City of the Dead (24 page)

"The bank," Leroy grunted, "downstairs in the lobby."

"You-you just took it?"

"It's not like the customers will be needing it anytime soon. And besides, it gets old, playing for cigarettes."

"Shit," Etta groaned. "It gets old playing with this worthless cash too."

"You guys ever think about how much money is lying around out there? Not to mention diamonds and shit?" Smokey pointed to the window. A zombie bird hovered outside in the darkness. They ignored it.

Don did not. He shivered, and then turned back to the new hand that Smokey had just dealt him.

"Are you guys sure those things can't get inside the building?"

"Sure," Leroy said, and studied his cards.

"Absolutely," Quinn confirmed. "Aren't you?"

Don shrugged. "I guess I just feel like a passenger on the Titanic. It just seems so unrealistic. Nothing is totally impenetrable. Seems to me there should be a contingency plan of sorts."

The others were quiet. Finally, Smokey looked up from his cards, drained his glass, and spoke.

"We don't really like to think about it, Don. Not much we can do if they really tried, you know?"

"So you just sit in here and wait? Isn't that a bunker mentality?"

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Quinn threw several thousand dollars into the pile in the middle of the table. Then he rolled up a hundred dollar bill, lit it, and then touched the flame to his cigarette. He stubbed the burning currency out in the ashtray.

"The world's gonna end anyway," he said. "Whether we're inside or out there on the streets. I prefer to wait in here and play cards and light my smokes with hundreds."

"We're gonna have to start rationing food," Etta said. "Leroy and I took stock of everything in the restaurant and the cafeteria's freezers and storage rooms. And we got all the stuff from the vending machines and such. But it won't last us more than a month. I don't know what we're gonna do after that."

"Maybe we can start eating zombies," Quinn joked.

Smokey gagged. "That's sick, man."

"Hey, why not?" Quinn scowled at his cards. "They eat us, right? I say we turn the tables and start eating them. Not the ripe kind, but think about this. Get one that's freshly dead and cook it up before the meat goes bad. Like if you drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow, Leroy cooks you up before you turn into a zombie."

"With the right amount of spice," Leroy grinned, "I can cook anything. Even zombie."

"That's just wrong." Etta's expression was sour. "You all are nasty."

There was a soft knock at the door. Smokey opened it and Forrest and Pigpen entered the room. God trailed along behind them, darting through Smokey's legs and jumping into Etta's lap.

"What the fuck's he doing in here?" Quinn frowned, fanning his nose.

"Joining the party," Forrest said. The big man looked uneasy.

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"You play cards, Pigpen?" Leroy asked.

"No, God won't let me. But thanks anyway."

Forrest walked over to the window and stared out into the night. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles popped.

"You want in?" Quinn asked him.

Forrest gave no indication that he'd heard him.

"Forrest? Forrest! Yo, big guy!"

He turned. His dark face was solemn.

Smokey poured another drink. "What's on your mind, Forrest?"

"Nothing." He tried to smile, but it looked forced. He turned to Don. "How they treating you, roomie?"

"They're robbing me blind," Don replied. "Of course, since I had no cash of my own, they were kind enough to let me use theirs, so I guess it doesn't matter."

Forrest's radio squawked. He picked it up and keyed the mike.

"Go ahead."

"Forrest." Bates sounded grim. "Where are you?

"At the evening card game. What's up?"

"Is Pigpen still with you?"

"Yeah. He's here, and so is his cat."

"Both of you meet me on the basement level."

"Now?"

"Now."

He grabbed Pigpen's arm and guided him from the room. The cat trailed along behind them.

Smokey sloshed his drink around in the glass. "I wonder what that was all about?"

Quinn grinned around his cigarette. "Probably just the end of the world again."

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Jim woke up to the insistent urging of his bladder. Blearily, he crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. He pissed, but did not flush so as not to wake Danny. As he washed his hands, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He'd aged ten years in the last two weeks. Carrie wouldn't recognize him now.

