gatheringdeadkindle

by Stephen Knight

  “We tried several phones, but there are no working lines outside. We can dial extensions inside the building, though, so the PBX is still up. But there’s something up with the connection outside the building. Cell phones don’t work either—I tried mine. Could be anything, so I doubt we can fix it ourselves. SATCOM is going to be our only bet.”

  McDaniels snorted. He had his own cell phone in his pocket, and he hadn’t even thought of it. He pulled it out from behind his body armor and checked it out. He had signal, but when he tried to place a call, all he got was a quick beep followed by silence. CALL FAILED flashed on the display.

  “How inconvenient,” he said. He cleared the display and caught the time. He verified it against his watch.

  “We went down in ROMEO fifty-three minutes ago,” Gartrell said. McDaniels smiled slightly. While all Special Forces soldiers were nicknamed “Jedi Knights”, there was no doubting First Sergeant David Gartrell was Obi-wan Kenobi himself.

  “Good to know one of us still has his head in the game,” McDaniels said. “Thank you for staying frosty, first sergeant.”

  “Someone has to provide timely adult supervision, sir. That’s why USASOC sent me.”

  McDaniels couldn’t tell if Gartrell was being insulting or if it had been an offhand quip. He decided he didn’t want to deal with it, either way. “We need to get on the SATCOM. And I also want to know what the hell is going on downstairs. It’s great that Rittenour rigged the stairs, but someone still has to detonate the charges before those things make it upstairs.”

  “Roger that. You want that done now?”

  McDaniels shook his head. “Negative. Let’s get someone to take a peek downstairs.” Through the windows, he saw that the sun was setting, and the concrete canyons of New York City were growing dark and cold. “I don’t want to attract any more attention than necessary, but it might be worthwhile to see if the zeds have forgotten about us.”

  “One of the doors was open downstairs, major. There could be some of those things in the building with us. Maybe we should send some more guys with you? Just you and another swinging dick can take out a few deadheads, but what if you hit the mother lode and you run into a few dozen? Or a few hundred, even?”

  McDaniels shrugged. “Not much anyone can do about it,” he said. “We can’t leave the Safires unguarded, and even if I did bite the big burrito, that doesn’t mean all chances at rescue come to an end. Hell, for all we know, the Air Force and CIA are moving every satellite and UAV they have over Manhattan right now, just looking for us.”

  “For him, you mean.”

  “Yeah. For him.”

  Gartrell nodded. “I’ll take care of checking the lobby personally. Leary should go topside with you. I’ll take Rittenour. We’ll leave the Safires here with the Night Stalkers—they should be able to keep them out of harm’s way for the time being.”

  McDaniels frowned. “I don’t want all the SF troops off the floor, just in case there’s a breach.” He looked over at the gaggle of soldiers sitting before the barricaded glass entry doors. “Night Stalkers, any of you guys up for a run to the roof?”

  Finelly got to his feet. “I am, sir.”

  “Then hit the latrine or whatever it is you might need to do now, because we’re going to be gone for a while.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Gartrell unslung his big AA-12 and handed it to McDaniels. “Since it’s only two of you, take the shottie. It’s got tungstens loaded up, so you should be able to blast anything that comes your way to hell and back. I’ll take your M4 for the time being.”

  McDaniels hefted the AA-12. It had been a while since he handled one, and he liked how it felt. Especially now. He handed his assault rifle to Gartrell.

  “Not really a fair trade, but I’ll take it. Thanks, Gartrell.”

  “I’ll go over the detonation sequence with Ritt to make sure I can do the job in case the zombies get inside,” Gartrell said. “I still remember my demo training, but it’s been a while. It would be a shame to mess it up after not being up to bat for so long.”

  McDaniels nodded. “If anyone can do it, you can, first sergeant. Lord knows you like blowing stuff up.”

  Gartrell gave him a wan smile, but that was it. McDaniels gathered up the SATCOM and looked at Finelly.

  “Are you ready, sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s get this done and get the hell out of here.” McDaniels waved for the other soldiers to remove the barricade in front of the fire door.

