The Complex (17 page)

“So that was you, banging on the ceiling?”

Grady nods, struggling to catch his breath as he, Mendez, and their new arrival—the druggie from next door—hastily restore the barricade over the front door. He never liked this kid, or his roommate, even before tonight, and his demeanor over the last few minutes hasn’t given Grady any reason to reassess his feelings on the matter.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asks.

“Shaggy.”

“Right. Shaggy. Yeah, that was me, banging on the ceiling. We were trying to signal you.”

“For what?”

Before Grady can respond, Mendez interrupts.

“How many of you were still alive up there?”

“I don’t know. There was me, Turo, the writer guy, the he-she, that old lady from upstairs. Oh, and this fine mom with her kid. But Turo…he…” Shaggy shrugs, and his eyes flick to the floor. “There’s five now. Or, at least there was when I left.”

“And how many attackers?”

“A lot more than five. I mean, like there didn’t seem to be no end to them. And that fat fuck, he was the worst.”

“Fat fuck?” Grady frowns.

“Yeah, some big motherfucker with a Hello Kitty tattoo on his floppy fucking man-boob.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Grady replies.

“You don’t know what man-boobs are?”

“No, that kitty thing. I don’t know what that is.”

“I saw him, too,” Mendez says. “Just a glimpse, when I was driving through the parking lot. It seemed to me like he was leading them.”

“Yeah,” Shaggy agrees. “I think he is.”

Mendez pauses, his brow creasing.

“What are you thinking, Mendez?” Grady asks.

“I’m wondering what happens if we eliminate him,” Mendez says. “The fat man. If he’s out of the picture, how might the others react?”

Shaggy chuckles. “Some alpha male shit?”

Mendez nods. Judging by his expression, Grady is fairly certain that he doesn’t think much of their other neighbor, either.

Shaggy points at the door. “So, like, that’s your car outside?”

Mendez nods again. “It is. Although judging by what you’ve told us, I doubt we’re going to drive it out of here.”

“For real. Your car is fucked up, dude.”

“And which way is the fire spreading?” Grady asks.

“Everywhere,” Shaggy replies. “Depends on which way the wind is blowing.”

Mendez slides the final piece of furniture into place. “Do you think it will reach the building?”

“Better hope not. There’s a full gas can on your car.”

“And a full tank in the car,” Mendez responds. “That would be unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Shaggy laughs. “Yeah, you could fucking say that.”

Grady steps back from the finished barricade and wipes his hands on his pants. Then he turns to them. “So, what are we going to do? We can’t drive out. The yard is on fire. Our luck’s not going to hold out much longer.”

“The back window,” Mendez tells him. “I still think that’s our most feasible route of escape. If what Shaggy says is true, then the numbers in the parking lot must have thinned by now. It sounds like most of them are in the building, now.”

“What about the backyard? From what Shaggy says, and from the brief glimpse I got when I opened the door, there are a lot less of them out there now.”

“Do you want to risk running through the fire?”

“No, but maybe we could run around it.”

“I’d rather go for the window and the parking lot,” Mendez says.

Grady still has major misgivings about this plan, but he can’t think of anything better, other than staying put, so he doesn’t argue.

Shaggy winces, holding his side.

“You okay?” Grady asks.

“Not sure. Fucked myself up pretty good when I fell. I think I might have broken a rib or some shit. And I scratched my back up, too.”

“If you have a broken rib, then you shouldn’t be moving around.”

“Well, it ain’t like I’m gonna just sit here and wait for them crazy fucks to kill me. I gotta keep moving. And besides, I owe the fat boy for Turo. That debt ain’t paid.”

“You keep moving around and the broken rib could puncture something,” Grady insists. “I saw it happen in the war.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“Suit yourself.” Then, something else occurs to Grady. He turns to Mendez. “If Shaggy’s group were able to dig through the walls, then what’s to stop the nudists from tunneling through the floor upstairs to get to us?”

“Nothing,” Mendez replies. “Which is all the more reason why we can’t stay here, in hiding.”

“The dude upstairs said the floor and ceilings have a lot thicker concrete than the walls,” Shaggy tells them.

“Regardless,” Mendez replies, “we need to go. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, Grady and I would have been out of here already.”

“I don’t know about that,” Grady disagrees. “There were still a lot of them out in the parking lot.”

“Yes, but their numbers are thinning. I suspect they will fluctuate all night. That’s why we should wait by the window, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

He turns and walks down the hall. Grady follows him. After a moment, Shaggy does the same.

“Well, I’m with you guys,” Shaggy declares. “Thanks again for letting me in. I thought for sure I was fucked.”

“Don’t thank me.” Mendez points at Grady. “It was his idea. I didn’t want to open the door, but Grady insisted.”

“Oh…”

“Don’t take it personally,” Grady whispers. “Mr. Mendez is sort of on a mission.”

“A mission? The fuck does that mean?”

“How many bullets do you have in that gun?” Mendez opens the bedroom door.

“Good question,” Shaggy replies. “I’m not sure anymore. I was gonna check that earlier.”

As Mendez and Grady walk into the bedroom, Shaggy pauses in the hall. He releases the magazine and turns it over in his hand.

“Good thing you reminded me. I’ve only got two fucking rounds left. One in the clip and one in the chamber.”

“That’s good,” Mendez says.

Grady turns to him, confused. “That’s good? How is it good?”

“He’s got two bullets. If they get in here, that means he’s got one for you both. Wasn’t that an option for you earlier?”

“Don’t start, Mendez.”

“The fuck are you two talking about?” Shaggy slides the magazine back into the gun.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grady says. “I’ve got plenty of ammunition left for mine.”

Mendez’s mouth twitches. “Do you have enough for every one of those people outside?”

