City of the Dead (21 page)

He rose, and checked his body. It was still in good shape, but was starting to show hints of the decay to come. The sallow flesh had begun to swell.

"I need energy. These weren't nearly enough-just appetizers. Bring me some dinner."

A captive human was led before him, a Sikh taxi driver whom they'd found hiding inside a garbage Dumpster on Fifth Avenue. Ob frowned. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by the undead, the man was smiling.

"What's your malfunction?" Ob asked in English. "What is so funny?"

The man blinked, uncomprehending. His smile never faded. Ob tried several different languages, till he found one the man understood.

"Are you not afraid? Do you not fear me?"

"No, I do not fear you. This is all a dream. A very long dream."

The man was clearly insane. Ob rose and walked toward him.

"Can you smell me, son of Adam? Can you smell my brethren as these stinking meat wagons we use fall apart around us? Is that stench not real?"

The man did not reply. His grin grew wider.

Ob slid a yellowing fingernail lightly across the captive's throat, tracing a second grin beneath his smile. A thin line of blood welled from the cut.

"Can you feel that? Can you feel in a dream?"

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"It is a dream," the man insisted. "None of this is real. The dead do not move around. Therefore, it is a dream."

"Oh, but the dead do move," Ob said, his smile matching the captive's. "Even when we don't possess you, the dead move. You move when the oxygen in your lungs is expelled from your body. The muscles in your corpse dry out and contract. The dead move."

Ob blew fetid air into the man's face. The prisoner's smile faded. Ob's did not.

"And so shall you."

He pressed his nail into the man's throat, slicing deeper into the flesh. The captive's jugular squirted blood, spraying Ob's face and shoulders. Ob licked his lips and then brought the dripping finger to his mouth and sucked on it. Then he feasted.

Minutes later, as promised, the dead man began to move.

"Tell me a bedtime story?" Danny asked, as Jim pulled the covers up around him.

"I reckon so. We don't have any books here, but I remember Teeny Tiny Tale by heart."

A shadow passed over Danny's face; memories of the thing in the parking garage.

"No. I don't want that one, Daddy. How about something else? Maybe Green Eggs and Ham?."

Jim had the Seuss memorized too, and he recited it word for word. Danny laughed, clapping his hands and wiggling beneath the covers with enjoyment. When Jim was finished, Danny asked for another.

Jim sat on the edge of the bed and thought for a moment. Then he said, "Once upon a time, there was a king and his son, the prince. One day, the prince went

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missing, and the king decided to search for him. Their kingdom had been overrun with monsters, but the king didn't care. All he cared about was the prince."

He paused. "What do you think so far?"

"It's the bomb," Danny replied with a grin.

Jim continued. "The king didn't have a horse, so he set out on foot, armed only with a sword. He fought the monsters with every step, and they almost had him, until he met a kind old friar who lived in the woods."

"What's a friar?"

"Sort of like a monk, I think. Like Friar Tuck in Robin Hood."

"Oh, okay."

"So the king and the friar set out to find the prince, and they-"

"Daddy?" Danny interrupted. "Can we call the friar Martin?"

"Sure," Jim swallowed. "I think Martin would have liked that."

"I think so too."

Jim opened his mouth to start again, but Danny interrupted a second time.

"Daddy, do you miss Mr. Martin?"

"Yeah, I do, squirt. I miss him a lot. He was a nice old guy, and a good friend."

"Do you think anybody else is going to die?"

The abruptness of the question shocked Jim, and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Well, I mean-"

His son looked at him expectantly.

"Nobody else that we love is going to die," Jim answered. "Not for a long time."

He continued with the bedtime story. Within minutes, Danny yawned, blinking his eyes and fighting sleep.

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"Why don't you go to sleep, now?"

"I don't want to, Daddy," he murmured. "What if something else happens?"

Jim kissed his forehead. "Nothing else is going to happen," he promised. "I'm gonna watch over you."

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Danny asked as his eyes closed.

"I'll be right here."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, Danny."

Then Danny opened his eyes slightly, and said, "I love you more than Godzilla."

