City of the Dead (5 page)

He searched through Baker's memories as if riffling through a filing cabinet. He saw the scientist's escape and flight, his capture by Schow's forces, and the interrogation that followed. He learned of Baker's other companions: Jim, the father searching for his son, and Martin, the elderly holy man.

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These two, the father and the preacher, were not with them. They weren't among the zombies ordered to scavenge weapons and round up stray humans from the surrounding countryside. He hadn't seen them in the complex either. The possibility that two of his enemy's companions might have escaped gnawed at him. He didn't like loose ends, especially if it meant that they could warn others of his army's might.

He scanned the horizon. Could they still be out there, hiding in the night amongst the hills and trees? How delicious it would be-how poetic to destroy them while wearing the form of their friend.

Still, no matter. If they had survived, they were gone by now, hunted down and dead. Or dying. Humanity's time was over, its number finite. The Siqqusim's numbers were not. And when this world held no more bodies for them-there were other worlds, a multitude of other living beings for them to violate. They would never go back to the Void, and eventually, they would have their revenge on He who had sent them there. Ob would lead the Siqqusim's corruption of the flesh. When the last bit of flesh had been conquered, his brother Ab would then be free to rally his own forces, the Elilum. They would proceed with the destruction of the planet's plant and insect life, possessing them in the same way that the Siqqusim did with flesh. Finally, when all life had been extinguished, they would depart for other planets, while their brother Api burned the planet to ashes with his fellow Teraphim.

But defiling the Creator's beloved creations was just the first step. Storming the gates of His kingdom would be the next. Ob would personally rip Him from the throne.

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Smiling at the prospect, Ob went to inspect his army and make plans. There was much to do. He must amass an army and prepare for the arrival of his brothers, Ab and Api. Once their way had been cleared, they would destroy every living organism on the planet, destroy the planet itself-destroy everything the Creator held dear. Only then would they be victorious, satisfied. And that would be just the beginning ...

Ron coughed.

Kevin whispered back. "You're

"Holy shit, they stink!" Ron coughed.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Kevin whispered back. "You're going to give us away."

"I can't help it. The smell..."

"He's right," Mikey said, squirming. "It's fucking hot. We've been in here for hours. My legs are cramping up."

"Both of you shut up now!"

"Fuck off. When we get out of here, you're dead, Kev."

Kevin ground his teeth in frustration. Never in a million years had he imagined that he'd spend the apocalypse hiding in the bed of a Chevy pickup truck with the infamous Lancaster brothers, Ron and Mikey. The three of them were concealed in the back, the bed covered by a black vinyl, snap-on tarp that hid them from the zombies, but restricted their movements and allowed the sun to bake them. The steel beneath their backs grew steadily hotter as the hours passed. Even now, with the sun vanished beneath the horizon, the space was scorching, the day's heat trapped inside. They heard the creatures clambering around outside the truck, and in the moments when the zombies were silent, the stench gave them away.

Before the Rising began, Ron, Mikey, and Kevin ran numbers for a crime family in York, Pennsylvania. When

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the shit hit the fan, York fell not only to the zombies but to rival gang factions as well. The bangers out of Baltimore and Philadelphia, skinheads out of Red Lion, survivalists from the southern part of the county and northern Maryland-all of them had decided to carve it up for themselves. So Ron, Mikey, and Kevin split.

They made it as far as Gettysburg, and after showing some proficiency with weapons and an extreme lack of conscience, they were allowed to join Colonel Schow's paramilitary forces, assigned to the crucifixion squads. It wasn't bad work; got them out in the fresh air and gave them an opportunity to live amongst a larger group. Safety in numbers. A strong sense of self-preservation allowed them to justify the most heinous things, including nailing fellow humans to crosses and watching from safety as the dead tore them apart.

When the decision to bug out and move to the government facility came down, the three of them piled into the pickup truck. As the convoy made its way north, they passed the time drinking warm beers and taking pot shots at zombies. Mikey had emptied his clip and both spares before they got as far as Harrisburg. Ron's was empty soon after.

By the time the convoy arrived at its destination, they were down to Kevin's 30.06 and a gas gauge firmly on E. When the combat exploded around them, they jumped out of the cab, climbed inside the bed, and shut the tailgate behind them. They'd lain there ever since.

