The Complex (15 page)

Shaggy licks his lips, tasting salt. He frowns, wondering why his face is so wet. Then he realizes just what it is he’s tasting, and shudders in revulsion.

“Oh, fuck…”

Blinking blood from his eyes, Shaggy staggers to his feet. He’s still having trouble catching his breath, and he’s aware of a sharp pain in his left side. He picks off four more attackers, and moves backward toward the edge of the car’s roof, with the apartment complex at his back. He wants to risk a glance upward, to see if any of his neighbors are going to help him, but he’s afraid to take his eyes off the mob surrounding him. He wonders idly if Turo could still be alive up there, maybe looking down at him right now. Then he remembers once again what happened, and realizes that would be hard for Turo to do without a head—or his other parts, for that matter.

Realizing that he’s in shock, Shaggy shakes his head and plants his feet, looking around for a way to escape. He takes another step backward, and almost slips in a pile of gore. That’s when he notices the dead woman on the roof with him. Her head is nothing but a bloody smear and ragged flaps of skin, dripping down onto the shattered rear window. An air conditioner juts from the wreckage, surrounded by sparkling chunks of glass. Next to it is an unopened gas can.

Shaggy prods the corpse with his foot, and sends it tumbling down to the ground. He looks out at the enraged crowd. About two dozen naked figures surround the car. Many of them are armed, but he doesn’t see any guns among them. At the fringe of the mob, flames dance. Shaggy realizes that the yard is on fire. So are several crazies, running about wildly, shrieking and flapping their arms and managing to spread the flames further. Thick plumes of smoke curl up into the air, obscuring anything beyond them. As he watches, the wind shifts, and the haze drifts toward the car.

“What’s wrong, motherfuckers? You want some of this? Bring it!”

Shaggy doesn’t necessarily want them to bring it, but challenging them makes him feel braver, so he does it again.

“What you got? You ain’t got nothing! You don’t want none of this! Fuck you.”

Then, the crowd surges forward, proving him wrong. Naked figures climb up onto the trunk and the hood, reaching for him, while others gather around the driver’s side, stabbing and swinging at him with various ranged weapons—shovels, rakes, makeshift spears fashioned from broken broom handles, a garden hoe, a hockey stick, and even a simple tree branch.

“Shit…”

Shaggy fires three shots toward the trunk, two at the attackers in front of him, and one to his right, at the people on the hood. When the gun clicks empty, he panics.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Dodging a vicious blow from a shovel, he fumbles in his pants pocket for his spare magazine. The wielder of the shovel, a man Shaggy recognizes as the owner of the tricked out black Nissan in Building B, swings the weapon again. Shaggy pulls his hand from his pocket, grabs the shovel, and wrenches it from the man’s hands. He quickly jams the pistol in his waistband. Then he swings his new weapon, slamming the flat end of the shovel upside a woman’s head as she crawls onto the roof. Even over the noise from the crowd, Shaggy can hear the wet snap her jaw makes as it breaks. The woman falls back onto the hood, knocking over the other attackers behind her. They wriggle beneath her body, struggling to free themselves from the tangle.

Shaggy lashes out once more with the shovel, burying the blade in the Nissan owner’s face. It slashes through the man’s cheek, carving the flesh from his mouth to his ear, and broadening his smile. Shaggy catches a glimpse of broken teeth and pulped gums. The man’s mouth is filled with blood. Despite his obvious distress, the man continues to grin. Shaggy returns the gesture. Then he shoves hard on the handle. The man stumbles backward, taking the embedded shovel with him.

He paws at his pocket again, trying to free the spare magazine. This time, he succeeds. Shaggy ejects the spent clip, letting it clatter onto the car roof, and slams the new one in place. Then he opens fire again, picking targets from left to right and then back again. Bodies begin to pile up around the car. The fire in the yard creeps closer to him. When he breathes in—an act that causes the sharp pain in his side to get worse—he tastes smoke in the back of his throat.

