CHAPTER NINE
Campbell Grimes thumbed the controls to reload his shotgun, descending a stalled escalator onto the subway platform.
A zombie jumped from behind a pillar, decked out in gray coveralls like a maintenance worker. Campbell barely had time to blow the monster’s head off before two more jumped from the shadows.
He fired—ka-blam blam—eliciting two explosive gouts of animated blood, followed by a scream and an inhuman cry deep in the subterranean cavern beneath the city. Left 4 Dead was one of the most popular video games ever, and despite playing it religiously for the last three years, Campbell was nowhere close to being tired of it. He liked his cooperative protagonists in the game better than most of his friends in the real world—at least he could always count on them to have his back. Campbell had little doubt he would be sitting in an old folks’ home one day and fighting through the same zombie hoards that magically never seemed to age or diminish.
But old age wasn’t on the radar yet. At 25, he was still far from growing up, much less old.
“Come on, come on,” he shouted at the screen. He flipped the controls to send his character onto the subway train, running between the empty benches with his shotgun leveled before him. Sensing a lull in the attack, he clacked another shell into his gun.
A demonic howl arose from the car ahead. He raised the barrel and braced for more slaughter—and the screen went black.
“The hell?” He clicked the game buttons for another ten seconds before realizing the system had lost power as well as the monitor.
Looking around the cluttered living room of his Chapel Hill apartment, he wondered if Roy had forgotten to pay the power bill again. Roy was the kind of roommate who always had twenty bucks for a couple of twelve-packs, but never seemed to have a hundred bucks for any purpose. The idea of skipping the beer for a few days in order to pay the power bill would never cross Roy’s mind.
Campbell wasn’t exactly Mr. Responsible himself, but he had a little pride. He worked as a delivery boy at Papa John’s Pizza to make ends meet, fooling himself that one day he would get a real career. But what was the point of honesty? Where had that ever gotten anyone?
It wasn’t just the television and Xbox that had lost power. The little orange lights on the kitchen appliances were dead, too. Enough morning sunlight leaked between the curtains to glint off the crushed beer cans on the coffee table.
“Roy?” he yelled.
They each had private bedrooms in the old house that had been carved into apartments by an aspiring slumlord. It was twenty blocks from the University of North Carolina campus, which moved it from the rent zone of “rear entry with an ungreased jackhammer” to the slightly more palatable “full frontal assault.” Which was good, since Campbell had graduated two years ago and didn’t need proximity. Roy, on the other hand, was in the seventh year of his B.S. in Communications program. The problem was that Roy’s communication skills were even worse than Campbell’s, who talked more to virtual friends than the real people in his life.
He called Roy’s name once more, then stood, banging his shin against the coffee table. He inched across the carpet, sliding on his socks so he wouldn’t bump into any other obstacles. The static electricity caused little blue sparks to dance around his toes. If Roy had been sitting there stoned, he would have offered a “Cool, dude,” his catch-all observation for anything that wasn’t “Lame, dude.” That communications degree was really going to take him places.
“Roy, you got anybody in there?” he called through the door. Sometimes he slept with Marta, the Mexican girl whose age might have put Roy on the wrong side of statutory rape charges, but she dropped by only once a week. Campbell kept his nose out of such things unless Marta happened to have a “friend” who “was down for partying.” Which was every three months if Campbell was lucky. Not that he cared that much. Women were complicated; Left 4 Dead made linear sense.
“Roy! Did you pay the power bill?”
After pounding hard three times and getting no answer, Campbell tried the door. If Roy was gone from the apartment, he locked the door because he was dealing nickel bags of weed on the side. Not that Roy didn’t trust Campbell. Paranoia just came with the territory.
The handle turned, which meant Roy was snoozing through a hangover. Pete pushed the door open, bulldozing a pile of dirty clothes. The room smelled of old socks, cheap aftershave, the rusting metal of Roy’s weightlifting set, and a permanent booze/pot smell that blended into one tarry and potent smog.
Campbell felt along the wall—widescreen TV, lift bench, dresser piled with bottles—until he reached the window. He wracked the curtains wide so that the sun streamed onto Roy’s bed.
There, asshole, I hope that drives fishhooks into the backs of your eyeballs and yanks them out.
Roy didn’t move. His face was turned toward Campbell, mouth hanging open, the tongue lolling in there like a fat, pink grub. Campbell kicked the bed. “Wakey wakey.”
Roy quivered but didn’t awaken. This time Campbell wedged one bare foot on his roommate’s thigh and shoved. Roy rolled partway over, not even muttering his annoyance. Campbell leaned in and studied Roy’s pale face.
Don’t look so hot. Like he’s been shooting heroin or something.
Campbell leaned closer. A new kind of foul stench came from Roy’s mouth. But it wasn’t bad breath, because Roy wasn’t breathing.
Damn damn damn.
He pressed a finger to Roy’s neck like they did in the movies. He wasn’t sure what a pulse would feel like, but it didn’t matter, because he felt nothing.
Shit shit shit. He’s dead.
Campbell retreated to the living room, eyes now adjusted to the gloom. He fished his cell from his pocket. But should he call an ambulance? What about the drugs? Would Campbell get in trouble? Sure, he could blame everything on Roy, but a police search of the place would be a big hassle.
In the end, he decided to make the call. Except his phone didn’t power up. It had been fully charged an hour ago, when his manager called to remind Campbell about his shift.
No power, no phone. What the hell is going down?
Campbell opened the apartment door. A man was sprawled on the sidewalk outside, huddled like a lump of clothes. A red Jeep wheeled wildly through the parking lot of the complex, shearing the bumpers of three vehicles before plowing into a Ford truck. The Jeep’s driver crashed headfirst through the windshield, hanging there like a trophy deer mounted on a red plate. Screams rang out from the surrounding streets.
All hell was breaking loose, and Campbell did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances.
He stepped back, slammed the apartment door, and locked it.
And wondered how long it would take for the power to come back on, and how long before Roy started to stink for real.
After: First Light Page 9
