The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  And yet, Sam found herself sneaking toward it, to save a man she’d only known on the stupid radio.

  Sam knew it was crazy, but Capt. Al had stayed in a dangerous place while so many others fled. He helped her, and god-willing, many others through this nightmare. She needed to try at least to help him.

  It only took Sam a few minutes to find the radio station as she dodged and weaved her way through the many vehicles and stumbling dead things filling the rainy streets.

  Sam slowly approached the darkened lobby of the KODAK/WSMF building, coming at the tall structure through the dark alley between it and the parking garage, attached to it.

  Sam took her time scanning each vehicle, and every shadow for any sign of movement. As she crouched down behind a large garbage can, praying there weren't any dead things lurking in the shadows.

  The rain pinged loudly off the tops of the many vehicles littering the street as Sam peered through the front doors that led into a small foyer where several bloody, mangled body of what looked like a security guard; who laid half-underneath two, bloody bodies covered in blood.

  She heard the disturbing growls and moans wafting from deep within the lobby. Then she saw the dozens of red eyes piercing through the darkness and immediately knew she wasn’t going to get up to the radio station through the lobby

  Sam cautiously stepped over the glass-covered sidewalk, looking for another way into the building, and her sneaker caught on something and she fell hard to the concrete. Small shards of glass punctured her hands and something hard smashed into her shin as she landed.

  The undead inside the building grew louder and Sam stood as tiny bites of pain flashed in her palms and a low throbbing ache echoed in her shin.

  I’ve got to find another way... fast. She thought as she looked down to see what she landed on.

  A shotgun lay amongst the broken glass and blood.

  It had an elastic band on its stock filled with shotgun shells, she quickly watched the lobby for any signs of the dead getting close. The first set of fiery eyes broke through the darkness and her hands fumbled desperately at the strap on the gun.

  “Come on,” Sam whispered and finally slid it off and shoved it into her backpack.

  A woman in a shredded, blood-stained WSMF 95.1 baseball jersey staggered out into the driving rain, nearly slipping on the slick glass shards. The side of her neck had been completely torn out as if attacked by a Grizzly bear. Two bright lights flickered from behind her red-gore smeared glasses as she turned and saw Sam.

  Sam jumped as the woman lumbered toward her, and was joined by a lanky guy; with a huge afro and matching handlebar mustache, It looked odd to Sam because his nose was missing. Only the ripe, flesh and nerve endings dangle from the cavity where his nose once was. His red eyes locked onto her and began to moan loudly; causing more sounds from the lobby.

  Sam backpedaled, raising her shotgun.

  The woman drew closer and tried to speak. She actually did fight to form words. Well, one word, but while it sounded familiar, it was too garbled and wet, for Sam to be sure.

  As more of the Satan’s spawn spilled from the lobby, Sam turned and saw an open alley to her right.

  She took it.

  The haunting echoes of the zombies followed her down the long, trash-filled alley as she made her way to the back of the building.

  A large, fenced in parking lot blocked her exit.

  She spun to see at least six of the red-eye creatures lumbering down the dark alley.

  Her pulse raced and she looked at both building and found a metal security door and her hands shook as she tried to open it. The thick metal handle was locked and there was no way she could get in. She could risk shooting it, but knowing the city this was downtown Rochester, it was most likely bulletproof.

  The dead clamored nearer; the woman leading the way. This time her hoarse, gravel-like voice produced a word she almost made out.

  Child.

  Sam just stared at the staggering woman.

  More and more of the moaning dead entered the far end of the alley and their sad, glowing eyes were trained on Sam, who still couldn’t believe she heard what the zombie woman growled at her.

  A flurry of violent, bright lightning flashes washed out the scene before her and illuminated the over twenty of those rotting things with their rigid arms outstretched and their vile stench filled the thick air. The monsters were coming her way. She needed to go and now.

  Sam tossed her backpack over the fence, followed by the shotgun.

