Life of the Dead (Book 2): Road of the Damned Page 10

  They made it to the top, both of them panting and exhausted.

  “Thanks,” was all Bundy could get out.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They gazed over the rooftop. Hundreds of zombies filled the streets and the area around the van. Many of them moved toward the fire escape. Several were already there.

  “If we stay up here and stay quiet, I think they’ll forget about us pretty quick,” Bundy said.

  Mead was about to agree when a zombie climbed the first step. Then the second.

  “Fuck.” That perfect word again.

  The zombie moved awkwardly, like a man with two new prosthetic legs, but it continued its upward trek. Bundy looked at Mead, his face red with exhaustion or anger or both. “I thought you said they couldn’t climb stairs.”

  Mead watched the zombie continue toward them, his lips turned downward in a petulant scowl. A second zombie started up the stairs, then a third. “I didn’t think they could.”

  Bundy checked the access door on the roof and found it locked. He stared down at the street where the zombies teemed like ants at the base of their hill. Then he looked to the van and sighed heavily. “This really grinds my gears.”

  Mead turned to him. “What?”

  Bundy shrugged the rifle strap off his shoulder and got into a shooter’s stance. He aimed the barrel at the rear side window of the van. “Do you know what tannerite is?”

  Mead shook his head. “No.”

  “Then duck down and cover your head.”

  Mead didn't understand what was happening, but he did as told. He stared at his feet and heard Bundy mutter, “Damned waste, this is.”

  As soon as those words were spoken, an explosion louder than anything Mead had ever heard shook the building they were standing atop. Bundy fell on him, covering Mead with a quarter ton of sweaty flesh. All he could hear was a constant ringing in his ears. He spotted an object that looked like a burning, black comet crash on the far side of the building and smash through the rooftop. Smaller objects followed. After 10 seconds, the rain of fire ceased. After 30 he could hear other sounds mixed in with the ringing.

  “Are you all right?” Bundy asked as he crawled off him.

  Mead was plastered flat against the roof. Bundy grabbed onto him with his oven mitt hand and roughly hoisted him to his feet.

  “What? What the fuck happened?”

  Bundy was looking over the edge of the roof and Mead followed his gaze. The van was gone. The zombies were gone. All the buildings around them were charred and several were on fire.

  “What the fuck?” Mead asked again.

  Bundy sat on the squat, upraised barrier that framed in the roof. “Tannerite. About 50 pounds of it.” That meant nothing to Mead and Bundy, who was visibly annoyed, continued on. “It’s a powder that’s used to make exploding shooting targets. So you don’t have to walk all the way down the range to see if you hit the bull’s eye. I premixed all I had before I hit the road. Thought it might come in handy, but not like this.”

  Mead stared at the scorched wasteland below them. "Where’s the van?"

  Bundy pointed away from the road, toward the roof where a chunk of metal smoked. “That looks like a quarter panel to me.”

  ”You blew up the van?”

  Bundy sneered and Mead thought he might hit him, but he composed himself. “You didn’t offer any better suggestions, asshole.”

  Mead remained quiet. That seemed the wisest choice.

  ”Now we’re minus one van plus all of my ammunition and guns, except this one.” Bundy looked at the rifle, then to Mead as if he might use it on him. Instead he walked to a dark hunk of debris which had landed on the roof, picked it up, and examined it. “Huh. A foot.” He tossed it over the edge where it bounced against the blackened sidewalk.

  ”Ladders,” Mead said.

  Bundy looked to him, curious. “What?”

  ”It’s ladders that zombies can’t climb. Not stairs.”

  ”Oh. Well I suppose that’s good to know.”

  22

  It had been two days since the zombies overtook the bunker. Mitch had eaten nothing since the day he arrived and his stomach felt like a balled up fist inside his abdomen. A hungry fist. He wanted to search for food, but abandoning the safety of the control room was a fool’s errand and Mitch was no fool.

