The Complex

by Brian Keene

  She nods, still smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”

  The chainsaw scores against the door again. Stephanie flinches, but retains her composure and control. Sam jumps so hard he nearly drops his gun. The little boy buries his face in his mother’s thigh, and Sam notices that she’s squeezing him so hard her knuckles have turned white.

  “I’m Sam,” he says. “You’re the new neighbor?”

  The redhead looks at him as if he just asked her if she’d like a rabid weasel. Her pupils remind him of perfectly round circles of black ink. Her upper lip quivers, and her cheeks are wet.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “The barricades will hold. Can you do me a favor?”

  The new neighbor nods, but when she opens her mouth to speak, she only whimpers.

  “Can you and your son…I’m assuming he’s your son?”

  She nods again, a bit more emphatically.

  “Okay. Can you take him into the bedrooms and check the windows back there?”

  “But…they might be outside.”

  “They might,” Sam agrees, raising his voice as the chainsaw attack is renewed on the door. “But those windows are way up off the ground. It’s a twelve foot drop. Basically, I just want you to close the blinds and curtains, and see if the back yard is clear. Maybe we can get out that way, somehow.”

  He pauses, lets his gaze drop down to the terrified little boy, and then back up to hers.

  “Plus, it’s probably quieter back there.”

  Something slams against the front door, and this time, they all jump. Glass shatters in the kitchen.

  “They’re coming,” Shaggy yells. “Heads up!”

  “Go on,” Sam tells her. “Take him in the back. We’ve got this.”

  Biting her lip, the redhead blinks back tears. Then she gently pries her son from her side and guides him down the hallway.

  “Come on, Caleb,” she says. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Sam turns his attention back to the front of the apartment. The door shudders again in its frame as something heavy batters against it on the outside. Judging by the sound, Sam suspects it is the fat man. The sound of the idling chainsaw shifts, moving toward the living room windows. A moment later, it begins to rev again. More glass breaks in the kitchen. A gunshot thunders through the apartment.

  “They’re trying to get through the kitchen,” Shaggy hollers.

  “Hold them off,” Sam responds.

  “Fuck you, motherfucker. Get in here and fucking help us!”

  The bookshelves in front of the living room windows vibrate and tremble. Then the chainsaw chews through them, sending splinters of pressboard and plywood flying into the air. Mrs. Carlucci raises her weapon to fire.

  “No,” Sam calls. “Don’t waste your bullets! Just wait.”

  “But they’ll get through.”

  “Wait until you see them. Otherwise, you’re going to waste your ammo.”

  The door groans on its hinges, and the chainsaw bursts through another section of bookshelves. The smell of gasoline and oil fills the living room. In the kitchen, pots and pans crash to the floor with a clatter. Then two more gunshots ring out.

  “You got him,” Shaggy’s roommate shouts.

  “Push that fucking microwave back in place,” Shaggy says.

  Another blow rains down on the door. This time, the force of it sends the bookshelves in front of it toppling to the floor. Sam jumps back, narrowly avoiding them. The light fixture in the ceiling swings back and forth. At the same time, the chainsaw makes another thrust, splintering the barrier in front of the windows. A naked mob swarm against the broken panes, reaching through, and pushing what remains of the blockade out of the way.

  Mrs. Carlucci raises her gun again and fires, squeezing off two shots directly into the crowd. Both rounds find their targets, but the attackers’ screams of pain are lost beneath the cacophony of rage. More blows batter the door in rapid succession.

  “I’m empty,” Mrs. Carlucci yells, backing away from the window.

  “You only fired two fucking rounds,” Shaggy says.

  “I fired the rest outside,” the old woman explains, “and I told you to watch your mouth!”

  Sam tries to respond to them but finds himself speechless. His heart pounds in his chest, and his ears are ringing.

  Screaming, Stephanie rushes forward and slashes at the cluster of grasping arms, hacking and slicing through fingers and palms and forearms. The crowd recoils, yanking their arms back through the broken windows, cutting them more. Sam’s splintered bookshelves and windowsill are splattered with blood, chunks of fake wood, and broken glass.

  “We need help in here,” Shaggy pleads. His voice sounds frantic. “Somebody?”

  “I’m empty,” Mrs. Carlucci repeats.

