City of the Dead (14 page)

"Danny, stop it," Frankie said. "You'll lead them to us."

"I don't care. I want my daddy!"

Don took a step toward the entrance and paused.

"You think it's safe?"

"There's nowhere on Earth that's safe anymore," Frankie told him.

They walked inside. The parking garage was silent. Frankie heard Don rustling through his pocket, and a moment later, the telltale click of a cigarette lighter. The darkness seemed to surround the flame, as if trying to extinguish it. From far off, they heard gunshots and the roar of motors. Danny cast a glance behind him.

Despite her pain, Frankie knelt down and looked him in the eyes.

"I know you want your daddy, kiddo. I want him to come back too. But right now, he's doing something very brave to help us all. So that means you have to be brave too, okay?"

"But I don't feel very brave."

"That's okay." Frankie winked. "Neither do I. In fact, I feel like I've been run over by a truck."

She stood up and ruffled his hair, but suddenly her knees buckled. Her vision swam. She reached out and

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caught herself on Don's shoulder, shaking her head and breathing heavy.

"You okay?" he asked, concerned.

"I will be. Blood loss and shock, I think. Just a little dizzy."

"We'll find a spot to rest."

He raised the lighter higher and peered into the darkness.

"Can't see shit," Don muttered, "but maybe that means they can't see us either."

"Don't count on it. I've seen these things hunt in a pitch-black sewer. Don't know how. Maybe they can smell us or see something we can't. Our auras, maybe. But if they're in here, they can see us."

"Thanks. That's really comforting."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Get us out of here and maybe I'll tell you a bedtime story instead. How about it, Danny? What's your favorite bedtime story?"

"Teeny Tiny Tale," he whispered, suddenly shy and timid. "Daddy used to read it to me when I'd visit him."

Frankie smiled, lost in one of the few childhood memories that heroin hadn't erased.

"The dog says, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.' Is that the one?"

Danny smiled. "That's it."

Then his smile faded. Despite Frankie's best efforts to distract him, Danny was still terrified for his father. He looked over his shoulder again as another muffled gunshot rang out.

They walked deeper into the garage. Don almost tripped over an orange traffic cone. They smelled oil and gasoline, dust and urine. The silence beat at them, and the ghosts of their footsteps followed along behind. A

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discarded fast-food wrapper rustled under Frankie's foot. They inched forward, comforted by the flickering flame.

Frankie pointed. "There's the stairway to the roof. Let's make for that. Hide inside until Jim gets back."

"Why not just try the roof instead?" Don asked.

"Birds."

"Birds?"

She nodded. "Zombie birds."

"Oh." His laughter was uncertain. "That's kind of silly, isn't it?"

"Sounds like it-until you've seen them strip the flesh off a body in minutes."

Don frowned.

Beside them, Danny repeated the line from the children's book like a mantra: "When all of a sudden, the teeny-tiny woman heard a voice that said, 'Give me my bone. Give me my bone.'"

His voice trembled with a coming sob, and Frankie's heart broke.

In the darkness, a car door creaked open.

"Give me my bone ..." something answered.

Don dropped the lighter, and the darkness engulfed them.

Branches whipped Jim's face and arms as he shoved his way through a row of bushes. A dead bird pecked at his scalp, drawing blood. Another darted for his eyes. He threw up a hand in defense, and the bird shrieked its displeasure.

Behind him, the vehicles skidded to a stop. Car doors slammed, and gunfire ripped the night. Rounds streaked toward him, and bullets kicked up dirt at his heels. Panting, Jim broke cover and dashed for a narrow strip of

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woods between the parking garage and a warehouse. The zombies chased him on foot and wing.

He crashed through the trees and slid down a steep embankment. At the bottom, a drainage pipe trickled water into a thin stream. Jim splashed through it, gasping as its coldness soaked through his boots. He spied a rusty pole and snatched it up without breaking stride.

Tree limbs rustled above him. He looked up just as something small and brown and furry detached from a limb-a dead squirrel, missing its tail and a rear leg- launched itself toward him. Sidestepping, Jim swung the pipe like a batter, and the squirrel careened into the ditch.

