The Complex

by Brian Keene

  As he reaches Building D, he spots a large group of assailants trying to break into apartment 1-D—where the writer lives. More naked figures fill the parking lot. Several of them are clustered around the clothed body of a young man lying next to a U-Haul truck. As the Exit runs down a woman armed with a baseball bat, he sees a young girl of about seven or eight years of age pick up the corpse’s severed right arm. Raising it over her head, she laughs gleefully, and then runs toward the car, as if intending to bash in his windshield with the grisly appendage.

  The Exit spins the steering wheel, knocking her over with the front bumper, and then swerves to avoid another oncoming cluster of attackers. He realizes he needs to think quickly. The parking lot ends just beyond his building, terminating into woodlands and an alleyway to the right. The alley is unreachable because there are trees and saplings between it and the parking lot. He fights to stay calm, but feels the panic welling up inside of him. The roof buckles as someone clambers onto the top of the car.

  “That won’t do.”

  He cranks the wheel hard to the left, and the car shimmies as what is left of the bodybuilder’s corpse slides out from underneath it. He sees a naked teenaged boy tumble off the side of the car, arms flailing. The kid’s arm snaps as he hits the pavement. Then, the Exit aims for the hillside. There is just enough room for his car to fit between the stairs and Building C. He is glad the weightlifter isn’t there anymore, because he feels the undercarriage rubbing against the grass. He glances to his right at the crowd breaking into the apartment, and one particular individual catches his attention. Standing behind the others is the most obese man the Exit has ever seen—so overweight that he almost seems like a caricature, as if his girth were the result of Hollywood special effects. The man’s face is split in a wide, garish grin, and his head tilts back and forth—tick, tock, tick, tock. The effect is almost mesmerizing.

  Then, the car is barreling down the hill and the man vanishes from sight, and the Exit turns his attention back to the windshield and shouts in surprise.

  He hits the bottom of the hill with such force that his chest is driven into the steering wheel. The pain is immense, almost blinding. Gasping for breath, the Exit struggles to keep the car moving. It seems to want to go in all four directions at once. It careens to the right, narrowly missing the bottom of the cement stairs. The tires dig furrows into the grass.

  The backyard is also filled with naked people, but there are not nearly as many as there are in the parking lot above. The Exit debates his choices. His apartment is three doors down. He can park in front of it, using the car as a partial blockade, and try to get inside before the hordes can reach him. Or, he can continue across the yard, swerving around the forest to the rear of the property and heading back out toward the entrance to the apartment complex. The only problem with that second choice is that he’ll have to drive through a fairly deep culvert, and also weave around the garbage dumpsters.

  There are angry, guttural shouts behind him as many of his attackers scurry down the hill and stairs. One of them trips and falls, and disappears beneath the feet of his onrushing companions. None of the crowd stops, or seems to show the least bit of concern.

  The Exit is about to try for his apartment when he is presented with a third choice, as further out in the yard, he spots two of his neighbors—old Mr. Hicks from next door and a young man who lives in Building C—about to be set upon by a pack of opponents. Gripping the steering wheel, he stomps the accelerator and speeds toward them. The tires spray grass and dirt and rocks on his pursuers.

  They do not slow down.

  He doesn’t slow down either.

  Eight - Phil and Beth: Apartment 8-D

  “Maybe we should go out there,” Phil says again, listening to the sounds of chaos all around the complex. “Just take a quick look and see what’s happening.”

  “Are you crazy?” Beth is staring at her cell phone, trying to make a call. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yeah, I hear it. That’s why I’m thinking I should check it out. What if somebody is shooting up the complex?”

  “What do the police say every time that happens?”

  “To shelter in place?”

  “Right! Shelter in place.” Beth turns her attention back to the phone. “We need to stay inside. Whoever it is has guns. We should stay away from the doors and windows and…”

  She trails off. The phone shakes in her hands.

  “Who are you calling?” Phil asks.

  “My Mom.”

  Phil blinks twice before responding. “Beth, what’s your Mom going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Phil! But I’m scared and I want my mother and don’t you dare go outside and leave me in here by myself! Just don’t…”

  Sighing, Phil walks back down the hallway, where Beth is crouched with her back against the wall. He reaches out and strokes her hair. Then he kneels beside her, looking his wife in the eye.

  “Baby, listen. I know you’re scared. Truth is, I’m scared, too. But think about it for a minute. I mean logically. What’s your Mom going to do? Even if she came down here, what’s to say she wouldn’t be in danger, just like everybody else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And I don’t either. But save the battery on your phone. We don’t know what’s happening. Better to stay prepared.”

  Blinking, Beth wipes tears from her eyes. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t get a signal. What if she’s worried about us? If this is on the news already, she might try to call me and make sure we’re okay.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine. And even if she does try to get here, they’re not going to let her through.”

  “Do you think so?”

  Phil nods. “Sure. I’ll bet they’ve got a police cordon up around the whole complex. Nobody in or out except emergency personnel. It’s not like somebody is shooting up all of Central Pennsylvania. Whatever is happening out there, it’s only happening right here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that’s crazy.”

