Plague World (Ashley Parker Novel) (20 page)

Taking out a few dozen zombies in brightly colored costumes wasn’t going to make a whole hell of a lot of difference. This zombie United Nations was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

So I kept running, not bothering with my katana any more. I knocked zombies out of my way by hip-checking them or kicking them hard in the kneecaps. Maybe they didn’t feel any pain, but the laws of physics still applied.

* * *

Clearing the International Cottages, we emerged onto an asphalt road littered with cars. A huge parking lot stretched out before us down a slope while hedges and trees lined the sidewalk to our left and hugged the back of a large square structure a few hundred yards away.

Simone darted across the road between the stalled vehicles, heading toward the sidewalk beyond. Nathan was right behind her. The rest of us followed, ducklings trailing their mother.

Undead hands reached out of car windows, clutching at us as we wove in between the front ends and bumpers. Zombies staggered toward us from the parking lots; tourists who’d come to spend the day at Balboa Park, but were now on permanent vacation in hell.

Carl gave a yell of fear and disgust as a female zombie in a full-skirted yellow dress and a little sweater, all retro with a matte black Bettie Page ’do, reached out from between two cars and grabbed his left arm. It yanked him hand first toward its open mouth, which still bore the remnants of bright red lipstick, now smeared with black vomit and blood.

Not gonna happen.

I vaulted clumsily over the hood of the car nearest me, shoving my Kevlar-covered right forearm into Retro Zombie’s gaping mouth before it could chomp down on Carl’s fingers. I then shoved the point of my tanto into its eye socket, grimacing at the smell and the inevitable gross squishing noise upon entry and withdrawal.

“Thanks.” Carl gave me a shaky grin and pulled his arm free. We checked to make sure none of the splatter had hit him.

“Gotta keep the pilot alive, right?”

What looked like the matching Daddy-O Ken to Bettie Page Barbie lurched towards us, hipster bowling shirt covered in gore. I smacked Carl on the shoulder and we caught up with the rest of the team at the base of what looked like Hollywood’s idea of a Greek temple, complete with ornate columns. Benches filled in about two-thirds of a brick courtyard in front.

“There.” Simone pointed toward a small wrought-iron gate. “Follow me.”

The moment Simone dashed up the stairs and onto the walkway, all of the zoms in the vicinity turned to follow, as if on autopilot. Some staggered straight up to the walkway, clutching fingers trying to reach us over the raised edge. Others unsteadily navigated the stairs. The Gunsy Twins took up positions on either side of the walkway, taking out the slowly moving targets one headshot at a time. They were joined by Nathan and Gentry.

Simone rapped hard on the iron grill and shouted, “Appel!” The sounds brought a renewed chorus of moans from all around us. Our guys continued to cull the herd, but more zombies appeared from all directions—more than they could possibly put down. Soon the pavilion courtyard was thick with them, and it quickly became apparent that we were boxed in.

If we didn’t get in soon, we were toast.

“Now would be a good time to get the damn door open,” Nathan growled as he took out three zombies closing in on us. The rest of us stood in a cluster, hand-held weapons ready. I dropped my knapsack in front of the gate.

Simone slammed an open palm against the metal again, three times in quick succession.

“Appel!”

“Maybe you should try ‘friend’ in Elvish,” JT suggested helpfully.

Tony gave a surprised snort of laughter, then looked pissed at himself for doing so.

Pop. Pop.

Two more shots, two more zombies crumpling to the ground a scant fifteen feet away from us. The ones behind stumbled over their fallen comrades, but kept moving toward us. Simone kept hammering at the gate and yelling.

The rest of us drew into a tighter knot. Almost unconsciously I moved slightly in front of Lil, determined to protect her even as Griff stepped out in front of the two of us like a knight in Kevlar armor.

I bristled. I mean,
seriously
. Like I needed protecting.

Then I looked at Lil, and almost laughed. Her expression mirrored my thoughts.

She grinned up at me with one of her instant mood shifts, looking for all the world like the what you got if the death goddess Kali got it on with a Care Bear. If it was time to die, we’d do it together. Although I really hoped it wasn’t that time yet.

I really needed to see that she got her meds.

