City of the Dead (32 page)

Danny was savagely beating the bird's corpse into a red smear. Gore and feathers splattered both the walls and stuck to the bat. His lips were pulled back in a grimace.

"I-told-you-to-leave-my-daddy-alone!" Each syllable was punctuated by another swing.

Jim's mind flashed back to the car crash, and the look on Danny's face when he saw his father beating the zombie with a rock. And now ...

My God, what effect is this way of life having on my son?

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"Danny? Danny, stop."

The boy's grunts faded. He looked up at his father, and his face was pale and tired.

"Danny. It's okay now. Stop. It's dead."

"I know, Daddy."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders. "That was very brave and I'm proud of you, but-"

"It was hurting you, Daddy."

"I know. But you need-"

Carson mewled on the other side of the door.

"Oh, Christ," Branson shouted, horrified. "He's not dead yet!"

Quinn interrupted Jim and Danny's embrace. "We need to move."

"Never mind," Jim whispered. "We'll talk about it later."

"I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too."

They ran for the rear utility stairs, and Carson's fading screams followed along behind them.

The helicopter rose into the air, blades and rotors chewing up the zombies hovering around it. DiMassi activated the U.B.R.D. and the remaining birds dropped from the sky like stones. Still laughing, he swerved to the left and soared out over the city, high above Madison Avenue.

"Sayonara, suckers."

He checked the fuel gauge, and considered his destination options. Getting far away from New York City was his top priority, but eventually, he'd need to refuel, and find food and shelter. He decided to head northwest, toward Buffalo. There were lots of mountains and forests between here and there, some with airstrips or flat areas where he could land safely and take off from again.

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Perhaps the wilderness would be more hospitable-or at least less populated.

DiMassi eyed the dials, making sure everything was functioning properly. Slowly, he relaxed, the tension melting from his limbs. The gray, sunless sky opened before him, promising more rain.

He was still going over the instruments when a zombie on the ground raised an RPG, locked onto him, and squeezed the trigger. DiMassi saw a brief flash out of the corner of his eye, and then it was too late.

The helicopter exploded in the skies over 35th Street, looking very much like the second sunrise of the day. Twisted metal and burning fuel rained down into the streets. The smoke from the explosion mixed with the black cloud rising from Ramsey Towers and the burning buildings around it.

Inside the structure, the massacre continued.

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Jim, Frankie, Danny, Quinn, and Branson began the long trek down the fire stairs. Quinn took point and Frankie brought up the rear.

"I can go last if you want me to," Branson offered.

"You're hurt," Frankie reminded him, "And the back of this hospital gown doesn't tie completely. I don't want you checking out my ass."

Blushing, Branson turned away. Frankie grinned.

They zigzagged downward, their footsteps echoing around them. The stairwell was quiet, save for their heavy breathing and the metallic clink of their weapons. The sounds of carnage drifted from behind closed doors with every level they passed: screams of fright, pain and dying; cruel, guttural laughter; gunshots and crackling flames.

"It's hot in here," Danny complained. "How far down is it?"

"A long way," Jim told him, his voice concerned. "You okay?"

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Danny nodded. "Just sweaty and tired. My feet hurt."

"I'd carry you, squirt, but if the zombies come after us we may have to fight, and I can't do that with you on my shoulders."

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm a big boy. I can do it."

They continued down, pausing occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit.

Branson wiped sweat from his forehead. "Kid's right, though. It is getting hotter in here. I'm sweating like a motherfucker."

"Probably the fires," Quinn mused. "But I don't think we have to worry."

"Why's that?" Jim asked.

"If I remember correctly, these stairwells were designed to act as a deterrent to fires. I don't know the engineering specifics, but they built them with the World Trade Center disaster in mind."

"So they're fireproof?"

Quinn nodded. "I think so."

"I hope so," Frankie added.

"How can the fire jump floors?" Branson asked. "I thought each floor had fireproofing materials in it to prevent that."

"Don't know," Quinn admitted. "But I'm guessing that the zombies are starting fires on each floor. Either that, or the shelling started several small fires, and they're out of control."

"So what's the plan?" Jim asked.