Thinking of his second wife brought a sudden pang of grief. Without warning, tears spilled from his eyes. Jim sat down on the toilet as sobs wracked his body. His emotions were a mixture of sadness and relief. He cried for Carrie and their unborn baby. He cried for Martin. He even wept for Tammy and Rick. He cried sad tears for what Danny had been through, and tears of joy that the boy was safe and with him now.

When he was finished, Jim turned off the bathroom light and slipped back into bed. He immediately fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted.

"The workers hadn't reached here yet," Pigpen told them as they stood in the sub-basement, "so we'll have to go about a mile through the sewers before we get to where they'd stopped."

Forrest's nose wrinkled in disgust.

God stood over a manhole cover in the corner of the sub-basement's cement floor and meowed. Then he twined between Pigpen's legs, purring.

"Down there?" Bates asked, skeptical.

"Yep, God says that's where we got to go."

"And you're absolutely positive you can lead us to the tunnel?"

Pigpen nodded. "And from there, it's a straight shot to the airport."

"And if they flank us?"

"Then I'll take us to the bomb shelter."

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"Bates," Forrest asked, "how the hell are we gonna get all these people through that sewer entrance?"

"We're not, at least, not yet. We'll send a reconnaissance team, make sure this private tunnel of Ramsey's really exists. Get an idea of the challenges we're going to face. We'll go from there. But we'll need to send them soon."

"Why soon?" Forrest asked.

"Because there's an army on the way here."

"Ours?"

"Theirs."

God suddenly crouched down on all fours and hissed.

"What is it, God?" Pigpen reached down to scratch the cat, but it backed away, hissing.

The other two men ignored it. Bates studied the cover.

"Let's pull it up and have a look."

He threaded a thin length of steel cable through two of the holes, and then he and Forrest squatted on either side and lifted, grunting with the effort. The manhole cover rose into the air with a grating sound. They dropped it onto the floor and stared down at the hole. The interior opening was dark, and all they could see was the top rungs of a service ladder.

Forrest fanned his nose. "Jesus, that stinks. Smells worse than a month-old zombie."

Bates produced a small flashlight from his pocket, crouched down, and shined the beam into the hole.

A pair of red eyes stared back.

"Shit!"

The undead rat launched itself from its perch on the ladder. Its claws raked across Bates's cheek, drawing thin ribbons of blood. Its teeth sank into the material of his shirt, ripping the fabric.

Shouting, Bates rolled backward and yanked the

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squirming creature from his face. He tossed it across the room as more squeaking rats poured themselves from the sewer entrance.

Forrest freed his pistol from its holster, but before he could draw a bead, two of the rats swarmed him, climbing up his legs. He screamed, beating at them with his hands. Sharp, needle-like teeth bit into his palms and the soft flesh between his thumbs and index fingers.

Another rat raced toward Pigpen. The old man tripped and fell, sprawling on his back. Just as the rat darted for his groin, God leaped between them, seized the creature in his jaws, and shook it apart. Rotting limbs and clotted fur showered both man and feline.

Bates grabbed the cable and dragged the manhole cover back over the hole. Then he ran to help Forrest. The big man shook his leg, dislodging one of the rats. God pounced on it. Forrest clutched the other in his bare hand and smashed it against a steel support beam.

The rat that had attacked Bates skittered across the cement floor, making a beeline for the cat. Bates grabbed the zombie by its tail and swung it over his head. Then he let go. The rat sailed across the basement and splattered against the wall.

The three men stood gasping for breath. The cat licked its fur.

"How are your hands?" Bates asked Forrest.

"Fuckers bit the shit out of me, but I'll be okay."

"Go find Doc Stern and have him take care of those wounds. No telling what kind of diseases those things were carrying."

Forrest suddenly looked sick. "At least it ain't like in the movies, where if they bite you, your ass turns into one of them."

"I'm going to find Mr. Ramsey and take care of that

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situation. When I'm finished, we're calling an emergency meeting."

"You're not still thinking about going down there?"

"Why not?"

"Bates, what the fuck just happened? Zombie rats, man! They were down there waiting for us."

"Consider this, Forrest. How many birds are waiting on that roof and outside our windows? For that matter, how many zombies are down in the street? All they need is an opening and then they'll break through."