Simone slammed her open palm against the gate again, yelling as she did so.

“Appel!”
Slam.

“Eric!”
Slam.

“Appel!”
Slam.

“Open the gate!”

Slamslamslam!

“I can’t open the gate with all of you leaning on it.” An unfamiliar male voice sounded from behind the gate, sounding like an especially cantankerous Wizard of Oz.

“Everyone step back,” Nathan ordered. We all did, except the female mechanic—who seemed frozen in place as she stared at the incoming zombies.

Yup, definitely a red shirt.

Simone grasped her arm and gently but firmly pulled her to the side. Iron hinges creaked as someone pushed the gate open at a glacial pace.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I muttered, keeping an eye on the ever-growing crowd of zombies. An especially tall teenage boy in a basketball jersey pushed its way to the edge, wriggling like a worm as it pulled itself up onto the walkway onto its stomach. I stepped forward and chopped its head off, using one foot to shove its corpse back into the crowd below. Opportunistic hands reached for me, grasping my boot hard enough to pull me off balance.

Motherfu—

I twisted as I fell, but still hit the cement hard, taking the impact on my right hip and shoulder. My knapsack prevented serious thwackage to my head, but the fall rattled me enough to lose my grip on both of my blades.

Greedy hands grabbed my legs and pulled me toward the edge of the walkway.

I twisted, kicking against the fingers clutching my ankles, and reached for my katana—but it had bounced out of my reach, along with my tanto. My fingers scrabbled for purchase on the cement as greedy hands pulled me toward the edge of the walkway. Lil screamed my name and grabbed me by one arm as another hard tug yanked my legs over the side, teeth sinking into my boots trying to get to the flesh beneath.

More hands clutched at my calves and thighs, their grip hurting even through the Kevlar. Lil’s grip on my wrist slipped even as my butt started sliding off the edge. I heard her scream again, the sound mingling with the rising moans of the zombies below, all anxious for a piece of me.

I so did not want to become an appetizer for a bunch of tourists.

Hands reached under my armpits and yanked me back onto the walkway, my tailbone hitting the edge with a painful thwack. Someone else—Gentry, I think—bashed the butt end of his M4 into the heads of the zombies who had front row seating. The hands and teeth clutching and biting at my feet and legs loosened, then let go as whoever had me in a death grip around my waist fell backward onto the cement. I heard a huff of air as I landed on top of my savior, the back of my head smacking into something hard.

“Are you okay?” Lil crouched next to me. I looked up at her, adrenaline coursing through my body as I processed just how close to death I’d just come.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

Swiveling my head around, I found myself face to face with Griff. He was grimacing in pain, no doubt from my skull colliding with his nose, which currently dripped blood.

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

“My pleasure,” he replied, shifting slightly underneath my weight in a way that managed to add an unmistakable subtext to his words. Before I could call him on it, he stood up, hoisting me to my feet with his arms still wrapped around my body. He held onto me for a few seconds longer than necessary, then let me go.

Tony and JT immediately stepped between us.

The sound of the gate slamming against the wall saved me from having to say anything else to Griff. We all turned to find a tall man in his late forties or early fifties, wearing jeans and an oversized khaki shirt, glaring at us from the shadows inside the building. He had a thick tangle of black hair liberally shot with silver, all pulled back into an unkempt ponytail, and a bushy mustache and beard worthy of a member of ZZ Top.

“Get inside,” he barked unceremoniously.

Red Shirt was the first in, followed by Carl. I grabbed my knapsack and swords, then followed. The Gunsy Twins were the last to enter, still firing shots into the crowd of zombies shuffling toward us on the walkway. Our grumpy savior hustled them inside, grabbing the gate and pulling it shut after them. It closed with a decisive clang. Then, even as undead fingers clutched the iron bars, he slammed an inside door closed, this one made of solid wood. The chorus of moans faded down into white noise.

We found ourselves inside what had to be the organ housing. It was an organized chaos, wood walls filled with pipes of various shapes and sizes, including a large one that wrapped around itself like a giant tuba. Cords held the pipes in place. The whole effect reminded me of a church as imagined by Dr. Seuss.

