Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (9 page)

“I don’t think so,” the black-haired man responded. “If this is some kind of disease, some kind of outbreak, the authorities will probably just nuke the whole fucking area. They’ll be a containment perimeter and we need to get there to show them we’re uninfected. And we need to do it fast.”

I’ve gotta admit it, right then, all that talk of containment perimeters, outbreaks and diseases seemed completely bizarre. Yeah, I know a big majority of the hotel’s guests and staff were dead—or dead and twitching—but chatting ’bout that sort of thing with a group of strangers in a candle-lit bar still seemed like a strange thing to be doing. Especially as the rest of the city looked like it was in the same state of affairs.

I was also amazed at how well everyone seemed to be coping. There was none of the wild hysteria that there would’ve been if we were in a Las Vegas hotel, I can tell you that for sure. Of course, on the flip side, there were also a lot less showgirls to comfort, but hey, I was doing fine with Juliette, so I couldn’t complain.

Although everyone was keeping a tight lid on it, I knew their minds must’ve been filled with thoughts of their family and friends, as well as fears for themselves. Heck, I even thought ’bout Shirley, my last ex-wife.

She owed me money…

“T’radio says that—” Andy began.

The black-haired man spoke out again. “Fuck the radio. Who died and put you in charge?”

Budd chuckled.

“What are you laughing at, Cowboy?”

Along with the black-haired man’s venomously toned question, his female companion shot Budd a scowl. Raising the rim of his Stetson, he looked back at them both and smiled. “Who died? Well, pretty much everyone.”

“You think this is funny?”

“No. But I think you’re funny.”

“Fuck you!”

Budd let his smile grow a touch wider, leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck, stretching nonchalantly. “Thanks, but you’re not my type.”

Angered, the black-haired man strove towards Budd, balling his ring-encrusted hands into fists.

Budd stood from his chair and raised the fire axe up to his waist. “I’ve a feeling you should have another little think ’bout what you’re doing, buddy.”

The black-haired man stopped. His female companion stepped forward and placed a hand on the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Come on, Chris. Ignore the prick,” she said.

“Do as she says, Christopher.” Budd goaded. “Be a good little boy.”

“Enough of this,” Andy said loudly, his eyes focused on Budd. “What do you think we should do? Go or stay?”

Budd shrugged his shoulders and slumped back into his chair. “’We?’ As far as I’m concerned, all you people can walk around with lace panties on your heads and pencils up your noses. The way I see it, you always gotta look out for ‘Number One.’ And I’m staying right here.”

Beside him, Budd felt Juliette shift in her chair. He looked across at her and smiled. “Ain’t we, sugar?”

Juliette did not answer quickly enough to be heard before Chris and his female companion clapped their hands together to gain the attention of the group. “Me and Suzanne are leaving in five minutes. We’ll wait in the reception for anyone who wants to come out with us.”

As the couple walked towards the bar’s exit, Chris switched on one of the flashlights. Around the table, the group fell quiet.

There was a decision for each person to make.

The first to stand up and follow the couple out was one of the priests. Immediately, another one stood up and went as well. The third stayed seated; his only action was to unscrew the top of his flask and take a sip of the drink within. The dark liquid left a stain on his unruly white beard.

The doctor and his wife also remained in their chairs, their hands entwined together on the tabletop.

The quiet was disturbed as a young couple, who Budd had hardly noticed because they, as far as he was aware, had not spoken, even to each other, pushed back their chairs and stood up. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, their faces full and unlined, and were dressed in comfortable, casual clothes. Even so, the pair looked extremely tired, more so than anyone else. “I’m sorry,” the young man said, “but we live just outside London. We got married there yesterday. All our family came to celebrate. We must try and get back to them.”

“Hold on,” said a female hotel worker to Budd’s left. As quickly as he could in the unsteady candlelight, Budd read her embroidered identity tag. Her name was Amanda Richmond. “You don’t have a torch. I’ll lead you to the reception.”

“Mandy?” Frank questioned. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Amanda Richmond nodded, turning on her flashlight and gesturing for the honeymooners to follow her. “Steve and my little boy are only a mile away. I have to try and reach them. I’m sorry, Frank.”

“But, Mandy, what about…” Frank trailed off his appeal, letting it fade into nothing as the three made their way to the door. Amanda Richmond did not look back, although the two honeymooners did, their arms interlocked as they walked out the door. Their uncertainty was etched deep on their faces.

After they were gone, Budd looked around at the diminished group. Other than Juliette, there was Andy, Frank, the doctor and his wife, the priest with his flask and finally a pair of hotel workers, who were perhaps in their mid-thirties, and had yet to speak. The two of them were sitting at the end of the table, positioned in a dark shadow that almost hid their faces as they huddled together, the man’s arm cast over the shoulder of the female.

Nine in all had elected to remain.

Seven were leaving.

Andy looked around the table. “Can I take it we’re all staying?”

There were nods from the depleted group.

“Good. Now, shall we go try an’ talk them others out of leaving? I think they’re making a big mistake.”

One after the other, the group rose from their chairs.

Budd was last of all, pulled up by Juliette.

By the time Andy’s group reached the reception area, which was now grimly shadowed and grey because of the dense clouds that covered the windows, the seven who’d decided to leave were already at the outer end of the Tropical Walkway.

Budd’s eyes scanned the black and white checkered floor. Many more of the corpses were now shuddering, and he trod a meandering path that kept him as far away from each of them as possible.

“Stop, please wait,” Andy shouted. He broke away from the group and ran to the Tropical Walkway. Frank followed him closely.

