by Brian Keene
“Better hope not. There’s a full gas can on your car.”
“And a full tank in the car,” Mendez responds. “That would be unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” Shaggy laughs. “Yeah, you could fucking say that.”
Grady steps back from the finished barricade and wipes his hands on his pants. Then he turns to them. “So, what are we going to do? We can’t drive out. The yard is on fire. Our luck’s not going to hold out much longer.”
“The back window,” Mendez tells him. “I still think that’s our most feasible route of escape. If what Shaggy says is true, then the numbers in the parking lot must have thinned by now. It sounds like most of them are in the building, now.”
“What about the backyard? From what Shaggy says, and from the brief glimpse I got when I opened the door, there are a lot less of them out there now.”
“Do you want to risk running through the fire?”
“No, but maybe we could run around it.”
“I’d rather go for the window and the parking lot,” Mendez says.
Grady still has major misgivings about this plan, but he can’t think of anything better, other than staying put, so he doesn’t argue.
Shaggy winces, holding his side.
“You okay?” Grady asks.
“Not sure. Fucked myself up pretty good when I fell. I think I might have broken a rib or some shit. And I scratched my back up, too.”
“If you have a broken rib, then you shouldn’t be moving around.”
“Well, it ain’t like I’m gonna just sit here and wait for them crazy fucks to kill me. I gotta keep moving. And besides, I owe the fat boy for Turo. That debt ain’t paid.”
“You keep moving around and the broken rib could puncture something,” Grady insists. “I saw it happen in the war.”
“I’ll be alright.”
“Suit yourself.” Then, something else occurs to Grady. He turns to Mendez. “If Shaggy’s group were able to dig through the walls, then what’s to stop the nudists from tunneling through the floor upstairs to get to us?”
“Nothing,” Mendez replies. “Which is all the more reason why we can’t stay here, in hiding.”
“The dude upstairs said the floor and ceilings have a lot thicker concrete than the walls,” Shaggy tells them.
“Regardless,” Mendez replies, “we need to go. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, Grady and I would have been out of here already.”
“I don’t know about that,” Grady disagrees. “There were still a lot of them out in the parking lot.”
“Yes, but their numbers are thinning. I suspect they will fluctuate all night. That’s why we should wait by the window, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
He turns and walks down the hall. Grady follows him. After a moment, Shaggy does the same.
“Well, I’m with you guys,” Shaggy declares. “Thanks again for letting me in. I thought for sure I was fucked.”
“Don’t thank me.” Mendez points at Grady. “It was his idea. I didn’t want to open the door, but Grady insisted.”
“Oh…”
“Don’t take it personally,” Grady whispers. “Mr. Mendez is sort of on a mission.”
“A mission? The fuck does that mean?”
“How many bullets do you have in that gun?” Mendez opens the bedroom door.
“Good question,” Shaggy replies. “I’m not sure anymore. I was gonna check that earlier.”
As Mendez and Grady walk into the bedroom, Shaggy pauses in the hall. He releases the magazine and turns it over in his hand.
“Good thing you reminded me. I’ve only got two fucking rounds left. One in the clip and one in the chamber.”
“That’s good,” Mendez says.
Grady turns to him, confused. “That’s good? How is it good?”
“He’s got two bullets. If they get in here, that means he’s got one for you both. Wasn’t that an option for you earlier?”
“Don’t start, Mendez.”
“The fuck are you two talking about?” Shaggy slides the magazine back into the gun.
“Don’t worry about it,” Grady says. “I’ve got plenty of ammunition left for mine.”
Mendez’s mouth twitches. “Do you have enough for every one of those people outside?”
Grady shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“If you do decide to shoot yourselves, remember I’m not part of your suicide pact.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Shaggy asks again.
“Mendez can’t die,” Grady tells him.
“That’s right,” Mendez confirms, smiling. “I can’t. Not tonight. So let’s get back to work on escaping.”