“Follow me,” Appel barked, walking swiftly through the organ’s innards. He stopped suddenly, glaring at us. “But don’t touch anything.” He resumed his rapid passage up a staircase. “Some of these pipes weigh a hundred and fifty pounds,” he said as we passed by some that resembled anacondas. “They have brass tongues inside that determine the tones.”

Lil and I exchanged incredulous looks. We were getting the grand tour, when all I really wanted was a damn bathroom. If he kept talking, I’d happily pee in one of the larger pipes, and see what
that
did for the tone.

We followed him into a labyrinth of yet more pipes, chimes, and drums, and lots of wood. JT ran his hand over the chimes, earning a glare from our obviously reluctant host.

“I said, don’t touch anything!”

“Sorry,” JT responded, looking anything but sorry as he eyed the drums with longing.

“This accesses the motor that opens and closes the door separating the organ from the audience,” our guide continued pedantically. “It has to be clean, so the parts keep working.”

“That’s all very fascinating,” Simone said with an admirable lack of sarcasm, “but now is not the time for a tour. We have more imperative matters to deal with.”

Our guide gave a harrumph that managed to combine irritation and displeasure. He stopped in front of a small door that would have looked at home in the Shire, barely large enough for a normal person to fit through. “This goes into the air chest, the heart of the organ. I’ll ask you again not to—”

“Not to touch anything,” Tony said with bored disdain. “Got the message, Mariner.”

Appel ignored the
Waterworld
reference and turned to the rest of us.

“There isn’t a lot of room in the antechamber or the air chamber, so you’ll need to be patient and come in one or two at a time, at the most. This is the heart of the organ, and should we all survive what is going on above us…” He paused and patted the door, expression suddenly vulnerable. “I want this heart to keep beating.”

With that one sentiment he made it impossible to hate him.

“So don’t touch anything!”

But he was still irritating.

Red Shirt and Carl went in first, then Lil and I followed. The antechamber seemed a mix of a church confessional and a pump house or pipe factory, while the air chamber itself looked almost like a sauna—all wood interior with a bewildering array of what looked like bellows, chains, and other steampunky workings.

At the far side of the air chamber was an open hatch in the floor. Appel gestured impatiently.

“Down here, quickly.”

Red Shirt and Carl went down the hatch without hesitation. I peered after them at a ladder that led down into shadows. Awfully low tech compared to the
Spy Versus Spy
elevator at the SF facility.

“What, no transporter?”

Appel gave me a blank look.

I shut up and climbed down the ladder. If the gods were kind, there would be a bathroom at the bottom.

The base of the ladder deposited me in a large cement room with a low ceiling, lit by several florescent strips set at regular intervals above. At the far end of the room was a metal door. Iron cots were lined up against one wall, while tables and chairs that would have been at home in a ’60s school cafeteria were shoved up against the opposite side. Boxes with various acronyms and symbols were stacked on either side of the ladder.

A ragtag group of a dozen or so people sat at the tables or huddled on the cots. A mixture of age, gender, and race, the one thing they shared in common was a similar, shell-shocked expression.

One of them, an attractive brunette in her thirties, stood up from one of the tables and glared at me. She had a horizontal furrow between her brows, what my mom would call an “I want” line. She wore an attractive blue-green dress with a demure neckline and a knee-length hem that wouldn’t have been out of place at a church social.

She put one hand on the shoulder of a young, pre-teen girl still sitting next to her. Based on the strong resemblance, I guessed that they were mother and daughter.

“Are you here to get us out?” the woman demanded.

“Not until I use a bathroom,” I said shortly. “After that, we’ll talk.”

She nodded and pointed toward the metal entryway.

“Third door on your left.”

I nodded my thanks and hurried toward it before anyone else could talk to me. Some things couldn’t wait, and this was one of them.

* * *

The door creaked as I pulled it toward me, the sound of hinges in desperate need of WD-40.

The hallway beyond the door was the very definition of “stark.” Cement walls and floor, lit by low-wattage bare bulbs. The place was in dire need of a makeover. Something along the lines of
Dr. Strangelove’s Lab Improvement.
Hell, even some tacky shag carpeting or Nagel prints on the walls would have been an improvement.