Last Fight of the Valkyries (15 page)

She couldn't look up, as her strength and focus was entirely on
lifting. Saffron could hear the growing moans of the zombies sneaking
through the gap beneath them. They became agitated once they knew the
girls were above them. Banging under the floor also grew louder.

“Oh shit. There's a padlock on the round hatch.”

“Of course. Can't have a tourist stepping out for a smoke,”
she thought.

“Can you shoot it out?” It worked in the movies, so
seemed a worthwhile thing to suggest.

“Put me down. I can't.”

She didn't want to drop her. She wasn't sure she could lift her
again. With an “oomf” she let her down. The floor panels
moved in several areas. The one closest to them was almost off. The
zombies were relentless, but not remotely smart.

Christine showed her the gun. “This is empty. I spent them
all coming up.”

“I thought you were going to kill yourself.” She said
it without emotion, wishing maybe there were two bullets in the
thing.

“Yeah, I probably would have been dead before you arrived if
I had bullets left in the clip.”

Saffron resisted correcting her nomenclature. It was just a steel
boat anchor now.

“Hey! You can use it to beat the shit out of the lock.”

They both looked at the gun as something brand new. Saying
nothing, they both got back into position. Saffron heaved. Christine
began to attack the lock.

The first panel flipped completely up. It was just a little bit
too small for the zombie to easily climb through. It must have been
slinking under the floor and wasn't able to bend enough to get out.
But it would eventually. It was able to contort in ways beyond a
normal human body.

“Bang bang bang.” The gun battered against the lock.
Saffron was afraid to ask for status reports. The banging was its own
report.

“Please hurry.” She was having trouble holding the
girl up.

More panels popped. Hands and arms began reaching up from the
floor in many spots. A zombie had emerged from a panel far down the
walkway, nearest the tram station on the south side. It was on the
smaller side. An infected young boy.

“They're coming through. You have to hurry.”

“This lock is really tough. I don't think—”

Saffron tightened her grip. She willed Christine to break the
damned lock.

“—I got it!”

Both tumbled to the floor as Saffron's arms gave out. The lock
bounced down the incline of the floor.

“Give me the gun,” she commanded.

“But it's—”

Saffron took it from her. She stood and walked toward the small
infected person—she couldn't use the term “child”—as
it moved in her direction. She swung the butt of the gun with as much
force as she could muster, ending at the boy's cheek. Her first swing
broke the jaw but took another horrible pair of cracks to damage the
head for good. She stepped around the grabbing hands of the crawlers
as she made it back to the hatch.

“Get ready. I'm going to lift you to the top.”

Christine moved as instructed. Other panels were completely off.
The biological hazards below were straining in unnatural ways to free
themselves from the conduits.

Saffron put the gun in her waistband, then made as if she was
going to lift the smaller woman.

“What?”

Christine looked up through the hatch. “What are we going to
do up there?”

There was no time to consider whether it was a good idea. It was
the
only
idea that would allow them to stay alive.

“Sunbathe.” She said it as calmly as she could.

“Sunbathe?” A long hesitation. “Yeah, OK.”

She grabbed the other woman around her thighs and hefted her up.
Christine was able to gain leverage on the hatch, but Saffron had to
really push her to get her through.

From above, “Oh my God. It's windy up here,” she
yelled.

“Yeah, well, as long as you aren't getting bit,”
Saffron grumbled to herself.

Another zombie had snaked out of the subfloor. It appeared to be a
small-framed teen boy. He'd lost his shirt along the way, but his
black chest and side was drenched in fresh blood. A recent victim of
the virus—probably from the crowd directly below.

It gained its feet as Saffron jumped for the hatch. She was able
to grab the outer lip, but she panicked as she realized she couldn't
pull herself up. Not after the exhausting climb and fight in the
stairwell coming up. She hung for a second.

“Think girl. Think!”

“Are you coming up?” From above, Christine seemed
oblivious.