He hears a muffled crash from inside the apartment behind him, but doesn’t dare turn around. Instead, he stay’s focused on the mob, head swiveling back and forth, picking them off as they try to rush him. Shaggy drops seven more targets before it occurs to him to wonder how many shots he has left. There can’t be many. He debates saving one for himself, and then decides against it. He still owes Tick Tock for Turo. Shaggy has never had many people in his life he could count on. Girlfriends seem to stick around only as long as his money or his drugs hold out. The same goes for friends. He hasn’t spoken to his parents since they kicked him out of the house when he was still a senior in high school. The same goes for his older brother—the college boy and apple of his parents’ eyes, always talking about white privilege and third wave feminism and how everything is fucking problematic. He’s an academic douchebag. Shaggy wonders briefly where they are now. His brother is a professor at nearby York College, and his parents still live in Spring Grove, only thirty minutes away by car, on the other side of the county. Is what’s happening here happening there, as well?

If so, then good. Fuck them.

Turo was one of the few friends who had stood by him. He’d never fronted. Never tried to get over on him. He was always willing to share, be it drugs or booze or pussy—or even money when he had it (which wasn’t often). Turo always had Shaggy’s back, and now he was lying on the floor upstairs, dissected by some sick naked fucks. They’d cut his head off, and his hand. Hell, they’d cut off his fucking dick! So no. Fuck no. No he wasn’t going to save a bullet for himself. He was going to save it for that Pillsbury Doughboy-looking motherfucker with the Hello Kitty tattoo.

“Fuck this. Not yet, you motherfuckers. Not fucking yet.”

Shaggy drops down into the narrow space between the car and the apartment building. The soles of his feet vibrate as he hits the cement, and he grunts as a fresh burst of pain tears through his side. It feels like he’s got a knife in there, twisting in his guts. The pain gets worse when he breathes again.

He fires two more shots over the roof, targeting the first two naked people to climb up onto the car. The crazies beat against the vehicle with their fists and weapons, and then they smash out the driver’s side windows and unlock the doors. He puts his fist against the passenger window and extends his middle finger. Then he raises the .45 for another shot.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, the apartment door opens behind him.

“Get in here, you damn fool!”

Shaggy glances over his shoulder and sees an elderly black man standing in the doorway. He recognizes the guy as his neighbor, but realizes that he doesn’t know the old man’s name.

“Come on, dumbass. Don’t make me say it again.”

Without responding, Shaggy lunges through the open doorway, wincing in pain. Wisps of smoke dog his heels, as the fire in the yard grows larger. Inside the apartment is another man—middle aged, Hispanic. Shaggy can’t be sure, but he thinks the guy lives in the apartment next to this one, two doors down from him and Turo. The man nods at him, seemingly calm and placid.

The old man slams the door and locks it. Then he turns to Shaggy.

Shaggy tries to speak, but can only gasp for air. He nods instead.

“Well,” the old man barks. “Don’t just stand there. Help us get this barricade back in place.”

Fifteen - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, and Mrs. Carlucci: Apartment 3-D

“Stephanie,” Mrs. Carlucci shouts as she runs through the girl’s apartment, “where’s your hair spray?”

“What? I can’t hear…”

“Your hair spray! There’s no time for nonsense now. Where is it?”

“In my bedroom. On my dresser.”

“And a cigarette lighter? Matches? Anything like that?”

“Um…”

“Think!”

“I’ve got an incense burner on my dresser. Check that. There should be a lighter next to it.”

The young woman sounds flustered. Mrs. Carlucci can’t say that she blames her, given that a horde of howling, naked madmen (and women…and children) are scrabbling at the hole in the wall, trying to pursue them. The only reason they haven’t so far is because Sam and Stephanie are crouched in front of the wall, holding them back. At this range, Sam is having no trouble shooting them. Sam’s revolver holds five shots. Every time he’s empty, Stephanie puts her butcher knife and claw hammer to work, hacking, slashing, and beating anyone who tries to crawl through the hole, while he hurriedly reloads. Both the knife and the hammer are slick with blood. The walls and the floor are spattered with it, as well. It drips from the broken plaster, pooling with the dust and debris.

After climbing through the hole, Terri and Caleb fled for the living room. Now, as Mrs. Carlucci makes her way through the dark, the two of them nearly run her over. Although it’s hard to see in the gloom, she can tell that their eyes are wide with panic.

“They’re trying to break down the door,” Terri pants, breathless.

