City of the Dead

"I loved my dad. He never judged me. Supported me in everything I ever did."

The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened. Kilker stepped inside and they started to slide shut again.

Carson stuck a booted foot out and stopped them.

"Look, dog, I know you've been depressed lately, but what are you doing?

You gonna quit or something?"

"I just need some air. Come with me?"

The pleading tone in his voice gave Carson goose bumps.

"Okay, man, but we can't be gone long. Five minutes, no more. Deal? I don't want Bates or Forrest kicking our ass."

Kilker smiled. "Deal."

Carson picked up his MAC-11 and then stepped in alongside Kilker. The doors hissed shut. Kilker pressed a button on the control panel, and the elevator began to rise.

"Yo, you hit the wrong button. That's Mr. Ramsey's floor. We can't go up there."

"We're not going to see, Mr. Ramsey," Kilker told him quietly. "We're going to get off the elevator and go to the fire escape."

"For what? To get in even deeper shit?"

"No. Trust me."

"Dude, you're whacked."

Kilker ignored the comment. "I never got the chance to say goodbye to my dad. Before those things took over the city, during the riots, while the phones still worked, I called home. I just wanted to talk to him, tell him that I loved him and that I was proud of him. So I called, and he answered."

"And you got to tell him? That's good, man. More than a lot of folks got."

Kilker shook his head. "No, I didn't get to tell him."

"But you said he answered?"

"He did-but it wasn't him." The young man's face clouded and he blinked back tears. "It wasn't him. It was one of those fucking things! Living inside of him."

"Shit."

"Yeah. I thought it was him at first, even though he sounded odd. But then it started saying these things- horrible things. And I knew."

"That's fucked up, dude. I'm sorry."

Kilker sniffed, wiping away tears.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. He stepped out.

"Kilker." Carson grabbed his arm. "Where are we going?"

"I told you," Kilker whispered, "the stairwell. You can get to the roof from the fire escape."

"The roof? Are you fucking crazy?"

"No." His voice cracked with grief. "Just tired. Sick and tired. If this is living, then I don't want to live anymore."

He pulled free and walked toward the red door to the fire escape. Carson followed him, unsure of what to do. The plush carpeted hallway was silent. There was no sign of Ramsey or Bates.

"Hold up, dog. What-you want to be a fucking zombie?"

"No, I just don't want to live anymore. I'm tired, Carson."

He pushed the door open and started up the stairs.

Carson began to panic.

"Kilker. Hey, man, don't do this. Come on, fucking stop it. We can't go out there. The birds will tear us to pieces!"

They reached the top of the stairwell. Kilker pointed to the protective gear hanging on the wall. It looked like a cross between a beekeeper's outfit and the clothing worn by somebody working inside a nuclear reactor.

"Then put one of these on. That's what Quinn and DiMassi and Steve do when they go out to the helicopter. The birds can't get through them. I won't need one."

He put his hand against the door and closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, paused, and steadied himself.

Carson grabbed his shoulder.

"Don't."

"I have to. I can't do this anymore, man. It hurts too fucking much. Let me go?"

Carson stared into his friend's eyes, and saw that he meant it.

Swallowing hard, Carson let go. Kilker turned back to the door and suddenly, Carson jumped him from behind.

"Mr. Bates," he shouted. "Mr. Ramsey! Help!"

"What are you doing?" Kilker grunted as Carson wrapped him in a bear hug.

"Well, I'm not letting you commit fucking suicide,

asshole. You're not thinking straight, Kilker. Something's wrong with you. You need to see Doc Stern."

"Get the fuck off of me, Carson!"

"Help! Bates? Anybody? Somebody come quick!"

Below them, a door slammed and footsteps echoed in the hall, running toward the stairwell.

Kilker slammed his head backward and Carson's nose exploded, spraying them both with blood. Screaming, Carson dropped to his knees, cradling his nose in his palms.

Kilker shoved the door open and ran out onto the roof.

Bates charged up the stairs.

"Carson, what the hell is going on? What are you doing up here?"

"It's Kilker, Mr. Bates!" Carson winced as blood poured through his fingers. "He's lost his fucking mind and went outside."

Bates ran to the door and looked out through the thick glass window in its center. Kilker ran across the wet roof, his body hidden beneath a swarm of undead birds. They covered every inch of him.

He didn't stop running until he disappeared over the ledge.

Bates sighed. His fist clenched until the nails dug into his palm.

Carson stumbled to his feet. "Is-is he ..."

"He is."

"Fuck-Kilker ..."

Bates nodded, then turned to the wounded man.

"Get down to sick bay and get your nose fixed up."

Carson hung his head. "Am I in trouble, Mr. Bates?"

"I don't know, yet." Bates shook his head. His voice was hushed. "I'm too tired at this point to decide anything. Just go get your nose taken care of, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Carson slumped down the stairs, dripping blood in his wake.

Bates looked back out at the roof and watched the rain. His conversation with Forrest ran through his mind.

"Something bad is coming."

"What's that, sir?" Carson called from the bottom of the stairwell.

Bates didn't reply.

Frankie awoke from the nightmare, opened her eyes, and looked around.

She was in what appeared to be a hospital room: For one brief moment, she thought it might be another dream, but when she moved, the pain throughout her body proved it all too real.

She lay in a bed; white sheets with a pale yellow stain covering her legs and abdomen. Her street clothes were gone, replaced with a thin, open-backed hospital gown. An intravenous tube ran from her arm to a bottle dangling above her. A machine echoed her pulse, and another one whose purpose she didn't know, was silent.

She tried to sit up, and then sank back down. How had she gotten so weak? She felt as bad as she did when she'd gone cold turkey from heroin. She dimly remembered the doctor with the slaughterhouse body odor who'd tried to stick her. Apparently, he'd succeeded.

Clenching the bed rails, she tried again, forcing herself upright. She paused, exhausted from the effort. After a moments rest, she slid her legs over the side and rested her bare feet against the cold tile floor.

