by Ivan Turner
"I want a better look," Heron said and Smith nodded in agreement. Together, the two men moved forward until the scaffold like structure pressed down too far for them to walk. Then they cut to the left where there was a break in the structure a few feet away. Like the spot in which they'd entered, there was no passage forward here. Their only way out would be to climb the supports and lever themselves up into the audience. Heron reached up and lifted himself. As he poked his head through the break, he saw two men, one on either side, looking down at him. The first man was a stock broker if he was anything at all. He was wearing a brown suit with a funny red tie. He stared at Heron in surprise, his eyes bulging behind the lenses of his glasses. The other guy was much larger and scowling. There wasn't much room for Heron and Smith to squeeze in.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Just watch the show," Heron answered, pulling himself all the way up. A moment later, Smith's head appeared through the crack.
"What is this, a fuckin' party?" the man complained.
Heron pulled out his badge and showed it to him.
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
"It's supposed to remind you to show a little respect. After all, we're here to protect you."
There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find Smith trying to get his attention. He was pointing at the ring. They were pretty far down, which left them only a few rows from the floor. There were several rows of chairs, but they were all below them, giving them a clear view of the ring. On their end, facing away from them, was a line of zombies, each bound and gagged. Four zombies, unbound, were in the ring attempting to square off against a man in what looked like pajama pants and no shirt. At first, Heron's view of the man was blocked, but as the zombies cleared the way and the fighter took his first strikes, he could see very clearly that it was Francis Culph.
"I'm not really surprised," Smith said.
Heron scowled. "He said he needed money. I wonder how long he's known about this place."
"What do you want to do?"
Heron looked at the ring, then looked around the arena. There was so much that he wanted to do, but he wouldn't be able to do all of it. Once Culph knew there was a police presence in the building, he'd clear out quickly. If they went straight to Culph and tried to arrest him, then the ringleaders of the operation would clear out just as quickly. Which was more important?
"Do you see that?" Heron asked, pointing behind them to the second floor. "I want to check that out."
"You're sure?" Smith asked, looking longingly back at Culph. He hadn't liked Culph. Few of the men had. He'd been friendly enough at first, but as time went by, the layers had stripped away. Truth to tell, Heron probably should have seen the end of that road long before they reached it. But he had chosen Culph and he had adopted him as a surrogate partner. His own attitude had blinded him to Culph's most obvious, and most dangerous flaws. And now here he was with the opportunity to, in some small measure, make it right. But still he felt a loyalty to the young man. So, in response to Smith's question, he nodded his head, and turned his back on the murderer.
***
TOBY was in the corridor waiting impatiently when Arrick appeared with the four zombies in tow. Arrick could sense Toby's apprehension. It was a bit contagious.
"You better take off," Toby said to him.
"Hmm?" Arrick asked. "Why's that?"
Toby nodded at the zombies. "Exit strategy. Didn't Marcus tell you?"
"He told me there was an unscheduled fight."
Toby laughed. "I'll say. Crowd versus cops."
"What?"
Now Toby was slow, but not that slow. He caught on to the fact that Marcus, for some reason, hadn't given Arrick the exit strategy. It was too late to back out now. "Just get lost, John, okay?"
Toby took charge of the zombies and marched them toward the arena. Arrick watched him until he'd disappeared into the center area. What had he just learned? There were police in the building. Well, he'd already known that. He'd seen the policeman that had signed up to fight as St. Francis. Marcus was spooked and planning to bug out. But cops versus crowd? What did that mean? Unless they planned to incite a riot. Was that the exit strategy? Create panic and then slip out in the confusion? It suddenly dawned on Arrick that he had just given Toby the weapon to do just that. In just a very few minutes, things were going to become very dangerous at the arena. Toby was right. It was time for him to get lost.
A day earlier, Arrick had phoned his brother for advice. Well, not so much advice as a reminder of how to be a good person. Malcolm, in his own way, had done a good job of it. But for some reason it hadn't taken. Arrick was still here and he was still finding and minding the zombies for Marcus. And now Toby was going to start a riot which would get dozens or hundreds of people injured or killed and he was thinking about running. It wasn't the right thing to do. It wasn't even justifiable.
And then there was Shawn. He'd seen Shawn, wounded and locked into a small room. He was a prisoner and Arrick had done nothing to help him. What kind of a man was he? Had he changed that much or had he always been that way? He remembered Suzanna, and the sacrifice he had made to be with her in her final hours. Why had he done that? Not out of love, surely. There was no love between them. No, it was because there was a part of him that couldn't bear to think of the pain and fear that she must have felt. There was a part of him that would have done anything to help, let alone offer her just the small comfort of his presence. And at that moment, he had allowed that small part of him to dominate. He thought of Suzanna and he thought of Shawn and he thought of all of the terrible mistakes he had made. How many people had died because he had selfishly hidden his ability to beat the zombie plague? It was too late to stop Marcus and Toby, but not too late for Shawn. He ran for the stairs.
