Tower Of The Dead: A Zombie Novel (9 page)

10

“Alright, okay, you got it.” Last thing I need is to catch a gut shot.

Last thing Alisa needs is to watch her daddy bleed out slow and painful from a gut shot.

I hand over our weapons. One-by-one, they are pulled through the small crack, vanishing in the shadows beyond. The hatchet is the last piece to go. Once we’re disarmed and defenseless, I expect him to laugh and slam the door in our faces.

“Aight, you’re clear, come on in.”

Well, what do you know; this place still has the ability to surprise me.

The hallway is dark and dingy. The air smells of sweat, blood, and fear. Folks are cramped up against one another on either wall, their knees tucked up against their chests; men, women, and children, just waiting to die. 

“Follow me,” the spindly old man says, leading us through the center of the despair, our weapons tucked under his arms.

I pick Alisa up and fall in line. “What is this place supposed to be?”

“This here, son, is the last stop.”

“Last stop for who?”

“For all of us.”

“Says who? You?”

“I’m the least of your worries. I don’t give a shit what you do, so long as you don’t do it here. These folks are just trying to find a little peace.”

“You know they’re getting ready to turn this entire block into a parking lot, right?”

“We been watching the news.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Not much to be said. Ain’t no man ever won an argument with a bomb.”

“Nah, but plenty of men have run from the damn things and lived to tell about it.”

He turns on me. “Listen, man, these folks have been through enough—”

“We all have!”

He holds up a hand. “Say what ya gotta say to the man.” He turns and starts walking again, prompting me to follow.

“The man?”

“The one calling the shots around here. Times like these, ya need a leader. He’s it.”

“You and your leader responsible for clogging the stairs with all that furniture?”

He doesn’t even break stride. “Only way to keep them down there and keep these folks safe.”

“How many of the sick ones are down there?”

“Sick ones?”

“That’s what I’ve taken to calling em’.”

He shrugs. “Dunno. They’re packed in down there, shoulder-to-shoulder. Military boys have barricaded the front doors. Furniture is the least of your concerns.”

The base of operations for the man in charge is halfway down the hall and to the right. Inside the apartment sits a middle-aged man with snow white hair. He’s slumped down on a threadbare couch wearing a bloody wife beater, his eyes locked on a muted television. The man has a half-empty beer in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. He switches between the two; taking hits off the bottle and long drags from the glowing nub of tobacco.

“Sir, these two are responsible for all the racket. They took care of the ones beating down our door.”

The man on the couch gives us a brief once over out of the corner of his eyes and goes back to the television. “You can go.”

At first I think he’s talking to me.

The old man ducks his head. “Where do you want me to put these?” He holds up our weapons.

“Just drop them and go.”

“Yes, sir.” The old man sets the weapons down in a loose pile and shuffles out the door.

Now it’s just me, standing by the door holding Alisa, and the man in charge, disappearing into the couch, bathed by the glow of the 32 inch LCD.

“That’s some heavy shit you brought in here,” his voice is a deep baritone.

“Excuse me?”

“The AK, that’s some heavy shit. I ran these streets back in my day, I know my guns.”

“Yeah, it gets it done.”

The man sits forward, elbows on his knees, letting the cigarette tumble to the floor, extinguishing it beneath his sneaker. “Where’d you come by it?”

“It used to belong to the Golden Boys.”

“Used to, huh?” The man considers my statement as he ejects another cigarette from a dwindling pack, sets it between his lips, and produces a light. “They never really struck me as the sharing type.”

“They weren’t.”

The man smiles. His pearly white teeth are emblazoned with a thin yellow film at the ends, as if he’d dipped them, ever so slightly, into a bowl of melted butter. “Just you and the girl versus the Golden Boys, motherfuckin’ Bonny and Clyde, in the flesh, is that what you’re telling me?”

“It was me and my wife, actually. The sick ones had thinned the pack already.”

He nods. “Sick ones…I like that.” He coughs and waves away a cloud of smoke. “Where’s the old lady now?”

I try to answer but my voice seizes. A flood of emotion I never saw coming broadsides me. My eyes cloud over and I turn my head away, hoping to go undiscovered.

“Oh. Well, shit, man, I’m sorry. This place, the monsters, they’re taking the best out of all of us.”

“Wasn’t the dead that got her,” my voice cracks. “It was the monsters outside; the ones with the guns, the tanks, and the bombs.”

He shakes his head. “Tough break, man. I’m sorry for ya. Lost my momma and my sister when this shit started.”

I pull up closer to the couch, cigarette smoke breaking across my face. “You mind if we take a load off? It’s been a long haul.”

The man scoots over. “Nah, go ahead and help yourselves. Least I can do. You saved our asses…for the time being. If those bastards broke through, we were done and done. Only bullets we got around here is this bullshit,” He pulls up his right pant leg to reveal a small silver revolver strapped to his ankle, “and that rickety piece you saw the old timer carrying.”

“We did it as much for us as we did for you.” The couch welcomes me like family, wrapping me up in a big fat hug. The tension goes right out through my toes as I set my neck back against the cushion. “I never knew sitting down could feel so good.”

Alisa slides from my lap to the floor and sits cross legged, her back against my knees.

“You don’t want to sit up here with me?”

“I’m fine down here.”

“Alright, suit yourself.”

The man laughs. “Don’t take much for a kid to get comfortable; their bones are still strong and pliable. It’s once you get our age that you’ve gotta start handling things with a little more love and kindness. I tried taking up running last month,” he laughs. “My ankles gave me a grief like you can’t imagine; I was damn near crippled for a week. That was it for me. I’d rather be old and fat, it beats old and fat and crippled.”