“Yeah, why don't you come down and lift me up,” she
muttered softly.

She pulled out the pistol, intent to do harm to the teen boy. She
was getting slow, however, and her swing was a second too late to
make solid contact with the zombie's head. Rather than hitting it
with the gun, she hit the thing's head with her wrist. The gun got
loose and tumbled to the floor. The zombie winced too, but kept its
feet.

A panel directly below her rattled. She didn't fall over, but the
shock almost made her lose her footing.

The teen re-oriented on her. On a hunch, she dropped to a squat
and pulled up the floor panel. It was light, probably aluminum, and
was about a twenty inch square.

She noticed the woman squished into the narrow space, trying to
turn to look up at her. The thing wore a bright red shirt, which did
a remarkable job of camouflaging the blood on it.

From a crouch, she swung the panel like a banshee. With a heavy
grunt from a place in her soul she was unaware existed, the sharp
edge ripped into the teen zombie's stomach. Blood and parts spilled
out.

Again the zombie was forced to the side, its muscles damaged but
its body unbroken.

She stood, gripped the panel, and swung it again as hard as she
could. This time it cut into the boy's neck. It was already damaged
from the boy's own encounter with a zombie, and it allowed her to
make a good, solid, cut.

“I don't believe it.” She panted as her strength
continued to wane.

The boy's throat was indeed severed, but the spine held it in
place. His noggin was canted unnaturally to one side, but he was
still coming back for her.

She threw down the panel. It slid on the floor, loosely covering
the red shirt woman. She was close to getting out. Many were close to
escape now. Hands reached up from many panels on the floor.

“The panels,” she shouted to herself.

The windows of the Arch sit on what are effectively small shelves,
so people can look down. Saffron hopped onto one shelf and then
pushed herself off with all her strength and grabbed the boys
neck—and twisted.

The thing cried out until a satisfying snap occurred on its neck.
With nothing left to hold it in place, the momentum carried the head
from the body. Surprised, Saffron threw it while the rest of the body
collapsed at her feet.

She was mesmerized as the head rolled down the incline of the
floor, bounced off the side a couple times, hopped over some of the
open panels, and then rolled into the darkness toward the tram
loading area. Gone.

She shook her head vigorously to clear her mind of what just
happened.

“The panels, girl. Get the panels!”

She found the panel she had tossed down, and pulled it from the
red shirt woman—now facing up from the floor—and placed
it under the hatch to the outside.

She repeated the process several more times until the panels were
stacked about a foot high. She dared not try more as she could see
two or three zombies far down the walkway standing up and starting
her way. The crawlspace was more spacious farther away from the apex.

“Just a little more time. You got this.” She told
herself.

Christine's face was up in the hatch, looking down with terror.

With a tentative first step, she placed her foot on the stack of
panels. It immediately tipped over.

“No. No. No.”

She looked closer at the stack. The panels had a slight curve to
them, to match the curvature of the top of the Arch. She didn't
notice it in her haste. She rearranged the panels, then chanced a
look over her shoulder.

“This is it,” she shouted up to Christine.

“Or I'm dead,” she said to herself.

The stack was steady. Her legs, thought wobbly from exhaustion,
held her in position. She grabbed the hatch above. The sunlight
drizzling in through the gap was heavenly.

With a final grunt, she jumped. With her arms, she pulled at the
same time. Christine grabbed her shirt and pulled, too. It got her
just enough leverage she could get her elbows outside the hatch. For
a moment, she hung with her legs dangling inside the Arch. Her torso
outside.

The view was spectacular.

Something brushed her below. She spun her legs and was horrified
to make several contacts. Multiple zombies were on her. She heard the
moans as she pushed them back with a weak kick.

“Help me up,” she screamed. Christine looked surprised
and frightened by her tone. Instead of helping, she slid away, toward
the big warning lamp next to the hatch. She hugged it, looking away
from Saffron.

She had no time to plead. She'd have to do it herself.