Her leg and arm ached. She studied her wounds. Somebody had fixed her up.

Then she remembered the dream. Martin had been there, and he'd showed her something. Something horrible.

"Gotta-gotta find ... Jim and Danny. Have to tell them."

She yanked the tubes from her arm, and an alarm began to sound, soft but urgent.

Frankie stood up, swayed, and then regained her balance. She took one faltering step and then another.

"Got to ... warn them ..."

Dr. Maynard wiped gore on his lab coat, adjusted the tripod, and turned the camcorder on. It was pointed at the surgical table, on which the corpse of a once-pretty young blonde was tightly bound with Velcro straps. Her legs were parted wide and suspended in stirrups. The lips of her vagina were puffy and gray, and the hair around them had been recently shaved off. Her full breasts now sagged, and the nipples had turned black, as had her swollen tongue, dangling from her mouth like a piece of raw liver. She licked her peeling lips, revealing pale gums.

Each of her teeth had been pulled. Her digestive track and major organs had been removed, and the open cavity was wet and glistening. A diamond wedding ring had sunk into her sausage-like finger.

Her name had been Cindy. She'd worked as a receptionist for one of the law firms with an office inside Ramsey Towers. She'd died a week before, after choking on a piece of hard candy. Rather than destroying her brain before she could be reanimated, they'd tied up her corpse to use as research.

At least, that was the ruse that Maynard had fed to Stern, Bates, and the others.

"More questions," she rasped, "or do you wish to fuck me again?"

Maynard glanced guiltily at the camera, turned it off, rewound the tape, and then began recording over it.

"Oh, I see. I guess that will be our little secret." The zombie laughed, writhing in its bonds. Its eyes and nose leaked gummy, yellow fluid.

Maynard raised his voice. "After death, the subject functions like a living being. The stomach and other digestive organs have been removed, yet it still seeks nourishment, specifically in the form of living flesh."

He illustrated this for the camera by pointing to the gaping hole in the creature's abdomen.

"I'm hungry," the zombie verified, as if on cue. "Just give me a little something."

Maynard cleared his throat. "The flesh that it eats does not pass through the digestive system. It is absorbed through an as yet unknown process."

"You're very observant," the creature snarled. "Now feed me! Or better yet, release me."

"None of that, I'm afraid," Maynard said.

"I'll make it worth your while, Doctor," the zombie purred, spreading her legs wider. "I'll let you do things to me-things you've never done with a living woman. We can get rough, if you like."

Maynard's cock stiffened, pressing against his soiled pants. The zombie saw it twitch and smiled.

"Like what you see? Isn't my swollen pussy pretty?"

He shot another nervous glance at the camcorder, and then continued.

"How does your kind convert food into energy?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I'll feed you after you answer my questions."

"You wouldn't understand. It's done on a sub-cellular level."

"But how?"

"Magic. At least, that's what your kind would call it."

"I don't believe in magic."

"Of course you don't. You're a man of science and reason. Logic is your god. And that is why your kind will lose this war. Magic is the only way to stop us, and you have eradicated it from your lives. There are none among you who still remember the old ways. You thought that science would keep you safe from the dark, and as a result, you have lost the only weapons capable of destroying us."

"Nonsense," Maynard scoffed. "Science is the key to stopping your kind. Not some superstitious bullshit that our ancestors learned in a cave."

The creature stirred restlessly, parting her legs wider.

His hardening member jumped again. The zombie stared at the bulge in his crotch and licked her lips.

"I'm so hungry." She sighed, exhaling fetid air from unused, rotting lungs. "And I've answered your questions for days. Sooner or later, you will understand that your age has ended. We outnumber you. We are your inheritors now. Humanity's time is over."

"We'll see about that."

"Are we done for the day? Give me what I want."

He turned off the camera, adjusted his glasses, and reached into a stainless steel bowl that contained the zombie's own heart. Using a bloodstained scalpel, he sliced off a small piece and dangled it over the zombie's snapping jaws with his fingers.

"This is what you want."

"Yes," the zombie moaned. "Give it to me."

He dropped the slice of muscle down the creature's gullet.

"Oh, I'll give it to you all right."

Maynard considered locking the door, but he couldn't wait. The need was overpowering. His breathing thickened along with his rigid member. His hands trembled as he unzipped his fly and let his pants fall to his ankles. He wore no underwear. He stepped out of the pants, leaving them on the floor in a discarded heap, and reached into a drawer. He tore a condom packet open with his teeth, and slid it onto his cock. Then he applied lubricant and approached the squirming corpse.

He held his breath as he slipped inside, trying his best to ignore the stench wafting off the body beneath him. He took extra precaution to stay out of range of its toothless mouth and hands. Even bound, the zombie's fingernails could scratch him.

He shuddered, thrusting all the way into her. Her cunt was cold, but Maynard didn't care. The creature arched her back and hips, allowing him deeper access.

"You-you like this?" he gasped.

"Of course," the zombie panted. "This is an abomination in the eyes of the Creator-the cruel one. It hurts His eyes. So I like it very much."

"Can you achieve an orgasm?" Maynard asked, carefully keeping his distance with every perfunctory stroke.

"No, but you can. I want you to come. I want you to shout your orgasm, spill your seed, burn His ears!"

With one hand, Maynard squirted some more lubricant, and then quickened his pace. His cock threatened to burst.

"I want you to come," the zombie urged him.

"Come for me. Come in defiance of Him!"

"I'm going to-"

Frankie burst through the door.

"They're coming," she whispered, her voice faint, her mouth parched.

"You've got to tell-"

She froze, staring in horror and revulsion at the scene before her.

"Jesus Christ! I've seen ... some freaks in my, time, but you ... take ... the fucking cake ..."

Then she collapsed.

"Shit!" Maynard pulled out, even as his engorged member began to spurt inside the condom. Without pausing, he ripped it off in mid-orgasm, pulled his pants on, and ran to the door. He cast a furtive glance out into the hall, but the coast was clear.

