City of the Dead (13 page)

Pain. Then-darkness and more pain.

"Daddy?"

A voice. Small and afraid. Disembodied.

"D-Daddy? Dad?"

Urgent. Louder.

"Dad. The monster people are coming! Get up!"

Panic. The voice was Danny's.

"Daddy! Please, Daddy, you've got to wake up. Please?"

It all came rushing back to him-the rescue, the pursuit, the motorcycle crashing in front of them on purpose, and then-nothing.

Jim opened his eyes and saw red. There was no sign of Danny, or any of their companions. In fact, there was no sign of anything. He couldn't see. It was as if a scarlet curtain had been drawn over the world.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

"I-I'm blind ..."

A guard shack-the kind used at parking garages. He remembered that.

"They're here. Come on!"

He felt Danny tugging at his arm, heard the trembling in his voice. From somewhere to his left came a groan. Martin? De Santos? Frankie?

He smelled gas.

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Then he smelled them.

Zombies.

"Danny? It's okay. I'm awake. I just can't see."

"You're hurt, Daddy. You've got blood in your eyes."

The pain stabbed again. Red. The world was red. Hesitantly, Jim touched his face and forehead. They were sticky. He probed at his scalp and winced at the sudden flash of agony.

"Danny, where are the others?"

There was no response.

"Danny?"

Jim heard harsh, ragged breathing and realized that it was coming from his son. Danny's voice was barely a whisper.

"Daddy, they're here ..."

"Hey kid, want a nice piece of candy?" a zombie growled.

Jim heard the door wrenched open and then Danny shrieked.

"DADDY!"

"Come here, you little fuck!"

Jim's paralysis snapped. He wiped the blood from his eyes-seeing again-and screamed with rage as a pair of mottled arms dragged Danny from the backseat. His son struggled, kicking his legs and beating at the zombie with his fists. Another pair of leathery hands grappled with Danny's seatbelt release.

Jim grabbed the cold hand clutching his son's arm. The zombie's grip was like a vice. Jim pried at the fingers, tugging hard as adrenalin coursed through his veins. The finger tore loose and the creature laughed. Jim tossed the severed digit aside.

Desperate, he looked for the hatchet. The SUV's interior was a mess. Maps and soda cans, Styrofoam coffee

115 cups and empty bullet casings, cigarette butts and shattered glass-all of it knocked loose and scattered on impact. Behind him, Frankie lay unmoving, buried beneath a pile of blankets, tennis rackets, and a cooler. In the front seat, Don sat slumped over the wheel, a white airbag enveloping him. A thin trickle of blood leaked from his gaping mouth. His eyes were shut. And Martin-

Martin was gone. The airbag had deployed, but there was no sign of the old man. Instead, there was a hole in the windshield; the edges matted with blood, hair, and pieces of pink, glistening flesh.

"Daddy, help me!"

Jim punched uselessly at the creature's face.

"Get off him! Get your god-damned hands off my son!"

He beat at the zombies, but could gain no leverage in the cramped backseat. His pulse throbbed as Danny's seatbelt came undone. The zombies dragged Danny out.

"No!"

"Yes!"

They jerked Danny into the darkness. The little boy's screams became one long, drawn out wail as the larger zombie's rotten mouth descended upon him. Frantically, Jim grabbed Danny's legs and pulled him backward. The zombies tugged harder.

"What's your fucking problem, pal? Let the kid go. He's just an appetizer. You can be the main course."

Jim was beyond words, beyond thought. The pain in his head and shoulder were forgotten. Martin was forgotten. Frankie and De Santos were forgotten. His entire world consisted of his son and the two undead attackers. Growling, he braced his feet against the console and pulled harder. The smaller zombie, the one who had

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undone the seatbelt, lost its grip, and Danny slid another inch toward Jim.

"Fuck this," it grunted. "Just kill the little shit so we can get to the adult. More meat on him anyway."

Nodding in agreement, the other creature's mouth fell upon Danny again.

"DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

The zombie's teeth ripped through Danny's shirt, right between his neck and shoulder. The powerful jaws clenched, preparing to bite through the skin, and then-

-Frankie sat up and buried the hatchet in its head, cleaving the skull in two. Gore splashed Danny and Jim.

"Eat that, motherfuckers," Frankie growled.

