Riding The Apocalypse (21 page)
“Riley, let’s just go back upstairs and talk this out before you become dinner for your business partners,” I yelled to him as he knelt behind a printer display in the front of the store.
Crash!
A big plate of glass fell to the floor and I could see a half dozen monsters stream in through the opening. They were slow, but they were headed straight for Riley who was trapped in a far corner. He had nowhere to run and more were coming in at an alarming pace. The smell hit me again.
Fuck, I am never ready for it.
I again yelled at Riley but instead I attracted the attention of two monsters who turned in my direction.
But at least Riley heard me. “How do you know who I am? And what do you—”
His gun fired, but not at me. He hit a monster from a range of about twenty feet, squarely in the head as it dropped forward onto a register counter. That was a helluva shot.
Shit, who actually had the advantage here?
As my eyes followed the monsters who trailed the first attacker Riley shot, I saw it was now a huge swarm. Riley must have seen the same thing because I sensed a flash of movement to my left and saw him break for the stockroom double doors. I took one shot and heard a yelp. I also noted his gait immediately changed to a limp as he grabbed his leg.
“Too low, Remy, that was too low,” I mumbled in frustration.
Stumbling toward the stockroom’s doors, Riley careened off an iPhone advertisement. The Zooey Deschanel cardboard cutout slammed against the wall directly to the left of the double doors. Zooey deserved that.
The swinging double doors were only chest high, with a gap between the bottom of the doors and the floor. They resembled aluminum, Wild West saloon doors. Thus I was able to see above the door tops as Michael ran through them. Riley broke left as he entered the stockroom, and I immediately followed. I darted through the flapping doors just a few yards behind him, with a group of monsters a few yards behind me. I saw nothing as I blindly went left around the first row of boxes; looking back now, I consider this a downright idiotic tactical move on my part.
I could hear the double doors slamming back and forth as the army of monsters continued their pursuit. Seeking a good vantage point, I climbed atop a stack of pallets in the middle of the large stockroom. From my perch, I scanned the room for movement and clutched my gun. I didn’t see any activity other than the monsters filling up the room to my left. Then I heard something to my right and pointed my gun in that direction. It was not Riley. Instead, a stream of monsters entered from the double doors I had not previously noticed, the ones leading into the stockroom from the other side of the showroom.
Shit.
Self-preservation started to usurp the thought of shooting Senator Fucknose, so I glanced back over my shoulder to the rear of the warehouse. I was hoping for a quick escape out the back, and I would deal with what was out there when I got there. I saw a roll-up door, chained and locked, as well as a steel door to the right with a sign warning anyone who pushed the lever that an alarm would sound. This seemed like a fair trade until I saw a single-file line of monsters navigating the stockroom as they headed straight for me. They were filling the rows in between the pallets like water irrigating a field. The stockroom was filling rapidly, the smell was horrible, and Riley was nowhere to be found. I had fucked this up. Big time.
I heard a jingling sound to my right and spun, letting the gun follow my eyes. I spied Riley who was trying to put a key into a bolt lock on a metal door halfway in between two bathroom doors. The door was located along the same wall as the double doors leading to the sales floor, so he had looped around the monsters. But what the fuck? The door appeared to lead back to the front of the store. Why would he want to go back out there? There were probably hundreds of those things in the showroom by now. Must be a cellar door, had to be.
I resisted the urge to fire, hoping he would get the door open, and I could follow. In a moment of desperation, I jumped along the top of the boxes across the aisles of monsters. I felt like I was jumping over a mouse maze filled with zombies. It must have looked hilarious from above. Fortunately, the pallets of supplies were shrink-wrapped, and held my weight well. I managed to stay about ten feet off the warehouse floor as I stealthily approached Riley. Either the noise of the monsters clamoring toward him blocked the sound of my approach, or he simply didn’t care. He never looked back or up, he just focused on finding the right key for the door, trying one after another. Riley finally got lucky, and I watched him turn the key and twist the handle on the door. The monsters were closing in from both sides as he began pulling the door open.
Guess he wasn’t that lucky.
That first monster approaching from the left instead of the right was a most unfortunate development for the senator. Had the sharply dressed yet blood-covered businesswoman come at him from the right, I think Riley would have had time to open the door, and use it to shield himself from the aggressor, allowing escape through the door and probably even time to slam it shut.
