Apocalypticon (23 page)

“You don’t need your shoulder to run!” Patrick cried. He picked up the baton, humped his backpack higher up on his shoulders, and took off through the woods, sprinting blindly through the fog. Ben scrambled after him. They could hear the footfalls of the madman just behind them.

They ran down a hill covered in dead leaves. Patrick almost lost his footing, and they heard the man take a tumble behind them. Ben looked back to see him sprawling forward down the hill toward them. He clawed the earth, scrambling to get back to his feet, his face red with fury.

Patrick led them across a small creek and up a hill on the other side. They hurdled piles of brush as they ran. The man chasing them just crashed straight through them. The branches tangled around his feet, and now and then he would go down, screaming and spitting, but he always scrabbled to his feet.

Patrick spun around frantically, searching for something,
anything
, to offer shelter. “There!”  he cried as they broke into a clearing in the woods. Across the open field, shrouded in fog, sat a long, low cabin. They bolted across the clearing, the madman tearing close behind. Ben reached the cabin first. He was moving too fast to stop and slammed into the screen door. The screen ripped and caught his flailing arms in its net. He disentangled himself just as Patrick ran up behind him, threw open the screen door, and, to his amazement, turned the main door knob to find it unlocked. They dove into the cabin and slammed the door shut just as the man plowed into it, full force, pushing it back open. They were both knocked to the floor. Ben scrambled back up and threw his good shoulder into the door, avoiding the swiping claw reaching around from the other side. He slammed the door back into the jamb. The man snarled and drew his arm back to push with both hands. Ben took the chance and heaved the door closed. He threw the deadbolt and turned the knob lock, then sank back against the door, wheezing.

Patrick lay on his back, propped at an awkward angle by his backpack. His chest heaved with labored breaths. “I haven’t run that much since ever.” He grabbed at his chest. His heart hammered away like a sledge. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Oh my God! I’m having a heart attack!”

The man was beating and clawing at the door. They could hear him scraping the wood with his fingernails. The sound raised goosebumps on the back of Ben’s neck. “See? This is why you need a secret knock. To keep out the rabid hill people.”

They took stock of the cabin and found it to be an abandoned ranger station. A poster tacked to a cork board on the opposite wall welcomed them to Holly Springs National Forest. Beneath it, a large map showed the cabin’s position on the western edge with a gold star, along with the locations of several other stations. Three display tables formed a long U along the edges of the cabin, their protective glass tops smashed in. Most of whatever had been inside had been taken, leaving only historic photos and newspaper clippings, old hiking guides, and a handful of rock samples. A wooden, bear-shaped placard behind the middle counter informed them that only they could prevent forest fires. A podium stood against the opposite wall, facing three small benches. The door to the ranger’s office hung broken off at one hinge. Inside, the floor and desk were strewn with papers and file folders. The cabin’s windows had been boarded up, and the only real light filtered down through a trio of skylights in the ceiling.

They heaved one of the heavy display tables over to the door as a barricade. The locks were holding strong against the man’s fervent hammering, but there was no use taking chances. Ben pulled off his shoe and held it up to the light. “Holy hell. Look at this thing!” The man outside had ripped right through the sole with his teeth. It hung down freely in the front. Ben shook the shoe so it flopped around like a tongue. “He tried to eat my foot!”

“Not the body part I’d go for,” Patrick admitted. “Give me a good cut of cheek any day.”

The pounding at the front door ceased. They heard the man’s footsteps moving around the perimeter. They moved their eyes along the walls, following the sound from the inside, until the creature stopped beneath one of the boarded windows. The slats there had been nailed haphazardly into place, and a two-inch slit ran between them. The man stuck his eye into the space and screamed. He pounded at the boards in a rage, snarling and huffing with frustration. He clawed at the wood until his fingernails peeled off. His blood flecked against the wood and through the hole. “Oh, gross,” Ben said, squinting at the droplets hitting the floor. “Is he bleeding
yellow
?”

