City of the Dead (10 page)

"I don't know, Danny. I don't know."

More darkened homes and a strip mall flashed by them.

Don slowed down.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked.

"The headlights are shot out. Last thing we need is to run into something."

"True."

"I'm sorry I freaked out, back there in the garage," Don apologized.

"Don't worry about it," Martin assured him. "These things take some getting used to."

Don glanced into the backseat. "How bad is it?"

"She's been shot in the leg," Jim said, "and there's a bad gash on the back of her head. This dog bite is on top of the gunshot wound. She's lost a lot of blood. I reckon she's in shock. You got any clean rags in this thing?"

"There's a blanket underneath the seat. We used to use

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it for Rocky, but I guess it's clean enough. Cleaner than the clothes we're wearing at least."

"Who's Rocky?"

"Our-our dog."

Jim opened a bottle of water and washed her wounds. Then he bandaged them as best he could, tearing the thin dog blanket into strips.

To their left, the New York City skyline rose into the night, the buildings resembling giant tombstones. Don shivered. The city was eerie. He'd grown up with a view of the skyline and lived in its shadow his entire adult life. With the exception of a blackout, he had never seen it so utterly dark. The towering skyscrapers were enveloped in blackness.

All but one.

He pointed. "Would you look at that?"

Ramsey Towers, the second highest building in New York City, was lit up like a Christmas tree, the windows flooded with light. A colored strobe pulsed from red to blue on the roof, flashing a beam into the night sky.

Jim whistled softly and a moment later, Danny mimicked him. They grinned at each other.

"Could we make it there?" Martin asked.

"There are easier ways to commit suicide," Don said. "Do you have any idea how many zombies there must be in the five boroughs? New York's population was what, eight million? They didn't evacuate until it was too late, and how many people were killed during the riots and looting? Not to mention all the wildlife; pigeons, rats, cats, and dogs."

"That's a lot of zombies," Jim agreed.

"Besides," Don said, "it's got to be a trap."

"What makes you say that?" Martin asked.

"Think about it, Reverend. If you were in a

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skyscraper, would you light the building up and let all those creatures know where you were? That's like ringing the dinner bell."

"I reckon." Martin stroked his chin. "So what do you figure it is?"

"Like I said, it has to be a trap. I remember reading how self-sufficient that building was. Supposed to be able to withstand anything. Some of the zombies probably got the power running inside and lit it up, hoping to attract survivors like us."

"Like mosquitoes to a bug light," Jim said from the back. "Look, we've got to get some help for Frankie. We're better off heading out into the country, away from civilization. Even then, we're not safe. But at least it's somewhere other than here."

"There's a hospital nearby," Don said. "They just finished building it a few months ago. We could get what Frankie needs there. Find a doctor that's still alive."

"How populated is the area it's in?"

"Like everywhere else around here. But maybe one of us could sneak inside, steal some supplies at the very least."

Jim shook his head. "Too risky. Let's get out to the country first. Maybe we can find a doctor's office or something. What about these Pine Barrens I'm always hearing about? How far away are they?"

Don laughed. "South. If you want country, the Pine Barrens are about as country as you can get. We've got about a half tank of gas, so we could make it that far. But I don't know how we'll refill the tank once we're empty. None of the pumps will work with the power off."

"God will provide," Martin said. His voice was dreamy, his attention focused on the skyscraper.

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"If you say so," Don replied. "But God hasn't done a real good job so far."

"We're alive, aren't we?" Martin tore his eyes away from the mesmerizing light of the lone skyscraper. "He has seen us through. He wouldn't abandon his faithful servants now."

Don glanced into the rear-view mirror and froze.

"Oh no ..."

"What now?" Jim sighed.

Don's voice was barely a whisper

"You guys left the keys in your Humvee."

"What are you talking about?" Martin asked. "That doesn't matter. We can find another one."

"Don't need to find one. It found us."

Jim and Martin looked out the back window.

Their abandoned Humvee raced toward them, the headlights like the eyes of an onrushing dragon.

"Fuck, who's driving that thing?" Don shouted.

"Who do you think?" Jim scrambled for a weapon. "The zombies!"