  “What is that?” Sam asks, panting as the door vibrates in its frame again.

  “What’s what?”

  “Your gun. What caliber?”

  “My husband’s forty-five.”

  “I don’t have any ammo for it.” He holds up his gun. “I’ve only got this.”

  “Then you’d better point me toward those kitchen knives.” She crosses the living room, heading for the kitchen.

  “Help,” Shaggy yells.

  “Hold your horses,” Mrs. Carlucci responds. “I’m coming.”

  “That door isn’t going to hold,” Sam tells Stephanie. “Can you stand watch while I check the bedrooms for something else to bolster it?”

  She salutes him with the knife. “Don’t take too long.”

  “That’s the idea. Just hold them off.”

  As he turns away, Sam hears Mrs. Carlucci in the kitchen, hollering at Shaggy and his friend to get out of her way.

  Sam hurries down the hall. His bedroom is dark. He fumbles for the light switch on the wall, but when he flicks it, nothing happens.

  “The power is out,” the young mother tells him.

  As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he spots her sitting on his bed. Her son is curled up with his head in her lap. She’s stroking the boy’s hair, trying to soothe him.

  “I’m Terri,” she says. “You’re Sam, I think I heard them say?”

  “That’s right. Sam Miller. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but under the circumstances…”

  “Yeah.”

  Sam hears the pounding on the door getting louder again. Shaggy fires another round. Sam is grateful that he’s taking his time, and saving his bullets, rather than simply emptying the magazine. He might be a stoner, but the kid can obviously keep a cool head under pressure. Sam hurries to the dresser and opens the top drawer. Then he feels around and begins filling his pants pockets with spare ammunition.

  “There are more crazies in the backyard,” Terri says, “and somebody in a car. But I don’t think the driver is one of them.”

  “A car?”

  Sam moves over to the window and peers outside. Sure enough, he sees a car—one he recognizes as belonging to the man in apartment 7-D—running over naked people. He also spots the neighbor from apartment 6-D and another, younger man, both of whom are fleeing toward the building.

  “Sam,” Stephanie calls, “better hurry!”

  “Coming!” Sam kneels next to the bed. “What’s your name, buddy?”

  Stirring, the boy looks him in the eye.

  “I’m Caleb,” he mumbles.

  “Caleb, I’m Sam. I want you to know that it’s okay to be scared. I’m scared, too. You wouldn’t believe how scared I am. But right now, I need you to help me with something. You think you can do that?”

  Caleb sits up slowly. “What?”

  “Help me empty out that dresser over there so your mom and I can haul it into the living room.”

  “Okay.” Caleb glances up at his mother.

  “Come on,” Terri says, standing up. “Let’s hurry, though.”

  “Sam,” Stephanie shouts again, “the door’s not going to hold much longer!”

  “Just a second!” He yanks out th
e top drawer and dumps his underwear and socks on the floor.

  Grinning, Caleb does the same with a second drawer, depositing a pile of t-shirts at his feet. Sam and Terri make quick work of the remaining drawers. Sam shoves the Taurus in his waistband and tilts the dresser back toward him. He nods at Terri.

  “Grab the bottom.”

  The dresser is made from the same cheap materials as the bookshelves, so it isn’t heavy. This makes it easy to carry, but Sam isn’t sure it will do anything to help secure the front door. He realizes he isn’t thinking clearly. He shouldn’t have bothered emptying the drawers. The extra weight would have helped. He’s letting panic drive him, rather than logic. They reach the living room, and he’s about to voice his concern regarding the dresser’s weight, when he realizes that it no longer matters.

  The lock snaps with an audible pop and the door bursts open, dangling on one hinge. The fat man fills the doorway, grinning and drooling as his head tilts from side to side. In his hands are the bloodied remains of a partial corpse, missing its arms, one leg, and part of its head. The portion of its head that remains has been squashed like an overripe melon. With dawning horror, Sam understands what’s been banging on his door. The fat man has been using the corpse as a makeshift battering ram. Now, he tries to squeeze his greasy bulk through the doorway. His rolls of fat fold and crease, and the door leans crookedly on its one remaining hinge. Sam gags. The stench wafting off of the fat man is revolting.

  Terri drops her end of the dresser and shrieks, “Randy!”

