City of the Dead (19 page)

"What does pompous mean, Daddy?"

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"Pompous is when somebody thinks they are better than you. When they act stuck up."

"Kind of like Grandma used to act to you?"

Jim choked down the laughter that Danny's assessment of his ex-mother-in-law had inspired. Then he noticed that his son was grinning too.

"Yeah. I guess that's not a bad definition."

Jim snorted more laughter through his nose, and Danny followed suit. Within seconds, they were both laughing out loud.

"God, I missed you, squirt."

"I missed you too, Daddy."

Jim slid off the couch, crawled across the carpet to his son, and gave Danny a big hug. It lasted a full thirty seconds, but felt to Jim like it was over too soon. Then the two of them began to play Daredevil versus Ghost Rider. Daredevil, controlled by Danny, won every battle, but Jim didn't mind.

After a while, they stopped. A frown creased Danny's brow.

"What's wrong, squirt?"

"I'm thinking about Mommy."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders and held him tight.

"And Rick," Danny continued, his eyes filling with tears. "And Carrie and Mr. Martin and Mrs. De Santos and everybody else. Before Mr. De Santos saved us, Mr. Martin told me that when people die, they go to Heaven. Do you think that's true, Daddy?"

"I hope so."

"Do you think that's where Mommy went?"

Jim chose his words carefully.

"I think probably so. I know this-wherever your

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Mom and stepdad and stepmom and all the others went, they are safe, just like we are. The monster people can't hurt them anymore."

Satisfied, Danny picked up his action figure and began to play again. He wiped away a tear and said, "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too."

"Everything's going to be okay now, right?"

Jim nodded. "You know, Danny, I think it is. I really think it is."

Outside, the rain continued to fall, the fat drops pelting the building like missiles.

Father and son were oblivious.

Minutes later, something else fell from the sky, but their attention was on each other, and they missed its plummeting arc past their window.

Kilker lit a cigarette. "It's really coming down out there."

He looked out the window, watching the zombies milling about, oblivious to the downpour.

Carson nodded, and popped the tab on a can of soda. "Yeah, it is. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe a hurricane will blow through Manhattan and wash those ugly fucks off the streets."

Both were in their early twenties, and wore sneakers and baggy jeans with the waistband of their boxer shorts showing. A Yankees cap was perched atop Carson's head. Next to them, a battery-operated boom box played Hatebreed.

Carson set the soda down and played air guitar, growling along with the singer.

"Will you turn that shit down?" Kilker protested.

"Yeah." Carson sighed reluctantly. "I've heard this

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one too many times anyway. There won't be any more Hatebreed discs, I guess."

"That's a shame." Kilker's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Don't know how you can stand that growly metal shit."

"Saw them in concert once. With Biohazard and Power Plant and Agnostic Front. Gave myself whiplash in the pit."

Kilker just shook his head.

Carson slurped the soda.

"Do you have to do that?" Kilker asked, clearly annoyed.

"Do what?"

"Drink like a fucking pig? It's disgusting."

"Jesus-I'm sorry, bro. Chill out."

They lapsed into silence. Carson checked his weapon, an Ingram MAC-11. It was light and compact for a submachine gun, not much bigger than an average pistol. A high-capacity forty-seven-round magazine sat next to it. He hadn't used it since joining the group inside the skyscraper. It had been assigned to him when he was put on the building's security team.

"What are you thinking about, dog? You're quiet today. What's up?"

Kilker stared out the window, watching the rain fall past on its way to the streets far below.

"They don't seem so scary from up here," he said dreamily. "They look like ants."

"Dead ants, maybe," Carson replied. Grinning, he started humming the Pink Panther theme. "Dead ant dead ant, dead ant, dead ant dead ant dead ant dead a-"

"Shut up!" Kilker snapped. "God, you're such a dick sometimes."

"Yo, what the fuck is your problem?"

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Kilker jumped to his feet, his cigarette falling from his mouth.

"My problem? I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of this fucking building and fucking guard duty and the fucking smell from those things down there. I'm fucking sick and tired of it, man. I'm not a soldier. I was a fucking frycook, for fuck's sake!"

"So tell Bates you want to be transferred to the cafeteria," Carson yawned. "I mean, shit, man, I worked in a convenience store. Never held a gun in my life until I came here. But I'm glad I've got one now. You should be too."

