by Max Boone
She was surprised by my casual attitude. "If it's true, someone has to make sure they pay for this, for all the damage they've done, the people they've killed."
"I'll put it on my list. Right now, getting us some more weapons is at the top."
"We already have a gun."
"And when it runs out of ammo? What if it breaks, or we're separated? Jeremiah told me we need to think long-term, and I'm starting to see how right he is. No one's coming to help us, so we need to help ourselves. This place has food and water, which is awesome, but at some point it's either going to run out or we'll have to protect it from someone who wants it worse than we do."
"Fine."
I paused. "That's it?"
"I said that's fine. But if you're planning to rob a gun store-"
"Gun stores are out of the question. Even if there was one around here, I don't need some paranoid NRA freak holed up with a roomful of guns while I'm trying to break in. I need something a little less obvious, something no one would give a second look to when shit hit the fan."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Watch him."
"You know I will."
"What will you do if he wakes up one of those things?" She didn't answer, staring off again at the hospital. "Alison," I said louder, snapping her out of it. "If Jeremiah becomes a Bleeder, will you put him down, or will you let him kill you?"
She was quiet. Her expression told me she wasn't sure what she'd do when the time came. What worried me most- and excuse me for being so selfish- was that I didn't want to risk my ass out there looking for guns, only to come back and get my face chewed off the second I stepped back through the door. A little stability at home, that's all I was asking for.
Alison opened her mouth to speak, but then her eye-line shifted to the street a little further west, by a small playground. Two cars, a white Honda and a green tow truck, were speeding along 135th Street toward the hospital, their tires screeching, both cars drifting across both sides of the road as the Honda tried to lose the tow truck, which was trying its damnedest to ram it to the side. Even from a distance, we could see the Honda had a couple of young girls inside. We both understood immediately that we were looking at some kind of carjacking, but we also both understood there wasn't a damn thing we could do to help. All we could do was watch and wait to see how it turned out.
Just at the point where we could still see them before they disappeared behind one of the apartment buildings, the Honda ran into trouble. The driver didn't see a busted motorcycle abandoned in the middle of the road until it was too late. They tried to maneuver around the obstacle, but they overcompensated and lost control of the car. The Honda jumped the sidewalk, careened through the loading area and plowed into the hospital doors.
There was a loud crash from deep inside. A second later, an explosion rocked the hospital. Alison and I flinched and crouched down.
The hospital doors blew out onto the street, along with wood and glass and flaming debris. It seemed like too big a blast for just one car, and I wondered if either they'd been carrying extra gasoline in the car or they'd gotten unlucky enough to hit a gas main inside the building.
"At least they died quick," I offered.
The green tow truck kept its distance. After slowly drifting past the hospital and around the flaming papers, they thought better of things and turned around, leaving the place to burn.
I straightened back up, watching the fire spread. "Now's my chance," I said. Alison looked from me to the flames and back.
"Half of New York just heard that."
"Exactly, which is why I'm heading that way." I pointed the other direction, south-west along the river.
"Their loss is our gain, huh?"
"Something like that."
From the gaping hole that used to be hospital doors, we saw the first Bleeder step out of the flames. Her legs were on fire, her shoes melting to the concrete as she walked. She was free of her grave, and more of her friends were close behind.
"I suggest you walk quietly," Alison said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Walking quietly with the M16 at my side, I exited the food bank through the back and crossed the small courtyard. As I passed the hopscotch court, I saw that one side of the courtyard wasn't as enclosed as I'd originally thought. There was a half fence for most of it, but in some places there were cut-throughs for delivery trucks to pass through. If we were going to stay put a while and really try to make the place work, I would have to fix that.
As I left the courtyard, I glanced back at the building and noticed Alison was watching me from the second story window. I had the brief thought that it might be the last time I saw her, and I was surprised to find the thought bothered me a little. She may have been moody and suicidal, but the idea of going it alone, being out there with no one to annoy the shit out of, wasn't fun. Just for safety's sake, I gave her the finger. Alison gave me a small wave before turning away, most likely to check on Jeremiah.
I went down a block, made a left and went two blocks over, trying to make as little noise as possible while moving quickly. It was still early, and I wanted to use as much of the low light for cover as possible. About a block before I hit the river I reached Park Avenue, which ran under an elevated train track. Using the platform to stay out of sight, I jogged down Park Avenue, keeping the M16 steady in my hands. Most of the eight block run was quiet. Only a few times I had to slow down and hide behind a support column or an abandoned car, and I made good time, reaching the store I was looking for while the sun was still low in the sky.
I knew the shop would be there because I knew the neighborhood. I was only a couple of blocks from the park Jeremiah had cut through yesterday, where I had to stop and rest on a bench while the virus tore me up. It seemed like so long ago already, like I was thinking of a different person, and it bothered me to think that, in some ways, I was.
The front of the pawn shop was all yellow signs with big, red letters that said things like "24 HOURS" and "WE BUY GOLD." I'd never set foot in it before, but if you've seen one dingy pawn shop you've seen them all. They would have guns for sure, even if they said they didn't.
