by J. R. Mabry
“Where the devil are they?” Dylan asked again.
“Hey, Kat, check that message again,” Mikael said. “Maybe we misunderstood Randy’s message. I read it pretty fast.”
Kat pulled out her phone and repeated Randy’s instructions. Dylan shook his head. “Nah, thet’s exactly where we’re at, mah friends.” He checked his watch. “Waal, we are a couple minutes early.”
“Yeah, but with all that’s going on here today, I’d expect every one of these entrances to be teeming,” Terry countered.
“Remember, this is Republicans we’re talkin’ about,” Dylan counseled. “Don’t pay to impose sense on the situation.”
“Sad but true,” Terry agreed.
“Uh…guys. Turn around. Slowly,” Kat instructed. As they did, they saw what she saw: a swarm of people moving in a single, lurching mass had followed them into the alley. They now blocked the only exit, sealing it up tight with their assembled bodies like a cork in a bottle of wine. They were beginning to look the worse for wear—suit pockets hung torn, ties were loose or missing, many were wearing what looked like rags, and a couple seemed to be naked.
Their movements were unnatural. Although a few of them moved swiftly and easily, most stumbled forward uncertainly, stiffly. One or two jerked spasmodically as if it were only proper for such a disheveled army to be ornamented by break dancers undergoing intermittent electric shocks.
As they advanced, more and more followed them into the alley. Kat could see no end to the lines of people flowing toward them. Dylan pounded harder and louder at the wall of metal doors, but they remained sealed, a solid and impenetrable wall behind them. Before them, another wall—this one composed of lurching, drooling flesh—advanced.
And the gap was closing.
91
THE MORNING RUSH HAVING FINISHED, Bishop could finally relax and enjoy a cup of coffee of his own. He came out from behind the bar and invited Richard to join him at one of the tables. Toby followed and found a spot underneath the table, cuddled at Richard’s feet. Stockton and Paulo were now playing liar’s dice, and the working group was still going at it, chatting excitedly, but most of the other patrons had filtered out to their jobs, their errands, their lives.
“What time do you roll out of bed?” Richard asked.
“Oh, usually about four,” Bishop smiled. “You get used to it. There’s lots to do, of course. On a good day, everything’s wrapped up by closing time, but sometimes there’s still a dish or two to wash in the morning.”
“What time do you close?” Richard asked.
Bishop moved his head from side to side. “Close is a very definite term. Officially, we stop serving at 10 p.m., but that doesn’t mean that people leave.”
“When does your shift end?” Richard asked.
“Shift?” Bishop asked. “I’m afraid that I’m all there is. Officially.”
“I’m getting the idea that ‘officially’ doesn’t have a lot of meaning around here,” Richard smiled.
“The Law was made for people, not people for the Law,” Bishop nodded.
“I’m going to pretend that wasn’t half as cryptic as it actually sounded.”
“You’re a kind man.” Bishop winked at him.
Richard fought down a fluttery feeling of lust. Don’t you dare fucking go there, Duunel said in his head. Richard ignored him.
“So, if you’re the only employee, and you close at 10 p.m. and get up at four, when do you sleep?” Richard asked, a little concerned.
“Well, I try to get a siesta in about midday,” Bishop said, playing with a napkin. “And I pretty much wander off to bed whenever I get tired.” He motioned to the back room. “Folks quiet down. They leave money on the counter for whatever they drink. And they lock the door when they go.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It’s the Kingdom, remember? If someone fails to pay for a beer, so what? I assume they just don’t have the money.”
“You live here?” Richard asked.
Bishop looked a bit sheepish. He nodded. “I’ve got a room in back. Want to see it?”
It was an odd question. One that Richard expected a friend to say when they were twelve—he didn’t expect to hear it from an adult. It occurred to him that it might be a come-on. He hoped it was. “Maybe later. So, you’re open at 6 a.m., you close at 10 p.m., and you’re the only employee,” Richard said. Bishop nodded. “When do you get out?”
“I don’t,” Bishop said.
“Really,” Richard pressed him, “when do you get some Bishop time?”