  The stairwell was still brightly illuminated. McDaniels checked the landing above, while Finelly checked the one below. Gartrell and Rittenour stepped out onto the fifth floor landing, weapons at ready. McDaniels, Gartrell, and Rittenour conducted their radio checks, with Leary serving as their primary point of contact. As he was from a different unit, Finelly couldn’t communicate on the same frequency, and used his handheld PRC-90 radio to maintain contact with the other Night Stalkers. If something went down, they would relay that to Leary, who would reach out to the other SF troops.

  “Take it easy down there,” McDaniels said to Gartrell. He nodded toward the stairwell leading down.

  “Hell sir, our climb’s nothing like yours. And besides, if we’re not getting any heat, we’re not near the target.”

  “Hooah, first sergeant.” McDaniels turned and started up the flight of stairs. “Let’s get on with it, Finelly.”

  “Right with you, major.”

  The two men climbed steadily upward. Finelly took the lead, as McDaniels was both the commanding officer and carried the satellite communications phone. He set an aggressive pace, and McDaniels found he had to work to keep up. As a field grade officer, he hadn’t been required to do more than just the usual morning PT to stay in shape. However, staying in shape was relative when comparing an officer to an enlisted man who still had to go on field marches, even if he was with a special operations aviation unit. After ten flights, McDaniels was breathing hard.

  They would pause at each landing and listen at the fire door. Again, many were non-entry doors and were locked. Some were unlocked, but neither McDaniels nor Finelly were interested in checking the floors beyond. There was no telling what they might find.

  “Terminator Six, Terminator Five, over.” Gartrell’s voice was all business over the radio. McDaniels looked up at Finelly, but the big sergeant kept on walking. Of course, since only McDaniels could hear the first sergeant.

  “Finelly, hold up.” As Finelly stopped and turned to face him, McDaniels pressed the transmit button on his radio.

  “Five, this is Six. Over.” He kept his voice low, just in case. They were between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors, which meant there was still a lot of unexplored territory ahead and just as much behind. Zombies could be anywhere, and all it would take for the dead to get at them was as much luck as it took to turn a door handle.

  “We’re in the lobby stairwell. Just cracked open the door and took a look without exposing myself. Dozens of stenchers are outside. Looks like they’re still interested in the building. Bad news is that they’re using objects to try and get through the glass. Over.”

  McDaniels was alarmed. “Say what kind of objects, over.”

  “Nothing too credible at the moment, Six. Cell phones, blackberries, notebooks, soda bottles. Looks like items a lot of them might have had on their person. But if one of these things has enough smarts to get a sledgehammer—or maybe start up a car—things’re going to get very interesting. Over.”

  “Understood, Five. Break. Terminator Three, you get that? Over.”

  Leary’s voice came back immediately. “Roger Six, I copied that. Over.”

  “Pass that intel over to Safire, see if it’s of any use to him. Break. Five, this is Six. How are the explosives? Over.”

  “Explosives have been checked and verified as still operational. We can blow the stairwell at any time, over.”

  “Roger that. You think you’re good to stay put fo
r the time being, and keep a watch on the lobby?”

  Gartrell’s voice was firm and matter-of-fact. “Roger that, Six. We’re ready to camp out and keep an eye on things all night. Over.”

  “Well, maybe not all night, Five. We’re on our way to make our call, so we’ll get back to you soon. We’re on sixteen, moving up to seventeen. Over.”

  “Roger that, Six.”

  “Terminator Six, out.” McDaniels released the transmit button and motioned Finelly forward. The big sergeant had questions in his eyes, but he did not pause to ask them. He just turned around and continued his advance up the stairway.

  By the time they reached the twentieth floor, Finelly stopped on the landing. He held out a clenched fist and raised his MP5K slightly. McDaniels froze and firmed his grip on his M4. He watched Finelly as the bigger man slowly crept forward and peered up the next stairwell. He stopped with one foot on the first step and placed his back to the wall, and stayed there for a moment. McDaniels was about to prompt him when he heard something. It was a rhythmic, repetitive banging in the distance, very faint and barely discernable above the soft noises of building machinery doing whatever they did. The two men listened to it for a time, keeping silent, trying to decipher what might be making it.