Kilker didn't respond.

Carson pointed to the smoldering cigarette. "You gonna finish that? It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

Kilker didn't appear to have heard him. Mumbling and cursing, he walked toward the elevator and pressed the up button.

"Dude, where are you going? You can't just leave. We're on duty."

"Fuck this," Kilker hissed. "They can't get in and we can't get out. So why does it matter? What are we guarding against?"

"You never know, bro. They could figure out a way in. Get their hands on a bomb or something."

"We should be so lucky."

Carson picked up the still-lit butt, took a drag, and walked over to his friend.

"Seriously, Kilker. What is your malfunction? You're acting weird, man."

"Do you know what today is?"

Carson scratched his head. "Tuesday, I think. To be honest, dude, I don't really keep track anymore. Seems kind of pointless, you know?"

"Today would have been my father's birthday."

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"Oh. Well, when we get off, we'll do a few shots of tequila in his honor. How does that sound?"

Kilker ignored him. His eyes were far away. In the silence, the gears hummed inside the elevator shaft. When he spoke again, his voice seemed far away.

"Did you get along with your father, Carson?"

"I did-until about tenth grade when he figured out that I was gay. After that, we weren't really on speaking terms, you know? My mom wigged out too. She always wanted a grandbaby. Guess she didn't think I could adopt."

"I loved my dad. He never judged me. Supported me in everything I ever did."

The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened. Kilker stepped inside and they started to slide shut again.

Carson stuck a booted foot out and stopped them.

"Look, dog, I know you've been depressed lately, but what are you doing? You gonna quit or something?"

"I just need some air. Come with me?"

The pleading tone in his voice gave Carson goose bumps.

"Okay, man, but we can't be gone long. Five minutes, no more. Deal? I don't want Bates or Forrest kicking our ass."

Kilker smiled. "Deal."

Carson picked up his MAC-11 and then stepped in alongside Kilker. The doors hissed shut. Kilker pressed a button on the control panel, and the elevator began to rise.

"Yo, you hit the wrong button. That's Mr. Ramsey's floor. We can't go up there."

"We're not going to see, Mr. Ramsey," Kilker told him quietly. "We're going to get off the elevator and go to the fire escape."

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"For what? To get in even deeper shit?"

"No. Trust me."

"Dude, you're whacked."

Kilker ignored the comment. "I never got the chance to say goodbye to my dad. Before those things took over the city, during the riots, while the phones still worked, I called home. I just wanted to talk to him, tell him that I loved him and that I was proud of him. So I called, and he answered."

"And you got to tell him? That's good, man. More than a lot of folks got."

Kilker shook his head. "No, I didn't get to tell him."

"But you said he answered?"

"He did-but it wasn't him." The young man's face clouded and he blinked back tears. "It wasn't him. It was one of those fucking things! Living inside of him."

"Shit."

"Yeah. I thought it was him at first, even though he sounded odd. But then it started saying these things- horrible things. And I knew."

"That's fucked up, dude. I'm sorry."

Kilker sniffed, wiping away tears.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. He stepped out.

"Kilker." Carson grabbed his arm. "Where are we going?"

"I told you," Kilker whispered, "the stairwell. You can get to the roof from the fire escape."

"The roof? Are you fucking crazy?"

"No." His voice cracked with grief. "Just tired. Sick and tired. If this is living, then I don't want to live anymore."

He pulled free and walked toward the red door to the

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fire escape. Carson followed him, unsure of what to do. The plush carpeted hallway was silent. There was no sign of Ramsey or Bates.

"Hold up, dog. What-you want to be a fucking zombie?"

"No, I just don't want to live anymore. I'm tired, Carson."

He pushed the door open and started up the stairs.

Carson began to panic.

"Kilker. Hey, man, don't do this. Come on, fucking stop it. We can't go out there. The birds will tear us to pieces!"

They reached the top of the stairwell. Kilker pointed to the protective gear hanging on the wall. It looked like a cross between a beekeeper's outfit and the clothing worn by somebody working inside a nuclear reactor.

"Then put one of these on. That's what Quinn and DiMassi and Steve do when they go out to the helicopter. The birds can't get through them. I won't need one."

