City of the Dead (33 page)

"Stop that," the Canadian pilot answered. "Just stop that talk. You'll be fine."

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"I'm so sorry, man," Quinn apologized again.

"Shut up, Quinn."

"How do I work this thing?" Jim asked, strapping the flamethrower's tanks to his back.

Steve gave him a quick lesson and then they started down the stairs again, Frankie in the lead, Steve and Quinn supporting Bates, Danny behind them, and Jim bringing up the rear.

They only made it three more floors before the zombies poured into the stairwell above them. The creatures opened fire, and the air rang with the soft pop of .22 rifles, the thunder of a .45, and the concussive blasts of a Browning sub-machine gun. Jim unleashed a stream of liquid fire, torching the creatures in midrun. The descent became a running battle. Frankie shot the creatures below them and Jim incinerated anything to the rear. The stairway echoed with gunfire and reeked of burning hair and flesh. The smoke grew thick, and they had to put their clothing over their mouths and noses to filter the air they breathed. Their eyes stung, and their ears rang from the constant explosions.

A zombie on the next landing shimmied up the handrail and clutched Steve's foot. He tried to shake it off without jostling Bates, and the wounded man groaned. Dirty fingernails clawed at Steve's ankle, slicing into his flesh. The pilot screamed as the nails burrowed deeper.

Danny swung the baseball bat. He brought it down again, shattering the creature's wrist. The hand pulled away. A second later, Frankie shot the zombie from its perch.

Eventually, the pursuit dwindled, and then died. Still, they kept running, moving as fast as they could without

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jostling Bates or losing Danny, who was having trouble keeping up.

Then they found Branson. His body had plummeted more than twenty stories before coming to rest on one of the landings. His back was snapped. His legs and arms hung askew, splintered and broken, and his head had split open like a melon.

"Guess he won't be coming back again," Quinn said. "Lucky bastard."

Bates croaked, "We should ... all be so ... lucky."

Frankie checked her magazines and reloaded. Steve and Quinn caught their breath, grateful for the stop. Danny snuggled close to Jim, hugging him tightly. None of them spoke.

Footsteps pounded after them from far above.

They ran on.

Carson's body wasn't recognizable as a human being, yet the red, raw mass struggled to its feet, controlled by another. His hand had only two remaining fingers and a thumb, but he managed to turn the doorknob. With the combined weight of the birds slamming against it, the door exploded outward, shoving the desk out of the way.

The zombies flew down the hallway, darting through open doorways and soaring down the empty elevator shafts and open stairwells. The thing that had been Carson stumbled along behind them, shedding pieces of meat.

The hallway was quiet, and there were no humans in sight. It wondered where its host's friends had gone. The creature searched Carson's memory, and then traced Branson's trail of blood down the corridor. Eventually, it found its way to the utility door, and opened it. The

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birds followed him, pouring into the stairwell. With each floor they passed, more zombies joined in the chase. The stairway filled with dead bodies, all hurtling downward in pursuit of the living.

309 SEVENTEEN

"Forrest, how much longer are we going to wait?" Smokey whispered.

The sub-basement was dark, cold, and dank, reeking of smoke from the fires above them. Their only sources of illumination came from a flashlight that Pigpen found on a tool bench, and a battery-operated lantern. The concrete floor was piled high with boxes and storage bins. Workbenches were heaped with tools and scraps of pipe and wiring. Spider-webs dangled from the air ducts.

Forrest shifted his weight from foot to foot, guarding one of the doors.

"As long as we have to. We ain't leaving without them."

Etta found some clean rags in one of the boxes and changed the bandages on Leroy's burned forearm. God brushed up against her side, purring loudly, and she shooed him away.

"Get this damn cat out of here," she snapped at Pigpen. "Leroy don't need his arm getting infected."

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Leroy pushed himself up. "I'm fine. It's just burned. Quit your fussing, woman. You cluck more than a chicken."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Leroy Piper," Etta's head darted back and forth like a snake's, "or that burn on your arm will be the last of your worries!"

"Etta," Forrest snapped. "Keep your voice down! For God's sake, why don't you just walk upstairs and let those things know we're down here?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but saw the storm brewing behind the big man's eyes, and shut it again.

