Dead Sea (8 page)

    Fred was none of those things. Fred was teeth on four legs. Sharp teeth.

    There was a crackling sound from above us as the roof of the nearest building caught fire. The flames spread quickly, racing along the power lines connected to the roof and then jumping to the next building. The power lines fell to the ground. Luckily, there was no electricity running through them. Another gunshot rang out.

    The dog inched closer. Behind it, at the entrance to the alley, two more zombie dogs appeared. Then another. And another. I raised the shotgun. Fred the pit bull tensed, his haunches flexing beneath matted fur. The other four dogs in the pack filed into the alley and lined up on each side of him.

    I tensed. "Kids…"

    Fred leaped, trailing his guts behind him like streamers.

    "Run!"

    I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened-just a heavy, metallic click. The shotgun didn't fire. It must have been jammed. Shouting, I bashed Fred in his snapping jaws with the barrel while he was still in midair. Canine blood and teeth flew through the air. The dog landed on the bricks. I turned around and ran, shoving the kids forward, not daring to look over my shoulder. Malik dropped his hockey stick but kept running. Behind us, I heard the pack giving chase. Their feet padded along the alley and their nails tapped the bricks, but other than that, they were silent. No growls or barks. Not even panting.

    
If we trip,
I thought,
we're done for. That's it for us.

    "The shotgun," Tasha gasped. "Shoot them!"

    "Can't-it doesn't work. Keep running!"

    We dashed from the alley and into another side street, free from all the fighting and chaos. Another building burst into flames beside us. We weaved our way around wrecked and abandoned vehicles. The pursuing dogs drew closer. Already I was winded, and both of the kids were gasping for breath. All the smoke in the air and the stench of decay made it even worse. There was no way we could outrun the pack. Even though they were dead, four legs still moved faster than two.

    "High ground," I shouted."We need to find higher ground. Some place where they can't climb."

    Tasha darted toward a parked SUV and scrambled up over the hood. She held her hand down for her brother and pulled him up behind her. The hood buckled under their combined weight. They climbed up over the windshield and onto the roof as I jumped up onto the vehicle as well. Flipping the useless shotgun around in my hands, I gripped the barrel and used it as a club, swinging at the dogs. They jumped and snapped but couldn't reach me. Fred clumsily leaped into the air and his front paws landed on the hood. 1 smashed them with the shotgun and he slipped back down again, his nails scratching the paint with an awful shrieking sound, leaving furrows in the paint.

    We huddled together on the SUV's roof as the pack surrounded the vehicle. My throat burned. 1 tried to work up some saliva so I could talk.

    "What-what do we do now?" Tasha asked.

    "I don't know."

    "Can they get up here?"

    "I don't think so. We're safe."

    "How are we gonna get away?"

    "I don't know, damn it. Let me think."

    The dogs attempted a few more leaps and then gave up. Refusing to leave, they sat back on their haunches and waited. Their dead, black eyes never left us. Death was patient. Desperate, I examined the shotgun, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. I didn't know if I was out of ammo or if it was jammed or what, and like 1 said earlier, I didn't have much experience with guns until the robbery.

    "Can you fix it?" Malik asked.

    "I don't think so," I admitted. "But I can still bash their goddamn brains in with it."

    Tasha watched the pack with wide, terrified eyes. "Are you sure they can't get up here?"

    "I don't think so. We're okay for now."

    "But how are we gonna get away from them?"

    "Maybe they'll lose interest in us," I said. "Go off and find an easier meal. Or somebody might show up and help us."

    "What about the fires?" Malik asked.

    I didn't have an answer for that. The flames leapt from building to building, turning night into day. The kids had both lost their washcloths and their faces were dirty with soot. I wondered if smoke inhalation would kill us before the zombies did.

    A dead man emerged from a burning bookstore. His shirt sleeve was on fire. As we watched, the flames engulfed the creature's entire body, spreading from its arm to its head and chest, and finally its legs. The corpse kept walking until its brain boiled. Then it collapsed in the street.

