Rise of the Dead (2 page)

“We are dead if we don’t get out of this parking lot,” I say to the girl. She keeps moving beside me but seems to struggle to keep it together. “We have to get to the racetrack.”

We keep running, gasping for air for two hundred yards until we are at the turnstiles. On this side of the park, there are two entrance gates for the racetrack. There are four admissions kiosks and the gates connecting them together are closed and locked. Ten-foot high steel bar fences surround the entire park. They would not be impossible to climb over, but it would not be quick or easy. A bald guy in a gray business suit is trying to smash one of the kiosk windows with his leather briefcase.

Beyond the locked gates, the five-story grandstand is separated from the fences by a garden courtyard of cobblestone walkways that meander through flower beds and enormous bronze statues of legendary prize horses. Behind the garden, the grandstand stretches a couple hundred yards long with floor to ceiling windows that run the length of the ground floor. A security guard emerges from the doors of the grandstand, stuffing a donut into his mouth with one hand and cupping a holstered pistol with the other. He looks out at the parking lot and sees all of us crowding the locked gates and yelling to get his attention. He drops the donut and runs towards us, brushing the crumbs from his graying, stubbled beard. Keeping his hand wrapped around the handle of his holstered revolver, he fumbles with a set of keys hooked to his belt loop.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, as he unlocks the gate for us. About thirty people push through the turnstiles and charge into the entryway behind us. The guard holds the door for a half dozen more still running in our direction.

“Who is doing all that shooting?” he asks me.

“Police,” I say. “At least some of it.”

“Are they okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know who is okay.” I shake my head.

A few more people come through the gate; the last one is a cop who is limping badly.

“Shut the goddamn gate,” the cop says, pointing his gun at the security guard.

There are still cars speeding through the parking lot. A man is standing on the roof of an SUV firing round after round at anything that moves. It’s hard to tell how many people are lying dead in the vast parking lot or how many are injured and struggling to move. Some people are still trying to make their way to the racetrack. From the entrance, it looks like a few people are on their knees, trying to help save someone who is bleeding on the ground. One person is trying to crawl here.

“Wait a minute,” I say to the cop. “There’s still people alive out there. They need help. We need to let them in. Can’t you call for backup or something?”

“Anyone still out there is as good as dead,” the cop says. “There is no backup to call.” He looks back at the security guard and says, “Shut the gates.”

The guard slides the gate closed. I look out at the parking lot then, at the people trudging slowly towards us in their torn clothes, drenched in blood.

I see the shooter on the SUV, who is now surrounded by thirty or forty people reaching their hands up to grab him. He runs out of bullets and they pull him off the car onto the ground. His body is swallowed up in a crowd of them.

I notice the kid with the backpack heading towards the entrance. I tell myself it can’t possibly be the same kid that was hit by the car right in front of me, but it is. He is on his feet though one leg is severely fractured below the knee. He is still hobbling towards the racetrack, his head streaked with blood. He stumbles forward somehow, his face showing no indication of pain or fear.

That’s when I figure out what is happening, but I still can’t allow myself to believe it.

Through the gates, I see more of the dead bodies getting up and walking. The crowd that took down the shooter moves walking away from the spot where he fell, blood dripping from their chins, hunks of flesh clutched in their hands. What is left of the gunman is just some ravaged clothes and a red stain on the asphalt. The dead carry off and devour the rest of the remains.

“They’re all dead.”

Almost everyone is lined up at the gates now, looking out at the parking lot in horror and disbelief.

“I need everyone to move into the building,” says the cop. “Now.”

Two

There is a landline phone on the information desk, and I rush over to try making a call. A dial tone hums in my ear, but after I punch in Amanda’s number, nothing happens. All I want right now is to know my wife and daughter are alive. If only the damn phone would work, I could warn her before she gets caught up in something like this. Maybe there’s still time. She can pick up Abby and get somewhere safe if there is such a place. I can be pretty damn persistent when I’m frustrated, so I hang up and dial again. Nothing but dead air. I’m tempted to smash the worthless piece of crap, but the security guard is staring at me as he ushers traumatized survivors to a row of benches along the windows.

I turn around to avoid his glare. After dialing the numbers one more time, I wait for the silence on the phone to end. I stare down a short hallway at the darkened windows of a trackside Irish pub. It was my favorite place to grab lunch while I waited for the races to start. The food was terrible, but I had a thing for the waitress. She had a thing for guys with lots of money. This was back before I met Amanda, so I don’t feel bad talking about it. I’m not bragging or anything, and that kind of girl isn’t the kind you brag about anyway. Back then, my life was just kind of crazy like that. Once, I bet half a million dollars on a ten-to-one horse called Preacher Man. That was as close as I’ve come to a religious experience in my life. Honestly, I knew I would win. Besides, I couldn’t think of anything else to do with my money. If you knew all about the kind of cash I had in those days and where it all went, it would probably make you sick as hell. I was so young and stupid, and everyone around me wouldn’t shut up about how brilliant I was. I even believed them at the time.

