City of the Dead (2 page)

Jim opened his eyes.

"More than infinity, Danny. Daddy loves you more than infinity."

He opened the door and Martin followed. Jim placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing the old man back into the seat.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head, "you stay with Frankie. I need you to watch our backs out here. Make sure we've got a clear shot at escape. I'm going to leave the rifles here with you guys-just in case."

He paused, and still squeezing Martin's shoulder, raised his head and sniffed the breeze,

"This town is alive with the dead, Martin. Can you smell them?"

"I can," the preacher admitted, "but you'll need help. That buckshot wound in your shoulder ain't getting better. What if-"

"I appreciate everything you've done for me and Danny, but this is something I have to do alone."

"I'm afraid of what you might find."

"So am I. That's why I need to do this by myself. Okay?"

Martin was reluctant. "Okay. We'll wait here for both of you."

Frankie leaned over the seat and pulled one of the M-16s to the front. She placed it between her legs and checked the rear-view mirror.

"Coast is clear," she said. "Better get going."

Jim nodded.

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Martin sighed. "Good luck, Jim. We'll be right here."

"Thank you. Thank you both."

He took a deep breath, turned away, and crossed the street. His feet felt leaden, his hands numb. Gripping the pistol, he shook it off and clenched his jaw.

"More than infinity, Danny ..."

He broke into a run, his boots pounding on the sidewalk as he sprinted for the house. He turned into the yard, dashed onto the porch and drew the pistol from its holster. Hand trembling, he reached out and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Slowly, Jim turned it. Calling his son's name, he went inside the house.

They waited in the darkness.

Martin hadn't realized he was holding his breath until Jim vanished through the front door.

Frankie checked the street for movement again. "What now?"

"We wait," he told her. "We wait and we watch for them to come out."

The night air turned chilly, and it whistled through the hole in the ruined windshield. Frankie shivered. Jim had been right. There was something foul on the breeze.

"So how old is Danny, anyway?"

"Six," Martin answered. "He was-I mean is-a cute kid. Looks like Jim."

"You saw a picture?"

He nodded.

"How long you two been traveling together?"

"Since West Virginia. Jim got attacked outside my church. I saved him and then promised to help him find his son."

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Frankie was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again.

"Tell me something, preacher-man. Do you really think his son is alive in there?"

Martin watched the house. "I hope so, Frankie. I hope."

"Me too. I think that..." Her voice trailed off and she checked the street and surrounding yards again. Carefully, she hefted the rifle.

The stench was getting stronger.

"What is it?" Martin asked.

"Can't you smell them? They're coming."

Martin cracked his window and sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"I reckon they know we're here, somewhere. They're hunting for us."

"What should we do?"

"Like I said, we wait. Not much else we can do. Just be ready."

They grew quiet again and watched the silent houses around them. Martin turned back to Danny's house. His jittery legs bounced up and down and he cracked his leathery knuckles in the dark. His arthritis was acting up and he doubted he'd find any medicine lying around for it soon.

"Stop fidgeting."

"Sorry."

Random Bible verses ran through his head and Martin focused on them so that he would not have to wonder what was going on inside the house. Blessed are the peacemakers ... Jesus saves ... For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...

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Martin glanced back at the house again, fighting the urge to get out of the Humvee and run toward it. He thought of the father and son who had saved them from cannibals in Virginia. The father had been mortally wounded and before he could turn into a zombie, the son shot him and then turned the gun on himself.

He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life ... And on the third day, he arose from the dead ...

... His only begotten son ... he arose from the dead ...

. . . His only son ... arose from the dead ...

Martin froze.

"Frankie, I-"

A gunshot suddenly rang out, shattering the stillness. It was followed by a scream. Silence returned and then a second gunshot followed.

Both had come from inside the house.

"Frankie, that was Jim screaming!"

"Are you sure? It didn't sound human to me."

"It was him! I'm sure of it."