Patrick slipped the hammer from his belt loop and cautiously approached the window. The man tried to squeeze his hand into the opening, but it was too small. He howled with his fury. Patrick swung the hammer through the opening and brought it crashing against the bridge of his nose. The man stumbled back a half step, but dove right back against the window, scrabbling and screaming, completely unaffected. Patrick turned to Ben and shrugged. “That’s it. I’m out of ideas. Oh, but yes, he’s definitely bleeding yellow.”

“What the hell is it?” Ben asked, disgusted.

“Let’s look at what we know. He’s human, or humanish. He bleeds yellow. He’s skeleton-thin. He has an insatiable hunger for feet. He’s an awfully determined runner. He seems more or less impervious to pain. Anything else?”

“Yeah, he’s got skin made of cast iron,” Ben said, rubbing his shoulder.

“Talk about body armor,” Patrick said, stifling a laugh. “Get it? Do you get it? Skin of iron? Body armor?” He nudged Ben in the ribs. Ben rolled his eyes. Patrick slid into his serious face. “Okay, so, a super-thin human with irregularly colored blood insanely determined to consume human flesh. I think we have to face facts, as weird as it sounds. It can only be one thing.”

“A zombie,” Ben breathed.

“Huh? No, I was gonna say a politician. Wait, what about that makes you say zombie?”

“What about it
doesn’t
? A mindlessly angry man-creature bent on devouring human flesh? Pat, that’s a freakin’ zombie.”

“That is not a zombie, and I’ll tell you why. Because zombies don’t exist.”

“That’s what zombies want you to think,” Ben said.

“Even if they did exist, they wouldn’t have strong, healthy skin. They would be decomposing. That guy out there? Not decomposing. He’s doing the opposite of decomposing. He’s becoming some weird, thick-skinned evolutionary freak. Definitely a politician.”

Ben glowered. “Whatever it is, how do we kill it?”

Patrick gasped. “See? Bloodlust.”

“Oh, for God’s sake--”

“Wait.” Patrick held up a finger for silence. “Do you hear that?” Something was scratching at a window on the other side of the building.

The blood drained from Ben’s face. “Oh God.” he whispered. “Do you think it’s--?”

Patrick nodded gravely. “Frankenstein. Maybe Count Chocula.”

“Will you knock it off?” Ben crept across the room to the back window. The slit between the boards here was thinner. He leaned in close and peered through the space. Another man, angry and slobbering like the first, was scratching at the boards. “Shit, it’s another one!” he hissed.

“In the interest of total honesty, I want to say that I think we’re in serious trouble,” Patrick said.

“What do we do?”

“See if we can hurt this one.” He pulled out the machete and approached the second window. The man was right up against the boards, clawing and gnawing on the wood. Patrick set the blade of the machete on the top edge of the bottom board and gripped the handle tightly with his left hand. He jabbed the blade through the boards and pushed it into the man’s chest as hard as he could. It didn’t even break skin. The man stared down at the blade, eyes furious, and grabbed it with his bare hands. He tried to wrestle it through the boards. Patrick let go in surprise, and the thing outside pulled the blade until the handle stuck between the boards. It jerked on the machete, trying desperately to pull it through. It screamed in frustration and began attacking the metal with its teeth. “Okay,” Patrick said, bobbing his head nervously, “it’s official. This is a problem.”

“What do we do?” Ben said again. “Do you think they’ll go away?”

“Politicians never go away. They keep coming back ‘til they’ve bled you dry.”

“Will you cut that shit out? I’m serious! We’re in serious fucking trouble.”

“Yes, Ben, I realize that. Excuse me for trying to maintain a sense of levity about our current terrifying goddamn situation!” He stormed off across the cabin. He ducked into the main office, kicking stacks of paper out of the way. There was a metal storage cabinet in the corner, across from the desk. He opened the doors and nearly squealed with delight.

“What?” Ben said, running around the corner. “Grenades?”

“Better!” He held up a large, white plastic box with the words FIRST AID stamped across the front.

