City of the Dead (23 page)

"At first, I thought it was just stress. Figured he was tired. It didn't get bad until a few days ago."

"Well, from here on out, the four of us need to trust each other implicitly. We're in this together."

"Agreed." Bates nodded. "Forrest, you keep an eye on Pigpen here. Don't let our fellow conspirator run his mouth. If I really am going to assume control of

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operations, I'm sure there will be some people who want to start trouble over it. We need to let those we trust know about it beforehand, so they can help quell any resistance. Something like that will just delay us longer. The two of you go wake up Steve."

Forrest frowned. "The Canuk? Why?"

"Because he's an airline pilot and we're not. If we can make it to the airport, I want to know exactly what would be required when we get there, how many people he thinks he can fly out, what type of plane he'll need- how feasible this whole thing is."

"You really do think there's a way out of here, don't you?" Forrest asked.

"Anything is better than sitting here, just waiting for those things outside to attack us."

Ob's ruse worked. By midnight, the undead forces encamped in New York City had netted over a hundred additional survivors, lured from safety by the phony broadcast. They were slaughtered as they crept from their basements and attics and storage rooms and everywhere else they'd hidden. One group was caught on the choked Long Island Expressway, driving an armored car. Another group emerged onto the rooftop of their Soho brownstone, saw what was happening, and began dropping cinder blocks on the corpses milling in the streets below. They were picked off by a combination of zombie snipers and undead birds. More humans came in during the night, from New Jersey and other parts of New York State. The dead welcomed them with open arms and flashing teeth. Their numbers swelled. By the time the witching hour had passed, the only

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living creatures left in New York were sequestered inside Ramsey Towers.

On the outskirts of the city, a zombie with a can of spray paint tagged graffiti on the side of a building. It read:

WELCOME TO THE NECROPOLIS.

HAVE A NICE DAY

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TWELVE

Bates was halfway to Ramsey's private quarters when his radio squawked. The burst of electronic static was like a gunshot in the silent corridor. He yanked it from his belt in frustration, and lowered his voice.

"This is Bates."

"Mr. Bates?" The speaker was Branson, a former meteorologist and now one of their communications specialists. "You'd better come down here to the communication center right away. We've got trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"You wouldn't believe it, sir."

"Try me. Quit speaking in riddles and just report what you have."

Branson's gulp was audible through the tiny speaker.

"The zombies, sir. They-well, they've taken over all the broadcast channels-ham, military, commercial, and even the marine frequencies. Everything."

"And what are they doing?"

"Announcing an all clear. Telling survivors in the listening area that it's okay to come out now. Telling them

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to come to Manhattan. They're saying the city's safe, and if they come here, they'll be protected and given food and shelter."

"And you're sure it's them?"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Bates, but who else could it be? We know darn well that it's not safe outside. People are being led into a trap."

"Damn. That's clever." Despite his total loathing of the creatures surrounding the skyscraper, Bates had to respect their ingenuity.

"Sir? That's not all. We've picked up some transmissions from the south. There's a large force on the move, heavily armed. I'm talking tanks and heavy artillery."

"Human? A militia maybe?"

"Negative. They're zombies, sir."

"Any idea what their destination is?"

"Here."

Bates blood turned to ice water.

"I'll be down right away. Continue monitoring all channels."

Cursing under his breath, he stalked to the elevator.

Ramsey's door, which had been open a crack during the conversation, quietly shut again.

Darren Ramsey hadn't obtained his position in life by being stupid. Clever cunning, a keen sense of self-preservation, and a healthy dose of paranoia had served him well in his sixty-five years on Earth.

He drew upon those skills now.

He let the door slide shut and listened for the elevator doors to ding. When he was sure Bates had gone, he placed the loaded pistol on the desk and clicked his computer's mouse. The Screensaver disappeared. Ramsey clicked again, and then typed in a password. This gave

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him access to the building's security system; something that even Bates was unaware was still fully operational. Ramsey had paid off the head of the maintenance crew with a box of cigars, a bottle of bourbon, and the promise of a million dollars when society was normal again, after the man had accidentally discovered the network. There were over one thousand carefully concealed, state-of-the-art surveillance cameras in the building, each with full audio and zoom capability. None was bigger than a pinhead.

