Brian Keene: Dead Sea

Tasha got quiet, but Malik frowned at me.

“You can’t tell me what to do. You ain’t my father.”

Sighing, I laid the empty pistol on the coffee table. Then I knelt down and looked the boy in the eye.

“No, Malik, I’m not your father. You don’t even know me. But I am a grown-up, and I do know things and I can help you and your sister, if you’ll let me. I’d like to help. Would that be okay?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“Good.” I stood up and looked around the dismal apartment. It was small and cramped and dusty. Empty food wrappers and dirty plates littered the floor and coffee table. The furniture was threadbare. Soiled laundry lay heaped in piles. On one shelf was a picture of a heavyset woman: smiling, cheerful eyes beaming behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses, her arms around Malik and Tasha.

“That your mom?”

Tasha nodded.

“Anybody else left alive in this building?”

“No,” Tasha said. “Everybody else is gone. They either left or…”

She didn’t have to finish.

“Mr. Lahav helped us out after Momma died,” Malik said. “He let us stay in his apartment. Cooked for us. Read us bedtime stories. I liked him, except when he made us brush our teeth. He said we got to be our own dentists now, so it was important to brush three times a day, even if we didn’t eat. But he went out for water and never come back.”

“And how long ago was that?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe five days?”

“He’s dead by now,” Tasha said. “Those things got to him.”

“We don’t know that,” Malik insisted. “Maybe he got hurt, or trapped. We should go out and find him.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s one of them now, Malik. A zombie.”

“No he ain’t.”

“He is too.”

“Guys.” I held up my hands. “Let’s not fight, okay? That won’t help us get out of here. Other than Mr. Lahav, is there anybody else in the building?”

They both shook their heads.

“Are there any zombies?”

Tasha shuddered. “No. Thank God.”

“And this shotgun is your only weapon.”

“Yeah,” Malik said, holding it out to me, “but I can’t get it to work no more.”

“Let me see it.” I took the shotgun from him and pumped it, the way I’d seen it done in the movies. An empty cartridge ejected from the side and bounced off the wall.

“I tried that,” Malik said, pouting. “Wouldn’t do it for me. Stupid gun.”

Before this, I didn’t have much experience with kids. One of my old boyfriends had a daughter (he’d been married for several years before finally coming to terms with the fact that he was gay), but I’d never really interacted with her, and had dumped her father after a few dates.

“Tell you what.” I smiled. “Let me keep this one, and soon as we find more, I’ll pick out one more your size. Sound good?”

He looked reluctant. “I guess so. You best not be tricking me, though. Just because I ain’t strong enough to use this shotgun don’t mean it don’t belong to me.”

“It’s all yours, little man. I’m just borrowing it until we find a safer place to stay.”

“Safer?” Tasha asked, confused. “Hold up a minute. We’re not going nowhere. Malik and I are staying right here. Momma and Mr. Lahav both told us to—”

“Listen,” I interrupted. “You hear that? They’re going to get in. If they can’t break the door down, sooner or later one of them will get lucky enough to bust a window. Then we’re screwed. And there’s something else, too.”

“What?”

“The city is on fire. That’s how you guys found me. I was running away from it when I got trapped down there.”

“Fire?” Malik’s eyes grew wide. “How bad is it?”

“My whole neighborhood is gone. It’s spreading block by block and it’s coming this way. It’ll be here soon. We don’t have much time.”

“But if we go outside, the zombies will get us,” Tasha said.

“And if we stay in here,” I reminded her, “we’ll burn to death.”

“So we’re screwed.” Malik folded his arms across his chest.

I patted him on the head and smiled. “Not quite yet.”

My knees popped as I stood up. Downstairs, the pounding continued. I glanced out the window and saw more zombies converging on our building. They were four deep around the door, clawing and shoving each other. More of them emerged from side streets and alleys. I didn’t know how they communicated, or even if they did, but somehow they knew that dinner was inside this building. All they had to do was get inside.

The fires were spreading, too. The entire horizon was now glowing orange and yellow. As hard as it was to believe, it looked like the entire city was going up in flames. The rain we’d had earlier in the day had done nothing to slow it down, apparently. And it wasn’t like there were firemen or other emergency personnel to battle the flames. I’d once seen a Civil War documentary on TV. In it, they’d talked about how General Sherman had burned Atlanta to the ground. At the time, I’d tried to picture that. It seemed inconceivable; unreal. But now, I had a good idea what that had actually looked like.

The kids had lined up the remaining shotgun shells on the windowsill. There were four of them; not nearly the amount I’d hoped for. I had no idea how many the shotgun could hold; indeed, I’d been surprised I was able to figure out how to pump it so easily. Rather than trying to load them into the weapon and risking jamming it or something, I scooped the shells up and stuffed them in my pants pocket.

Malik frowned. “Ain’t you gonna put them in the gun?”

“Not now. Maybe later.”

“Later? Nigga, do it now!”

“Hey,” I scolded. “You shouldn’t use that word.”

“Nigga? Why not?”

“Because it’s not a nice word. It means you’re ignorant.”

“I’m ignorant?”

“That’s what it means.”

He stomped his foot. “I’m not ignorant.”

“I didn’t say you were. But when you use that word, that’s what you’re calling other people—and yourself.”

Malik frowned in concentration.

I turned to Tasha. “You got any other weapons in the apartment? Anything you kids could use against the zombies?”

“No. But I think Malik is right. You should load the shotgun now. Might not have a chance later.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll load it.”

I pulled the shotgun shells out of my pocket. Then I fumbled with the weapon, wondering how they went in. There was a slot on the side, about the same size as the ammunition, but I wasn’t sure which way the shells were supposed to face. The kids watched me in bewilderment.

Malik smirked. “You don’t know how to load it, do you?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t know much about guns.”

“And you calling me ignorant? Here, let me show you.”

He took the gun from me and quickly inserted the shells with his little fingers. Then, with a smug, satisfied grin, he handed it back to me.

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Washington taught me how.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got eaten.” The boy clammed up then, and stared at the floor. It was obvious that he was reluctant to say any more.

I checked outside again. The creatures were still coming. The pounding had grown louder and more insistent. We heard a cracking sound, like wood splintering. Tasha and Malik suddenly looked as scared as I felt.

“Okay,” I whispered, “is there another way out of the building?”

Tasha nodded. “The laundry room, down in the basement. It’s got a pair of storm doors that lead up into the alley. And there’s the fire escape. But it’s broke. Don’t extend all the way to the ground.”