The Complex (21 page)

Bryan said, “Holy shit!”

A customer exited the store. Mike assumed he must have had a permit to conceal and carry, because the man pulled a pistol from a holster at his side and shot the woman three times. Mike cringed, expecting the gas tanks to blow up, but they didn’t. Instead, the naked lady slumped over, dead. In the aftermath, some people cried out, some hid their eyes, and most pulled out their phones and began snapping pictures of the carnage.

Then, seven more naked people came charging down the sidewalks and across the street, converging on the store. One of them had a gun, too.

And then everybody started running or dying. Mike decided that the store offered the best refuge, so he dashed toward it. Bryan followed him. Gunshots and screams fought for supremacy. Tires squealed on pavement. Glass shattered. Chaos ensued. The last thing Mike saw before dashing inside the store was a naked man smashing another man’s head repeatedly into an ATM machine on the side of the building.

Mike and Bryan weren’t the only customers who ended up taking shelter inside the store. There were three more, but all of them are dead now, killed by the first wave of attackers while they were still in the process of barricading the store’s big plate glass windows. They repelled the rest of the attackers and finished the barricade before more could get inside. Someone had forgotten to turn off the store’s sound system, and some auto-tuned pop music princess caterwauled through the speakers while they defended themselves and made preparations.

With the other three customers dead, that had left Bryan, Mike, and the store’s staff—Gretta, Mark, Jorge, and Heather. Heather was a hatchet-faced woman with a nose like a knife and limp brown hair. She had rings in her ears, nose, and lip, until one of the crazies got ahold of them later, and removed them with a pair of pliers before putting the tool to work on the rest of her. Gretta was short and dumpy, and wore glasses with thick, smudged lenses. It had seemed to Mike that her expression was frozen into a permanent scowl—until the third wave of crazies broke in, and began hitting her with an axe and a crowbar. Only then had her expression changed. Mark had been about the same age as Mike—twenty-six—but still had the unfortunate acne of a teenager. The attackers had solved that problem for him when they splashed a bottle of drain opener in his face and then flattened him out on the counter and poured the rest down his throat. And Jorge—well, Jorge had kept insisting that the police would show up any minute. As far as Mike knew, he had died still believing that, shot to death while Mike and Bryan escaped unseen through a back door.

That had been their first lucky break. The mob ransacking the store had been so preoccupied with the clerks and the manager that they hadn’t noticed Mike and Bryan fleeing through the storage room. The door led out behind the store, onto a fenced off concrete platform with what Mike assumed must be the building’s air conditioning and heating system. There were all kinds of metal ducts, a big industrial fan, and a compressor. There was also a plastic chair, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and several fifty-five gallon steel drums on a wooden pallet. The chain link fence surrounding the area was about ten feet high, and equipped with a sturdy gate. The section of the fence facing the alley also covered a cement block retaining wall, damp to the touch and covered with moss. The wall was high enough that Mike could just peer over the edge when standing next to it. Even better, the cluster of maple trees growing behind the store kept the entire area concealed in deep shadows. It occurred to Mike that if they successfully barricaded the door, they could hide here, crouched down behind the ducts and equipment, until help arrived.

Which was exactly what they did—quickly sliding two of the steel drums in front of the door. Both were full. Mike didn’t know what of, because the labels were faded, but they were heavy. It took all he and Bryan had to move them. He was pretty sure the door would hold. When they finished, Mike and Bryan hunkered down behind the air compressor.

And now here they were.

“Where did you get that, anyway?” Mike whispers.

Bryan tilts the bottle toward the chair by the door. “Over there, under the chair. I guess some of the clerks were partying when they were out here on their smoke break. I’ll tell you, Pennsylvania sucks. If this was a convenience store in Nashville, I could have snagged a six pack of beer before we came out here. But you can’t buy beer in the store in this state.”

“Yeah, Pennsylvania sucks for sure.”

“You lived here all your life?”

Mike nods.

“What do you do?”

“For fun? Watch the tire fires on Saturday night. Seduce young Amish girls. Go to tractor pulls.”

Bryan stares at him, obviously confused.

“I’m kidding,” Mike says. “No, I make movies.”

“What, like one of those guys on YouTube?”

“Exactly like one of those guys on YouTube. I’ve got my own channel.”

“Oh yeah? Are you any good?”

Mike shrugs. “Well, not to brag, but I’ve got over ten-thousand subscribers. And I make a little money from it. Not enough to quit my job at the pizza place, but enough so that I don’t struggle with the bills every month. I’m hoping that sooner or later, it leads to bigger work.”

“Wouldn’t you have a better chance if you moved to Los Angeles?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Mike sighs. He’s about to explain to Bryan about his mother’s fight with cancer, and how even though he has two brothers in the area, he doesn’t want to leave her. But before he can do this, he hears a scuffling sound in the alley. He glances at Bryan in terror. The older man remains still as a statue, the bottle half-raised to his lips. His eyes are wide with panic. The sound draws closer—stealthy, hurried footsteps.

Bryan quietly puts the bottle down on the concrete. His expression is grim and his eyes are alert.

The footsteps draw nearer.

Mike peers over the edge of the retaining wall, and sees an Asian man dressed in burned, dirty clothes and clutching a hunting rifle. Much of the hair on his head and arms has been singed, as well. If the stranger is in pain, he gives no indication. He seems focused instead on his surroundings, his gaze darting warily from building to building, and shadow to shadow.

Bryan sidles up next to Mike and tugs his arm. “He’s not naked. Think he’s normal?”

Mike can tell that his fellow survivor is trying to whisper, but the whiskey is obviously impacting him. His voice carries, and the Asian man squawks in fright. He stumbles to a halt, frantically glancing around, waving the rifle back and forth. Mike then realizes that he can’t see them.

