Brian Keene (12 page)

"Where would you go?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere but here, I guess. To be honest, I don't know. I need to determine if this is a localized event, or worldwide. An island would be a logical choice, but even those have animals and birds, so the safety and security would be relative. I considered just drifting, far from land. But I don't know if even that

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would be safe. There're things like sharks to consider. I imagine a school of zombie sharks or an undead killer whale could make quick work of a boat."

"It's hopeless," she sighed. "Sooner or later, they're going to get us all, and we'll be walking around like one of them. You should have let
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me die; should have caved my head in so I wouldn't get back up." Troll shook his head. "You saved yourself, Frankie. All I did was watch over you. The feat and the triumph are yours and yours alone. Somewhere inside you, you found the strength to fight-to survive. Your will is a strong one, and that is what you will need out there." Frankie considered this. Her stomach grumbled and she grinned, embarrassed.

"I imagine you could use something to eat. But first, why don't you clean up." He moved over to some metal shelves in the corner, and rummaged through them. "I don't know how these will fit you," he said, holding up a city worker's maintenance uniform, "but they've got to be better than what you're wearing now. Probably smell nicer too." Frankie laughed, and gratefully accepted the clothes. He gave her a clean rag and a wash basin with water. Then, like a magician performing a particularly fine trick, he produced a bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo.

Frankie disrobed and began to scrub while he turned his back and prepared dinner. The soapy water ran over her bruises and sores, over fresh track marks and ghosts of fixes past.

Never again. She'd vowed this before, of course, but something inside her meant it this time. Never again.

Troll turned to her, holding a paper plate piled high with granola bars, beef jerky, and apples that had only started to go brown in spots. She heard his intake of breath from across the room, as she stood naked in the flickering candlelight.

She licked her lips. "You took care of me. Would you like me to take care of you?"

100 "No," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm honored, but there's no need for that. I imagine you've repaid plenty of favors in the past that way, but not now. This is the new you, remember?" She smiled, more pleased than she could find the words to express.

"You're something else, Mr. Troll." She shrugged into the uniform, and found it fit like a new skin.

They ate, and as she chewed, Frankie thought to herself that everything tasted different now.

"So far," Troll told her, lighting the torch while she reloaded the pistol, "fire has kept the rats away when I came across them. But there are other things down here too, and I don't know how it will work on them. So let me lead."

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She nodded, biting her lip.

"Ready?"

She nodded again, unable to speak.

He opened the door into darkness.

They started down the tunnel. Passing a manhole shaft, Frankie saw signs of occupancy in the tiny ledges. Sleeping bags and shelves hung over the rungs of the ladders rising up to the street. There was no sign of the people who dwelled in them.

They walked on in silence, with only the sloshing of their shoes and the sound of their breath as company. The tunnel seemed endless, barreling into the distance beyond the reach of the torch. Troll walked with unerring assurance through innumerable twists and turns. They came to a section where the floor was covered with muddy water. It stank like the walking corpses in the world above, and a layer of scummy film floated atop it. To avoid stepping in the muck, they walked with their legs spread apart, feet gripping the sides of the tunnel 101 and heads lowered.

Cockroaches scuttled blindly through the mud, living on rotted leaves and detritus from the streets and buildings. Albino fish spawned in the water by the dozens. Frankie wondered if they were some type of deformed goldfish, flushed down here long ago. Some of them had grown too big to fit completely in the water. Unable to swim properly, they flopped through the scum, gulping noiselessly in the suffocating oxygen. But that was it. No human or rats, zombified or otherwise. Troll led on tirelessly through the vast network of catacombs. Eventually, they arrived at a crossroads of sorts. Several tunnels of varying height and angles merged together into an open area.

"This way," Troll whispered, the first sound he'd made in over an hour.

"Then it's just another mile or so to the harbor." He continued forward, and Frankie followed close behind. This new tunnel was almost perfectly straight. The ceiling rose and sank like the underbelly of a roller coaster, but the floor was dry, and her cramping legs were grateful.

