City of the Dead (31 page)

He pressed the emergency call button, not expecting results and not receiving any. He tried the radio clipped to his belt, but there was no response. Then he waited, wondering what to do next. He studied his M-16, refamiliarizing himself with the weapon. He recited from memory the crash course that Forrest had given him. He listened, hoping to hear voices, footsteps, anything that would indicate that somebody was aware of his predicament.

Nobody came.

The air inside the elevator grew hot. Stern removed his shirt and mopped his brow, trying not to panic. His throat felt dry and scratchy. His eyes seemed to swell, as did his hands and fingers. His ears burned and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

My blood pressure is up, he thought. Need to calm down, think rationally, and get the hell out of here.

He tried the radio again. There was a burst of static, and then a garbled voice. He listened carefully, but couldn't make out what the other person was saying.

"Bates? This is Stern. Do you copy?"

Something unintelligible.

"This is Dr. Stern. I'm trapped in an elevator. Can anyone hear me?"

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Static, and then, "My dick ..."

"Say again?"

"Dick ... it's gone. They ... took it..."

"Who is this? I need help. I'm stuck inside one of the elevators."

"They're everywhere, man ... Thousands of them ... They..."

"Who is this? Can you hear me?"

"It's c-cold. Savini's missing. George is dead ... So is ... Ken. Ripped his arms out ... Joe and Gary ... They shot them both before I could do a-anything. And then ... and then they ..."

"Go ahead, son. I'm listening."

"They turned on me. They tore my pants off ... and ..."

Stern drew in a breath and held it.

"They ... cut it off and ate it... and then they just... they just left me here."

Stern was speechless. The elevator suddenly seemed to spin. He closed his eyes against the vertigo. His stomach churned.

The man on the other end began to sob.

"They left me here to ... to bleed out and die. They cut my fucking dick off!"

"It-it's going to be okay," Stern said, feeling foolish. "Can you tell me your name?"

"I don't want to be like them," the man wailed. "Not like that! I don't want to come back."

"Please," Stern whispered. "Tell me your name."

"I don't want to come back."

"Please? Can you tell me who you are? Where you are?"

"Hail Mary, full of grace ..."

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There was a gunshot, and then silence. Stern turned the radio off, wrestling with a wave of nausea. After a moment, it passed.

The air inside the elevator grew hotter, stifling. After a moment, he sat the rifle aside, stood up, and studied the doors. He experimented with them, sliding his fingers in between the crack. Grunting, Stern pulled. The doors didn't budge.

"Damn it."

He strained again, pulling with all his might. The doors slid a half-inch, then an inch, and then stopped. He let go and caught his breath.

"It never looked this hard in the movies."

He put his eye to the crack and peered through. The wall of the shaft stared back at him. Two feet above his head, he saw the bottom half of another pair of doors. He realized that the elevator was stuck between floors. If he could force these doors open, and wedge the others apart as well, he could climb through.

He set to work again, and with a final heave, the doors slid open all the way. Warm air brushed his face. He smelled smoke.

"Well, that's half of it," he panted.

He laid the radio on the floor next to the rifle and his shirt, stood at the edge of the elevator, and reached up. His fingers just reached the outer doors, but he had no leverage to pry them open.

"Where's the ladder? In the movies, there's always a ladder inside the shaft."

Cursing, he slammed his hand against the shaft in frustration.

An answering knock came from the other side of the doors.

"Hello," he called, "Is somebody out there?"

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The knock sounded again, along with muffled voices.

"I'm in here!" Stern pounded on the shaft wall. "Can you get me out? I'm stuck."

They called back to him. Stern wasn't sure what they said, but it sounded like "Hang tight."

So he did. He waited, listening to the activity on the other side. Within moments, the doors slid open, bathing the shaft with the soft glow of emergency lights. A flashlight clicked on, and one of his rescuers shined the beam into his face.

"Thank God," Stern gasped, squinting against the light. Several figures stood illuminated in the open doorway, but the beam blinded him and he couldn't make out who they were. "I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of here."

There was no response.

"Could you kill that light, please?"