  Turning one last time toward the savagely mutilated woman, who’d gotten too close and Sam’s blood turned to ice as there was black liquid running down the zombie’s cheeks.

  Tears. Sam’s already exhausted mind reasoned.

  The woman let out a bestial snarl and lunged at Sam.

  Sam leaped for the chain link fence and climbed it faster than she thought she was capable of.

  Landing with a big splash in a deep mud puddle, she snatched up the shotgun, slung the backpack over her shoulder and gave the woman one last look.

  The dead woman was indeed crying; crying black tears and her face wore the saddest expression she’d ever seen. Except for her Abuelo’s. The fresh wound caused Sam to shudder and she turned and ran along the back of the massive skyscraper.

  Sam thanked the Lord for the absence of any more of the dead things in the fenced in parking lot. There were only a few, but they were far off in a different section. She was pretty sure the continuing thunder and lightning created more than enough distractions so they couldn’t hear her running through the rain-slicked lot.

  There were over ten doors on the backside of the building, but all were the same security doors as the one in the alley and all were locked up tight.

  She kept running until she reached the short cement wall that separated the Kodak building the attached the parking garage.

  On the brick wall and concrete wall of the garage, were large white painted signs that read:

  KODAK/WSMF DELEVIRES- ELEVATORS. With a large white arrow pointing down a small drive to her left; between the two gigantic structures.

  Sam looked up at the skyscraper and tried to estimate the exact location of Capt. Al and shrugged soaked shoulders.

  “Might be the only way?” Sam asked aloud and headed down into the dark drive. “You haven’t led me astray yet, Father.”

  There were only two of those zombie-things and Sam quickly bashed their heads in until their red-lights went out.

  She found the large metal doors of the delivery elevator, which looked big enough to drive a car into it.

  The red letters of WSMF flickered high above, casting creepy-blood-red hue into the shadowy alley. Sam hit the button and she jumped back, as the loud gears of the heavy elevator began to move.

  The clickety-clack echoed through the tall buildings, and Sam was sure that those undead things would hear and soon be coming.

  After what seemed like hours, the two horizontal, metal doors slid open and Sam waited to see if anything was going to lunge out at her.

  Nothing.

  She stepped in and searched for the control panel and found it on the left side of the door.

  She pressed the door-closed button and they hummed and slowly began to close.

  There were a number of floors with no designations, save for, KODAK MAILROOM and WSMF 95.1, and Parking Garage. That made it a lot easier than Sam expected.

  The doors closed with a soft clang, and Sam depressed the glowing button and the large gears began to grind and the elevator shook, as it made its slow ascent to the radio station.

  The lights in the elevator flickered in a syncopated pattern, almost causing a headache.

  “Hold on, Mister Al. I’m coming.” Sam offered to the cold elevator.

  The doors crept open into a dark room. The small lights from the elevator shone on a few large tables with boxes with U.S. Mail on them.

  A body lay on the floor, in a pool of blood. It looked like a
guy, in a Duke Jupiter t-shirt and didn’t move.

  Sam raised the shotgun and inched into the room.

  She gently nudged the man, he didn’t move and after looking closer, she saw why.

  The entire bottom half of his t-shirt was torn away, along with most of his stomach. A long string of gooey intestines led off to the dark hall to the right. Sam wanted no part of that, so she stepped over the dead guy and headed down a short hallway to the left that ended in a door, with a large window in it. Several blood-smeared handprints covered the glass and Sam offered a prayer before taking another step.

  Pressing her face against the glass, Sam couldn’t see too much, only a red light that read: STUDIO.

  This is too good to be true. Sam thought but searched the room for anything moving.

  Nothing.

  The doorknob felt cold her to the touch, as she turned it and opened the door.

  The thick stench of death attacked Sam’s nose and she ignored the bile rushing into the back of her mouth.

  Small, soft yellow security lights bathed, what looked like a shared-office space.

  A series of desks and chairs lay strewn about in all kinds of disarray. Obviously, something bad had happened in here. Sam thought and edged into the room, toward the door, beneath the red STUDIO light.