"You should have locked the door," the zombie tittered.

"Shut up!"

He ran his glazed hands through his receding hairline.

"What are you doing?"

"She saw me. I can't let her tell the others!"

He knelt beside the unconscious woman and checked her pulse. It was slow but steady. He lifted her eyelid and checked her dilated pupils.

Then he spat in her face.

"Told you I'd get even with you, you cunt."

He walked back over to the table, picked up the scalpel, and crossed back over to Frankie.

"It's a shame, really," he said, more to himself than to Frankie or his undead lover. "She would have been fun. Never had a black woman before.

But I can always do her after she comes back."

He clenched her hair in his fist, pulled her head back, and placed the scalpel to her throat.

"At least with your throat cut, you won't be that damaged. I can wrap a handkerchief around it or something, once I get you tied up. Maybe sew it shut again."

He gripped the blade tighter and bent down to whisper in Frankie's ear.

"Goodbye."

"Yo, Doc, you in here? Kilker's dead and I need help."

Maynard looked up. Carson stood in the doorway, nose bloody and swollen, his weapon unslung and pointed at the doctor. He snapped a magazine into place. His eyes darted from Frankie and Maynard, to the zombie, to the discarded condom, and then back to the doctor.

"What the fuck are you doing, Doc?"

"This-this doesn't concern you, Carson. She's dead already.

Complications from her wounds. I'm just incapacitating her before she can come back."

"By cutting her throat? I don't think so, dude. Last time I checked, that didn't stop them from coming back. Drop the scalpel and step away from her."

"Stay out of this, Carson. I'm warning you."

"No, I'm warning you. I ain't playing, dog. You drop that knife and step the fuck away from her, or so help me God, I'll shoot you."

Maynard hesitated, then dropped the scalpel and slowly stepped backward.

"You don't know what you're doing," he pleaded with the young man.

"You're hurt. Not thinking clearly. She's dead. And unless you want her getting back up again, you need to shoot her-now!"

Carson wavered, unsure.

Frankie's arm twitched.

"Do it," Maynard hissed. "Destroy her before she gets back up."

Carson's finger tightened on the trigger.

Frankie moaned, and then her eyes fluttered open.

"Where ... am I?"

"You're in the laboratory, ma'am," Carson answered.

"Where?"

"Ma'am," Carson stuttered, "are you-you, or are you one of them?"

Frankie didn't seem to understand the question. "Last

thing I remember is that fucker with the needle."

Carson fingered the trigger more.

"What happened?" Frankie asked groggily. She tried to sit up.

"That's what I'd like to know," Dr. Stern said from behind them.

He strode into the room, glancing around in bewilderment.

"Joseph, what's going on here? Carson, what are you doing with that weapon?"

"I-" the young soldier was unable to finish.

"She attacked me again!" Maynard shouted. "It was self-defense, Benjamin."

"Liar," the zombie mocked. "The female interrupted us while we were fucking. He was going to kill her. Go ahead and kill him now, so that one of our brothers may have the body."

"Shut up!" Maynard screamed.

Carson and Stern both stared at the used condom, leaking its contents onto the floor, and then at the zombie. Her insides still glistened with lubricant.

Stern grew pale. "My God, Joseph, what have you been doing?"

"Don't fret, boys," the zombie snickered, "there's enough of me to go around. Who wants sloppy seconds?"

Not taking his eyes off of his associate, Stern picked up the telephone.

"Who are you calling?" Maynard demanded.

Stern didn't reply.

"Who are you calling, Carl?"

"You need help, Joseph. I'm calling-"

Suddenly, Maynard leapt for the scalpel. Seizing it, he charged at the other doctor, screaming with incoherent

rage. Stern dropped the phone and screamed along with him.

Carson fired three controlled bursts. The rounds slammed into Maynard's back, punching through his chest. His feet went out from under him and he fell to the floor. The scalpel slipped from his crusty fingers and slid across the bloody tiles. He did not move.

Calm and detached, Carson stood over the dead doctor and fired another round into the back of his head. Then he walked over to the zombie and placed the smoking barrel against her forehead.

"Go ahead," she hissed. "I'll be back, and so will my brothers. Our number is more than the stars. We are more than-"

Carson squeezed the trigger. Then he leaned over and threw up all over his boots.

Shouts echoed in the hallway, followed by the sound of running feet.

Stern picked up the telephone and redialed.

"Bates?" he said after a long pause. "This is Dr. Stern. I think you'd better come down to the lab. We have a situation here."

He had to speak up over the sounds of Carson's retching.

On the floor, Frankie moaned, "They're coming ..."

The sky continued to weep, and daylight's murk turned to darkness while the scouring of New York City continued. The living were flushed from their hiding places- basements and closets and the back rooms of stores-hunted down and slaughtered in the streets and alleyways and gutters. Whenever possible, the zombies avoided damaging limbs or large portions of the body, so that the new recruits would be more useful in the coming battle. The preferred method of slaying their prey was a blade to the throat or another major artery. The captives bled to death, relatively undamaged when one of the Siqqusim took over the corpse minutes later.

A large group was discovered hiding at the top of the Statue of Liberty, and each was flung screaming to their deaths, plunging into the frigid, polluted waters below. Killed on impact, they sank beneath the waves.

Reanimated, they walked along the bottom till they reached the shore, and then joined the others.

The armory bustled with activity too, as the undead worked feverishly to carry out their orders. Ob moved

among them, checking progress and barking out orders. One of his lieutenants followed along behind him, trailing intestines in its wake.

Scowling, Ob stalked over to a zombie kneeling in front of the radio.

"Do you have it working yet?"

"Yes, lord," the zombie rasped. "It is ready for broadcast."

"Good." He turned to his lieutenant. "First, contact our forces on the Pennsylvania and New Jersey border. I want an update on their progress, and an estimated time for their arrival. They should be here soon. Also, find one of our brothers who still sounds alive."