The pilot stopped, listening. He brought a finger to his lips. The others halted behind him. After a moment, he relaxed and continued on.

Frankie stared back up the stairs. "What was that about?"

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"Thought I heard something above us, but I guess it was just our shoes. Sound is funny in here."

He led them forward. "Anyway, about the plan. I talked to Bates on the radio while you guys were getting the desk. He wants us to meet him in the sub-basement."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't say, in case the zombies were monitoring our communications. I'd guess we're going to escape through the sewers. Or try to at least."

Frankie halted, remembering her journey through Baltimore's sewer system: the darkness, the stench, the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia-and the rats. Especially the rats. It hadn't helped matters that she was withdrawing from heroin at the time.

Jim touched her arm. "You okay?"

She nodded, her mouth a thin, grim line.

Quinn noticed her demeanor too.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Had a bad experience inside the sewers back in Baltimore. That's all. If we get out of here, I'll tell you about it. But don't sweat it. I'll be okay."

They walked on, footsteps still bouncing off the walls.

"So where do we go once we're underground?" Jim asked.

"I don't know," Quinn said. "Bates couldn't talk long. Sounded like they were in a firefight. He said to hurry. If they get there before we do, they won't wait for us."

Their descent continued for another fifteen minutes before the group stopped to rest. They were exhausted and thirsty. Branson's arm dripped blood, and Danny's eyes had black circles under them. They debated sneaking onto one of the floors and raiding a soft drink machine, but decided against it.

"Can't believe we haven't run across any of them

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yet," Branson said. "Hell, do you realize just how many of those things must be in the building?"

"Don't jinx it," Quinn replied. "Let's just hope our luck continues."

Frankie pulled Jim aside.

"I need to ask you something."

"Sure. What's up?"

"Have you been having weird dreams?"

"Not really," he said. "In fact, I've only dreamed once since Martin and I left West Virginia, at least as far as I can remember. Why?"

Frankie shrugged. "I don't know. I-I've been dreaming about Martin."

"About how he died?"

"No. About the present, and the future. He shows me things. It's like he's a fucking ghost or something. He's been warning me."

"Warning you about what?"

Before she could answer, a door squeaked open several floors above them. For a moment, the booming sounds of battle grew louder. Then the door swung shut again, muffling them.

They froze, staring upward in silence. Footsteps padded down the stairs.

Quinn put a finger to his lips and readied his weapon. Frankie and Jim did the same. They could smell the zombie as it drew closer. Not rot or decay, but blood. The air was thick with blood.

"I know you're down there, little piggy," the corpse chuckled. "You left a trail of breadcrumbs."

Horrified, they glanced down at their feet. Dime-sized drops of Branson's blood had dripped from his wrist, spattering every other step on their way down.

"Shit." He cradled his wound to his chest.

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"Helloooo," the zombie called. "Why not go easy on yourself? I'll make it quick and painless, and I promise only to eat a little bit of you."

They shrank away from the railing, their backs against the wall. The zombie continued its descent. Suddenly, they heard another door open, several landings below them. They were surrounded, cut off on both ends.

Danny and Branson exchanged frightened looks. Quinn signaled Frankie and Jim to deal with the zombie above them, and then slowly crept forward, inching his way down the stairs toward the second group.

The footsteps grew louder, as did the stench. The zombie was on the landing above them. Jim could see its shadow in the glow of the emergency lights. Then they heard something else: the racking of a shotgun.

"Ready or not," the zombie chuckled. "Here I come."

Frankie and Jim pointed their rifles back up the stairs, waiting. Unnoticed, a blued shotgun barrel was lowered between the handrails on their level and the level above them. The explosion was deafening, and rocked them all.

Frankie ran halfway up the stairs, spun around, and dropped to her knees. Her eyes widened in surprise. Dr. Stern's dead face split in a wide grin. His abdomen had been emptied; his ribs pried apart and sticking out of his flesh like porcupine quills.

Frankie squeezed off three wild shots and then ducked down again, crab-walking back to the wall. One bullet plowed into the wall, and the others ricocheted through the stairwell.

"Did you hit it?" Jim asked.

