Dead Sea (9 page)

    "You must have owned a gun store, right?" I asked Mitch.

    "Nope."

    "A gun salesman, then?"

    He shook his head. "No, but you're close. I was a salesman, but not guns. I'm just a firearms enthusiast. I always liked hunting and target shooting."

    "So what did you sell?"

    Mitch grinned. "Bibles."

    "Get the fuck out of here. You look like a Hell's Angel."

    "I'm serious, Lamar. I was a Bible salesman; sold to Christian bookstores and churches and private academies, mostly. I covered my tattoos up with sleeves when I needed to, and took out my earrings. Bibles were my business. Guns are just my hobby."

    I frowned. I don't know what it's like for other gay people, but in my experience, the Christians I'd known had been less than understanding when it came to my sexuality. Of all the people to fall in with as we escaped the city, it looked like we'd joined forces with a possible fundamentalist who would judge me based on some old book supposedly written by the world's most omnipotent bigot.

    Mitch must have been able to read the expression on my face. "Don't worry. I'm not a believer in the product. I'm just a spokesman."

    I snorted. "You don't believe in God?"

    He waved the pistol around. "Do you, after all this shit?"

    "No. But you
sell Bibles."

    "Sold," he corrected. "Somehow, I don't think I'll have much business anymore. Yeah, I sold them. I sold lots of things-televisions, cars, computers, insurance, and vacuum cleaners. There was just more money in Bibles."

    Laughing, we continued on our way.

    Behind us, the fires spread, driving the dead forward.

    

    

    

    After fifteen tense minutes of sneaking through alleys and side streets, staying out of sight of the zombies when we could, we finally emerged at the waterfront. We smelled seawater. To our right was an old factory that had been converted into a nightclub. It took up the whole block. Past the nightclub was the old Sylvan Learning Center building and several luxury hotels that towered into the sky. In the distance was the Inner Harbor itself, along with the stadium and downtown Baltimore's skyline. Buildings were on fire there, too. On our left was the private yacht club. We could see all kinds of little boats and pleasure crafts tied up at the docks. Leftover yuppie toys. There was no movement inside the club. We heard a bell toll once; probably mounted to someone's mast. It was the loneliest sound in the world. A twelve-foot high wire mesh fence surrounded the yacht club. The gates were chained and padlocked. Curled lengths of razor wire stretched across the top of the fence. Security cameras were stationed every ten feet, along with floodlights. The cameras and lights were dead, of course, just like everything else.

    "What is it with fucking padlocks tonight?" 1 fingered the lock and then turned back to Mitch. "Don't suppose you got a pair of bolt cutters in your backpack?"

    "No. Wish I did. I take it this isn't the first time you've been stymied by a lock tonight?"

    I shook my head. Above us, a pigeon took flight with an angry squawk. I envied the bird. Found myself wishing we all had wings so we could fly above the city. Mitch stared up at the bird, too, and then turned to the fence.

    "We can't climb it either," he said. "The kids would cut the shit out of themselves on that razor wire."

    "I can climb," Malik said. "I ain't afraid of no wire."

    "I am," Mitch replied. "And you should be, too. It'll cut the hell out of you. Slice your arms and legs to ribbons."

    Malik appeared doubtful.

    I stared at the boats-so close and yet so far away. "Couldn't we just shoot the lock off?"

    "Not one that big. That's high-end, American-made steel. A smaller lock, yeah, it would work. A round or two from the forty-five and we'd have no problem. But we don't have the firepower to even dent that fucking thing. We could use a grenade, but that would attract too much attention." He kicked the fence in frustration. "The owners really made sure no one could get in."

    "Doesn't surprise me," I said. "There were a lot of homeless people in this area. Used to beg off the tourists and college kids, and the folks over in the office blocks. No doubt they'd have slept on the boats if they could have gotten in."

    Instead of responding to me, Mitch raised his pistol and fired a shot past us. The empty shell clattered onto the ground. Tasha, Malik and I all jumped in surprise. I turned around. A zombie lay in the street, blood spreading in a pool from its head. It had been creeping up on us in silence.

