by Baker, Rich
He looks at them for a minute, then says, “My name is Henry Sims, the three back here are my nieces Annie and Stephenie, and my nephew Robert.”
The trio nods and waves to them. Robert signs to Stephenie. Henry answers the question he knows the other kids will ask. “Stephenie is deaf. She lost her hearing to a fever when she was not yet four. She can talk well enough, can read lips a little, but mostly she uses sign language.”
The kids all murmur their hellos to the trio. Now that they can see their faces they can tell their ages range from late teens to mid-twenties, much like their group, with Annie looking like she’s the oldest.
“Listen, I don’t know you kids from Adam, but I have an offer for you,” Henry says.
“Henry, this isn’t necessary!” Robert says. “We aren’t leaving you!”
“Dammit, Robert, you have no choice! Fort Collins is going to fall, and we can’t hold them off forever. There are more than 150,000 people in that town. We’ll get overrun if we stay. You three are capable, but your best chances of survival are with a larger group, and we don’t have a lot of choices right now. Besides, I still have to deal with the other …” Henry trails off.
Stephenie signs to Robert, who translates. “She says she doesn’t want to go; or that if we go, you should come with us.”
Henry signs while he talks to Stephenie. “Honey, you kids need to go. This mess is going to get worse. Ben here will give me his address, and I’ll be down there when I’ve taken care of things.”
Stephenie signs to Henry again.
“No, Stephenie. We don’t have another choice. The clock is ticking,” he says. He turns to Robert. “I want you to lead them off of the property using the south trail. You know the back roads better than anyone. Get them around Loveland and down to Longview.” He turns his attention to Ben. “And you—I need you to take them in. They have good skills. They know how to hunt and fish, and they all have good skills with a rifle, especially Stephenie. They’ll earn their keep. Once things settle down, or the Army gets things under control, then you all can go your separate ways as you see fit. But I need to know that they’re going to be sheltered.”
“They’re not going to be able to shelter us!” Robert protests. “They don’t have any weapons. They don’t have any real supplies. They’re indoor dogs, Henry! You’re talking like you aren’t coming down there! If you’re worried about us making it here with you, what chance do you have without us? This is crazy!”
Henry speaks in a steady, calm voice, which is more chilling than if he were to yell. “Robert, when your parents died we took you kids in as our own. We never had kids, and we never asked for any, but we got you anyway. We’d rather die …” his voice wavers when he says this, “than see anything happen to you. I will be damned if I will see you killed—or worse—by one of those things. You’ll do as I say and you will lead these folks out of here. Stick with them and earn your keep. You will not survive this alone.”
Henry hands his night vision goggles to Ben. “Here,” he says, “you’re going to need some real NVGs, not them toys you drove in here wearing.” He points to a pad and paper on a bench in the rear of the shed. “Write your address on that for me.”
Annie, the oldest of the three of Henry’s kin, speaks up while he pauses. “Uncle Henry, why don’t you let one of these kids do it? They don’t know her. It won’t be as emotional for them. Then we can all leave together. Please.”
“Annie, girl, it’s not their place. I’m responsible. I owe it to her to be the one. Your truck is loaded with your gear. You all need to be gone before I get to the house.”
With that, Henry turns and walks away, turning the light off before he leaves through the access door on the side of the big shed. That he left without getting the address from Ben is not lost on any of them.
“What’s going on? What does he have to do?” Keith asks.
“Our aunt got bit in town, in the King Soopers parking lot,” Robert says. “They came home, but she got sick on the way. She turned into one of those things in Henry’s truck, but she can’t get out because of the seat belt. It’s a miracle that he didn’t get bit by her.”
Stephenie says something that none of Ben’s group can understand, but the two others, used to her communication style, hear her perfectly: “Let’s get him.”
“Look, you need to get south. I’ll lead you out of here, but we need you guys to help us convince him to come with us,” Robert says. “Help us with that and then we’ll all get the hell out of here.”
Ben agrees, seconded by everyone else, and they all exit the side door through which Henry disappeared. They’re walking at a quick pace when Robert notices his truck’s door is partially open. He mutters “what the hell?” not quite under his breath and trots over to it. The others hustle over as he opens the door and finds a piece of paper on the seat. He shines a small green filtered flashlight on it.
“NO!” he screams, turning and running for the house, dropping the paper as he rushes past everyone. Annie picks up the paper and shines her light on it. It has two sentences written on it:
“I’m sorry, but I can’t go on without her. Take care of each other.”
As Robert nears the house, a gunshot rings out and a flash of light bursts through the windows in the garage. A moment later a second shot rings out, and the two sisters, knowing what just happened, start to cry.
Nine
D-Day finishes driving the last screw into place. That’s it, twelve floors, twelve doors, all secured. Wait—eleven, he reminds himself. They still have to deal with the door on one. After he killed Nancy, the last member of the Hanson family, he’s had no more encounters with the living dead. If they’re going to secure the first floor, that’s going to change.
