Zombie Bitches From Hell Page 15

  I smile and hold up his gun. “We’ll give these back then,” I grunt, sliding out between the two bodyguards without a backward glance.

  I look for our weapons on the table outside but they’re long gone.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

  Tim cocks one eyebrow but makes no comment as Molly leads us slowly from the well-lit boardroom.

  The rest of the floor is sunk in quiet darkness, the odd solar lantern lighting this random grouping of pale-faced office dwellers. We wind up in a corner cubicle, stripped bare but spacious, quiet and away from the rest of the group, who apparently prefer to keep their distance. The best part is it’s facing the boardroom, so we can see while Ed and company plot against us.

  There is a desk chair nearby and as Tim and I unroll our sleeping mats and settle in, Molly takes it with pinched lips and crossed legs.

  “Tell us about the cops, Molly,” I say quietly, reaching into my stained backpack for a little incentive.

  “What about them?” she hedges, looking away, as if to see if anyone else is listening.

  “Why aren’t they up here, with you?” I ask, hands finding a dented metal tin full of little glass vials.

  She avoids my eyes and says, “Like Ed said, guys, the horde caught up with them.”

  “You need to tell us about those cops,” I say.

  She sighs, uncrosses her legs, crosses them again and says, “Well, knowing you guys you were bound to find out anyway… listen, here’s the deal. Most of the folks up here are brokers, or brokers’ assistants, or secretaries, or secretaries’ assistants. That means zero survival experience, period. When the last outbreak happened, everyone freaked. Most folks went home, but everyone up here stayed converting their money to gold and silver.”

  “Seriously?” Tim almost chuckles.

  Molly gives a rare, wry smile. “Believe it or not, it seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, before the power went out and all the currency converters froze – forever. By that time the rest of the building, hell, the rest of Wall Street, was empty. We all went downstairs and were heading home when we saw the horde approaching.

  “There were still a few security guards in the lobby at the time; they locked the doors, but not for long. Before the horde broke in, we raided the building’s cafeteria for every possible food item we could carry; carted it all up here in big laundry baskets from the dry cleaners on the third floor. Anyway, once the horde broke in, we were trapped…”

  I say, “Molly, I asked about the cops.”

  “The cops showed up just before the horde did. They tried to gain access through the lower floor, but by then we’d disabled the elevator and barricaded ourselves in up here.”

  “Why?” Tim asks.

  “No, they weren’t bad… yet. They just, well, by then Ed and the boys were running things and Ed made a pretty convincing argument that letting twenty-five more people onto the floor to share our food was a really bad idea.”

  “Let me get this straight?” I ask, struggling to keep the contempt out of my voice. “You barricaded twenty-five human beings out because you didn’t want to go hungry?”

  She merely nods, clutching the tin of worthless perfume samples as if they’re protein bars.

  “But they’re cops, Molly, with guns and ammo and radios and training. They could have been powerful allies.”

  “Like I said, Kent,” she says, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  I give Tim a hard look; he gives one back.

  Then we give one to Molly; she caves.

  “Okay, okay, so it was a dick move, I get it now. What can I say?”

  “You can say ‘I’m sorry’,” Tim grins.

  “To who?”

  “To the cops,” I say. “When you meet them later tonight…”

  ***

  The makeshift weapons shed is in the employee break room. Naturally, it’s guarded by two security guards; the same two security guards who’d frisked us not-so-thoroughly before entering Ed’s inner sanctum.

  Most of the solar lanterns have been turned off for the night, and as we creep around a corner re-conning the guards, I ask Molly, “What’s their story?”

  “They were two of the security guards we rescued from the downstairs lobby,” she whispers, her husky voice giving me shivers in the dark.

  Tim says, “Oh, so you’ll save two rent-a-cops, but not twenty-five real cops!”

  “Well, we kind of needed their help hauling the food upstairs.”

  I shake my head and inch toward the first guard, my hands up, my face yawning as I explain, “Can you gents point me to the nearest restroom?”

  The minute the first one points with his index finger, I slide a zip-tie from my cargo pants lining and yank it down to his wrist, spinning him around before sliding his other wrist through and sealing it tight.

  By the time I’ve bound and gagged one guard, Tim has done the same with the second. Molly kneels between the fallen guards, rifling through their pockets and apologizing until she finds the keychain to the break room.

  Inside are four vending machines, long-since emptied and replaced with an assortment of stun guns, pistols, mace, pocket knives, blackjacks and, more recently, the weapons taken off of Tim and I after our search. It’s a sparse weaponry, but impressive for a bunch of fat cat brokers.

  “Where’d these come from?” I ask gladly sliding my rifle back across my back and refilling my own personal armory.

  “The guards had most of it, the rest was… personal.”

  When I arch one eyebrow Molly shrugs and says, “Hey, it’s New York.”

  We fit her with a better gun belt, a bigger pistol and a machete; she doesn’t flinch. I think to myself, who the hell had a machete on Wall Street? Talk about a cut throat broker firm.

  “You’re good with this?” I ask, sliding the last of the two security guards into the break room and locking the door behind us once we’ve gathered up as much weaponry as we can carry.