    "We'd better figure something else out," Mitch said. "And quickly. That shot is sure to bring more of them."

    I pointed at a small, cinder block building next to the nightclub. A sign outside indicated that it was a machine shop. "Maybe we could try in there. Find something to cut this chain with?"

    "Good idea."

    "Come on, guys." I motioned for Tasha and Malik to follow us and they did.

    We ran across the street to the machine shop. The only entrance from our side of the building was through a large, graffiti-covered garage door. I figured it would be locked, but when Mitch bent over and tugged at the handle, the door rose a few inches. Maybe the owners had not had time to lock it, or maybe someone else had already broken in. Unoiled pulleys screeched. A horrible slaughterhouse stench drifted out.

    Tasha grabbed my arm. "That smells like…"

    Grunting, Mitch yanked on the door. It rose higher.

    "Mitch," I whispered. "Wait."

    My warning was too late. Mitch let go of the handle and the door shot upward, disappearing into the ceiling. The interior was pitch-black, but something moved in the shadows. We saw feet. Then legs. Zombies lurched out of the darkness-two; then six; then a dozen. The machine shop was full of them. Guess they'd been trapped inside for a while, unable to open the door. Just standing there rotting, waiting for someone to free them. A few of them had exploded abdomens. Others suffered from swollen, leaking limbs. Mitch jumped backward and the dead spilled out into the street. There were more inside, stumbling toward the light.

    Mitch stayed cool. He raised his pistol with both hands. Keeping his feet spread apart at shoulder-width, he opened fire, squeezing off six shots. Each one was true, and six zombies fell to the pavement. Tasha screamed as one of the corpses lunged for her, but then she raised her pistol and fired. The handgun jerked upward, and the bullet missed. She fired again, blowing a hole in the creature's shoulder. The zombie reached for her and 1 slammed it in the jaw with the butt of my rifle. It toppled backward, sprawling on the ground. Tasha stepped forward and shot it in the head at point-blank range. The corpse's hair caught on fire. Blood and brains and skull fragments splattered upward. Tasha gagged.

    "Good girl," I said softly. "You didn't get any blood in your mouth or eyes, did you?"

    "No," she answered. Then she leaned over and threw up on her shoes.

    Malik, meanwhile, clutched his grenade in one hand and darted back and forth in front of us, dodging zombies and staying out of Mitch's line of fire. The boy seemed excited. Frantic, even, but he showed no fear. Despite everything, 1 smiled.

    "There are more of them inside," Malik shouted. "Too many for you guys to shoot."

    "Lamar!" Mitch called as he changed magazines. "Don't just stand there. Shoot the fuckers!"

    I grabbed Tasha's arm. "Are you okay?"

    "No," she said, shaking me off and raising her pistol again. "I'm wet, I'm cold, I smell like smoke, and I just threw up all over my shoes."

    My reply was drowned out as she squeezed the trigger again. It didn't matter if she was fine or not- she was okay enough to start shooting again. That was good enough for me. Turning, I set the rifle's stock against my shoulder, closed one eye and sighted through the scope, picking a female zombie with a ragged bite wound on her cheek as my target. I pulled the trigger. The rifle's stock slammed against my body, making my arm go numb. Watching through the scope, I saw the creature's head explode in magnified color. Grinning, I picked another target and did the same. Then another and another. My shoulder ached, but it was a good pain. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I felt more confident than before. With the scope, I was a much better shot. Then, the fifth time I squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. Remembering that Mitch had said the rifle held four bullets, I cried out for more. At the same time, Tasha clicked empty, too.

    "Mitch," I yelled. "We need more ammo."

    More dead poured from the building and into the street, forcing us backward. A few of them moaned with hunger, but they were mostly silent. Some of them had decomposed so badly that there wasn't much left of them-just arms and legs and gaping, toothless mouths. Another large group of corpses appeared farther down the street. I recognized a few of them from the battle we'd witnessed earlier. Still more of the creatures exited the nightclub, drawn to the sounds of conflict.