"Sire? I don't understand."

"Someone whose vocal cords haven't begun to decay, you idiot! Someone who sounds human-especially to other humans. Then, have them begin broadcasting a message over the radio, advising anyone left alive in the listening area that this part of New York City is safe. Urge people to make their way here."

The zombie's laughter sounded like a belch. Its arms and ribs had been completely stripped of their flesh, and the bones scraped against each other as it chuckled.

"They'll walk into a trap. Great idea, my lord."

"Of course it's a great idea-I thought of it. I want the message to be broadcast over and over. How are we doing on getting the streets cleared of vehicles?"

"Ahead of schedule, sire."

Ob reached into a bucket and pulled out a loop of intestines, munching them like they were sausage.

"Excellent," he said, gore leaking from the edges of his smacking lips.

"I don't want our advance on the skyscraper slowed down when our forces arrive. Have another team locate a radio station. There, they should find a sound van-the kind with loudspeakers that are used during remote broadcasts. Then, I want them to drive around the city, announcing the same message we're sending over the airwaves. Make it sound official.

That should speed up the hunt quite a bit, don't you think? As the humans creep out of their little hiding places, we will be there to welcome them."

He rose, and checked his body. It was still in good shape, but was starting to show hints of the decay to come. The sallow flesh had begun to swell.

"I need energy. These weren't nearly enough-just appetizers. Bring me some dinner."

A captive human was led before him, a Sikh taxi driver whom they'd found hiding inside a garbage Dumpster on Fifth Avenue. Ob frowned. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by the undead, the man was smiling.

"What's your malfunction?" Ob asked in English. "What is so funny?"

The man blinked, uncomprehending. His smile never faded. Ob tried several different languages, till he found one the man understood.

"Are you not afraid? Do you not fear me?"

"No, I do not fear you. This is all a dream. A very long dream."

The man was clearly insane. Ob rose and walked toward him.

"Can you smell me, son of Adam? Can you smell my brethren as these stinking meat wagons we use fall apart around us? Is that stench not real?"

The man did not reply. His grin grew wider.

Ob slid a yellowing fingernail lightly across the captive's throat, tracing a second grin beneath his smile. A thin line of blood welled from the cut.

"Can you feel that? Can you feel in a dream?"

"It is a dream," the man insisted. "None of this is real. The dead do not move around. Therefore, it is a dream."

"Oh, but the dead do move," Ob said, his smile matching the captive's.

"Even when we don't possess you, the dead move. You move when the oxygen in your lungs is expelled from your body. The muscles in your corpse dry out and contract. The dead move."

Ob blew fetid air into the man's face. The prisoner's smile faded. Ob's did not.

"And so shall you."

He pressed his nail into the man's throat, slicing deeper into the flesh. The captive's jugular squirted blood, spraying Ob's face and shoulders. Ob licked his lips and then brought the dripping finger to his mouth and sucked on it. Then he feasted.

Minutes later, as promised, the dead man began to move.

"Tell me a bedtime story?" Danny asked, as Jim pulled the covers up around him.

"I reckon so. We don't have any books here, but I remember Teeny Tiny Tale by heart."

A shadow passed over Danny's face; memories of the thing in the parking garage.

"No. I don't want that one, Daddy. How about something else? Maybe Green Eggs and Ham?."

Jim had the Seuss memorized too, and he recited it word for word. Danny laughed, clapping his hands and wiggling beneath the covers with enjoyment. When Jim was finished, Danny asked for another.

Jim sat on the edge of the bed and thought for a moment. Then he said,

"Once upon a time, there was a king and his son, the prince. One day, the prince went missing, and the king decided to search for him. Their kingdom had been overrun with monsters, but the king didn't care. All he cared about was the prince."

He paused. "What do you think so far?"

"It's the bomb," Danny replied with a grin.

Jim continued. "The king didn't have a horse, so he set out on foot, armed only with a sword. He fought the monsters with every step, and they almost had him, until he met a kind old friar who lived in the woods."

"What's a friar?"

"Sort of like a monk, I think. Like Friar Tuck in Robin Hood."

"Oh, okay."

"So the king and the friar set out to find the prince, and they-"

"Daddy?" Danny interrupted. "Can we call the friar Martin?"

"Sure," Jim swallowed. "I think Martin would have liked that."

"I think so too."

Jim opened his mouth to start again, but Danny interrupted a second time.

"Daddy, do you miss Mr. Martin?"

"Yeah, I do, squirt. I miss him a lot. He was a nice old guy, and a good friend."

"Do you think anybody else is going to die?"

The abruptness of the question shocked Jim, and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Well, I mean-"

His son looked at him expectantly.

"Nobody else that we love is going to die," Jim answered. "Not for a long time."

He continued with the bedtime story. Within minutes, Danny yawned, blinking his eyes and fighting sleep.

"Why don't you go to sleep, now?"

"I don't want to, Daddy," he murmured. "What if something else happens?"

Jim kissed his forehead. "Nothing else is going to happen," he promised.

"I'm gonna watch over you."

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Danny asked as his eyes closed.

"I'll be right here."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, Danny."

Then Danny opened his eyes slightly, and said, "I love you more than Godzilla."

Jim smiled.

"Love you more than Spider-Man."

"Love you more than Hulk."

"Love you more than 'finity, Daddy."

"You too, buddy," Jim whispered. "I love you more than infinity."

Danny shut his eyes again, and within seconds, he was asleep.

Jim turned off the light and sat by his son's bedside, watching him, listening to him breathe. He sat there for a long time, not moving or even thinking, until there was a soft knock at the door.

Jim tiptoed over to the door and opened it. Don grinned at him.

"Everything okay?" Don asked.

"Sure." Jim nodded, stepping out into the hall. "Danny's sleeping. He just laid down."

"Good. He needs his rest. Hell, I guess we all do."

"Yeah," Jim replied. "So what's up?"