“I get plenty of that right here,” he said. “I’m in the place I love best. My place. And my friends come to me. I don’t leave. I’m serious. I don’t leave. Ever.”
“Ever?” Richard asked, cocking his head in disbelief. “When was the last time you left this building?”
“Hmm…” Bishop thought hard. “What year is it?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Bishop ignored him and counted on his fingers. “Twelve. Thirteen—no, twelve years.” Bishop’s shoulders slouched, and Richard saw a look in his eye that absolutely melted him. A look that said, I know that’s fucked up, but please don’t reject me.
“Bishop, I find that…incredible. You haven’t been to the doctor—”
“Strong as an ox,” he said.
“Or a dentist—”
“Haven’t had a cavity. My people aren’t English, thank God. Great teeth.” He flashed Richard an exaggerated grin, exposing more of his pearly whites than Richard was really comfortable seeing. On the other hand, it was hard not to imagine a mouth with such impressive plasticity going down—
Don’t you fucking even think it, Duunel almost screamed.
“Can’t help what I think,” Richard said under his breath.
You fucking well can, and you will. Of all people, I would think you would understand discipline.
“That’s a fine thing coming from a demon,” Richard whispered.
Just don’t forget: we have a deal.
“That’s a very odd conversation you’re having with yourself,” Bishop had leaned back, eyeing Richard curiously.
“Well, since we’re playing true confessions, there’s something I’m a bit hesitant to tell you about myself, too.”
“Let me guess, you eat all the crème middles from Oreos but throw the cookies away.”
“Worse,” Richard grinned.
“You actually watch American Idol?”
“Uh…I have done that,” Richard confessed, “but that’s not it.”
“Okay, I give up,” Bishop said. “What could possibly be worse?”
“I’m possessed by a demon. Named Duunel.” Richard forced a pained smile.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s worse,” said Bishop. Then he tilted his head to one side. “Can he cook?”
92
TERRY WATCHED the lurching horde advance toward them. Some sneered, sporting gleeful, hateful grins, but most of the faces were slack as if the inhabitants of those bodies had their hands full just operating the legs and couldn’t be bothered with minutiae like facial muscles. “It’s Larch’s fucking army,” he said.
“That’d be mah guess,” Dylan agreed, “Republicans usually shower.” He doubled his efforts at trying to get someone’s attention inside Moscone Center. He pounded with desperation, but no doors opened.
“Prepare for impact,” Terry said.
Dylan turned and judged their distance and the time they had before their inevitable engagement. “Terry, set wards,” he said. “Mikael, front and center—you keep as many of them motherfuckers busy as you can. Kat, you get on your phone, and get help here, fast.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Terry, sprinting off to find wardable objects.
Dylan tore a ragged board off a pallet leaning against the wall of the nearest building. “Ah’m gonna bust me a few heads before Ah go down!” he answered and gave the board a test swing as if he were a batter stepping up to the plate.
Kat punched at her phone, then held it to her ear as she watched Terry scramble, snatching up palm-size chunks of concrete, empty soda cans, and any other portable, distinguishable objects which might, at least for a while, bear the burden of warding.
The 911 operator picked up the phone. “Uh, hello?” Kat said, “Please send help! We’re outside the Moscone Center—”
“The Bret Harte Alley,” Dylan called to her, “at Fourth Street!”
Kat repeated this information breathlessly. “Please remain calm, and tell me what is happening,” the operator instructed.
Kat wanted to shout, “It’s the Zombie Apocalypse, you clueless bitch!” But she mastered herself. “We’re being attacked. By a large group of people. They’re going to kill us!”
“Units are responding now,” the woman said calmly. “Are the attackers armed?”
“They have arms—most of them,” Kat replied, “but no guns that I can see.”
Apparently having gained enough of the objects, Terry ran toward the advancing horde. He stopped several yards shy of them and dropped to his knees, placing a soda can on the ground and holding his hands over it as he invoked what Kat assumed to be an archangel or other spiritual forces.
“How many people are attacking you?” The woman’s voice was eerily sedate.