***
AFTER watching Toby come out of the corridor with the zombies in tow, Marcus went to Shawn's room. He unlocked it with the tiny allen wrench he had in his pocket and stepped inside. Shawn was laying with his arm over his eyes. At least he looked comfortable.
"Take off," he said. "The bed pan's empty."
"It's me, Shawn," said Marcus. "We've got to go."
Shawn pulled his arm away from his face. He did it casually as if Marcus' presence didn't matter one bit to him. But Marcus knew. He knew Shawn.
"Why don't you get the hell out of here?"
"We need to go," Marcus repeated. "Together. Right now."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Marcus came over to the bed and began disconnecting the tubes. Shawn would be weak, but he could help him. "I'm shutting it down," he said as he worked. "You were right. I just…All I saw was the money so I'm getting out."
Leaning in, Marcus slipped a hand around Shawn's waist and started to lift him. Shawn wanted to fight, but he wanted to sit up even more. As he did so, he was caught by an excruciating pain in his side. He had to stop halfway up, his stomach muscles bunched, just breathing heavily.
"I'd love for you to be able to take your time," Marcus said. "But we've got to go."
"What's the rush?" Shawn asked. "If it's your business and you’re shutting it down."
"My partners don't agree with me. They won't want me to go." The lie was hollow, but it was all he had. He knew he shouldn't be using it to try to win back Shawn's confidence and his love. He should tell Shawn the truth about the exit strategy. The fear would push him out then. Shawn's safety should be his first concern. But Shawn struggled himself up and was sitting with his legs over the side of the cot before Marcus could even complete the thought.
"Can you walk?"
"I guess."
Just then the door burst open and in walked John Arrick. He was just starting to say something, Shawn we've got to… but it died in his throat when he saw Marcus. Marcus' eyes went dark. He stood from the bed.
"What are you doing here?"
Arrick wanted desperately to dispel the intimidation he felt but he couldn't. Quickly, his mind struggled for
an answer. "Toby told me to get out. He said something about an exit strategy."
"What the hell's going on?" Shawn asked. "Mr. Arrick, how are you even here?"
Shawn knew him. Marcus hadn't even thought about it. Even when Arrick had burst through the door calling Shawn by name, Marcus had been concocting more lies to get what he wanted. But now it was all for naught. If Arrick knew about the exit strategy, then there was no way Marcus' words would hold any water with Shawn.
Arrick raised a hand toward Shawn. "Come with me. I'll get you out safely."
"Get out of the way," Marcus hissed.
Arrick thought long and hard about what he was about to do. He considered the fact that someone, probably Marcus, was responsible for saving Shawn from his gunshot wound. Someone else was responsible for the wound. If Marcus was there, he was probably trying to get Shawn out as well. Arrick could back off and still have a clear conscience. But he had an idea of the kind of man Marcus was and he wasn't comfortable with leaving Shawn in those hands.
"No," he said. "If we work together, we'll have a better chance of getting Shawn out."
It took Marcus a moment to process Arrick's unexpected response. But then he nodded once. "Okay. Get his other side."
Together, they lifted Shawn to his feet.
***
WHEN Larry had asked Trevor to come to the zombie fights, he'd thought his friend was nuts. What the hell were zombie fights? Even after Larry had explained it, Trevor was skeptical. He liked a good boxing match and MMA was kick ass, but zombie fights? There was something a little unnatural about it. Trevor had never seen a zombie and he was more than a little afraid of what to expect. But Larry had cajoled him, told him the odds were good and there was money to be made and a good time to be had. So, as always, Trevor had lied to his wife, snuck two hundred dollars out of his bank account, and gone ahead with Larry.
And he was so glad he had!
The fights were spectacular. The first fighter, Red Rover, had really known what he was doing. Surprisingly agile for a big man, he had danced around those flopping monstrosities until he'd had his opening and then… Well… Trevor had never really liked splatter movies because they always seemed so fake. But now that he had seen real gore, he wasn't sure that he would ever get enough of it. He might have to lie to his wife every week. Hell, it was even better when the fighter's got nailed.
And he was up three hundred bucks!
He had some money riding on St. Francis. This guy looked tough. He was wearing light sweat pants and no shirt. That took balls.
