Scott Nicholson - The Shock

“I ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t,” she said, imitating his Philly-street accent.

“I’m okay. Just get me loose and let’s get the hell out of here.”

She waved the Bic around, revealing that the room was bare, with an unmade bed, a dusty dresser with the drawers open, and an open closet with a single suit jacket hanging in it. Clothes littered the floor, as if the room had been ransacked. Her impression of a windowless room was confirmed.

“Doesn’t look like much in the way of hardware,” Rachel said. She jangled the keys. “Guess I’ll have to use these.”

She held the light aloft with one hand as she dug into the knot with the longest key. The knot’s author must have been a Boy Scout, because his handiwork refused to come loose. She began sawing the serrated edge of the key across the strands, sending a snow of frayed nylon to the floor.

“What are you doing with keys, anyway?” she asked him. Her fingers chafed to blood and her wrist ached from working the key, but she kept on.

“Got doors to open.”

She extinguished the lighter to let it cool. Its imprint was burned into Rachel’s retinas, fat sparks dancing in the sudden darkness.

“Got any ideas on getting out of here?” she asked. The first strand of rope gave way and she unraveled the rest of the knot as he anxiously flexed his forearms.

“Gun’s in my backpack, wherever that is,” DeVontay said. “After they jumped me, I went down for a while. I didn’t get a good layout of the house.”

“That’s a privacy lock on the door. They can’t lock it from the outside.”

“We could sneak out, yeah. But what if they’re still playing survival games? Could be a dozen Zapheads out in the hall.”

“We’d hear them banging into the walls.”

“Maybe. And maybe that guy—the whatchamadude, The Captain—is waiting there with his gun.”

“Well, it’s the only way out that I can see.” The severed rope untangled beneath her fingers and DeVontay wriggled his wrists to free himself. He shook his hands to restore the circulation as he glanced around the room. He grinned as his eyes settled on the closet.

“You’re just not looking in the right place.”

He stood, rubbing his palms together, and she followed him with the Bic. He shoved aside the lonely jacket and looked up at the ceiling. “Give me some light.”

Rachel shoved the lighter toward him, thinking he’d lost his mind. Stephen was out there somewhere, at the mercy of those soulless killers, and all DeVontay wanted to do was play hide-and-seek?

“Ha,” he said. “That little square is an access to the attic. I had a job blowing ceiling insulation one summer. Hottest damn work I ever did.”

“Great. So, once we get up there, and then what? Wait for the world to end?”

“Funny, ha ha. I gotta boost you up. No way can you lift me.”

“You kidding? You’re only, what—two-twenty?”

“Two-oh-five. I ain’t et that many Slim Jims.”

He stooped and cupped his hands. Rachel hesitated, released the fuel lever on the lighter, and put her sneakered foot into his hands. Something thumped against the door.

“Damn,” DeVontay said. “Hurry.”

He propelled her upward and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself, patting for the ceiling with the other. She found the access and pushed, feeling it slide away with a skiff of abrasion. Rachel reached into the warmer air of the opening and found the ceiling joists, then dangled for just a moment, testing her weight.

“Higher,” she whispered, and DeVontay tightened his arms and lifted her. She put one foot on the closet rod as she scrambled into the attic. The dust nearly made her sneeze, and the attic insulation caused her skin to itch almost immediately. She rolled around, careful to keep her weight on the sturdier ceiling joists, and flicked the lighter again.

“How am I going to pull you up here?” she said.

DeVontay looked up and shook his head. “You ain’t.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You got to. Ain’t you ever seen a horror movie? The goody-goody white chick always survives.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“And don’t waste time here when Stephen’s in trouble.”

She looked at him for a moment, pondering ways to help him up. But he was too heavy, the closet rod too weak. “The dresser,” she said. “Move it over here and stand on it.”

“Okay, but—”

Something thumped against the door again, louder this time. DeVontay waved her toward escape. She killed the flame and saw the slatted ventilation windows on each gabled end of the house. The closest one was only twenty feet away. She crawled forward, bumping her head once and getting fiberglass insulation in the creases of her elbows and gaps of her fingers. When she reached the slats, she peered through them to the neighboring property.

A Zaphead wobbled up the street, far enough away that he wasn’t a threat. He didn’t exhibit the excitement and agitation of a Zaphead intent on violence, which might mean Stephen had safely hidden somewhere.

Or it could mean he’s already dead.

The idea angered Rachel, and she flipped onto her butt and raised her legs, pointing the bottoms of her feet at the thin wooden slats. She kicked outward and several of the slats shattered. She kicked again and created a wider opening. Shoving splinters aside, she perched in the opening and surveyed the surrounding landscape.

No movement. Even the Zaphead up the street had taken a turn somewhere and was lost in one of the neighborhood houses. From beneath her came the sound of a struggle, and DeVontay shouted something.

His next word was clear through the access hatch: “Go!”

Rachel climbed out enough to minimize the drop to the ground, which was about twelve feet. Not too bad by itself, but it wasn’t a good time for a twisted ankle.

“Just my luck,” she said. “Roses.”

The rose bushes extended in a border around the side of the house, meaning Rachel would have to jump outward several feet instead of merely dropping to the ground. She shoved the lighter in her pocket.

Here goes nothing.

Rachel resisted the urge to yell “Geronimo” as she flew through the air. She had the presence of mind to roll as she landed, taking the brunt of the force on her left leg before tumbling across the grass. Gathering her balance, bruised but otherwise uninjured, she glanced around to see if anyone had spotted her. She wasn’t sure whether to be more afraid of the Zapheads or The Captain and his minions.

She sprinted as best she could with her aching legs, quickly reaching the concealment of the neighbor’s azalea thicket.

Okay, you’re free. You can give up on DeVontay and Stephen and make a run for it. Your chances are better alone. They’re just deadweight anyway, right?

She glanced heavenward, starting to ask for guidance, but realized prayers were never answered with a simple yes or no.

God had granted her longer life for a reason. And that reason wasn’t just to keep on surviving.

She had a mission.

Campbell was still searching the trees on the side of the road when Arnoff’s tribe caught up with him.

Campbell emerged from the woods to see Arnoff poking Pete’s backpack with the tip of his rifle. Pamela, Donnie, and the professor hung back a little, warily checking the vehicles on the highway. “Looks like your buddy chickened out,” Arnoff said.

“Somebody got him,” Campbell said.

“Hell, yeah,” Donnie said. “Zapheads.”

“It wasn’t Zapheads. There’s no blood.”

Arnoff knelt and plucked one of the warm beers from Pete’s backpack. “Well, he didn’t abandon ship, or he’d have never left this.”