“Uh…I’d say about 250,” Kat estimated. “With more on the way.” The line of people turning into the alley from Fourth Street had not abated, she was distressed to see. They continued to flow in, a steady current of the damned.
Leaping up, Terry crossed to the other side of the alley and knelt again. Just then, one of the faster-moving of the possessed ran directly toward him. Kat had never seen Dylan move so quickly. In three strides he met the attacker. Kat saw his beefy arms grow taut beneath the fabric of his cassock as he swung the jagged board and caught the possessed man square on the jaw, sending him spinning off into the advancing wall of his fellows. This slowed the advance of the east flank momentarily, but others were hard upon them. Kat began barking hysterically into the phone as Mikael sprang forward, determined to buy her more time.
She watched in horror as he faced a wall of the horde alone and unarmed. As one of the damned lurched toward him, Mikael went into full randori mode. He dodged, grabbed the man’s arm, and pulled him off balance. Allowing his momentum to swing him around, Mikael ducked and shot his foot out, tripping another attacker. Another reached down to where Mikael now lay on his back. Mikael used this to his advantage by grabbing both shoulders and pulling down quickly as he rolled to his right. The man’s head hit the pavement, and Mikael swung to his feet, hands up, ready to ward off any blows. They were not long in coming.
Kat was so terrified, she no longer heard the operator’s voice, now escalating in its assertiveness. She dropped the phone and screamed as the body of the one of the damned struck the wall mere inches from where she was crouching, thrown there by one of Mikael’s rapid aikido strikes. The man groaned, and Kat gasped in recognition.
“I know you,” she said. The man’s head was bleeding, and his eyes blinked, confused. Just then, she saw the real person—the human person—emerge in his eyes. They grew large as he recognized her, but then he jerked in terror at the violence erupting all around him. “You’re Doug!!” Kat shouted. “Dylan, I know him!”
Dylan was swinging his board wildly, connecting again and again with the heads, shoulders, and torsos of the damned, but Kat could see that he was losing ground. “Uh…thet’s great, Kat. Give ’im mah regards!” He began to swing even more wildly, and Kat saw bits of hair and skin flying from the jagged board only to be trampled underfoot by those who followed after.
One of the damned had thrown himself on Mikael’s back, and Kat gasped as she saw Mikael stumble. Another threw himself on top of the first, and Mikael went down. “Mikael!” Kat shouted and leaped up, rushing now into the fray.
Kat was small, she knew that, but she was also catching many of them off guard. She pulled those leaning over Mikael backward and leaped out of the way as they stumbled. She instinctively resorted to fighting tactics she hadn’t used since elementary school, grabbing at a woman’s hair and yanking her off balance, then quickly stepping into her vacated place, trying to get closer to her beloved.
“What’s happening?” Doug cried. “Who are these people? What do they want?”
Kat didn’t pause to answer him. Instead, she kicked, spat, yanked, slapped, and punched her way into the knot of people piled on top of Mikael. In her peripheral vision, Terry leaped up and shouted, “Warded!” at the top of his lungs. She barely heard him, and it hardly mattered. A giant of a man roared, and she saw his shadow descending upon her before the weight of him hit. She crouched and screamed, holding her hands above her head in a useless gesture of protection when she heard an ear-splitting “thunk” and saw the man stagger aside, deterred from his deadly course by one well-aimed blow from Dylan’s makeshift bat.
Without pause, Kat dove back into the dogpile that covered her boyfriend, punching and clawing and dragging the bodies off him by sheer force of hysterical will. Moments later, she realized the work was going faster, and looked up to see the confused but determined face of Doug working beside her.
As she pulled them off, she saw Terry standing behind her and slightly to her right, pushing the damned back the way they had come. It occurred to her that the horde was thinning. She permitted herself a quick look around and realized that Terry’s wards must have succeeded. There seemed to be an imaginary line bisecting the alley—a line that the possessed could not cross, like an invisible force field from some old science fiction film. At one point, the damned simply could go no farther. As their fellows continued to rush in behind them, Kat could see the massed crowd’s crushing effects on those unfortunate enough to be in the front line.