Grady shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“If you do decide to shoot yourselves, remember I’m not part of your suicide pact.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Shaggy asks again.

“Mendez can’t die,” Grady tells him.

“That’s right,” Mendez confirms, smiling. “I can’t. Not tonight. So let’s get back to work on escaping.”

Eighteen - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, and Mrs. Carlucci: Apartment 3-D

When the door is smashed open, Sam pauses for a second, waiting for a clear shot. He takes it one breath later as the horde swarms through the door. He fires all five rounds, aiming for their center mass, and drops four naked attackers. The next wave slows, their speed impeded by the still-writhing bodies.

“Empty,” he shouts.

“My turn.” Mrs. Carlucci steps forward, hair spray and cigarette lighter at the ready, and unleashes a burst of flame. The crazies fall back, recoiling from the flames. For the first time, Sam sees something in their expressions other than murderous lunacy. He sees fear.

“They’re afraid,” he yells. “Keep it up!”

“I have no intention of stopping,” the old lady assures him, pressing her attack.

She arcs the flame back and forth in a sweeping motion. Flames scorch the doorframe and the walls, turning white plaster black with soot. Too late, Sam sees the framed picture of him and Sergio lying on the floor. He wasn’t even aware that he had dropped it. As the picture begins to smolder, he resists the urge to rush over and snuff out the flames. It—and the apartment complex—are already on fire. It’s too late to save anything now, other than themselves. And why would he bother saving the photo, anyway? Just an hour ago, he was willing to let it all be thrown in the garbage dumpsters—willing to leave it all behind with his corpse. Why should things be different now?

What has changed, he wonders as he hurriedly reloads his Taurus. Why this sudden urge to live? Why hasn’t he simply put down the gun and let the mob have him? Is it because he’s afraid of the pain? Afraid of being hacked to death or tortured? Afraid of being dismembered like poor Turo? Sure, he decides. That’s part of it. But there are other ways to escape this terror. Why hasn’t he simply finished what he started, before he was interrupted? Why not kill four more of them, and then turn the gun on himself?

He hears Caleb cry out from the bedroom, and he knows the answer. It’s because he has people now. He’s a part of something—something more than just himself. He’s no longer alone. And these people are counting on him as much as he’s relying on them.

Yes,
he thinks.
I want to live, goddamn it. What the hell was I thinking before?

“Back,” he shouts, raising the pistol again.

Mrs. Carlucci steps out of the way, releasing the button on the aerosol can. She sticks her thumb in her mouth, then takes it out.

“Thanks. I could use a break. That lighter was getting hot.”

A group of seven naked people hover just outside the door, afraid to come inside. It occurs to Sam that there seems to be less of them now. He wonders where the rest of the crowd has gone. Not in Terri’s apartment. Judging by the smoke and the sound, it’s fully ablaze. Maybe they’ve retreated to the woods and the alley, looking for easier prey. Or perhaps they’ve circled back around to the backyard, deciding to try their luck with anyone left alive in the apartments below.

Shrugging, he aims at the hairy chest of a man with a large beer belly. Sam squeezes the trigger and smiles with satisfaction as he sees the man’s skin split. The target staggers, and then touches one hand to his chest. He stares at the blood on his fingers in confusion, and then falls. The other crazies retreat, just out of range.

Mrs. Carlucci says something, but Sam can’t hear her over the ringing in his ears.

“What’s that?”

“I said what are they doing? Why aren’t they attacking?”

“I think it’s the fire. They’re afraid of it.”

Sam lowers his weapon, grateful for the respite. His arms are numb and his hands tingle.

“Sam,” Terri shouts, “we’re almost through the wall.”

He and Mrs. Carlucci glance at each other.

“Go ahead,” Sam tells her. “I’ll keep watch. Call me when they’re through.”

Before she can respond, they both notice movement out of the corner of their eyes. A dark shape fills the doorway. They turn toward it and see Tick Tock standing in the door. His massive chest heaves. His eyes glare, unblinking. There is blood smeared on his face, and when he smiles at them, Sam swears he sees skin dangling from between the behemoth’s teeth.

“Fuck you, buddy.”

Sam snaps the pistol up, but before he can take the shot, Tick Tock is gone, retreating back into the darkness. They hear a tremendous roar, and then, hesitantly, the crazies start to slink forward, approaching the doorway. They move hesitantly, obviously afraid. Then Tick Tock roars again, and they seem more determined.

“Light the carpet on fire,” Sam hollers, snapping off two shots.

Mrs. Carlucci stares at him in confusion, and he realizes she couldn’t hear him.

“The carpet,” he shouts. “In front of the door! Light it up!”

He inhales a lungful of smoke, and begins to cough, unable to focus his aim. He bends over, retching and gagging, and waves wildly at the door.

Mrs. Carlucci rushes forward and sprays fire at the carpet. It catches quickly, and the living room begins to fill with choking, toxic fumes. The smoke looks oily. The flames race across the floor, licking the bottom of Stephanie’s sofa and recliner. The group at the door hesitates again, shielding their faces with their arms.

Bellowing, Tick Tock stomps forward, and shoves his followers inside. They trip over the dead bodies and fall face-first into the flames. Frantic, they roll and flail, trying to push themselves upright. Sam points the pistol at them and squeezes the trigger until it clicks empty.

Tick Tock disappears again, but Sam can hear him screaming outside, even over the echoing gunshots.

Mrs. Carlucci lets loose another gout of flame. Then she looks down at Sam.

“Go…” Sam wheezes, motioning toward the bedroom.

“You’re coming, too.”

Mrs. Carlucci throws the can into the fire and then grabs his wrist, urging him along. Sam stumbles behind her. His throat feels like it’s on fire and his eyes are watering so much that everything turns blurry. He realizes that his elderly neighbor must be having the same difficulty, because she leads him into a wall.