  She looks around at a few flickering solar lanterns, grimaces at the sound of her former co-workers snoring and says, “I’d almost rather join the zombie horde than have to spend another night in this place.”

  Tim says, “You may have to before we’re all through.”

  We tiptoe back across the office floor until we’re at the entrance to the roof. At the helicopter, we’re assaulted with the violent sounds of the horde on the ground below, their constant, collective mewling and gnashing of teeth audible even twenty stories off the ground. At least we think so.

  “They’re most active at night,” Molly explains. “Before we barricaded the door, a few of us used to come up here and watch them at night; just to feel safe, I guess. It finally got too spooky.”

  Tim hands down the four five-gallon propane tanks from the balloon and we strap two each to our backs with bungee cords.

  “Now, where is this side entrance you’ve been squawking about all night?” Tim asks skeptically.

  “It’s for the maintenance workers,” she explains, leading us behind the small metal tower that houses the barricaded door and the back of the roof. “Once we’re two stories down, there’s a small ledge, then… it’s just a matter of getting the cops to let us inside and we can gain access to the basement through one of the stairwells.”

  “Oh, great,” Tim says, testing the strength of the exterior stairwell and finding it sturdy enough to hold him. “We’re depending on the two dozen cops you’ve shut out for two months to let us in?” She does not respond.

  Molly looks uncomfortable as I set her on the top rung. At first I think it’s just the fact that her butt is hanging out over a few hundred zombies down on the ground, but then she gives me a kind of apologetic look and I imagine it to be something else.

  With all three of us risking our lives umpteen hundred feet up, the moment is quickly lost.

  The rungs are rusty and coated with early morning dew, making the climb all the more treacherous. The weapons and awkward cani
sters don’t help matters much, but I remain focused on getting Molly down safely and it manages to take my mind off the unbearable height, not to mention the hungry zombie horde down on the ground.

  You’d think the balloon trip would cure a fear of heights. But here in the real world, it’s another experience altogether. Tim stands on the narrow landing, squeezing against the rusty skin of a metal alcove to make room first for Molly, then me.

  She looks relieved so I refrain from telling her that was the easy part. There is a single door and Tim makes short work of it with his crowbar. Inside, a silent hallway marked by metal frames and hanging wires; we don’t smell the acrid aroma of human sweat and waste until about halfway in.

  A second door shows weld spots around the frame, though the knob itself has been punched out. Inside the fist-sized hole that remains, a flame flickers, and I see movement.

  I knock heavily on the door, a pistol in each hand. Still watching through the hole, the movement suddenly stops. Tim leans in next to me and I give him a good view while standing up and sliding Molly toward the farthest corner.

  I hear a shotgun shell being racked into place, just before a hollow knock sounds on the other side of the door. Tim knocks back, and a gruff voice inside bellows, “Who goes there?”

  Tim bellows back, “Two civilians, we’ve just landed on your rooftop and need assistance finding fuel.”

  “Good luck,” the voice inside says back, a little softer now. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Let us in,” says Tim. “Maybe we can help.”

  Suddenly an eyeball fills the hole and bellows, “Stand back so I can see you. Hey, who’s the chick? Are you nuts?

  “She’s from upstairs,” I explain warily. “She’s the one that told us about you.”

  Empty laughter oozes from the hole. “Yeah, did she tell you she left us stranded with a dozen zombie broads trying to do us in?”

  “Yes,” Tim barks. “She’d like to apologize; in person.”

  “Nobody’s coming in until you promise us safe passage out of this building.”

  “Promised,” says Tim. “Hurry up.”

  There are scratching feet sounds on the other side of the door, whispering, cursing, and the slamming of bolts being driven out of place. When the door at last slides open, it does so to the side; they’d literally bolted it in place after yanking it off its old hinges.

  A burly man in a yellowed undershirt stands at the forefront, while several thinner, younger men linger at his back, clamoring for a look at the newcomers.

  The stench from inside is foul; like stepping into a dumpster that’s been forgotten for a year. I see scattered cans and long-emptied water bottles. The men look hungry and battered, and eye Molly as if it’s her personal fault.

  I offer several protein bars yanked from the food supply as bribes, and while all the guys reach for it, the burly cop takes them and doles them out, saving the extra bar in his pants pocket for himself.

  They eat hungrily, shamelessly, several men sitting down and savoring the calorie- and energy-rich meal bars.

  “I’m Sergeant Dawkins,” says the big man after he swallows the last of his bar. “These are my men.”

  “What?” I ask. “All of them?”

  Molly says disappointedly, “But I thought there were more of you..”

  Dawkins looks at her with pure rage in his eyes. “Well, honey, after you and your fat cat friends upstairs blocked off the stairways, we were stuck down here on this utility floor, facing a mob of angry zombie bitches. One by one, they picked us off and fed on us as we’ve gone around looking for food these last few months. There might be more of us still alive if you’d let us in when we asked.”

  I shake my head. Tim looks worried. “I dunno,” he says. “I was counting on at least two dozen men for help.”

  “Help for what?” barks Dawkins.

  Tim yanks off the canisters and tosses them at Dawkins. “No one gets a free ride off this building, pal.”

