Tower Of The Dead: A Zombie Novel (8 page)

I make my way back to the window and press my face against the glass, trying to see if there’s anyone in the streets to witness our attempted escape. I can’t really see, but no one has shot at me yet, so I take that as a good sign, an omen that we should keep moving forward.

The wooden window frame shivers beneath my grasp as I force it up, kicking years of dirt and rot away in the process, it groans, it stutters and stops, but it moves. Eventually, the opening is big enough for me to squeeze through. “I’m going first.” I pick up my rifle and prepare to step backwards out of the window.

“You sure?” My wife grabs the sheet.

“If it can hold me then I know it’ll be able to hold ya’ll. Besides, I want to make sure everything is clear.”

She nods and lets go of the sheet, giving me a peck on the lips. “Be careful.”

“Always am.”

Alisa wraps her arms around my right leg. “Be careful, Daddy.”

“I will be just fine, sweetie. I need you to keep an eye on Mommy, okay?”

She steps back and holds up the hatchet, giving a determined nod. “I will.”

“I love you girls.”

I throw the sheet from the window and then dip my head out to follow its descent. It’s barely long enough, dangling midway down the third-floor. I step backwards, my right foot now hanging above the alley. I’m clutching the sheet and the stock of my AK with both hands. “Here goes nothing.”

“Oh my God, oh my God! Lord Jesus, help him!” Tasia’s eyes are like a pair of dinner plates.

Alisa just stares, fascinated, excited, a smile threatening to break at the corners of her mouth. Maybe she doesn’t quite understand that my life is literally hanging by a couple of cheap-ass threads and an old water pipe. Maybe she’s just got a lot of faith in her old man. I’m just glad she’s not freaking out.

Both feet are out the window now and I’m slowly lowering myself down, my wife and daughter sliding out of view. To my left is the street, no signs of life remain; just bullets and shell casings and bodies. There are still gunshots and the sound of helicopter rotors beating the air, but they’re not close at the moment. As I pass the fifth-floor window, a bit of relief begins setting in; the plan is working. Soon we’ll all be reunited on solid ground, three floors away from freedom.

There are figures moving on the other side of the dirty glass, slow and jittery; I keep on moving down, hand under hand. I don’t even look up as I pass the fourth-floor. My head is down; my eyes are focused on the imminent salvation of floor three. My arms are shaking and cramping as the sweat pouring from my palms soaks the thin fabric. I’m starting to have some very real doubts as to whether or not Alisa is going to be able to do this.

What other choice is there?

I brace the soles of my work boots against the glass of the third-floor window, walking down until I run out of sheet. Things on the other side seem relatively quiet. One thing I haven’t worked out is how I’m going to get through the window; probably should have worked that part out before I got my ass out here.

The way I see it, I’ve got two choices. I can kick through the glass and risk severing an artery and impaling myself. Or I can shoot through it and risk attracting every hostile for a country mile. I push myself back, bracing a foot on either side of the window and locking my knees. I take aim and fire, working around the outside of the glass as I squeeze the trigger. The glass falls away, some of it toppling to the alleyway below. I kick the remaining shards out of the frame with the soles of my boots.

“Baby, everything okay?” Tasia is hanging from the sixth-floor window, that same deer in the headlights countenance plaguing her features.

“I’m fine, get your head back inside.”

I hook the bottom part of my leg around the empty frame and pull myself towards the opening, doing my best to keep the muzzle of my rifle trained on the hall in front of me. I duck down as I scoot inside; my feet are now on the floor. The only noises I hear are distant helicopters and distant gunshots. Maybe I’ve gotten lucky and have gone unnoticed. Maybe, to them, I’m just another wave of chaos in the rapidly rising tide.

I stick my head back out. “We’re clear, let’s go.”

Just as I would have done, Tasia sends Alisa next. She has her propped on the edge of the window sill and is showing her how to grip the fabric. “Mommy is going to be right here. Just keep your eyes on me. Don’t look down. You’re going to be fine.”

“What if I fall? Please, I’m scared, I don’t want to go!” Alisa tries to squeeze back inside.

“You’re not going to fall. Your dad is right down there and I’m here. We’ll both be watching and making sure you’re safe. You can do this, I promise.”

Alisa whimpers. “Okay, okay, I’m okay.”