Forrest glanced at his wristwatch, and chewed his lip. He looked around the basement again. There were four entrances: a service elevator, two regular stairways- both of which led to the destroyed parking garage, and the fire stairs. Don guarded one stairwell, and he kept watch on the other.

"Smokey," he grunted, "get over there and watch that fire door. Pigpen, shut that damn cat up. He's meowing as loud as Etta."

"Hey," the big woman protested.

"Sshh!"

Forrest's radio hissed static. He snapped it up.

"Forrest?" It was Quinn. "You copy, big guy?"

"Here. Where you at?"

"We're ..." There was a moment of silence, and Forrest heard somebody else in the background. "We're on our way to the location you and Bates agreed on."

"He with you?" The relief in Forrest's voice was unmistakable.

"Yeah. So are Steve and the Thurmond party."

Don looked up, the grin on his face infectious, spreading to the faces of Leroy, Smokey, and Etta.

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"Where are you?" Quinn asked. He sounded out of breath. "And who's with you?"

"We're waiting on you," Forrest said. "I got Smokey, Leroy and Etta, Pigpen, and Don De Santos."

"And God," Pigpen added. "Don't forget God."

The cat rolled over onto its back and Pigpen scratched its belly.

"Which way are you guys coming down?" Forrest asked. "We'll clear a path."

There was another pause, and then Quinn said, "Bates says not to tell you over the radio. Just be ready for us. If we don't run into anything else, we should be there in about five minutes."

"Copy that. We'll be ready."

"And Forrest?"

"Yeah?"

"See if you can find some clean linens, alcohol, maybe even some duct tape."

Forrest translated the list in his mind. Bandages, disinfectant, and sutures. Battlefield medicine. A poor man's triage. That meant someone was injured.

"Who's hurt?" he asked.

"Bates."

"Is it bad?"

"Yeah. Yeah, man, it is."

"Shit."

Forrest started to ask what had happened, but a gunshot cut him off.

"Got to go, man," Quinn shouted. "They're on our ass again!"

More gunfire crackled from the speaker, and then Quinn was gone.

Forrest clipped the radio back onto his belt and looked at his companions. Their faces were grim.

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"They better get a move on," Leroy grumbled.

Etta got to her feet. "If those things is chasing them, won't they lead them down here?"

Nobody replied. Smokey, Don, and Forrest turned back to their posts. Pigpen began searching through boxes and storage bins, looking for anything that could be used to treat Bates. God trailed along behind him.

Suddenly, the door in front of Don burst open. He brightened, expecting to see Jim, Frankie, and Danny walk through. Instead, it was a lone zombie, dressed in a dirty, tattered delivery uniform. Before it could even step through the doorway, Don dropped it with a single shot to the head. Terrified, he checked the stairwell for more.

"Clear?" Forrest asked.

Don nodded, shuddering. He grabbed the creature's feet and dragged it out of the way so that the door would close again.

"Forrest," Etta pleaded, "we've got to go. If that one found us, then you can bet your ass there's more coming. They must have heard that gunshot."

"We're not leaving without Bates."

"And I'm not leaving without my friends," Don said.

"We don't even know if they're alive!"

"Of course they are," Don argued. "We just heard from them."

"Yeah, and they was in the middle of a fire-fight. They're probably dead now. I say we go."

"Etta." Smokey tried to reason with her, turning his back on the fire door. "Why don't you just sit back down and rest?"

"Smokey," Forrest warned, "watch the door."

At that moment, the door opened. Smokey turned and Don and Forrest raised their weapons. Then they lowered them in relief.

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Frankie ran into the basement, followed by the two pilots, supporting Bates between them. Jim and Danny entered last.

They gaped at Bates's wound. Smokey tore his eyes away. He shut the door and began stacking boxes in front of it as a crude blockade.

Don exchanged hugs with Frankie, Danny, and Jim. "I was worried about you guys. Everybody okay?"

"We're all right." Jim nodded. "How about you."

"What happened?" Forrest helped lower Bates to the floor.

"Quinn fucking shot him in the stomach," Steve said.

"You what?" Forrest's eyes bulged.

"It was an accident! We were under attack. I thought he was a zombie."

Bates reached up and clutched Forrest's arm with one weak hand.

"Got ... your ... pistol?"