  Sam had to cover her mouth as she made her way to the door, as too many torn bodies and parts of people littered the floor of this slaughterhouse.

  “These poor souls,” Sam whispered into her hand.

  Sam felt the slick blood and other things she forced out of her mind, under her feet as she made her way to the door.

  An oppressive force sought to overtake her. But she pushed on and reached the door.

  The red sign cast a haunting glow upon her as she looked through another blood-slathered window.

  A small room lay beyond. A soft light flickered from two large picture-windows and Sam nearly yelled out as she saw Capt. Al sitting among the candlelight.

  Sam’s elation was short-lived as three red-eyed demon-things bashed on the studio’s glass.

  A woman and two men groaned and slammed their bloody hands on the window, but they weren’t looking at Sam.

  She had the advantage. At least for the moment.

  Taking a depth breath, Sam prayed. Prayed to God. To the Great Creator, whoever would listen, her heart and soul were open to any beacon and let the air out.

  Sam whipped the door open, saw an office chair and kicked it at one of the dead-guys; it crashed into his thighs, sending it falling into a heap on the floor.

  The other zombie guy turned toward the sound and rushed her.

  Sam stepped aside and bashed the back of his head in with the butt of the shotgun.

  The woman slowly turned to face Sam. Her eyes were ablaze with the same red-light and black tears flowed down her cheeks, but her flesh and blood slathered teeth spoke a different truth and then she jumped at Sam, releasing a violent snarl.

  The blunt force of the slug sent the woman backward; smashing through the studio glass with an exploding crash.

  * * *

  The relaxing scent of incense disappeared. The putrid aroma of death and decay took its dark place. The smell of rotting flesh was nothing new to the Vietnam vet sitting in the wheelchair before a large control board. Many candles lit up the sequestered studio, and the flickers of light set the tone for the end.

  The melancholic words of Jim Morrison sang over the station's internal speakers. The haunting chords and vocals fell heavy upon the room. Capt. Al took a very deep hit off his finely crafted bong made in the ceramic likeness of the Buddha. He had found one last stash. He always had one last stash and for that, he smiled. Capt. Al was not some stoned out hippie that had no clue. He was well aware of the world affairs and how the government worked. He had no illusions of what was transpiring, and he kept broadcasting nonetheless.

  The cacophony grew worse, and the pounding at the door increased, the moans of the hungry undead filling Capt. Al’s ears. The power went out, and he was left in sheer blackness. It was very similar to Vietnam. There, you grew used to the idea of dying. Then a flurry of gunshots...then the moaning ceased.

  Capt. Al still had his last lungful of sweet smoke as the door finally succumbed to the pounding. His end was nigh, and while being eaten by the undead wasn’t a way he ever wanted to die, he was ready for the end. He closed his eyes and let the trip carry him, hoping the good herb would numb him enough so he wouldn’t feel their teeth. Al began to sing the folksy chorus of the Strawb’s “On Growing Older, in hopes of drowning out the infernal cries of the dead.

  The stench of the dead flooded his studio, and a moan of hunger mixed with sadness, rose in a sad wail. Beads of sweat broke on Al’s forehead, and he clenched his chair’s arms. He slowly released his last breath. A booming burst of gunfire rang out, and his body jerked, nearly tipping his wheelchair. Hands grabbed the armrests of the chair, and squeezed his eyes tighter, prepared for the bitter end to come.

  A sudden gunshot burst through the air and then the smashing of glass filled the studio as a body flew into the studio and landed with a sickly thump at Al’s feet.

  “Hey, Mr. Al. I'm here to help you. We have to get the heck out of here.” A soft, but strong voice said. Capt. Al risked opening one eye to see a young girl, mid-teens, who looked like a Natalie Wood/Rita Moreno combo-platter. She grabbed the handles of his wheelchair. The chanting of the undead crashed inside the carpeted studio.

