SURVIVORS OF THE DEAD: FROM THE ASHES (2 page)

Harry hung up and immediately opened the directory on the pho
ne. He located Central Station, deciding to call the report in directly, and pressed the speed dial number he had assigned to the station. Once again he started to pace as the line began to ring. He happened by the coffee table where a universal remote control lay, and absently picked it up and turned on the television. Harry normally started his day by watching the morning news on KRON, Channel 4, but as he stared at what was on the 52” LED flat screen TV, it looked as if the location being televised was somewhere in the Middle East. It did not register just yet that what he saw was actually taking place, live, on Market Street in the middle of downtown San Francisco.

“Central, O’Leary
,” a voice on the other end of the line finally answered after ringing more times than Harry could remember.

“Bob?” Harry responded to Robert O’Leary, a desk sergeant he had known for years.
Continuing before O’Leary could reply, he said, “Bob, it’s Lancaster. I’ve had trouble in my building. Jesus, I had to shoot two of my tenants!”

“Listen Harry, there has been a department
-wide call-in for every officer and reserve as of 0745 hours this morning. I tried calling you but only got your voice mail,” Bob replied. “There’s some serious shit going down and it’s going down all over the City. People are going crazy and attacking anything that moves. We’ve even had to lock down the station. Nobody knows what the hell is going on, but you listen really carefully. DO NOT come in! It’s too dangerous and we’re losing our people left and right. Make sure your place is buttoned up tight and don’t let anyone in under any circumstances. If you see anyone acting even remotely odd, and believe me you’ll know what that means when you see it, do not hesitate! Take them out immediately! Do you copy me?”

T
he events of the morning thus far with what he’d had to do in the lobby, and now hearing what O’Leary had just said, nearly pushed Harry over the brink! “What do you mean, shit’s going down all over the City?” Harry demanded. “I just had to blow away two old ladies in my lobby that were gnawing on a fucking UPS guy! Now you’re telling me if anybody acts odd I should take them out? What the fuck, Bob!”

With an exasperated tone
, Bob immediately said, “Turn on the TV, Harry, see for yourself.” Harry started to respond, but only got a couple of words out, before O’Leary interrupted him. “Listen Harry, I gotta go. You button up tight and you stay put until we can regroup and get the City back in control. We’ve got SWAT backed up with calls and every car is in a different location all over the City. There’s nothing you can do right now, so you wait for further instructions.” With that, O’Leary hung up. Harry could only look at the cell phone in his hand in complete astonishment.

Staring intently
at the television that was directly in front of him, he turned up the volume and started to surf the channels in total disbelief. What he saw was total anarchy. There were indeed scenes of mass rioting not only in San Francisco but also apparently all over the country, according to the national news networks. He settled on GNN when he ran across them in some sort of heated debate over what was happening.

3

Harry watched GNN for the better part of two hours, alternatively switching between that and the local channels. They all told the same story: something about a worldwide bioterrorist attack that had affected a large portion of the population. Those infected seemed to then attack and either kill or infect others. It didn’t make any sense to Harry, and obviously it didn’t make much sense to the talking heads reporting the information. As is normal in an emergency involving unknowns, everyone had an opinion on the cause. Shouting matches erupted on some networks between so-called respected experts generating conflicting reports, which seemed to only create more confusion. But the televised images themselves spoke volumes, overshadowing anything the experts or the studio anchors were relaying. Harry finally muted the television to allow what he had seen and heard to be absorbed a bit, and to gather his jumbled thoughts. That was also when the unrelenting pounding that seemed to resound throughout the building came crashing back into focus. He had only one thought: “What is this, fuckin’ Cujo meets Dawn of the Dead?” Walking over to the closed, heavy curtains in his bedroom and pulling back a small section, Harry peered out onto a scene of horror much like what he had been watching on TV.

After
viewing the craziness unfold on the street below his window for several minutes, Harry finally stepped back from the window with sudden determination. “Okay, so first things first; I need to check on the rest of the building.” Although he knew what he was assuredly going to find, he prepared himself as best he could. Walking over to a dresser, he opened the uppermost drawers, revealing several boxes of .45 caliber ammunition and four empty magazines. Pulling these items out of the drawer, he carefully lined them up in front of him on top of the dresser.

Opening the boxes of ammunition, and then picking up the first empty magazine, he started to thum
b in rounds. When he finished loading the four mags, he reached to the back of his jeans and pulled the Glock out from where it had been sitting in the small of his back since he had replaced it after the lobby incident. Dropping the mag from the weapon, he reloaded the rounds he had fired. Harry suddenly realized he had not noticed the slight discomfort caused by the large weapon pressing into his skin until that moment. He also realized that the minor discomfort must have subconsciously kept him a bit more grounded in the otherwise surreal last couple of hours of hell in which he had found himself. “No time to sit in the corner babbling incoherently about the possibility of large slobbering dogs or zombies roaming the streets of San Francisco,” Harry said absently, slipping the freshly reloaded mag back into the grip of the Glock, then pulling back the slide to chamber a round. “Work to do right now.”

Harry retrieved the master
key that would unlock any apartment in the building from the hook he kept by the door, and ventured out. The first door he approached was only about ten feet from his, but he could hear the pounding and that moaning almost as soon as he entered the hallway. Walking up to the door and using the tenant’s name he called through it, “Jean, it’s Harry, the manager, are you okay?”

The only response was a more insistent pounding.

“Jean, step back away from the door so I can open it.
I want to help you.”

Furious pounding was the only
response to Harry’s pleas.

Inserting
the master key with his left hand, tightly holding the Glock with his right, he quickly assessed what he was actually going to do. He was afraid that as soon as he unlocked the door, the tenant would surely come out and set upon him.