More headlights appeared behind them; as cars, trucks, and a motorcycle joined the chase.

Don wiped the sweat from his brow. "It never ends, does it? It never fucking ends."

"Can they catch us?" Martin asked.

"I sure as hell hope not." Don pressed the accelerator to the floor and the Explorer shot forward.

There was a flash in the darkness and a muffled shot rang out behind them.

"Looks like they've reloaded," Jim said. "We'd better do the same."

"I'm empty," Don grunted.

Martin nodded. "Me too. I used it all saving Frankie."

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Jim reached into the back and grabbed Frankie's M-16. He checked the magazine and then thumped the seat in frustration.

"She's empty, too."

The Explorer bounced over some railroad tracks. Another explosion made them jump. The shot hit the rear bumper with a loud crack.

"We've still got the hatchet," Don said.

"Oh, well that's just great. What do we do-throw it at them?"

Their pursuers closed the distance. A red Mazda darted out from behind the Humvee and drew alongside. A zombie leaned out the window, holding an aerosol can. With its other hand, the thing held up a lighter.

Don stared in confusion.

"What the fu-"

The creature flicked the lighter and then depressed the button on top of the can. A burst of flame surged toward them, licking at the driver's side window.

"Jesus Christ," Jim shouted. "Who is this guy- McGuyver?"

Startled, Don swerved away. The driver of the Mazda followed, sideswiping the larger vehicle. There was a hideous shriek of metal as the two collided and then the Explorer ripped free.

"A homemade flamethrower," Don gasped. "I know you guys said these things were crafty, but this ..."

Danny started crying. Jim slid an arm around his shoulders, and tried to brace him and comfort him at the same time.

"It'll be okay. It'll be-"

The Humvee leapt out of the darkness, its headlights looming in the Explorer's rear windshield. The SUV shuddered as the military vehicle rammed it from

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behind. The Humvee accelerated and slammed into them again.

Martin's head whipped sideways, striking the window. His false teeth rattled. He winced, tasting blood in his mouth.

Don took one hand off the wheel and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "They'll destroy themselves too, if they keep this up."

"So?" Jim held Danny tighter. "They're already dead. They don't care if their bodies get destroyed in the process. They'll just get new ones."

The Humvee crashed into them a third time, tearing their rear bumper loose. Don fought for control and skidded onto another street, lined with tall oak and elm trees that blocked out the moonlight.

"This is no good," he grunted. "I can't see shit."

"Hang on tight." Martin braced against the dash. "Here they come again!"

Danny's tears soaked into Jim's shirt. The approaching headlights filled the interior, blinding them. In the cargo area, Frankie moaned again.

"My baby ... took my baby ... let me get a fix ..."

Like a battering ram, the Humvee impacted with the Explorer, shoving it forward. At the same time, the zombie on the motorcycle raced ahead. Grinning, it pulled in front of them, extended its middle finger and then purposely spilled the bike.

Both motorcycle and rider vanished beneath the Explorer's tires. Steel and rotting flesh met more steel and pavement. A shower of sparks flew into the air. They spun out of control. The Explorer bounced over the curb, clipped a tree, and then rocketed down an embankment toward a glass-partitioned guard shack in front of a parking garage.

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Don had time to think. It's a parking attendant's booth.

Jim and Danny clutched each other. Martin's lips moved in prayer. "Thy will be done. Deliver us again, Lord ..." Then they slammed into the booth and knew no more.

90 SIX

In the darkness, the old man sipped wine and gazed out upon his city. It festered below him like an open sore- swollen with infection, spurting gangrenous pus, filled with cancerous cells that multiplied into infinity. His city, New York City, was dead yet living. It lived not in the shambling, insect-sized mockeries far below, but in those he had saved, now sequestered here in the tower.

His tower.

His flock.

There was a quiet rustling of air behind him. The flame dancing atop the candle flickered, indicating someone had entered the room. He did not turn around, knowing how proud and strong and sympathetic he must look, standing there outlined by New York's decaying skyline. Appearances were important. They were an illusion, and all power was built upon illusion.

Framed in the doorway behind him, Bates cleared his throat.