  “Not if it was terrorists.”

  “Terrorists attacking here? Come on, hon. I know you’re scared, but we can’t start overreacting. We need to keep our shit together.”

  Beth shrugs. “Yeah…”

  “It’s like you said. We should stay here and shelter in place. You were right.”

  Beth smiles. “Say that again.”

  “You were right.”

  “I never get tired of hearing that.”

  “Some women prefer hearing ‘I love you’ instead.”

  “I’m not some women.”

  Phil slides his arms around Beth and pulls her close, smelling her shampoo. Her soft hair tickles his nose.

  “I hate this place,” she whispers.

  “I know. Me, too.”

  Phil and Beth are both twenty-seven years old. They met at college, and have been married for a year. They live in the Pine Village Apartment Complex because the rent is cheap, and they’re saving up to have enough money for a down payment on a house. Neither of them like it here. The apartment is small and cramped, and bugs keep seeming to find their way inside. Beth doesn’t mind the insects but Phil is deathly afraid of them. Bugs have always been his phobia, ever since he was a kid. When they first moved in, the place stank like cat piss. In the time they’ve lived here, the smell has abated, for the most part, but they still catch it on their clothes sometimes, and in the carpet. Beth likes to joke that they should just get a cat, but they can’t, because Phil is allergic.

  And so, here they stay, squirreling away their savings, and talking of how awesome it will be when they finally move out. Beth’s father has repeatedly offered to lend them the money, but Phil always declines, insisting that they want to do it themselves. The realtors have told them they need about twenty or thirty thousand dollars for the type of home they’re looking for. Phil works in IT for the cable company, and Beth has a job in the billing department of a health insurance company. At nigh
t, they take turns making dinner. Then they cuddle on the couch they received as a wedding present and watch Netflix. They make love two or three times a week. They still have things to talk about when they aren’t. The apartment isn’t so bad in those moments.

  But they still save their money and they still look at homes for sale online, and dream of the day they can buy one.

  Beth stirs. “You made sure the door was locked, right?”

  “Yeah.” Phil nods. “Do you think we should barricade it somehow? Maybe put something over the windows?”

  “It might not be a bad idea. And we should keep the lights turned off, too. Maybe they’ll think we aren’t home.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll—”

  Outside, a car horn blares, interrupting him. They hear an engine thrumming loud enough that the walls seem to vibrate. Headlights flash in the living room window, which is weird, since that window faces the backyard. It’s just grass and sidewalk out there—no place for a car to drive. Luckily, the blinds are closed, so the glare is somewhat muted.

  Phil frowns. “What the hell?”

  “Maybe it’s the police. Maybe they rolled up into the yard?”

  “Let’s hope so!”

  Beth puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t yell. We don’t want whoever it is to know we’re in here.”

  “I’m not yelling.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not yelling, Beth. I’m just trying to be heard over that damn car! What the hell has gotten into you?”

  Beth flinches, and then Phil does, too. When they first got engaged, Phil’s father gave them the advice of ‘never go to bed angry with each other.’ So far, that advice has worked. They have never had a fight or argument, and have never raised their voices in anger at one another. Both of them are aware that they seem to be now, driven by fear and uncertainty and paranoia. After a moment, Beth says what’s on both their minds.

  “I don’t want to fight. I’m scared. You’re scared. Let’s just stick together, okay?”

  Smiling, Phil nods. “I’m sorry, hon.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  The sub-woofer on their surround sound system pops as the power suddenly shuts off. The digital clock goes blank. In the kitchen, the refrigerator’s compressor falls silent. Outside, the horn continues to blare, drowning out the screams and the gunshots.

  “The power’s out,” Phil says.

  Beth nods. “I’m really getting scared, Phil. This is bad.”

  “Maybe that car out there hit a pole or something.”

  “There aren’t any electrical poles in the yard.”

  “Listen,” Phil speaks slowly, trying to sound reassuring. “I want to take a peek out the window.”

  Beth stiffens, and her eyes go wide. Before she can speak, Phil pushes ahead.

  “Just a quick glance. That’s all. We need to know what’s going on. How else are we going to protect ourselves? Nobody is going to see me. I’m just going to look through the blinds and then come right back here.”

  Beth shrugs. “Okay. You’re right. Just be careful.”

  Phil gets to his feet, grinning. “You know me.”

  “That’s why I said to be careful.”

  Crouching low, Phil makes his way down the hall. The glare from the headlights gets brighter as he nears the window, creeping through the spaces between the blinds. If they were open, he probably wouldn’t be able to see anything right now. As it is, he has to shield his eyes with his hand as he parts the blinds and peeks outside.

  “What do you see?” Beth calls. “What is it?”

  “It’s Mister Hicks and Mister Mendez and…some guy I don’t know. And there’s…”

  He trails off, gaping out the window.

  “There’s what? What do you see, Phil? What’s going on?”

  “There’s naked people.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a bunch of naked people.” He lets the blinds fall shut and walks back down the hall. His complexion turns chalk white. “And I think they’re going to kill our neighbors.”