Eighteen - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, and Mrs. Carlucci: Apartment 3-D
When the door is smashed open, Sam pauses for a second, waiting for a clear shot. He takes it one breath later as the horde swarms through the door. He fires all five rounds, aiming for their center mass, and drops four naked attackers. The next wave slows, their speed impeded by the still-writhing bodies.
“Empty,” he shouts.
“My turn.” Mrs. Carlucci steps forward, hair spray and cigarette lighter at the ready, and unleashes a burst of flame. The crazies fall back, recoiling from the flames. For the first time, Sam sees something in their expressions other than murderous lunacy. He sees fear.
“They’re afraid,” he yells. “Keep it up!”
“I have no intention of stopping,” the old lady assures him, pressing her attack.
She arcs the flame back and forth in a sweeping motion. Flames scorch the doorframe and the walls, turning white plaster black with soot. Too late, Sam sees the framed picture of him and Sergio lying on the floor. He wasn’t even aware that he had dropped it. As the picture begins to smolder, he resists the urge to rush over and snuff out the flames. It—and the apartment complex—are already on fire. It’s too late to save anything now, other than themselves. And why would he bother saving the photo, anyway? Just an hour ago, he was willing to let it all be thrown in the garbage dumpsters—willing to leave it all behind with his corpse. Why should things be different now?
What has changed, he wonders as he hurriedly reloads his Taurus. Why this sudden urge to live? Why hasn’t he simply put down the gun and let the mob have him? Is it because he’s afraid of the pain? Afraid of being hacked to death or tortured? Afraid of being dismembered like poor Turo? Sure, he decides. That’s part of it. But there are other ways to escape this terror. Why hasn’t he simply finished what he started, before he was interrupted? Why not kill four more of them, and then turn the gun on himself?
He hears Caleb cry out from the bedroom, and he knows the answer. It’s because he has people now. He’s a part of something—something more than just himself. He’s no longer alone. And these people are counting on him as much as he’s relying on them.
Yes, he thinks. I want to live, goddamn it. What the hell was I thinking before?
“Back,” he shouts, raising the pistol again.
Mrs. Carlucci steps out of the way, releasing the button on the aerosol can. She sticks her thumb in her mouth, then takes it out.
“Thanks. I could use a break. That lighter was getting hot.”
A group of seven naked people hover just outside the door, afraid to come inside. It occurs to Sam that there seems to be less of them now. He wonders where the rest of the crowd has gone. Not in Terri’s apartment. Judging by the smoke and the sound, it’s fully ablaze. Maybe they’ve retreated to the woods and the alley, looking for easier prey. Or perhaps they’ve circled back around to the backyard, deciding to try their luck with anyone left alive in the apartments below.
Shrugging, he aims at the hairy chest of a man with a large beer belly. Sam squeezes the trigger and smiles with satisfaction as he sees the man’s skin split. The target staggers, and then touches one hand to his chest. He stares at the blood on his fingers in confusion, and then falls. The other crazies retreat, just out of range.
Mrs. Carlucci says something, but Sam can’t hear her over the ringing in his ears.
“What’s that?”
“I said what are they doing? Why aren’t they attacking?”
“I think it’s the fire. They’re afraid of it.”
Sam lowers his weapon, grateful for the respite. His arms are numb and his hands tingle.
“Sam,” Terri shouts, “we’re almost through the wall.”
He and Mrs. Carlucci glance at each other.
“Go ahead,” Sam tells her. “I’ll keep watch. Call me when they’re through.”
Before she can respond, they both notice movement out of the corner of their eyes. A dark shape fills the doorway. They turn toward it and see Tick Tock standing in the door. His massive chest heaves. His eyes glare, unblinking. There is blood smeared on his face, and when he smiles at them, Sam swears he sees skin dangling from between the behemoth’s teeth.
“Fuck you, buddy.”
Sam snaps the pistol up, but before he can take the shot, Tick Tock is gone, retreating back into the darkness. They hear a tremendous roar, and then, hesitantly, the crazies start to slink forward, approaching the doorway. They move hesitantly, obviously afraid. Then Tick Tock roars again, and they seem more determined.
