City of the Dead (12 page)

Bates gritted his teeth, "Wake Doc Stern up. I don't want Maynard left alone with the civilians."

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"We're gonna have to do something about him, Bates."

"We will. Let Stern check over these new arrivals. Maynard can assist, if he's able. We'll place him under arrest afterward."

They walked down the hall together. While they waited for the elevator, Bates's headache returned. His temples throbbed and his jaw ached.

"I'm getting too old for this shit. Something bad is coming, Forrest. I can feel it."

The big man snickered. "You mean worse than dead folks getting up and eating people?"

"Yes." Bates nodded. "Even worse than that."

Ob awoke seated on a dusty recliner inside a darkened apartment. Plywood covered the windows and doors. There were no life glows in the room or the hallway, so he assumed that he was alone.

He found a mirror and examined the new body. It was good. It was very good. Caucasian male, midtwenties, naked-the arms and chest were a chiseled mass of muscle. No visible wounds. Ob flexed and smiled. He searched through the host's memory, learning that he'd been a weight lifter named Gary, and employed as a law enforcement officer. He'd barricaded himself in the apartment and died of a heart attack in the chair. For all his strength, he'd had a weak heart. The death had occurred only a few minutes ago, while he'd been masturbating to the memory of an ex-girlfriend. Ob glanced down at the bottle of baby oil on the floor and then returned to the host's mind. Ex-military, combat trained and proficient with a variety of weapons. He searched deeper and laughed out loud. His host knew the location of several fully stocked police and National Guard armories.

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"Oh, I like this."

He posed some more, admiring the coiled strength and form. He reached down and played with the penis, shaking it at the mirror. Though flaccid, it was well proportioned. Perhaps later he would try it out and learn what was so special about the act of procreation the humans seemed so preoccupied with.

Still nude, he searched the apartment, verifying that there were no other humans. Disappointed by the lack of prey, he walked to the door. He gripped the plywood with both hands, but then paused. This body was in perfect condition. There was no sense in damaging it this early into the possession. Instead of ripping the barricade off with his bare hands, he looked for a hammer. Finding one, he removed the nails and walked out the door.

Severed body parts littered the stairway-congealing piles of viscera and haphazardly strewn limbs. He stepped through the carnage and almost slipped in a half-dried pool of blood. He left red footprints in his wake.

Near the bottom, a head rolled its eyes toward him. The dry, black tongue slithered out of the dirt-caked mouth like a piece of liver, wiggling for his attention. Ob bent over and picked the head up.

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew you well..."

The head's lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Do not try to speak, brother. Your body lacks the necessary equipment. I will release you so that you may try again."

The eyes blinked, and then the head mouthed silent thanks.

"Go and find another body."

Ob slammed the head into the wall, cracking the

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plaster. He struck it a second time. The skull split, and the brains leaked out. The lips stopped moving.

The lobby doors were chained shut. He'd expected this, seen it in his host's memories. He pulled the fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed out the windows, picking the fragments of glass out of the way so that they wouldn't damage his new form. Then he crawled outside into the night.

The city was alive with the dead-teeming with them. They were like ants, scurrying through the streets and alleys and buildings. New York City once had a population of over eight million people. Now, it was the world's most populated graveyard. Zombies waved from balconies and fire escapes and honked their horns at each other as they drove by in cars and cabs. Humans, rats, pigeons, cats, dogs-the undead represented every life form native to New York. The air was ripe with the smell of rotting corpses and the screams of those few still living. Rotting garbage littered the streets; the former civilization's debris mingled with offal and internal organs. Graffiti covered the wall of a building across from him, dating from both before and after the Siqqusim's arrival: JESUS SAVES and WEST SIDE BOYZ next to I AM LOOKING FOR MY WIFE-DAWN WILLIAMS-I AM AT OUR APARTMENT and the undead response of WE HAVE YOUR WIFE, MEAT!

