“Is he here?” Gartrell asked. He cradled his AA-12 in both hands as a stench staggered past outside. Its shoulder rubbed against the pane glass window, leaving a vague trail of ichor behind it.
“No. He’s upstairs. Asleep.”
“Upstairs where?”
“Our apartment.” He looked down at her as she pointed toward the coffee shop’s ceiling. “We live on the fourth floor of the building.”
Gartrell considered that. The sun would be coming up soon, and his preference was to be above street level when that happened. Things were dicey enough when it was dark out; during the day, the dead would be able to hunt more easily.
“How do we get there?”
She gathered the sacks of cake and stuffed them into a large handbag that hung from her shoulder. She then rose to her feet.
“Follow me,” she said.
She started off toward the dining area. Gartrell moved to follow, then checked himself. He went back to the display case and filled two bags with cinnamon coffee cake. He then stuffed water bottles into the cargo pockets on his BDU trousers. Only then did he hurry after the woman as she slowly picked her way through the dark dining area. He couldn’t quite figure out where she was going, then he saw it: the long window overlooking the dining area was gone. It lay scattered throughout the dining area in thousands of shards. The glass made crunching, popping noises as they walked across it.
I guess she didn’t know the front door was open.
“I used the window because the apartment building is right next door,” she said, as if reading his mind. “If I’d tried to use the front door, I would have had to walk around the corner, and those things would have got me.”
“You broke the window yourself?”
“No.”
She stepped onto a chair and boosted herself onto the window sill. Gartrell was impressed that she was able to step onto it without any kind of handhold, and in total darkness at the same time. He reached out and touched her ankle, preventing her from stepping out of the Starbucks.
“I’ll go first,” he whispered. She nodded and pulled the revolver from the waistband of her jeans where she’d put it. Her index finger fell upon the trigger guard. Gartrell stepped onto the chair and, mindful of the broken glass, hoisted himself up to join her. He leaned out into the street, moving slowly, cautiously. Shapes moved in the gloom, but he remained undetected. Gartrell motioned Jolie outside, and followed her as she darted to a nearby door. She inserted a key into the lock and twisted it. Gartrell thought the lock disengaged with all the subtlety of a gunshot in a mausoleum, but the noise did not attract any unwanted attention—yet. Jolie pulled open the door and held it for him as he backed inside, keeping his AA-12 oriented toward the street. He caught the door as it closed and gently sealed it with no noise whatsoever. And just in time; a dark shape loomed right outside the glass. Gartrell grabbed Jolie’s arm and held her rooted to the spot as the zed lurched against the door and peered inside with milky, stupid eyes. Its mouth was open, and its blackening tongue lolled between a gap in its teeth. Gartrell practically held his breath, his automatic shotgun in both hands, its barrel pointed directly at the ghoul as it looked right at him without seeing him. Gartrell wondered if it would be content to stare into the apartment building’s darkened entry hall until the sun rose.
After a time, it finally shambled off into the night.
Guess even they can get bored.
“We should go,” Jolie said finally. “Can you let go of my arm? You’re squeezing it a bit too hard.”
Gartrell did as she asked, and she rubbed her forearm with her hand. She pocketed the key and slipped the revolver back into the waistband of her jeans, then turned toward the hallway behind them. She slowly picked her way to a white door and reached for its brass knob.
“Hold up,” Gartrell said.
She stopped with her hand only an inch from the doorknob. “Why?”
“Give me a second.” Gartrell looked around the lobby. It was a pre-war building, one of those many structures that had been built before World War II. The lobby had been regentrified, with a granite floor and an ornate ceiling from which hung art deco light fixtures that would remain dark for quite a while longer. A row of mailboxes were set into the wall near the door, across from a desk where the doorman would normally be stationed.
“What’s on this floor?” he asked.
“Laundry. Elevators. Stairs. Storage, with more below.”
“How many stories?”
“Sixteen.”
“And how many people are left in the building?”
“No one. They evacuated.” Her face was no longer blank and expressionless. She looked agitated. “Listen, I need to get to my son. You want to look around? Knock yourself out.”
“I’m good,” Gartrell said.
She pulled open the door, and it led into a stairwell. At the base of the stairs was a long, black Maglite. She picked it up and looked back at him.
“Close the door so I can turn this on.”
“Why don’t you forget about that for a moment and let me go up first,” he said. “You turn that on, my night vision gear will blank out, and it’s more useful right now than a flashlight. You get what I’m saying?”
“No.”
Gartrell sighed. “The zeds, they can key in on light real well. Not doing things like giving off light, loud noises, probably even smells like cooking food and things like that will go a long way toward ensuring our continued survival. And if there’s a zed in this stairway, for instance, it’ll see the light long before we see it. You reading me on that now?”
“You don’t want me to use the light. You want to use your night vision. Fine. Let’s go to the fourth floor. You first.”
Gartrell nodded and mounted the steps, taking them one at a time, his AA-12 at the ready. As it always was.
