by JJ Zep
“Ruby Collins,” Scolfield said half rising. “Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” Ruby said.
“Some water maybe?”
“In this place? Might as well drink straight out of a latrine.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Scolfield chuckled. He turned to Burns, “You heard the lady, buzz off.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Scolfield sir,” Burns said, backing off as he spoke.
Scolfield turned back towards her. He was a slight man, with corn-colored hair and pale blue eyes that were rendered disconcertingly large by his thick glasses. He was wearing an unusual get-up, a gray suit with a Chinese collar that reminded her of Dr. No from the James Bond movie.
“So, Ruby Collins,” Scolfield said. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“My uncle Joe mainly, and old Bruce Lee movies.”
“Bruce Lee?”
“Never mind. Burns tells me you run a fight club.”
“Once in a while. That’s not why I asked you over here.”
“Why then?”
“I wanted to see your feet.”
“My feet?”
“Yeah, how about you slip out of those clunky old combat boots and let me get a look at them?”
For a moment, Ruby thought he was kidding, but Scolfield’s gaze never wavered. So that’s what this was about, that’s why Scolfield wanted to meet her, the sicko had some kind of foot fetish.
“That’s it,” she said, pushing back from the table. “I’m outa here.”
“Whoa!” Scolfield said. “I’m joking for chrissakes. Jeez, why’d you have to be so touchy? Of course, I want to talk to you about fight club. A talent like you, why wouldn’t I be interested. Sit down why don’t you?”
Ruby looked back over the table at him, decided she was going to leave and then changed her mind. She eased herself back into the seat, but she’d barely settled when she felt his foot rubbing up against her under the table. “Hey!” she said, rising into a crouch, “Cut that out!”
A sharp jab stung her calf muscle. She saw the bouncers, reflected in Scolfield’s glasses, heading towards her. She felt suddenly woozy, grabbed for the edge of the table and found her hand wouldn’t obey her command to close. She listed sideways. Somebody caught her before she hit the ground.
eight
“Ruby? Ruby Collins?”
The voice was distant, dreamlike, as though spoken by a god. Ruby opened her eyes to complete and utter darkness. She was lying on a hard surface, a wall at her back. She tried to rise and bumped up against a low ceiling, reached out and traced her hand along another wall, just inches from her face. Claustrophobia tightened around her chest like a steel band, squeezing the breath from her in a hoarse expulsion of air. She fought back the urge to scream, to claw at the walls. Freaking out wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She had to think this through, see if she could figure a way to escape.
She took in a breath and released it through gritted teeth, focusing all of her attention on the air entering and exiting her lungs. Five repetitions later and she’d slowed her pulse rate and stilled her mind enough for rational thought. Where was she? That was the first question that needed answering. You’re dead, an inner voice mocked, and for a brief moment Ruby actually entertained that thought. Then she quickly cast it aside. The pain in her skinned elbow, in her scraped shoulder, the burning itch in her calf, discounted the possibility of her demise.
Thinking about those injuries brought back a flood of memories. She remembered the fight with the Z named Cutie Pie. She remembered being grabbed by the ankle, hurled across the cage. That accounted for the damage to her elbow and shoulder, what about her calf? She remembered that, too. Scolfield had jabbed her, probably with a needle fixed to his boot, knocked her out and brought her here - wherever here was.
“Ruby?” the voice said again, its tone mocking.
Let me the hell out of here, Ruby wanted to scream. She bit down hard to still the panic. Screaming was probably what he wanted. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Something poked at her back. She reached under her body and traced her hand along a slick surface until she found a small disc. She grasped it between her fingers and tugged, heard a faint, “fffwittt” as the disc slid towards her. She ran her finger along and detected the zipper’s metal teeth and she knew what she was lying on. It was a body bag.
Ruby directed her attention towards the wall in front of her. She tapped against it and heard a metallic clunk. She thumped on the ceiling with the same result.