Eventually, she felt a cool draft on her face.

That was when the first sound came from behind them.

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They both turned. Troll held the torch high, just as a second splash echoed down the corridor.

"Quickly," Troll urged, grabbing her arm. They started walking, briskly; not yet running.

More sounds, closer now. A clicking. The sound of nails or claws. Lots of them.

Then the smell. That all-too-familiar reek of the undead. Troll pushed Frankie ahead of him. Then he stopped and turned, thrusting the torch forward.

Dozens of beady red eyes reflected back at him from

102 the darkness.

The rats charged, spilling towards them like a brown wave coming down the tunnel. They made no sound, save the clicking of their claws as they scurried forward.

"Go!" He shoved her forward and she almost fell. Catching herself, Frankie ran, not sparing a glance behind. Her footsteps pounded against the tunnel. Troll's breathing was harsh behind her. The sounds of pursuit grew stronger. The rats began to squeal, and the sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Frankie fumbled for her gun.

"That's no good!" Troll shouted. "By the time you pick off one, ten more will be on you! Just run!"

She obeyed him, flying ahead. She'd gone several yards before she realized he wasn't behind her.

Troll stood in the center of the tunnel, legs spread wide, blocking it with his girth. He held the torch before him like a flaming sword, sweeping it back and forth. The army of undead vermin cowered, the menace in their eyes almost palpable.

"Troll!"

"Go," he screamed at her, not looking back. "I'll meet you outside!" Frankie stood rooted, and took a step toward him.

"God damn it, girl," he hollered. The rats paced back and forth, testing the limits of the fire. "Survive, Frankie! You've got a second chance. Don't blow it."

Something small and brown and furry dropped squeaking from the ceiling,
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and Troll swung at it with the brand. It erupted into flame, and the rest scampered back. He thrust it at them, growling.

Reluctantly, Frankie ran...

...and that was how she found herself standing here; in a wide, swampy area close to the Fells Point Marina,

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enduring her baptism of acid rain. The Sylvan Learning Center skyscraper and the Inner Harbor Marriott towered over her, their windows dark and brooding.

She waited for a long time.

Troll never emerged from the sewer.

Eventually, Frankie limped on, her tears swallowed up by the rain. 104

Interstate 64 skirted only a few sparse towns as it wound through the mountains of West Virginia and into Virginia, and Martin breathed a prayer of thanks for that. The lack of populated areas improved their chances to avoid encounters with the undead.

Jim drove toward the rising sun, while Martin experimented with the radio, scanning both the AM and FM frequencies. All the stations were playing twenty-four hours of non-stop silence.

Thick fog covered the highway, but Jim kept the speed at a steady sixty-five, ignoring Martin's pleas to slow down. Other than the morning mist, the road was clear. Both of them had been surprised by the lack of vehicles. They'd seen only half a dozen abandoned cars, and most of those had been at the last exit.

Still, to make the old man happy, Jim agreed to wear his seatbelt.

"How's your back?"

"Getting better," Martin grunted. "I reckon those pain killers you grabbed at the gas station did the trick."

They passed the exits for Clifton Forge, Hot Springs, and Crow; each town sitting far off the highway and shrouded by the mountains. The trees masking Crow glowed orange, and wisps of black smoke were beginning to drift through the forest and onto the road. 105 "Should we stop?" Martin asked.

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Jim passed the exit and didn't slow.

"No. There's nothing we can do there."

"But if the town's on fire and there are people still alive-"

"Then they're probably better off. Besides, if there are people still left there, maybe they're the ones who started it. Maybe it was the only way to save themselves."

Martin considered this quietly.

"You know," he said a few minutes later, "we haven't seen any other survivors since we left White Sulphur Springs."

"Yeah, but we haven't seen any zombies either."

"This is true. Still, you would think we'd have seen more. Where do you suppose everybody's gone?"