The climb up the stairwell was uneventful, but halfway to the fourth floor, Gartrell’s legs felt as if they were Jell-O and his lungs were on fire. He had to fight to keep from gasping for air, and he continued the climb through sheer force of will alone. He couldn’t believe how much of a struggle it was just to keep moving; he would have gladly surrendered his kingdom, if he’d had one, for the chance to stop and lean against the wall and rest. His body was sending him a strong reminder that he was well into his late 40s and had been operating at a punishing pace for virtually 24 hours straight. When he slowed to listen for any indication that they might not be alone, all he heard was the rush of blood in his ears.
The only thing that kept him going was that he didn’t want to look bad in front of the civilian, who just happened to be a female.
For her part, Jolie followed closely behind. Her footfalls were light, almost as quiet as a cat’s, whereas his echoed throughout the stairwell. Gartrell went through the usual motions, visually clearing each landing before stepping onto it, holding the AA-12 so that he could instantly fire on any zed that might appear. But the building remained as quiet as a crypt, and as far as he could tell, they were the only things—living or unliving—in the stairway.
Finally, they arrived on the fourth floor.
Gartrell pushed open the door and cleared the hallway, then reached back and touched Jolie on the shoulder. She slipped past him and walked to the left, her right arm extended, the fingertips of her hand brushing against the wall. Her tennis shoes made no noise on the carpeted floor. Gartrell silently closed the door behind him and followed, keeping to Jolie’s left so he could maintain a clear lane of fire. She stopped at a door just down the hall and unlocked its two security deadbolts. The sounds of the locks snapping opening were loud and harsh as they echoed in the hallway. Gartrell winced at the racket, but they elicited nothing untoward. The door squeaked minutely as she pushed it open. Light flared, threatening to overpower the NVGs—there must have been a small nightlight switched on somewhere inside the apartment. Gartrell followed her inside and took note of the number on the door: 4B.
She closed the doo
r behind him and held a finger to her lips. Gartrell nodded, and flipped his NVGs up on their mount. Without the goggles, the darkness inside the apartment was almost absolute; he had no natural night vision to speak of since he’d spent the last few hours staring at the phosphor screens inside the NVG tubes. He removed his gloves and rubbed his eyes. They burned, from weariness and exposure to smoke and the heat of roaring flame. When he stopped and looked up, Jolie was gone. Gartrell stood there for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the tepid light. He locked the door behind him, and then flicked on the security chain for good measure. The door was painted metal, a fire door fitted inside a metal frame, but the hinges looked flimsy, the kind a cheap contractor would use. He turned away from the door and found he stood in a short entry foyer with closets off to either side. He walked down the short hallway. Dim light came from a doorway on his right. He looked inside, and saw the room beyond was a kitchen illuminated by a single, battery-powered LED light sitting on a dark silestone counter. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in the wan glow. Gartrell worried the light might be visible from outside, but not only had the shades been drawn, but paper was taped over the shades’ edges. Moving on down the hallway, he came to a return which led him to a darkened combination living and dining room. An expensive-looking widescreen LED television framed in what Gartrell thought was rosewood stood atop an equally-expensive media table. A surround sound system’s speakers were placed strategically through the room. Gartrell moved toward one and squinted to read its product label in the light generated by another tiny LED lamp sitting on a nearby bookshelf. Polk Audio.
Fine stuff.
A leather seating set was arrayed before the television. Next to the TV was a fireplace, though Gartrell couldn’t tell if it was real or one of those faux decorative touches he’d heard a lot of New Yorkers favored. Several pictures hung on the wall, and he leaned forward to examine them. Jolie was in many, though most featured a small boy with a distant expression. A man he presumed to be the boy’s father was in several photos as well. He looked to be in his 30s, and something of a cross between a hipster and a finance guy, with his expensive-looking business attire, skimpy beard, and artfully messed-up hair. He apparently dabbled in local politics as well, for there were several photos of him with political figures—all Democrats, of course. There was even one of him mugging it up with a ranking member of the U.S. Senate, a very liberal New York Democrat who was totally anti-war until the current president needed to show the nation how tough he was. Whenever that happened, the senator never met a conflict he didn’t like.
One ceramic frame held a family portrait. Names were written on the frame: Jack, Jolie, and Jaden.
Gartrell snorted. A family where all the names begin with the letter J. I guess I really am on New York’s Upper East Side.
A few works of art occupied high shelves in a display case—bronze statues, knickknacks from different countries, a framed coin collection. The lower shelves were filled with the trappings one might expect to find in a residence where a small child lived. Bright, smiling cartoon characters, toy trucks and airplanes and boats, building blocks, a small riding scooter. The dining area was a round table surrounded by four chairs; there were no place settings, and the table was covered with canned goods and other items—plastic trash bags, paper towels, bottled water and juice, a bucket full of cleaning supplies. Two North Face backpacks sat on the Persian rug beneath the table, packs that were probably more expensive than the one he had left in the white van the team had driven cross-town in their gamble to reach the East River and the cutter Escanaba. The packs were likely more comfortable, as well. Gartrell didn’t inspect them any further. He walked toward one of the shaded windows and stood next to it, listening.