"Sure," came the reply. "Right after we kill you."

The zombies reached down and grabbed his hair and shoulders, yanking him upward. Screaming, the doctor thrashed and kicked, as they pulled him out. They threw him to the floor, holding him down as they tore into him with their bare hands. They clawed open his abdomen and reached inside, pushing and prodding. One of the creatures gripped a fistful of his intestines and pulled them out, running its tongue along the glistening offal. Another grabbed a fistful of his lung, pulping the organ between its fingers.

Stern tried to scream, but no sound came out. His lips moved silently as a zombie thrust its hand inside him, wrenched something loose, and then held it up for him to see.

He stared at his own spleen, and minutes later when he came back, he ate some of it himself.

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DiMassi slipped through the fire door and ran up the last flight of stairs. His heart hammered in his chest, and his lungs burned. Gasping, he stopped at the door leading out onto the roof, and looked through the window.

The roof was gone. Presumably, it was still there, but he couldn't see it beneath all the undead birds. Even the massive strobe lights were buried.

"Holy shit."

Hands shaking, he pulled a bright yellow protective suit from its hook on the wall and put it on. When he was a boy, DiMassi's father had been a beekeeper, and the outfit reminded him of that. Heavy mesh Kevlar covered him from head to toe, including a hard plastic visor, sewn into the hood to cover his face. Movement was laborious while wearing the protective suits, but they kept the birds from tearing the pilots to shreds on their way to the helicopter.

His muffled panting sounded loud inside the covered hood, and his breath fogged the face shield. He pulled on the thick gloves and waited for the fog to clear. Outside, the zombie birds stared back at him through the window.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway below, and Carson crashed through the door.

"End of the line, fat boy."

DiMassi flung the door open and stepped outside. The birds took flight, moving as one toward him. Crows, pigeons, finches, sparrows, robins-dead wings beat the air. Their deafening cries sounded like children screaming, and the sky was black with their bodies. They slammed into the pilot, crushing him with their numbers. More creatures soared through the open door.

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DiMassi stumbled, falling to his knees in the middle of the roof. His back, legs and arms felt heavy from the weight of the birds. Their beaks and claws pecked and tore at his protective suit, but the material held up. He collapsed into a ball and rolled around, crushing them beneath him. DiMassi struggled to his feet. Slowly, methodically, he plodded across the roof to the helicopter. The birds were so thick that it was like walking underwater. He yanked the door open but the birds crashed against it, forcing it shut again. A large crow pecked at his visor hard enough to crack the plastic. Another managed to wedge its beak in the seam between his glove and wrist, drawing blood.

Screaming, DiMassi pulled the cockpit door open again, and lunged inside. He pulled the door shut, smashing the birds that had made it inside with his gloved hands.

"Fuck you, Carson! You fucking faggot! Fuck you too, birds!" He tossed the gloves and hood into the seat next to him, and raised his middle finger to the stairwell door. But the door had vanished inside a cloud of rotting, feathery bodies.

"I did it. Son of a bitch-I made it!"

Laughing, DiMassi crossed his fingers and started the helicopter. The engines whined to life and he laughed louder.

Carson was halfway up the stairs when the air turned black. He managed to let out a short, strangled cry and then they fell upon him, smashing into him like torpedoes. Razored beaks jabbed at every inch of his exposed flesh. His ears and cheeks were sliced to ribbons. His eyeballs were plucked from their sockets, and his nose was

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ripped from his face. His weapon slipped from his bleeding hands, clattered down the stairs, and discharged. The explosion was lost in the din of the screeching zombies and Carson's tortured shrieks. He screamed as something clawed and pecked its way into his stomach. The bird took wing again, a curd of fat hanging in its beak. Agony erupted in his groin. His throat was flayed open.

Carson collapsed, tumbling down the stairs and rolling to a stop against the closed door. The birds swarmed down, tearing his clothes to pieces. Then they dug into the rest of him, turning the young soldier into a quivering mass of bloody meat and exposed nerve endings. Despite the pain and blood loss, Carson remained conscious through it all.

It took him a very long time to die.