  He stared at the wall of closed circuit TVs which still had power thanks to the emergency generator. He was sure everyone out there was dead, or undead, depending on your point of view and that didn’t bother him half as much as the hunger pain gnawing away at his insides.

  After abandoning his father, they fled E Wing and avoided the zombies which were too busy eating fat cat Senators and Representatives. They’re too lazy to run for anything other than office, Mitch thought.

  Once free from the wing, they reached a long corridor which Mitch knew from his studies was leading them toward the front point of the triangular shaped bunker. There, they’d come to the blast doors which opened to the hotel and, presumably, safety.

  Before they reached the front of the bunker they stumbled on a group of soldiers who had turned. There were eight of them. Three looked intact but the other five had various bites and chunks taken out of them, probably from each other. Now they were a unified squad and, when they saw Mitch and Margaret, they took off like hounds after foxes. Son and mother zigged and zagged through the mazes of hallways and rooms and Mitch lost his bearings.

  As they rounded a corner, Mitch hit a wet spot on the floor and went flying. He came to rest against the wall and Margaret dashed to his side. As he crawled onto his knees, he saw what had caused him to fall. A pile of guts the size of a bushel basket sat on the tile floor like a jellyfish bobbing on the ocean.

  “Are you hurt?” Margaret asked.

  As Mitch climbed to his feet, his gore soaked sneakers made it feel like he was standing on an oil slick. “I’m fine. We have to keep going.”

  He led her forward but less than a dozen yards later they came across an old man who lurched toward them like Frankenstein.

  “Oh my God. That’s Frank Sandoval,” Margaret said.

  Mitch never shared his father’s interest in politics but the name rang a bell and he thought Sandoval was either Secretary of State or Defense. He never quite understood the difference anyway. He saw the Secretary’s white dress shirt had turned red at the bottom and when he walked it floated back and forth revealing a hollow cavern where his insides had been. So you’re the son of a bitch who left his guts all over the floor, Mitch thought.

  Mitch saw a fire ax framed on the wall like a shadowbox. He smacked his elbow against the pane. It shattered dropping shards of glass to the floor. The sound made the Secretary pick up his pace and Mitch could hear him growling. Actually growling, like a fucking dog.

  Mitch grabbed the ax from its perch and turned back to Sandoval. "I really liked these shoes."

  The Secretary growled again and Mitch ran at him. They met like jousters, but Mitch was the only one with a weapon and he slammed the ax into Sandoval’s face. It hit just below his nose and the blade chopped through the zombie’s upper jaw with a heavy crunch that Mitch felt reverberate all the way down to his feet. It didn't cut the whole way through, but it did the job and the zombie collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Behind them, Margaret wailed like a siren. Mitch let go of the ax handle and ran to her. “Quiet!” She kept screaming. “Shut up or you'll draw all of them to us!”

  She was too wound up to stop all at once and the shriek tapered off like someone slowly turning down the volume on the stereo. It was too late.

  The eight soldier zombies rushed onto the scene. They were quickly joined by more than a dozen others. Then several dozen more. Mitch grabbed Margaret’s wrist and pulled her in the opposite direction. They ran as fast as they could for as long as they could and, when Margaret tired, Mitch dragged her.

  They came upon the control room by accident. Through large glass windows, Mitch spott
ed a man wearing over-sized headphones that looked like earmuffs. His back was turned toward them.

  Margaret bent at the waist, coughing and wheezing. Mitch wanted to tell her again to shut up, but he knew it would be a waste. Instead he rapped his knuckles against the glass to get the man’s attention.

  “Hey! Let us in!”

  He didn't react at first so Mitch hit the glass again, harder this time. The man swiveled the chair around. By the time it made it 90 degrees Mitch was pretty sure he was dead. At 120, he was positive. The zombie’s lifeless eyes stared ahead, blank and seeing at the same time. When he saw Mitch and his mother, his lips peeled back in a sneer revealing brown, coffee stained teeth.

  Mitch heard Margaret start to cry again, but over her soft whimpers, he heard footsteps. It sounded like hundreds of them, all moving in their direction. Fast. He looked to his mother and her blank, shell shocked expression revealed she was of no help.