Jim smiled.

"Love you more than Spider-Man."

"Love you more than Hulk."

"Love you more than 'finity, Daddy."

"You too, buddy," Jim whispered. "I love you more than infinity."

Danny shut his eyes again, and within seconds, he was asleep.

Jim turned off the light and sat by his son's bedside, watching him, listening to him breathe. He sat there for a long time, not moving or even thinking, until there was a soft knock at the door.

Jim tiptoed over to the door and opened it. Don grinned at him.

"Everything okay?" Don asked.

"Sure." Jim nodded, stepping out into the hall. "Danny's sleeping. He just laid down."

"Good. He needs his rest. Hell, I guess we all do."

"Yeah," Jim replied. "So what's up?"

"Well, I wanted you to know that I checked on Frankie, and she's doing fine. She had a scare earlier in the day, though."

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"What do you mean?" Jim frowned as he realized he didn't know exactly where Frankie was sleeping tonight-the infirmary, he assumed. Damn, they'd been here less than a day, and he'd already lost track of his friends.

"Apparently, she got out of bed and went looking for us. She was delirious. Doc Stern said she had enough sedatives in her to knock out an elephant, but still, she got up and was wandering around. Wound up in a bit of trouble."

"Maynard." Jim hissed. It wasn't a question.

"I think so," Don agreed. "Forrest and Stern wouldn't confirm or deny, but I'm sure Maynard was involved."

"I knew that guy was trouble. Is Frankie okay?"

"She's fine now, and she should be up and about in a few days."

"Good. That's a relief."

"Yeah." Don paused for a moment. "Listen, Jim- everything's gonna be all right now, isn't it? I mean-I'm sorry about Martin, and everything else that happened, but despite all of that, it's okay now, right? We made it. We're alive."

"I don't know, Don. What is it you want me to say? What do you want to hear?"

Don's voice was barely a whisper.

"I want to hear that it's going to be okay. That we'll win. That they can't beat us."

"They don't win until the last human being left on Earth is dead."

Don frowned. "Judging by the way things have been going, I don't find much comfort in that, Jim."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and I can god-damned guarantee you that nothing is going to

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hurt my son. Not ever again. And I've got your back too. So does Frankie. How's that sound?"

De Santos grinned sheepishly. "It sounds good. Look, I'm sorry. It's just that-I haven't had anybody to talk to in what seems like forever. Not since everything started. First there was our dog, and then Myrna-and then nothing until you guys came along. I guess I was just lonely."

"Well," Jim clasped his shoulder, "you're not alone anymore. None of us are."

It was hard for Jim to believe that he'd met this man less than twenty-four hours ago; it felt like they were brothers.

"Yeah." Don sniffed. "You've got that right."

The two of them drifted apart, straightening their posture, secure in their manhood.

"Listen," Don said, "me and Smokey and some of the others are gonna play cards. You want to come?"

Jim cocked a thumb at the apartment door. "No, I appreciate the offer, but I'm gonna stay here with Danny."

"Of course. Enjoy it, Jim. He's a good kid."

"That he is."

"Okay, well, I'll see you later then. Breakfast sound good? Seven o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"You're on. We'll see you there."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Don."

Jim watched him walk away down the hall. Then he went back inside and quietly closed the door. Danny was still sleeping, and there was a smile on his face.

It matched the smile on Jim's own.

He undressed, layed down in bed, and read Martin's Bible, finding comfort from both his lost friend-and those still with him.

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Ramsey folded his hands and shook his head in reserved disbelief. Seated around the conference table with him were Bates, Forrest, and Stern.

"You're absolutely sure of this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Bates nodded. "Dr. Stern found the videotapes. Maynard had quite the library, it seems. He filmed himself in the act with the ... He must have been doing this for quite some time. They were-"

"They were repulsive," Stern finished for him. "He was having sex with captive zombies-necrophilia in the absolute worst sense. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. I don't know how any of this happened without our knowledge. Apparently, Joseph covered his tracks exceedingly well."

"How is the young man who shot him?"

