The Complex (13 page)

“They haven’t knocked again,” Grady whispers, staring up at the ceiling.

The Exit briefly follows his gaze. He hears pounding from another area above their heads, followed by a crash.

“It sounds to me like the mob is getting in upstairs.”

Grady glances toward the barricaded door and windows. “Think we’re okay down here?”

The Exit shrugs. “For now. The car is holding them back. They can’t get around it to smash the door down. But we can’t get out, either. And they know we’re in here.”

He places the gauze and medical tape on the kitchen table, next to a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a tube of super glue, which he used to seal the gash in Grady’s ankle.

“Thanks for fixing me up.”

The Exit nods. “Of course. We’ll need each other if we are going to survive this. I can’t have you limping around, leaving a trail of blood behind us. Can you stand on it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Grady grips the side of the table and slowly rises from the chair. He tests his foot, putting a little weight on it, and then more. The Exit can tell by his posture that it hurts him to do so, but Grady’s expression remains stoic.

“Good as new,” he says, but his voice wavers.

“Okay. The first thing we should do is get away from these windows and move into one of the rear bedrooms. We’ll need to block up the windows back there, as well. I’m surprised they haven’t broken in through those yet.”

“Remember, those windows are at ground level, and they’ve got those bubbles over them.”

The Exit frowns. “Bubbles?”

“Yeah, you know. Those plastic window well coverings?”

“Ah, yes.”

“They’ve probably been so focused on the doors of the apartments above that they haven’t even noticed the windows yet.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“None of this makes sense, Mendez. But we can’t go applying sense and logic to these people. Sensible folks don’t run around naked while hacking and shooting people.”

“Point. Do you have any other guns in the apartment?”

“No.” Grady points at his pistol on the table. “Just that one. Got plenty of kitchen knives, though, and a bayonet I brought back from ’Nam.”

The Exit stands and makes his way to the kitchen counter.

“First drawer on the right,” Grady says.

The Exit pulls the drawer open and selects two knives—a broad-bladed butcher knife and a long, serrated bread knife. He examines them both and says, “These will do just fine.”

“You want the bayonet, too?”

“No, you keep it. Judging by the numbers out there, sooner or later, you’re going to run out of bullets. You should have a back-up weapon.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll use it on myself.”

“That’s a coward’s way out.”

Grady lunges toward him, catching him by surprise. Before the Exit can react, the old man clenches a fistful of his shirt. Grady exhales, stinking of denture cream and coffee. The Exit scowls.

“Coward? Don’t talk to me about being a coward, Mendez. I saw shit that makes what’s going on outside look like a goddamn Disney cartoon.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t.” The Exit keeps his tone calm and flat.

“Listen you weird fuck. I don’t know what the hell you were on about earlier—all that you can’t die bullshit, but if you want to stand here and call me a coward, then you’re welcome to go wait outside with the other crazy bastards. If not, then back up off of me.”

“I’m not doing anything, Grady. Indeed, you’re the one holding my shirt.”

Grady stares into his eyes, lips pulled back in a sneer. The Exit remains calm and unflinching. Sighing, Grady lets go.

“I’m sorry that I offended you,” the Exit apologizes. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a coward. Obviously, you’re not. You proved that just a few minutes ago. I just never saw suicide as a viable solution. But I’m also willing to admit that maybe it’s just me. I personally won’t choose that. I have too much to do. I’m too important.”

Instead of responding, Grady shakes his head.

“Are we okay?” the Exit asks.

Grady shrugs.

“What are you thinking?”

Grady sighs again. “I’m thinking that these days, we don’t really know most of our neighbors. And even when we think we do know them, we still don’t. Not really.”

“How so?”

“Well, take you for example. All this time, I thought you were just some traveling businessman. Nice enough guy. Quiet. Kept to yourself mostly. I had no idea until tonight that you suffer from delusions of fucking grandeur.”

“I’m not crazy.” This time, the Exit can’t keep the edge from his voice.

“Then get a little crazy,” Grady whispers. “Because you might need it to survive tonight. Trust me on that. I’ve been there. You think you’re so important that you’ve got to live? Then get in touch with your crazy side. I…”

He trails off, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, the Exit sees tears forming.

“You’re thinking about Phil and Beth and that other neighbor?” the Exit asks.

“Adam.” Grady nods. “But not just them, though.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I…I shot that kid out there, Mendez. I killed that boy.”

“A boy who was trying to kill you, Grady.”

“I know…” Grady chokes back sobs. “But still…shit…”

The Exit frowns, wondering what to do. He knows that he should offer his neighbor some sort of comfort, but he’s not sure how. It has been a long time since he’s had a conversation like this—since he’s interacted with another human being in any matter other than closing doorways. His dealings with other people are mostly trivial—thanking a waitress for bringing more coffee, telling a store clerk he’ll be paying cash, giving directions to a lost motorist at a highway rest area. The only lengthy conversations he has are with his sacrifices, and those discussions are always the same—the sacrifices plead for their lives, and he tries to gently reassure them that their death is important, and noble, and unavoidable. For too long he has granted comfort and consolation by sliding a blade across the throats of the grieving. He has trouble remembering what other ways are considered acceptable in society.

“It’s going to be okay,” the Exit says, because it seems like an acceptable thing to say, even if he doesn’t believe it.

“No, it’s not. I’ve seen some shit in my life, but this…”

“I agree, things are bad. But let’s stay focused. You were in the army, right?”

Grady nods sadly.

“Then you know it is best to stay occupied. You need to keep your mind from wandering. Let’s get the bedroom secured so you’re not dwelling on what happened outside.”

Grady wipes his nose with his shirt sleeve. “Okay. You’re right.”

