by P. J. Post
Keats goes with it.
I pull my .45 but I can’t get a shot off fast enough.
I can barely see him between the bloody arms and heads and hungry hands, shoving his way through the horde, pushing toward…what?
He screams as they get to him and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it.
Emily buries her face into my stomach.
I stroke her hair and look across the street to Samantha. She’s staring back, and motions toward the building. I nod. Better to get the kids off this fucking thing.
I watch them disappear into the shadows of the upper floors of the Tweed and Feed as Keats shrieks in agony. A few minutes later Samantha returns.
“What now?” she shouts.
Only one leg of the tower is left, like a box-beam. It really does look like a tightrope now, although a few bent and twisted supports are still attached, sticking up from it at odd angles. At every connecting joint going up the tower, a slab of sheet metal, about the size of a pair of shoes, is bolted through all of the framing, and at each joint a structural support twists up toward the sky; the whole thing looks like the disembodied spine of some great beast. Connecting each of the vertebrae is a six-inch ribbon of steel.
It’s like walking along the top of a curb, from lamp post to lamp post.
Everyone’s done that.
Easy peasy.
A curb that’s less than two feet above evil, undead motherfuckers waiting for their chance to rip your flesh from your bones, but still, it’s just a curb.
I look down at the bags.
We need them.
“Don’t, it’s too much, not with Emily,” Samantha shouts at me.
“What do you think, Em, ever dream about being in the circus?” I ask.
Keats screams again.
The color drains from her face, her bluer blue eyes are piercing in the gray afternoon. She looks terrified, but she smiles and nods.
We’re all great liars.
I step out, testing the ribbon of steel.
It sways.
Fuck me.
We’re going to die.
Emily takes my hand. “We can do this.”
Can she read my mind too?
A new voice shouts across the crowded street. “I’ll say this for you two; you’re the loudest unrequited lovers I’ve seen since this whole thing started.”
Fuck me, it’s Cam.
He’s standing on the roof next to the Tweed and Feed in dingy, white and lime green motorcycle leathers, his long hair blowing in the breeze, a black helmet in one hand and an assault rifle in the other.
Samantha turns and I can see the relief from here. Whatever they have, it’s special. And that’s a good thing.
He says something to her but I can’t tell what.
“Sam’s right, you are a damsel in distress. I heard you were some kind of badass, Ghost or something, guess I heard wrong,” he shouts across the street as more refugees with rifles line up along the edge of the buildings. I can see some of their faces from here, but don’t recognize any by name.
Emily looks up and grins.
“Did you find the kids?” he asks.
“Some.”
“Did they make it?”
“Some.”
“How many is some?”
“Five.”
“Five’s not bad, not bad at all. Need a hand?”
I laugh. “A little.”
“Hang on.” He raises a fist like in the movies and disappears back beyond the edge of the roof.
The kids come out of the building to see what’s going on, which is fine, the tower is pretty stable at the top where all the dishes and shit are bolted to it.
“Sam, what are we waiting on?” I shout.
She shrugs.
I hate to think if we’d waited ten minutes, Carlton and Keats might still be alive.
Emily takes my hand and we stand here under the cold December clouds, waiting for rescue.
It’s a weird feeling, waiting like this — to be rescued.
It’s liberating.
But it doesn’t last long.
Cam steps out of the Tweed and Feed next to Samantha and hugs her.
“I missed Cam,” Emily says.
“I did too, Punkin’.”
And then I see them talking, arms swinging around. Samantha’s not happy about something. I can’t see the other kid’s faces from here enough to know what they’re thinking or to know what’s going on.
Shit.
“Guys?” I shout.
They ignore me.
Finally, Cam walks down to the edge, where the tower broke. “I got shooters here. They’ll try to keep the zombies underneath you cleared away, just in case. That’s all I got, bro, sorry. Try not to fall. If it gets…if it goes wrong, you won’t suffer.”
He pats his rifle.
“Thanks, you’re a real friend!”
Fucker.
I take a deep breath, we can do this, Emily said so.
Pixie said everything’s going to be just great.
Relax Lane, it ain’t no thang.
I pull out the duct tape and run a bunch of loops about three feet long between the handles of the oversized duffel bags, creating a tether. Hopefully, if I have to drop them, they’ll hang from the tower framing and we can come back and get them later.
I take one of the bags in each hand and carefully stand up.
They’re heavy.
I feel the familiar buzzing again, behind my ears at the base of my skull, and it reminds me that Carlton and Keats didn’t have a chance after all — fucking Fate.
I try to ignore the sensation, and Fate — what might happen — and give the tower another try. We don’t have a choice. The ribbon sways again but not as badly as I thought it was going to.
I have one foot on the roof and one on the tower. “Emily, take a hold of my belt and walk sideways. If you slip, I’ll drop the bags and catch you, okay?”
“It’s easier front-ways.”
“Em…”
“I can do this.”