“Light the carpet on fire,” Sam hollers, snapping off two shots.
Mrs. Carlucci stares at him in confusion, and he realizes she couldn’t hear him.
“The carpet,” he shouts. “In front of the door! Light it up!”
He inhales a lungful of smoke, and begins to cough, unable to focus his aim. He bends over, retching and gagging, and waves wildly at the door.
Mrs. Carlucci rushes forward and sprays fire at the carpet. It catches quickly, and the living room begins to fill with choking, toxic fumes. The smoke looks oily. The flames race across the floor, licking the bottom of Stephanie’s sofa and recliner. The group at the door hesitates again, shielding their faces with their arms.
Bellowing, Tick Tock stomps forward, and shoves his followers inside. They trip over the dead bodies and fall face-first into the flames. Frantic, they roll and flail, trying to push themselves upright. Sam points the pistol at them and squeezes the trigger until it clicks empty.
Tick Tock disappears again, but Sam can hear him screaming outside, even over the echoing gunshots.
Mrs. Carlucci lets loose another gout of flame. Then she looks down at Sam.
“Go…” Sam wheezes, motioning toward the bedroom.
“You’re coming, too.”
Mrs. Carlucci throws the can into the fire and then grabs his wrist, urging him along. Sam stumbles behind her. His throat feels like it’s on fire and his eyes are watering so much that everything turns blurry. He realizes that his elderly neighbor must be having the same difficulty, because she leads him into a wall.
Recovering, they turn down the hall toward the bedroom. Sam gapes, alarmed at the amount of smoke roiling out of the spare bedroom. The heat wafting from that direction is unbearable. He coughs again, and then feels Mrs. Carlucci tugging his arm. Sam frowns, confused. Has the old woman suddenly gotten shorter? No, he realizes. She’s crouched down, closer to the floor. He follows her lead and suddenly he can breathe again.
“Crawl,” she gasps, pointing.
They proceed down the hallway on their hands and knees, until they find the bedroom door. Somebody has shut it, probably to keep the smoke out. Sam wonders when that happened. It must have been in the last minute. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to hear Terri before.
“Quit lollygagging,” Mrs. Carlucci snaps. “There’s no time for nonsense right now, Sam.”
Nodding, he follows her as she reaches up, turns the doorknob, and crawls inside the bedroom. Once they’re in, Sam slams the door behind him. This room is smoky, too, but it’s bearable. Sam rises to his feet, and then helps Mrs. Carlucci stand. He glances around the room, and sees that Terri has managed to tunnel through to Mrs. Carlucci’s apartment. She, Caleb, and Stephanie are standing next to the wall.
“We…we weren’t sure what happened to you,” Stephanie explains. “So we were waiting.”
Sam nods, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s okay. You did fine, Steph.”
“Did you see my cats?” Mrs. Carlucci asks, her voice thick with worry.
“No,” Terri replies. “But it’s quiet over there. None of the… whatever these people are…none of them are inside, yet. I’m sure your cats are safe.”
“How do we know?” Sam asks. “How do we know they’re not inside?”
Terri shrugs, and glances at Stephanie.
“Wouldn’t they have come through the hole after us, as soon as we broke through the wall?”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Good point. Although…they seem to be more calculating than we thought.”
Stephanie frowns. “What do you mean?”
He starts to tell her about their behavior at the door, and Tick Tock’s bullying of them, but before he can, Mrs. Carlucci hobbles across the room.
“You people can stand here and talk while the building burns down, but I’m going to see to my cats, and then we’re getting out of here.”
Sam smiles, encouraged at the old lady’s courage and single-minded determination. She really is a remarkable woman. He hates that it’s taken tonight’s events for him to truly get to know her, and he resolves to make up for that mistake when things return to normal.
If they return to normal, he thinks.
Resting his back against the bedroom door, Sam flips open the .357’s cylinder, ejects the empty brass casings, and fumbles in his pocket for more ammunition. His vision has cleared now, but his eyes still sting and his throat still tastes like smoke.