  “What do you mean naked?”

  Phil starts to respond, but then he bursts into tears. He stands there, shaking and in shock. Terrified, Beth rushes to him and pulls him close.

  The car horn stops suddenly. When it does, they notice that the screams and gunshots and other sounds have ceased, as well. The silence is even more terrifying than the chaos that preceded it.

  Night arrives, and engulfs the Pine Village Apartment Complex in darkness.

  Part Two

  Block

  Party

  Nine - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, Mrs. Carlucci, Shaggy, and Turo: Apartment 1-D

  The irony is not lost on Sam. Only a few short minutes ago, he was just about to kill himself. Now, plans of suicide have been put on hold and instead, he’s fighting to stay alive. He doesn’t pause to consider why, because there’s no time for self-reflection. Four of the cheap pressboard bookshelves are pressed up against the broken living room windows, forming a double-layered barricade. The sofa and another bookshelf have been shoved against the locked front door. In the kitchen, the refrigerator blocks half of the window. The window’s other half is covered by the small upended kitchen table—a furnishing Sam has never used because he always eats his solitary meals in front of the television or his computer. The table is propped in place by a microwave cart. Atop the microwave is a jumble of debris—the coffee pot, pans, books—anything that could help form a barrier. Sam is pretty sure this area will be the weakest link.

  He snaps his fingers at the tall, scraggly kid with the gun. Sam doesn’t know his name. He only knows that the guy lives in the apartment below him, along with his short friend. Both of them are currently staring at the door, wide-eyed and dazed. Sam is pretty sure they’re stoned. He wishes he was, as well.

  When the guy doesn’t notice, Sam snaps his fingers at him again. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Me? Shaggy.”

  Sam suppresses a laugh, resisting the urge to shout, “Zoinks, Scoob!” He knows this reaction is driven by panic and shock, but that doesn’t make it any less amusing.

  “Okay, Shaggy.” He nods at the gun in the kid’s hand. “You got more ammo for that thing?”

  Shaggy glances down at his weapon as if he’d forgotten it. “Yeah. The magazine’s full and I got another in my pocket. All fucking hollow points.”

  “Okay, good. I want you at that kitchen window. That’s our weakest defense, so you need to be ready to pick them off if they get through. Your buddy can help. What’s your name?”

  “T-turo.”

  “Okay, Turo. I’ve got kitchen knives in a holder on the counter. Steak knives and such. You can grab one of those.”

  “The fuck am I gonna do with a steak knife?”

  “Stab anyone reaching through the window. Just make sure you stay clear so Shaggy doesn’t shoot you by mistake. You guys got this?”

  Nodding, Shaggy grabs Turo by the arm and directs him toward the kitchen.

  “Come on, dude.”

  Turo follows along as if half asleep.

  Sam turns to Mrs. Carlucci, who is staring intently at the door. Behind her are their new neighbors, a pretty young red-haired woman and her little boy. Both of them appear as terrified as Sam feels. The boy clings to his mother’s side, and she in turn, has one arm tightly wrapped around him, holding him close. Stephanie stands behind them, seemingly in a daze. She has the same blank expression as Shaggy’s roommate. Moments ago, Sam saw her stab and slash several attackers with a butcher knife. She’s still holding the knife now, but seems unaware of it. Indeed, she doesn’t seem aware of anything. Her eyes are glassy, and her posture is slack.

  “Stephanie, are you okay?”

  She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him.

  “Stephanie? Are you hurt?”

  Outside, the chainsaw roars again. Seconds later, there is a terrible screeching noise as the chainsaw’s owner tries
it against Sam’s front door. Everyone except Mrs. Carlucci screams. Sam’s scream is the loudest.

  “These doors aren’t made out of wood,” Mrs. Carlucci shouts. “They’ll hold.”

  “What the fuck are they made out of then?” Shaggy yells from the kitchen.

  “Watch your language and don’t be fresh! I don’t know what they’re made of. Plastic? Vinyl? But it’s not wood. I tried to drive a nail through one, to hang up my Christmas wreath one year. The nail kept bending.”

  “Mrs. Carlucci, you keep an eye on that over there,” Sam suggests, pointing at the living room window. “Stephanie, can you help her?”

  Stephanie blinks, as if waking from a dream, and turns her head to Sam. “The fat one had a Hello Kitty tattoo.”

  “What?” Sam frowns. “Are you okay, hon? Did they hurt you?”

  “The fat one,” she explains. “Outside. The one with the twitchy head. He had a tattoo. That’s the last thing I remember. After that I sort of…blacked out. What’s happening?”

  “I think you’re in shock,” Sam says, and squeezes her arm in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “They’re trying to get inside. We’ve got to hold them off until the cops get here. Think you can help Mrs. Carlucci guard those windows?”

  “Yes,” Stephanie agrees. “I can do that. I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m scared shitless, Steph.”

  She tilts her head to the side, smiling slowly. “You’re the first person to call me Steph, Sam. Until now, it’s been Stephanie.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grins. “Do you like it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s…different.”

  “Well, let’s make it through this alive and then you can decide. Fair enough?”