  The footsteps closed in. There were so many Mitch thought he could feel the concrete floor vibrating through the soles of his bloodied sneakers. He looked toward the green light spilling from the corridor. It was only seconds before black shadows invaded that glow. And behind the shadows were a legion of zombies.

  Mitch grabbed his mother’s limp wrist and pulled her toward the control room. She followed behind, lost in a fog. Mitch took the key card from his pocket. He had no idea whether or not it would work, but as he glanced back and saw hundreds of zombies pouring out of the hall and racing at them, he knew it was their only chance.

  He swiped the card. The light flipped green and the door clicked. Mitch threw it open and dashed inside. He jerked Margaret in with him and she tumbled to the floor in a daze. Mitch grabbed hold of the door and pushed to close it. Before it could latch, a woman in a power suit who was missing all the flesh on her neck shoved her arm through the opening.

  Mitch slammed the door, pinning her arm. She didn’t even flinch when her skin tore. Mitch opened it a few inches and slammed it again. That time her flesh split to the bone, but she insisted on pressing forward and Mitch could feel his strength fading. He grabbed her forearm and jerked it backward, using the door as a fulcrum. He heard it snap and the sound gave him another burst of adrenaline. He launched his shoulder against the door. It closed. Her severed arm flopped onto the floor at Mitch’s feet and he watched the hand contract and twitch once, then twice, before stopping.

  As soon as the door closed, more zombies pounded against it, but the heavy steel held tough. Mitch turned his back to it and realized he was completely out of breath. He steadied himself but as soon as he thought it was time for a break, he saw that his mother was going to die.

  Margaret stared out the reinforced glass windows, mesmerized by the hundreds of zombies trying desperately to get in. She was unaware of the one which was already amongst them. The man who had once manned the control center staggered toward her and was only two awkward steps away.

  Mitch ran across the room as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him.

  ”Watch out!” He screamed the words but Margaret barely reacted. She was neck deep in shock and clueless.

  Mitch was a yard away, but the zombie was closer. It leaned in, bared its baby shit brown teeth and bit into Margaret’s lily white shoulder. Her eyes flared, suddenly alert, and that made it worse.

  The zombie ripped back its head and took with it a mouthful of Margaret’s flesh. Mitch pushed his mother aside and rammed his shoulder into the chest of the much taller ghoul. The zombie stumbled backward and tripped over its own swivel chair before hitting the floor. Mitch looked around the room. Why hadn’t he dug the ax out of the Secretary’s head?

  On a cluttered desk, his eyes fell upon a fancy letter opener designed to look like a miniature sword. He grabbed it. The blade was six inches long.

  The zombie was on its knees and working its way back to its feet. When Mitch stepped in front of it, the zombie stared forward and growled. Mitch gripped the letter opener in his fist and stabbed. The tip of the blade struck the zombie in the temple and Mitch was surprised when he felt a brief pop, like cracking a peanut shell, and the blade continued inward until it was buried to the quillon. The monster tumbled face first onto the concrete floor. Mitch pulled out the letter opener and gave the zombie a kick, just to make sure it was dead. It was.

  Mitch turned away from it and looked to his mother who stood in the exact same spot, holding her shoulder. Blood gushed from the shredded wound and the left side of her body had gone red. She looked at her son, her eyes full of tears and pain and fear.

  “He bit me, Mitch. He got me good. What do you think’s going to happen?”

  Mitch stepped to her. She looked so pitiful standing there, her sanity on a precipice and covered in her own blood. He reached out and held her hand.

  “You’ll be okay, Mom.”

  “Are you sure? There’s a lot of blood.”

  “Let me see.”

  She turned robotically away from him. He saw the wound was deep, but the blood flow had slowed to a bare trickle. And it was crazy, but he thought the flesh around the bite already looked dark and decayed. He put his hand on her shoulder, reassuring.

  “The bleeding's already stopped.”

