Brian Keene - Dead Sea

“Could we drop to the ground from it?”

“No, it’s too high up.”

“Which side of the building is the alley on?”

“The right.”

“Do any of your windows face it?”

She pointed to a side room. “In there. That was Momma’s bedroom.”

“Stay here.”

Their mother’s room was still full of her presence. It smelled like perfume, lavender, baby powder, and vanilla body lotion. The scents were faint but lingering. It made me sad—in a few more weeks it would probably fade forever. The feeling surprised me. I thought of my own mother, and then pushed those emotions aside. No sense getting maudlin. Not while we were still in danger. The bedroom was dark, but the glow of the fires outside provided light. The bed was made up with a white, lacy comforter and light-green flannel sheets, two pillows, and a ratty old stuffed animal. Dust-covered picture frames and cheap knickknacks lined the top of the dresser. The kids were smiling in all the photos. There were a few books, mostly paperbacks by Toni Morrison, Chesya Burke, and some cheesy African-American romance titles, along with a well-worn copy of the Holy Bible.

I moved to the window and stared down at the alley—a narrow slice of pavement running between the apartment buildings. An empty paper bag fluttered by, but there was no other movement. So far, the alley was free of zombies. They’d stupidly clustered their forces at the front. It occurred to me that maybe I was giving them too much credit. They didn’t know tactics or planning. The only knew hunger. Need. They’d seen their prey go in the front door, so that was where they’d gathered. In a way, it was kind of pathetic.

So the alley was clear. The question was if it would stay that way in the time it took us to get down to the laundry room. And even then, what was waiting for us down in the streets?

One step at a time, I thought. Just get down to the laundry room first.

I walked back into the living room. The kids stared at me expectantly.

“You guys still have water?”

“Yeah.”

Tasha took me into the kitchen, where they’d lined up plastic buckets and jugs full of rainwater. Mosquito larvae squirmed in some of them. She explained that they’d been putting the buckets out on the roof. I had the kids wet down their clothes and I did the same again with mine. I also grabbed three more washcloths and soaked them down. I explained how they would help with the smoke if the fires got too close. Then we were ready. The kids still looked frightened, but they didn’t argue or give me any lip.

“Okay,” I said. “Stick close, but stay behind me. Breathe through your washcloths and duck down as much as possible. Smoke rises, and the air will be better lower to the ground. Try to keep quiet. You ready?”

They nodded. Tasha crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

“You scared?” I asked her.

“No. Well, yeah. ’Course I’m scared. But that’s not why I’m shivering. I’m cold. My clothes are wet.”

“Sorry about that,” I apologized. “We’ll find you some dry clothes when we get to safety.”

“Where are we going?” Malik asked.

I paused, not sure how to answer him.

“I don’t know. Somewhere else. Somewhere other than here.”

“Someplace where there’s no zombies?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Somewhere without zombies or fires. Someplace where we can chill for a little while. Rest up. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m tired. I’d like to stop all this running and fighting. I’ve had enough for one night. Let’s get to where we don’t have to do that.”

Privately, I wondered where that place was—wondered if it even existed anymore, and if it did exist, how we’d get there.

We left the apartment, and Tasha locked the door behind us. I thought about asking her why, but then thought better of it. This was their home. It wasn’t much. None of the homes here ever were. But it was probably the only one they’d ever known, and all their memories were here, and now they were leaving it with a stranger, while a bunch of dead people pounded on the door. Deep down inside, Tasha must have known that she’d never see the apartment again. I don’t cry easily, but the look on her face damn near broke my heart.

The noise got worse as we reached the landing and started down the stairs. It kept growing louder as we neared the first floor, until finally it was almost overpowering. I wanted to scream at the dead, tell them to shut the fuck up. Glass broke somewhere, maybe in one of the first floor apartments. I couldn’t tell for sure. It was hard to concentrate. The zombies stink filled the hallway and the smoke was getting stronger again, too. The front door shuddered with every blow, and long splinters of wood fell off the bottom of it. Cracks split open on its surface as the hammering continued.

“Which way?”

Tasha pointed toward the back of the hallway. We slipped down the passage, quick but quiet. I was in the lead, followed by Tasha and then Malik. Brother and sister were holding hands. I glanced back at them and smiled, trying to reassure them. I didn’t feel very sure, but they smiled back.

And that was when the door burst open. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang, spilling zombies into the foyer. The first wave toppled to the floor, and more of the creatures rushed inside, clambering over the fallen ones. Their stench burned my nostrils. It felt like a thin layer of film in my sinus and throat. Tasha and Malik both screamed, but not as loud as me. They froze, staring at the onrushing hordes.

“Go!”

I pushed them behind me and raised the shotgun. The first zombie made it through the crowd and stumbled down the hallway after us. She’d once been a female. One swollen, purple breast had fallen out of her blouse. She moved in a series of spasms and twitches. There was hunger in her dead eyes, and I wondered how she’d eat me. Her jaw was hanging by only a few tendrils from her skull. With each jerking step that she took, her jaw swung back and forth like a kid’s swing blowing in the breeze.

With one squeeze of the trigger, I solved that problem for her. The zombie’s head just vanished. There was a spray of red and then nothing. The corpse dropped to the floor. My arm went numb from the shotgun’s kick, but I managed to pump it again. I took down a second creature, which had once been a child about Malik’s age. Despite the gruesomeness of it all, I got a thrill as I jacked a third shell. I was a much better shot with the shotgun than I’d been with the pistol.

Keeping the gun aimed at them, I retreated down the hall. Tasha was holding the basement door open for me. Malik had already run to the bottom of the stairs. I backed into the stairwell and pulled the door shut behind me. There was no lock.

“Shit.”

“This way.” Tasha tugged on my sleeve. She led me down the stairs and into a dark, wet cellar packed high with boxes and junk. A ten-speed bike. A damp mattress with wires poking out. Roller skates. A deflated basketball. A television with a broken screen. Mildewed clothes. Stacks of newspaper and magazines bound up with twine. The cement floor was cracked and uneven. Moisture spread in gray patterns along the walls. At the far end was another set of doors. They led into a small laundry room with three coin-operated washers and dryers. Two laundry baskets sat against the far wall. Clean clothes that somebody would never wear again spilled out of them and onto the floor. Beyond those was a small set of stairs and a pair of closed storm doors.

The doors were fastened with a bright, shiny padlock.

Above us, the dead began pounding on the basement door. It was in much worse shape than the front door had been. They’d be through it in a minute—maybe less. I stared at the padlock, my mouth hanging open. Then I turned to Tasha in disbelief.