… can't hold a charge for more than a day. Grumbling, he rooted through the dirty desk shared by all three janitors and found a spare charger. It looked like someone had gnawed at the plastic tubing around the wires, but once he had it plugged in to a socket on the wall, he was pleased the thing still did its job.

  It was almost two. When he'd last checked, it was close to midnight, and yet there was still no word from Susie. Frowning, he punched around for her cell profile, then pressed the call option. She picked up on the second ring.

  "Hank," she whispered, and the sound made his blood run cold. "Hank, it's chaos… The city… It's… We're stuck in traffic."

  "Still?" He rubbed his eyes, sighing. "Are you okay though?"

  In the background, Hank could hear Craig and Cecelia talking noisily to one another, so much so that it was a little difficult to make out Susie's hushed words. "So far. Where've you been? Haven't heard from you in a while."

  He looked around, wondering if he ought to tell her the truth. Screw it. "Fell asleep in the janitor's office-slash-closet. They had me on the run, and I don't remember falling asleep… but here we are."

  "Honey, I'm sure you're exhausted."

  "Yeah." He shouldn't have slept. His wife was out there, in a car with fucking Craig and surrounded by a nightmare downtown. "How's Rudy doing?"

  "I think he knows something's up," she told him, and he could almost see her rubbing the dog's head. "He'll be excited to see you."

  "Feeling's mutual."

  "Hank, the power keeps cutting out everywhere."

  He settled on the floor, careful to keep the phone plugged in, and then ran his hand through his hair. They'd need a beacon to get to the school if there were no streetlights: it'd be hours until sunrise.

  His eyes wandered over to the power cords hanging from the closest wall, and an idea struck.

  "I'm going to get a flood light set up on the roof," he said, working through the plan with her. "It'll highlight all those… people for you, and Craig'll be able to find the school easier."

  "But it might draw them to you," she argued. "They seem interested in bright things."

  "I'll be on the roof," he insisted. "They don't seem that smart… Once you guys get here, I'll point the light in the opposite direction, climb down, and then we can make a run for it. Sound good?"

  "I don't know, Hank, it seems a little—"

  And then the line went dead. It wasn't a problem with his phone: the thing was still charging, though the percentage charged hadn't gone above ten yet. Must have been a problem on her end—the thought made his chest constrict, his stomach turning over on itself as his throat tightened. The thought of not being able to contact her… He couldn't…

  Shaking his head, he tried calling her a few times, but it went to the answering machine on each attempt.

  "Damn it," he muttered, setting the phone down after a few more failed attempts to reach her. There was no point in wallowing in the closet if her battery had died—it wouldn't do either of them any good. So, he forced himself up and started gathering the necessary supplies.

  The floodlight was on the roof already, though he'd want to hook it up to the back-up generators rather than the normal power source. He wasn't about to play some bullshit game of Morse code if the spotlight kept flickering on and off with the shoddy electrical connection. If it had hit the whole city, it wouldn't surprise him if the school stayed dark. However, for now, the lights were working around him, and he tried to move as fast as possible.

  Power cords wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and on his utility belt he attached a few tools that would help him in a pinch. Hell, a hammer could probably knock one of those guys unconscious if they were hit hard enough.

  But how was he supposed to get to the roof? Even if the halls were quieter, he could still hear something shuffling around out there when he pressed his ear to the wood. There was no telling if the intruders increased or decreased in numbers while he'd napped, but he wasn't about to risk getting himself up a creek without a paddle when Susie was on her way to find him.

&nbs
p; They'd been so quick to tune into him before. Dead eyes darted his way. Nostrils flared. Mouths hung open, bloody saliva dripping from them…

  He paused, the mental image of the moment when the people first spotted him burned into his mind. Nostrils flared. Like animals. Like predators hunting.

  Hank was a hunter. He went into the countryside with his dad all the time, picking off deer and rabbits and turkeys… To avoid detection, they usually coated themselves in whatever scent seemed most neutral to the prey in mind. Sometimes he'd spend whole weekends smelling like dung, but it was worth it if it meant bagging a prize.

