City of the Dead (17 page)

Stern took Maynard by the arm. "Joseph, perhaps you should get some rest. You were up all night working in your lab again, weren't you? I'll take over here."

"Thank you, Carl." Maynard looked at Jim. "My apologies."

"Mine too. Kelli, can you give Joseph a hand?"

"Of course. Come on, Dr. Maynard."

Without another word, Maynard allowed Kelli to lead him from the room. As he passed by them, Jim and Don caught a whiff of something-rotten, like the man had rolled around in road kill. He noticed that the nurse was wincing too.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Stern said, "I'm going to ask you to

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leave as well. I need to get her into surgery, and now I'm shorthanded. I'll let you know how she is as soon as I've finished."

He picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed an extension.

"Yes, can you send someone up to Examination Room B and have them give our new arrivals the tour? And have the rest of the standby nursing staff report to sick bay on the double. Thank you."

He hung up the phone.

"Somebody will be with you shortly. They'll show you to your living quarters and help you get assimilated."

"Sounds good," Jim replied, not liking the sound of assimilated. "I'm exhausted."

Distant thunder boomed outside, and both Don and Danny jumped.

Stern chuckled, sliding the needle into Frankie's arm.

"Relax," he told them. "You're all safe now."

The thunder rolled across the sky again and dark clouds blocked out the newly risen sun. Fat raindrops exploded against the window.

The doctor pulled out the needle and placed a cotton ball over the puncture.

"We're safe and sound. See?"

In her dream-because this time she knew it was a dream right away-Frankie stood on a street corner. Zombies bustled all around her: some in business suits with cell phones at their ears, others in blue jeans and T-shirts. One of them, obviously a tourist, gawked at the skyline. Its I Love New York T-shirt was crusted with dried juices. Some walked zombie dogs on leashes and others jogged, pieces of their bodies falling off in their wake. The streets were congested with zombies driving

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cars and pedaling bikes. A taxi driver leaned on his horn, cursing in a language that was old when the world was young. A bus flashed by her, and Frankie recoiled in disgust at the rotting faces staring back at her from the windows.

A zombie with a bloodstained beret perched atop its head stepped forward and said, "Hey baby, how much for a blow job?"

"Fuck off," Frankie snarled. "I don't do that anymore."

"You're standing on the street corner. How much? I've got money."

He pulled out a greasy wad of bills. His decaying fingers left splotches on the money. Then he produced a needle.

"Or maybe you'd like some of that old black tar instead?"

"Not interested," Frankie said. "I don't do that shit anymore either. Now get out of here."

The zombie stuffed the crumpled money back in its pocket and jammed the needle into its eye. Then it pulled down its zipper, releasing something that looked like a gray, bloated sausage. Insects swarmed over the rotting member. The pubic hair was matted with filth.

"Come on, sweetheart. How much to suck my cock?"

The corpse squeezed the shaft, and a maggot spurted from the hole at the end and fell to the sidewalk. The zombie's shriveled testicles squirmed from the inside with more maggot sperm.

"Get the fuck away from me." Frankie pushed the creature off the curb.

"Bitch," it mumbled, and stalked away.

Frankie took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next.

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A hand touched her shoulder.

"I told you to fuck off!"

She spun around.

Martin smiled sadly at her.

"Preacher-man," she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The old man didn't reply.

"Hey, what the hell?"

Martin pointed over her shoulder.

"What is it?"

He pointed again, his face grim.

Frankie turned.

Ramsey Towers had turned into a giant tombstone, towering over the city. It was engraved with her name- and those of Jim, Danny, and Don. A sudden cold gust of wind tore down the street, and the sky grew dark.

"I don't get it," Frankie said. "What does it mean?"

She looked back to Martin for an explanation, but the preacher was gone. The zombies had disappeared too. She was alone in a city-sized graveyard. She thought of the graveyard they'd seen on the Garden State Parkway, just before arriving at Danny's house.

"Martin?"

No answer, except for the wind.

"Shit ..."

She stared back up at the skyscraper-tombstone. The sky grew darker-obsidian.