“Ruby? Ruby Collins? Are you there?” the dream voice taunted. She realized now that the voice was her own, some internal alarm, urging her to get moving, alerting her to danger. At least, she had an idea of where she was now. If she was right, there was a way out of here. She shuffled forward, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. Soon her feet touched the front wall of her prison. She reached up with both hands, placed her palms flat against the ceiling and anchored them there. She pushed with her feet, simultaneously shifting her body-weight forward. Light poured into her cell as the drawer slid open.
Ruby squeezed her eyes tightly shut, closing out the glare. She sat up in the body drawer and gradually relaxed the muscles of her face, allowing in a faint shaft of pallid light. She looked across the room, a windowless rectangular space with filthy, blood-flecked tile on the floor and walls. A stainless-steel autopsy table occupied the room’s center, on it, the flayed cadaver of a woman, a set of grimy surgical tools laid out beside her. There were a trio of walk-in fridges, a cabinet with a shattered front, and a table with an arrangement of variously sized glass jars. Most of the jars contained human feet, pickling in formaldehyde. Others contained heads and hearts, one contained a fetus.
The sound that had first alerted her to danger reached her again, a faint buzz, almost electrical in quality. Ruby knew that sound well - it was the resonance Z’s emitted when gathered closely together. She craned her neck trying to get a fix on where the sound was coming from, traced it towards the front of the room. There was a door there, bulging under the weight of the creatures trying to get into the mortuary. The door wasn’t going to hold much longer. Even as she watched, its frosted glass panel exploded inward. Clawed, gray-fleshed hands snaked through the gap like alien vines.
There had to be another way out of here. This was a mortuary, which meant there had to be a wide door for pushing gurneys through. Ruby scanned towards the back of the room and found what she was looking for - a black, rubberized curtain of about the size and shape of a double door. Fixed to the wall above the curtain was a sign, only the first two letters visible from her position. Those letters read “EX,” she thought she could figure out the rest.
She tried to stand and found that her right leg, the one that Scolfield had jabbed, wouldn’t respond. She slapped at the leg, squeezed it between thumb and forefinger, and felt nothing. The maddening dream voice surfaced again. He’s paralyzed you, it said. She ignored the voice. Whether what it said was true or not, she was determined to get out of here.
The drop to the floor was about five feet. Ruby didn’t waver. She pulled herself to the side of the drawer and flipped over the side, twisting at the last moment to break her fall. She came down on her good shoulder, wincing at the shard of pain that erupted through her body, somehow managing to still the cry that tried to force its way out of her throat. She lay for a moment breathing heavily, observing the room at floor level. The floor was cold and slick and sticky with black blood congealing in putrid puddles. It was on her hands too, and seeping into the white hospital gown she was wearing. Black blood, zombie blood, she now realized. And she had open wounds.
nine
Chris had never been a late riser. Six days of the week, he rose at five and went for his run. But Sunday was his day off, the one day that he passed on the run and allowed himself the luxury of an extra hour in bed. On this particular Sunday, he woke with a mild headache, a product of the two Big A
pple lagers he’d consumed at the party last night. He’d never been much of a drinker.
He slid from the bed and padded across to the bathroom, relieved himself and then swallowed a couple of aspirin before stepping into the shower. After that he toweled off, dressed and tiptoed across the bedroom. He wasn’t sure why exactly he went through the whole charade of being quiet. Kelly was the world’s soundest sleeper. A herd of elephants stampeding across the apartment were unlikely to wake her.
He stepped into the passage, drew the door closed behind him, and headed for the kitchen to get some coffee brewing. His route led him past the alcove that opened up onto the lounge and as Chris passed it he caught a faint movement, the drapes at one of the windows stirring in the breeze. He felt immediately annoyed. Which one of the boys was supposed to have checked the windows last night? Probably Charlie. Jojo tended to be the more diligent of his two sons.
He crossed the room, pushed the drapes aside and was about to slot the window closed, when he spotted Ferret. She was sitting on the fire escape, head resting on her knees, nightdress pulled down over her legs, seemingly oblivious to the early morning chill.