"Well, I wanted you to know that I checked on Frankie, and she's doing fine. She had a scare earlier in the day, though."

"What do you mean?" Jim frowned as he realized he didn't know exactly where Frankie was sleeping tonight-the infirmary, he assumed. Damn, they'd been here less than a day, and he'd already lost track of his friends.

"Apparently, she got out of bed and went looking for us. She was delirious. Doc Stern said she had enough sedatives in her to knock out an elephant, but still, she got up and was wandering around. Wound up in a bit of trouble."

"Maynard." Jim hissed. It wasn't a question.

"I think so," Don agreed. "Forrest and Stern wouldn't confirm or deny, but I'm sure Maynard was involved."

"I knew that guy was trouble. Is Frankie okay?"

"She's fine now, and she should be up and about in a few days."

"Good. That's a relief."

"Yeah." Don paused for a moment. "Listen, Jim- everything's gonna be all right now, isn't it? I mean-I'm sorry about Martin, and everything else that happened, but despite all of that, it's okay now, right? We made it. We're alive."

"I don't know, Don. What is it you want me to say? What do you want to hear?"

Don's voice was barely a whisper.

"I want to hear that it's going to be okay. That we'll win. That they can't beat us."

"They don't win until the last human being left on Earth is dead."

Don frowned. "Judging by the way things have been going, I don't find much comfort in that, Jim."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and I can god-damned guarantee you that nothing is going to

hurt my son. Not ever again. And I've got your back too. So does Frankie. How's that sound?"

De Santos grinned sheepishly. "It sounds good. Look, I'm sorry. It's just that-I haven't had anybody to talk to in what seems like forever.

Not since everything started. First there was our dog, and then Myrna-and then nothing until you guys came along. I guess I was just lonely."

"Well," Jim clasped his shoulder, "you're not alone anymore. None of us are."

It was hard for Jim to believe that he'd met this man less than twenty-four hours ago; it felt like they were brothers.

"Yeah." Don sniffed. "You've got that right."

The two of them drifted apart, straightening their posture, secure in their manhood.

"Listen," Don said, "me and Smokey and some of the others are gonna play cards. You want to come?"

Jim cocked a thumb at the apartment door. "No, I appreciate the offer, but I'm gonna stay here with Danny."

"Of course. Enjoy it, Jim. He's a good kid."

"That he is."

"Okay, well, I'll see you later then. Breakfast sound good? Seven o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"You're on. We'll see you there."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Don."

Jim watched him walk away down the hall. Then he went back inside and quietly closed the door. Danny was still sleeping, and there was a smile on his face.

It matched the smile on Jim's own.

He undressed, layed down in bed, and read Martin's Bible, finding comfort from both his lost friend-and those still with him.

Ramsey folded his hands and shook his head in reserved disbelief. Seated around the conference table with him were Bates, Forrest, and Stern.

"You're absolutely sure of this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Bates nodded. "Dr. Stern found the videotapes. Maynard had quite the library, it seems. He filmed himself in the act with the ...

He must have been doing this for quite some time. They were-"

"They were repulsive," Stern finished for him. "He was having sex with captive zombies-necrophilia in the absolute worst sense. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. I don't know how any of this happened without our knowledge. Apparently, Joseph covered his tracks exceedingly well."

"How is the young man who shot him?"

"Carson? He's fine, aside from a broken nose."

"Which he sustained during a confrontation with another young man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who leapt to his death?"

Bates nodded again.

"And the woman whom Maynard was about to kill- the new arrival? She's fine?"

"She came through surgery okay, but she's not out of the woods yet," Stern answered. "Kelli and I will continue monitoring her condition. She needs rest more than anything else."

"My children aren't happy," Ramsey whispered. "They are not content."

"Excuse me, sir?" Bates cast a wary glance at Forrest and Stern. They stared back at him in confusion.

"We need more people." Ramsey's tone was decisive. "That's why all of this is happening, Bates. Our people

are lonely-they grow dissatisfied. They are beginning to turn on one another. We need more people for our community, so that it may grow.

Send another patrol out to look for survivors, immediately."

Forrest opened his mouth to protest, but Bates cut him off.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey," Bates paused, choosing his words carefully, "but DiMassi is still sick, and Quinn and Steve were out all night looking for survivors, and didn't get to bed until later today, after they'd briefed me. They need to rest and recuperate first."

"Then send out a ground force."

"A ground force?" The blood drained from Bates's face.

"Yes. You read me a list of our weaponry last night, so I know we have the capability. Arm them well and send them out. I want the city searched. We mustn't leave anybody out there, Bates. We must save each and every one of them. That is our calling. We must save as many as we can."

"Sir, it's nighttime. And even if it were daylight, they'd be slaughtered before they got three steps away from the building, no matter how well armed."

Ramsey stood up and waved his hand in disdain.

"Nonsense, Bates. You personally trained them all. They'll be fine. Now get it done. I'll expect a full report when they've returned."

He walked to the door, and then turned back to them.

"Have the patrol look for some yarn as well."

"Yarn, sir?" Bates was incredulous.

"Yes, yarn. I want to do some knitting. I'm going to knit a cake. And cucumbers. I've got a craving for fresh cucumbers. See if they can find some of those too."

"Knit a cake. Yes, sir." Bates felt a twinge of real, undiluted fear.

"Anything else?"

"Have the tapes that Dr. Maynard recorded sent up to my room. I'll need to study them in detail."

Ramsey left the room, and the three men gaped at each other.

"Bates," Forrest said carefully, "I know he's the boss and all, and I know you've worked for him a long time- but that motherfucker has lost it, man. He's completely whacked. Over the fucking rainbow! Knit a fucking cake? What the hell is that about?"

"I concur," Stern agreed. "Obviously, Mr. Ramsey has suffered some form of mental breakdown. He's a danger both to himself and others. We need to do something."

Bates put his face in his hands and rubbed his tired eyes. Then he looked at them. His expression was grave.

