MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3) (5 page)

I can’t believe Patrick left me here with Todd. It has crossed my mind a few times that when he stops mourning he may have a psychotic break. That means my life could be in danger on all fronts.

Looking out the window, there are more zombies than I can count. They have surrounded the Humvee and Tucker is nowhere to be seen.

Granted, it was just yesterday, but the only other time we have tried a rescue we came home with a new person for our group. We’ve now lost that person and I’m afraid that any rescue attempt for Tucker will result in losing more people.

Tucker slowly rises up out of the gun turret. His phone is held out in front of him and he spins slowly, taking in his surroundings. Old habits die hard, but sharing a Vine video does not seem appropriate right now.

At about the two-hundred-and-eighty-degree mark of his rotation, a shot rings out. I can hear it ricochet off some part of the Humvee and then the glass in front of me shatters.

A shriek escapes my lungs and I turn to alert Todd. Instead I see Patrick hurrying back through the door, followed by the new guy and Cupcake.

“The fuck happened here?” Patrick asks in shock.

“I don’t know! They’re shooting at Tucker again and something must have bounced off the Humvee and broken the window.”

It doesn’t take long before an undead arm comes through the newly missing window, followed by a head. It’s a man with five o-clock shadow. His face is covered in blood and I can see bits of long human hair stuck to his stubble. There is a tiny bit of flesh in the dimple of his chin and the cloudy vacant eyes send a shiver down my spine.

“MOVE!” Patrick screams at me.

He pulls on the back of my shirt and the zombie hand flashes in front of my face. A forceful grip on my shoulder spins me around and leaves me facing the stairs. The sidelight is big, it’s good design suddenly a liability when the glass is gone. With nothing solid covering the opening it also allows human-sized creatures, like zombies, to pass through easily.

“Where do we go, new guy?!” Cupcake yells.

The new guy is standing next to Todd, who continues to hold Jaden is if he were alive. Terror is painted all over the new guy’s face. I notice that he does not have a weapon, which makes his run outside of the building all the more heroic.

“Up?” he finally mutters, unsure of his answer.

I’m not sure why we’re not going out into the hallway and the lobby like we had planned. It doesn’t really matter; I know we can’t stay here. Why am I not moving, though?

Grunts and groans come from the form beside me. Patrick is thrusting and pushing with his hockey stick. He is in control but just barely, with each jab more frantic than the previous. Looking back to the window, I can see why. Sheer numbers is the only thing keeping the undead from getting through the window.

Cupcake pushes the new guy up the stairs. He walks right past me but bumps me enough to illicit movement. I follow close behind him and am surprised by the fast pace. We seem well away from the violence after only a few steps.

“Laney! Help me with Todd,” Patrick yells after me.

I am not fully back from being immobilized with fear, but I can force myself to move. In a light fog, I walk down the steps I just climbed and wait for something to happen.

Is this a psychological turning point? Have I gone over the edge and submitted to the probability that I will die here, only to come back confident in my ability to survive? Does this somehow make me stronger and better able to deal with the brutality likely in my future?

Patrick is gone and the zombies are making progress at getting through the sidelight window. They are so ruthless that there is no hesitation in severing a limb to get just an inch closer to human flesh.

Todd’s ashen face appears. He seems to have gone over the edge and I wonder if he will make it back. How long do we give before we have to leave him to snap out of it or die?

A final push gets Todd up onto the first step. Patrick returns to stab at the zombies in the window some more and I reach my hand around behind Todd to encourage his progress.

The gooey wet slime I feel reminds me of how brutal our recent trauma has been. Somehow I manage to push through, literally. With help from my hand and his own autopilot, Todd makes it up several steps, with me close behind.

“You’re doing great. Keep going,” Patrick says calmly from behind me.

Cupcake and the new guy are waiting on the landing a few steps ahead of me. I can’t remember taking any individual steps, but we have gone several flights.

Patrick guides Todd and me past the other two and tugs on my shirt to stop us from taking the next set of steps. I’m left staring at the mostly headless corpse of a six-year-old. It is an unpleasant view, to say the least, so I turn to look at the wall behind me instead.

I can hear and I can move, but I just can’t think. The guys have an extra day of zombie fighting experience. Will I be able to compartmentalize my fears tomorrow? If I am going to survive, I’ll need to learn to think and act while faced with paralyzing fear.

“I’m Patrick. This is Cupcake. How well do you know this hotel?” Patrick asks the new guy.

“Not well.”

“Do you have anything you could use as a weapon?” Cupcake asks him.

“No.”