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know. I don't know!"

Martin's mind whirled.

He shot Danny and then himself! He got in there, and Danny was a zombie. His only begotten son arose from the dead!

Frankie shook him.

"Fuck this shit! Come on, Reverend!"

They jumped out of the Humvee, weapons at the ready, as the first cries of the undead drifted to them on the night wind. The zombies appeared at the end of the street and the doors to the houses began to open at the same time. The undead poured forth.

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Martin's voice cracked. "It-it was a trap. L-look at all of them ..."

"Shit."

Frankie raised the M-16, aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. One corpse dropped and five more took its place. With a horrendous cry, the zombies charged.

Martin turned back to the Humvee, but Frankie grabbed his arm.

"Move your ass, preacher-man!"

They ran toward the house, to see what had become of their friend. More gunshots echoed from inside as they approached.

Above them, the newly risen moon shined down upon the world, staring at a mirror image of its cold, dead self.

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The house was silent.

"Danny?"

Jim crept forward, his heart still pounding in his chest. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he held his breath. The living room was empty. Danny's movies were stacked neatly on a shelf, next to a row of video games. A thin layer of dust covered the coffee table and end tables. One of the sofa cushions had a crusty, reddish-brown stain in the middle and flies crawled over it.

"Danny! It's Daddy! Where are you?"

He walked into the kitchen and the smell hit him. Whatever was inside the garbage can was long since spoiled. Flies swarmed over its surface. They crawled on the refrigerator, trying to get inside the airtight appliance as well. The incessant buzzing seemed loud in the silence. Jim gagged. Holding his hand over his nose and mouth, he backed out of the room and into the hallway.

He tilted his head from side to side and listened.

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There was a sound above him, like something being dragged across the floor.

He went to the stairs.

"Danny? Are you there? Come on out, son! It's me!"

Only a week before (though it now seemed like a year), Jim had had a particularly vivid nightmare about this moment. In the dream, he'd reached the top of the stairs, and limped toward Danny's room. The bedroom door creaked open and his son stepped out to greet him. A zombie.

At that point, Jim had screamed himself awake.

He wouldn't be able to do that this time.

If ...

The top of the stairs lay hidden in shadows. The noise was not repeated.

Jim limped up each step, his second wind almost gone.

When they'd crossed the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey, Frankie had asked him a question. Now the conversation ran through his mind.

"Have you thought about what you'll do if we get there and Danny's one of them?"

"I don't know."

But he did know.

If...

Pausing halfway up, Jim slid the magazine out of the pistol and checked his shots. Only a few left. But he had enough. Enough for Danny-and for himself.

If...

He continued upward, the stairs creaking with every step. The sound came again. A footstep? He stopped, listening. A hallway with four doors waited at the top of the stairs. Two of the doors led to the bedrooms; one belonged to Danny and the other Rick and Tammy. The third door led to the bathroom. The fourth led to the attic.

The sounds came from the attic. Unmistakable now,

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they were the sounds of hesitant feet. Of someone trying to walk very carefully and quietly.

"Danny, it's your dad! Are you there?"

He reached the top and crept toward the attic door, passing by the bedrooms as he did. His breath hitched in his chest and the blood rushed in his ears. When he called out, his voice cracked.

"It's okay, Danny. You're safe. Everything's all right now. Everything is going to be fine."

The bathroom door burst open, and his dead ex-wife flung herself at him.

Tammy was a grisly sight. Her bathrobe hung open, stained with dried bodily juices. Decay bloomed, spreading across her rancid flesh. Most of her thick, dark hair was gone and the few clumps that remained were matted and greasy. A worm dangled from her gray cheek and another burrowed through her forearm. Brownish-yellow liquid ran from the corners of her eyes and mouth and dripped from the open sores on her body. Her right breast hung down to her belly button, revealing the rancid meat inside. It swayed with each step she took. Something squirmed inside the dark folds of her groin.