But no dice.
She came from his left, and as he opened the door, she was on him, and he was trapped between her and the open door. The yuppie monster grabbed him by his left arm and pulled his appendage directly to her mouth. Riley yelled and fired his weapon just as his arm was forced into the monster’s jaws. The weapon discharged and blew a large chunk of flesh off the woman’s shoulder, with an accompanying spray of gore. Unfortunately for Senator Michael Riley, this did not even merit a glance of annoyance from the woman who bit directly into his wrist, with gusto. He screamed as he tried to pull free his arm, but then another monster approached from his right and grabbed his other hand. Riley lost his balance, dropped his gun, screamed, and fell to his knees. The scene turned into what looked like a bloody game of Twister. His was a piteous fate, fuck him.
I felt a jolt by my foot and saw a small child with jet black eyes in a Little League uniform clawing at my feet. A full-sized monster might have been able to grab me, but fortunately for me the first one on the scene was too short.
Realizing my time was running out, I stepped forward to the middle of the stack. It was time for a desperate move. The monsters were pushing the pallet pile I was on, and it was beginning to sway. I looked up and could not see a joist or rafter to grab, so my options were becoming more and more limited by the second. Looking back toward the Michael Riley buffet, I realized the door he had been trying to open was still slightly ajar.
It was now or never, I had to move. I leaped from one pallet of boxes to the next stack of boxes, about ten feet from the door Riley had opened. Luckily for me, the boxes were not able to hold my weight, and I went down in a heap along with dozens of cardboard boxes of computer printers. The boxes sprayed out in all directions, creating a small barrier and allowing me to get to my feet unmolested. The Yuppie, still consuming Riley, paid me no mind. I reached the door, pulled out the keys, and slipped through. Closing the door behind me, I dropped the handgun and twisted the dead bolt. Luckily the gun did not go off. In hindsight, I should have dropped the keys instead. Like I said before, I didn’t script this.
Satisfied the door was locked, I exhaled deeply and fell to my knees. I unzipped the leather suit as fast as I could. I was burning up, my pack was digging into my lower back, and my eyes were stinging with sweat. Now that I had time to breathe, all my senses became refocused on my physical condition. I was fucking miserable. I turned my head and vomited from the anxiety and the realization of what I had just witnessed and done.
I could hear the monsters already pounding on the door, their angry moans accompanying the violent banging. I started to dry heave again, but there was nothing left to vomit. I tried to control my breathing, but I just could not catch my breath. I tasted the salt from the sweat running down my brow—or was it tears? I reached for a water bottle I had stored in the fishnet pocket of my bag. I opened the cap and squeezed it with all my might, shooting a cool blast of water straight into my face. This paid instant dividends. Although I had wasted much of the water, the cleansing splash almost instantly washed away the hot, sweaty filth I felt on my skin. I felt revived.
“Breathe, Remy, breathe.”
Pulling the flashlight from my pocket, I shined it left, opposite the door. Immediately to my side, a set of stairs went down from the small area I knelt upon, leading down to a small landing with a wooden door. I did not smell anything unusual (other than my own vomit) so I stood, brushed myself off, out of habit not necessity, and crept down the dark stairway leading to the wooden door, following the beam of light from my flashlight.
Reaching the door, I took a deep breath and made sure the gun magazine was not adversely affected by the fall. I chambered a round to make sure all was well, and waited. I heard nothing for a few moments, and used the time to catch my breath. I knocked on the door lightly and stepped back, flashlight in my mouth, holding the gun with both hands, pointed at the doorknob.
Nothing.
After taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob.
Locked.
I quietly removed the keys from the side pocket of my bag, which had been their home for only a matter of moments. Working as quickly as possible, I eventually found the correct key and briefly wondered what all the other keys were for. I slowly pulled the door toward me, wincing as the door creaked from the rusty hinges. I stopped momentarily, listening for any sound or movement.
Nothing.
Keeping the flashlight in my jaws, I opened the door the rest of the way and jumped back, pointing the pistol forward. The flashlight caught movement on the ground toward the back, but it was just a mouse scurrying under a box. I stepped inside, and the smell of urine and mold hit me pretty hard. Realizing it was not the trademark smell of the monsters, I was never so happy to inhale the smell of rodent urine in my life, and actually cracked a smile.