Still concerned with the movement of the bodies, Budd stopped. The rest of the group halted with him, content to watch Andy and Frank’s last-ditch appeal to the seven from the middle of the reception.

It was not to be a success.

Perhaps hurried by Andy’s chase, and worried that some of his followers were frightened by the ominous cloud that covered the ground like an impossibly thick fog, Chris made sure that all of the seven were holding hands, forming a human chain, and then he walked outside. As Budd watched, the seven people marched out into the fog, vanishing one by one only a few feet beyond the threshold.

The male honeymooner was at the rear of the line, the last to go, and he turned his head to look back into the hotel, staring at the others until his image blurred, faded and finally disappeared. Andy called after them all, hollering into the murk when he reached the open doors. He stood with wisps of the fog creeping inside around him.

No sound returned. The seven were gone.

“Hey,” Budd said, and he nodded his Stetson over to the bank of elevators. The red light above the central shaft showed the elevator was on the move.

It was coming down.

Unconsciously, Budd adjusted the strap of his rucksack and then gripped the axe with both hands. He ushered Juliette behind him.

The elevator bell chimed and the doors began to open. A man squeezed sideways through the space and tumbled out into the reception. He got straight to his feet and bolted towards the Tropical Walkway. Only when he saw the group, fronted by Budd, did the male stop running.

He was slim built, in his late teens or early twenties, with shoulder-length light brown hair that hung limply around his face. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a long-sleeved green T-shirt and a pair of white gym shoes. Budd saw his wide, fearful eyes from across the room, saw his chest rise and fall as he fought for breath.

“Like, all of you, we gotta get outta here. There’re like fucking zombies all over the place,” the young man called, signaling with his arms to the doors. He had a distinct Californian accent.

“Calm down, kid,” Budd called back. “What did you just say?”

“Zombies, dude, I’ve seen zombies,” the young man replied. His eyes roamed the reception room. “There, look,” he said, pointing to one of the shuddering bodies, “that’s how it starts. Any minute now he’s gonna be up and, like, totally ready to eat brains. All of them are.”

Budd looked around at the twitching bodies. Their number was certainly increasing. Already the ones that moved outnumbered the ones that did not.

“Those people are dead, son,” the doctor said, stepping forward to stand next to Budd. “They can’t get up.”

“Tell that to the guy who just got totally eaten on the fifteenth floor. He’s zombie chow now, dude.”

Zombies?

Well, to tell you the truth, I was ready to believe almost anything at that point.

But zombies? You’re kidding me, right?

The gulf from a floor-shimmying body to a fully-fledged zombie was a big one, at least I thought it was, but this guy who’d brought the news didn’t seem hysterical—well, no more than the rest of us—and that made him difficult to easily dismiss. Especially when I thought back to the man-thing Juliette and I had seen up on the twentieth floor.

But, come on, zombies? I didn’t think so…

From the far end of the Tropical Walkway, Frank and Andy’s shouting intensified. Budd glanced towards them and saw that the younger hotel worker was running back into the lobby. He did not get far, but turned into the undergrowth at the position where Budd remembered the wooden shed to be. With the group’s attention on him, Andy waved his arms and shouted, “Over here, quick.”

“Come on,” Budd said to the young Californian as the rest of the group began to hurry to the Tropical Walkway. “Whatever’s going on, you’d be better to stick with us.”

The young man nodded and Budd waited for him to catch up.

“My name’s Sam.”

“Budd.”

“Oh, you’re that singer,” Sam said, smiling at Juliette. She had remained with Budd, although her eyes were on the Tropical Walkway. “Oh, what’s your name, you’re, like, French, you’re called…”

“Juliette,” she said. Her tone was abrupt.

“Yeah, that’s it, I love your song. Sing some of it for me.”

“Really, this is not the time,” Juliette replied with a shake of her head. “
Monsieur
Ashby, we should stay with the others.”

Budd and Sam watched Juliette walk off, heading for the Tropical Walkway. “So, what, are you like her bodyguard or something?” the Californian asked.

Budd raised the peak of his Stetson and smiled. “Nah, just her lover.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Do you think she’d sign me an autograph?”

“You’d have to speak to her people.”

“Where are they?” Sam asked, his eyes darting to the rest of the group.

“Dead, probably.”

The two of them jogged to catch up with Juliette, who was already on the red carpet. As they progressed, they looked ahead, watching what the others were doing. Frank reappeared from the undergrowth, carrying a long piece of rope, which was looped in a bundle around his right shoulder. As he jogged back to the hotel entrance, he tied one end of the rope around his waist.

When Budd, Juliette and Sam were midway along the Tropical Walkway, they heard several screams, horrifying shrieks of fear or pain. The cries had come from out in the fog, muffled by the moisture in the air and hidden from view. The noise sent shockwaves of panic through the group; several halted mid-step and some glanced around frantically. The priest took a swig from his flask and made the sign of the cross on his chest.

Frank handed the bundle of rope to Andy, who tried to object, but the younger man ignored him and, with one end secured around his body, plunged out into the darkness. He vanished right away. Andy fed out more and more of the rope.

Budd, Juliette and Sam caught up with the rest of the group, who were standing behind Andy as he toiled with his task. The bundle in the hotel worker’s hands quickly halved in size.

Without any warning, there was a knock on the glass wall of the Tropical Walkway. The sound had come from outside and the group jumped with fright.

After a few seconds, it happened again. This time it was further around, closer to the corner that would lead to the doorway. A third knock was only a few feet from the open space, having successfully negotiated the change of direction. Budd thought he saw the cause of the sound; a hand slapped against the glass. Some of the others around him gasped; he guessed they’d seen it too.