I ran along the row of stores, crouched low with the M16 ready to go. A man was laid out face-down on the sidewalk with a big, yellow sign that advertised the pawn shop around his neck. The sign half-covered him, but the half I could see was very dead. His blood was all over the sign and his intestines trailed into the street.
The door of the pawn shop, I was excited to see, was not locked and not smashed in. If they'd been paying a guy to stand outside with a sign around his neck, they'd obviously been open when everything went down. Twenty-four hours, like they advertised. And if the door was unlocked, the owner must be long gone- deserted or dead. Any thought of taking my time going in was erased quickly when I spotted three Bleeders up the block, dragging a guy out of a furniture store.
"Terrible time to buy a couch," I mumbled to myself.
The inside of the pawn shop was exactly as dark and dirty as I'd expected. A counter-to-ceiling metal cage separated the register side from the store side, with no less than six cameras mounted through the small store. Tapes and CDs and videogames took up one display. Bicycles hung from the ceiling. There was a wall of guitars and other instruments on one side and a section with power tools and all sorts of electronics on the other. I made my way to the counter quietly, still staying low as I passed glass cases of jewelry, which weren't even broken like I thought they might. It was a good sign.
Or I thought it was. As I got closer to the register I heard slight shuffling noises, like cloth rubbing against cloth. At first I thought it might be coming from outside, or just my imagination- voices had apparently come from there an hour ago- but then I very distinctly heard the whispers of two men in a language I didn't understand. It sounded almost Dutch, but more forceful, and one of them said the word "doodmaak." I took a step back toward the door. As I did, I heard the click of the safety coming off a gun.
Fuck.
I ducked behind a display case of clocks and silverware as the gunfire started. Only one of them fired, the other stayed hidden behind the counter. It was handgun fire, but fast, the pak-pak-pak of the shots overhead. He fired six times before stopping, destroying a cuckoo clock and my hearing in the process.
"Hold up, hold up, I'm unarmed," I called out.
"No, you are a liar," one of them said with a thick accent. I couldn't tell what it was, maybe some kind of South African, but more importantly I didn't understand how he knew I was packing. Then I looked up at the camera across the shop aimed right at me, a red light blinking on its side.
"Ahh. Okay, yeah, that wasn't true. But no harm done, alright? I'll leave, no problem. You can have whatever you want, just don't shoot me as I'm leaving. Deal?"
They whispered to each other in their language. Again I heard that word, doodmaak. Finally one of them said, "Deal."
I let the M16 hang loose from my neck and stood up slowly, showing myself over the broken clocks. Behind the counter one of them stood up as well, showing me his empty hands. He was a black guy, early forties maybe, with a shaved head and very dark skin. His clothes didn't look American and neither did his watch.
"And your friend?"
"I am alone," he said.
"Nice try. Please tell him to show me his face."
"There is no one else. It is just me."
I tilted my head. "Really, dude?"
"Yes, dude."
I sighed. "I heard you whispering when I came in. There's another guy back there. Please tell him to show himself."
"No, it was me. I whisper to myself."
This guy was unreal. "You know what? Doesn't matter. I don't have time to argue, so I'll just be on my way and leave you and your imaginary friend to it." I started backing toward the door with my hands raised away from my gun. As I passed under one of the fluorescent ceiling lights, the guy's face changed.
"Rooi, rooi," he shouted, thrown into a panic. I didn't have to speak whatever language it was to understand what he meant- he'd seen my eyes, and he thought I was infected. That I was a Bleeder.
"Wait, I'm not one of them," I shouted back, but it was too late- his friend, who supposedly wasn't there, popped up from under the counter. He came up shooting and I didn't get a chance to see his face, only the floor as I dove to the side and hit the ground hard before crawling messily out of sight.
Both men opened fire, lighting up the inside of the pawn shop with a barrage of bullets that tore the place apart. Plastic and glass flew from display cases and shelves, pawned belongings exploding to shreds that rained down on my head as I took the safety off the M16. I didn't want to kill anyone, but I wasn't going to let them kill me, either.
A few of their shots went wild and hit the front of the store, punching holes through the large display window to the right of the door. Spider webs crackled through the pane of safety glass, but it held.
The gunfire stopped. They ducked down and spoke as they reloaded their weapons, probably making plans to flush me out or corner me, but I wouldn't give them the chance. I stood and returned fire on the cage. I was more comfortable with the gun now, holding it firmly against my armpit, and I was able to control the gunfire better as I moved to my left, crossing the shop. It was scary as fuck, but it also felt kind of great. The counters fell apart under the attack, and I could only imagine the two men were huddled behind them, clutching their ears and pissing their pants.
I took my finger off the trigger. The pawn shop fell back to quiet, with only the sound of tinkling glass. From this angle I could see through the cage to the back of the shop, where the back door had been pried open and was left open on its broken hinges. So that's how they got in there, I thought to myself.
The two men didn't move or speak, so I broke the ice. "Are we cool now," I asked, keeping the M16 ready.
There was movement all the way at the back of the shop by the open door. A figure blocked out the morning light, and for a second I thought the men might have called for backup, but then I saw the way it moved as it came through the door, and I knew the truth: all that noise hadn't gone unnoticed. There wasn't just one Bleeder, three more of them appeared right behind the first, and they followed him in to seek out its source.