A cheer went up from the zombies as they started down the embankment after him. It was a game to them, Jim realized. Nothing more than sport. This was a foxhunt, and he was the fox.

He ducked between two towering oaks and sprinted back up the hill, coming out behind the parking garage. An iron fire escape ladder hung down from the roof, with access points at the second and third levels. Jim leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He clutched a ladder rung with one hand. A reeking garbage Dumpster stood next to him, but Jim could still smell the zombies over the stink of rotting trash. He heard the rumbling sound again, closer now. Not thunder.

A helicopter.

"Oh Christ-the zombies have a helicopter?"

He closed his eyes. What was the point? In movies, the zombies were slow and stupid, but in real life, they were something quite different. In real life, the zombies had helicopters. Already, the dead outnumbered the living, and their numbers increased every day. Humans.

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Animals. No place was safe. Not the suburbs of New Jersey or the remote mountains of West Virginia.

Then he thought of Danny.

There was another explosion. Dropping his makeshift club, Jim started up the ladder.

Bullets peppered the concrete wall, and more of the creatures raced toward him.

"Once upon a time, there was a teeny-tiny woman ..."

Danny squeezed Frankie's hand as she led him toward the stairwell. They moved as fast as they could without giving away their position.

"She lived in a teeny-tiny town in a teeny-tiny house with her teeny-tiny dog."

They heard it chasing them-wet, dragging sounds. Definitely not teeny-tiny.

"Can you see it?" Don hissed, listening to the zombie approach them.

"No," Frankie answered, "but I can smell the son of a bitch."

Headlights appeared in the garage entrance. The Mazda's engine rumbled, reverberating off the cement columns as the car cruised down the rows, hunting for them.

Fumbling in the dark, Don picked up the lighter and flicked it.

"Put that fucking thing out," Frankie snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

The flame vanished, and the darkness surrounded them again. The zombie's stench grew stronger.

"Go!" Frankie urged. They broke cover and stumbled for the stairwell door.

Don pushed it open, ducking back in case anything

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leapt out at them, but the stairway was abandoned. Frankie limped inside, pulling Danny along with her. Don quickly followed, and eased the door shut behind them.

The Mazda's tires squealed. Through the window in the door, Don caught a momentary glimpse of the zombie crawling after them, illuminated by the red glow of the Mazda's brake lights. It was a female, her lower half missing.

"Up the stairs," Frankie whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Quietly as possible, they hurried up the darkened stairway.

"Here," the creature on the other side of the door shrieked. "They're going to the second level!"

Tires screeched again as the car sped up the ramp. Behind them, the legless zombie clawed at the door. More roaring engines drowned out its cries, and above them, Frankie heard a distant rumbling noise.

"Listen-you hear that?"

"It's a helicopter." Don shrugged. "Is that good or bad?"

"Probably bad. I've only seen two things fly helicopters-zombies and soldiers."

She took another step upward.

"And I don't like either of them."

Don panted for breath. "In the movies, people always escape zombies by flying away in a helicopter."

"This ain't a movie."

They reached the second-floor landing, and already the Mazda was racing for the stairwell. Below them, the door banged open.

"Give me my bone," the zombie tittered.

"I'll give you a bone, bitch." Don looked down at Danny and then apologized under his breath.

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"That's okay, Mr. De Santos."

"Maybe the roof ain't such a bad idea after all," Frankie muttered.

"But what about the birds?" Don asked.

She lowered her voice. "At this point, I don't think it much matters. Whatever we do, we're pretty much fucked."

As one, the rotting flock banked toward their prey.

Jim heaved himself over the ledge and onto the roof. Only a few cars were parked on the top, their owners having long since abandoned them. Exhausted and bleeding from a dozen different wounds, he stumbled forward, looking for the others and fleeing the birds.

A flock of crows is called a murder, he thought, and that's what is about to happen. A murder ...

He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Danny?" There was no reason to think they would have climbed up to the top, but at this point he had nothing to lose. Maybe he'd survive long enough to search the garage for them.

A sparrow pecked at his hand, drawing blood.