"Carson? He's fine, aside from a broken nose."

"Which he sustained during a confrontation with another young man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who leapt to his death?"

Bates nodded again.

"And the woman whom Maynard was about to kill- the new arrival? She's fine?"

"She came through surgery okay, but she's not out of the woods yet," Stern answered. "Kelli and I will continue monitoring her condition. She needs rest more than anything else."

"My children aren't happy," Ramsey whispered. "They are not content."

"Excuse me, sir?" Bates cast a wary glance at Forrest and Stern. They stared back at him in confusion.

"We need more people." Ramsey's tone was decisive. "That's why all of this is happening, Bates. Our people

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are lonely-they grow dissatisfied. They are beginning to turn on one another. We need more people for our community, so that it may grow. Send another patrol out to look for survivors, immediately."

Forrest opened his mouth to protest, but Bates cut him off.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey," Bates paused, choosing his words carefully, "but DiMassi is still sick, and Quinn and Steve were out all night looking for survivors, and didn't get to bed until later today, after they'd briefed me. They need to rest and recuperate first."

"Then send out a ground force."

"A ground force?" The blood drained from Bates's face.

"Yes. You read me a list of our weaponry last night, so I know we have the capability. Arm them well and send them out. I want the city searched. We mustn't leave anybody out there, Bates. We must save each and every one of them. That is our calling. We must save as many as we can."

"Sir, it's nighttime. And even if it were daylight, they'd be slaughtered before they got three steps away from the building, no matter how well armed."

Ramsey stood up and waved his hand in disdain.

"Nonsense, Bates. You personally trained them all. They'll be fine. Now get it done. I'll expect a full report when they've returned."

He walked to the door, and then turned back to them.

"Have the patrol look for some yarn as well."

"Yarn, sir?" Bates was incredulous.

"Yes, yarn. I want to do some knitting. I'm going to knit a cake. And cucumbers. I've got a craving for fresh cucumbers. See if they can find some of those too."

"Knit a cake. Yes, sir." Bates felt a twinge of real, undiluted fear. "Anything else?"

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"Have the tapes that Dr. Maynard recorded sent up to my room. I'll need to study them in detail."

Ramsey left the room, and the three men gaped at each other.

"Bates," Forrest said carefully, "I know he's the boss and all, and I know you've worked for him a long time- but that motherfucker has lost it, man. He's completely whacked. Over the fucking rainbow! Knit a fucking cake? What the hell is that about?"

"I concur," Stern agreed. "Obviously, Mr. Ramsey has suffered some form of mental breakdown. He's a danger both to himself and others. We need to do something."

Bates put his face in his hands and rubbed his tired eyes. Then he looked at them. His expression was grave.

"Okay. Now you both know what I've been dealing with for the past few weeks. What do you suggest we do about it?"

"Confine him," Stern said. "We lock him up and you assume command, at least temporarily. We have several mental-health specialists in the building. They can work with him, diagnose the problem."

"I can diagnose the problem," Bates answered. "He's suffering from delusions of grandeur. He feels like it's his personal duty to save every living person still out there. He's got some kind of messiah complex."

"Well, I ain't drinking no purple Kool-Aid," Forrest vowed.

"Mr. Ramsey is only part of the problem," Bates said, ignoring the soldier. "We need to seriously start thinking about getting out of this city. We can't stay here much longer."

"Why not?" Stern asked. "We're relatively secure, aren't we?"

"Sure-until those things outside get their hands on a

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tank or some artillery. They think and plan, Doctor. What happens when they find some fertilizer and cook up a truck bomb?"

"Supposedly, this building can withstand something like that."

"You want to wait around to find out if it really lives up to the engineer's hype?"

"But surely we can defend ourselves. We have guns. Weapons."

"So do they-and there are more of them than there are of us. It doesn't matter how many guns we have. We're outnumbered in any case."

Bates was quiet for a moment, and then continued.

"When you've been doing this for as long as I have, you learn to trust your gut, to honor your instincts. Right now, my gut is telling me that something really bad is about to happen."