That left a finite number of the damned on their side of the warded line, which seemed manageable until it registered that, not counting those they had wounded, it still left them outnumbered by about ten to one. Not the best odds, Kat thought, but I’ll take it over the hundred to one on the other side of that line.
“Who did you call?” Dylan shouted over his shoulder at her.
“What?” she asked, still yanking crushed bodies out of her way.
“On the phone! Who did you call?”
“I called 911!” she called back. “For what good it did!”
She hadn’t been paying attention to anything except the pile immediately in front of her. But now she understood why Dylan had asked. The piercing wail of sirens echoed off the alley’s walls, and a glance over her shoulder revealed the red strobe lights reflecting off the glass of the building’s windows next to them. For a moment, her hopes raised. But then she realized that the police were on the other side of the bottleneck of the possessed still pouring into the alley from Fourth Street. The police could no more get to the Blackfriars than the Blackfriars could get to the police. She set her teeth and attacked the pile in front of her with renewed vengeance.
“Call Susan,” Dylan ordered.
“Now?” Kat asked, incredulous.
“No, ten minutes after we provide supper fer the damned here,” Dylan managed a one-two slice that took down three of the damned at once. But Kat could see his strength flagging. His cassock hung crazily on his out-of-shape frame, and sweat was streaming down his face.
“Go,” Doug reassured her. “I’ll get this.”
She gave a curt nod and leaped free of the dogpile, snatching her phone from her pocket. It only took a few seconds to relay their situation to Susan, and she leaped back in, dodging, striking, and screaming like a banshee.
“Got him!” Doug shouted and Kat leaped to him, seeing Mikael’s wild mane of jet-black hair. She knelt and felt at his pulse. It was strong. But he wasn’t conscious.
“Let’s drag him clear,” Kat called, and she and Doug each took an arm while Dylan covered them. As soon as Mikael was safe, both Kat and Doug turned and faced the remaini
ng horde.
“Kat!” a voice called. She looked around and saw Terry by the pallet. He tore off a board and tossed it to her. He nodded at Doug and tossed him one, too. Then taking one up himself, they rushed in to relieve Dylan, who was beginning to stagger.
As they stepped up, she saw Dylan withdraw, drop the board, and steady himself, doubled over with his hands on his knees. Out of the corner of her eye, he saw him looking up as if at the rooftops. “Fuck me,” he said.
“What?” she called to him, beginning to get the rhythm of the whole found-wood warfare thing: swing-parry-reset, repeat.
“Two o’clock, aim high,” Dylan said through his teeth. She could hear him still panting, fighting to regain his breath. After her next blow connected, she risked a look up. It took her a moment to see it, but then she did. On top of the building at the Northwest corner of Fourth and Bret Harte, a lone figure surveyed the melee in the alley.
“Larch!” Dylan bellowed. “What the fuck do you want?!”
“The same thing we do!” Terry called over his shoulder, swinging wildly but largely ineffectually. Kat could see that he was keeping the damned at bay, but he wasn’t exacting much damage.
“So why attack us?” Dylan asked.
“Maybe because he knows we’re the only people on Earth who can stand in his way,” Terry reasoned.
“Damn straight!” Dylan spat. Then he picked up his board again and came forth swinging. Kat watched with wonder as he sliced at the horde without mercy. While she was content to be a delaying annoyance, she saw the demons quail when Dylan held forth. His baritone voice rang out and echoed resoundingly throughout the alley. “In the fuckin’” WHAM! “name o’ Jesus,” THUCK! “Ah repel thee,” FOCK! “all y’all evil,” BAM! “motherfuckin’,” CRASH! “sons-a-fuckin’-bitches!” CRACK!
Heartened by Dylan’s display of strength, Kat doubled her own ferocity. A man nearly twice her own weight in a military uniform lunged at her, and her swing sent a spray of blood cascading across the frosted windows of the building to her left. No sooner had he staggered, clutching at his neck, than a woman who looked to be about the age of Kat’s mother threw herself to the street and rolled into Kat’s feet, striking up into her cassock with a hard, balled fist, catching her in the lower abdomen.
