Mitch must have been able to read the expression on my face. "Don't worry. I'm not a believer in the product. I'm just a spokesman."
I snorted. "You don't believe in God?"
He waved the pistol around. "Do you, after all this shit?"
"No. But you sell Bibles."
"Sold," he corrected. "Somehow, I don't think I'll have much business anymore. Yeah, I sold them. I sold lots of things-televisions, cars, computers, insurance, and vacuum cleaners. There was just more money in Bibles."
Laughing, we continued on our way.
Behind us, the fires spread, driving the dead forward.
Chapter Four
After fifteen tense minutes of sneaking through alleys and side streets, staying out of sight of the zombies when we could, we finally emerged at the waterfront. We smelled seawater. To our right was an old factory that had been converted into a nightclub. It took up the whole block. Past the nightclub was the old Sylvan Learning Center building and several luxury hotels that towered into the sky. In the distance was the Inner Harbor itself, along with the stadium and downtown Baltimore's skyline. Buildings were on fire there, too. On our left was the private yacht club. We could see all kinds of little boats and pleasure crafts tied up at the docks. Leftover yuppie toys. There was no movement inside the club. We heard a bell toll once; probably mounted to someone's mast. It was the loneliest sound in the world. A twelve-foot high wire mesh fence surrounded the yacht club. The gates were chained and padlocked. Curled lengths of razor wire stretched across the top of the fence. Security cameras were stationed every ten feet, along with floodlights. The cameras and lights were dead, of course, just like everything else.
"What is it with fucking padlocks tonight?" 1 fingered the lock and then turned back to Mitch. "Don't suppose you got a pair of bolt cutters in your backpack?"
"No. Wish I did. I take it this isn't the first time you've been stymied by a lock tonight?"
I shook my head. Above us, a pigeon took flight with an angry squawk. I envied the bird. Found myself wishing we all had wings so we could fly above the city. Mitch stared up at the bird, too, and then turned to the fence.
"We can't climb it either," he said. "The kids would cut the shit out of themselves on that razor wire."
"I can climb," Malik said. "I ain't afraid of no wire."
"I am," Mitch replied. "And you should be, too. It'll cut the hell out of you. Slice your arms and legs to ribbons."
Malik appeared doubtful.
I stared at the boats-so close and yet so far away. "Couldn't we just shoot the lock off?"
"Not one that big. That's high-end, American-made steel. A smaller lock, yeah, it would work. A round or two from the forty-five and we'd have no problem. But we don't have the firepower to even dent that fucking thing. We could use a grenade, but that would attract too much attention." He kicked the fence in frustration. "The owners really made sure no one could get in."
"Doesn't surprise me," I said. "There were a lot of homeless people in this area. Used to beg off the tourists and college kids, and the folks over in the office blocks. No doubt they'd have slept on the boats if they could have gotten in."
Instead of responding to me, Mitch raised his pistol and fired a shot past us. The empty shell clattered onto the ground. Tasha, Malik and I all jumped in surprise. I turned around. A zombie lay in the street, blood spreading in a pool from its head. It had been creeping up on us in silence.
"We'd better figure something else out," Mitch said. "And quickly. That shot is sure to bring more of them."
I pointed at a small, cinder block building next to the nightclub. A sign outside indicated that it was a machine shop. "Maybe we could try in there. Find something to cut this chain with?"
"Good idea."
"Come on, guys." I motioned for Tasha and Malik to follow us and they did.
We ran across the street to the machine shop. The only entrance from our side of the building was through a large, graffiti-covered garage door. I figured it would be locked, but when Mitch bent over and tugged at the handle, the door rose a few inches. Maybe the owners had not had time to lock it, or maybe someone else had already broken in. Unoiled pulleys screeched. A horrible slaughterhouse stench drifted out.
Tasha grabbed my arm. "That smells like…"
Grunting, Mitch yanked on the door. It rose higher.
"Mitch," I whispered. "Wait."