The two men shouted and started firing at the Bleeders. They took out the first in the line, but he was quickly replaced by a second. They took her out and she was replaced by a third, each one a little further down the short hallway, a little closer to the men. What was worse, more Bleeders were already at the back door and finding their way inside. Every gunshot drew more attention, and these two, poor fuckers were trapped in a cage.
Unless I helped.
"Open it," I shouted between gunshots. I moved to where the men could see me and pointed to the cage door. It was made so that the shop-owner could open it from his side to reach the customers but not the other way around. The man I'd been talking to glanced over at me, then at the man at his side. Only now I could see how young the other one was, just a young man of nineteen at most. Maybe that's why the older guy had been pretending he was alone- to protect him.
The older man hesitated. I'm sure he wanted to shoot me in the face, but at that moment I was the lesser of two evils, and the other evil was swarming through the door more and more as his bullets became less and less. He shouted at the young man to open the door while he continued to hold the line. The younger one hugged the counter and moved around closer to me. With the M16's muzzle pushed through the cage I squeezed off a few rounds and covered him long enough to come over to the cage door. He turned the handle and unlocked it, eying me with mistrust as it swung open.
I stepped through and opened fire on the Bleeders. The older one nodded, relieved by my actions. He returned to the swarm of angry, bloodied faces pouring in at him from the small hallway. In his eyes, I saw the look of a man who was faced with his death. It wasn't noble or brave, it was very real and scary. "Nkosi," he shouted. He stopped firing long enough to grab a duffel bag by his feet and toss it to the younger one, who caught the heavy bag against his chest.
That second was all they needed. The first screaming Bleeder reached him, an Indian man of seventy who any other time would be a harmless face on the street. He ran at the man, his arthritic joints moving more than they must have in years, and as he leapt I heard one of his legs break. The man tried to bring his gun down on the Indian man's head, but he was too late- the old man took him to the ground in a biting, tumbling fury.
"Oyibo!" The younger one by my side screamed as the man was overcome by the swarm. He tried to go for the older man to help him, but I pulled him back by his arm and stopped him from getting himself killed. I didn't know what to say. I just shook my head.
There wasn't time to be sad about the man being torn apart a few feet from us. There were still more Bleeders coming through the back door, and they quickly understood there was only so much Oyibo to go around. They focused on us, and I elbowed the young man behind me and out of my line of fire. When there was a break in the swarm, I pulled the cage door closed. It clicked shut just as a bloody face smashed into the cage. Safe, I looked back over my shoulder at our exit.
There were more Bleeders beating at the door.
"Damn it," I shouted. The young man looked overwhelmed by what he'd just seen, and if I didn't snap him out of it soon he'd be no help at all. "Hey," I said, "he's gone, but you're not. Get it?" He stared at me blankly, so I added, "Did he die for nothing?"
He looked from me to the cage, then back to me. "Yes," he said. He grabbed a power drill from a shelf and hurled it through the cracked display window to the right of the door. The safety glass shattered onto the sidewalk in a million pieces. He looked back at me and said, "But I will not."
I shrugged. "I mean that's not what I meant, but as long as it worked for you."
I gave the shop's door a hard kick, knocking the Bleeders on the other side back to keep their attention on the door.
Then we jumped through the open window as quietly as possible and put a little distance between us and the pawn shop before they could figure out what was going on.
The way back was cut off. The Bleeders we'd been dealing with for the past two minutes were just the tip of the shit cake apparently, because a ton of infected were crowded all around Park Avenue and under the elevated track, attacking an unlucky group of bikers in leather jackets and red patches.
"C'mon," I said with a nod, and headed toward the river.
CHAPTER TWENTY
One of the Bleeders beating on the door noticed us out of the corner of his bloody eye as we jogged away. He was a skinny man in a track suit, and he turned and started to follow us up the block. As I walked backwards, I aimed the M16 at him. I waited until he was a little closer and pulled the trigger.
Click.
"Oh, crap."
Oh, that's right. Guns run out of ammo. Lied to by movies once again.
Track Suit let out a scream that woke up every, damn one of his Bleeder friends at the pawn shop and even some of the ones on Park Avenue. More than a handful of them shifted their focus and began to come toward us.
"It is time to run," the young man said.
"I believe you're right."
We turned left and ran up Lexington, hoping to cut back toward Park whenever the way looked clear, but every time we tried the way was blocked. Park Avenue had too much action, so I decided the Third Avenue Bridge was our best chance. We could cross over to Mott Haven and make our way up Exterior Street, back over Madison Ave Bridge and to the food bank. It would be a major detour, but Exterior was a minor road that ran along the expressway, which would make for an easy and hopefully quiet run.
We reached the ramp and ran up and onto the bridge without slowing down, a growing tail of Bleeders following us a dozen yards back. We passed a tennis court to our left where some poor sucker was being torn apart by Bleeders. A few of the ones following us became interested in his screams and darted off toward him instead. I hated to say it, but I was happy about it. At least he was already doomed.