Wiping the newly rendered sweat from my brow, I pulled the flashlight from my mouth and continued to search the area. The room, not much larger than an average-sized family room, was littered with boxes, office supplies, and rodent droppings, but also had a small utility sink directly to the left of the door.
After I was satisfied the room was clear, I shined the flashlight upward at the ceiling. I spotted a small fixture, with a dusty bulb and pull chain attached. Walking cautiously, I reached up, pulled the chain, and turned my head away as the light came on, dimly illuminating the cluttered room.
As my eyes adjusted to the weak light, I saw a small desk in the corner opposite the door, cluttered with papers, pens, an old computer monitor, and a red
stapler. No way was he that cool, was he?
“Damn it!”
I gave the room and some of the boxes a quick search, finding nothing but office supplies, paper, and assorted computer accessories. I saw a two-by-four leaning against the sink and placed it onto the metal hinges on the door. Nobody was getting in here, even if they were able to break down the other door upstairs. God knows they were trying. The pounding was relentless.
I sat on the dusty chair behind the desk and listened to the footsteps above. The irregular staccato of shuffling feet and the banging of hands on the door were maddening within moments.
I dropped my bag on the desk in a heap, producing an undesirable effect almost simultaneously; the click of the lightbulb shorting out sent a chill down my spine.
Blackness.
“Fuck!”
I am hungry. I am beginning to feel both physically and mentally weak. I have stretched out the supply of breakfast bars, beef jerky, and chili as far as I can, now very little remains. Looking down, my waistline resembles the youthful shape of my high school years. In any other circumstance, I would welcome this transformation. However, it only serves to define the desperation of my current situation.
Lifting my head, I look at the typewritten pages which are neatly stacked on the desk. There it is, a typed account of my journey, everyone’s story recorded for posterity. In a final flourish, I place my best drawing of the basement door on top of the orderly pile and used the red stapler to weight it all down.
Looking at the rendering of the door, something suddenly strikes me as odd, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I look up from my drawing and stare at the actual door, ruminating. I click the stapler a few times for inspiration but none comes. I still can hear the pounding on the upper door, and the footsteps above. Perhaps for the millionth time, I look at the two-by-four that lays across the metal hinges bolted to the cellar-sides of the door, and ponder my choices.
Then it hits me.
“What the fuck?”
I look again for the million and oneth time and realize something I have not noticed before. I mean, I had seen it, I had drawn it, but I had not
noticed
it. In disbelief, I slam my hand on the desk. I have been trapped down here for all this time and I didn’t fucking notice this? I have stared at, drawn pictures of, talked to, hurled darts at, and generally obsessed over that door, and never once did I question the design of its most obvious security measure.
“Why the hell would anyone rig a two-by-four to bar a door if it had to be done from inside a dead-end office?” I ask myself incredulously. “More to the point, why would somebody go to all the trouble of making a super secure door latch and then not throw some survival goods in here? Why would they bring down a two-by-four but not a few bottles of water or a magazine? It makes no sense now that I think of it, particularly when everything is so organized up in the loft. How did I not notice that?” I continue to berate myself for my lack of insight until another flash of understanding burns through me.
“Speedy!” I yell, causing a muffled echo in the room.
I spin the chair to my right, drop to my knees, and shove my fingertips under the box I have seen Speedy scurry below countless times.
“Fuckin-A!” I yell, wishing I could give Speedy a big kiss on the nose.
Just as I thought, there is a slight gap under the box! The bottom box is not flush on the floor. I stand and reach for the top boxes, then try to pull one down.
They are stuck together.
“Motherfucker!” I yell. My blood starts pumping and chills run down my back.
I try others in the row, all stuck. The entire vertical row of boxes is attached to one another, and somehow the whole shebang is tethered to the wall. Invigorated by this discovery, I tear at the boxes, ripping them from their moorings for a triumphant howl.