“Ferret?” Chris said.
Ferret didn’t respond, and the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders told him she was asleep. Chris let himself out onto the fire escape and sat down on the step beside Ferret. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder so as not to startle her. Ferret’s skin was cold to the touch.
“Ferret?” Chris said, giving her a gentle nudge.
“What? Where? Ruby?” Ferret spluttered. She looked around, wild-eyed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Chris said, putting an arm around her. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing, you’ll give yourself pneumonia.”
“Ruby?” Ferret said, groggily.
“Ruby’s fine,” Chris said. “She’s in bed. Which is where you should be. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
“Ruby’s not fine,” Ferret said, her eyes tearing up.
“What do you mean?” He felt a flutter in his stomach, a tightness at his temples. His headache was suddenly back. “What do you mean, Ferret?”
“Ruby’s gone!” Ferret wailed.
“Ferret?” Chris said, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “Ferret, you’re not making sense What do you mean, Ruby’s gone? Where’s she gone to?”
“Fighting,” Ferret sobbed. “She went fighting and she didn’t come back.”
Now Chris really was confused. But he felt a sense of relief also. What Ferret was saying made no sense at all. Why would Ruby be fighting? Who would she be fighting? More than likely Ferret had just had a bad dream and come out here to think it through. Maybe she’d even sleepwalked. He was certain that Ruby was safely tucked up in bed. Sure, she’d been keeping some unusual hours lately (and that was something he meant to pick up with her sometime soon) but she never failed to come home.
“Come on,” he said to Ferret. “Let’s get you back to bed before you turn into a popsicle out here.”
“No!” Ferret said, shrugging his hand from her shoulder. “Uncle Chris, you don’t understand! I think Ruby’s dead!”
ten
Ruby grasped the edge of the stainless-steel autopsy table and pulled herself to her feet. She plucked at the gown, sucked in her stomach, tried to keep the bloodstained fabric away from her skin. She had to get out of these clothes, even if it meant running through the corridors naked. She couldn’t risk even a drop of zombie blood coming into contact with her open wounds. In fact, she was going to do that right now. She grabbed the hem of the smock, pulled it over her head and cast it aside. She felt suddenly, horribly, exposed, especially as she now noticed a surveillance camera fixed into the corner, at ceiling level. The camera scanned and zoomed with an electronic whine. Ruby instinctively brought up her arms to protect her modesty.
She looked desperately towards the exit. The twenty feet she’d have to cover to reach it, seemed like a marathon. She was suddenly certain that she couldn’t do it. Stay here and die then, her dream-voice whispered. Stay here and wait until they force their way through that door and eat you alive.
A loud crack from the front of the room gave her the encouragement she needed. She backed up against the body cabinets and skirted along them, doing her best to avoid the blood puddles on the floor. The drawer she’d once occupied still stood open. She ducked under it, came up on the other side and spotted something tossed carelessly into the corner, a pale-green bundle of cloth that gave her heart a lift.
She pushed away from the cabinets, gained her balance and headed towards it, shuffling zombie-like, dragging her useless right leg behind her, gaining about half a dozen paces before her foot came down in something slippery and slid from under her. She flapped her arms desperately for balance, made a futile grab for the body cabinets, missed. The floor raced up to meet her and she hit it hard, coming down on her gimp leg. A million pinpricks instantly engulfed the leg as waves of exquisite pain washed over her. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself forward, digging her nails into the gaps between the tiles for traction. She heard a metallic jangle behind her – the dissonance of cutlery clattering to the floor. She ignored it, gathered her strength, dragged herself forward. The pile of hospital scrubs she’d spotted earlier was just inches away. She pulled herself into a sitting position and sorted quickly through the clothing, picking out the least contaminated items. She pulled on a pair of pants and an oversized shirt, rolling the sleeves to make it fit.