Ramsey let his fingers glide over the keyboard, feeling like a pianist at a concert. Rapid-fire images flashed by on his monitor.

Smokey, Quinn, the mess-hall cooks Leroy and Etta, and one of the new arrivals, (De Santos-was that his name?-Ramsey couldn't remember) played a raucous game of poker, laughing and smoking and telling bawdy jokes.

FLASH

Carson had found comfort in the arms of another man. Though the room was dark, Ramsey could see the tears on the young man's face, trickling around his splinted nose. The old man wondered if the tears were for his suicidal friend, or for himself, or for them all.

FLASH

Kelli, the young nurse, lay on her bed, vigorously masturbating with one hand while the other caressed her breasts. Ramsey briefly turned up the sound, but soon lost interest. His penis remained flaccid. He wondered if the videos that Maynard had filmed before his death would interest him more.

FLASH

Steve, the Canadian airline pilot, lay sprawled on his bed, fully clothed and snoring. A half-empty bottle of

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Knob Creek and a photo of the man's son sat on the dresser.

FLASH

On the roof, undead crows, pigeons, and sparrows strutted about or perched on the helicopter and the strobe lights, watching the door patiently.

FLASH

DiMassi, the sickened pilot, watched television, an old episode of Hogan's Heroes via the building's closed-circuit broadcast, and drank a can of warm beer. His room was littered with debris: crumpled cans and tissues, half-eaten pizza crusts and empty candy wrappers. Ramsey was filled with disgust, yet he considered the fat man's worth. DiMassi had recently had an altercation with Bates, and might yet come in handy.

FLASH

In the darkened lobby, all was silent, save for the distant curses of the zombies milling around outside the barricaded main entrance doors. A complicated nest of boobytraps and trip wires snaked through the lobby. Two guards (he was fairly certain their names were Cullen and Newman, but it was hard to keep track of everyone), sat behind the sandbagged receptionist desk-fortress, and listened to the undead outside. Ramsey could see the smoldering fear that they tried to hide from each other.

FLASH

Bates had entered the radio room, and was seated in front of a console, with Val and Branson flanking him. He knew that Val was pregnant. He didn't know much about Branson.

Ramsey turned up the sound and zoomed in on them.

"... will be there to assist you. Message repeats. This is the Federal Emergency Management Agency, broadcasting

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to all who can hear this message. The United States Department of Homeland Security has determined that Manhattan and the other New York boroughs are now safe zones. The quarantine has been lifted. All civilian and military personnel are encouraged to make their way to the area immediately. Shelter and aid stations have been set up for your convenience, to provide food, water, and medical aid. Again, the threat alert for New York City has been lifted and the area is now designated as a safe zone. Make your way there for further assistance. Military and civilian authorities will be there to assist you. Message repeats ..."

"Unbelievable," Val breathed.

"It's something, all right," Branson agreed. "What do you think, Mr. Bates?"

Bates lit a cigarette, and snapped his lighter shut.

"I think we're fucked."

"How so?"

Val wished he wouldn't smoke around her, but said nothing. Branson cleaned his glasses on his shirttail and waited for his superior's response.

Bates exhaled a line of smoke. "Why haven't they done this before? Why now, all of the sudden? They've got a leader-somebody new, telling them what to do."

"Do you ..." Val paused, then continued. "Do you think any of our people will buy into it, try to go outside?"

"If they do, they'll be dead before they can get those lobby doors open. All lobby guards have standing orders to shoot anyone who tries. That's what these things want. Just a crack-enough to get their feet in the door."

The two young radio operators grew silent.

"Let me hear this other broadcast," Bates said.

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Branson shuffled his feet. "They've gone silent again, sir."

"Did you manage to record any of it?"