He put his hand against the door and closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, paused, and steadied himself.

Carson grabbed his shoulder.

"Don't."

"I have to. I can't do this anymore, man. It hurts too fucking much. Let me go?"

Carson stared into his friend's eyes, and saw that he meant it. Swallowing hard, Carson let go. Kilker turned back to the door and suddenly, Carson jumped him from behind.

"Mr. Bates," he shouted. "Mr. Ramsey! Help!"

"What are you doing?" Kilker grunted as Carson wrapped him in a bear hug.

"Well, I'm not letting you commit fucking suicide,

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asshole. You're not thinking straight, Kilker. Something's wrong with you. You need to see Doc Stern."

"Get the fuck off of me, Carson!"

"Help! Bates? Anybody? Somebody come quick!"

Below them, a door slammed and footsteps echoed in the hall, running toward the stairwell.

Kilker slammed his head backward and Carson's nose exploded, spraying them both with blood. Screaming, Carson dropped to his knees, cradling his nose in his palms.

Kilker shoved the door open and ran out onto the roof.

Bates charged up the stairs.

"Carson, what the hell is going on? What are you doing up here?"

"It's Kilker, Mr. Bates!" Carson winced as blood poured through his fingers. "He's lost his fucking mind and went outside."

Bates ran to the door and looked out through the thick glass window in its center. Kilker ran across the wet roof, his body hidden beneath a swarm of undead birds. They covered every inch of him.

He didn't stop running until he disappeared over the ledge.

Bates sighed. His fist clenched until the nails dug into his palm.

Carson stumbled to his feet. "Is-is he ..."

"He is."

"Fuck-Kilker ..."

Bates nodded, then turned to the wounded man.

"Get down to sick bay and get your nose fixed up."

Carson hung his head. "Am I in trouble, Mr. Bates?"

"I don't know, yet." Bates shook his head. His voice was hushed. "I'm too tired at this point to decide anything. Just go get your nose taken care of, okay?"

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"Yes, sir." Carson slumped down the stairs, dripping blood in his wake.

Bates looked back out at the roof and watched the rain. His conversation with Forrest ran through his mind.

"Something bad is coming."

"What's that, sir?" Carson called from the bottom of the stairwell.

Bates didn't reply.

Frankie awoke from the nightmare, opened her eyes, and looked around. She was in what appeared to be a hospital room: For one brief moment, she thought it might be another dream, but when she moved, the pain throughout her body proved it all too real.

She lay in a bed; white sheets with a pale yellow stain covering her legs and abdomen. Her street clothes were gone, replaced with a thin, open-backed hospital gown. An intravenous tube ran from her arm to a bottle dangling above her. A machine echoed her pulse, and another one whose purpose she didn't know, was silent.

She tried to sit up, and then sank back down. How had she gotten so weak? She felt as bad as she did when she'd gone cold turkey from heroin. She dimly remembered the doctor with the slaughterhouse body odor who'd tried to stick her. Apparently, he'd succeeded.

Clenching the bed rails, she tried again, forcing herself upright. She paused, exhausted from the effort. After a moments rest, she slid her legs over the side and rested her bare feet against the cold tile floor.

Her leg and arm ached. She studied her wounds. Somebody had fixed her up.

Then she remembered the dream. Martin had been there, and he'd showed her something. Something horrible.

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"Gotta-gotta find ... Jim and Danny. Have to tell them."

She yanked the tubes from her arm, and an alarm began to sound, soft but urgent.

Frankie stood up, swayed, and then regained her balance. She took one faltering step and then another.

"Got to ... warn them ..."

Dr. Maynard wiped gore on his lab coat, adjusted the tripod, and turned the camcorder on. It was pointed at the surgical table, on which the corpse of a once-pretty young blonde was tightly bound with Velcro straps. Her legs were parted wide and suspended in stirrups. The lips of her vagina were puffy and gray, and the hair around them had been recently shaved off. Her full breasts now sagged, and the nipples had turned black, as had her swollen tongue, dangling from her mouth like a piece of raw liver. She licked her peeling lips, revealing pale gums. Each of her teeth had been pulled. Her digestive track and major organs had been removed, and the open cavity was wet and glistening. A diamond wedding ring had sunk into her sausage-like finger.