  Finelly turned back to the major finally and leaned toward him. “Sounds like someone banging on a door,” he whispered. “Not real close, but definitely above us.”

  McDaniels moved forward and slowly pressed his way up the stairs past Finelly. The rawboned sergeant didn’t protest, but McDaniels knew he wasn’t happy with McDaniels taking the lead. To mollify him, McDaniels stopped on the next landing, which was a no-reentry door.

  “If that’s what it is, it’s not a human doing it,” he murmured to Finelly. “Too regular. Too mechanical.”

  Finelly didn’t know what to make of that. “You think it’s a machine?” he asked, and McDaniels almost laughed at the comical expression of confusion on his broad face.

  “No, sergeant. I think it’s a zombie.”

  “Oh.” Finelly leaned to his left and slowly looked up between the hand rails. McDaniels did the same, and mentally kicked himself for not doing it sooner. They saw a small slice of the distant ceiling, still ten stories away, and other than being able to tell the lights were on, there was not much else to see. McDaniels looked down and saw pretty much the same.

  “So what’s the plan?” Finelly asked. “I gotta tell you, major, I’m not too keen about getting into a firefight. If we open up on these things in here, every freaking zed in the building will hear us.”

  “Understood. Let’s keep moving. Maybe it’ll turn out to be something else.” McDaniels looked up the stairwell, then back at Finelly. The soldier didn’t look happy.

  “I’ll lead,” McDaniels said.

  Finelly shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll do that.” He shouldered his MP5K and advanced up the stairs, keeping the weapon ready at all times now. If anything happened to pop out in front of him, it would get a face full of nine millimeter steel jacketed rounds. He kept his back to the far wall as he ascended, and McDaniels did the same. At the landings, Finelly would halt, and McDaniels advanced to the base of the next stairway and secure it before Finelly pushed past him and continued on.

  The banging sound grew louder as they climbed. Its rhythm did not alter. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  At the 25th floor, McDaniels grabbed the back of Finelly’s uniform blouse and brought him to a halt. The big enlisted man looked down at the major and waited for him to tell him what’s up.

  “You smell something?” McDaniels whispered.

  “I think I smell a deadhead,” Finelly whispered back.

  “No, not that. Something else. Cigarette smoke.” As a reformed smoker, McDaniels could detect cigarette smoke at what seemed like one part per one hundred billion. It drove him mad, because the scent almost always triggered a bout of craving before revulsion could make its appearance.

  Finelly glanced up the stairs. The banging sound continued unabated, so the zombie—or whatever it was—hadn’t heard them just yet. He looked back at McDaniels and just shrugged. McDaniels motioned for him to stay put, then retreated down the steps to another landing.

  “Gartrell, this is McDaniels, over.”

  “Terminator Six, Terminator Five... are we going dress casual with the commo? Over.”

  “There’s no one on this frequency to hear us, though I’d love for us to be proven wrong. Listen, we have a deadhead up here on twenty-seven. We haven’t put eyeballs on target, but if I’m right, we’ll have to go to guns on it. Over.”

  “Roger that. We’ll keep an eye on things down here, over.”

  “Roger. McDaniels out.” McDaniels took a moment to put yellow foam hearing protectors in his ears. They were good for preserving one’s hearing during gunnery practice and while riding helicopters; McDaniels hadn’t put them in before as there just hadn’t been enough time before the Black Hawk crashed.

  “Hearing protectors,” he whispered to Finelly, then took up a guard position while Finelly dropped back and did as instructed. The Atchisson AA-12 assault shotgun was heavy in McDaniels’ hands. Above, the rapping noise continued unabated. Finelly joined him again, and McDaniels waved him to the rear.

  “I’ve got more firepower. I’ll take the advance.”

  Finelly looked appropriately stressed that a field grade officer should be leading him into danger. “Uh sir, I know you’re Special Forces and all, but maybe I ought to be the guy who does this? A lot of difference between our pay grades.”