“Take it slow, baby, one step at a time. Keep your feet on the wall.” Tasia is leaning from the window, watching her go, trying to contain the terror and doubt that she feels…that we both feel.

“You’re doing great, baby girl. Keep those elbows bent; I’m right here waiting for you, just keep on coming.”

Alisa is getting real close now. Close enough that in a few seconds, I’ll be able to reach out and pull her in.

I hear shouting coming from the streets, the deep growl of a monstrous engine, and the squeal of the tank tracks.

Alisa hears it too and she freezes.

“No, baby, keep coming! Don’t stop!”

“I’m scared!”

A voice from the streets shouts, “Shoot that little bitch!”

I reach out, trying to get my hands around Alisa’s ankles. The tank is parked on the street, a few feet off the mouth of the alleyway, flanked by two soldiers with very large guns. They open fire as the tank begins turning its cannon in our direction.

Alisa screams.

“No!” Tasia panics and begins pulling the sheet back up the building, bringing Alisa with it as bullets take chunks out of the brick around her head.

“Tasia!” I duck inside as a line of bullets tear across the exterior window sill, shredding the wood. “Let her go, I’ve got her!”

Tasia can’t hear anything. She’s in a full-blown panic. With every clumsy pull of the sheet, she sends Alisa slamming against the side of the building.

“Damn it, Tasia, you’re going to kill her!”

“I’m slipping! I’m slipping!” Alisa is gripping the very end of the sheet; she’s got nowhere else to go. Any moment now and one of those bullets is going to tear through the fabric, or worse, through her.

I lean out of the window with my AK and open fire on the two soldiers standing at the rear of the tank. I strafe the rifle back and forth, sparking the metal around them and forcing the men to retreat to cover, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about the tank.

“Tasia! The tank! Get down! I’ve got her!”

She just keeps pulling and screaming for Alisa to hold on.

The tank blasts back on one tread and the air warps around the mouth of the cannon. All of the sound is sucked out of the air. Tasia vanishes beneath a cloud of flame and mortar. A direct hit. She’s gone. No goddamn doubt, she’s gone.

Alisa is falling.

I can see her outline rushing towards me, entombed by the plummeting wreckage. I toss my rifle aside and hold my arms out. Jagged stone and twisted metal shred my hands and wrists as they whiz past, I feel the pain, but I don’t pay heed to it. Everything I am is focused on my daughter. I will not lose her too. I will not let her fall.

The force of her landing in my arms almost pulls me right out of the damn window. I regain my balance and pull all of my weight back onto my heels, taking Alisa with me. I’m not being careful; I’m just trying to get her inside and out of harm’s way. As a result, I bounce her head off the side of the window frame, cranking her neck back.

She lands on my lap. Her eyelids are fluttering like butterfly wings. She’s moaning as blood begins to trickle down the side of her head. There’s still debris falling and floating past the window. I am waiting for the second shoe to drop, waiting for the tank to fire off a second round and for the wall to blow back in my face. Instead, I hear the engine throttle up and the familiar screech of the tracks as they move on down the road.

“Alisa, baby, look at me. You’re okay.” Tears sting my eyes. It’s hitting me all at once as I sit here holding up the head of my injured little girl.

Tasia is dead.

My wife.

My queen.

My best friend for over a decade.

The person that kept me going on my darkest days.

I’m never going to see her smile again when I walk through the door. I’m never going to get to hold her, kiss her, or brush her hair back behind her ears.

That’s done.

Now I’ve gotta face all this alone. I’ve gotta keep going.

Not because I want to. No, damn it, believe me, I want to lie down and die.

But she’d want me to keep pushing. Hell, I can feel her watching me right now, screaming at me to get up and to get our baby to safety.

That’s what I’m gonna do.

“Come on. Sit up for me.”

She’s coming to. She holds her head and starts whimpering softly as I sit her up straight. “Where’s Mom?”

I can’t contain the tears. The words I’d prepared instantly retreat. I tuck my chin and turn my head away. For some reason, I feel ashamed to even look at her.

It doesn’t take her long to put the pieces together. “She’s dead?” It’s less a question and more a shock-filled acknowledgement. “No, she can’t be! No!” Alisa makes a break for the window.

I catch her wrist and pull her off her feet. She struggles and kicks, but pretty soon I have my arms around her, my chin resting against the top of her head. “Hush, okay? Just…calm down. This isn’t what Mom wants for us. She wants us to fight and survive. We can be sad later, okay?”