"Never leave home without it." He tried to smile, but "it looked more like a grimace.

"Give ..." Blood dribbled from his mouth. "Give ... to me."

Forrest lifted up his shirt and pulled the weapon from its holster.

"Pigpen," he called, "you find anything?"

"Some sheets, and a roll of duct tape. Found a bottle of water too. Ain't been opened. No alcohol though."

"Bring them here."

Steve and Forrest poured the water over the wound to clean it. Bates clenched his teeth and writhed with pain.

"Do we have anything to cut the sheet up with?" Forrest asked.

"D-don't worry ... about it," Bates gasped. "Just ... g-"

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"Lie still, Bates. It's gonna be okay."

"No." Bates grabbed his hand. "Get them ... out of... here."

"But-"

Bates squeezed harder, and Forrest flinched, surprised by the wounded man's strength.

"Listen ... to me. We're all... that's left. Get ... them out ... I'm going to ... die."

"You're not going to die, god damn it!"

"Yes ... I am." Bates coughed. "And ... we both ... k-know it."

Forrest's eyes were wet. His lips quivered. The big man tried to speak, but the only thing that came out of his throat was a choking sound.

"Pig ... pen," Bates groaned. "You ... ready to ... lead them?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

Bates stared up into Forrest's face. "Go."

Forrest swallowed hard.

"Quinn, Don. Get that manhole cover up. Jim, have that flamethrower ready, just in case there's anything down there. The rest of you stand back."

"Danny." Jim pushed him backward. "Stay here with Frankie."

Quinn and Don set their weapons aside and gripped the cable that Forrest and Bates had threaded through the cover earlier. Jim stood next to them, the flamethrower at the ready. They counted to three and pulled. The manhole lid inched upward, revealing darkness. Forrest and Pigpen tensed, coiled and ready, remembering the dead rats that had poured out of the hole earlier. Don and Quinn eased down on the cable, setting the cover to the side. The shaft was empty, the ladder rungs disappearing into the dark. All of them breathed a sigh of relief.

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"Block the doors," Forrest ordered. "Boxes, crates, anything heavy."

Steve, Don, Jim, and Frankie began stacking things in front of them.

"Bates?" Quinn turned back to him. "We can't just leave you behind."

"You ..." Bates couldn't finish. He broke into a fit of violent coughing. Blood sprayed from his mouth and oozed from the gunshot wound.

"Bates made his decision," Forrest grunted. "And he's right. We can't waste any more time."

"But he's our friend."

"You think I don't fucking know that, Quinn?" Forrest exploded. "There isn't anything we can do! Now move!"

They finished with the blockades. Frankie found a pair of ratty old work boots that fit her feet, and changed out of her hospital slippers.

God sniffed the open shaft and meowed.

"I found some glow sticks on that workbench over there," Pigpen said. "Figure they'll come in handy."

Nobody responded.

Suddenly, the stairwells thundered with sound, the doors vibrating on their hinges.

"Here they come!" Etta screamed.

"How many?" Forrest asked.

Frankie pointed her weapon at the door. "All of them. And this barricaded door ain't gonna stop them for long."

"Go," Bates urged them. "I'll ... hold them off when ..."

They gathered around him, unsure of what to say. Pigpen broke the silence.

"Thanks."

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Bates nodded, clenching his fists in pain.

Pigpen clicked on the flashlight and quickly started down the ladder. God perched on his shoulders, entwining around his neck. Leroy and Etta said their goodbyes and climbed along behind him. Smokey went next, followed by Frankie. Danny climbed down after her, and Jim prepared to follow.

The approaching din grew louder.

"Mr. Thurmond?" Bates wheezed.

Jim stopped, his head and shoulders sticking out of the shaft.

"I... hope it turns out ... okay ... for you and your ... son. Your story is ... an inspiration."

Jim nodded sadly. "Thank you, Bates."

He vanished from sight.

Steve, Quinn, and Forrest stood over their dying leader.

"No time ... for ... regrets. Just go. Hurry ..."

Steve and Quinn walked away, leaving Forrest and Bates alone. They didn't look back.

The zombies began pounding on the door.

Forrest knelt down and wrapped Bates's fingers around the butt of the pistol. He held them firm, and stared into his friend's clouding eyes.