The artillery barrage to the north continued unabated, a distant earthquake that went on forever. There was no other sound he could detect, no moaning dead, no wind, no distant horn blasts from the Escanaba—
Movement in the darkness caused him to spin away from the window, and the AA-12 fell into its normal firing position on complete reflex. Jolie looked at him from across the room, her eyes—blue eyes, he thought, but the light was so dim he couldn’t be sure—narrowed in what he took to be consternation. Gartrell slowly relaxed and for the first time he could remember, he took his finger off the AA-12’s trigger.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered.
She waved him to silence with one strident motion. There were two doors behind her, one on either side of the fireplace and media station. Gartrell presumed one led to the child’s bedroom, while the other led to the parents’. Jolie stalked past him and beckoned for him to follow. Gartrell trailed after her as she led him into the kitchen, where she picked up the small LED lamp and turned down a short, dark hallway he had missed before, right past the refrigerator. She slid open a pocket door at the end of the hall and stepped into the room beyond. Gartrell followed, stepping lightly across the polished ceramic tile floor.
The room was quite small, barely worthy of being called a guest room. It contained a twin bed, a miniscule closet, and a small bureau. A narrow door led to what he presumed was a bathroom. The single strip window there was blacked out like the rest.
“You have to be quiet,” she said after she closed the pocket door behind them. They stood almost cheek-to-cheek at the foot of the bed, which took up almost all the available room. “My son is on a very regular schedule. I can’t have it interrupted, do you understand?”
“A ‘regular schedule’?” Gartrell couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Look ma’am, it’s not like he’s going to be able to get up and watch cartoons tomorrow morning before he goes off to school, you know what I mean?”
Jolie shook her head sharply. “No. You don’t get it. My son is autistic. Variations in his schedule make him act out. Yelling. Screaming. I can’t have that right now. Not when those things might hear him. Do you understand now?”
“Ah…okay.” Gartrell sighed at the revelation, and a small part of him suddenly regretted linking up with this woman, even though she offered him the chance to find at least partial shelter from the storm of dead meat stalking the streets of the Upper East Side. And he was no stranger to autism; one of his brothers had a son who was moderately autistic, and he also exhibited a very limited ability to process new experiences before breaking down and becoming so disorganized he could hardly walk.
“I get what you mean about the autism,” he told Jolie. “Whereabouts on the spectrum is he? Asperger’s, or—”
“Classical autism. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t point, and has difficulty controlling himself and understanding requests.” She paused. “And he wouldn’t understand that we’re all in danger. That’s why I need to pay as close attention to his routine as possible. You understand?”
Gartrell nodded. He understood, and the more he knew about it, the less he liked it.
Hang tough, old dog. These are the cards you’ve been dealt.
“Why didn’t you evacuate?” he asked.
“My husband and I agreed we would wait for him, so we could leave together. I was afraid I might get separated from Jaden if I tried to take him out of the city alone.”
“I take it your husband never made it home.”
“He…he was coming from downtown. He was in the quarantine area in the Financial District. When he tried to leave, he…he couldn’t get out right away, but they were going to try and make it past the police blockades. When he called me last before the cell phones went out, they had made it all the way up to Thirteenth Street. But…” Jolie looked past him and seemed to shrug, her eyes (They are blue, Gartrell thought) distant and haunted. “But he never came. And by the time I got things together enough to try and make a break for it, it was too late. They were already in the streets.” She nodded toward the window behind Gartrell. “They killed the police at the corner barricade. I could hear the fighting and…and the screaming.”
“You should have left with everyone else,” Gartrell said
. “Your neighbors, other family…they could have helped with your boy.”
“You don’t understand. We never really knew our neighbors, though the Skinners next door tried to get me to go with them. And our friends…well, they had families of their own to take care of.” Jolie looked up at him after a moment. “What happened to you? Where are the rest of your soldiers?”
“Dead, mostly. Some…the officer I was supporting and some civilians made it to a Coast Guard cutter in the East River. I was cut off.” He waved the question away. “Anyway, it’s not important now. When does your son normally wake up? It’ll be daylight soon.”
“Seven-thirty. Sometimes eight, eight-thirty.”
Gartrell checked his watch. It was 4:18am. “Roger that. All right, you should get some sleep. We’re going to have our hands full with him tomorrow. How do you think he’ll respond to me being here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, we’ll have to do the best we can. Will you sleep with him? In his room?”
“Yes.”
“You have to make sure he doesn’t pull the shades off the windows,” Gartrell said. “If those things in the street see him, they’ll know where we are. They’re plenty stupid, but when there’s food on the table, there are enough of them to make a difference in how things will go down. Understand?”
“I know. Like I said, they killed the police manning the barricades on Second Avenue.”
“My team and I were in a fortified high rise building, and they broke into it and took it down. We barely got out. Listen, ninety-nine percent of those stenches out there are as stupid as a bag of rocks—but a few of them are smart enough to figure out things like doors and the like, you understand? They see us in here, from the street or from maybe another building, they’ll try and get to us. And there’s no way to reason with these things. The only thing they understand is that they want to eat—nothing else matters. Nothing. No negotiation, no chance for last-minute mercy, nothing. They see us, we have to boogie, and real, real quick.”
Left With The Dead - 02 Page 2