  It takes Sam a second to realize that she’s referring to the corpse. How she recognizes it is beyond him, but apparently she does.

  Caleb turns and flees back into the bedroom. In the kitchen, Shaggy unleashes another volley of gunshots as, judging by the sounds, the mob begins trying to breach the windows again. Mrs. Carlucci shouts something unintelligible. Terri stares in horror at the grisly monstrosity looming in the doorway. Sam gapes dumbly, as well, arms straining as he continues to hold up his end of the dresser. Only Stephanie acts, rushing forward, butcher knife raised over her head to deliver a deadly strike. The fat man’s eyes dart toward her, and then he flings the corpse in her direction. The bloodied meat slams into her, knocking Stephanie to the floor. She shouts as the knife slips from her grasp and tumbles across the carpet.

  The fat man squirms and struggles, trying to force his way inside, but he’s too wide to fit through the narrow doorway. Behind him, the other crazies gibber and snarl. Their words aren’t any sort of language. It’s a rabid, maniacal sound.

  Stephanie writhes beneath the leaking dead man, choking with disgust. Sam is about to help her, when he spies the fat man receding from the door. The space is open for a second, and then the horde surges forward. There are so many of them that they block each other from getting inside. They begin to fight amongst themselves, scratching and punching one another. Shouting, Sam drags the dresser toward the doorway and shoves it into the space. The assailants push and claw at it. Sam pushes back, locking his knees and planting his feet. Fingernails claw furrows in the skin on the back of his hands. A naked woman clambers over the top, so thin she looks cadaverous, and swipes at his eyes. Sam reels back, and the woman springs to the floor. She grins, flashing receding gums with missing teeth. Sam fumbles, trying to free his pistol from his waistband, as the woman lunges.

  Then, Mrs. Carlucci appears beside him, armed with an aerosol can full of oven cleaner. She sprays it in the attacker’s eyes, and the naked woman falls to the floor, shrieking in agony, and clawing at her face. Mrs. Carlucci kicks her in the ribs and steps forward, unleashing a stream of toxic chemicals at the rest of the mob. They scream and cry, frothing with rage, and recoil from the doorway. Mrs. Carlucci presses on, leaning over the dresser and extending her arm, spraying back and forth.

  Sam hears someone else screaming, and realizes that it’s Stephanie. He notices that she’s managed to retrieve her knife. Now she’s on top of the naked woman, who’s coiled beneath her, blinded and flailing as Stephanie plunges the butcher knife into her again and again. Blood splashes them both in wide arcs, splattering the walls and carpet. Stephanie’s arm moves like a machine, stabbing and slashing, even after the naked woman stops moving.

  The mob rushes the open door again, as Shaggy and Turo run out of the kitchen.

  “They’re getting through,” Shaggy pants, wild-eyed. “We can’t hold them back anymore. There are too many!”

  “You’ve got a gun,” Sam shouts. “Shoot them!”

  “For every fucking one I shoot, two more take their fucking place.”

  He wheels, fires four shots into the crowd at the door, and then pushes past Sam and flees down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Mrs. Carlucci sends another arc of oven cleaner at the horde, but then the stream sputters and dies.

  “I’m empty again.”

  She tosses the can at the crowd. It bounces off a naked man’s forehead. Then she follows Shaggy and Turo.

  Sam stares at the mob. He glances down and sees a long-handled axe lying in the doorway, apparently dropped by one of the people Mrs. Carlucci blinded. He bends down to grab it, and hears the blockade in the kitchen crash to the floor.

  “Shit.” He seizes the axe. Its weight feels reassuring. “Stephanie, come on!”

  She looks up at him, her face drenched in blood. Her chest heaves. “I killed someone…”

  “You had no choice. Come on. We’ve got to go.”

  She rises unsteadily to her feet. Sam grabs her hand and leads her toward the bedroom. Their footfalls echo down the hall. Behind them, the dresser creaks as the mob pushes it out of the way. The last hinge snaps and the front door crashes to the floor. Something that sounds like a stampeding herd of cows trumpets out of the kitchen.

  “Don’t look back,” Sam shouts, pulling Stephanie along. “Just run!”