When I turn back around the security guard has lost interest in me. He is focused on trying to keep the man who was assaulting the admission kiosk with a briefcase outside from going further into the facility.

“The other entrance is locked,” says the security guard. He has a thumb tucked into his belt and with his other hand, he wags a finger towards the group to urge the man to back off.

The grandstand is a sprawling corridor of glass and marble, consisting of numerous betting counters and television monitors, real classy. Flat screen televisions mounted on the walls near the betting counter play a closed circuit loop about trackside amenities, upcoming concerts, and the million dollar race next month that will probably never happen now. This place still feels so familiar to me after all these years. That feeling is the only thing that keeps me calm. Otherwise, I’d be going out of my mind.

The survivors gather at the floor to ceiling windows. Quiet and afraid, they stare at the walking dead collecting at the fence. Every cough, sob, or curse echoes hollowly across the white marble floors. A few people continue trying to reach someone on their cell phones, but the calls only result in anguished expressions on their faces.

A dark-haired kid with thick, black glasses and a gray hoodie starts messing with one of the televisions on the wall. He presses the buttons on the side of the casing before smacking the monitor in frustration.

“Don’t mess with the televisions,” barks the security guard. “There’s no outside feed on these. You can try the ones in the pub.” He points past me to the hallway. The kid with the glasses and a few other people start to flow in that direction.

“No,” says the cop. The sudden sound of his voice at my back catches me off guard. He limps around the corner from the entryway. “Everyone stay together. Don’t leave this area.”

The security guard runs past me to assist the cop. The security guard favors his right leg, and only hobbles along at the same pace he would walk at anyway. The cop grunts and has to reach his arm above his head to drape it across the broad shoulders of the stooping security guard. The police officer shifts his weight off his wounded leg and the pair inch forward to the information desk. I get out of the way so the cop can sit down on the tall stool behind the counter. He really doesn't look so good. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his golden-brown face. He still clutches his gun in his hand like it’s part of his muscular arm now. The cop struggles to regain his breath. He grimaces as he watches his blood soak the left leg of his pants.

“Is that phone working?” the cop gasps.

I am surprised to discover the handset is still next to my ear. I’ve been listening to nothing for several minutes. I shake my head and put the receiver back on the base station.

“Is anyone a doctor here?” the cop calls out. No one by the windows seems to hear him. They can’t take their eyes off the scene outside. The cop mutters some angry Spanish at the wound. He clutches his leg with the hand that isn’t holding a weapon and growls in pain. The sound turns the head of the young woman that I dragged here from the parking lot. She leaves the group at the windows and heads toward the cop. When her shadow eclipses the cop’s face, he lifts his gaze to meet hers. His agonized grimace slips away. I notice her comforting brown eyes for the first time, and I actually start to feel a little better, too. 

“I’m not a doctor,” she says. “But, I’m in med school.”

"Better than nothing," says the cop.

The med student pushes up the long sleeves of her white henley and ties back her auburn hair. She bends down and removes the cops hand from his thigh to find a gunshot wound. Her sinewy hand slides beneath his leg and feels around the back of his thigh. Looking for an exit wound, I guess.

“The bullet went through,” she tells him. “It’s not as bad as it could be.” She manages an easy smile. When most people smile, it makes me sick. Anybody who knows me will tell you; I don’t smile all that often. This girl smiles genuinely, though. There is nothing but warmth and sincerity behind it. It’s nice, but I don’t look her in the eyes because I’m not used to such honesty. When you finally meet someone nice in this world, all it usually does is make you feel like more of a phony.

“It sure feels bad,” the cop grunts. He releases a deep breath, and his shoulders relax.

“Keep pressure on it.” The med student stands up and glances around before wiping off her hands on her fitted denim jeans.

She turns to the security guard and says, “Can you find me some medical supplies? A first-aid kit, or anything you got.”

It takes a moment for the security guard to realize she is addressing him. He was busy counting the number of buttons left undone on her top. His face flushes when she dips slightly to meet his gaze. The security guard nods and turns to leave, but the cop calls him back. 

“Bring anyone else in the building back with you. Round up any weapons and ammo you keep on the premises,” the cop urges.

“Roger that,” the security guard nods. He turns again and rushes off towards the other end of the building, tugging at a radio lodged between his belt and his protruding gut. Exhausted, he pauses at the first betting counter. I wish he would just walk instead of giving himself a heart attack. He leans a hand against the wall of the betting cage and has to inhale deeply to finally pull the radio free. 

“Joey.” His heavy breathing makes speaking difficult. When there is no answer, he clicks the button again. He inhales deeply and says louder, “Joey, wake up!”

“Alright, alright. Jesus, Frank! What the hell?” The radio volume is cranked up so loud the whole goddamn world can hear.

“Get the hell up here! Bring everyone in the building to the east entrance now.” Frank resumes his labored jog towards the other end of the grandstand. 

“What’s going on?” Joey yawns.

“All hell broke loose. Get your lazy ass to the entrance,” growls Frank. He grumbles a few more angry words to himself before disappearing behind the grand staircase.