My warning was too late. Mitch let go of the handle and the door shot upward, disappearing into the ceiling. The interior was pitch-black, but something moved in the shadows. We saw feet. Then legs. Zombies lurched out of the darkness-two; then six; then a dozen. The machine shop was full of them. Guess they'd been trapped inside for a while, unable to open the door. Just standing there rotting, waiting for someone to free them. A few of them had exploded abdomens. Others suffered from swollen, leaking limbs. Mitch jumped backward and the dead spilled out into the street. There were more inside, stumbling toward the light.
Mitch stayed cool. He raised his pistol with both hands. Keeping his feet spread apart at shoulder-width, he opened fire, squeezing off six shots. Each one was true, and six zombies fell to the pavement. Tasha screamed as one of the corpses lunged for her, but then she raised her pistol and fired. The handgun jerked upward, and the bullet missed. She fired again, blowing a hole in the creature's shoulder. The zombie reached for her and 1 slammed it in the jaw with the butt of my rifle. It toppled backward, sprawling on the ground. Tasha stepped forward and shot it in the head at point-blank range. The corpse's hair caught on fire. Blood and brains and skull fragments splattered upward. Tasha gagged.
"Good girl," I said softly. "You didn't get any blood in your mouth or eyes, did you?"
"No," she answered. Then she leaned over and threw up on her shoes.
Malik, meanwhile, clutched his grenade in one hand and darted back and forth in front of us, dodging zombies and staying out of Mitch's line of fire. The boy seemed excited. Frantic, even, but he showed no fear. Despite everything, 1 smiled.
"There are more of them inside," Malik shouted. "Too many for you guys to shoot."
"Lamar!" Mitch called as he changed magazines. "Don't just stand there. Shoot the fuckers!"
I grabbed Tasha's arm. "Are you okay?"
"No," she said, shaking me off and raising her pistol again. "I'm wet, I'm cold, I smell like smoke, and I just threw up all over my shoes."
My reply was drowned out as she squeezed the trigger again. It didn't matter if she was fine or not- she was okay enough to start shooting again. That was good enough for me. Turning, I set the rifle's stock against my shoulder, closed one eye and sighted through the scope, picking a female zombie with a ragged bite wound on her cheek as my target. I pulled the trigger. The rifle's stock slammed against my body, making my arm go numb. Watching through the scope, I saw the creature's head explode in magnified color. Grinning, I picked another target and did the same. Then another and another. My shoulder ached, but it was a good pain. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I felt more confident than before. With the scope, I was a much better shot. Then, the fifth time I squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. Remembering that Mitch had said the rifle held four bullets, I cried out for more. At the same time, Tasha clicked empty, too.
"Mitch," I yelled. "We need more ammo."
More dead poured from the building and into the street, forcing us backward. A few of them moaned with hunger, but they were mostly silent. Some of them had decomposed so badly that there wasn't much left of them-just arms and legs and gaping, toothless mouths. Another large group of corpses appeared farther down the street. I recognized a few of them from the battle we'd witnessed earlier. Still more of the creatures exited the nightclub, drawn to the sounds of conflict.
A man ran out into the street. I don't know where he came from, but we immediately knew he was one of us-alive-just from the way he was screaming. An undead rat hung from his face, tiny claws digging into his flesh, yellow incisors ri
pping at his cheek. Infecting him with the disease. Poor bastard was dead already. He just didn't know it.
"Help me," he begged. His voice was slurred- reminded me of Alan. The rat dug deeper, shredding flesh. "Help me, please!"
Mitch fired one shot, killing both the rat and its victim. When Mitch looked up again, his eyes widened at the number of zombies slowly homing in on us.
"Mitch," I hollered again. "We need more bullets!"
"No time," he said. "There's too many of these things. Let's get the hell out of here."
Malik stepped forward. "Ya'll are forgetting something."
He pulled the pin the way Mitch had shown him and tossed the grenade overhand. It soared over the creatures' heads and through the open garage door, disappearing deep inside the building.
I froze. "Oh shit…"
"Move!"