The decaying hands fell away as the zombie toppled backward. Jim pulled the hysterical boy back inside.

"You're okay, Danny," Jim reassured him. "You're okay now. They're not gonna get you."

"Cheer up, kiddo," Frankie said, "you're rescued."

She sank back down, her eyes fluttering closed. She did not move again.

"Shit. Frankie, wake up." Jim shook her gently, afraid of hurting the unconscious woman any worse than she already was.

"Is she dead, Daddy?"

"I don't think so, squirt. Are you okay?"

Danny nodded.

"Frankie?" Jim tried again. When she didn't respond, he shook De Santos.

"Don. Don, get up!"

"Huzzat..."

"Come on. God damn it, De Santos, wake up now!"

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"Five more minutes, Myrna ..."

The second zombie stepped forward and yanked the bloody hatchet from its fallen comrade's head. It was dressed in the tattered remains of a Bob Marley shirt. One ear and half its cheek had been torn away, and dreadlocks hung from its skull in filthy, matted ropes.

"Look what you did to my brother! That wasn't very nice. That wasn't nice at all."

Don stirred.

"Jim?"

"Wake up, Don. We've gotta go!"

Jim opened the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" the zombie snarled.

Clutching his son, Jim opened the door on the side away from the zombie, and tumbled out of the Explorer onto the cold pavement. He let go of Danny, sprang to his feet, and yanked Don's door open. Don stumbled out of the vehicle.

"Jesus, my chest ..."

"Can you walk?"

"I-I think so. Just ... hard to catch ... my breath."

The zombie slid into the backseat from the other side. A plump, white maggot fell from its nose and lay wriggling on the floor mat. Jim gagged, and Don coughed blood from his nose and mouth.

Jim put a hand on Don's shoulder to steady him.

"Are you okay?"

"My chest," Don wheezed. "Steering wheel hit it. Fucking airbags were worthless. I should sue the manufacturer."

Jim turned back to the wrecked vehicle. "We've got to get Frankie out of there and find Martin."

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The zombie crawled across the seat toward them, reaching for the open door. Jim slammed it in the creature's face.

"Danny, stay here with Mr. De Santos."

"No, Daddy, I want to stay with you!"

"I've got to get Frankie out of there, Danny. I don't have time to argue."

He turned to Don.

"When I tell you, open this door."

The corpse beat at the window with its fist, leaving a greasy smudge. Then it turned away from them.

"You want me to do what?"

"You heard me."

Inside the Explorer, the zombie pawed through the blankets surrounding Frankie. Jim dashed around to the other side and picked up a large rock.

"Now, Don!"

"Get behind me, Danny. I think your father may have lost his mind."

Swallowing, Don yanked the back door open. Immediately, the zombie turned and swung at him with the bloody hatchet.

Jim was quicker.

Grabbing it by the feet, he pulled it out of the backseat and onto the ground. The axe flew from its clutches and the zombie scrambled for it. Jim jumped onto its back, forcing it down again. The zombie pushed upward, struggling to dislodge him.

Enraged, Jim brought the rock crashing down on the creature's head, punctuating each blow with a snarl.

" I-told-you-to-leave-my-son-ALONE!"

There the skull split open with a loud crack. Pink, foul-smelling liquid spilled from the wound. The zombie

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bellowed, then finally lay still. Jim continued pounding it with the rock until the head was obliterated.

Panting, covered in blood and drenched in sweat, he looked up to see Danny staring at him. The boy's expression was horrified.

"Daddy ..."

"It's okay, Danny. He can't hurt you now."

His son continued to stare, eyes wide and mouth open. Still clutching the rock, Jim slid off the corpse's back and walked toward him, drenched in gore.

Don eased Frankie out of the wrecked vehicle's rear, supporting her as she tried to stand.

"Where did the other zombies get to?" Don looked around for the rest of their pursuers.

"I don't know," Jim replied. "Maybe we lost them. How is she?"

"I'm fine," Frankie answered weakly. "Not dead yet at least."

"Can you walk?"

"Gonna have to. Where's the preacher-man?"

"Oh God-Martin!"

In his concern for Danny, Jim had forgotten all about the old man.

He ran around to the front of the vehicle and searched the area. He found Martin's crumpled form at the base of a tree. The preacher wasn't moving.