  Well, now he was the prize to be bagged, and the tables had officially turned. Scent was a big player during the hunt, and, maybe, if he could disguise himself…

  Turning away from the door, he rooted through all the spray bottles of chemical compounds at his disposal. A lot of the stuff would leave you wish rashes and burns if applied directly to the skin, so he rolled his sleeves down and buttoned up his shirt to the top-most loop.

  Then doused himself in cleaning chemicals. Bleach. Glass cleaner. Toilet scrub. As long as it avoided his skin, he figured he was good—and he definitely didn't smell appealing. The bleach alone was enough to make him cough, the lack of ventilation in the small room making his head spin.

  Maybe the bleach was a bad idea, but there was no going back now. Almost every inch of fabric was soaked in some chemical or another, and he was pretty damn surprised he hadn't passed out yet. He couldn't undo it either; there was no way he was going to run around the school naked—Craig would have an absolute field day when his obnoxious vehicle rolled up to the school, and Susie would never let him live it down.

  Though maybe he could be excused, given the circumstances.

  Even though his phone was barely at a 12 percent charge, he yanked it out of the plug and tucked it in his pocket. If he left it alone, he'd probably have enough battery for Craig to call once they made it to the school.

  Taking a deep breath (and immediately regretting it), Hank tentatively moved the boxes of cleaning product away from the door, then slowly undid the lock mechanisms. The lights flickered when he opened the door, the bright white lighting again an assault on his eyes. He left the janitor's closet open in case he needed to make another hasty retreat, and then stepped out into the hall. He braced for impact, shoulders hunching downward, his eyes fixed on the few bloody figures limping around nearby.

  But there was nothing. No swarm of crazed crazies, no thunderous footsteps down the hall in his general direction. Nothing. Hank kept his steps light, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention, but with each bloodied invader he passed, his confidence grew.

  If they couldn't smell him, they couldn't be bothered with him. Sure, a few glanced his way, turning their heads slowly and groaning, but none—zero—made a move for him. Hank almost laughed; it was either laugh or cry at this point, but the relief was overwhelming. Turning back on his heel, he hurried to the janitor's closet, this time stocking up on cleaning materials. Six bottles were tucked under each arm, the load to carry immense, but he wanted to have enough to get him and Susie through whatever the hell this was.

  Maybe Craig could get some too. He could have the bleach.

  If anyone saw him in that moment, they'd probably think he was the crazy one. Wrapped up in cords, tools hanging from his hips, and chemical cleaners clutched to him, his smile was probably the craziest thing about him. As Hank moved through the corridors, taking an easy stroll to the staircase that led directly to the roof, his eyes glistened. Even if this nightmare lasted a few days, depending on how long it took for the emergency relief workers to sort it out, at least he and Susie would make it through totally undetected.

  He'd make damn sure of that.

  *******

  Connecting the floodlight on the roof to the back-up generators proved to be a little more difficult than Hank had anticipated. Even though he was used to fixing just about everything the school needed him to do, he wasn't a certified electrician. It wasn't as easy as taking a cord and plugging it in somewhere else—this required actual thinking, and he did most of it under a dark sky, the blackness littered with hundreds of bright stars. Most of the city was in a sweeping blackout, the usual skyscrapers no longer lit with late-night workers and downtown insomniacs.

  Instead, he saw what he usually did when he was hunting with his dad: a starry sky, though unlike his hunting trips, that morning's sky was marred with plumes of smoke from across the city. Tainting the skyline, big clouds of grey and white spiraled upward into the darkness. In a way, it was almost… beautiful, but Hank knew that the people experiencing the fires couldn't see much of the beauty.

  When he finally got everything hooked up, he shone the light into the sky first, hoping that any air support might notice the thick beam coming from a residential zone. He'd heard helicopters whipping through the air repeatedly since he'd situated himself on the roof, but thus far he'd yet to actually see one. That didn't matter. At least he knew they were hard at work.