He retrieves the pistol from the kitchen table and limps out of the kitchen. The Exit follows him. They’re halfway down the hall when a loud bang startles them both. It’s the sound of metal on metal. Both men spin around, and then stare at each other.

“What the hell?” Grady whispers.

The Exit motions at him to stay there. Then he returns to the living room and peeks out of the barricaded window. A cluster of naked people have gathered around the car. One of them has a sledgehammer. As the Exit watches, he swings it over his head and brings it smashing down on the car once again. His compatriots cheer, fists raised triumphantly, and waving their weapons over their heads. All four of the car’s tires have been slashed, and the windshield and windows are completely shattered now. The Exit backs away from the window.

“Mendez,” Grady calls. “What is it?”

The Exit hurries down the hall and grabs the old man by the arm. “Come on. We’ve got to get to work. We are running out of time.”

Grady closes the bedroom door behind them, and fumbles around in the dark. The Exit pauses, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The chaos is louder on this side of the apartment. The light dangling from the ceiling shakes back and forth as feet pound above them. They hear wood breaking and the sound of hammering. The walls seem to reverberate from the blows.

“They’re in Sam’s apartment,” Grady says.

“Yes, which is why I don’t think you should have tapped on the ceiling. What are you doing?”

“Reloading,” Grady says. “And pocketing the extra bullets. Hang on a minute.”

The Exit hears him shuffling around some more. Drawers open and close.

“Keep the noise down,” he warns. “We don’t want them to hear us.”

“I’m trying to find some matches,” Grady explains. “I’ve got a candle on the nightstand. Some scented thing I’ve never used. My daughter got it for me.”

“Don’t,” the Exit warns. “Granted, this is a basement level apartment, but they might still be able to see the glow from the parking lot.”

“Not through these curtains, they won’t. Believe me, I know. I peep through them all the time, with nobody the wiser.”

The Exit suspects that the old man is doing exactly what he suggested—keeping busy in an effort to avoid thinking about the kid he shot. Still, lighting a candle seems like a foolish thing to do.

“Later,” he says, trying to stay patient. “First, help me barricade this door. And let’s do it quietly.”

They strip the mattress and box spring off Grady’s bed and stand them up against the door. Then they try to lift the dresser, but it’s too heavy and unwieldy, and the Exit finds that he’s doing most of the work. Instead, they inch it across the floor. The carpet muffles most of the sound, for which the Exit is grateful.

Groaning, Grady crouches down in the dark and slumps against the wall.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Now,” the Exit replies, “we wait, and try to come up with a better plan before they get inside.”

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“What?”

“All those people you ran over with your car.”

“No,” the Exit admits. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“I’m not judging you,” Grady explains. “I knew guys like that in Vietnam, too. They just shut down. Block it out. To be honest, I was always a little envious of that.”

The Exit shrugs. “We do what we have to do to stay alive. Like I said before, I’m not dying here tonight. I can’t.”

Then he starts thinking about a way to make sure that happens.

Thirteen - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, Mrs. Carlucci, Shaggy, and Turo: Apartment 2-D

Clutching her butcher knife and the hammer, Stephanie stands with the others, waiting quietly in the darkness of Terri and Caleb’s unoccupied bedroom, while Sam sneaks forward and closes the apartment’s front door. She grips the tools tightly, holding her breath until her pulse pounds in her throat, positive that at any minute, they’ll be discovered and their attackers will charge in after them.

Instead, Sam creeps back into the bedroom. He’s got the axe in one hand and his pistol tucked in his waistband. His expression is one of shocked relief.

“They see you?” Shaggy asks.

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “They’re so preoccupied with my apartment that they didn’t even notice.”

“Tick Tock?” Stephanie asks.

“No, I didn’t see him. And I wasn’t inclined to look further.”

“So,” Terri asks, “are we safe here?”

“Safe?” Sam laughs—a dry sound, more like a cough. “Hell no. I locked the door, but that’s all. If I started moving furniture to block it, they’d have heard me. And sooner or later, they’re going to get into my bedroom. Then they’ll know where we went.”

“So,” Stephanie asks, “what do we do now?”

“Stick with our plan,” Sam says. “I think it’s solid. When I shut the door, I noticed that the parking lot in front of Mrs. Carlucci’s apartment is empty. They’re all clustered on this side of the building, and—I guess—out back in the yard. If we can make it through the walls to Mrs. Carlucci’s, and the coast is still clear, then we can run into the woods.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Turo replies. “I’m starting to think Shaggy is right. Maybe we should jump out the fucking window into the backyard.”

Sam sighs. Stephanie can tell he’s annoyed and exasperated.

“If you guys want to do that,” he says, “then I won’t stop you. But can you at least wait until we’ve tunneled through the next wall?”

“How come?”

“Because the moment you jump out of the window, they’re going to see which apartment you came from. Give us a head start, for God’s sake.”

Turo nods. “Alright. That’s fair enough.”

“Yo,” Shaggy says. “If they start mobbing up in here, I’m out the fucking window, head start or no. Just so we’re all clear on that.”

“Chivalry is not dead,” Stephanie quips. “Come on. Let’s get started.”

She heads toward the bedroom door. A pyramid of boxes are stacked against one wall. All of them are marked as belonging to Caleb. She realizes this would have been the little boy’s room. She wonders what this must be like for him—to have gone through all the excitement and uncertainty of moving to a new place, and then having that shattered by a murderous mob of crazies led by a fat man with some sort of nervous twitch. The only other items in the room are some clothes hangers in the closet and an air conditioner in the window. It’s the same one Stephanie has in her apartment, provided by the Pine Village management. She wonders if they got a discount for buying the units in bulk.