"No no no no no ..."

He stumbled toward his friend, and when he reached him ...

Jim hoped that Martin had died with a prayer on his lips.

He turned his head and vomited.

"Daddy?"

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"Don't look, Danny. Stay over there."

Martin lay on his stomach, but his head was twisted around backwards. The old man's bulging, sightless eyes gaped at him. Deep lacerations split his face, and one arm had been severed halfway between the elbow and the shoulder.

"Oh Martin ..."

Frankie hung her head. "Is he?"

Jim swallowed hard.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"God damn it..."

Kneeling, Jim gripped his rock tighter. The rough surface cut into the calluses on his palm.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I'm so sorry."

"Jim?" Don shifted uneasily.

"What?"

"You-you know what you have to do, right?"

Jim didn't respond.

"He'd want you to. He wouldn't want to-to end up like that." Don cocked his head toward the pulped remains of the zombie.

"I hate to say it, but he's right," Frankie agreed. "You've got to finish it, Jim. We can't let this happen to Martin. Not like that."

Jim closed his eyes and sighed.

"He'd want a prayer first," he said. "We owe him that, at least. Is there time?"

"I don't hear any zombies," Don said. "Maybe we lost the others."

Jim closed the preacher's eyes. Then he reached into Martin's breast pocket and pulled out his pocket-sized New Testament. After a brief pause, he held it to his heart and bowed his head. A second later, Danny did the same, followed by Don. Frankie watched the body.

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"Lord," Jim began, "I-I still don't understand why you let all of this happen, why you did this to us, but I know that Martin never stopped believing in you. Not even when things got really bad. He was convinced that you wanted him to help me. He said that you would lead us to Danny. I reckon he was right. Even when his own life was in danger, he helped me because he believed in you. God, we ask-"

Martin's eyes opened. "There is no God."

Jim smashed him in the face with the rock. The zombie jittered.

"I'm sorry, Martin."

He swung again, and something cracked.

Frankie and Don flinched. Danny squeezed his eyes shut.

Jim swung a third time, and Martin's corpse was still. Jim stuffed the Bible in his back pocket.

A horn blared.

"What the hell?"

Headlights speared them, turning night to day as the Humvee crested the hill and roared toward them.

"Here they come!" Don shouted.

"Run!" Throwing the rock aside, Jim picked up Danny and cradled him in his arms. "Can you carry Frankie?"

"I can try," Don gasped.

He hefted her and suddenly collapsed, wincing in pain.

Frankie bit down a scream as fresh agony ripped through her body.

"I can't," Don breathed. "My chest ..."

Jim shoved Danny toward them.

"Head for that parking garage. I'll lead them away from here and double back."

"You're insane."

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"Go!"

"Daddy?"

Jim gave him a quick hug, kissed him on the forehead, and then looked up at De Santos.

"Please-go."

"Daddy?"

The Humvee bore down on them. More vehicles crested the hill behind it. Above them, Jim heard the dry, rustling flutter of wings.

"Daddy!"

"I love you, Danny."

Jim charged toward the Humvee.

"Daddy, no! Come back!"

"Let's go, Danny." Don led the crying boy toward the garage. Frankie limped along behind them, casting one last glance over her shoulder at the ruined flesh that had been the Reverend Thomas Martin.

"Rest easy, preacher-man."

"Come on, you sacks of shit. Over here!"

Jim waved his arms over his head, running directly toward the onrushing vehicles. The zombies obliged, swerving in his direction and spearing him with their headlights. The Humvee's engine roared hungrily.

Something buzzed by his ear. Jim felt a fresh burst of pain as a razored beak slashed his palm. He lashed out, but the bird darted away and circled around again. He spared a quick glance upward and saw more bearing down on him.

"Come and get it! Supper time!"

Bullets dug into the earth at his feet.

He ran, praying that De Santos and Frankie could get Danny to safety, praying that safety itself existed. A carrion crow pecked at his hand. In the distance, over the

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gunshots, he heard a rumble. Thunder? A helicopter? He didn't know and realized that he didn't care.

Let the sky weep.

He knew how it felt.

The entrance to the parking garage yawned before them like a gaping, ravenous mouth. The interior was pitch-black, and all three of them froze in front of it. Danny squirmed in Don's grip, desperately shouting for his father.