Stephen Knight: Left With The Dead

NEW YORK CITY

The dead were everywhere.

Gartrell sprinted through the darkened husk of New York City, the flare in his left hand sputtering and spitting as it slowly ran itself down. He felt its heat on his hand even through the heavy glove he wore. Ignoring the sensation, he ran through the night as fast as he could, weaving around abandoned cars and trucks. He avoided the sidewalk and kept to the street itself. The deserted vehicles served as a type of obstacle course, slowing down the tide of corpses that pursued him.

Just the same, it was only a matter of time until they caught him.

The flare sputtered its last, turning into just a glorified sparkler now. Gartrell flung it away. He juked to his right and slid on his ass across the hood of a taxi cab, firming his grip on the Atchisson AA-12 automatic shotgun that hung from his body by its patrol strap. He didn’t know how many rounds he had left, but it couldn’t be very many. Five? Six? Behind him, past the wall of stenches that pushed through the street after him, he heard the chatter of automatic gunfire. It was the Coast Guard ship’s.50 caliber machinegun, holding back the zeds in order for McDaniels and the others to get to safety. He wished them luck. They would need it.

And so did he.

As he ran past an abandoned UPS truck, a stench reached for him, its fingers curled into claws, its jaws spread wide to reveal a dry maw. But like most stenches it was slow, its movements sluggish and not particularly coordinated. Gartrell saved his ammunition and punched the ghoul in the face instead, knocking it onto its ass as he dashed past. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rest of the zeds no longer pursued him; instead, they clustered around the smoking remains of the flare he had thrown away.

He slowed just a moment and watched the growing crowd through his night vision goggles. Sure enough, they gathered around the flare, shoving against each other, casting about in the darkness. It took Gartrell a moment to figure out what the story was. The zeds were so stupid they had focused their attention on the flare as he had run through the night, and now their unblinking eyes were glare-blind. They equated the flare with food-him-and they had no idea why he wasn’t where the flare lay.

Boy, these things really are stupid.

And then, as if to prove he wasn’t exactly a mental heavyweight himself, a zombie jumped onto Gartrell from behind. It bit down on his helmet, its teeth skidding across the fabric-covered Kevlar. Gartrell spun and lashed out with his left elbow, and the hard pad he wore there caught the zed right in the face with enough force to break its nose. While the ghoul felt no pain-Gartrell knew the stenches responded to nothing but their incessant hunger-the impact was enough to loosen its grip. Gartrell continued his spin while seizing one of the ghoul’s wrists with his left hand and pulled it free. The zombie fell into the street behind him, and Gartrell fired one round from his AA-12 into its face. The zed’s skull exploded like an overripe watermelon meeting its fate at a Gallagher show.

The shot captured the attention of the pack of zeds huddled around the flare, and with one collective moan, they surged toward him.

Crap.

Gartrell took off at a run again, heading down East 79th Street as fast as he could, weaving around the derelict cars and other debris that choked the street. The skies still flickered overhead as the artillery bombardment to the north continued unabated. The rangy first sergeant looked in that direction, and wondered if he should make for the Army forces there, or try and double back to the boat.

The boat, he told himself.

He ran to the next intersection, moving as quickly as he could. More stenches flooded into the area, and Gartrell finally had to leave the relative cover of the street for the sidewalk. Concealed now only by darkness, he charged up East 79th Street to the intersection with York. He turned right and scurried up York Avenue. He knew the Coast Guard cutter Escanaba would likely sail north until it cleared Roosevelt Island, then turn to the right and head back for the Atlantic Ocean. If he could get to East 86th or East 87th streets, he might be able to hail it before it reversed its course.

He ran and ran, his lungs burning, his legs and feet aching. He avoided contact with the stenches wherever he could, and refrained from firing on them unless he was danger close and there was no other way. Smoke tinted the air as well; there were some fires burning somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t see them. Clinging to the shadows, he darted from block to block, and employed stealth and night vision as his primary weapons.

But all the streets east of York Avenue were chock full of the dead. They’d been attracted by the cutter’s weapons fire, and they now massed along the banks of the East River. It would be practically impossible to return to the riverfront undetected. Getting to the Escanaba was pretty much out the window.

Gartrell swore under his breath and conducted a quick perimeter check. A wave of zeds shambled up the street and sidewalk behind him, moving in his direction. They probably couldn’t see him, he decided, but they knew he was nearby. And in the dim recesses of whatever passed for their tiny little minds, they knew that time and numbers were on their side. More stenches swarmed down York Avenue from the north. Their numbers were much smaller than those to the south, but Gartrell still didn’t like the odds. They rolled down the wide avenue like a filthy tide.

Gartrell tried the doors of a shop, and then the door of an apartment building, but both were locked. He had gone as far as he could. He couldn’t fight his way through to the north, south, or east-he didn’t have enough ammunition. He just as quickly discarded the notion of killing himself-things weren’t that dire yet, but he put a coda on that thought since it might eventually become an option he would have to consider. Only one thing was clear to him right now: He did not want to be eaten by the gathering dead, and that meant he had to get the hell out of Dodge, pronto.

He turned up 86th Street and headed toward Second Avenue. As he crossed the intersection of York Avenue, a zombie appeared right in front of him. It turned toward him and its eyes widened when it saw him in the darkness. There was no opportunity to do anything else but shoot it. Gartrell blew its head off with one shot, then jumped over the carcass and ran up 86th Street. The AA-12’s loud discharge captured the interest of every stench in the area, and before he knew it, the intersection behind him was filling with moaning, walking corpses. And ahead, more stenches appeared, hurrying down the street from Second Avenue. Gartrell was caught between two waves of oncoming zombies.

There was only one thing left to do. Hide.

Gartrell dropped to the ground and slid beneath a car parked at the curb. He flipped up his night vision goggles and unstrapped his AA-12 so he could fit beneath the car; with his body armor and the rest of his gear, it made for a very, very tight fit. He reached down with his right hand and drew his Heckler amp; Koch Mk 23 SOCOM pistol. It took some effort, as he could barely move. Even with the pistol in hand, if the zeds discovered him he had no doubt how he would fare.

Sure gives a new meaning to the term close-quarters combat.

He then remembered that if McDaniels and the civilians made it to the Coast Guard cutter, it would make a lot of sense to contact the major and let him know Gartrell was still alive. He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner, and he keyed his microphone button twice. Click. Click.