Both shook their heads.

"Damn. Well, what did you hear? Don't leave out any details, no matter how trivial they may seem."

Val reported, "There's a large force of zombies heading this way from Pennsylvania. Estimated time of arrival was maybe four or five hours from now, right around dawn."

"Which doesn't make any sense," Branson interrupted, "because Hellertown is only about two hours from here."

"Usually, yes," Bates agreed. "But I'm sure the roads are clogged with abandoned vehicles. I've been meaning to speak with the Thurmond party, and get their assessment of the area outside our borders, especially the parts out of the range of our reconnaissance flights."

"How far did they travel?" Branson asked.

"From West Virginia."

"Holy shit. They managed to survive that long on the ground? Put a gun in their hands. They'd be good to have. Sound like some ass-kicking motherfuckers."

Bates nodded to Val. "So the zombie army will be here by morning."

Val's mouth was a thin, tight line.

"Continue," Bates encouraged her.

She took a deep breath. "The zombie army seems to mostly be made up of the military units we monitored in that same area, sir."

"I'd figured as much."

"It's a mobile force, consisting of several hundred vehicles, both military and civilian. The caravan has been reporting over the radio to somebody named Ob."

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'Ob?'

"Yes. We've been unable to determine who or what he is, but we assume he's their leader. If so, then he's obviously one of them."

"And where is he based? Do we know this Ob's location?"

Val's face paled.

"Here, sir. He's here in the city. And from what we overheard, he knows about us too."

"Of course they do. That's why they've stayed camped outside this building day in and day out."

"But, Mr. Bates, there's more. This leader, Ob, told the other group that the way was being cleared, but that the tunnel might not be cleared in time. He gave them alternate directions from the bridge."

"Directions to where?"

"Here, sir."

"The city? You already told me that."

Val grew even paler.

"No, sir. Here. To Ramsey Towers."

Ramsey switched off the camera, and logged out of the security system. He sat back, bathed in the soft glow of his monitor's Screensaver-the cover of his best-selling autobiography.

They were coming. Soon. He was nervous, but at the same time, he could barely contain his glee. This was the perfect opportunity to finally showcase how much damage his indestructible building could actually withstand. All doubts would be laid to rest, and more importantly, his flock would remain safe and secure within its walls. And when the failed assault was over, they would thank him. Praise him.

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Worship him.

But was it enough to simply bask in their adoration? Ramsey was used to the public eye-indeed, he craved it. But he wanted more than just their accolades. He wanted-needed-to be their savior.

Bates could get in the way of that. Bates, Forrest, and Stern. They thought he was crazy. Him, Darren Ramsey! He'd listened in on their conversation after he left the conference room. Pigpen presented a problem as well. Ramsey wasn't surprised that the vagrant knew of the private tunnel. The foreman had reported several cases of vandalism and skirmishes with the homeless during its construction. But now this man had told the others, and it sounded like Bates was planning on leading his people-Ramsey's people-down into the network of tunnels beneath the city. Leading them from the safety of the building.

He couldn't allow that. He needed to maintain control. He needed to prove to them all that both the building, and himself, were indestructible. Bates lack of faith was regrettable. Ramsey had enjoyed working with the bodyguard.

But now he'd have to fire him.

Ramsey picked up the pistol.

"Shoot me now," Don muttered, "and put me out of my misery."

Quinn laughed as Don, Smokey, and Etta all folded, flinging their cards down onto the table. Then he raised and called. Leroy cursed, displayed his losing hand, and Quinn raked the pile of cash toward himself. "That's another twenty-five grand for me." "Don't know why you so happy," Etta grumbled, "That might as well be Monopoly money we're playing with."

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"Yeah," Leroy chimed in, lighting a cigarette. "It ain't like you can go out and spend it, Quinn."

"It doesn't matter to me if it's useless or not," Quinn told them, pouring himself another glass of bourbon. "I just like to feel the cash between my fingers."

"Where did you guys get all this money anyway?" Don asked.