More hands on her legs. She strained to pull herself up with her
arms. She was normally a fairly strong teenager, especially for her
small frame, but her strength had been stolen from her.

She swung her leg backward. She made contact with something.

Then she put her feet forward and found something standing almost
next to her. She decided it was her last chance. She raised one of
her feet, risking a bite, and found the shoulder—or maybe the
top of the head of a short zombie—and pushed off like a step.

Her ploy worked. With the extra support of her leg, she shimmied
up through the hatch. Rather than hoot and celebrate, she spun around
to look down.

A half dozen people looked up at her with bloody mouths, bleeding
eyes, and outstretched hands.

“What have we wrought?” She peered down for many
minutes as more came out of the gaps in the floor. Soon the entire
space was filled. She was about two feet beyond their reach. She
didn't think there was any way they could figure out a way up, but to
be safe she knew she had to get out of their view.

When she finally looked up, Christine was gone.

She didn't bother calling for her. She took over the spot on the
warning lamp. It provided the only handhold on the upper surface of
the Arch, beyond the lip of the hatch. The warmth of the metal in the
July sun was a firm reminder that she was still alive. Below her, in
the Arch, the moans and longing grunts of the infected continued
unabated. It was like radio static blaring from the tiny hatch.

She lost track of time. A couple days. A couple nights. The pangs
of thirst were as constant and withering as the wind.

“Christine saw this coming. She took the easy way out,”
she said to herself.

The view was incredible. From her perch on the top of the
structure, she could see the entire city of St. Louis for thirty
miles in any direction.

“A beautiful way to die.”

In the distance, she heard the whine of aircraft. She changed
direction and saw a spectacle taking place inside Busch Stadium. Two
large ungainly looking helicopter-planes were taking off from the
field. The first to rise hovered near the ground, then slid sideways
into the stands where it appeared to take a seat. Even from up there
she could see the people and zombies scramble toward it.

The other aircraft had similar issues but the people hanging on
the back ramp were pushed out by someone on the inside. The machine
stabilized, then rose.

Saffron began to yell, though she was terrified to realize her
voice was gone. She was so thirsty her throat wouldn't respond.
Instead, she wheezed for help.

The beast rose above the stadium, its rotors and wings folded
forward, and it began to depart—changing from helicopter mode
to airplane mode. It would have been impressive if it didn't
represent death for her.

As the plane became a speck in the distance she reflected on
Christine's method of exiting this situation. Just one quick slide or
jump and it's all over…

Her head was a haze. The wind became unnaturally calm, as if it
wanted her to jump.

She stood up, though she was very unsteady and weak. As she gained
her bearings, she held onto the light. The moaning from inside the
Arch was a reminder she could never fight her way through the
interior.

“I'm sorry, Mom. I couldn't save them. I couldn't even find
them.”

Saffron moved closer to the edge. Despite herself she had to move
on one knee. She was too weak to stand on her own. The survival
instinct still injected itself into her psyche, telling her to be
careful, lest she fall over the side to her death.

At the edge she hesitated. Looking upon the city 600 feet below,
she saw fires burning in the distance, people scrambling on rooftops
in every direction, and the infected rambling everywhere in the park
directly below and the urban nightmare beyond. She was too high to
hear the screams.

Willing herself to stand, she trembled on the precipice.

“Any last words?”

She had none.

“Well—”

A small black helicopter ripped between the legs of the Arch,
fifty feet below her. She was too tired to be surprised. Two more
purred right behind it; they headed for the wall of buildings of the
city. The trio of gunships banked hard to the left and swooped back
into the park, like young teens at a skateboard park. Machine guns on
each side of the birds spewed out tiny sparks toward the crowds of
the sick below.

She took a knee.

The helicopters raked the ground as they darted back and forth in
the once lush park. The grounds had already been bombed, burned, and
befouled by an earlier battle, so the dead fell upon the rotting
casualties from that engagement.