  McDaniels shook his head. “I got this one, troop—you’ll just have to owe me one.” He handed over the sat phone. “But you can hold this.”

  Finelly accepted the phone with a shrug.

  “Let’s go,” McDaniels said, and he pushed himself up the stairs. The muscles in his thighs were burning, and he had no doubt he would be feeling some pain tomorrow.

  Up the stairway leading to the landing below the 27th floor. McDaniels flattened against the wall, AA-12 trained up the last remaining stairway that led to the final landing. Sure enough, someone stood at the gray fire door, dressed in a still-pristine blue pinstriped suit that looked expensive even from where McDaniels stood. It banged on the door with a hand that was nothing more than a mass of bruised, split flesh that suppurated viscous fluid; the door was smeared with gore. As McDaniels watched, the figure slammed its right fist against the steel door again and again, totally ignorant of the damage it was doing it itself.

  It was a zombie, and it grunted every time it slammed its hand against the door.

  Kind of whistling while you work, zombie-style, McDaniels thought.

  He glanced back at Finelly. The big soldier stood next to him with his back pressed as flat against the wall as his packs would allow. He looked up at the zombie with a vaguely sickened expression, and McDaniels knew why. This zombie must have turned a few days ago, as it was getting pretty ripe. He slowly advanced up the steps, keeping his right shoulder against the wall while training the AA-12 on the zombie’s head. The zed continued pounding on the door, oblivious to the two men creeping up behind it. McDaniels mounted the steps one at a time, moving as quietly as he could. With each step, more of the zombie came into view. The suit was indeed doubtlessly expensive, as were its Gucci loafers.

  McDaniels stopped three steps from the landing and aimed at the zombie’s head. At the last moment, the ghoul must have sensed his presence. It pivoted, turning to face him with milky eyes that had once been pale blue. Its dark hair was a mass of tangles, and in life, the suit had probably been one of those well-coiffed metrosexual types that knew nothing beyond business and the phone numbers of the five star restaurants stored in its PDA. It moaned when it saw him, and lurched toward McDaniels with outstretched arms. McDaniels suddenly reached up to his helmet, found his goggles, and yanked them over his eyes. He then firmed up his aim, and pulled back on the AA-12’s trigger.

  The sound and muzzle flash were tre
mendous, almost overwhelming the hearing protectors and the light polarization of the goggles. The 12-gauge antipersonnel round did its job quickly and efficiently, and from McDaniels’ perspective it seemed that the zombie’s head simply disappeared into a smear of gore that was plastered against the gray cinderblock wall behind. McDaniels was pelted with pieces of cinderblock, and he looked down at his body as the headless corpse collapsed to the landing. He was revolted to discover his uniform was peppered with bits of dark gore.

  A small stream of blackish liquid flowed from the ragged stump of the zombie’s neck. McDaniels stepped to one side as it trickled past his feet and down the stairs. Finelly did the same, and leaned against the metal handrail as he looked down the center of the stairwell.

  McDaniels’ radio crackled. “Major, this is Gartrell. You guys all right up there? Over.”

  “Roger that, Gartrell. One shot, one kill. Zed is down on the 27th floor landing. Over.”

  “Roger that. Situation remains the same down here, no change. Stenches still hanging around outside, but no longer actively trying to get inside. Not sure what that’s all about. Over.”

  “Roger. I’ll get back to you in a bit. McDaniels, out.” To Finelly: “Let’s get this thing out of the way, and watch your step.” He let the AA-12 hang from his shoulder by its patrol strap and mounted the landing, stepping across the rivulet of ichor that ran across the painted concrete. Finelly did the same, and they each grabbed the zombie’s ankles and dragged it across the landing and set it parallel to the wall.

  “Wonder what the hell the thing was doing here,” Finelly asked.

  McDaniels looked around. Above the stench of the corpse on the floor and acrid odor left by the AA-12’s discharge, something still tickled his olfactory system. And there they were: three crushed cigarette butts, lying in the corner next to the fire door. McDaniels grabbed the gore-smeared door’s knob. It moved easily enough in his hand, but when he tried to open it, it would move only a fraction of an inch.