I’m laughing and doing my best to avoid inhaling the cigarette smoke running a trail beneath my nose. “You got another one of them beers?”

“Afraid not. This is the last one. Been doing my best to die drunk.”

“How the hell did you get put in charge?”

He shrugs, just as confused as me. “I know, right? Nah, it’s just a title. They don’t really look to me for a whole lot. I mean, the old timer does, but other than that I pretty much spend my time right here.” He takes another pull of alcohol and another hit of tobacco. “I think it’s probably because it’s my floor. I was the last one left. When everyone started showing up from the upper levels, I’d get them situated. But now that that’s out of the way and new faces have stopped showing, aside from you two, there’s not much left for me to situate, so I drink and I smoke and I wait to die, just like everyone else.”

I hold my hand out. “Markus.”

He sticks the cigarette between his lips and returns the gesture with nicotine-stained fingers and a weak grip. “The name’s Jersean, some folks call me Sean.”

“Why?

“Shit if I know. You know how some folks get with their nicknames.”

“I’ll stick with Jersean.”

“Fine by me.”

We both resort to staring at the television set. There are subtitles popping up and vanishing across the bottom of the screen; white block letter set against a black background. The news crews and most of the military seem to have retreated miles away from us; though they’re still saying no air strike has been officially confirmed. There are people getting pushed back behind the barricades, belligerent folks waving their fists, some of them getting thrown on the ground and cuffed.
It’s chaos
, according to the news lady.

“They’re gonna blow the shit out of this place,” I say. “They’re gonna blow the shit out of us; me, you, my daughter, those poor bastards in the hall. We’ve gotta do something, you’re their leader.”

“It’s a title, man.”

“So make it more than that. Let’s get a game plan together.”

“You don’t think I thought this shit through? I don’t wanna die anymore than you do; trust me. Piss warm beer and stale cigarettes ain’t exactly the last meal I was hoping for.”

“What about the window? Tie a few sheets together—”

“Tried it. Mutherfuckas got snipers perched somewhere; cut two of us right in half. One of them was a girl, probably fifteen. Most fucked up shit I ever seen. Her momma is out there in the hall, ain’t been right since.”

“Jesus!”

“Nah, man, he wasn’t there. That mutherfucka was nowhere to be found.”

“Yeah, I’ve had a hard time finding him myself.” I sit forward and dig my knuckles into my eyeballs. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point and all I’m coming up with is the remnants of the daredevil shit I’ve already tried: sawing through the floor, going out the window. “There’s got to be something we’re missing. I mean, anything is better than sitting here and waiting to die, right?”

“Shit, man, I dunno,” he toasts me with his beer and sucks in another mouthful of smoke, “I’d rather die quick, with a beer in one hand and a smoke in the other—”

“Smoke! That’s it!” I jump to my feet.

Alisa lets out a squeak of pain as my knee connects with the back of her head.

“What’s it?”

“Smoke! We need smoke, man!”

“Bruh, I’m a six pack deep right now, you’re gonna have to break it down a little for me.”

My hands are shaking with excitement; I fold them in front of my face, trying to even out enough to put my brilliant plan to words. “You said they got snipers. What do snipers need?”

“Uh, bullets and a target?”

“Yes, but what do they need in order to hit that target?”

“A scope?”

I want to slap him. “Clear line of sight, man. They need to be able to see what they’re shooting at. Are you with me?”

“I think so.”

“You still got that rope tied up and ready to go?”

“Far as I know.”

I’m circling the room, tracking the pieces of the plan swelling in my head, they’re all slamming together as if they’re magnets and the picture they’re forming just might be fit to hang. “We need all the bed sheets. We need curtains, clothes, anything that’ll burn quick. We need to get all that together in a pile by the window, now!”

Jersean is staring up at me, a dribble of beer zigzagging down his chin.

“Are you taking any of this in? You got anything to add? Time ain’t on our side.”

He polishes off the last of the beer, belches, and sighs. “I don’t know man…seems…sketchy. Seems like a stretch.”

“You may be content to sit here and die with a beer and a cigarette, but there are a shitload of people out there that I’m sure would like to see sunrise tomorrow. Like it or not, you’re their leader. So get up off your ass and go lead! You feeling what I’m saying, man?”

Alisa is sitting between us. She looks at me and then at Jersean before scooting back, sensing the tension between us.

Jersean flicks his cigarette to the floor, stands, and puts all of his annoyance into one big stomp, pulverizing the swelling ember. “You’re gonna get me killed,” he says, exhaling the last of the smoke, his statement dripping irony.

He pushes past me, throws open the door, and charges into the hall. “Alright, listen up folks!” There’s no need for the intro, the hallway is already monastery quiet. “I got a new plan to try to get us all out of here, but we all gotta work together.”

“Kinda like the one that got my baby killed?”

I can’t see the owner of the voice, but I can feel the sting of the venom dripping from her words.

“All due respect, we all agreed,” Jersean says, holding his hands up in a feeble defense.

“We all agreed because we trusted you!” The woman stands. She’s short, with a head of nappy hair and a fair amount of meat on her bones. She ain’t a runner and she damn sure ain’t a climber. Most of these folks don’t look capable of navigating the rope. Still…it’s our best shot.

I step in. “Lady, he suggested it because it was all he had to work with at the time.”

“Who the fuck are you?” She cocks a hip as the tears begin to disappear in the folds of her chin. “Who the fuck is he?” She turns her attention back to Jersean.

“He’s us,” Jersean says. “A guy just trying to make it. You can thank him for taking care of the ones that were trying to beat down our door.”