"Okay. Now you both know what I've been dealing with for the past few weeks. What do you suggest we do about it?"

"Confine him," Stern said. "We lock him up and you assume command, at least temporarily. We have several mental-health specialists in the building. They can work with him, diagnose the problem."

"I can diagnose the problem," Bates answered. "He's suffering from delusions of grandeur. He feels like it's his personal duty to save every living person still out there. He's got some kind of messiah complex."

"Well, I ain't drinking no purple Kool-Aid," Forrest vowed.

"Mr. Ramsey is only part of the problem," Bates said, ignoring the soldier. "We need to seriously start thinking about getting out of this city. We can't stay here much longer."

"Why not?" Stern asked. "We're relatively secure, aren't we?"

"Sure-until those things outside get their hands on a

tank or some artillery. They think and plan, Doctor. What happens when they find some fertilizer and cook up a truck bomb?"

"Supposedly, this building can withstand something like that."

"You want to wait around to find out if it really lives up to the engineer's hype?"

"But surely we can defend ourselves. We have guns. Weapons."

"So do they-and there are more of them than there are of us. It doesn't matter how many guns we have. We're outnumbered in any case."

Bates was quiet for a moment, and then continued.

"When you've been doing this for as long as I have, you learn to trust your gut, to honor your instincts. Right now, my gut is telling me that something really bad is about to happen."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. But whatever it is, it's getting closer."

"Then how the hell do we get out of here?" Forrest rapped his large knuckles on the table in frustration. "I mean, we can't fly everybody out. The chopper holds ten people, maximum, and that's with the pilot and co-pilot. We try sneaking ten of us out in the middle of the night, and those folks downstairs will string us up by our necks. And there's no way we could use the vehicles in the parking garage. They'd slaughter us as soon as we got outside."

"We could airlift people out slowly," the doctor suggested. "If we don't want to oppose Mr. Ramsey, tell him you're doing scouting and rescue missions, and secretly take a group of people out every time."

"And go where?" Bates shook his head. "Where do you suggest we take them? The mountains? That's no

good, as long as the animals are reanimating too. There's also the small matter of our dwindling fuel supply for the chopper."

"Okay." Forrest's brow creased in thought. "The wilderness is out. We're close to Philly, Pittsburgh, and Baltimore. But they're no good either."

"If we go to a major metropolitan area, we'll be in the same situation we're in now," Bates agreed. "And most of the mid-Atlantic region is near a major metropolitan area. So what does that leave us?"

Stern raised his hand. "An island, perhaps?"

"No." Bates shook his head. "Same problem as the mountains, just on a smaller scale."

"A boat then."

"Again, you have to factor in the wildlife. A school of zombie sharks or an undead killer whale would destroy the type of boat we could safely get our hands on. Plus, there are the sea birds to think about. They'd massacre anybody that went topside. And how are you going to fit all of us on a boat?"

"So where would you go, Bates, if you could get out of here?" Forrest asked.

Bates creased his brow in deep thought. "If I could escape the city, and had the capability to fly anywhere, I'd go to the Arctic Circle or Antarctica. It seems to me that below-zero temperatures and the harsh environment would slow them down somewhat. They have no body heat, so maybe they'd freeze. And the wildlife there is sparse, compared to other wilderness areas."

"You'd live on a fucking iceberg?" Forrest snorted.

Bates nodded silently.

"Look," Forrest said after a long pause, "who says we got to take everybody with us? It would be a fucking logistical nightmare trying to sneak these folks from the building without Ramsey finding out about it."

"You're not suggesting we abandon all these people?" Stern asked.

"Not everybody, but maybe we get the three of us, and seven other people and we get the hell out of here in that helicopter. I mean, somebody has to survive, right?"

Bates rubbed his eyes. "That still doesn't solve the problem of where to go."

"I know where to go," slurred a voice from behind the podium in the corner.

All three of them jumped up in surprise. Forrest's chair fell over backward with a loud crash. Stern's hand flew to his chest.

Bates drew his pistol, crossed the room in three quick strides, and peered behind the podium. His eyes narrowed.

"Get out here, now!"

Pigpen crawled out of his hiding place, cradling a fat, calico cat in his arms. He petted the animal's fur, whispering to it soothingly.

"It's okay, God. That's Mr. Bates. He won't shoot us. He's a nice-"

"Shut up," Bates snapped. "What the hell are you doing in here, Pigpen?

You know damn well that this floor is off limits to non-security personnel."

"I was looking for God. I found him behind the podium. Then we fell asleep. When I woke up, you guys were in here. I didn't want to interrupt. Sounded like you were talking about important stuff. God told me it wouldn't be polite."

"What's he talking about?" Stern whispered to Forrest.

"His cat," the soldier whispered. "Its name is God."

"Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten."

Bates motioned with his pistol and Pigpen scurried into one of the chairs, still clutching the cat to his chest.

"What did you hear us discussing, Pigpen?" Bates asked.

"Not much."

"What did you overhear? Tell me."

"Just enough to know that Mr. Ramsey sure is messed up. People say I'm crazy, but boy howdy, he's not right. He ain't playing with a full deck."

Bates clenched his jaw, and then turned back to the others.

"I'm open to suggestions as to what to do with him, too."

"Shoot him," Forrest said. "Put him out of commission before he can scare everybody by telling them that the Grand Poobah is off his rocker."

"Good Lord," Stern balked, rising to his feet. "You can't be serious!"

"He's not," Bates sighed, "but he is right. We can't let Pigpen tell the others. Not yet. Last thing this building needs right now is panic.

Panic is infectious, and in a situation such as this, it will spread like wildfire."

Pigpen's rheumy eyes darted among the three of them. In his lap, God purred and then licked himself. The bum ducked his head low, putting his ear next to the cat.

"What's that, God?"

He raised his eyes and stared at Bates.

"God knows how we can get out of here. He says if you'll give me a drink, he'll tell us how."

Bates arched his eyebrows.