    Several more zombies appeared from farther down the block. One was missing a leg and it crawled along the sidewalk, pulling itself by its hands. Its fingernails were gone and the tips of its fingers had split open like squashed grapes. Another one didn't even look dead. Could have just been a pizza delivery man out for a stroll, but its slow-moving, jerky gait was a giveaway. Seeing us up on the roof of the SUV the zombies lurched toward us. The undead dogs didn't acknowledge these new arrivals. They simply kept watching, drool dripping from their jowls.

    When I heard the shot, 1 didn't think much of it at first. Figured it was just more of the same from the main battle. But then I noticed that one of the creatures had fallen over face-first onto the pavement. It jittered and then lay still. A second later there was another shot, and one of the dog's heads blew apart. One of its pointed ears careened through the air and skull fragments clattered onto the street. A third shot slammed into the side of the SUV, causing all three of us to gasp. The vehicle rocked gently back and forth. With the fourth shot, the shooter found his mark again, and another dog collapsed.

    "Where's it coming from?" Malik glanced around.

    "I don't know." I studied the buildings and rooftops. It was hard to see any gunfire flashes because of all the smoke and fire. When the fifth shot came, I followed the sound, and on the sixth, I spotted the shooter. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but they were crouched down between a mailbox and some newspaper vendor boxes on the corner. Slowly, the person stood upright and walked toward us, still firing. It was a man, and as he got closer, I could make out the details. Caucasian. Good-looking guy. What some of my friends would call a "bear." Not my type, but handsome just the same, despite the fact that he'd been living the same way we had-without a shower or a clean change of clothes. He appeared to be in his early forties but in good shape, well over six feet tall, and wearing blue jeans and a leather biker vest. He had no shirt on underneath, and thick curls of black chest hair poked out from beneath the vest. His arms were covered in tattoos, and several gold hoop rings dangled from his ear. Several weeks' worth of beard covered his face. He had a pistol in his hands, the barrel still smoking from the rounds he'd just drilled into the zombies. A rifle was slung across his shoulder, as well as a small backpack, and he had two holsters (one of them held another pistol) strapped around his waist, along with some kind of ammo belt. Round objects dangled from the belt. After a moment, I realized they were grenades. Whoever he was, this guy wasn't playing.

    He moved swiftly, his eyes roving and watchful. One of the dogs ran toward him. The pistol jerked in his hands. The dog dropped. Another human zombie closed in on him from the right. The pistol roared and the creature's head exploded. One by one, he brought them down until the street was littered with corpses. Then he looked up at us and smiled.

    "Come on down. Coast is clear."

    Hesitant, I eyed him warily. The kids hid behind me. If he meant harm to us, I knew there wasn't anything I could do to stop him. He must have sensed our suspicion, because he holstered the handgun.

    "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said. "I just saved your sorry asses. So climb on down from there and let's go while we can. There'll be more of them on the way any second."

    As if on cue, another group of zombies lurched into view. They headed straight for us. With one fluid movement, the biker yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and tossed it toward the zombies.

    "You folks might want to duck."

    There was a massive explosion, louder than anything I'd heard that night. I could actually feel it push against my eardrums. Dirt and shards of brick and mutilated body parts rained down onto the street.

    "Hey," Malik said. "Can I have one of those grenades?"

    The biker laughed. "Better ask your father first."

    Malik glanced up at me. "He ain't my dad. Mr. Reed's just been helping us."

    "We saved him earlier," Tasha added.

    The biker arched and eyebrow and looked at me.

    I shrugged. "Yeah, they did. I would have been a zombie dinner if they hadn't helped me. And now you saved us all. Thanks."

    "Don't mention it."

    I climbed down off the SUV, and then helped the kids down. The biker stuck out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong, his palms callused and sweaty. I checked out the tattoos covering his arms-a winding snake, a half-naked woman, the Harley-Davidson logo, and several tribal designs.

    He squeezed my hand harder. "Mitch Bollinger."

