City of the Dead (26 page)

"The plants, and the insect life that exists on this planet, which is neither mammal nor reptile nor amphibian. There are over two hundred million insects per each person on this planet. Both the plant and insect kingdoms are given to Ab and his kind."

"Ab?"

"Ob's brother and leader of the Elilum."

"Don't any of these creeps have normal names like Fred or Leon?"

"The Elilum possess the plant and insect kingdoms just as the Siqqusim do with mammals, amphibians, and reptiles."

"Fuck me running ... How are we supposed to hide from bugs?"

Martin continued as if she hadn't spoken. "There is a third and final wave, and that one involves fire. The demons in that group have many names. In the Arab cultures, they are known as the Iffrit, but their true name is the Teraphim. Ob and Ab's brother, Api, leads them,

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and they are the most terrible of all. They are beings made of fire, and the earth burns with their every step. At the end of their reign, the entire planet is consumed."

"Well Jesus fucking Christ in a god-damned chicken basket, Martin! What kind of a chance does that give us? I mean, if all the plants die, then we've got no fucking oxygen, but that doesn't really matter anyway because everything gets burned up at the very end!"

As if in answer, the dead, brown plant life began to move. Desiccated vines snaked across the forest floor, slithering around her other self. A withered tree limb speared Jim through the chest. A giant Venus flytrap's jaws slammed shut on Danny, swallowing the boy whole. His muffled screams echoed from inside the plant.

"There are rules, Frankie. The third wave cannot leave the Void and begin until all life forms-all of them-are destroyed. The Elilum can run amok once the Siqqusim have destroyed a percentage of life. But the Teraphim cannot be loosed upon the planet until all the kingdoms of life are gone. Don't you see?"

"So what are you telling me? Go hide out in a greenhouse somewhere and make sure we keep enough of us alive, keep having babies and growing new trees and shit? Make sure we keep some animals and bugs alive too? That way we prevent the other attacks from happening? We're just supposed to wait it out, and then repopulate and reseed the fucking planet when the third wave doesn't happen? What is this Noah's ark bullshit, preacher-man?"

Martin didn't respond.

"Or are you telling me that it's hopeless-that we're gonna die? That we'll lose these bodies but go on to this other place where you went? That's it, isn't it, Martin?"

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The old man was gone.

"Soon as people start getting eaten, you pull a Houdini. Am I allowed to wake up now?"

Remember, his voice whispered inside her head, everything dies, but not everything has an ending.

Around her, the forest continued to die. Then it started to come back to life again.

Frankie awoke in her hospital bed. Somewhere above her head, an alarm was shrieking.

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"What is it, Daddy?" Danny sat up, startled awake by the blaring alarm. His eyes were sleepy but frightened. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, buddy. Hang on a second. I'll check."

Jim jumped out of bed and pulled on his jeans. There was some kind of commotion outside, people running down the hallway, clamoring voices. He opened the door, barefoot and shirtless, and shivered in the air-conditioning. The alarm continued to blare over the building's speaker system.

An overweight man ran past him. Jim grabbed his shoulder.

"Sir, can you tell me what's going on?"

The man scowled, out of breath. "Emergency meeting, buddy. Just like the drills. What rock you been sleeping under?"

"I'm new here. We just arrived ..."

"Oh, sorry about that. Well, like I said, they're calling an emergency meeting. Everybody is supposed to meet in the auditorium right away. And they never do drills at

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this hour, so whatever's going on, it must be real. Best get down there."

The man pulled away, hurrying on before Jim could ask him how to get to the auditorium. He dimly recalled seeing it during Smokey's tour of the building, but he couldn't remember what floor it was on.

Jim ducked back inside and shut the door just as the alarm stopped.

Danny was sitting up in bed, looking small and frail. "Is there trouble, Daddy? Are the monster-people coming?"

"I don't know, squirt. I'm sure it's okay. Probably just a drill."

Danny looked confused. "You mean like a fire drill? We had those in school. They were kind of fun."

"You know what? Why don't you get dressed and we'll see what's happening?"

"Okay."