He takes the stairs to the tenth floor and stops at his apartment. He grabs his night vision gear, stowing it in a backpack, into which he also puts some extra ammo, some zip ties, some protein bars, and a couple of bottles of water. He drinks a glass of water in the kitchen, shoulders the pack, and heads back into the hallway. He decides to risk the power going out and rides the elevator down to the second floor, where he gets off and heads for the east stairs. He still hasn’t been able to reach Cortez on the walkie-talkie, and he fears the worst. He knows there’s only a pair of doors that separates the first-floor hallway from the lobby. He never checked to see if they were secured, but Cortez had said he locked all the doors on the first floor. D-Day took him at his word and didn’t check them.
He eases the stairwell door open and confirms his fears. There are three zombies in the lobby; two are dead on the floor, and one is going back and forth in front of the windows. D-Day recognizes her as a woman from his floor—1006 or 1008, he thinks. She was an attorney or accountant—some profession that required her to wear expensive suits to work. She spent a lot of time in the gym on the fifth floor of the building. D-Day had thought about asking her out a few times, but she had a general air of unapproachability, so he never did. He’s glad for that now; if they had a relationship, this would be more distressing than it is. She bears wounds on her arms, shoulders, neck, and right calf. The calf wound has her limping, but she’s mobile enough to be a threat. Fortunately, her attention is focused on several dozen zombies outside the building, some pounding on the windows and the outer doors, trying to get in. With the suppressor affixed to the rifle, D-Day takes aim and with one shot, he drops her to the floor. He scans the lobby, but she was the only moving threat inside.
He moves quickly to the security office door and finds it locked, so he knocks on it twice. The knob turns, and a pale, sweaty Cortez opens the door.
“D-Day, sorry I dropped out on you, man. I was contacting people like you said, and tried to warn you about the zombies in 304. I didn’t notice Tamara from the tenth floor coming in the front door until it was too late. She drove her BMW right up to the bollards and then sprinted to the door. She almost made it, but two of those things got through with her, and they took her do
wn in the lobby. I got one with my Beretta, but the other one got me, bro.”
Cortez holds up his right hand to show the blood-soaked bandage before he continues his story. “He just nicked me with his teeth, but it was enough. I dropped my pistol, so I started hitting him with the only thing I had handy—my walkie-talkie. I caved in his head but destroyed the walkie, and the others aren’t working.” He winces in pain. “It really, really hurts, man. My arm is on fire.”
D-Day looks at his arm and from the site of the wound to the cuff of his golf shirt, the brown skin has faded to an ashy color. The veins are black, and the wound itself smells gangrenous, even though D-Day knows it can’t be infected this quickly.
“Cortez, this doesn’t look good. I’m a no-bullshit kind of person, and I have to tell you the reality of the situation …” D-Day says.
“No need, bro. I know the score; I’ve seen it on the cameras. I’m going to turn. I wasn’t sure until I saw the black shit start spreading up my arms. I should have just left them alone out there and radioed you to come help, but I thought I could pop them both. That second one was just too fast for me. I’m sorry, man, you’re going to have to finish this without me. I do have a plan, though,” Cortez says.
“Plan for what?” D-Day asks.
“To get the first-floor stairwell shut. I can help get the last part of the building secured before I go out,” Cortez says. “But we need to move fast because I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” He points to a bloody piece of paper. “I wrote my address and number on there. If you get through this shit, please try to find my girlfriend. I’ve not been able to reach her, and if she makes it, I want her to know I was thinking of her before I died. I want her to know I went out fighting.”
D-Day looks at the paper, feeling a little ashamed that he never asked Cortez about his family or friends. Since leaving the military, he’s so used to being alone that he never thinks about other people’s situations and how they may have close ties with their people. He shakes the thoughts away and takes the paper, folds it, and puts it in a pocket.
“If I get through this thing, I promise I’ll try to find her,” D-Day says. “Now, you said you have a plan?”
“Yeah. I’ve been talking to the people in 103, the ones who let all these things inside, you know?” Cortez asks. D-Day nods and Cortez continues. “We’ve got an idea. It gives them a chance to redeem themselves and lets me go out as a hero. Who could ask for more, right?”
Cortez tells D-Day the details, and without a better idea, D-Day agrees to do his part.
“You’re sure about this? You know what you’re in for?” D-Day asks.
“I know. I’m in so much pain right now I can barely see straight anyway. At least this way it will be over quickly.”
D-Day checks the rifle and pistol to make sure they’re both ready to go.
“One more thing, D-Day,” Cortez says, handing him a keycard and key on a lanyard. “These open any door in the building. You’re going to need them, I expect. The building is yours now, my friend.”
D-Day goes over to the intercom panel and presses 103. A voice comes back a few seconds later.
“Cortez?” a woman’s voice says.
D-Day presses the button. “My name’s D-Day … I’m here with Cortez. You guys were talking to him before?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she says. “Are you guys ready?”
“Yep. Be ready to move,” D-Day says, and then releases the button and walks away.
Cortez is in the lobby by the security doors that lead to the hallway overrun with the infected dead. He’s breathing hard and wincing in pain. He’s retrieved his pistol and holds it in his left hand.
“You sure you can do this?” D-Day asks.
“No going back, bro. But I need to go, like, now,” he says.