    "Lamar Reed. And this is Tasha and Malik Roberts." I paused, unsure of what to say next. Living like a hermit, with only Alan for company, had apparently affected my conversational skills.

    "Let's get out of the street," Mitch suggested, releasing my hand, "and away from these burning buildings. We stand here jawing and the smoke will kill us before the dead do."

    "We were going to try for the harbor," I said. "No zombies in the water. You know anything about boating?"

    Mitch nodded; his expression was excited. "A buddy of mine at work had a boat. We used to take it out fishing on the bay all the time. Don't know everything there is to know, but I can navigate, if that's what you mean."

    "Figured if we got out into the bay, we'd be safe from the fires and the dead."

    "Good plan," Mitch said."Can I tag along with you?"

    In truth, I was surprised he asked. He didn't need us, but we needed him. I think he knew that, too. Maybe he was just being polite.

    I grinned. "I was hoping you would."

    "Then follow me. I know a shortcut to the marina."

    He strode off onto a side street and we followed him without question. Still didn't know anything about him, but what choice did we have? My gut told me he was okay. If he'd wanted to rob us, or do something to the kids, he could have just gunned me down in the street. He'd drawn his pistol again and held it at the ready as he guided us toward another alley. Malik was fascinated with Mitch's weapons, and asked again for a grenade. Mitch promised him that when we got to safety, he'd teach him all about them.

    "You out of ammo?" he asked, nodding at my shotgun.

    "I don't know," I admitted. "Tell you the truth, I don't know shit about guns. It quit working. Jammed up or something."

    "I'll take a look at it later, if you want. In fact, I think I have some shells in my bag that should fit it. Meanwhile…" He reached behind him and grabbed the rifle slung over his back. Then he handed it to me. I gave the shotgun to him and took the rifle. It was gray and heavy and had a black scope attached to the top of it.

    "That's a Remington seven-ten," Mitch told me. "Looks a lot like the seven hundred, but it's more reliable. At least I think it is. I used to argue about that with people on the gun message boards online. I rescued it from a pawn shop a few days ago, along with the rest of this stuff. It's got a single-stage trigger, better lock time, and a sixty-degree bolt throw so you can be quick with your follow-up shots. Not that you'll need them with that scope. It's bore-sighted, but you may need to adjust it for yourself a bit. Nice gun, though. The three rings really do make a difference. Your magazine box holds four rounds. After that, you'll have to reload. Cool?"

    I stopped walking and stared at him, speechless.

    "Mitch, I don't understand a fucking thing you just said. You want to try it again-in English?"

    He paused, and then laughed. "Sorry, man. Sometimes, I forget that some people don't know as much about guns as I do. My wife used to tell me the same thing when I started going on about them. I'll give you a crash course. The safety is off. Set the rifle against your shoulder, sight through the scope, line up the crosshairs, and squeeze the trigger. Try aiming at something right now."

    While I sighted on a glass bottle lying in the gutter, he handed the second pistol to Tasha. She needed less instruction than me, and my ears and cheeks burned with embarrassment.

    "What do I get?" Malik asked.

    Mitch looked at me and I shrugged. He stroked his salt and pepper beard, considering the request.

    "Can you throw a Softball?"

    "Yeah," Malik said. "Better than anybody on my street."

    "Can you throw it really far?"

    "Damn straight I can."

    "Here." Mitch handed him a grenade. "Now listen • to me. This is really, really dangerous. You pull this little pin here and throw it as far and as fast as you can. Then get behind something. Can you do that?"

    Malik puffed his chest up proudly. "Find me some dead people and I'll show you."

    "Hopefully," I said, "you won't get that chance. If we can get to the marina without running into any more of those things, that would certainly be okay with me."

    We started walking again, going slowly, all four of us watching for more of the undead. Behind us we heard the crackling roar of flames as the fires continued spreading, punctuated with the occasional gunshot or scream. The smoke wasn't as bad, though-maybe because the buildings in Fells Point were mostly two-stories high and the smoke could rise into the sky easier, instead of getting trapped in the city's concrete canyons.