Danny clambered out of bed, his hair mussed and his face creased from the pillow. He slipped out of his pajamas and into some clothes that Jim laid out for him. While he dressed, Jim slipped into his shirt, socks, and work boots. It felt strange to be wearing the steel-toed boots again, the same dusty, weather-beaten boots that had carried him from West Virginia to here. Once again, he thought of Martin. And Frankie.

Frankie ...

Jim wondered if they should check on her. If there was trouble, they needed to make sure she'd be safe, and aware of what was happening. He felt a sudden twinge of unidentifiable dread.

"Daddy?"

"What, Danny?"

"I'm worried about Frankie."

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Danny felt it too, whatever it was.

"So am I."

"Maybe we should go check on her," Danny suggested. "Make sure she's getting better."

"I think that's a good idea. Let's go."

Jim locked the door behind them. The hallways were crowded with people, and they elbowed their way through the throng. Danny clutched Jim's hand so they wouldn't get separated.

It took ten minutes to get an elevator that wasn't heading downstairs. They stepped inside and the elevator lurched upward. While they waited, Jim's apprehension grew worse.

Danny squeezed his hand.

Jim smiled, trying to be brave for his son. He felt anything but.

DiMassi belched, and said, "What's up, fellas?"

Branson nodded, but said nothing. He continued to watch the corridor.

"I thought you had tuberculosis or some shit," Carson said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nah, I'm fine." DiMassi coughed. "Forrest told me to get up here on the double. What the fuck is going on? This better be important. I was asleep."

Branson shrugged, stifling a yawn. Carson just glared at the overweight pilot.

"Listen up," Quinn whispered. "Ramsey's gone off the deep end."

"Say what?" The fat pilot's belly hung over his belt, wiggling as he laughed. He stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

"I'm serious," Quinn insisted. "The whole building's

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getting cabin fever or something. Everybody's going crazy. Maynard and Kilker snapped today too."

Carson's face darkened at the mention of both.

"Sorry man," Quinn apologized, and then turned back to DiMassi. "Maynard tried to kill Carson and Doc Stern, and Kilker jumped off the roof this morning."

DiMassi turned to Carson. "That true, faggot?"

"Yeah." The young soldier nodded in affirmation. "And I told you before, you fat fuck. Don't call me a faggot."

"Both of you knock it off," Quinn bristled. "We don't have time for that shit. Mr. Ramsey's lost it, too. He's no longer fit for command, and apparently, something big is getting ready to go down. Bates wants us to take him."

"Kill him?" DiMassi asked.

Quinn shook his head. "No, we're just supposed to arrest him. Doc Stern's got a safe room set aside to restrain him in."

"What's this big thing that's supposed to happen?" Carson asked.

Branson stiffened, and glanced at Quinn. The red-haired pilot shrugged.

"There's an army on the way here," Branson told them while cleaning his glasses on his shirt. "A zombie army. They've got heavy armament-tanks, Bradleys, the works."

"Shit," Carson breathed. "What's their ETA?"

"Anytime now."

DiMassi sneered. "Fuck. I'm out of commission for a few days and this whole place goes crazy. What's big bad Bates's plan for this army?"

"I don't know," Quinn admitted. "All I know is we've got our orders."

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"This doesn't seem right," DiMassi grumbled, "arresting Mr. Ramsey. I mean, he's Darren fucking Ramsey. The guy's a celebrity. A billionaire. Maybe Bates is mistaken. You guys ever consider that?"

The other men didn't respond. Weapons drawn, they crept down the hallway. Quinn produced a key card that Bates had given him, and slid it into the office door. The door opened silently. Inside, the office was pitch black. The air-conditioning hummed quietly.

Quinn fell back as Carson and Branson rushed in. Quinn charged in behind them, ducking low. DiMassi brought up the rear, and flicked on the lights. It looked like a hurricane had blown through the office. The computer monitor lay smashed on the floor, and the tower casing was dented. Shredded paperwork lay strewn like confetti. The desk's contents were scattered across the carpet. Chairs and lamps had been knocked over, and soil from the potted palm tree covered everything.

Quinn pointed at Branson and indicated the private restroom door, then motioned for Carson to check the closet.

"It's clear, dog," Carson confirmed.

"He's not in here either," Branson called.