  “What are ya doin’, man?” Capt. Al shouted. “Those motherhuckin’ dead are all around us. There ain’t no escape, honey,” he said, holding tight to the arms of his chair.

  The young girl paid no heed to Capt. Al's words. “There another way out. How do you think I got in here?” she said. It wasn’t a question. The next few moments were a blur for both the rescued and the rescuer. As the girl helpd Al onto the control table and through the smashed window.

  The chick was stronger than she looked and she got Al set up on a chair in the dark control room. Then she hopped back through the window into the studio.

  His wheelchair came through the window and the girl climbed out after it.

  In flash, they were moving.

  The symphony of undead filled the small hallways and offices of the tenth floor of the Kodak Building. The only light came from behind them as the small radius of the ambient candles gave way to the darkness of the once bustling radio station. Capt. Al’s graying beard flew backward, blinding him.

  “Hey, where do ya think we're goin’?” he questioned with a tone of acceptance. His large muscular hands gripped the armrests of his chair in a way that made the old vet chuckle. Whaddya afraid of, ya ol’ bastard? Breaking your leg? He laughed out loud, and it echoed back down the hall, taunting the encroaching dead.

  The girl had no idea where she was going. “Out the way I cam in. The good Lord always shows us a way, Capt. Al.” They came to the large room with fabric-covered cubicles and many computer terminals and file cabinets. The sales floor had been empty since the very beginning. “Not many zombies are into buying commercials for air time, honey,” Capt. Al said.

  “Do you have a car?” Sam asked.

  “Uh, yeah, I left it right next to my roller skates.” Capt. Al shook his head. Sam blushed and felt her face grow warm in frustration. “Besides, ain't no use praying, young lady. Your lord bugged out a long time ago,” Al said. His spiritual belief was once strong, but three tours in `Nam made him strongly revise his spiritual outlook.

  The teen shot him a look and continued to look for a way out from the cluttered sales floor. One wall hosted floor to ceiling windows, and he could see that this city was once beautiful. The Genesee River flowed on its normal course, and the morning sun fought like hell to break through the coated glass. Then the girl grabbed Capt. Al's set of keys hanging from his dog tags around his neck.

  “What do those keys go to, sir?” the teen asked. The sun admitted defeat and skulked back behind the ste
el-gray clouds. The undead screams and moans grew louder as they staggered down the many hallways of the tenth floor.

  “Uh, these?” Capt. Al replied and grabbed a hold of them. “They go to my van, man. But we won’t make it all the way to the parking garage, honey. Trust me. Many poor bastards tried to make it out there, but they got chowed on. There must be hundreds of those things between us and the Gypsy Queen. Now look, man, I appreciate ya coming to save me and all, but you should go. Leave my sorry ass here. Go and try to get to the Armory. It’s the only place that’s safe, bro. I ain’t jivin’ ya. I’m just gonna slow you down.” Capt. Al’s voice betrayed him as he tried desperately to be strong, and the betrayal was matched with tears. He looked down in shame.

  “No.” The teen's defiant words impressed the tired DJ.

  “Run now,” Capt. Al lifted his gaze and looked Sam straight in the eye.

  “Run, bro, don’t wait for me, don’t try and save me. I have been saved so many times, man. I have used up all my chits.” He wiped his red eyes and pulled the dog tags and keys from his neck and offered them to Sam and sniffled.

  “Go,”

  The stench of rot and disease filled the sales floor and the candle light that once offered solace in the dark was gone.

  They loaded into the delivery elevator and Al smacked the Parking Garage button and the large doors began to clank closed.

  Dozens of smelly, rotters shambled toward the elevator as the doors closed and they began to descend.

  “You’re one crazy, chick, kiddo.” Capt Al said, wiping the sweat from his face. “But I like ya” He shot her a wink and held his hand out for a high-five.

  “I’m Sam, by the way.” The girl said, leaning against the elevator’s wall.

  “Damn good to meet ya, Sam.” Capt, Al smiled,

  Sam returned his high-five as the elevator clunked along.