Mitch shoved us forward, sprinting back toward the fence. Tasha and I started to follow him, but Malik refused to move. I don't even know if he heard us. His attention was focused on the machine shop. His eyes shone with anticipation, and he licked his lips. Just like any other boy his age, he wanted to see something blow up, and know that he'd done it. I'd been the same way as a kid, when we used to buy penny sticks and M-80s from the guy at the Korean grocer.
I grabbed his arm and pulled. "Come on, Malik."
"But I want to-"
"Now!"
We ran. Seconds later, the grenade went off behind us. There was a brief flash and a muffled thump. 1 heard debris rain down, clattering on the pavement. Something hot zipped by my ear. When we reached the fence, the four of us turned around. Smoke and flames poured out of the machine shop, but no more zombies exited the building. But that didn't matter. Malik may have destroyed the zombies inside the building, but there were plenty more. At least four dozen were in the street now, and coming for us in that slow, determined way.
"Shit," Mitch said, grabbing another grenade off his belt. "Somebody rang the dinner bell."
"What are you doing?" Tasha asked.
"What we should have done in the first place. I'm going to blow that lock off. You three get back."
We stepped back out into the street, but the zombies swarmed toward us. Their stench grew with every faltering step. More and more of them kept coming: humans, dogs, cats, rats, and something that had been skinned-something so pink and glistening that I couldn't tell what it used to be. Whatever its origin, now it was just one of them- an eating machine.
"Forget it," 1 said. "Another minute and they'll be on us."
"Bullshit," Mitch argued. "They're slow. I'm gonna blow the gate and then we'll be home free."
"Mitch. Look behind us. We can't get out of the grenade's range without running into them. There's no time!"
"Please, Mr. Bollinger," Tasha pleaded. "Let's just go-"
Malik stuck close to Mitch. He watched the approaching hordes with wide eyes. "Yo, give me another grenade. I'll take care of them."
Mitch looked at the locked gate; then at the zombies, and then turned to me.
"Goddamn it. You're right. Let's go."
"Stick close to the fence," I told the kids. "Don't let them box you in. They may be slower than us, but if enough of them fill the street, we'll be trapped."
"Where are we going?" Tasha shouted as we ran.
"The harbor," I choked. "Maybe we can hole up inside the aquarium for a while."
I knew how stupid that sounded. How hopeless and futile. The National Aquarium was the centerpiece in Baltimore's busiest tourist area. No way was it free of zombies. But I didn't know what else to do, and Mitch wasn't offering up any alternatives.
"What about a paddleboat?" Tasha suggested. "We rode on one last year when we took a field trip to the Inner Harbor. They hold four people."
I nodded, gasping for breath. "Good idea."
The undead followed after us with single-minded determination. Their feet echoed on the street and sidewalks. Their stench went before them like a cloud.
"Give me your guns," Mitch said. He still had my useless shotgun. It was wedged between his backpack and his shoulder blades. I raced along beside him, watching as he ejected my magazine and loaded in a fresh one that he pulled from the backpack. I was impressed. He did it without pausing, found the bullets without having to search through the pack. Mitch tossed the rifle back to me and then did the same for Tasha.
My lungs burned, and my legs were starting to feel like rubber. It felt like I'd been running for hours, and in truth, I had. Since leaving the kids' apartment, we'd been on the run, chased by one zombie after another without a chance to catch our breath. I was amazed the kids were holding up as well as they were. Personally, I felt like dropping. Mitch was panting, too. He'd seemed like he was in good shape. I wondered just how heavy his backpack was and what he had inside of it.
Tasha turned around and raised her pistol. I guess she'd wanted to take a shot, lessen the pursuit. But instead of doing that, she froze, staring at the onrushing corpses.
"There's so many. Look at them all."
She didn't sound afraid; just stunned.
I nudged her. "Keep running, Tasha. Don't look back anymore. Just run."
Three mangled corpses lunged out of the shrubs in front of the Sylvan Learning Center building. Mitch snapped off three shots, dropping them before they could cut us off.
Three down, 1 thought. How far can we get before the rest of them catch us?
I had four bullets left-one for each of us, if it came to that.
Mitch darted down an alley between a travel agency and a Whole Foods grocery store.
"This way," he called.
