Brian Keene - Dead Sea

A girl’s voice shouted, “Malik, you could have shot him!”

“I told him to duck. It ain’t my fault if he gets hit.”

With a yell, I lowered my head and plowed through the zombies, shoving them aside. It was like pushing slabs of meat. Several toppled over. A few more grabbed at my clothing, ripping it further. I wrestled free of them and ran for the row house where the gunfire had come from. Another blast rang out. I heard something splatter behind me. It sounded wet. Dead footsteps padded after me. I waited for a third shot, but there was none.

“It’s stuck!”

“Push down on it,” the girl hollered.

“I can’t.”

“Give it here.”

“Stop pulling on it!”

Wondering what they were yelling about, I jumped up onto the concrete stoop and tried the door. It was locked. I turned around and the zombies were drawing closer. Over their stench, I caught a faint whiff of smoke. The fires were getting nearer, too.

“Hey,” I shouted, still unable to see the kids. “Unlock the door!”

“Can’t,” the boy hollered back.

“Why?” My voice cracked.

“You’re a stranger. We ain’t supposed to open up for strangers. You might be one of them child molesters.”

The dead clambered onto the sidewalk. A few of them had trouble negotiating the curb. One of them fell over, sprawling in the street. When it got up again, I noticed that its foot was twisted all the way around, the toes pointing behind it. Some of the creatures moaned, but most of them were silent. There was no hint of intelligence in their expressions—just raw, naked hunger. Need. I fired my last bullet and the closest one dropped. My ears rang from the shot.

“Please,” I screamed. “Let me in.”

The children didn’t respond, and I thought that was it. I was dead—and then I’d be undead. I pulled my knife, trying to decide if I had the balls to slash my own throat before the creatures reached me. Wondered if I could stab one hard enough in the head to penetrate the skull, and if so, if I could free the knife quick enough to do another one. But then I heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. The first of the horde, a fat zombie with a broken rib poking out of his side, started up the steps. I slashed at him with the knife. It startled the creature. His mottled arms drew back, but then he started forward again.

The door opened a crack. A young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, stared out at me. Her eyes widened when she saw the zombies.

“Open up!”

“You promise not to hurt us?”

“Yes!” I had to strain to hear her because my ears were still ringing. “I’ll promise anything you want. Just open the goddamn door right now!”

She removed the chain and I shoved the door open and pushed past her. She slammed it behind me and slid the chain back in place. Then she fastened the deadbolt. Finally, she slid a thick piece of wood across the middle of the door; each end fit into brackets that had been nailed into the wall. Someone had reinforced the building, and I doubted it was her.

“Thanks,” I whispered, catching my breath.

A length of pipe lay propped against the wall. She picked it up, held it out in front of her, ready to strike, and looked me up and down.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Tasha. Tasha Roberts.”

“Thanks for letting me in, Tasha. My name’s Lamar.”

She glanced down at the empty pistol. “That thing got any more bullets?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“We got a shotgun upstairs,” she said. “Found it in Mr. Washington’s apartment. But we’re almost out of bullets and can’t get it to work now.”

Fists pounded on the door, slow and plodding. We both jumped.

“Will that deadbolt and plank hold?” I asked.

Tasha shrugged. “I don’t know. This is the first time they’ve tried to get in. We’ve stayed quiet. Didn’t let them know we lived here. They’ve left us alone until now.”

I searched the hallway for something more to brace the door with—a potted plant, a bench, even a coat rack—but the corridor was empty. The hallway was dark. Ugly green wallpaper peeled away from cracked plaster, and the dusty floorboards creaked with every step I took. The building smelled of mildew and piss. Outside, the pounding grew louder. I turned back to Tasha.

“You said that you have a gun upstairs?”

She nodded.

“Show me.”

We took the stairs two at a time. I had to run to keep up with the girl. Tasha ran through the darkened hallways with the confidence only someone who’d lived there could have. She was skinny, her hair beaded with multicolored beads. Gold earrings dangled from each lobe. She wore dirty red shorts and a pink-and-white striped shirt. Her shoes were old and worn out, and one of the back heels flapped as she ran.

On the second floor, she stopped in front of a door and raised her hand to knock. Before she could, I stopped her.

“Your parents? Will they be okay with me being here? Maybe you should warn them first that you’re coming in with a stranger. I don’t want to get shot.”

Her voice softened and she stared at her feet. “We ain’t got no parents. It’s just me and Malik. He’s my little brother. Momma, she…”

Hesitantly, I put a hand on her bony shoulder. She jumped a little, but that was all.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stir up anything bad.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sniffling, she knocked on the door. “Malik, open up.”

“You okay?” the boy said from the other side of the door. He sounded defiant, but afraid. “That dude with you?”

“Yes, he’s with me. His name is Lamar and he’s okay. He ain’t gonna hurt us. He just wanted help. Now do what I told you and open the door.”

“Don’t boss me.”

“Malik…”

The door opened, revealing a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old, in a Spider-Man shirt and ragged black jeans. He frowned at me, refusing to step aside.

“You cool?” he asked.

I smiled. “Yeah, man, I’m cool.”

“You better be. I ain’t no punk. I’m hardcore, G. You try messing with my sister and I’ll mess you up instead. And if you think I’m playing, just try me.”

I choked down my laughter, careful not to offend him. The sincerity and ferocity in his voice was really something, and I had no doubts he’d try to do that very thing.

“Malik,” I said, holding up my hands, “I promise, you’re in charge. I just needed to hide out here for a second. Okay?”

“Okay.” His attention was drawn to the pistol. “Cool. Can I try that out?”

“Can’t. No more bullets.”

“Damn. Well what good are you then?”

Tasha waved her hand, angry and dismissive. “Malik, get the hell out of the way and let us in.”

“Don’t boss me,” he repeated. “What’s that noise?”

“There’s dead folks beating on the door downstairs.”

Malik’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I told you we shouldn’t let him in. Now they know we’re here.”

“It’ll be okay,” I assured them. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath, and then we’ll figure something out.”

“Damn straight.”

I shook my head. “Did your mother let you talk that way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she let you curse like that?”

“Shit, man. I’m eight years old. I can say what I want. Before she got sick, Momma said I was the man of the house.”

“No she didn’t,” Tasha said. “Momma told you to mind me. If she’d heard you cursing like that, she’d have washed your mouth out with soap and then beat your ass.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!”

“Enough,” I snapped. “Both of you knock it the hell off.”