Brian Keene - Dead Sea

Grinning, I stood up.

“Okay, here’s the plan. We run out into the street and turn right. Stay on the sidewalk if possible and stick close together. Next street up, we’re gonna go, left. That will take us out to the old Sylvan Learning Center building. There’s a marina near it—some kind of private yacht club for rich folks. If the gates are locked, we’ll have to climb. If I remember correctly, the fence is like twelve feet high. Are either one of you scared of heights?”

They shook their heads in unison.

“Can you climb?”

They nodded.

“Good.” I nodded. “Once we’re over the fence, we should be good to go.”

“Smooth sailing?” Tasha asked.

For a second, I didn’t realize she’d made a pun. Both of them began to giggle, elbowing each other and laughing at the joke. Then I laughed with them—until a low growl made the sound dry up in my throat.

It was a zombie dog, a pit bull, the one who’d killed the baby only a few moments before. Apparently, it was still hungry and looking for dessert. It stood at the mouth of the alley, blocking our way into the street and making all my planning and pep talks pointless. It took another step forward, its claws clicking on the bricks. It didn’t growl again; just watched us silently with black, staring eyes. A pale white tongue drooped from its mouth. A broken rib jutted from its rancid flesh, and there were large patches of fur missing from its maggot-infested hide. Guts hung out of its open stomach. A big metal tag around its collar said the dog’s name was Fred. Despite my terror, I almost started laughing when I saw that. Fred wasn’t what you named a pit bull. The people in my neighborhood gave their pit bulls names like Killer or Butcher or Satan. Fred was what you named a good dog, a shy and timid dog, the type to inch toward a stranger with its tail tucked firmly between its legs and its ears drooping down.

Fred was none of those things. Fred was teeth on four legs. Sharp teeth.

There was a crackling sound from above us as the roof of the nearest building caught fire. The flames spread quickly, racing along the power lines connected to the roof and then jumping to the next building. The power lines fell to the ground. Luckily, there was no electricity running through them. Another gunshot rang out.

The dog inched closer. Behind it, at the entrance to the alley, two more zombie dogs appeared. Then another. And another. I raised the shotgun. Fred the pit bull tensed, his haunches flexing beneath matted fur. The other four dogs in the pack filed into the alley and lined up on each side of him.

I tensed. “Kids…”

Fred leaped, trailing his guts behind him like streamers.

“Run!”

I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened—just a heavy, metallic click. The shotgun didn’t fire. It must have been jammed. Shouting, I bashed Fred in his snapping jaws with the barrel while he was still in midair. Canine blood and teeth flew through the air. The dog landed on the bricks. I turned around and ran, shoving the kids forward, not daring to look over my shoulder. Malik dropped his hockey stick but kept running. Behind us, I heard the pack giving chase. Their feet padded along the alley and their nails tapped the bricks, but other than that, they were silent. No growls or barks. Not even panting.

If we trip, I thought, we’re done for. That’s it for us.

“The shotgun,” Tasha gasped. “Shoot them!”

“Can’t—it doesn’t work. Keep running!”

We dashed from the alley and into another side street, free from all the fighting and chaos. Another building burst into flames beside us. We weaved our way around wrecked and abandoned vehicles. The pursuing dogs drew closer. Already I was winded, and both of the kids were gasping for breath. All the smoke in the air and the stench of decay made it even worse. There was no way we could outrun the pack. Even though they were dead, four legs still moved faster than two.

“High ground,” I shouted. “We need to find higher ground. Some place where they can’t climb.”

Tasha darted toward a parked SUV and scrambled up over the hood. She held her hand down for her brother and pulled him up behind her. The hood buckled under their combined weight. They climbed up over the windshield and onto the roof as I jumped up onto the vehicle as well. Flipping the useless shotgun around in my hands, I gripped the barrel and used it as a club, swinging at the dogs. They jumped and snapped but couldn’t reach me. Fred clumsily leaped into the air and his front paws landed on the hood. I smashed them with the shotgun and he slipped back down again, his nails scratching the paint with an awful shrieking sound, leaving furrows in the paint.

We huddled together on the SUV’s roof as the pack surrounded the vehicle. My throat burned. I tried to work up some saliva so I could talk.

“What—what do we do now?” Tasha asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Can they get up here?”

“I don’t think so. We’re safe.”

“How are we gonna get away?”

“I don’t know, damn it. Let me think.”

The dogs attempted a few more leaps and then gave up. Refusing to leave, they sat back on their haunches and waited. Their dead, black eyes never left us. Death was patient. Desperate, I examined the shotgun, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. I didn’t know if I was out of ammo or if it was jammed or what, and like I said earlier, I didn’t have much experience with guns until the robbery.

“Can you fix it?” Malik asked.

“I don’t think so,” I admitted. “But I can still bash their goddamn brains in with it.”

Tasha watched the pack with wide, terrified eyes. “Are you sure they can’t get up here?”

“I don’t think so. We’re okay for now.”

“But how are we gonna get away from them?”

“Maybe they’ll lose interest in us,” I said. “Go off and find an easier meal. Or somebody might show up and help us.”

“What about the fires?” Malik asked.

I didn’t have an answer for that. The flames leapt from building to building, turning night into day. The kids had both lost their washcloths and their faces were dirty with soot. I wondered if smoke inhalation would kill us before the zombies did.

A dead man emerged from a burning bookstore. His shirt sleeve was on fire. As we watched, the flames engulfed the creature’s entire body, spreading from its arm to its head and chest, and finally its legs. The corpse kept walking until its brain boiled. Then it collapsed in the street.

Several more zombies appeared from farther down the block. One was missing a leg and it crawled along the sidewalk, pulling itself by its hands. Its fingernails were gone and the tips of its fingers had split open like squashed grapes. Another one didn’t even look dead. Could have just been a pizza delivery man out for a stroll, but its slow-moving, jerky gait was a giveaway. Seeing us up on the roof of the SUV the zombies lurched toward us. The undead dogs didn’t acknowledge these new arrivals. They simply kept watching, drool dripping from their jowls.

When I heard the shot, I didn’t think much of it at first. Figured it was just more of the same from the main battle. But then I noticed that one of the creatures had fallen over face-first onto the pavement. It jittered and then lay still. A second later there was another shot, and one of the dog’s heads blew apart. One of its pointed ears careened through the air and skull fragments clattered onto the street. A third shot slammed into the side of the SUV, causing all three of us to gasp. The vehicle rocked gently back and forth. With the fourth shot, the shooter found his mark again, and another dog collapsed.

“Where’s it coming from?” Malik glanced around.