The sonorous thrum of the helicopter echoed off the concrete. Jim glanced into the sky and saw two things. The first was the helicopter, its running lights off and its outline almost invisible against the night, hovering directly overhead. The second was the birds, suddenly dropping like stones, their bodies limp and unmoving.

In a flash, the temperature jumped. Jim felt warm, then hot. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his ears turned red. Pain pulsed through his brain, pressing on the inside of his skull. His ears felt like they would explode. He gripped his head and screamed-and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the pressure increased.

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The helicopter drew closer. The broken and battered birds rained down around him. The pain surged through his head again, and his eyes grew hot. Jim's ears began to bleed. He covered them with his hands and screamed again.

Jim kept screaming even after he collapsed.

The door banged open below them and a horde of zombies rushed up the stairs. Frankie, Don, and Danny barely heard them over the roar of the chopper, which was right over their heads. The garage shook, the concrete walls vibrated and the ceiling sounded like it was about to collapse. The noise of the rotors increased, making speech next to impossible.

Despite the cacophony, they could still hear Jim's screams.

"Daddy!"

Danny twisted free of Frankie's grip, pushed the door open, and ran outside onto the roof. Immediately, his small hands clenched the sides of his head. He collapsed, screaming.

Frankie and Don ran after him.

The zombies followed.

"Turn it off," Steve shouted. "For fuck's sake, Quinn, shut it off. You're killing them!"

"How do we know they ain't zombies?" the pilot answered. "Just because they aren't decaying yet doesn't mean they're not dead."

"The birds were attacking him, you asshole." He froze, staring in horror. "Jesus, Quinn-it's a little kid. Come on man, shut it off now."

"All right, all right already."

Quinn flipped a switch, and instantly, the man and

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boy stopped squirming. Now a young black woman and a middle-aged Hispanic man stepped out onto the roof, rushing to their sides and staring up at the helicopter in panic. They were obviously wounded, limping and bleeding.

Steve grabbed the bullhorn.

"How do you work this?"

"Press the fucking button. Don't you Canucks know how to do anything? Why the hell did Bates stick me with your ass? Why did DiMassi have to go and get sick?"

"I'm here because I'm a pilot-just in case you don't make it back."

"You're an airline pilot, not a helicopter jockey."

The Canadian grinned. "Hey man, I can fly anything. Besides, I thought you didn't like DiMassi."

"I don't. He's a worthless, lazy, fat fuck."

"Him and Bates really went at it, huh?"

"Yeah. Can't say that I blame Bates. DiMassi took this baby up without clearance. If something had happened, we'd have been totally cut off."

Quinn grew quiet and concentrated on landing.

Steve pushed his headset microphone out of the way, turned on the bullhorn and raised it to his lips. He steadied himself and then leaned out the open door.

"ATTENTION. YOU ON THE ROOF. EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY. GET DOWN AS LOW AS YOU CAN, AND WE'LL GET YOU TO SAFETY."

He shot a puzzled glance at Quinn.

"Why aren't they listening to me?"

Quinn sighed and shook his head.

"They think we're zombies. Happens all the time."

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"Check on Jim," Frankie told Don as she bent over Danny. The boy was curled into a ball, his face contorted with pain. The helicopter drew closer.

Don dragged Jim's unconscious form away from the middle of the deck, afraid the zombies would land the helicopter on his friend, and brought him alongside Danny. He could barely make out two figures in the cockpit. The machine hovered directly over them.

"GET AS LOW AS YOU CAN," the voice repeated. "WE NEED TO DO THIS FAST."

Over the bullhorn, it was impossible to tell if they were undead or alive.

"Daddy?" Danny coughed, starting to awake.

"What happened to them?" Frankie asked.

Don shook his head.

"Daddy?"

"He's okay, sweetie. He's okay. Just lie still."

"Let's get them back inside," Don panted, pulling Jim toward the stairwell.

"Are you crazy?" Frankie shouted.

Don jabbed a finger at the helicopter. "How do we know those aren't zombies flying that thing?"

The stairwell door crashed open.

"We don't." Frankie clenched her teeth. "But they are."