“It’s okay,” he calls. “We’re not like them. Don’t shoot. You’re safe.”

The man squints in their direction, not lowering his weapon. “Where are you?”

“Over here, behind the store. Are you okay? You look… burned.”

“I’m just singed. They set my house on fire. I almost didn’t make it out, because they were tossing people off the roof of the church, and I live next door to it. But then they were having trouble hoisting this kid up, and I…”

He makes a desperate sort of whine. Mike sees his throat working, as if he’s choking down a sob.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Mike asks.

“A bunch of people went crazy and started killing everybody.”

“Well, yeah. We know that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Mike explains. “I thought you might have some news. An explanation. Our phones don’t have any signal.”

“Neither does mine,” the man confirms. “The National Guard has a perimeter set up in Dallastown. Supposedly it’s right on the town limits. I’m heading there now.”

“How do you know that?” Mike asks.

“I heard it on the police scanner before I lost power.”

“You’re welcome to hide in here with us instead,” Bryan offers. “If they have a perimeter set up, then it stands to reason they’ll sort things out soon. Might be less risky to just lay low.”

The man shakes his head. “No offense, but for all I know, you could be like the rest of them. I’ll take my chances getting there.”

“If we were like them,” Bryan reasons, “we would have killed you already.”

The man hesitates for a moment, and then seems to make up his mind. “Even still, I’m better off by myself. Good luck to you.”

“Wait,” Mike pleads. “Neither one of us are from around here. How far is Dallastown?”

The man shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe two miles. You head down this alley until you get to the Rite-Aid and Hardees. Then you head up Main Street maybe another mile. Or, if there’s too many of these…people in the streets, you could cut across the field behind the grocery store, instead. That’s up behind the Rite-Aid. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go.”

“Hold on,” Mike calls.

“I’ve answered your questions. I’m leaving.”

“But…”

The man raises the gun and points it at the sound of their voices. “No more. Please…”

Mike starts to speak again, but Bryan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder hard. When Mike turns to him, Bryan shakes his head no. When they turn back, the man hurries down the alley and vanishes into the darkness. They wait until the sound of his footsteps fade. Then they duck back down behind the equipment and ductwork, and speak in hushed whispers.

“What do you think?” Mike asks.

Bryan takes another sip of bourbon. “About what?”

“About what that guy said. The National Guard. Do you think we should try for the perimeter?”

“How are we going to get there without our cars? I’m not crazy about walking around in the dark. We don’t know this town. If one of them sees us, or if we take a wrong turn…”

“Maybe we could get our cars untangled, and take one of them. He said Main Street runs into Dallastown. Well, that’s Main Street out in front of the store. It’s right there. All we have to do is get a car free and floor it.”

“Yeah, and you know how much noise and commotion we’d make, getting the cars free of each other? Our bumpers are entwined. It would be like ringing the dinner bell for these freaks.”

“I don’t think they’re zombies.”

Bryan shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

They fall into silence after that. Mike shifts back and forth, stretching his aching muscles and joints. Mosquitoes buzz his ears and face, but he’s afraid to slap at them—worried someone might hear the noise. He isn’t sure how long they wait there, but it’s long enough that a half dozen crazies scamper by. Five of them proceed down the alley. All of them are carrying weapons and clearly hunting. The sixth passes within feet of their hiding place, just on the other side of the chain link fence. Mike’s heart races in terror when the crazed woman stops in front of the gate. She peers into the enclosure, but apparently doesn’t see them. He holds his breath until she moves on.

“Fuck.” Mike exhales when she’s gone. “I thought she’d spotted us for sure.”

“Me, too,” Bryan agrees, taking another swig from the bottle.

“I changed my mind,” Mike says. “Let me get some of that, if you don’t mind?”

Shrugging, Bryan hands him the bottle. Mike wipes the rim with his hand and then lifts it to his lips. He shudders, grimacing as the bourbon burns his throat.

“Jesus,” he chokes. “That’s like drinking smoke and tree bark. I think I’ll stick with beer.”

Bryan nods, his expression solemn. “That was always my drink of choice.”

“I shouldn’t drink beer at all,” Mike responds. “All the weight I’ve put on recently makes my t-shirts fit like sausage skins.”

Bryan chuckles. “You’re young. You can lose that easy. Wait until you’re my age. The pounds are harder to take off.”

Mike hands him back the bottle, noticing as he does that Bryan’s hands are shaking. He is about to ask the older man if he’s okay, when they hear more shuffling footsteps in the alley. The two of them tiptoe back to the retaining wall and peer out over the side, expecting to see more naked people.

Instead, they see a group of fully-clothed people, none of whom look the least bit insane. Bizarrely, all of them are wet. Their garments cling to them, dripping water. A middle-aged Hispanic man leads them. He is followed by an old black man who looks tired, a tall and pretty girl about Mike’s age, another pretty redhead holding the hand of a little kid, and a guy who reminds Mike of the character Badger from the television show Breaking Bad—the only difference is his head is shaved down to stubble. All of them carry an assortment of makeshift weapons. Even the little boy. Clubs, pipes, lengths of two-by-fours. Only one of them—the television lookalike—has a gun. All of them glance around furtively, before creeping forward a few more steps.

“What do you think?” Bryan whispers.

Mike notices that he’s slurring his words slightly.

“I think they’re like us,” he says. “They’re not naked, and they look scared.”

“You sure about that?”

Mike shakes his head. The alcohol on Bryan’s breath is strong. He wonders what the man’s tolerance level is.

“Well, only one way to find out.” Bryan stands up, weaving on his feet.

Panicked, Mike grabs Bryan’s shirttail. “What are you doing? Are you drunk?”