“Listen. I know this is pretty fucked up, but we are in kind of a sticky spot right now. We have two friends out there in that Humvee that could either get eaten or shot. One-word answers don’t make you a valuable member of the team.” Patrick is calm but assertive.

“Sorry, it’s a lot to take in. I’m Parker,” the new guy says carefully.

“Nice to meet you Parker. First things first: any idea where we can get you a weapon?” Patrick brings a hint of normalcy into this crazy situation.

“A gun! There’s a gun in one of the other stairwells.”

“Sweet!” Cupcake whoops.

“Okay Parker, how do we get to the other stairwell and the gun?” Patrick asks, prodding him along like a child.

“Fifth floor. Down the hallway, stairwell before the elevators.”

The wall I am staring at has a sign. We’re on floor three. The sign also says that there is a rooftop lounge. A drink would work wonders right now.

“Laney, head up to the landing for the fifth floor and stop. Got it?” Patrick instructs.

“Got it.”

I push Todd into the next flight of stairs and he complies. When and how we are going to get him to put down the body, I don’t know. For now, I’ll just walk and try to ignore the sound of blood dripping onto concrete with each step.

The first three flights went past in a blur, but these last two are a struggle. I don’t know if fear burns calories, but the little bit of fuel we gave our bodies in the Humvee does not seem like enough to keep us going.

Patrick gives out loose instructions when we reach the fifth floor landing. “Okay, me first, then new guy, Todd, Laney, then Cupcake. Got it?”

None of us speak; we just nod and follow him out the door in the requested order. The hallway is quiet and normal. I want to stop and sit and rest and be comfortable, but Patrick keeps moving.

Our leader is through the door to the next stairwell and fear comes over me again. I have this feeling that the hallway is the normal world and we are choosing to leave it and walk through a gateway to hell. Why are we leaving the safe comfortable world?

When we are all gathered on the landing, Patrick faces the group.

“Hang on a little longer. We’ll be safe soon.”

How can he know this?

“Parker, where is the gun?”

Before Parker can answer, a body comes flying onto the landing. In a scene that brings back the trauma from our New York rescue mission, a second zombie comes flying down from above and crashes into the landing, almost directly on top of the first attacker.

Patricks’ broken hockey stick is aimed quickly and thrust through the eye socket of the undead on top. In a smooth dance-like motion, Patrick withdraws the stick and drives it into the skull of the lower undead.

We wait. There is an unspoken agreement that we will stand our ground here on this landing. Nothing comes.

“The gun is at the bottom of the stairs in a holster on the body of a policeman,” Parker says.

“Is the policeman… alive?” Patrick asks weirdly.

“No. He’s dead-dead,” Parker explains, conveying the non-sentient status of the officer.

Patrick looks around the group quickly and takes a deep breath.

“Okay. You and me then. We go get the gun and come right back here.”

Parker nods and says, “I think we should try and be quiet–“

“They’re attracted to noise,” Cupcake, Patrick and I finish his thought.

A brief smile is shared before Patrick and Parker head off down the stairs.

Patrick reacted so quickly to the arrival of the zombies that had flung themselves from a floor above. He delivered the death strikes swiftly and efficiently. How does taking a life become that routine? I need to get to that level, but I am afraid of what that would make me.

There is nothing in this stairwell to distinguish it from the last one. The sign says “Floor 5,” and there is another advertisement for the rooftop lounge.

“Cupcake, we should go up. The rooftop lounge may have food,” I say.

“We aren’t moving until Pat-O gets back. Plus, what if it’s full off zombies?”

“I haven’t seen them going up. If they could use stairs, they probably wouldn’t fling themselves over the railings trying to get to us. Plus it may give us a vantage point to better help Tucker.”

Cupcake slowly bobs his head in agreement. It’s amazing how certain thoughts and tasks become automatic while others, which seem simpler, require huge amounts of effort.

“When Pat-O gets back, that seems like a good idea,” he says.

Cupcake and I stand and stare at one another in silence. The presence of Todd and his gruesome cargo consumes the space, but we do not look at him or acknowledge his existence.

The leader of this group is steady and efficient. I like that. He seems to care about each of the people with him and they seem willing to let me join them.

I would prefer if they were a little more organized, but I guess I can’t be picky about my rescuers. In fact, I wouldn’t have guessed who the leader was without having listened to them talk. They were just as disorganized walking down the street as any of the other small groups I watched come into the square.

“Who do you work for?”

“Shhh!” Patrick gives me a funny look.