Something rustled behind her.

Frankie turned around again and the entire undead population of New York City was standing behind her. Their claw-like hands shot forward.

She didn't even have time to scream.

155 NINE

"I'll bet you guys are hungry," Smokey said.

Jim's, Don's, and Danny's stomachs grumbled in agreement. After all they'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, food had been the furthest thing from their minds. But when they walked into the sprawling cafeteria, smelled the aroma of bacon and sausage and eggs and pancakes and fruit and coffee, heard the clank of silverware and glasses and serving trays-they were suddenly ravenous.

The room buzzed with conversation. About one hundred fifty people were gathered in the cafeteria, sitting at long tables, standing in line with trays, and standing around the coffee pots. Several of them looked up, appraising the new arrivals as Smokey led them into the room.

Smokey described himself as an ex-hippie. He was still in pretty good shape for a man in his sixties. A long, gray ponytail hung down over his flannel work shirt, and a matching gray mustache covered his upper lip. Friendly

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and talkative, he'd been assigned to show the three of them around.

"Where do you get the food for all these people?" Jim asked.

"The building had some restaurants and this cafeteria," Smokey answered. "All fully stocked. Plus, there were vending machines on most of the floors, as well as miscellaneous food items in the apartments and offices."

He leaned down, put his hands on his knees, and looked Danny in the eye.

"I bet you like blueberry pancakes, don't you, kiddo?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, because Etta and Leroy and their crew make the best darn blueberry pancakes you've ever eaten. Let's get in line."

Danny grinned in anticipation, and Jim began to relax. It felt strange after countless days spent on the run. His shoulders loosened a bit, his muscles relaxing. Maybe they would be all right after all. He thought back to his second wife, Carrie, and their unborn baby, both killed at the start of his quest. Then he thought about Baker and Martin, and all the others. Perhaps the deaths and the bad times were behind them for a while. He sighed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Smokey asked.

Jim nodded. "It does. It's-a community."

"That it is. About three hundred of us here, all told. Folks work in shifts, so you won't see everybody at once, unless we have a community meeting in the auditorium- and even then, there will still be folks on watch. The cafeteria is open twenty-four hours a day, to take care of folks on night shift and guard duty and what not. But we ration the food, and if you're not one of those folks, you won't

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get served when it's not your turn. People come here just to hang out, play cards, talk. Breakfast is when it's usually most crowded."

"I don't mind the crowd," Jim mused. "I'm just happy to be here. Feels like we've been on the run forever, going from one bad situation to the next. It's hard to believe I can let my guard down."

They got in line and each took a tray. Smokey joked and chatted with every person they passed. He seemed to know everybody. He introduced the three of them, but Jim and Don soon lost track of the names. Jim's wounded shoulder began to ache from all the hand shaking.

A young woman approached them and playfully pushed Smokey out of the way.

"Watch it, Val." He grinned. "Hey, meet Jim and Danny Thurmond and Don De Santos."

"Hi," Val said, flashing white teeth. "You're the group that Quinn and Steve brought in."

"We are," Jim replied. "How did you know that?"

"Val is one of our communication specialists," Smokey explained. "She's also eating for two."

"I'm pregnant," she confirmed. "Only two months, though, so I'm not showing yet."

Jim and Don congratulated her, and then she moved on.

"So what does everybody do around here, other than guard duty and radio monitoring?" Don asked.

"You name it, we've got it," Smokey answered. "Doctors and nurses. Scientists. Soldiers. Janitors. We've got a hydroponics lab and a greenhouse, so if you've got a green thumb, you could volunteer for that. Couple of teachers have started a school on the twentieth floor, so Danny here will be able to continue his learning."

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"School?" Danny groaned. "Yuck."

Jim smiled at this. It felt good to hear Danny reacting like a kid to normal things-almost as if the zombies had been a bad dream.

"There's lots of other kids your age," Smokey told him. "You'll like it."

Danny considered this.

Smokey turned back to Jim and Don as the line moved forward.