  At the end of the hallway, he spies Shaggy standing in the bedroom doorway, gun raised. Sam flinches.

  “Don’t shoot us, you asshole!”

  Shaggy motions with the gun. “Then hurry the fuck up!”

  Shaggy moves aside as they reach him. Sam shoves Stephanie into the bedroom and then turns to look. His eyes widen in horror.

  “Oh shit!”

  The crazies rush into the apartment. Shaggy empties his magazine, firing into their midst. Sam has to admit, the stoner is a great shot. Each bullet finds a target, and each target drops to the floor. More naked attackers clamber over their fallen comrades. Shaggy pushes past Sam.

  “Dude,” he shouts, “come on!”

  Still hefting the axe, Sam slams the bedroom door shut behind him as the mob pours into the living room and down the hallway. Their pounding feet drown out everything, including his scream.

  Ten - Grady, The Exit, Adam, Phil, and Beth: The Yard

  As the crowd of naked people begins to surround them again, Grady fires two rounds. The gun jumps in his hands, and the bullets miss. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to remain still. Then he squeezes the trigger four more times in quick succession. This time, all four rounds hit their intended targets. Three of the crazies drop. The other one staggers backward, hand clasped to a sucking chest wound. The rest of the mob barely seems to notice. Grady is not surprised by their reaction. Obviously, there’s something very wrong with these people, given their current state of agitation. But even if they were normal, they might not notice that he’s just shot four of them, since Mendez from next door just ran over three times that number with his car, crushing them beneath his wheels and buying Grady and Adam a brief moment of respite. Now the car is racing across the yard, away from them. Some of the horde give chase, further lessening the numbers he and Adam face.

  Grady reloads on the run, arthritic fingers fumbling with the bullets. The task is made even more difficult by the fact that he can’t seem to stop shaking. He hasn’t been this scared since Vietnam. The pain in his chest returns, more pronounced this time. Grady winces when he draws breath. Adam stumbles alon
g next to him, still disoriented and half-blind as more blood streams down his forehead into his eyes. His skin is very pale, and his pupils are dilated. He keeps glancing back at their pursuers, and each time he does, he slows down.

  “Where’s your fiancée?” Grady asks, trying to keep the younger man focused as they flee. He feels bad for not being able to remember the girl’s name in the heat of the moment.

  Adam shakes his head. “They…there was a knock on the door and she…”

  He falters, and then, sobbing, begins to turn back toward the crowd. Grady grabs his arm and pulls.

  “Come on, Adam. Focus. Head for my front door.”

  “But they…they had knives…and a piece of rebar. They…”

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not. She’s dead!”

  “I’m sorry, Adam. I—”

  A naked man who Grady recognizes as a tenant of Building B charges ahead of the rest of the crowd. He’s carrying a broken mop handle, the tip of which is stained brown with blood. Grady pauses and shoots him in the head. The man runs four more steps before tumbling over. He never lets go of the mop handle.

  “Mr. Hicks! Mr. Hicks, wait up!”

  It takes Grady a second to find the speaker. The voice comes from across the yard, near the apartment complex. He turns toward it, searching, and spots Phil and Beth, the newlyweds who live a few doors down from him, inching along the side of the building. Phil clutches an aluminum baseball bat. The crowd is between them and Grady, and don’t seem to have noticed the young couple. That changes as Phil waves and shouts again.

  “Mr. Hicks, we’re coming. Wait up!”

  “Wait up,” Grady mutters. “That boy’s crazy. Wait up my ass.”

  Mendez whips the car around in the yard, tires chewing up the grass and topsoil as the vehicle bares down on the crowd again. The engine chortles manically, and the mob’s rear flank scatters. Mendez lays on the horn. Grady isn’t sure if he does this to further distract and disorient their attackers, but if so, it doesn’t achieve the desired results. Mendez doesn’t get the main crowd’s attention until he slams into them at full speed. Naked bodies fly and tumble like bowling pins. The car bounces up and down, and for one moment, Grady is sure his neighbor is going to crash. Then, Mendez regains control. The car’s rear end fishtails, sliding on the grass, and he manages to clip two more pursuers. Then he roars off again across the yard. The naked people turn their attention back to Grady and Adam, but several of them splinter off from the main group and begin stalking toward Phil and Beth.