“A fucking door!” I shriek. Good thing nobody heard that one. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Two days ago, I was bored and looked through some of the boxes, in search of a new diversion. Finding multicolored Post-its, I abandoned my search and turned my hand to making darts, stopping one row short of this fateful row. I was so close. Dropping my head in disgust, I note one final twist of irony, the bottom box is filled with lightbulbs.
“Of course,” I say to myself.
It all makes sense now. Why else would there be hinges holding a two-by-four on the inside of a basement door with no supplies and nothing to recommend it as a panic room? There had to be another exit. This office isn’t the destination, it’s another layer of security. No wonder Speedy got under boxes that should have been flush to the floor. How would Speedy have even survived in the first place? There’s no food down here. I feel a flash of annoyance at my mouse mate. That sneaky rodent was running under the hidden door and fake boxes the whole time and he never said a fucking thing. But that’s not fair, Speedy had tried to tell me, I just didn’t realize what I was seeing.
But now it all comes together quickly. Riley running for the door leading down here instead of heading out the back of the warehouse was no accident. He knew of the other exit, of course he did. I turn my head to my left and look at the cases of Rolodexes, floppy discs, and perforated printer paper. Outdated office supplies carefully selected to give the impression of disuse. How did I not realize this earlier?
I grab the tire iron from my bag strap and get to work on the door. The padlock is a substantial one, and there is also a dead bolt. I work feverishly, and nearly exhaust the meager strength left in my newly svelte frame. Finding energy in a burst of excitement driven by my need to escape this Godforsaken prison as fast as I can, I let loose on the lock. After fifteen minutes of effort and dexterity, mixed with pain and cursing, the lock breaks with a metallic thwack and the door swings open!
I see a barely lit hallway in front of me, but I need a breather before I check it out. I am weaker than I thought, and I feel dizzy. I grab the rifle and lean against the newly opened door to catch my breath.
“Maybe use the keys next time, Remy?” I whisper to myself as I glance at the keys that have been on the desk for the last week.
With no regard for the possibility of monsters ahead, I move through the short hallway as fast as my wobbly legs can carry me. The hall opens into a large, dimly lit room. A welcome rush of cool air hits my face as I strain to see the outline of what looks like an enormous kitchen…or lab. A few recessed lights in the ceiling give a small bit of light, although I still can’t see well. As my eyes adjust, I spot an electrical switch panel and I bolt to it and flip up all six of them simultaneously. The entire room slowly becomes visible as the fluorescent lights flicker to life.
I lean back and slide slowly down the stainless steel wall until my bony ass hits the floor. Damn I lost a lot of weight, I think. A quick scan of the room reveals another steel door on the other side, at least forty feet from where I am standing. The room, as wide as it is long, is filled with computers, workstations, sinks, microscopes, and assorted scientific equipment.
I can feel my heart beating in my throat, caused by excitement as much as fatigue. Then my heart stops—or at least I no longer feel it—as I spot a series of giant stainless steel walk-in refrigerators with see-through doors.
They are packed with food!
“Arrrgghhuuuh!” I yell as I use the last of my energy to get up, even as my respiratory system advises my brain against the move. I hobble to the freezers and rip (and when I say “rip,” I mean “yank as hard as my atrophied arms allow”) the closest door open. I grab a handful of Budget Gourmet macaroni and cheese boxes and search for the microwave. There has to be one, right?
I’m wrong, there are six.
Six microwave ovens, all in a row, mounted above the counter to my right, shiny and inviting. Euphoric, I load a Budget Gourmet in each of them. I set them all for the three minutes the package recommends and gambol back to the stainless steel doors giddy as a schoolgirl who just scored Justin Bieber’s autograph.
Like Jordan.
Further inspection reveals a large stash of perishable and non-perishable goods. The cornucopia of edible treasures includes soft drinks—dear God in heaven, is that a Diet Coke?—and bottled water, vegetables, fruit, and beer. Okay, it’s Miller High Life, but it will do in a pinch. I grab a few bananas, a Snickers bar, a pack of turkey hot dogs (figures), two Millers, and then walk to the next set of doors. I place the beer on the counter behind me, and bite into the best-tasting turkey dog I have ever had as I continue to inspect my new surroundings. Check that, the
only
turkey dog I have ever had.
After browsing through another couple of freezers full of food and assorted meats, I note the last two cold boxes are locked. Still eating as I walk, I make my way back to where I left the tire iron and immediately pry the door lock off.