"I don't think so."

"Now that's not very nice," Stern taunted. "After I took such good care of you when you were hurt."

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"No," Frankie said, "I guess not."

The thing began talking in a language that Stern had never known. "Enga keeriost mathos du abapan rentare."

Several landings below them, Quinn's M-16 rumbled a staccato beat. Distracted by the sudden gunfire, Frankie and Jim didn't notice the zombie. Stern rounded the corner and charged down the stairs, shotgun pointed directly at them. When the thing that had been Stern saw that he was outgunned, he pulled the trigger and then turned to run.

The shotgun pellets peppered Branson's face. Blinded, he slammed into the handrail and tipped over the side, teetering for a moment like a seesaw before he fell. His screams ended in a sickening thud from far, far below. More cries drifted up to them from Quinn's location.

Frankie and Jim simultaneously returned fire. The barrage ripped into Stern, severing one arm and splattering his brains all over the stairs.

Jim whirled. "Danny, are you okay?"

Staring in horror, Danny pointed at the handrail. His bottom lip quivered.

"Daddy-Mr. Branson fell..."

Jim rushed to Danny's side and pulled him close, whispering in his ear and smoothing his hair.

"And that nice doctor turned into one of the monsterpeople. He was all opened up."

"I know," Jim soothed. "I know. It's okay. There was nothing we could do."

Frankie stepped past them and looked over the handrail.

"Quinn?" she called. Her voice bounced back to her. "Quinn? Are you okay?"

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"Come quick," he shouted. "Get down here. We've got trouble!"

Another voice followed his, one that sounded familiar. "You're a god damned idiot, Quinn."

"Who the hell is that?" Jim asked. "Is somebody down there with him?"

"Couldn't see. They're too far down. It sounded like Steve."

"Who?"

"The pilot that was with Quinn when they rescued us. The guy from Canada."

Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"Come on," Frankie urged. "Let's go."

They ran down four more flights of stairs. Steve and Quinn were crouched over a body. They saw black combat boots and black leather pants. The legs beneath the pants trembled in pain and shock. A white shirt, soaked with blood, and more blood spreading onto the stairs in a widening pool. The blood, the shirt, the pants and the boots all belonged to Bates.

"Oh shit," Jim muttered.

"Understatement... of the ... year, Mr. Thurmond," Bates hissed through clenched teeth. His face was chalk white.

"I'm fucking sorry, Bates," Quinn sobbed, clenching the wounded man's hand.

"This is Bates?" Frankie whispered. Jim nodded.

"And you must ... must be Frankie. Nice ... to make ... your acquaintance."

"Does it hurt?" Quinn asked.

"Shock ... is starting to ... set in."

"We need to move," Steve said. "The zombies must have heard the gunshots. They'll be here any second."

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"What happened?" Jim asked.

"Bates and I entered the stairwell," Steve said. "We heard you guys above us. Before we could call out, the fighting erupted. That was when genius here shot Bates in the stomach."

Jim caught a glimpse of the wound, and turned away.

"It was an accident," Quinn insisted. "I thought he was a fucking zombie!"

"Getm ... out of ... here," Bates coughed, spraying bloody spittle. "Steve's right. They'll be ... on us any second. I'll hold them ... off."

"Bullshit," Steve told him. "Jim, strap on his flamethrower. You can carry that and sling your rifle at the same time. You're covering our rear. Frankie, you've got point. Quinn, give me a hand."

Quinn and Steve used the straps from the rifles to hold Bates's guts in, wrapping them around his waist. Their wadded up T-shirts covered the exit and entrance wounds. They cinched the straps tight, and Bates grew even paler.

They hoisted him to his feet, and he moaned, clutching at his stomach.

"Put your arms around our shoulders," Steve told him. "I know it hurts, but you're not gonna die. It takes a long time for somebody to die from a gut shot. We'll get you out of here and fixed up in no time."

Bates tossed his head, trying to see past the long hair plastered to his face.

"Steve," he rasped, "whom ... did you have ... in mind to ... fix me up? Where are they ... going to operate-in the sewers? Just ... shoot me in the head and ... leave me here."