They ignored the pressing issue of the creatures outside for a few minutes while they cleaned and re-bandaged Patrick’s hand. The wound looked pretty awful. A wide pink halo had spread around the hole, but there was enough antibiotic cream in the kit to last them a few weeks, barring any other serious injuries, and, despite the excruciating pain of applying the ointment directly to the insides of his palm, Patrick’s spirits were somewhat lifted. He might be able to keep his hand after all.

“It’s too bad napalm isn’t included in first aid kits,” Ben remarked. “We could really use some of that right now.”

“Why don’t we dump the rest of that Canadian Mist on their heads? It’s basically the same thing.” Ben stroked his chin and made a show of considering this option. Patrick smiled and smacked him on the arm. “Come on. I have a thought.”

They moved back into the main room. The creature in the front had returned to the door and was beating on it with his fists and his feet. The one in the back was still wrestling with the machete. Patrick examined the room. Finally, he said, “Help me push that table over here.”

In a few minutes, they’d made an amazingly unstable elevated platform out of the table, the podium, and the rolling office chair. Patrick did his best to hold the thing steady with one hand as Ben climbed to the top. He balanced himself precariously on the rolling chair, directly beneath the center skylight. He thumped it with his fist. “Feels like Plexiglas.”

“See if you can break it with this.” Patrick tossed him the baton. Ben almost fell off the chair reaching for it. He flicked it open and hammered it against the window. It gave a little, but remained intact. Ben looked down and shrugged.

“How about your feet? Lay on your back and kick through it. Chuck Norris-style.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ben sighed, tossed the baton to the floor, and carefully adjusted his position. The chair rolled back and forth precariously, but he managed to steady it. With a loud grunt, he hauled back and kicked his feet through the hole in the ceiling. The Plexiglas popped off and went skittering across the roof.

“Good thing that guy didn’t eat your feet. We need those feet,” Patrick observed.

“Har, har. Now what?”

“Now we take a look at our surroundings.” Patrick gripped the table and began his perilous, one-handed ascent. “You know the old saying. If you can’t beat ‘em, run the hell away.”

“Run? Run where?”

“Exactly, Ben. Exactly.” They hoisted themselves up to the roof and peered over the edge. The sight of the forest floor caused their jaws to drop in almost perfect unison. Dark silhouettes were emerging from the fog on all sides, dozens of them, most of them running, some of them apparently injured and staggering, arms thrown out for balance. The first line of them was just approaching the cabin. None had yet noticed the two men standing on the roof. There had to have been fifty or sixty of them in all, men, women, and even a few who looked scarcely old enough to drive. Every last one of them was emaciated, with fiery, furious eyes. They growled like wild animals, some of them literally diving into the cabin, mindlessly trying to break through its thick wooden walls with their hard, bony skulls. Some still wore clothes, others were naked or close to it, with scraps of torn fabric ringing their necks or waists. More monsters sprinted in from the darkening fog, and in less than a minute, the entire cabin was swarmed on all four sides, the wall of rabid human creatures extending three or four bodies deep in some places. Those in the back rows ripped and clawed at the ones in front of them, trying to tear through to the warm human bodies they thought were inside.

Ben let loose a string of curse words, each one filthier than the last. Patrick shushed him, but one of the maniacs below had heard him. She looked up at them with her sunken, bloodshot eyes. She raised a stick-thin arm and pointed a clawed finger at Ben. She shrieked, loud and long, and soon all the creatures were screaming and pawing at the walls of the house, trying to climb up now instead of in.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Ben spat. “What do we do?”

Patrick looked down helplessly at the hissing, clamoring crowd below. “I guess we watch and wait,” he shrugged. “I’m getting something to eat.”

They ate their dinner of canned tuna and peaches on the roof. Neither spoke through the meal, but both cast regular, gloomy looks at the ground below. More of the creatures seemed to arrive every ten or fifteen minutes. Some of them had come within a few feet of reaching the roof by climbing on the backs of others, but the flesh eating maniacs didn’t seem to work well as a team; as soon as one leapt onto another’s back, she was slammed back to the ground and trampled by the others. The weakly filtered moonlight made them look ghoulish and even more grotesque.