"If you mean the zombies," Jim answered, "I don't know. You've got to remember, the towns in this part of the state are small and spread out. Most folks live on farms or homes with no close neighbors, or in a hunting cabin down in some hollow. I reckon if they're dying and coming back, we probably wouldn't see that many around here. The most I've seen at once was back in Lewisburg, and that's only because we lived in a housing development."

"But wouldn't the zombies be on the move by now?" Martin asked. "They eat folks, same as we eat a hamburger. If they had no food, surely they'd start migrating to where there was more."

"Yeah, and I think they probably are," Jim agreed. "But you've got to remember that there's hundreds of miles of mountains covering West Virginia. Most of the state is forested. If they are making their way through that type of terrain, it cuts down on our chances of running across any, even the animal zombies. I'll tell you one thing though. I'm still confused over the whole 'food' thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there's no doubt that they're eating us. We've 107 both seen it. But have you noticed something? They don't eat the whole body. It's not like the movies where they rip a victim apart, gnawing every last scrap of meat off the bone."

Martin shuddered.

"Sorry about that, Reverend, but do you see my point? They are eating us for food. But for the most part, they seem to be making extra sure that
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their victims can remain mobile; that they can become one of them. Most of the zombies we've seen have kept their limbs, especially their legs. And all of them still have their head."

"I saw one without a lower jaw."

"But I'm betting its brains were still intact, right?" The preacher nodded and Jim continued. "The brain seems to be the key. Like we were talking about yesterday at the church; it's almost as if something else is settling in the brain after death, and reanimating the body. Like a parasite or something. You said it was demons, and maybe that's so. I don't know. Whatever it is, I'm willing to bet there's a lot of zombies out there that lacked mobility at first."

"Why?"

"Because when this first started, most people died as a result of something other than being a zombie dinner. People who'd been in accidents or fires or what have you. Severed spine. Broken neck. Legs cut off by a riding mower. Things like that. Later, as more and more of the living were being killed by the original wave of zombies, deaths in that manner decreased. As more people die as a result of the zombies, we're seeing more corpses that have the capability for moving around."

"So you think we'll see more and more of them as time goes on?"

"Oh yeah. I imagine if we were farther north, where there's more people, we'd be seeing it already."

"But what about survivors, Jim? Doesn't it seem odd to you that we haven't seen another living person?"

"I don't know," Jim admitted. "Maybe we're all there is in these parts. But I know Danny's alive, and that's all that matters to me."

"We can't be all that's left," Martin said. "I truly believe with all of my heart that there are others, Jim. Folks like us. We just have to find them."

Moments later, the headlights pinpointed a lone deer, standing along the median strip. When it saw them, it bounded across the lanes and disappeared into the treeline.

"I think that one was alive," Martin said. "It didn't move like one of them."

"I guess we should wish him luck then," Jim agreed. "He's gonna have a lot more to worry about than just hunters come this fall." Eventually, the sun burned off the haze. They crossed the border, a green sign informing them that they were LEAVING WILD, WONDERFUL WEST

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VIRGINIA and asking them to COME AGAIN.

"Well, we're in Virginia already," Martin said. "So far, so good."

"We can hope, anyway. We're doing good with the gas. We've only used about a quarter tank. But I don't reckon that our luck will hold. The closer we get to New Jersey, the more congested things will become. To be honest, Martin, I'm not sure how we'll get around that without a fight."

"Perhaps God will clear a path for us."

Jim gripped the wheel.

When he spoke again, Martin had to strain to hear him.

"Why?"

"Why what, Jim?"

"Why did God let this happen? Why did he do this?" Martin paused, choosing his words carefully. It was a question he'd been asked a thousand times before, a question that he himself had asked on more than one occasion. Deaths in the family, sickness, divorce, 108 unemployment, bankruptcy; all of these had led his flock to inquire the same thing.

"You asked me that before and I told you that I didn't know," he answered, the words catching in his throat. "I still don't. I wish I did, Jim. I truly do. But I do know that God didn't do this. The Bible tells us very clearly that Satan is the master of this Earth. He has been since the fall-him and his minions."