“Okay,” D-Day says. He swipes his security card through the card reader and unlocks the doors. Cortez pulls the left door open and goes through, and D-Day pushes it shut behind him and starts counting.
On the other side of the door, the undead immediately take notice of Cortez. He charges right at them, going as fast as his pain-riddled body will go. He screams like a banshee, and the undead hurl their disturbing howls back at him as they, too, rush headlong down the hall to meet him.
At the end of the hall, as the undead leave to pursue Cortez, the door to 103 opens. Two women come out with baseball bats. One, the one who crashed her motorcycle, kicks a zombie in the chest as it comes through the open stairwell door. The other woman, older, bearing a strong resemblance to the dark-haired woman, hustles to the stairwell door and starts shutting it. The first woman swings the bat like a club and cracks another zombie in the head, and then she kicks that one back through the doorway like she did the first one.
Some of the zombies have noticed them from down the hall and turn back to get at the fresh meat. The main horde, however, has reached Cortez. He’s aiming his Beretta and fires a shot, hitting the closest zombie in the head, sending oily fluid into the air and the zombie to the carpet. His second shot misses wide and hits the wall just above the women at the end of the hall. And then the horde is on him.
Behind the security door, D-Day has counted to fifteen and pulls the door open. He draws the AR up and starts firing, hitting the head of a zombie maybe every third shot. With the shots suppressed and Cortez screaming, it takes a few seconds for the creatures to notice him, and the zombies who don’t have a hold of Cortez turn their focus to D-Day. His magazine is empty, so he drops it and cycles a fresh one into the rifle.
At the end of the hall, the two men from 103 have hauled a large safe out of the apartment. It’s about three feet tall, two feet wide, two feet deep and has to weigh 250 pounds. They set it down in front of the stairwell door while the two women hit zombies with their baseball bats.
“Now!” one of the men screams and the women back their way toward Apartment 103, where the men slam the door shut the second the women clear the doorway.
D-Day drops his second empty magazine. He’s fired fifty-nine rounds (the sixtieth having dispatched Tenth-Floor-Tamara in the lobby), and he has ninety left, plus forty-eight rounds for his pistol. With the stairwell door shut, he only has to deal with the dead that remain in the hallway. He estimates he’s got about forty to deal with, and most of them are coming his way. Many of them stumble over the bodies on the floor, sometimes falling. D-Day notes that they don’t avoid obstacles well, and they don’t put their arms out to stop their fall the way living people do, so when they fall, they fall hard. They seem to home in on their prey, and that’s all they see. He backs toward the security doors, thinking he needs to choke their flow somehow so he can shoot slower and with more accuracy. He opens them and heads for the east stairwell.
He holds the stairwell door open and waits for the first zombie to clear the security doors. When it does, he runs into the stairwell and turns around when he’s halfway up the first flight. The zombie comes through the doorway and is instantly met by a .223 round to the head. It drops in the doorway and blocks the door open. D-Day climbs the remaining stairs to the first landing and turns as the next zombie comes through the door. He fires two shots, the second one hitting the mark, and the creature goes down in a heap. He lets the next few through the door and onto the stairs before he drops them. He doesn’t want the doorway to get so congested they stop coming through; rather he wants them to continue their pursuit. He’s in a good position now, he figures, because he can shoot at will. If he runs low on ammo, he can always keep going up the stairs to the next floor and resupply from his backpack. He’s wrapped his way around the stairs to the second-floor landing, and the zombies have slowed to a trickle. He hasn’t kept careful track of how many he’s put down, but he knows the number is north of thirty. He can see through the clear window on his magazine that he’s down to the last few rounds for his rifle. He drops one more zombie and waits a few seconds. He neither sees nor hears any others. He doesn’t want to chance wading
through the bodies; some may not be fully dead. He could trip and injure himself, or worse, he could be in the middle of them, and a straggler could come in and leave him little room or time to get a shot on target.
He goes through the second-floor access door and jogs to the elevator. It’s still on the second floor so when he presses the down button the doors open right away. He steps back just to be sure there’s nothing undead inside, and then steps in and presses ‘1.’ As the doors shut, he slings the rifle and draws his pistol, and waits for the doors to open.
The elevator stops on the first floor, pauses, and then the doors slide open. D-Day hears the sound of wet thumps and breaking bones. He peers out of the elevator and to the right he sees three zombies. The people from 103 have re-emerged to attack them with baseball bats. The dark-haired woman swings her bat, and there’s a wet crunch as she connects with the side of the zombie’s head. It lurches sideways and hits the wall, leaving a black, brackish smear behind. She kicks another zombie in the chest, knocking it backward. She comes close to losing her balance, and then recovers and deals the death blow to the first zombie. One of the men has finished off the zombie he had been fighting, and then he starts swinging at the one that the woman kicked.
A moan to the left gets D-Day’s attention. Two zombies run back at them from the lobby. He raises his pistol and with three shots, he drops them both. He looks back at the people at the end of the hallway, and for a minute they all just breathe, taking in the silence of no undead moaning and trying to rip their flesh from their bones.
The silence is momentary. The pounding on the stairwell access door resumes, and despite the weight of the safe sitting in front of it, the door moves inward a couple of inches.