"Christ, I could go for a burger right now," Ron breathed.

"Yo, fuck the burger," Mikey said, "I want a cold beer."

"Shut the fuck up," Kevin hissed.

Mikey and Ron quieted down again, and Kevin tried

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to think. How much longer would they have to wait here, trapped and unable to move? He considered taking a peek outside, but immediately decided against it. The reek of rot and decay remained strong, which meant that at least a few of the creatures were still close by.

The pressure in his groin grew worse. He didn't want to hear Ron whining about the smell or Mikey complaining about muscle cramps. He'd had to piss for the last four hours and he wasn't bitching. Yet.

Gotta think, gotta think! Think about something other than pissing!

He ran through a mental checklist. Weapons: the rifle and a hunting knife. Food: none. Water: ditto (and he was getting really thirsty). Location: fucked if he knew. Somewhere near the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Prospects: pretty fucking grim. Maybe he could push up on the tarp, pop the snaps, and as the zombies descended upon them, make a run for it while Ron and Mikey played decoy.

His bladder grew more insistent. In the darkness, he squeezed the head of his penis through his jeans.

"I swear to God I'm gonna puke," Ron whimpered. "Those things stink so bad."

"Shut up!" Mikey and Kevin both hissed.

From outside came the crunch of feet on gravel. All three held their breath as the footsteps drew closer, stopping at the truck. Then-speech, like someone gargling with glass.

"Did your host know how to operate one of these? Mine was too young."

"Mine did, but we need a key. Look inside. It should be in the steering column."

The door opened, and the truck shifted as something crawled inside the cab. The stench was stifling, even

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though they were separated by steel and glass. Kevin wanted to scream. He pinched the tip of his penis hard.

"There's no key," the voice was muffled. "What do we do now?"

"We'll find one of our brothers who knows how to hot-wire it, or else we'll tow it back to the facility."

The truck rocked as the door slammed shut. The footsteps faded, and moments later, the smell dissipated as well.

They waited another five minutes.

"I think they're gone," Ron whispered.

"Fuck, I hope so," Mikey sighed, stretching his legs. His joints popped in the darkness. "Kevin, you okay?"

"No," he said through clenched teeth. "I am definitely not fucking okay. I've got to piss."

"Let's make a break for it," Ron said. "Get the hell away from here before they come back!"

As if in response, the smell returned. Seconds later, the footsteps followed.

"I can start it. This is an older model. From the Seventies."

"Good. Drive it down to the complex with the others. Ob wants a fleet. Every operational vehicle is to be serviced and made ready for transport."

They waited, listening as it crossed the wires. The zombie was humming, and after a moment, Kevin recognized it as Iron Maiden's "Children of the Damned." He stifled a laugh, and that only increased the pressure on his bladder. He bit his lip, moaning softly as the urgency changed to pain.

The truck's engine roared to life.

"There's not much fuel," the zombie called. "I may have to coast it down the hill."

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"That's fine. The complex has several fueling stations. We shall accompany you."

The passenger door opened, and the truck sagged even lower as more piled in. Then the truck began to move.

"Guys," Kevin breathed, so quietly that they had to strain to hear him. "I can't hold it anymore. I'm sorry."

He let go, and immediately a flood of warmth spread across the crotch of his jeans. It ran down his leg and into the bed of the truck, pooling around his companions. The stench, mixed with that of their forward passengers, was overpowering.

"Ohhhh." Kevin shuddered as the pressure left him. Soaked in his own urine, he gasped in pained ecstasy.

The truck picked up speed now, rolling down the hill. The urine followed the law of gravity, running beneath all three of them.

"Oh Jesus," Mikey exploded. "Stop it, Kevin! Fucking stop!"

"Did you hear something?" someone asked from up front.

All three of their hearts skipped a beat at the same time.

"What?"

"I don't know. Thought I heard a human."

"Your body's ears are faulty. Look around. I don't see a life glow anywhere."

"There's Ob. Let us stop and show him our prize. Perhaps he will reward us."

The truck lurched to a stop, and Kevin's bladder squeezed out the last few drops. The three men lay in the darkness; wet, cold, and afraid.