She stops fighting and we just sit and cry together. She turns and wraps her arms around my neck, shaking, her tears soaking the shoulder of my coveralls and mine plastering her hair against the top of her head.

After a few minutes, I stand her up and hold her, one hand on each shoulder, looking down into her glistening eyes. “Listen, I know your mom would probably kill me for what I’m about to do, but I think you’re ready for it.”

She nods. It’s that childlike trust, willing to accept whatever I say, even before I say it.

I remove my pistol. “I need you to back me up, okay? I can’t do this alone. We need to be able to depend on each other. That means you watch my back and I watch yours.” She’s nodding rapidly, not really paying attention to my words. “You remember when we went shooting?” It was over two years ago at an outdoor range.

She shrugs. “Kind of.”

“Alright, well, it’s gonna be kinda like that. If you have to use it remember, it’ll kick, so hold tight and don’t let go. All you’ve got to do is point and pull the trigger. But it’s very important that you never point it at me or yourself or anything you don’t intend on killing. You keep it down until you’re ready to use it. Understood?”

Another rapid series of nods.

I flip the pistol around, barrel pointed down, and offer the butt of the gun to her. “You keep it pointed down, just like this.”

Her hands are shaking as she takes it from me. “It’s heavy.”

“It’s fully loaded. Here, I’ll trade you out.” I take the hatchet that she has holstered at her waist and put it in the front pocket of my coveralls. “You ready?”

She nods.

“Alright, stay close to me and watch behind us.” I kiss her forehead and stand.

As I lead us towards the next stairwell and, no doubt, our next battle, my thoughts drift to Tasia. I know she’s watching me and shaking her head. If she were here, she’d lose her shit on me for putting a gun in the hands of our daughter. She gave me hell when I took her to the range. But I can’t help but think, right now, given these circumstances, that perhaps she understands. I’m alone out here. Part of the parental armor has been chipped away. Alisa has been left vulnerable. To protect my girl, I’ve got to teach her to protect herself. I believe Tasia can see that. So yeah, she’s probably shaking her head at me, but she’s probably smiling too.

9

The stairway leading down to the second floor is clogged with sick ones. Living sick ones—living being a relative term. Me and Alisa are crouched down on the third-floor landing watching them as they clamber over one another and attempt to beat down the door to the second-floor hallway.

“There’s something they want on the other side of that door,” I whisper.

“People?” Alisa refuses to peak over the edge, she stays behind me, pistol aimed down, as instructed.

“Maybe.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Why is that bad?”

“Because not all people are good, especially now. You remember those men that tried to shoot us before?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

I try counting heads, but all of them are so cramped together and constantly shifting that it makes getting an accurate count next to impossible. I’m guessing two dozen, probably a little more.

“I’ll use the hatchet.” I set down my rifle and rid myself of the spare ammo. “Wait here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Clear the way for us.”

“Your gun.” She starts to pick up the rifle.

“If there are bad people on the other side of that door then we need to save the ammo for them. I can handle these guys. You just stay here and keep your head down.”

She slides back against the wall, pistol pointed down between her knees.

My plan of attack is simple; keep them in front of me. The stairs are narrow; they’ll have to come at me one at a time. All I’ve got to do is keep them in front and keep on swinging.

I’ve got no interest in staying quiet; this needs to be quick and efficient. I descend the first set of stairs two at a time, hitting the first landing with both feet. 

The first sick one greets me there. She swipes and I dodge while making an underhanded swing with the hatchet; the impact removes the left side of her head and she spins to the ground, spraying blood as she goes. I meet two more at the mouth of the second set of stairs. I act first, splitting the skull of one with an over-handed swing and elbowing the other in the face, staggering him backwards a few steps. When the second one comes at me again, I grab him around the throat with my left hand and whack him in the forehead with the hatchet twice before dumping his body over the railing.

I’m standing at the mouth of the second set of stairs looking down on my enemies. They’ve stopped beating at the door and now all of their attention is on me. Every last one of them wants a bite. They’re shoving and growling, fighting for the first taste. I kick the one at the front of the pack, a young girl with a veil of blood covering her face. She falls back against the swell of bodies, toppling the first few rows behind her.

I move forward.

Swinging and pulling back.

Swinging and pulling back.