I forgot my own recommendation of silence. How long have these guys been “on,” I wonder? None of them look exceptionally sloppy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all showered this morning, but their eyes all hold a sense of exhaustion.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the flies are thick. It’s only been an hour since I came upon this grisly sight, but the stench seems more powerful. Not wanting to get too close to a rotting corpse, I stop four steps from the bottom.

“I got your back. Go ahead,” Patrick says.

Me? I’ve never held a gun in my life. Why doesn’t he take the gun and give me his hockey stick? Should I suggest that or will it incur his as-yet-unseen wrath?

“I don’t know how to use a gun,” I offer apologetically.

“Pretty easy. Point and shoot, a lot like a camera.”

“What about the can of mace?”

“They seem oblivious to pain, so I’m not sure that would help.”

“But there are other people out there that we may need to…”

They have a man—wait, he said two men—pinned down in the Humvee and he doesn’t remember that there are other survivors who may not be nice. I know there is strength in focusing on the task at hand, but during a moment of rest a leader should be able to reengage the big picture.

“Look, I don’t feel like standing around down here. Get the gun and whatever else you want and let’s get going. I already know your name, so we need to be careful.”

What does knowing my name have to do with anything? I want to ask but instead just walk down the remaining steps.

The gun is on the officer’s right hip but at an awkward angle. I have to get down on my knees to pull it out toward the floor. My first pull is weak and the gun barely moves. The second pull is much stronger, but the gun does not come out. I’ve read about smart guns that only fire when the fingerprints match the owner: could this be a smart holster?

“There’s a strap over the top,” Patrick says.

I look more closely and see the thin strip of black leather keeping the gun in place. When I unfasten it, the gun almost falls out. I catch it, but am unprepared for the weight and it nearly brings my hand to the floor.

A frightening surge of power courses through my body. My grip around the gun tightens and I feel invincible. Compared to the hockey stick and knives, my weapon is superior. I will lead this motley band to safety. Rising to my feet, I strike a superman pose.

“Easy, killer. Check the gun belt and get extra ammo clips,” Patrick says.

His comment brings me down a peg. I’m not even sure what an ammo clip looks like. From movie-based knowledge, hiding behind the fear in my brain, a black rectangular shape pops into my head. I now have the faintest clue as to what I am looking for, but I don’t see anything.

“I don’t think he has any.”

“He does. Roll the body over and look on the other side. The pepper spray was probably a good idea, too; you should grab that before you roll him.”

Touching a dead body is not an experience on my bucket list. The pepper spray is an easy accomplishment, so I take that. With both hands full, I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to do this. Spiking from extreme confidence to total fear actually makes me light-headed.

In an effort to steady myself, I reach out for the stairs. The can of pepper spray hits with a loud “ding” and I try to act like I was putting it down instead of nearly fainting. Next I rest the gun on the step and feel good about moving, even though it feels like I’m in quick sand.

Placing my hands on the shoulders of the slain officer, I push gently. He barely moves. This was a big man, and with all of his equipment there is easily over two hundred pounds for me to deal with.

Harder, I think to myself as I adjust my grip. I wonder if there is a reason Patrick’s not helping me? Is there a lesson to learn here, or is he just difficult?

Struggling for almost a minute yields some progress. Each movement is more forceful than the previous and I realize that nothing will break or ooze on me.

When the body is rotated almost completely over, I can see two rectangular pouches attached to the belt. Now that I see them, they look obvious. Their snaps pop open easily, but the clips don’t fall out the way the gun did. Using my finger and thumb, I slide the first clip out and drop it in my pocket before doing the same with the second. Even the clips of ammunition are surprisingly heavy.

What looks like a knife is clipped on the belt just behind the ammunition pouches. I reach down and slide it off and flip it open. The blade looks sharp and I close it quickly. I clip it on my own belt and turn, ready to go.

“The knife was a good find,” Patrick says approvingly.

This is the type of compliment that is normal now. I nod in agreement. Patrick is staring at the body on the floor. He has a look of puzzlement in his face.

“Does he have a vest on?” he asks.

I look at the officer’s body closely and notice the lines under his shirt. He is definitely wearing a bulletproof vest.

“Yeah, I think he does.”

We both stand and stare. It takes a few seconds for me to figure out what Patrick is thinking, but I get there. He is wondering if we should take the vest. We should, I think. Though the undead aren’t shooting people, so it wouldn’t really help against them.

The other guys are going for headshots, so body armor wouldn’t help for that. It wouldn’t hurt in case they missed, but how would we get it off the officer? We would have to undo his shirt and roll his body all around. It was hard enough just getting to the ammo clips; undressing a dead body would be a nightmare.

“I don’t think we need it.” I’m not at that advanced stage of depravity where I am stealing clothes off dead police officers.