"Why would Mr. Ramsey do this to his own office?" DiMassi asked.

"Because," Quinn said, ruffling through some paperwork, "I told you. He's suffered some kind of breakdown."

"How do we know Bates didn't do this? Maybe him and Forrest are gonna pull a coup."

The other three looked at him with distaste.

"Come off it, DiMassi," Branson grumbled. "You really think Bates would lie about this?"

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"Wouldn't surprise me one bit. Makes more sense than this cock-and-bull story about Mr. Ramsey going insane."

"That's crap and you know it," Carson snapped. "You're just pissed off because Bates reprimanded you last month for taking the chopper out without clearance."

"Shut up, Carson," DiMassi warned.

"Why should I? It's true. You took that blond schoolteacher for a ride, just so you could get laid."

"Least I got laid by a woman, you fucking faggot."

Carson ran across the room, fists clenched. His eyes shone with anger.

Quinn stepped between them.

"Knock it off, both of you! We've got a job to do. DiMassi, you stay here in case Ramsey comes back."

"But I-"

"Carson. Branson. You guys come with me. We'll check out the rest of the floor."

"Quinn," DiMassi argued, "this is bullshit! If there's a fucking army getting ready to attack us, we should be doing something about it, not looking for the old man."

The two pilots squared off. Quinn stepped closer, his face inches away from DiMassi's. The fat pilot's breath reeked, and drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Quinn's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"I told you," he hissed, "that Bates has it under control. Now unless you want to face disciplinary action when this is all over and done with, I suggest you do as you're told. We don't need you, DiMassi. In case you've forgotten, Steve and I can fly that fucking chopper too. You dig?"

DiMassi stepped back. "Yeah, man. I'm cool. Shit, Quinn, you don't have to bite my head off."

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Ignoring him, Quinn stalked out of the office. Carson and Branson followed. On his way out, Carson blew DiMassi a kiss and curtsied.

"Call me a faggot when this is all over, you fat fuck."

A pencil snapped beneath DiMassi's boot. He sat Ramsey's leather chair upright, and then plopped down in it. The springs creaked beneath his weight. He laid his pistol on the desk and cracked his knuckles. His shoulders slumped, and after a moment, he closed his eyes and rested.

He opened them again a few minutes later, when he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

"Mr. DiMassi," Ramsey whispered, "I would appreciate it if you did not move. My office is already a mess. It would be a shame to add the interior of your cranium to it."

Yawning and bewildered, Don stared around in confusion, trying to find a seat in the crowded auditorium. The rows were full, and more people stood in the back and in the aisles. He got his first sense of just how many people occupied the skyscraper. They milled around, half-awake like himself, wondering what was going on. The sounds of rustling papers and nervous babbling filled the room.

Don searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face. There was no sign of Jim or Danny, and he wondered where they were. He thought of Frankie, wondered if she was okay, and then pushed it from his mind. His head pounded. He'd woken with a hangover and then realized just how little sleep he'd gotten before the alarm sounded.

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"Don! Hey, Don!"

Smokey waved to him from the front. Don weaved his way down the aisle and then cut through the row, excusing himself to each person that he slid by. He took a seat between Smokey and Etta, who still had in her curlers. Leroy sat next to her, his eyes half-open, his face cloudy.

"Where are your friends?" Smokey asked.

"Frankie's still in sick bay, I guess. I don't know where Jim and Danny are. What's going on?"

"Emergency meeting."

"This better not be another god-damned drill," Leroy grumbled.

"I don't think it is," Smokey muttered. "Didn't you guys notice how troubled Forrest was acting tonight, when he stopped by the card game? Something's up."

"Any idea what?" Don asked.

"Looks like we're about to find out," Etta said, nodding to the front.

Bates walked out onto the stage, flanked by Forrest and Stern. There were scattered cheers, some brief applause, and a few shrill whistles; but for the most part, the audience was subdued. Without pausing, Bates strolled up to the podium and spoke into the microphone.

"Good morning."

There was an electronic squeal of feedback. He paused, and then repeated himself.

"Good morning. I know that it's very early, and I want to thank you all for your promptness. I assure you that this is not a drill."