"No," I insisted. "We have to head for the harbor. That way takes us back into the ghetto."
"Hope you're right." He paused. "I'll lay down some cover fire."
Mitch changed course and followed us, now bringing up our rear. His heavy biker boots pounded the pavement, his footfalls punctuated with pistol fire as he chose targets over his shoulder. It was like pouring a glass of water into the ocean. The creatures continued their slow-moving charge.
They don't get tired, I thought. We're staying ahead of them, but they're like the goddamned En-ergizer Bunny. They keep going and going and going. But we don't. Sooner or later, we ain 't gonna be able to run any more. And then they'll catch up…
Malik and Tasha pulled ahead of me. I stared at the backs of their heads and shifted my grip on the rifle. Could I do it? If it came down to it, could I shoot them, shoot Mitch, and shoot myself? I didn't know. And then it didn't matter.
Because we found salvation.
We rounded the corner. The National Aquarium was on our left and the Hard Rock Cafe and Barnes and Noble store were behind us. In front of us, tied up along the waterfront, was the USCGC Spratling. I'd expected that, of course, but what I hadn't counted on was that the ship was apparently operational. Seemed that way from where we stood. The lights were on, the engines thrummed, and there were people onboard it-living people, not zombies. They moved too fast to be dead, and some of them carried guns. Several of them were casting off the big ropes that kept the ship tied to the cement pier. Heavy chains clanked as the anchor slowly rose out of the dark water. One man leaned over the railing and shouldered his rifle, bringing down a corpse on the steps of the Barnes and Noble.
"Holy crap," Mitch panted. "We're saved…"
He'd pretty much summed it up.
We stood there sweating and gasping for breath, momentarily forgetting about the zombies and the inferno behind us. Tasha began to cry. I put my arm around her, and then realized that I was crying, too.
"They're casting off," Mitch shouted. "Come on!"
We stumbled after him, with the dead right on our heels and the flames consuming everything in their path. The stench of decay grew stronger, which meant the zombies were closing the gap.
Mitch waved his arms, pistol still clutched in one hand. "Hey! Over here. Hey, onboard!"
If they saw us, the crew gave no indication
of it. Maybe from that distance, they thought we were just four more zombies. Two more of the big ropes were hauled onto the deck, and the anchor completed its ascent with a thunderous clang. The engines roared louder and the water at the rear of the boat began to churn.
"Motherfuckers!" Mitch hollered. "Wait for us! Over here. Wait!"
A steel gangplank connected the ship to the concrete walkway. My stomach sank as I watched them begin to raise it.
"They're leaving," Tasha whimpered. "They're leaving without us. Why don't they wait?"
I stopped running, raised my rifle into the air and fired off all four rounds.
That got the crew's attention.
Immediately, all hands on deck turned in our direction. We still weren't close enough to make out their expressions, but I can guess what they were. Because when I turned around to see how close our pursuers were, I screamed. Before Hamelin's Revenge, Baltimore had a population of just over 700,000 people. Now, with the exception of the people on the ship, it looked like all of them were dead-and coming for us. I don't know if it was the fires or just the sounds of us fleeing, but the zombies' numbers had grown during the chase. Every mobile corpse in the area seemed to now be converging on our location. Not just humans, either. There were animals in the mix, too. Lots of dogs and rats. Another creature stepped out of the throng. A tiger. A dead fucking tiger. Probably escaped from the Baltimore Zoo, and was now prowling around the city.
"Fuck me running," I whispered. Then I turned and chased after the others. "Mitch, I'm gonna need more ammo again."
"Yeah," Malik echoed. "And I'm gonna need another grenade."
Another human zombie emerged from behind a trash barrel, cutting us off from the ship. It wore the bloodied remains of a blue work shirt. Something moved beneath the fabric, almost as if he were pregnant. The creature took another step and the shirt parted. Where his stomach had once been, there was now a hollow cavity, empty-except for the dead rat squirming inside it. Mitch fired one shot into the abdomen, pulverizing the rat. Then he drilled another round into the zombie's head.
Brian Keene Page 7