Someone brushed his left shoulder and he turned. There was no one seated there, but there was someone coming up the aisle.
"Watch it, dipshit," he said.
The guy turned toward him and Trevor could see that his face was marked with open sores. Really? The moron had really dressed himself as a zombie for the zombie fights? Trevor laughed mockingly.
Then the zombie moved in with its mouth open and its foul stench and Trevor knew he'd made a mistake. He tumbled back into Larry in a vain effort to get away but as its teeth sank into his chest, he realized he would never have to lie to his wife again.
***
HERON and Smith were half way up the stairs when they heard the pitch of the crowd's calls change. There's a stark difference between the sound of a crowd of men cheering on a competitor and the sound of a crowd of men shrieking in terror. The two officers stopped and turned. From their vantage point, they could see most of the arena. Culph was wrestling with one zombie as the other two closed in. Much of the crowd was unaware of any danger and still shaking their fists at the show. But off in one corner, a group of men had been attacked by a zombie. It was behind Heron and Smith and off to the right. They looked that way and saw the disturbance. The view was spectacular. There was a fluid motion to the crowd as they enjoyed the terrible show, but this one area violated the consistency. In that one area, people were moving at random. Most were pushing away from the one spot where the two officers could see an awkward shape holding another man with both hands. Its head was sunk low and the blood was spreading out over its cheeks.
"Call for help, now!" Heron screamed into Smith's face and even as Smith was grabbing up the radio and shouting into it, the lieutenant pulled out his own phone and scrolled to his last messages.
GET OUT NOW! he texted to Abby.
Smith tugged on his sleeve and pointed to another section of the crowd. The disturbance was the same as the first. The crowd was moving erratically, pushing away from something. Why were there zombies in the crowd? Had something gone wrong with the fights? Or…
"They know we're here," Heron said to Smith.
Looking up from the radio, Smith put it together. The bastards had released zombies into the crowd in order to create a panic. Then the people running this nightmare would be able to slip out in the confusion.
"Up there!" Smith cried, pointing to the catwalk that ran around the offices.
Heron looked up and could see three figures emerging from one of the rooms. The man closest to the rail was a young man with cream colored skin and the smoothest of motions. Heron didn't know him. The figure on the opposite end was unidentifiable because of the angle. But the figure in the middle, whose torso was wrapped in bandages… The figure in the middle who needed help from the other two… The figure in the middle who had been missing and presumed dead…
"Shawn!"
Shawn looked at him and so did the man carrying him. Then they ran, two figures dragging the helpless Shawn away from him. Without even waiting for Smith, Heron bolted after them.
***
IT was all right. He was doing all right. He just needed to compensate for not having the gear and the weapons. He wasn't squeamish. He could do this. After all, he'd strangled a woman in cold blood.
The first zombie was faster than the other two. This actually worked to Culph's advantage. The corpse had no concept of how to use that speed and simply separated itself from its companions. He supposed it thought to get to the buffet before the others. Of course, he would then have to suppose that it thought at all.
As it came in alone, he used a very simple tactic to grab and twist its arm. It threw the zombie off balance, but didn't have the effect it would have had on a man. The thing felt no pain. It didn't respond to its muscles and tendons being stretched the wrong way. It simply adjusted and closed the gap.
I need the money, Culph thought as adjusted his stance and met the thing full on. I need to escape.
Forcing his hand up under its chin, he pushed with all his might while putting his arm around its back. The smell was vile and the feel of the body next to him was different from the feel of a human body. There was no warmth. The fat and the muscles didn't have the springy sensation of living tissue. It was almost like that foam they used in mattresses. The kind that shapes itself to your contours. Culph had never been able to sleep on one of those. Now he doubted he'd ever be able to touch one without throwing up.
He and his opponent went to the mat. Fully aware of the other two closing in, he disentangled himself from his opponent and sprang to his feet. He would have crushed its head right then and there but he was out of position and didn't have the time to readjust. Instead, he brought his foot down hard on its shin. The sound of the bone cracking beneath the sole of his shoe was enough to put him at ease. Maybe the creature wouldn't feel the pain, but it wouldn't be able to walk either. Putting some distance between himself and the zombie with the broken leg, he faced off against the other two. Now that he had done damage, he was beginning to feel the fury build. He'd spent a couple of months fighting zombies as a cop. He'd been covered in armor and equipped with the best automatic weapons. Even when a zombie could get its teeth onto him, it could never get them into him. Here it was different. This was no holds barred and the danger was real. He began to pull from that dark reserve. This time, he would finally make it work for him.