  ***

  Dawkins’ official police uniform is sooty and torn off at the sleeves, revealing his massive, tattooed arms as he loads his double-barrel shotgun and explains the hazards of the mission.

  “The only way down is the east corridor stairwell,” he says, sliding cartridges into the underside of his gun. “The west one we were planning on using it as an escape route a few months back, and started dropping bags of waste into to lure the horde in that direction. They patrol it daily now.”

  “Patrol it?” I ask.

  “I’m telling you, Kent, this horde is militant. Whole mess of female zombies who act like some kind of modern army. They can’t talk, yet, but they sure communicate. Somehow. You see ’em, it’s like they’re reading each other’s minds. They work in teams, and by now they’ve probably figured out our little trick and are patrolling the east entrance as well.”

  “That’s a risk we’ll have to take if we want to get out of this building,” I say.

  He nods, a little suspiciously, like maybe I have no intention of flying him and his men anywhere. I nod back; nothing I can do to prove that until he’s on the roof and I’ve got the fuel.

  He leads us across a vast wasteland of empty cans and snack wrappers, overturned desks and broken chairs. Broken glass crunches underfoot and the rank smell of human urine comes from several overturned water cooler jugs near the broken open windows.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Tim cracks as Dawkins gives him a scarred scowl in reply.

  Molly hangs close, none too eager to fall behind and blend in with the cops, taking up the rear with their empty bellies and hungry eyes.

  I can see remnants of the old sports company’s logo on the walls, emblazoned on sports drinks and protein bars. I also notice empty bottles and sample wrappers on the floor.

  “Is that how you survived?” I ask Dawkins as we near the barricaded door to the east stairwell.

  He follows my finger to the wall poster of a young boy eating a protein bar at a soccer game and says, “Thank God the company had a store room full of samples or we’d never have made it this long.”

  He gives Molly a scathing look as we cluster near the dented metal door.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” he says as his men quickly go to work sliding the bolts from the hinges. “This door’s going to open, and we’re going to run down the stairs without stopping. I don’t care what those zombie bitches do, or who they get. If you can’t keep up, you ain’t makin’ it. If you can’t make it, we ain’t slowin’ down to help you. Got it?”

  We all nod except Molly who, in pure pep rally mode, says “Got it” out loud.

  She blushes as the last of the bolts clatters to the floor.

  I hand Molly one of my pistols as we brace ourselves. Dawkins listens at the door, his face intent, the bald spot on the back of his graying head glistening with sweat.

  Tim and I lean slightly forward, shoulders almost touching, Molly slightly at our back. She whispers, “Listen” and I do, but the sound isn’t coming from the stairwell in front of us; it’s coming from behind.

  Suddenly a shot rings out, a slug burying itself in one of the nameless rookie’s shoulders as blood splatters most of the group, including us. He goes down with a gush of air and a dull grunt as Dawkins rushes to his aid.

  I turn just in time to see Ed barreling forth, firing away. Behind him are his two enforcers, plus the security guards we’d bound and gagged an hour earlier, as well as an assortment of stragglers from the brokerage office upstairs. All are armed with whatever we’d left behind, mostly a handful of small pistols and one rifle.

  Tim and I crouch down to avoid the gunfire, dragging Molly behind a nearby pillar as drywall erupts in puffy white clouds just above our heads. Dawkins returns fire as well, as do his men, while the office dwellers from above advance with only minor injuries.

  The floor is alive with the sounds of gunfire, the smell of cordite and gun smoke. Glass shatters, drywall crumbles sh
owering plaster dust on everyone, giving us the look of frantic ghosts. Feet scrape and angry wounds sigh openly as blood spills onto the dry fancy carpeted floor.

  The office dwellers are scattered now, as are the cops. Desks become barricades, chairs are tossed at vulnerable legs hiding behind bullet-riddled columns. It all happens in seconds before stretching into minutes.

  “We’ve got to get down those stairs,” Tim grunts impatiently, angling for a better look at the open stairwell.

  “Ed will never follow us if we go now,” Molly says, pistol raised.

  “Well, that’s good enough for me,” I grunt, and run for the doorway, finding Dawkins pinned down behind an overturned metal desk.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t seal that door after letting you assholes in!” he barks, tying off one of his officer’s arms.

  “Let’s leave ’em in our dust,” I say, handing him a flashlight.

  He gets a gleam in his eye and smiles for the first time.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Two of his men are still able-bodied and he shoves them toward the door, whether they’re ready or not. Bullets still fly behind us as the first cop plunges through the doorway. Our flashlight beams fill the area with shadow and light.

  The stairwell looks empty and, for the moment, safe. We cluster on the landing, hearing curses flood from the open doorway of the sports company’s floor. A bullet rings out, ricocheting off one of the metal guardrails.

  We curse and trample two flights down to avoid the erratic gunfire, huddling and out of breath.

  “How many flights to the basement?” I ask, spying the number 17 stenciled onto the nearest wall.

  “Didn’t do too well in reading, eh?” says Dawkins as he hovers close to his point man, a young kid whose nametag reads FIZER. He has lean arms and a shaved head, with the nicks to prove he’s been doing it himself since the outbreak.