Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

Leaving yet another bit of hell behind, we limped down the hall like contestants in a three-legged race, dogged by the sound of chewing and Turgeon repeating his last word like it was a pained prayer: “. . . company . . . company . . .”

Before we reached the exit, the sound stopped, probably because there wasn’t anything left that could speak.

33

We followed the signs to the main entrance. The automatic sliding doors were powerless, so we had to pry them open. Misty broke a nail. I nearly lost a finger. We did it, though, only to be rushed by a torrent of light and sound. The sun washed everything gray; even the colors had run away. The noises blurred and shredded.

The doors had opened at the head of a wide drive that led to the street. Beyond that, we had a great view of the plaza. Frying pan to fire.

Crowded, surrounded, attacked, the chakz gave the people what they wanted: proof that they were dangerous. Flashes of chak bodies moved in elegant waves, like flocks of migrating birds. It was as though that group mind-set the LBs worried about had actually kicked in. Maybe the ferals just never had the numbers before, or maybe you had to be far enough back to see the patterns. The livebloods, for all their higher functions, fled without grace.

The big picture pulsed and throbbed. The personal tragedies played out in tiny spaces. It was like the two had nothing to do with each other, no trees for the forest, no forest for the trees. Near the center of the gray swirls stood the fair-haired cop, the one I’d seen from the window. Bullets sprayed from his AK-47. They tore some dead flesh here and there, but mostly he hit livebloods before the ferals took him down.

My eyes singled out a male teen, all buff and dressed to shock with shaved head tattooed and pierced. He ran halfheartedly, grabbing the spot on his head where an ear used to be. Red liquid dripped between his fingers. Eventually, he slowed down and fell.

Groups formed and collapsed like cauldron bubbles. Two families banded together. The mothers carried the little ones, forcing the older children ahead. The fathers had somehow gotten hold of some doors and were using them to shield the others as they inched across the plaza. Weirdly, two danglers banged at the doors like they were knocking. They even tried the knob.

I hoped the family would make it. Something should survive, and it didn’t look good for anyone else. The elegant swarms of dead had surrounded the LBs and, as they squeezed in, began to lose their pretty shape. Together now, ferals and livebloods pushed and pulled, so many, so close together, they could barely move. Limbs tangled, the center of the blob tumbled all at once, like football teams in a joint tackle.

Somehow the mob had formed a single creature, like one of Colby Green’s orgies, many limbs, many mouths, some screaming, some chewing. In my head, I heard Turgeon, or the devil, giggle.

At the edge of the mass, stray livebloods and ferals tried to pull the bodies free, but for different reasons. The cop with the flamethrower stared at it all, unsure what to do. He tried to help. He used his free hand to grab a hand and yank. When he only succeeded in pulling a feral free, a chunk of dripping meat in its mouth, he’d had enough.

Feral in his own way, the cop let loose with the thrower, turning a dripping tongue of fire on the writhing pile. Before the cop could barbecue the whole lot, a liveblood clonked him with a crowbar, then dived into the smoldering mess, screaming that he had to find Tanya. His girlfriend, I figured.

We wouldn’t be spectators much longer; we’d be part of the scene. Having reached critical mass, the blob broke and scattered. Bodies, some moving, some smoking from the flamethrower, spilled into the street, then onto the long black hospital entrance ramp where we stood. Bullets ripped the ground a few yards ahead of us. The tide was coming in.

“Hess, we’ve got to do something,” Misty said. She was still weak, barely back from death’s door.

“We have to run.”

Beyond the ER entrance a service dock formed a bit of an alley. In it were several big Dumpsters, painted green, rusted at the edges, but whole.

“There. We climb in one and wait it out. It won’t smell pretty, but it should be safe.”

I pulled, but she wouldn’t come. I wasn’t strong enough to drag her.

“We can’t just leave those people!” she said.

“Are you delirious or did you just develop superpowers? All we can do is try to stay in one piece,” I said. “Don’t look. Don’t think about it. Just keep moving.”

She was slow, uncertain.

“You don’t move now, you’ll die!”

“Fuck it; then I’ll die,” she said. “I was sick of it all beforehand and it just got a lot worse.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “Your fart is too big for your own good!”

I was so angry my bruised tongue had seized up in midsentence. Turned out it was a lucky break. Misty looked at me, then laughed. “You said fart.”

“Yeah, I said fart. Can we go now? We’re in this together, remember?”

She nodded and we moved. We made it to the dark of the alley, the first open bin yards away. Misty followed my lead, but it was the blind leading the blind. It’d been bright and my eyes hadn’t adjusted. I saw one shadow moving on its own, but I took it for a plastic trash bag until it rose up, strips trailing from its arms. I couldn’t tell if they were torn clothing or skin.

Its mouth was open, every other tooth missing, and what was left had been filed down to points. Once upon a time, it may have been a freaky fashion statement; now substance had vanquished style. When it came at us, I shoved Misty out of the way. On impact, I wrapped my arms around it and tried to bring us both down.

I put my hand under its jaw and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. Bony fingers raked my jacket, tearing the pockets off one after another, as if it thought they were parts of my body. I put my good foot up into its solar plexus and shoved. It flew up, landed on its feet, and came at me again.

On my back, I accidentally kicked at it with my bad leg. My foot flopped to the side. It was still held on by that last layer of dry muscle, but the leg bone was exposed and had a bit of a point. I pushed it deep into its gut. Yeah, chakz don’t always feel pain quite the same way livebloods do, but that hurt like a son of a bitch, let me tell you. It also staggered the feral. It tumbled back, hands out, trying to keep its balance. As its feet skittered along the trash-laden floor, I hoped it might trip, but it righted, snarled, and started at me a third time.

I was trying to roll out of the way when something heavy and silver thwacked it upside the skull. It turned in the direction of the blow just in time to get another. It was Misty, swinging at it with an old wooden crutch. She must’ve found it among the hospital garbage.

While she kept swinging, I struggled to my feet, or rather, foot. She didn’t need my help, though. Her next few blows took it down to its knees, then down. She smacked its skull again and again. As it lay there, she kept swinging. She swung so hard and so often, I winced. After seven blows, the skull cracked. After that, it twitched more than moved.

Puffing, she handed me the crutch.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she answered.

I spoke slowly to avoid any more gas jokes. “Let’s get in. The shitstorm should be over by morning.”

She leaned against the garbage bin. “Then what? Go back to the office? You know once this is over any surviving chak will be locked up or worse.”

I leaned against the crutch, using it as . . . well, a crutch. “Probably. I’ll run from that bridge when it comes for me. And even if they catch me, at least I solved the case.”