“Your call. We gotta get you something for your arms and legs though.” He taps his forearms. I can clearly make out duct tape decorated with umbrellas that looks like its wrapped over a soccer shin guard. He has the same setup on the other arm and both his lower legs.

“What now?” I ask.

“Let’s get back to the others. I don’t like being separated.”

Patrick turns and heads back up the stairs. He steps quickly and I can hear that he is being less careful than on our way down. We make good time and I think he feels safer knowing that the group has a gun. It could be that he just wants to get back to his friends.

The clang of a body hitting a railing and a loud thud echoes through the stairwell. I recognize the sound from the zombie falling onto us from above. Could it have been attracted by the sound of our steps?

Patrick abandons caution and leaps two steps at a time. He is around the corner and across the next landing before I can push myself for one more step. For a pudgy guy, he is explosive.

By the time I catch up, he is standing on the fifth floor landing. His friends all appear to be okay, but there is a third zombie body on the pile.

“Is everyone all right?” I ask, concerned.

They give me silent nods in return.

“What do we do now?” Patrick looks at the big guy; I think he called him Cupcake.

I thought that Patrick was their leader but we suddenly seem to be waiting on orders from Cupcake. The silence is frightening. Drips of blood continue to drop slowly from the body of the boy. They splat into the puddle forming on the landing and each one sounds louder than the last.

“We should go up to the lounge. Get some food and water. It may give us a better view so we can help Tucker,” the young woman says.

Patrick looks up the stairs and then down at the pile of bodies. These monsters came from where she is suggesting we go. “Seize the high ground,” floats into my head, like a lesson from a book or a movie. When a character says it, I get the impression that it’s a plan, and easy. Now I feel like it’s a guess and could be hard.

“Shoot Tucker a text and tell him where we’re headed. Tell him to keep hanging on; we’ll think of something,” Patrick says to Cupcake, before speaking to the whole group. “Me and new guy go first. Laney, you got Todd, and Cupcake, you bring up the rear.”

“My name’s Parker,” I inject feebly.

“I know.”

He adjusts his grip on the hockey stick and bounds up the first few steps. Something tells me he can’t run for long, but his first step is quick. I’m glad they didn’t ask me to go first as some type of initiation.

Going first would require swift and thorough action upon encountering a zombie. Can I quickly identify an undead person from a living person? Once identified, am I resolute enough to kill them? Is killing them the same with a gun as it is with a hockey stick?

The last thought is foolish. With a gun I have the luxury of aiming for any spot on their skull. My bullet will do all the hard work if my aim is true.

Having never held or shot any type of gun in my life, I have to wonder how good my aim will be. I’m also concerned with the sound of the gun going off in the enclosed space of the stairwell. The bodies hitting the railing reverberated loudly; I have to imagine a gunshot would be deafening.

After two flights of stairs, I see a sign telling us that the rooftop lounge is on the eleventh floor. We have four more flights to go.

Patrick’s pace is slowing. I suspected it would, but this is even sooner than I thought. Sweat drips off the back of his long stringy hair and his breathing is labored.

When he makes the turn onto the next landing, I hear some scuffling. There is a moan and some faint buzzing, but I can’t tell what direction it comes from.

“Fuck,” Patrick says before grunting a few times.

I should race up and see what is happening and try to help. Instead I slow my pace and pray that whatever is happening is over when I get there.

Finally, I reach the landing and see the body off in a corner and Patrick turning to head up the next flight of stairs. The struggle is over. I’m relieved.

I pause briefly in front of the body and notice that there is very little blood. The boy’s body, in contrast, has been dripping blood for a while now. Even when I think it must be dry, more seems to come. Do the zombies bleed out before they turn or is there another explanation?

The remaining flights are covered without incident, at least for me. I’m in my own world, thinking about the difference between killing from a distance, like with a rifle, and killing up close with your hands. I decide that the strain from having to do either will have an adverse effect on my psyche.

On the eleventh floor, Patrick waits outside the door to the lounge. He breathes heavily and watches the stairs anxiously. As each of his friends appears, his expression lightens a little.

“Made it,” Cupcake reports as he arrives.

“Let’s catch our breath for a minute. We may have some cleaning to do once we go inside,” Patrick explains. I am glad that he can think ahead like that.

“Who do you work for?” I blurt out, without even realizing I was thinking it.

“I’m currently unemployed. Does it matter?”

“Sorry. I mean where did you get your training? Army, marines, police?”

“Training? We’re all using the ‘just roll with it’ school of thought,” he says and shrugs, destroying the little confidence I had building.