“What’s your name?” the cop asks the med student.

“Danielle,” she says. She pulls open a drawer below the information desk and rummages through the contents.

“You have done this before, right Danielle?” he asks. 

She closes the drawer and sighs. “That’s next semester. I’ve studied it, though.” Danielle turns and looks at me, “Give me your tie.”

Without hesitation, I loosen my Italian silk tie and pull it off over my head. It was a Father’s Day gift from my wife. How unoriginal. It was an expensive tie, and she thought I should try to look more professional. I pointed out I don’t have a profession anymore, other than talking about myself. That really made her eyes roll.

The med student takes the tie with her calloused hands and undoes the knot. She fashions a tight tourniquet around the cop’s wounded thigh. The cop lets out an agonized groan. He buries his face in his forearm to wipe away the moisture welling up around his eyelids. It’s pretty unsettling to watch, so I move around to the front of the reception desk. I take my cellphone out of my pocket by instinct. When I don’t know what else to do, I take out my phone as if it has all the answers. The phone displays the time above a picture of Amanda and Abby that I set as a background. The probability that either of them is still alive is not comforting to think about considering the survival rate of the people that were at the train station this morning. I send her a text message that just says, “Where are you?” I don’t even want to think about the odds of me finding my way to them now, or ever seeing either one of them ever again.

Chatter from other police units squawks from the cop’s radio as I wait for a response. I replay the phone call with Amanda in my head, trying to recall if she said anything to indicate where she might have been driving at that moment. I wonder if I will ever hear her voice again.

An idea comes to me, and I feel stupid for taking so long to think of it. There is an app to locate any device on our account using GPS. I had this bad habit of leaving my phone everywhere. She rolled her eyes every time I asked to borrow her phone to locate mine. I could make her completely nuts sometimes. I open the app and stare at the rotating bars as cell towers work to triangulate a signal from her phone.

“I guess I’m lucky you were around here,” says the cop to Danielle. “Gracias.” Then his face turns into a grimace of pain as she applies pressure back on the wound.

“Don’t thank me. Thank that guy.” She tilts her head in my direction. “I would have been trampled to death out there if he didn’t stop to help.”

“Lucky for me, he did,” says the cop.

I look up from my phone, and he gives me a nod of gratitude.

“I wouldn’t call any of us lucky,” I say.

The GPS application shows Amanda's phone as offline. I check the box to have the app notify me when it locates the phone, and then I put the phone in sleep mode to conserve the battery. I don’t have a charger, and it might be a long time before I get out of here. My head aches and I wish I had a chance to finish my coffee. I don’t even recall dropping it. My hands still quiver from the adrenaline. I lean against the desk and pinch at the bridge of my nose. I want to close my eyes, but whenever I do, I just see the parking lot again. Torn apart bodies getting up to rip apart more people. I can’t help but imagine what could be happening at Abby’s school, or to my wife out there on the road. 

Another transmission crackles from the radio on the cops shoulder and pulls me back from the thoughts of my family. “Requesting additional units,” a voice yells. “Damn it, is anyone else still alive out there?” There are more clicks, gunshots, and static. The voice comes back briefly before screams and gunshots drown it out. The cop here hasn’t bothered to transmit a response at all. It gives me another uneasy feeling.

“This thing is happening everywhere,” I say. He doesn’t answer but takes his stare off the wounded leg to look me in the eyes. “Isn’t it?”

The cop turns the volume down on his radio. He glances around at the rest of the people. They are all gathered near the windows, watching the world go to hell outside. The more terrible something is, the more people feel the need to look at it. When the cop feels confident no one else is listening, he returns his attention to me.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Blake,” I tell him.

“Okay, Blake,” he whispers. “My name is Marco. Now, Blake, these people don’t need to hear that all right now. We are safe inside here for the moment, so I need you to help me make sure everyone stays that way by not panicking. You got me?”

 I just watched hundreds of people die outside. It wasn’t even those things that killed them. They killed each other. It was the panic. Instincts kicked in, and we stopped pretending to treat each other like human beings. I know the cop is right.

“Got it,” I say.

Marco looks at Danielle too, and she nods as well.

“Between us, all I can tell you two is this shit is happening all over the city. At seven this morning, I was sitting in the cruiser half asleep, nothing was going on. Twenty minutes later there was a call about a homicide, followed by some assault at a hospital, and a nursing home on fire. We got a call to a car accident here. Calls were coming in from all over; it spread so fast. It may be all over the country. I don’t know for sure. But right now, we need to keep these people from trying to leave here no matter what. It’s not safe out there.”

“So you think help will eventually arrive?” I ask him.

He looks me in the eye and says, “I think it will, eventually.”

By the slight hesitation in his voice, I can tell this is not what he truly thinks. It’s a lie he has chosen to believe in. I wish I could believe it too. My feet carry me away from the information desk, and I join the crowd near the windows. Pressed against the fence are hundreds of the walking dead. They smear blood on the bars until the paint no longer gleams white.