In the street, fourteen humans had been tied spread-eagled to the hoods of cars, and a group of zombies slowly flayed the skin from their bodies with razors, box-cutters, and butcher's knives. Another human hung from a lamppost, and was being used as a living pi�, his body beaten with spiked clubs until it burst open, showering them with bloody prizes. Other zombies

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participated in more mundane activities such as exploring buildings, driving cars and lounging on porches. Several used the windows of a decrepit brownstone as target practice and their cheers drowned out the gunfire. Another group played football in the streets-a severed human foot taking the place of the pigskin. Others played jump rope with a grayish-pink string of human intestines. A dead python slithered through the streets, vertebrae poking through its scaly flesh.

When Ob strode into their midst, all activity ceased. The gathered corpses immediately recognized him. The atmosphere became charged.

He raised his arms. "Hello, brethren!"

A thunderous cheer echoed through the concrete canyons. It was picked up and repeated throughout the city in a multitude of languages: English and Chinese, Arabic and Spanish, French and German, Hebrew and Italian. It was chirped from beaks, barked from canine throats, howled from feline mouths, and hissed on the tongues of serpents. But the words were all the same.

"Hail! Hail! Ob has come! Engastrimathos du aba paren tares! Hail!"

They ran to him, stroking his unblemished flesh and shouting with joy. They offered him strips of raw, bleeding flesh and still-warm organs, which Ob gratefully accepted. He ate, and crimson dripped from his chin, splattering onto his bare chest. Then, surrounded by the crowd, Ob leaped onto the hood of a delivery van, climbed onto the roof, and held up his hands for silence.

"Siqqusim! Who am I?"

"Ob! Ob! Ob!" The cheers roared into the night, shaking the windows in the buildings.

"Indeed I am. I am I."

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This statement was greeted by more cheers.

"Brothers, you have done well here. This shall be our Necropolis. A new Babylon. How many humans still infest this place?"

A zombie in a fraying business suit stepped forward, followed by another covered in third-degree burns.

"Not many, lord," said the suited one. Its right eye socket was an empty pit. "A few scattered survivors. There is one large group, about a hundred, gathered in a building of steel-what they call a skyscraper. It is similar to Babel of old. They call it Ramsey Towers."

Ob frowned. "I know what a skyscraper is, you fool. My host wasn't born yesterday. Tell me, with all your numbers, why have you not taken this New Babel?"

The burned one slurred as it spoke. "We cannot penetrate it, lord. The building is well guarded, and the defenses are impregnable. We lack the weaponry ..."

"Where is this building?"

"A part of the city known as Manhattan, mighty one."

"And according to my host's memories, we are in the Bronx, correct? There is an armory near here, where the humans stockpiled weapons. Have any of you discovered it yet?"

"No, lord."

"Then come, I will show you. We have much to do. We will see what secrets this armory holds. With its weapons, we can knock this New Babel down, reduce it to dust. There is an army of our brethren camped not four hours' journey from here. I shall find a means to summon them, be it radio, runner or bird. Then, while we learn how to use these weapons, we will await their arrival. We shall study and plan. Then, when all is ready, we shall deal with this tower."

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They raised another tumultuous cry, and Ob smiled, knowing that the sound must surely be reaching the Creator's ears. He hoped those ears were bleeding.

He jumped down and hummed a snatch of song from his host's memory.

" 'Start spreading the news ...'"

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The doctor stared down at Frankie from behind his mask and said, "It's going to be okay."

"Like hell it is."

The doctor didn't respond. Impassive, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and adjusted the light above her head. Frankie winced, blinded. She tried to turn away and realized that she was strapped down.

"What's going on?"

"Don't you remember? You were in a car wreck. You've also been shot."

"I-I..." She paused, struggling against the restraints. "What about the others? Jim and his boy? The preacherman?"

"I'm afraid it's just you, Frankie. You and the baby."

"Baby?"

"Yes. You're in labor. The baby is all you have left."

"But-"

"You should be thankful," he told her, as a nurse appeared next to him. "Most heroin users have

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spontaneous abortions. You've been lucky enough to carry your baby to full term. Personally, I think it's a shame. You don't deserve it."