Ob evaluated the line of vehicles pouring into the facility as one of his undead soldiers directed them. Four-wheel

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drives, sedans, an M-88 tank recovery unit, several sport utility vehicles, a half dozen Humvees, a motorcycle, and a few tractor-trailers. His eyes widened in pleasure when the two Paladin motorized howitzers rolled up. Several tow trucks crested the hill. The vehicles that hadn't been destroyed, but were damaged or not operational, were being towed inside the facility, so the dead could repair them.

"Good. Very good. You have all done well." He started to turn, but a beat-up old truck coasted toward him and stalled at his feet.

In the bed, buried beneath the tarp, Ron twisted his neck, trying to work out an agonizing kink. His face slid into a puddle of Kevin's waste.

"Where did you find this pile of junk?" Ob asked.

Ron gagged. Kevin and Mikey stiffened beside him.

"Atop that hill, lord. It only needs some gas and then it will be fine."

Ron felt the cough building inside him. Kevin's urine dripped from his nose and chin.

"Hmmmm. Put it with the rest, then."

Ron fought it down and froze, listening.

"Wait," Ob called. "Why does it smell like human urine?"

Ron coughed, loudly. Another one seized him, rustling the tarp over their heads.

"In the back! They're in the back!"

"Shit!" Mikey shouted. "What the fuck do we do?"

Kevin fumbled blindly for the rifle. His fingers closed around the cold barrel and he pulled it toward him, hitting Mikey in the head. Mikey yelped in surprise and pain.

A dozen creatures surrounded the truck and ripped

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the tarp away. Some had been children and office workers. One of them looked like a scientist, or maybe a doctor. Others were their fellow mercenaries, killed in the battle and now fighting for the other side.

Two pairs of mottled arms grasped at Ron, dragging him out of the bed. He twisted, broke free, and fell to the ground. His ankle snapped. Immediately the creatures fell upon him, stabbing him with knives, clubbing him with rocks, and clawing his skin with their dead fingers.

Another corpse locked on to Mikey, its teeth seeking the soft flesh of his quivering throat. He groped at the zombie's head and pushed it back up. His fingers slid into the thing's mouth and he struggled, pulling down in an effort to break the jaw. Instead, the teeth snapped shut, severing his digits at the first knuckles. Blood spurted from the stumps. His scream was cut off as the corpse's mouth found his. They locked in a repugnant kiss, and then the zombie pushed him away, his tongue hanging from between its lips. Mikey collapsed, his screams replaced by a high-pitched gargle. Blood poured from his ruined mouth. Another zombie leaped forward and zapped him with a stun gun.

Ob leaned his elbows against the rim of the Chevy's bed and leered at Kevin.

"Hello, meat! What do you have there? A gun? Doing some deer hunting, were you?"

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." Kevin scrambled backward, his back resting against the cab. The zombies surrounded the truck. He glanced around for the Lancaster brothers. Mikey was dead, his eyes glazed over even as the zombie continued to zap him with the stun gun. Ron lay on the ground moaning. His chest and abdomen were an open wound. Kevin saw the knives and rocks come

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up, and then flash back down. Up. Down. Then Ron's cries ceased.

Kevin stared upward in fear as Ob leaned in, clutching at him.

"Come here!"

Another zombie opened the tailgate, and several of the undead clambered in after him.

"Ohshitohshitohshitohshit..."

"Give me that." Ob gripped the 30.06.

Kevin struggled with him, jerking the rifle back and forward. The creatures on the truck grabbed Kevin's legs and pulled him toward them. The rifle barrel landed against Ob's jaw, and the zombie leader flinched.

"Oh shit!"

Screaming, Kevin's body convulsed. His fingers squeezed the trigger.

Baker's head disintegrated in an eruption of flesh and blood and bone.

Ob went with it.

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He ignored the first two shots. They were faint, though he couldn't be sure if it was from distance or because of the thickness of the walls around him. He strained to hear them over Claude Debussy's "Arabesque #2," floating softly from the battery-operated portable stereo. One shot-maybe-followed by a second. Most likely it was zombies hunting their dinner-some unlucky bastard that had the misfortune to wander into the neighborhood. He considered checking, then decided against it.