Jim, Quinn, Frankie, and the others arrived at the stairwell in time to hear Carson's screams. Branson turned white and Danny shrank away, covering his ears with his hands.

"We've got to get him out of there." Branson reached for the doorknob with his uninjured arm. "They'll tear him to pieces!"

"Don't open that door," Quinn cautioned. "You'll let them in here!"

"But Quinn, we can't-"

The rest was drowned out by Carson's shrieks.

"There's nothing we can do." Quinn steadied himself, trying to remain calm. "If we open that door, those things will be on us in a second."

"He's right," Jim said. "Frankie and I have both seen what a flock of those birds can do. We won't stand a chance."

"But it's Carson ..."

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"And it will be us next if you don't listen to me." Quinn seized his shoulders and shook him. Branson winced, and the wound in his forearm began to bleed

again.

"But, Quinn-"

Something slammed against the door. Then another. The door rattled in its frame.

"They're trying to break it down," Frankie said.

"Can they?" Quinn asked.

"Damn straight they can. How many birds are in New York City?"

Quinn shrugged. "Millions. Why?"

Jim spoke. "I reckon all of them are on the other side of that door."

The thudding continued. Jim was reminded of the sound of hammers falling. More birds hurtled themselves into the door, heedless of the damage to themselves. The metal began to buckle.

Suddenly, the grille on the air duct above them snapped open, swinging on its hinges. An undead child dropped from the ductwork, landing in a crouched position behind them. Giggling, it lurched forward.

Quinn raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The zombie's head was sheared off. It took two more faltering steps and then toppled over. Danny slugged it with the bat.

The pounding continued on the other side of the door.

"Come on," Frankie urged. She ran inside Ramsey's office. Jim and Danny followed her.

"Get your shit together, Branson," Quinn said, and then pushed him out of the way. He pressed his back against the door and braced his legs. A second later, Branson joined him. The weight on the other side of the door was immense.

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Quinn's radio crackled. He grabbed it with one hand, keeping up the pressure with his legs and other arm.

"Quinn."

"It's Bates. What's your situation?"

"Situation normal. All fucked up."

"Say again?"

"We're on the top floor. Ramsey and Carson are both dead. DiMassi's either dead or fleeing in the helicopter."

"How many are in your party?"

Quinn paused, counting in his head. "Five. There's me, Branson, Thurmond, his kid, and the woman, Frankie."

"Can you move?"

"We'd love to. Anything's better than where we're at now."

"Good. Remember where we caught you getting head from that hooker the first week here?"

"The sub-basement? Yeah, I-"

"Don't say it out loud. This channel may not be secure."

"Okay," Quinn coughed. The door started to slide, and he pushed harder. "Put your back into it, Branson."

"Quinn," Bates barked. "Do you copy?"

"Copy! I'm a little preoccupied here, Bates. How the hell do we get down there? Aren't those things thick by now?"

"Be advised, they are everywhere. You'll have to fight your way down. But it's our only chance, Quinn. Meet us there, and hurry."

"What's going on? Why there?"

"I'm not saying anything else over the radio. They might be listening. Just do it. We've got a situation here, too. Got to go. Out."

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The door slowly began to slide open again. Quinn and Branson gritted their teeth, shoving against it.

"Hurry up," Quinn yelled. "We can't hold them much longer!"

The door inched open, and a small bird darted through the crack and fluttered into the air. The two men shoved the door closed again, smashing feathered heads and wings.

Frankie and Jim lugged Ramsey's heavy, oak desk out into the hall. The bird darted forward and pecked at Jim's cheek. His hands slipped off the desk and it dropped on Frankie's toes. She yelped, letting loose with a string of curses. Jim ducked as the bird swooped toward him a second time, but suddenly, Danny stepped forward.

"Leave my Daddy alone!" He swung the bat, and the bird exploded like a rotten tomato.

"Nice shot, kiddo," Frankie said. "Now tell your daddy to get this frigging desk off my foot."

Jim smiled with pride. They picked the desk up again and shoved it against the door, blocking it. Carson's screams echoed from the other side. Jim turned back to thank Danny and froze, stunned.