“Jean
, please step back from the door so I can help you,” Harry once again pleaded as he turned the key in the lock, standing just to the left of the door in a standard police door knock position. He clearly heard the key turn the deadbolt with a distinctive click; the pounding continued, with an increase in the moaning, but nothing else happened.

Not understanding why the tenant had not rushed out of the door, Harry grasped the
doorknob, still standing to the left side of the entry, and slowly turned it. The pounding became more frantic, if that was possible, which only increased Harry’s anxiety. He pushed the in-swinging door open just a fraction, maybe two or three inches, and was instantly met with the tenant, or whoever was on the other side, slamming their body into it and causing it to slam shut. Harry nearly pissed himself but quickly recovered. With a slightly trembling hand, he once again grasped and turned the knob, going through the same procedure as before, and again the door was slammed shut with the heavy thud of a body impacting it from the inside.

“God damn it!
I’m trying to help you!” Harry shouted in frustration. No intelligent response was given in return from the tenant other than the constant pounding and moaning which was beginning to really grate on his nerves. Staring at the door for several moments, Harry finally said, “Fuck it,” turned the knob once again, and shouldered the door with everything he had. The door flew open, knocking the tenant to the floor some feet back.

Harry was able to see clearly that this was, in fact, the tenant of the apartment.
Jean was a young woman in her mid to late 20’s, athletic and in very good shape – a stark contrast to Edna and Katy – although it was quite evident that she had the same reddish eyes and what appeared to be a pinkish white froth around her lips.

Jean quickly regained her feet
, nearly jumping up as she rushed Harry, who had already had the Glock aimed in her general direction after he forced the door open. Without hesitation he fired twice into Jean, who was literally thrown back across the room from the impact of the rounds. Although Harry’s experience in the lobby earlier that morning should have prepared him for what happened next, he watched in absolute horror as Jean got up. It was much slower this time, but she still got to her feet, staring at Harry all the while, and started at him again! All Harry could think as he fired a final round into her head was, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

After obliterating Jean’s head from her bod
y, he took several deep breaths, glancing at the carnage briefly. Turning, he walked back into the hall, leaving the door ajar slightly behind him. He leaned back against the doorframe and wiped his forehead with the back of his right hand, which held the gun, to remove the nervous sweat that had quickly developed. This time he did not get sick. “Okay, let’s review here, Harry ole boy,” he said in a weary tone. “You’ve now killed three people and mutilated the corpse of a UPS guy by blowing its head off. What have we learned from this so far?”

What began to
finally sink in given the lack of response from Katy, Edna, and now Jean – regardless of how much he had resisted the thought – was that these ‘people’ were obviously so out of their minds that they didn’t understand what was going on. Or he was truly facing something from the depths of hell as he had seen on TV a short time ago. “It looks like these things may not be smart enough to open a door.” That was in line with what he had learned watching the news broadcasts. They had said these things, these zombies, were mindless creatures, reverting back to very primitive instincts. Harry took a few more deep breaths and allowed the years of training to take over. Moving with determination, he approached each door where he heard pounding along with the now all-too-familiar moaning; he identified himself and offered to help, unlocked the door and forcefully shouldering it open; and immediately shot whatever he found on the other side. With practiced ease he finally began to administer just headshots, as he understood this was truly the only way to kill them.

This went on for what seemed hours
: Going methodically through the building, door-to-door, opening each where the pounding emanated and putting down whatever was behind it. Searching the apartment for any additional nasty surprises, then leaving the door ajar slightly so he would know which units he had cleared. Harry went from apartment to apartment until finally the building was quiet, other than the hammering of his heart and the slight ringing in his ears from the rounds he had fired. Out of forty-six units, twenty-eight had been occupied by tenant/zombies, and two of the units had belonged to Edna and Katy. He’d thought the rest were empty of any form of life, or ‘unlife’, but as he reached the door of the very last apartment on the sixth floor he could hear muffled voices. Knocking loudly twice, he excitedly said, “It’s Harry, Harry Lancaster! Open the door!”

After a few moments the door to
Apartment 67 opened and the very frightened tenant peered out, the security chain on the door still attached.

“Harry, what, what’s happening?” The
young woman asked in her usual whiny voice. “I’ve been calling you for hours! Why haven’t you answered the phone? You need to do something!”

Harry looked at
her in amazement. She’d always been a pain in the ass. Mom and dad paid all her bills, and she was nothing more than a spoiled brat. She was always complaining about something.

“Are you
serious? Things have been a bit hectic around here lately if you haven’t noticed!” Harry said while attempting to keep his building anger in check. What he wanted to do was pull her through that eight-inch gap and slap her.

“Well, you need to do something! The electricity has gone out and nob
ody is answering at PG&E,” Miss Brat said, large tears rolling down her face. “I tried calling my mom but she isn’t picking up.”

Harry wanted to tell her that mommy was pr
obably dead. Either that or running around infecting others. But he didn’t have the opportunity.

“Who is that?”
said a familiar male voice that Harry unfortunately recognized all too well. Miss Brat’s boyfriend; a short, balding man in his early thirties, with oily hair and the onset of a gut. Harry was convinced, after dealing with him on several occasions, that he lived off the support of people like Miss Brat. Harry didn’t understand what women could possibly see in this guy. Then again, he couldn’t really understand what men saw in women like Miss Brat. The old saying ‘
there is someone for everyone
’ surely applied in this couple’s case. This guy never held a job long, always whining about something, and was a general pain-in-the-ass on many levels. Harry had taken to referring to him as Mr. PITA.