"But I-"

She stopped, a sudden flash of pain cutting off her words. She squirmed on the table and ground her teeth. The contraction coursed through her body.

"Push."

She did. Frankie pushed with everything she had, pushed till her spine felt like it would snap. Something broke. She felt it, even through the pain. The agony built to a crescendo, and then the pressure vanished, all at once, and Frankie was crying.

Frankie cried, but the baby, her baby, did not. It made no noise at all. She craned her head, desperate to see what was wrong, but the nurse whisked it away.

"Hey," she croaked, "where's that bitch going with my baby?"

The doctor placed one gloved hand against her forehead. The latex glistened with her blood.

"He's hungry. We're going to feed him. Your baby is one of us."

"One of who?"

The doctor's voice changed. The flesh peeled away from his face in wet strips. A hypodermic needle appeared in his free hand.

"One of us. There are many of us. More than you can imagine. More than infinity," it hissed.

"No. Keep that away from me."

"Be still, now. This won't hurt a bit. I promise."

Frankie pushed against the restraints, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging as the needle came closer. A bead of fluid formed on the tip.

"Jim! Martin! Help! They've got my baby."

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"I said lie still," the zombie doctor snarled. Its stench filled the room, crowding out the smells of antiseptic and latex and blood.

The cord around her arm snapped as Frankie tore free. She ripped the surgical mask from the creature's face. The lips came with it, stretching like taffy.

"Now you've done it," the zombie slurred. The creature's lips fell to the floor, exposing rotten, ulcerating gums and a gray tongue.

"Give me back my baby, you son of a bitch!"

The other straps broke as Frankie rolled off the table and struck her head on the floor. The creature rushed her, brandishing the hypodermic needle like it was a dagger. Frankie sprang to her feet, keeping the table between them.

"This isn't really happening," she spat. "You're not real! My baby was already dead. It died back in Baltimore."

"Yes, it did. And now you're all alone. Poor Frankie. Frankie the junkie. Frankie the whore. All alone. Still dying for a fix, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. Dying for it. Dying alone in a dead world."

She sprinted for the door. The zombie ran after her. As it lurched into the hall, Frankie shoved a gurney into it. The zombie fell backward onto the delivery room's linoleum floor. Frankie ran down the hall, darting from one twisting corridor to another.

Finally, she stopped to catch her breath. Shivering, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The hospital was cold, and she could see her breath under the fluorescent lights. She glanced around, trying to get her bearings. The hallway was silent except for her footsteps.

She stopped in front of a set of double doors and ran her fingers over a sign hanging on the wall.

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Maternity Ward

She'd been here before.

"Just a dream. This is just another fucking dream. Any minute now, the preacher's gonna wake me up."

The doors swung open. She stepped through and sniffed the air. Something had spoiled inside.

"Come on, Martin. Wake my ass up!"

She looked through a glass observation window. Dozens of little white bassinets were lined up in neat, orderly rows. Each crib was occupied. Tiny fists pumped the air, and tufts of downy hair peeked over several of the rims.

"I've seen this before," she said aloud. "Where's mine? Show me my baby."

As if in answer, a pair of mottled, pale, blue-veined arms gripped the side of a bassinette. Her baby pulled itself upright. Standing on diminutive legs, it climbed down to the floor and scampered over to its nearest neighbor. The zombie infant wriggled into the bassinette and fell upon the other newborn.

The other babies began to scream.

Frankie could hear the chewing sounds, even over the cries of the other babies, even through the thick glass partition.

Even over her screams.

"Just a dream ... Just a dream ..."

The feasting grew louder, and her baby began to speak in a language Frankie had never heard before.

"Enga keeriost mathos du abapan rentare ..."

"Somebody wake me up. Wake me up!"

The baby clambered out of the bassinette and crawled toward the window.

It began to chant. "Ob ... Ob ... Ob ..."

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"Martin?" Frankie backed away from the glass. "Jim? Somebody help me!"

The baby drew nearer. Frankie shut her eyes. Her baby's voice changed again. "Mommy?" It sounded like Danny. From behind her, Martin said, "Frankie, wake up."