Heads roll and skulls crack. Brains clump up around the blade of my weapon. Tainted blood splashes across my face on every back swing. I’m making fast progress and doing my damndest not to lose my balance as I step across the growing field of bodies, slowly burrowing my way towards the door. I’m halfway down the stairs. A heavy-set man with frosted hair trips towards me. I step back and use his clumsy momentum to my advantage, bending him over the side of the handrail and burying my axe in the back of his neck before lifting his body up and sending him toppling to the ground below. As I’m turned towards the railing, a woman latches onto my left arm. Her speed and strength are surprising considering her age. I kick out sideways, my aim low, and slam my heel against one of her kneecaps. She loses her balance and her grip slips, she snarls and snaps, still trying to get a bite of me as her body sinks towards the floor; she’s either really hungry or she’s just not registering the pain; two pops from my hatchet splits her head open and satiates her hunger.

There are three of them left.

I hop over the final two stairs and hit the second-floor landing swinging. The first goes down instantly; the top of his head flipping up into the air like a graduation cap.

I roll away from the curled claws and the snapping jaws of the other two. They’re coming at me fast, side-by-side, as I back across the landing. It’s not like a regular fight where both parties are playing offense and defense. These motherfuckers only know offense. They don’t leave any time for me to breathe; if I’m not planning two moves ahead then I’m a dead man and Alisa is an orphan.

I go for the one on the right. Nothing fancy, just an overhead swing. The hatchet is ripped from my hands by a low-hanging metal crossbeam. I panic and stumble backwards; my back is against the wall, literally. I begin kicking and punching. My blows are frantic and sloppy and most of them don’t land and the ones that do are ineffective.

I’m a dead man.

Gunshots echo through the stairwell and render me deaf. The two sick ones shake as bullets burst through their chest. I duck to avoid getting hit by the exiting shrapnel.

I get a look at my savior.

Alisa!

That explains the aim.

With the sick ones preoccupied, I reach for my hatchet.

I cut down the one on my left, slicing through his ankle and opening his skull when he falls to my level.

The second one is turning on Alisa, giving me an unobstructed shot at the back of his head.

I take it, splitting it in half with two quick whacks.

All of them are down.

Alisa stands across from me, the gun still smoking in her hands. She starts crying as she lowers the weapon. I drop to my knees in front of her and take the gun; the slide is locked back, it’ll need a fresh magazine.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs and wipes her nose, “I was trying to help you.”

“You did help, baby,” I wipe her tears away with my thumbs and force a smile. “Those guys had me, dead-to-rights. Without you to throw them off, I wouldn’t be here right now. You saved me.”

“I did?”

“Of course you did. You made your mom and me proud. Now suck back them tears.”

Back upstairs, I retrieve my rifle and reload Alisa’s handgun with a fresh mag. We maneuver back down and over the bodies. The next move should be to continue down to the first floor and go out through the lobby, but, like every damn thing today, that’s easier said than done. The stairwell leading down to the lobby is clogged with furniture: couches, chairs, mattresses, bed frames, there’s even a blender and a box of fabric softener visible in the mix.

I check the second-floor door.

Locked.

I can hear voices and movement on the other side.

“Open up!” I smack the door hard with the back of my fist. “I got a kid out here!”

Shuffling. Folks whispering. “What about all them things out there?”

“I killed em’.”

“Bullshit!”

“Poke your head out and take a look if you don’t believe me.”

“Why, so you can take it off? Nice try, no thanks.”

“Listen, I rolled in here ready to do battle. I’ve spilled blood from the top floor of this building all the way down to where I’m standing right now. These motherfuckers weren’t ready for me and you ain’t ready for me neither. So you can open up this door or I can take it down. One way or the other, me and my little girl are getting in.” I really hope the words sound more convincing than they feel; my stomach is in knots. They’ve probably got guns too and these doors aren’t exactly bullet proof. I raise my rifle and set the muzzle against the hollow wood. I’m waiting for something…the sound of a magazine being loaded or a round being chambered…something that tells me I should pull the trigger.

The lock clicks and the handle turns. The door creaks open, inch-by-inch, revealing a pair of narrow white eyes floating in the darkness. Before I can speak, I feel something hard nestle against my belly; a small silver revolver gripped by a set of bony, ebony fingers.

“Fuckin’ guns, now, or I put you down,” he growls.

I hesitate.

He drops the hammer.