"Oh wonderful. I can't wait to hear this."

Val took a sip of coffee, even though it wasn't good for the baby inside her, and didn't notice when it burned her tongue. Her eyes were shut in concentration as she listened, totally absorbed in the voices coming from the radio. All around her, communication equipment beeped and hummed. An oscillating electric fan blew cool air on the units to keep them from overheating.

"I don't believe this," she muttered to herself. With the headphones over her ears, she didn't realize how loudly she was speaking.

Branson tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Branson! You scared the shit out of me."

The other radioman held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry, Val. Didn't mean to freak you out. What's going on? What you got?"

"Something really scary." She ripped the headphones off her head and handed them to him. "Listen to this. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"What is it? Another group of survivors?"

"No-just listen."

Branson place the headphones over his ears and adjusted his glasses.

Suddenly, his eyes widened in surprise.

"This can't be real, can it?"

"I don't know," Val shrugged, her eyes serious, "but we better tell Bates right away."

"Shit," Branson breathed. "This is bad, Val. This is really bad."

Her hands darted protectively to her belly, and the unborn baby inside.

Branson picked up another radio to call Bates. His hands were shaking.

"I know you think I'm crazy," Pigpen said. "But I don't take offense. I guess I'd have to be crazy, living the way I did. But I ain't. Know what I did for a living before I was homeless?"

The other men shook their heads in unison.

"I worked for the city's department of public works. Down in the sewers.

You know that people lived down there, right? Beneath the city. They lived down in the darkness and the stink, fucking and fighting and loving and dying in those tunnels just like we did up here. Children were born down there, spent their whole childhood down there."

"You're talking about the mole people," Bates responded.

"Mole people?" The derision was thick in Forrest's voice. "Give me a fucking break."

"It's true," Pigpen insisted. "They weren't mutants out of some horror movie. They were just folks like you or me, down on their luck and with no other place to go. When you're homeless, you live where you can; in alleyways or behind garbage Dumpsters, under railroad trestles, cardboard boxes, anywhere there's space. Down under, too. You'd be surprised at the people you find down there. Stockbrokers. Lawyers. Factory guys. Medical school dropouts and college graduates."

Bates thought to himself, They banded together for safety in numbers, just like we've done.

"I read several books about that," Stern said. "And I remember some prominent newspaper and online articles about it, too."

"Yeah, but that was just an urban legend," Forrest protested. "Like alligators in the sewers and all that other bullshit."

"It's true," Pigpen insisted. "I know it. I saw first hand, both before I was homeless and after. Shit, I lived it every day. And there are alligators down there, Forrest, gig albino fuckers with red eyes and white skin. I had a buddy named Wilbanks. He lost a damned leg to one."

"You lived underground?" Bates asked.

"Not at first, but I ended up down there. I came up to the streets during the day, panhandling and looking for cans to redeem and shit. But at night, I slept way seven stories beneath Grand Central Station, down where there was no trains or cops. We'd pick-axed a hole into the wall.

Gave us access to an old service tunnel. There's all kinds of unused shit like that down there. Train stations and bomb shelters and stuff-just sitting there. It wasn't so bad. I had a place to sleep that was pretty dry, and we rigged some of the electric cables to give us power and light."

"Why'd you go underground, Pigpen?" Forrest prodded him.

"Didn't have nowhere else to go. I got sent to prison for a DUI charge.

Got out and my old lady was running around on me, and I couldn't find a job. Pretty soon, I ended up below. It's that easy. I started living underneath the city, and that's when I found God."

"How did you survive?" Stern asked. "What did you eat?"

"There was a broken sprinkler pipe that we got water from. As for grub, handouts when we could get them, or else we'd go Dumpster diving. And lots and lots of track rabbits."

"Track rabbits?"

"Rats." Pigpen smiled. "We called them track rabbits. They're pretty good, believe it or not. Taste a little like chicken. We'd trap them, or just snatch the little fuckers by the tail and slam them against the wall. God was good at catching them, too, which is why nobody ever tried to eat him."

Shuddering, Stern made a disgusted face and turned away.

"Hey, Doc, you'd eat track rabbit too, if you were forced to do it. You'd be amazed what a fellow will do to survive."

Bates sighed in exasperation. "Get to the point, Pigpen. You're proposing we all hide out in the sewers?"

"Nope. The point is this. God says there's a way out of here."

"And?"

"If you've got somebody that can fly an airplane, there's a way to get from here to the airport."

"What the hell we gonna do at the airport?" Forrest kicked the cowering man's chair. "Come on, Bates. This crazy fuck doesn't know anything."

Stern said, "Even if we tried to get there, we wouldn't make it a block with those things outside. They'd tear us to shreds."

"We ain't going through the city. We're going underneath it. God says we'd go underground, through the sewers and the tunnels."

"Underground?" Bates looked Pigpen in the eyes. "Does God realize that there's a little thing called the East River between here and JFK?"

"There used to be." Pigpen winked. "But Mr. Ramsey built a tunnel underneath it. And there's other tunnels. The 63rd Street subway tunnel goes under the river. There's a whole bunch more. Stuff like the Long Island Railroad tracks go into Grand Central."

"The East Side Access project," Bates said, "but Mr. Ramsey didn't-"

"Mr. Ramsey," the vagrant interrupted, "spent six billion over the last five years building a private network of tunnels. Damn things run from beneath this building to JFK. He even had them install a concrete bomb shelter eight stories down. I know, man. We used to sneak in from our own tunnels at night and steal equipment and stuff that the construction workers left behind. And they hook up with all the other tunnels and shit down there."

"Something like that would have been in the news," Stern scoffed. "An undertaking of that size would have attracted all kinds of attention from the media and the public. There are zoning laws and permits to consider. Union requirements."

"Mr. Ramsey don't worry about zoning laws," Pigpen spat, his hand moving up and down God's spine. The cat purred, even when his master stroked him against the grain. "He's the richest guy in America. And unions?