I do not know what I am looking at. I stare at what appears to be three pallets of dark green fluid in tiny bottles. The shape and size of the bottles resembles those little energy shots they sell at gas stations. The freezer holding them, at least three times as deep as the others, is lined with thermometers every two or three feet. On one side the thermometers are in Celsius, reading -40 degrees, on the other in Fahrenheit, showing exactly -40 degrees.
What the fuck?
Oh, I get it.
Hearing the microwaves begin to go off, I close the freezer door and trot toward the electronic symphony announcing my second course.
Sitting atop one of the counters in the middle of the room, I eat shitty macaroni and cheese, wash it down with the
Champagne of Beers,
and
continue to peer around the room. My legs dangle like a kid sitting on a lakeside dock, and I feel quite euphoric. I cannot believe how quickly my luck changed. Sometimes you catch a break when misfortune runs out of ideas.
I look to the left of the freezer doors in between the wall and the far left refrigerator unit and spot a large metal pan with a half inch plastic hose about three feet above it. I watch the water drip from the hose into the pan, creating a familiar sound and tempo. The dripping noise that had plagued me in the office was refrigerator condensation, of course. I close my eyes and listen. Yep, that’s it.
Contrary to what I believed just moments before, there is a limit to how much macaroni ’n’ cheese, beer, hot dogs, and fruit one malnourished human can ingest. I lay back across the center counter, place my hands on my distended stomach, and stare at the ceiling.
After what I consider a pretty impressive symphony of bodily emissions from all humanly possible orifices, I begrudgingly lift myself off the counter. I reach back behind me, grab two of the partially eaten Budget Gourmet containers and place them onto the floor next to the door Speedy often patronized. He deserves more than this, but it’s a start. I head for the largest of the three desks in the far end of the room, next to the steel door I spotted earlier. As I approach, I notice the steel door has a round wheel connected to a hatch, resembling one of those submarine doors often seen in World War II movies.
I turn right just as I reach the door and stare at the desk in the corner. The large leather chair behind the desk stops me in my tracks. It is eerily similar to the leather chair in my office back in the garage. The same chair Emily sat in as she turned from the beautiful and intelligent woman I knew into the very bane of the world’s existence.
I decide not to sit.
Glancing over the documents on the desk does me about as much good as browsing through a book on the merits of French Impressionistic art. I am altogether lost and not terribly interested. The papers strewn across the desks are filled with mathematical formulations, chemical compound names, and invoices from shippers. I cannot make heads nor tails of most of it. One thing I do understand is the numbers. Three million dollars for three gallons of something called Distamycin. I don’t know what the fuck Distamycin is, but I know what three million dollars is.
Behind the desk are oak cabinets shaped like high school lockers. I open one, revealing numerous pairs of jeans, slacks, T-shirts, and even neatly pressed dress shirts.
I am almost as happy to see the clothes as I was the food. My dingy shorts and T-shirt that I had worn under the motorcycle leathers were my only attire for the last week.
I am going to need to go back and get Buell’s leathers, I think.
I grab a loose-fitting pair of jeans, some packaged boxer briefs from a drawer below, and a T-shirt, then head to the corner shower I noted when I was eating. After about twenty minutes of showering, a few minutes of pondering Katie, and then a few more minutes of showering, I step out feeling like a new man. I let myself air dry as I look at all the hygiene products by the shower. A few feet away is a small door, and, as I had fantasized, within is a small bathroom. If I wait much longer it will be a photo finish, so I grab a copy of
Popular Science
magazine and hit the head.
After once again appreciating something else I so often used to take for granted, I jump back in the shower. Not knowing when my next shower will come, I want a head start. After air drying for the second time, I dress, grab a cold water, and head back to the desks.
As I open the drawer to my right, I hear sounds coming from the steel door behind me. I quickly run across the room to my rifle, which I had set down shortly after switching on the lights. The wheel starts to turn slowly just as I reach the gun. I turn off the lights and squat behind the closest counter, pointing my gun at the door while listening to the squeaky wheel slowly rotate. Something clicks loudly as the wheel abruptly stops, closely followed by the sound of creaking hinges filling the room.