"No shit. What's your point?"

"Only four rats came through that opening. There wasn't a large force waiting to rush us. Just those four."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I think they were up to something else. I think they were sent to spy on us. To look for a way in."

"Spies? Bates, you're beginning to sound crazy too, man."

"We can send out a reconnaissance team. Why can't they?"

Forrest opened his mouth to reply, but just shook his head. He pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around one of his bleeding hands.

"Okay." He sighed. "But once we're down there, what's to stop us from being sitting ducks? What if this tunnel doesn't exist or if it don't go all the way to the airport?"

"Worst case scenario, we make for the bomb shelter. That much I know exists. There was an article about it in Time magazine. The city is riddled with them."

God rubbed against Bates's shoes. Bates scratched the purring feline behind its ears.

"I guess your cat came in handy after all, Pigpen."

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The bum crossed his arms. "I told you, Mr. Bates. God will protect us."

Bates stared back down at the sewer entrance.

"He can take point if and when we go through there. And I'll be right behind him with a flamethrower."

"A flamethrower?"

"Yes. While I still think these zombies were an advance team, I have no doubt that there are plenty more down there. Between God and a flamethrower, I think we can even the odds."

Don stumbled back to his room just after two in the morning. He hadn't planned on staying awake so late, but he'd been reluctant to leave. It had felt so good to laugh again, to just hang out with people, talking and playing cards and just having fun. No walking corpses to shoot or flee from, no jumping from one peril to another. He hadn't realized how bad his cabin fever had been while he was sequestered inside the panic room- and finally, he felt alive again.

He hadn't thought of Myrna during the entire card game. He realized it as he slid his key into the door lock. At first, he felt guilty about it, but as he fumbled for the light switch, he decided that it was okay. In fact, it was probably healthy.

He slipped out of his shoes, leaned back on the bed, and looked around his new home. Forrest still wasn't back, and his bed was made, unused. Dimly, Don wondered where he was. He wondered if Jim, Danny, and Frankie were asleep. Then alcohol and fatigue got the best of him, and he passed out.

The zombie army rolled over the bridges and tunnels leading into Manhattan. Riding in armored tanks,

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Humvees, and deuce-and-a-half trucks, they poured into the Necropolis, bringing ordnance and reinforcements. Tractor-trailers and civilian vehicles followed along behind them. The caravan rumbled through the streets, smashing aside the few remaining abandoned and wrecked vehicles that the New York forces hadn't cleared away. The concrete and steel canyons echoed with their thunder.

Ob ordered all of them to converge on his location, several blocks away from Ramsey Towers. Although the streets had been cleared of major blockages, barricades were constructed in the streets surrounding the skyscraper.

Watching the approaching forces through binoculars, Ob said, "Our forces arrive quicker than we predicted."

"Our brethren are anxious to begin, sire," said one of his lieutenants.

"Have our rat spies returned yet?"

"Not yet, lord Ob. They are overdue."

"Perhaps the humans discovered them. No matter. We have what we need from other sources."

Turning to the plotting table at his side, Ob resumed his study of the maps of the area, blueprints of the skyscraper and the sewers and tunnels that lay beneath it. He conferred with his generals and gathered his army together. They planned and plotted until dawn.

One of the sentries radioed Bates as he was on his way to search Ramsey's office, and private living quarters, along with Branson and Quinn, who was still drunk from the card game. The red-haired pilot sipped a mug of hot coffee, trying to sober up as quickly as possible. Bates had filled both men in on Ramsey's crumbling sanity. Bates then advised Quinn of the approaching zombie

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army, which Branson verified. Bates told them both about the possible escape route.

Bates answered the radio and told the sentry to go ahead.

"Sir, this is Cullen, down in the lobby."

"What is it, son?"

"There's-there's some kind of activity going on down here. Several trucks just pulled up, and it looks as if they're arming the zombies."

"Arming them?"

"Yes, sir. It's hard to tell for sure through our barricades, but it looks like they're handing out weapons and ammunition. And there's more zombies showing up too. A lot more than we normally have milling around outside. I think they're lighting the other buildings on fire."