Mrs. Carlucci crouches down and climbs through the hole in the wall.
“Hannibal? King? Queenieeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”
Screaming, Stephanie, Terri, and Caleb back away from the wall as something jerks Mrs. Carlucci into the darkness on the other side. Only her legs are visible, jittering wildly.
“No!”
Sam lunges forward, gun raised, but he realizes he can’t fire into the tight space without hitting Mrs. Carlucci. Instead, he grabs her ankle and pulls. Someone on the other side yanks harder, as if the old woman is nothing more than a rope in a bizarre game of tug-of-war. Then Sam spots Mrs. Carlucci’s head and face. Her eyes and mouth are wide with terror. Several pair of dirty, hairy arms are holding her. Something silver flashes in the darkness—a straight razor. Sam shrieks as it is dragged across her throat. Blood jets from the wound, turning the arms of her captor’s red. It splatters onto Sam’s face, dripping into his eyes, but he barely notices.
Realizing there’s nothing he can do, he raises the gun again and fires into the hole. He squeezes the trigger until it clicks empty. Then he scuttles away and glances at the others.
“Out the window! It’s our only chance.”
“But the fall,” Stephanie protests.
“We don’t have a choice, Steph! They’re in her apartment. And yours is on fire. It’s the only way out.”
He runs to the window. Unlike the other apartments, this room doesn’t have an air conditioner. Sam is grateful for that. He rips the curtains down, shoves the blinds aside, and unlatches the hasp at the top. Then he slides the window up. He coughs, as the breeze blows smoke into his face. Sam looks out on the backyard. Parts of it are on fire. Other sections are nothing more than smoldering ash. And still other portions seem unaffected, the grass still green—except for where it’s covered in blood. The other thing he notices is that the mob has dissipated for the most part. They’re still lurking on the fringes, and breaking into the other apartment buildings and terrorizing the houses across the street, but the vicinity immediately below him is clear.
“We can make a rope out of my sheets,” Stephanie suggests, moving toward the bed.
“There’s no time,” Sam yells. “I’ll go first. Then you, Steph. Terri, we’ll catch Caleb once we’re on the gro
und.”
Terri nods, too frightened to speak. Sam can’t blame her. His heart is beating so fast he’s concerned about a heart attack.
He hands Stephanie the Taurus. “Drop this down to me. Then you jump.”
Before she can respond, he turns to the window and climbs outside, first one leg, and then the other. Then, he lowers himself down until he’s hanging from the windowsill by his hands. It is then that Sam discovers he is too frightened to let go. He glances down at the ground below him, and sees that he’ll land on the sidewalk, in front of Phil and Beth’s apartment. Then he spots a bush, just off to the left. It’s surrounded by a deep layer of mulch. Shifting his weight, Sam swings to the left, trying his best to aim.
Then he lets go.
He lands in the mulch, just inches from the bush, and though the shock of impact travels up both legs, and the air rushes from his lungs, Sam is surprised to find that he’s okay. He raises his hands up to the window, and sees Stephanie leaning out, holding the gun.
“Drop it,” he says, waving in encouragement.
She does, and Sam catches it. The impact of the pistol striking his hand hurts worse than the landing did. He quickly shoves the weapon in his waistband and then looks back up. Stephanie has already crawled out of the window, and is hanging precariously, swinging back and forth.
“Go ahead,” he yells. “You’ve got this!”
“Sam…”
“It’s okay, Steph. You can do it.”
“I know I can do it! But you need to move out of the way.”
“Oh…”
He steps to the side and Stephanie lets go, dropping gracefully to the ground. She hisses, drawing breath on impact, and then looks at him, wincing.
“Ouch.”
Sam steps toward her in concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just stings the bottoms of my feet. I’m fine.”
He looks back up to the window and cups his hand around his mouth. “Okay, Terri. It’s Caleb’s turn!”
The young mother glances down at them, her expression panicked. Sam notices that smoke is starting to curl through the window. He glances to the right and sees that both Stephanie and Terri’s apartments are fully engulfed.