"Hello, Jim!"

The corpse's foul breath clung to him. Too close to shoot, Jim smashed her in the face with the pistol butt, shuddering in revulsion as rotted teeth fell out onto the carpet.

He took a step backward as the zombie staggered, swollen legs struggling to support her bulbous weight.

"I'm here for Danny."

"You're too late," the now toothless mouth slurred, "Danny's dead!"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!"

"Danny's dead! Danny's dead!" She danced around

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the hallway, arms flailing, and chanted in a singsong voice. "The whelp is dead! Your son is dead!"

"You're lying. Tell me where he is!"

"Poor Jim. Did you come all this way just to rescue your son? Too late! His spirit is in torment, far beyond your reach. He burns in Hell like all your kind. His body has joined us, and now it's your turn! I will send your soul in search of his so that one of our brethren may flee the Void and inhabit you. There are so many of us waiting. So many. More than-"

Jim raised the pistol, but the thing that had been his ex-wife was faster. She lunged at him, grabbing his forearm with both rotted hands. Bony fingers pulled his arm toward the creature's mouth. The zombie's remaining teeth snapped together as he jerked away. Jim punched her in the face. The skin was cold and moist, and his fist sank through the surface of the thing's cheek. He pulled his dripping hand away with a wet, sucking sound.

Locked in a struggle, they grappled back and forth. The days-old gunshot wound in his shoulder burned. He felt blood leaking out around the amateur stitching. The zombie forced him back a step. She took another bite at his arm, narrowly missing. Jim slammed the creature against the wall once, twice, three times. Picture frames fell to the floor, shattering. Something inside Tammy popped, and black liquid erupted from her mouth and nose. The stench was overwhelming.

Freeing his arm, he swept the pistol around and fired, not bothering to aim. One ear disappeared, along with a portion of her scalp, but the zombie simply laughed. Jim's ears rang from the explosion. Tammy lumbered forward again.

"Did you know that she still loved you? Oh yes. I can see it in here." The zombie tapped her forehead. "She

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planned on leaving Rick so that the three of you could be a family again. But then you got re-married."

Jim screamed. An all-consuming rage swept over him. The veins in his neck and arms throbbed, and his body shook in anger.

"Shut up, you god-damn bitch!"

This time, his aim was true. The bullet left a small hole just above Tammy's eyes. The back of her head splattered across the wallpaper. He fired again and again-and again. His finger kept squeezing till the gun clicked empty. He stood over her corpse, looking down, and the gun slipped from his numb fingers.

"I'm sorry, Tammy. I wish things had ended differently between us. You may have taken Danny from me, but you didn't deserve this."

The hesitant shuffling sound behind the attic door repeated itself. Stepping over Tammy's remains, Jim started toward it.

"Danny?"

The door creaked open.

His son stepped out into the light.

"Danny!"

The tiny figure was silent, and then-

"Daddy? DADDY?"

"Danny! Oh my God ..."

The six-year old boy's hair had turned white. Not gray or silver, but snow white. There was a strict demarcation halfway down the length of his hair. Midpoint to the end was still brown, but the rest was white.

"Danny ..."

Danny ran to him and Jim hugged him tight, crushing his son against his chest. Both sobbed uncontrollably. The emotional weight crushed Jim-the disbelief that he'd actually found Danny alive, the overwhelming tidal

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wave of relieved shudders descending down his spine, and just the sheer feel of his son in his arms.

"Oh, Danny. I can't believe it."

"Daddy, I thought you were dead. I thought you were like Mommy and Rick and-"

"It's okay, son. It's okay now. Daddy's here now, and I'm never leaving you again. It's okay. I promise it's okay. You're safe now. That's all that matters. Shhh."

There were black circles under Danny's eyes, and he'd lost a lot of weight. Jim felt his son's ribs sticking through the thin Spider-Man pajama shirt. He ran his hand through the boy's white hair. What had happened to him?