“Take the axe,” Sam calls, firing through the hole again. The flash from the barrel illuminates both him and Stephanie. Mrs. Carlucci sees the terror etched on their faces, as deeply as the lines and creases on her own. Those lines were created by time. She wonders what new lines she’ll have tomorrow, born out of fear.

Then she wonders if she’ll even be alive tomorrow to find out.

“Grab the axe,” she yells so that Terri can hear her over the gunshots.

The young mother does as she’s told. Mrs. Carlucci grabs both Terri and Caleb by the hands and hurries them toward Stephanie’s bedroom. They hear the front door shuddering in its frame as they dash down the hall. Mrs. Carlucci frowns, knowing that the door won’t hold much longer, and that sooner, rather than later, Sam and Stephanie will be overrun.

“Start digging through the wall,” she orders as they enter the bedroom. “My apartment is on the other side. Caleb, I know you’re scared, but make sure you stay out of your mommy’s way.”

“Why bother?” Terri asks. “Maybe we should just go out the window like Shaggy did.”

“Shaggy was a drug-addled idiot,” Mrs. Carlucci snaps, rummaging through Stephanie’s vanity table. “I’ve got little patience for his sort of nonsense, or that of his friend, may he rest in peace.”

“But…”

“Do you really want your little boy to jump twelve feet into that crowd below unless we absolutely have no choice? Get through the wall. I’ve got more bullets for my gun on the other side, and my cats are over there, alone and probably as terrified as we are. Now, quit wasting time and start digging!”

“Okay.”

Without another word, Terri goes over to the wall and begins to chip away. She’s tentative with the first few blows, but then she takes to it with fervor. Plaster dust swirls through the shadows. Satisfied that the girl is now focused on their survival rather than panicking, Mrs. Carlucci turns her attention back to the vanity. It’s a beautiful piece of furniture, fashioned from dark hickory and equipped with an ornate mirror. A hair dryer and a curling iron dangle off the side of the mirror, supported by their power cords. The top of the vanity is full of perfumes, hair products, beauty creams, make-up, cotton balls, and assorted jewelry. Mrs. Carlucci nods with approval, impressed by the brand names she sees. For a young woman who used to be a young man, Stephanie certainly knows what to buy, and what not to waste her money on. If she continues to do so, she should have beautiful skin for a long time to come.

Provided they make it through this, of course.

She grabs two aerosol cans of hairspray from the tabletop, along with another of spray-on deodorant. Then she hurries over to Stephanie’s dresser. It takes her a moment to spot the incense burner in the darkness. It’s a small, ceramic cone sitting in the middle of a glass ashtray. A packet of incense sticks are on the dresser next to it, along with a red plastic cigarette lighter. She retrieves the lighter, accidentally knocking the incense packet to the floor. Then, with two of the aerosol cans tucked under her arm and the other in hand, she hurries back to the other room. The battering on the living room door is even louder as she rushes past it this time.

“Get back,” she yells.

Stephanie glances her way, but Sam is oblivious. He fires another shot at point blank range, killing an attacker on the other side. That room—the empty bedroom in Terri and Caleb’s apartment—is now littered with naked corpses, most of whom have been shot to death, but a few of which have been slashed by Stephanie. As a result, the crazy people are having trouble overrunning them, because the hole is choked with the dead.

“Sam!” Mrs. Carlucci drops the cans and taps him on the shoulder. “Get out of the way! Guard the front door. Stephanie, you go help Terri get through that last wall.”

Sam frowns. “Mrs. Carlucci…what are you—?”

“STAND BACK, DAMN IT!”

Visibly shocked, Sam and Stephanie comply, scurrying out of her way. Two more naked people charge the hole in the wall. As they start to crawl over the bodies surrounding the opening, Mrs. Carlucci raises the can of hair spray, presses the button, and flicks the cigarette lighter in front of the stream. The effect is instantaneous. A bright gout of flame bursts forth, as she transforms the hair spray into a homemade flamethrower. She sprays it back and forth in an arc, torching both attackers and setting their heads ablaze. They recoil, shrieking in agony. Behind her, Sam and Stephanie whoop and cheer in triumph and disbelief. Mrs. Carlucci extinguishes the cigarette lighter. Rather than turning to face her neighbors, she keeps her attention on the other room.