Smiling, the old man watched his confidant's reflection in the window. Bates had served him well, long

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before ... this. He would continue to do so-as long as the old man kept up the illusion of control.

"Mr. Ramsey? Sir?"

Ramsey turned in feigned surprise.

"Ah, Bates. Come in. I wasn't aware you were standing there."

"Yes, sir, you seemed lost in thought."

"Hmmm, yes. Yes, I suppose I was. I was thinking about these creatures. I assume you're aware that we've determined another entity takes possession of the body after death, thus reanimating the corpses?"

Bates nodded. "Yes, sir. Dr. Maynard explained it quite clearly. Doesn't seem possible, does it?"

"Indeed. It seems like something out of an old pulp magazine. But that's what is happening. All one needs for proof is to take a walk outside the tower."

"I think I'll pass on that, sir."

"Oh, come now," Ramsey teased. "A man of your abilities, afraid to walk the city streets for fear of muggers?"

"It's not the muggers we need to be afraid of, sir. It's what they've become."

Ramsey chuckled, taking another sip of wine. He offered a glass to Bates, who declined.

"I'd better not, sir. We've still got a long night ahead."

"I insist. You'd better enjoy it while you can. It will be a long time before we receive French imports again."

His soft laughter echoed over the muted strains of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." He poured a second glass and handed it to the bodyguard. Bates accepted, sipping dutifully.

"Thank you, sir. Most excellent."

"That it is."

Ramsey studied the bodyguard. Dressed in sartorial

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elegance, black ponytail hanging down to the middle of his back, Bates was still an enigma after all this time. Two tours of duty in the Marines with the 24th MAU, followed by a stint with the Navy SEALS. After rejoining the civilian world, Bates had started his own private security firm, boasting dozens of the world's most affluent and popular rock stars, athletes, and actors as clientele. Then Ramsey hired him exclusively. He'd served Ramsey for almost twelve years. He continued to serve him now, as Chief of Security, whipping investment bankers and short-order cooks and legal secretaries into shape, filling the gaps in the security staff's ranks. Bates was loyal, and Ramsey trusted him implicitly with every detail of his empire. After all, his life was in Bates's hands. But as pleasant and courteous as Bates was, there were occasions when Ramsey had the distinct impression that, rather than looking into a man's eyes, he was looking into those of a serpent. Bates had that look now as he sipped the proffered wine and stared out at the night sky.

"Cigar?"

"No thank you, sir."

"Very well. Suit yourself. But I don't imagine that we'll be getting more Cubans, either."

Ramsey lit up, puffed until the end glowed in the darkness, and exhaled a thick cloud of fragrant smoke.

"So," he continued, "we know that they are inhabiting the bodies of the dead, but we can't determine why brain trauma seems to be the only way to destroy them. Why not other injuries or even holy water and crucifixes?"

"That's what you were pondering, sir?"

"Yes. Do you know much about Native American culture, Bates?"

"Not much, sir, other than their warfare tactics."

93 "You know that many tribes scalped their enemies, yes?"

Bates nodded.

"Do you know why?"

"Trophies?"

"Partly. But also because they believed that a man's spirit resides in his brain. They didn't just take the hair, as portrayed in the movies. They took the top of the skull. They believed the soul resided in the head."

The seemingly lidless eyes stared at him, and Ramsey grew uncomfortable. It was the snake stare again. For a moment, he half expected a forked tongue to slither out from between Bates's lips.

"The head, Bates. Don't you see? Perhaps these creatures directly inhabit the head. Or more specifically, the brain."

"It would make sense, sir." Bates shrugged. "A head shot seems to bring them down permanently. It would also explain why the U.B.R.D. works so well on the birds."

Ramsey nodded, agreeing with Bates's assessment of the Ultrasonic Bird Repelling Device, which they'd obtained from an abandoned air base during a recon patrol. "I'd considered that as well. Birds do have a sensitivity to sound, and the mechanism physically damages them as a result. That was a stroke of luck, obtaining it. Dr. Stern's hypothesis proved correct, it would seem. If their ears were in their wings, then I suppose the device would be no more fatal to them than a rock 'n' roll concert."