    A man ran out into the street. I don't know where he came from, but we immediately knew he was one of us-alive-just from the way he was screaming. An undead rat hung from his face, tiny claws digging into his flesh, yellow incisors ripping at his cheek. Infecting him with the disease. Poor bastard was dead already. He just didn't know it.

    "Help me," he begged. His voice was slurred- reminded me of Alan. The rat dug deeper, shredding flesh. "Help me, please!"

    Mitch fired one shot, killing both the rat and its victim. When Mitch looked up again, his eyes widened at the number of zombies slowly homing in on us.

    "Mitch," I hollered again. "We need more bullets!"

    "No time," he said. "There's too many of these things. Let's get the hell out of here."

    Malik stepped forward. "Ya'll are forgetting something."

    He pulled the pin the way Mitch had shown him and tossed the grenade overhand. It soared over the creatures' heads and through the open garage door, disappearing deep inside the building.

    I froze. "Oh shit…"

    "Move!"

    Mitch shoved us forward, sprinting back toward the fence. Tasha and I started to follow him, but Malik refused to move. I don't even know if he heard us. His attention was focused on the machine shop. His eyes shone with anticipation, and he licked his lips. Just like any other boy his age, he wanted to see something blow up, and know that he'd done it. I'd been the same way as a kid, when we used to buy penny sticks and M-80s from the guy at the Korean grocer.

    I grabbed his arm and pulled. "Come on, Malik."

    "But I want to-"

    "Now!"

    We ran. Seconds later, the grenade went off behind us. There was a brief flash and a muffled
thump.
1 heard debris rain down, clattering on the pavement. Something hot zipped by my ear. When we reached the fence, the four of us turned around. Smoke and flames poured out of the machine shop, but no more zombies exited the building. But that didn't matter. Malik may have destroyed the zombies inside the building, but there were plenty more. At least four dozen were in the street now, and coming for us in that slow, determined way.

    "Shit," Mitch said, grabbing another grenade off his belt. "Somebody rang the dinner bell."

    "What are you doing?" Tasha asked.

    "What we should have done in the first place. I'm going to blow that lock off. You three get back."

    We stepped back out into the street, but the zombies swarmed toward us. Their stench grew with every faltering step. More and more of them kept coming: humans, dogs, cats, rats, and something that had been skinned-something so pink and glistening that I couldn't tell what it used to be. Whatever its origin, now it was just one of them- an eating machine.

    "Forget it," 1 said. "Another minute and they'll be on us."

    "Bullshit," Mitch argued. "They're slow. I'm gonna blow the gate and then we'll be home free."

    "Mitch. Look behind us. We can't get out of the grenade's range without running into them.
There's no time!"

    "Please, Mr. Bollinger," Tasha pleaded. "Let's just go-"

    Malik stuck close to Mitch. He watched the approaching hordes with wide eyes. "Yo, give me another grenade. I'll take care of them."

    Mitch looked at the locked gate; then at the zombies, and then turned to me.

    "Goddamn it. You're right. Let's go."

    "Stick close to the fence," I told the kids. "Don't let them box you in. They may be slower than us, but if enough of them fill the street, we'll be trapped."

    "Where are we going?" Tasha shouted as we ran.

    "The harbor," I choked. "Maybe we can hole up inside the aquarium for a while."

    I knew how stupid that sounded. How hopeless and futile. The National Aquarium was the centerpiece in Baltimore's busiest tourist area. No way was it free of zombies. But I didn't know what else to do, and Mitch wasn't offering up any alternatives.

    "What about a paddleboat?" Tasha suggested. "We rode on one last year when we took a field trip to the Inner Harbor. They hold four people."

    I nodded, gasping for breath. "Good idea."

    The undead followed after us with single-minded determination. Their feet echoed on the street and sidewalks. Their stench went before them like a cloud.

    "Give me your guns," Mitch said. He still had my useless shotgun. It was wedged between his backpack and his shoulder blades. I raced along beside him, watching as he ejected my magazine and loaded in a fresh one that he pulled from the backpack. I was impressed. He did it without pausing, found the bullets without having to search through the pack. Mitch tossed the rifle back to me and then did the same for Tasha.