I keep seeing Carlton’s eyes begging for me not to shoot him.
“Trust me.” She’s so little, and like Jem — so earnest, even though she’s scared.
I can’t get Keats’ screams out of my head either.
I kiss the top of her head and hug her.
“Safety,” I say.
She reaches into her coat and pulls her .38 out and checks the safety before shoving it back into her pocket.
I drop a bag onto the roof and then grab her by the coat, pick her up and set her down on the tower in front of me. It sways some, but her feet are small enough to easily fit on the steel. It sways and she instinctively puts her arms out for balance.
I’m still holding the tower steady with my foot on the roof…
“It’s going to sway here in a second, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll count, okay, on three…”
“One…”
I see her tense.
“Two…”
She bends her knees…anticipating.
“Three.”
I pick up the other bag from the roof, and shift my weight…the tower shifts with me, swaying way out over the Button Eyes below.
Emily staggers and steps forward to catch herself — surfing the steel.
I try to keep my own balance, but reach forward with my right hand and grab her coat through the duffel bag handle, and steady her.
“Slow,” I encourage, and once we’re stable, I let go. “One foot after the other. Remember the ladder over the alley. You kicked its ass.”
“It wasn’t moving.”
Fair enough. “That ain’t no thang, not for the Pixie Girls.”
“Not for the Pixie Girls,” she whispers.
I stay close enough to grab her if anything happens.
I can feel the framing beginning to undulate as well as sway.
But inch by inch, we get closer to the first vertebrae
sticking up, this is the longest stretch.
Her little feet slide forward, soft steps. She’s trying to compensate for the bounce.
Step.
Bounce…
Slide.
Sway…
Stop.
Repeat.
She doesn’t slow down when she gets to the first vertebrae; she barely touches it for balance and keeps going.
Good girl.
I have to stop to raise the bags over the framing, and when I clear it, Emily is too far for me to reach. But she’s in a rhythm, I don’t want her to have to stop, to rethink what she’s doing.
I try to move faster, to catch up, but the steel doesn’t like it and begins to react badly.
Emily slows down and bends her knees and comes to a stop anyway.
The bouncing slows and then I hear a child screaming again.
It’s the tower.
The ribbon slowly begins to dip, lower and lower — the gnarled hands of the Button Eyes getting closer and closer. It’s the far end that’s coming apart, taking us down with it.
“Stay still, Em!” I shout.
It feels like the street is rising like a flood, the water getting higher and higher, the hands closer and closer…the mouths…
The tower groans.
The low point in front of us is only inches above the highest of the Button Eye hands now.
Cam and Samantha are standing a couple of feet above where the framing was seconds ago, and the tower continues to bend and screech…
And then, after hours for seconds, it stops.
“Now?” Emily asks without turning around.
She’s poised like a dancer, knees slightly bent, her hands in front of her like she’s holding back an invisible attacker.
“Yeah.”
Step.
Slide.
We were walking more or less on level steel, now we’re walking downhill, and we’ll have to climb at the end.
She slips past the next vertebrae and picks up speed. We’re almost at the lowest point now, and I can feel the framing bending under our weight…getting closer and closer to those deadly hands.
Thank God these fuckers never learned how to jump.
It looks like we’re wading through a sea of waving hands and flexing fingers — they’re inches below us.
And we’re only halfway.
“Em, you okay?” I ask.
“Okay.”
And then the groan returns and the steel lurches, dropping a full foot.
We’re among them now.
“Run!” I scream at Emily, but she’s already racing up the ribbon of steel, ignoring the vertical supports as she passes them.
I kick at the hands wrapping around the framing and try not to fall as I run after her.
Cam and his buddies open fire, turning the evil fucking Button Eyes under us into piles of so much cord wood. But more of them blunder and crawl over the dead, pressing under the tower, taking their place.
Emily is graceful as she runs, like one of those runway models, one foot in line with the one before…she’s fast, faster than she was yesterday.
I try not to think about the blood from the gunshots spraying my legs as I run up the tower, watching each step, trying to land on steel and not flesh.
And then the tower screams and the framing we’re running up begins to tip to the left, collapsing in on itself…it’s tipping slowly, rolling…but with each step we get closer…even as it gets tougher to remain upright and balance and…
Emily’s down.
Fuck!
The gunfire around her stops immediately.
I get two steps closer before the tower pitches me off.
I’m flying.
And then I’m not.
We’re in it now.
I shove one of the duffels in front of me, landing on arms and bodies as I try to find the ground,
Emily’s .38 booms ahead of me.
The gunfire intensifies again, and I can hear the zip of bullets in the air.
I roll over flesh and finally find the asphalt. I lose one of the duffels, letting it drag behind me and come up with my .45 in hand, firing point blank at the faces in front of me.
The duffels are holding the ghouls back, but the sheer weight of the fuckers is pressing against me…
Emily is screaming and screaming, and then her .38 goes silent.