  “So I’ll be all right?” The hopefulness in her voice made Mitch want to puke.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good. Because I’m not ready to leave you, Mitch. I love you too much.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  Mitch slid the blade into the small indentation where the base of the skull met the top of her neck. She inhaled sharply, it sounded like a whistle. There was a soft, “Uh” and she went limp. Mitch caught her under the arms before she fell, then eased her to the floor.

  23

  Aben had been walking along an oak tree lined two-lane road when he heard the car approaching from the east. He estimated it to be a mile away. Maybe two. Noise traveled far in this quiet, dead world. He had enough time to drag a medium-sized tree branch across the road, move into the cover of the trees, and wait. The dog had been trailing behind him all morning and he saw it watching from about 10 yards away.

  ”Get back. Just until we see who’s coming.”

  As if understanding Aben’s words, the dog crawled under a tangle of mountain laurel and laid down. They waited.

  The car came into view and slowed as it approached the branch. Aben watched as the passenger side door opened and a man sporting a military hair cut stepped out. Aben noticed the man had an AK rifle slung over his shoulder.

  ”Hell, we could’ve drove right over this!” the man hollered to the driver as he dragged the branch off the road and tossed it into the vegetation.

  Aben tried to see the driver but couldn’t make him out through the sunlight reflecting off the windows. He did, however, hear his voice. “It’s not worth risking a flat.”

  The gray-haired man started back to the car and Aben knew he had only seconds to decide whether to make his presence known or not. As the man reclaimed his position in the shotgun seat, Aben rolled the proverbial dice.

  “Hey there.”

  The older man’s head snapped around and his hands went quickly and instinctively toward his rifle. In one smooth move it was raised and ready to fire. He was former military, that was certain, and Aben hoped Father Time had slowed his trigger finger.

  “I’m coming out and I’d appreciate it if you don’t shoot me.”

  As Aben moved clear of the tree line, he heard a second set of footsteps on the pavement. And hushed voices.

  “I’ve got us covered, Bol,” the same gruff voice of the man who'd moved the branch said.

  “God, just don’t shoot anyone.”

  “Can never be too careful.”

  Aben liked the second voice better. There was a calmness, in the words and the tone. It lacked the anxious and eager timbre of the rifle-holder. When Aben stepped into the clear, he was shocked to discover the driver was the younger of the two. He was
dark haired and square-jawed and stood with the kind of posture that gets beaten into you during boot camp. The kind you never lose.

  Aben held his hand and stump up as he approached them. “I don’t mean any harm. I can promise you that.”

  The older man still had him lined up, even though he was less than 10 yards away. The younger placed his hand on the rifle barrel and forced it down.

  “Enough, Dash. We’ve been hoping to find someone who was still alive. Now that we found one, let’s not kill him.”

  Dash returned the rifle to its previous resting place on his shoulder, but still appeared wary.

  “I’m Jorge Bolivar. That’s Ted Dash.”

  “Aben.” He extended his hand and Bolivar shook it. When he did, Bolivar’s attention was on Aben’s stump.

  “You all right there?”

  Aben glanced at it. The bandage was the shit brown color of dried blood. He’d been meaning to change it but hadn’t got around to it. “Oh, it hasn’t rotted off yet so I suppose it’s just fine.”

  “I’m a medic. I'm happy to take a look, just in case.”

  Aben nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

  They sat at the side of the road while Bolivar examined Aben’s stump.

  “It sure won't be pretty, but there's no infection. Keep it clean and you should be fine."

  While Bolivar cleaned the wound, Aben shared bits of how he lost his appendage and the other men told him of the downfall of D.C. and their journeys thus far. Aben thought Dash might be crazy, but he’d met plenty of crazy men during his years in the Marines and wasn’t put off by that. The older man seemed to accept him into their small cadre and Aben felt comfortable enough to whistle for the dog. It came without hesitation.

  “I’ll be,” Bolivar said. “I thought that plague took out all the dogs too.”

  “This is the only one I’ve seen. Don’t think they fared much better than us.”