  He shifted the heavy metal light toward the street next, and the sight before him made his heart sink. There were dozens of bloody men and women wandering around, and the beam of light caught all their attentions. They wandered across the school's lawn, reaching out to touch something they never could, and Hank kept the beam moving. Searching cars and illuminating stop signs, he'd hoped to see Craig's beast of a vehicle waiting somewhere down the street.

  But he didn't. He saw nothing expect for them. Everywhere. Crawling, lumbering, limping. Some were missing limbs, others carried discarded ones with them.

  "Holy Hell," he muttered, leaning heavily on the floodlight. When would he really wake up? When would he come to and realize he'd fallen asleep in the teacher's lounge after his phone call with Susie?

  He had so many questions, and yet Hank knew, deep down, that this was a waking nightmare, one he couldn't click his heels and be free from.

  With the light working and the street lamps flickering on and off, he went for his phone again. This time, he tried Cecelia's number, knowing Susie probably wouldn't be able to answer. It rang for a long time, each new cycle grating his already frayed nerves. When someone finally picked up on the other end, there was no answer—nothing but screaming greeted his ears. He almost dropped the phone, the sounds leaving a piercing ring in his ear, but he held tight, bellowing all of their names into the phone.

  There was no answer, and yet in that moment, it was like he didn't need one. A part of him knew what might be happening over there, but it was a part he was unwilling to accept. He pressed down hard on the disconnect button, then shoved the phone back in his pocket with trembling hands.

  Rather than dwelling on it, Hank turned his attention to the street. The screams could have belonged to other people. Cecelia could have dropped her phone. Focus. Focus on the now. Throwing his shoulders back, he began to run the flood light up and down the street, a cool spring breeze tickling his sweat-soaked skin.

  Any minute now, she'd come flying around the corner, with or without Craig—he was fine either way at this point. All that mattered was Susie. She'd be there. She'd come.

  She had to.

  *******

  In the distance, a teenage boy tumbled out of the suburbs, his clothes wrecked from backwoods riverine romping, his backpack filled with the treasured goods of others. All curses and anger and venom, he moved through the shadows as best he could. The night had beaten him. It had taken every part of him, chewed it up, then spat it back out, and he wasn't the same anymore.

  He'd prepared for this. He'd played the post-apocalyptic video games. He'd read the comics books. Yet here he was, broken, shaking, clinging to a gun he'd found on another dead kid before he hit the right part of town. There were only two bullets left, and he was too scared to fire them—but too terrified about what might happen if he let go of the gun. It was only a matter of time before the night swallowed him whole, and he needed the gun to live—but firin
g it would draw in every freak in the neighborhood.

  "Keep it together, Collin," he muttered, his heart racing when something—maybe a cat—knocked over a few metal garbage bins. Yeah, maybe a fucking cat. Closing his eyes tight, he held in a whimper before pushing on. He'd gone from a middle-class suburban lane to the hoity-toity upper-class block of the city. It wasn't a place he'd ever dream of robbing, and yet as he crawled by houses, he wondered if he'd be able to take refuge inside one of the sprawling manors.

  In the end, he decided on a much easier target. Drawn in by the roving floodlight, he spotted a prep school with plenty of smashed windows. Sure, there was a healthy herd of freaks out front, but they seemed distracted with the big beam of light moving up and down the street.

  Keeping low to the ground, he jogged across the distance and hopped in an open window, inhaling sharply when he tore his jeans open on a shard of glass.

  *******

  A woman in a workout suit, a gym's logo stitched on her chest, was running. Faster and faster, her weary body unable to push itself for much longer—and they had endless energy. The infected could probably outlast any star athlete, which made her want to collapse on the street and weep.

  Sunlight coated the broken city, a layer of smoke blocking out what could have been blue skies. She'd only been free from work for a half hour, and already it was obvious no one was coming to help her.

  "Move, Sara," she barked at herself, willing her legs to pump harder. Soon enough, she had a bit of a distance on the trio chasing her, and even sooner she found her sanctuary: a school. Up the street from her gym, its windows were busted, but there weren't any herds of sick and dying blocking the entryways. Her throat burned. Her legs were one step above jelly.