Another metallic jangle. Ruby looked across the room and saw the cadaver on the autopsy table bring itself into a sitting position. The woman shifted her weight in robotic movements, dangled her legs over the side and dropped to the floor. She scanned her head in an unhurried arc and her sightless gaze came to rest on Ruby. She turned slowly, took a stumbling step forward. A coil of gray-blue intestines plopped from her stomach wound and unraveled itself like a fireman’s hose. It trailed behind her as she blundered forward.
Ruby pushed up against the wall and found her feet. She backed along, keeping the zombie in sight as it lurched towards her, trailing its guts like a bizarre umbilical cord. Ruby’s hand slid from the slick tile to the spongy surface of the curtain. The zombie was ten feet away. There was a pair of sturdy swing doors behind the curtain, a length of rusty chain loosely threaded between the handles. The chain rattled easily free when she pulled at it. She jerked at the handle and the door angled open on whining hinges. There was a roughly plastered wall on the other side. The doorway had been bricked in.
eleven
The wall stood before her, an impregnable barrier. Ruby had barely registered that her escape route was barred when she sensed the curtain being parted behind her. A cold hand closed on her neck and in the next moment she was hauled back with tremendous force. The curtain slapped at her and she stumbled backward, feet slip sliding, fighting for balance, knowing that, if she went down, she was dead.
The Z lurched towards her, moving faster now that it sensed a meal. Ruby steadied herself and dropped into a lopsided crouch. Her right leg had regained some feeling, but it was still refusing to cooperate fully. Which gave her a problem. The tactic she usually relied on against Z’s was to sweep their feet from under them, drop them to the floor and then attack the head. Her traitorous right leg wouldn’t allow her to do that, wouldn’t even support her weight to give her leverage for a decent punch. She’d have to play this on the counter attack, reel the Z in, tempt it into a strike, then unbalance it and finish it off.
She shuffled away, keeping her distance, hobbling painfully. Another loud snap. Ruby looked over the shoulder of the advancing Z and saw the door bulge and burst open, excreting a black tide of the creatures into the room.
The Z in front of her circled, tracking her movements. Its gut was flayed open, exposing its innards - dead black heart encased in its exposed ribcage, collapsed, blackened lungs, gray-blue viscera hanging down to the floor. Ruby knew she had to finish this quic
kly. She had an idea of how she might do that. She stopped moving, invited a lunge, ducked under the creature’s grasping hands and grabbed a fistful of its intestines. She yanked hard, pulling the zombie off balance. The Z plunged forward, pitched onto its knees and slithered across the tile. It crashed into the autopsy table, its head clipping the sharp edge, adding its black brain matter to the mess on the floor.
Ruby turned instantly towards the front of the room. There was a crush at the door, the Z’s brawling and jostling, trying to force a way through the narrow entrance. About a dozen of the creatures had fought their way through the melee. They lurched forward tentatively, struggling for traction on the slick floor.
She scanned the room, computing her options. The only way out was through the door, but that wasn’t going to happen, not with half the Z’s in Jersey trying to get in. What she needed was a weapon. But her sword was gone, more than likely stolen by Chez Burns, who was probably showing it off to his deadbeat buddies at the Wayside Tavern right now. That thought filled her with anger, but she shunted it aside. She’d deal with Burns in good time. Right now, she had more immediate concerns. The Z’s were closing, one of them rounding the autopsy table. Think Ruby, think.
She realized suddenly what she had to do. If she couldn’t get out of the room, and if she couldn’t fight them off, her only chance was to put herself out of harms way, to find someplace where they couldn’t get to her. There were only two options, the body drawers or the refrigerators. She ruled out the drawers immediately - she wasn’t going back in there. The refrigerators though, might work. They stood just to her right, three walk-ins, their stainless steel finish dulled by filth and time. She crossed towards the first, levered the handle open and stepped back immediately. The stench that wafted out was toxic, a malodorous funk that reeked worse than the most rancid Z she’d ever encountered. She could see what was causing the stink, hundreds of blister packs of long spoiled blood were stacked on the floor, many of them punctured and seeping their vile contents. She wasn’t going in there, not if her life depended on it. But the bags of blood did give her an idea.