She might survive bites, but not being torn apart.
Fuck…
Fuck…
Jesus no, no, no!
I keep shoving and firing and then I hear screams...
“Under!”
“Down!”
“Inside!”
A Button Eye grabs my ear, and it feels like he’s going to rip it the fuck off. I can’t get my eyes up to see where I’m going…I can smell the fucking rot in his teeth, bodies are suddenly reaching over the duffels, fingernails digging into my skin, ripping at my shirt.
Is this what Emily is suffering even now?
Is she being ripped apart like Keats was?
I feel hands on my feet, teeth…jaws clamping down on my boots…I wrench a hand free and get ear boy lined up and shoot him in the head.
He collapses, and I’m empty.
But as he falls, I understand.
“Get inside!” Cam shouts.
The top of the tower is a tightly woven web of steel, only a few feet wide — a tunnel of steel. Cam’s guys are keeping the entrance clear, shooting anything that gets close, but the bodies are piling up.
Emily is already inside, she’s just finish reloading and heading back for me.
What a great fucking kid.
I elbow another Button Eye as I drag other ghouls forward.
The buzzing is louder now, and I feel another fog coming over me, I feel Pixie hopping around in my head, but I try to stay in control…
No, Pixie, not now…I’m okay!
I hear the slap of bullets hitting meat again and then I feel the burns.
I see Button Eyes collapse around me, but I’ve been shot too.
The pain is becoming as foggy as everything else, my vision narrows. I see Emily ahead, kneeling and firing to either side of me.
Suddenly the path is clear and Emily motions me forward while she aims for Button Eyes behind me. I jump over the pile of bodies and crawl through the opening, trying to hang on to the duffels as I go.
Once I slip inside the tunnel, poles, like metal fence posts, and rebar and wood studs, slide through the top and stab into the bodies below.
I watch them, one after the other, like spears, until the Button Eyes are locked out, along with the other ammo bag.
“How’s that for a rescue, buddy?” Cam asks through the framing above. His eyes are terrified, but his smile is as infectious as ever.
I lay on my back staring up.
“Are you okay, Em?” I ask.
She’s on her hands and knees leaning over my head. She smiles and kisses my forehead, but she’s still trembling.
I’m suddenly really tired.
I look up to Samantha.
“Are we fucking there yet?”
§§§§§
“Where have you been?” Samantha asks Cam as we scramble up to the second, or is it the third floor, of the Tweed and Feed
“Where I told you I was going to be, Sam, holding the zombies at bay while you escaped,” Cam says, grinning.
“I meant the in between part,” she says.
“Oh, fighting fires, and zombies and gas mask wearing motherfuckers, the usual. Took a while to get down here, the streets are a skosh crowded, not sure you noticed, there must be a festival or something in town.”
“You’re in a good mood,” I say.
“I am.” He’s suddenly serious, his eyes fall on each of us. “I found you again.”
“And me,” Emily says.
Cam grabs her up and hugs her as she whoops and hollers and giggles.
We all met less than two weeks ago, and now she’s like his
kid sister. I look to each of the people crowding into the store room, taking seats on boxes full of Christmas inventory or whatever; I’d die for each and every one of them.
Samantha kicks a box into the middle of the room and pushes me down on it.
The carcass of the tower stretches out from the ruined front of the store and back across the street to what appears to have been a bank before we trashed it. The sky is still gray and cold, the wind whips through the broken walls.
She takes a pair of scissors and cuts my shirts away — again. Good thing we’re in a clothing shop, these were my last.
She pulls her mittens off and pokes and prods my shoulder.
“A couple of grazes, you big baby,” she says.
“Is it bad?” Cam asks with concern.
“No, not for a tough guy like this.”
“Sorry,” Cam mumbles.
“Thanks, Cam. It’s all good,” I say.
“Hey, find him some new shirts, there must be something in these boxes,” Samantha says, and then leans over and whispers in my ear, “One is a clean through and through, you’re going to need a sling.”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
It hurts like a motherfucker. I figured something like this was up. But the pain will pass, the flesh will scar and the wound will be a memory like so many before, Pixie Dust for the win. It’s just nice to be one block closer to the river, one step closer for my girls to get the fuck out of here.
I grab my pack and light a cigarette while Samantha patches me up, fucking again. I’m a goddamned pin cushion — without Pixie, I’m dead several times over already.
Jem is crouched up on a stack of boxes in the corner, her arms wrapped around her legs, staring at Cam like she doesn’t trust him, but Casey and Holly look smitten, like Cam’s some teen idol and they’re waiting to get their posters signed. They’re grinning like idiots.
Pixie is asleep on a pile of moving blankets.
And just like that, the trauma is gone; Jem and Emily were all smiles before we got up here. Even I feel a weird, misplaced elation. The apocalypse is turning everyone bipolar.
Make friends as quickly as you can.
Smile as often as you can.
Forget death as quickly as it comes.