"We've got janitors and cooks and a maintenance department," he said. "If you're good with plumbing or electricity or can hammer a nail straight, they'd be glad to have you. There's a full-sized movie theater and a pretty good library-not that I'm much for reading, mind you. We've got a group that puts on plays once a month, and an orchestra too-mostly musicians who banded together once they were inside here. They all use the auditorium. Hell, we've even got our own closed-circuit TV station. They don't show much: reruns of Andy Griffith, Seinfeld, Deadwood, and old game shows mostly."

A disheveled man tugged on Jim's shirtsleeve.

"Have you seen my cat?" His mouth held two good teeth, and his dirty hair was plastered to his head with what looked like motor oil. Jim reeled from the man's body odor. Along with the stink, the man smelled like he'd bathed in vodka.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't seen a cat."

"My cat smells like tuna fish," the man told him. "His name is God. He's omnipotent."

"Get out of here, Pigpen," Smokey barked. "Leave these people alone. They haven't seen your damned cat."

Pigpen turned to Don. "Can you spare a few bucks?"

Don's eyes widened in surprise.

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"Go on now, Pigpen," Smokey insisted. "Get!"

The strange man wandered away. Don stared after him.

"What is it?" Jim asked. "He seemed pretty harmless."

"I know him," Don whispered.

"What?" Smokey and Jim said in unison.

"I swear I'm not pulling your legs. I know that guy. He was homeless. Used to stand outside my office every morning. We all called him Pigpen, because that's what he answered to. He was a fixture on Wall Street."

"You've got to be kidding me," Smokey exclaimed. "Pigpen really is his name?"

"I guess," Don said. "Too weird. It's the same guy, though. Even back then, he was looking for his cat. Sometimes he had it with him-a mangy old calico with a chunk missing from its ear."

"I feel sorry for the poor guy." Jim watched Pigpen cut through the crowd.

"Don't," Smokey said. "He's safe inside here. Same can't be said for everyone else out there."

"Unbelievable." Don shook his head. "A city the size of New York and the one person I know in this place, other than you guys, is the homeless person from where I worked."

"What did you guys do before the Rising started?"

"I was in construction," Jim answered.

"And I was a stockbroker," Don said.

"Construction." Smokey shuffled forward. "They'll probably put you on a maintenance crew, doing repairs and what have you. Stockbroker? Don't know much about that. Never followed the stock market myself. But I'm sure we'll have something for you."

"You think so?" Don asked.

"You can push a broom, can't you?" The old man

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laughed and then stuck his tray out. Three strips of bacon were placed on it, followed by a scoop of scrambled eggs.

"Morning, Etta," he said to the large, hulking woman behind the counter. "Got a little boy here that traveled all the way from New Jersey just to try your blueberry pancakes." He introduced the three of them.

"Meetcha," the woman coughed, scowling. "Any fan of my pancakes is all right by me."

"Push a broom," Don muttered under his breath. "Yeah, I can push a broom."

"How about strip a weapon, reassemble it, and fire it with accuracy?" asked a low voice behind them.

Don and Jim both turned, while Danny thrust his tray out and salivated for the pancakes.

The speaker was impeccably dressed. A long, shiny black ponytail hung down his back, and several rings adorned his fingers. He was tall and lean and moved like a panther through the line. But it was his eyes that made them pause. There was something different about them. It took Jim a moment to realize what that was.

The man didn't blink.

"I'm Bates." He stuck out his hand and Don took it. "Head of security for Ramsey Towers."

"Don De Santos." The man's grip was firm. "This is Jim Thurmond and his son, Danny."

"You're the gentleman from West Virginia?" Bates asked.

Jim frowned. "Yes I am. Word must travel fast in here."

"It does. But yours is an incredible story, Mr. Thurmond, so it traveled even faster. After you've rested, we'd like to debrief you, if you don't mind. There's a lot you can probably tell us of what's going on in the rest of the world."

Jim shrugged. "I don't know how useful my information

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could be, Mr. Bates. All you've got to do is look out the window. It's pretty much that way everywhere."

"Indeed. Still, I hope you'll help us fill in some blanks? It really could prove helpful to our continued survival."