What the fuck-you think he had somebody other than Ramsey Construction building it?"

Stern and Forrest looked at Bates. He shrugged.

"If it does exist, I've never heard of it."

His previous night's conversation with Ramsey surfaced.

"Mr. Ramsey, we have to consider the possibility that sooner or later, no matter how well guarded, those things will breach our defenses."

"If that happens, then I have a contingency plan."

"Good. I can't tell you what a relief that is, sir. May I ask what it is?"

"No. As of now, that information is given out on a

need-to-know basis, and quite frankly, you don't need to know."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey, but how am I supposed to protect us if I don't know?"

"Trust me, Bates. If and when the time comes, you'll be the first to know."

"So how do we gain access to this tunnel?" Bates asked Pigpen.

"Through the basement and then down into the subbasement. God showed me before."

"And it will get us to the airport, without running into the zombies?"

"It will. God will lead us."

"You believe this shit?" Forrest asked.

Bates shrugged. "It might be worth checking into."

"You're serious?" Forrest asked.

"I am. At this point, I'll take any help I can get-even from God."

He reached down and scratched the cat's ears.

"Meanwhile, what do we do about Mr. Ramsey?" Stern asked.

"I'll handle him. It's my responsibility. You get a secure room ready, someplace where we can lock him up so he can't hurt himself or others."

"Bates," Stern arched his eyebrows. "Why didn't you tell us about Ramsey sooner?"

"At first, I thought it was just stress. Figured he was tired. It didn't get bad until a few days ago."

"Well, from here on out, the four of us need to trust each other implicitly. We're in this together."

"Agreed." Bates nodded. "Forrest, you keep an eye on Pigpen here. Don't let our fellow conspirator run his mouth. If I really am going to assume control of operations, I'm sure there will be some people who want to start trouble over it. We need to let those we trust know about it beforehand, so they can help quell any resistance. Something like that will just delay us longer. The two of you go wake up Steve."

Forrest frowned. "The Canuk? Why?"

"Because he's an airline pilot and we're not. If we can make it to the airport, I want to know exactly what would be required when we get there, how many people he thinks he can fly out, what type of plane he'll need- how feasible this whole thing is."

"You really do think there's a way out of here, don't you?" Forrest asked.

"Anything is better than sitting here, just waiting for those things outside to attack us."

Ob's ruse worked. By midnight, the undead forces encamped in New York City had netted over a hundred additional survivors, lured from safety by the phony broadcast. They were slaughtered as they crept from their basements and attics and storage rooms and everywhere else they'd hidden. One group was caught on the choked Long Island Expressway, driving an armored car. Another group emerged onto the rooftop of their Soho brownstone, saw what was happening, and began dropping cinder blocks on the corpses milling in the streets below. They were picked off by a combination of zombie snipers and undead birds. More humans came in during the night, from New Jersey and other parts of New York State. The dead welcomed them with open arms and flashing teeth. Their numbers swelled. By the time the witching hour had passed, the only living creatures left in New York were sequestered inside Ramsey Towers.

On the outskirts of the city, a zombie with a can of spray paint tagged graffiti on the side of a building. It read:

WELCOME TO THE NECROPOLIS.

HAVE A NICE DAY

TWELVE

Bates was halfway to Ramsey's private quarters when his radio squawked.

The burst of electronic static was like a gunshot in the silent corridor. He yanked it from his belt in frustration, and lowered his voice.

"This is Bates."

"Mr. Bates?" The speaker was Branson, a former meteorologist and now one of their communications specialists. "You'd better come down here to the communication center right away. We've got trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"You wouldn't believe it, sir."

"Try me. Quit speaking in riddles and just report what you have."

Branson's gulp was audible through the tiny speaker.

"The zombies, sir. They-well, they've taken over all the broadcast channels-ham, military, commercial, and even the marine frequencies.

Everything."

"And what are they doing?"

"Announcing an all clear. Telling survivors in the listening area that it's okay to come out now. Telling them to come to Manhattan. They're saying the city's safe, and if they come here, they'll be protected and given food and shelter."

"And you're sure it's them?"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Bates, but who else could it be? We know darn well that it's not safe outside. People are being led into a trap."

"Damn. That's clever." Despite his total loathing of the creatures surrounding the skyscraper, Bates had to respect their ingenuity.

"Sir? That's not all. We've picked up some transmissions from the south. There's a large force on the move, heavily armed. I'm talking tanks and heavy artillery."

"Human? A militia maybe?"

"Negative. They're zombies, sir."

"Any idea what their destination is?"

"Here."

Bates blood turned to ice water.

"I'll be down right away. Continue monitoring all channels."

Cursing under his breath, he stalked to the elevator.

Ramsey's door, which had been open a crack during the conversation, quietly shut again.

Darren Ramsey hadn't obtained his position in life by being stupid.

Clever cunning, a keen sense of self-preservation, and a healthy dose of paranoia had served him well in his sixty-five years on Earth.

He drew upon those skills now.

He let the door slide shut and listened for the elevator doors to ding.

When he was sure Bates had gone, he placed the loaded pistol on the desk and clicked his computer's mouse. The Screensaver disappeared. Ramsey clicked again, and then typed in a password. This gave him access to the building's security system; something that even Bates was unaware was still fully operational. Ramsey had paid off the head of the maintenance crew with a box of cigars, a bottle of bourbon, and the promise of a million dollars when society was normal again, after the man had accidentally discovered the network. There were over one thousand carefully concealed, state-of-the-art surveillance cameras in the building, each with full audio and zoom capability. None was bigger than a pinhead.

Ramsey let his fingers glide over the keyboard, feeling like a pianist at a concert. Rapid-fire images flashed by on his monitor.

Smokey, Quinn, the mess-hall cooks Leroy and Etta, and one of the new arrivals, (De Santos-was that his name?-Ramsey couldn't remember) played a raucous game of poker, laughing and smoking and telling bawdy jokes.

FLASH

Carson had found comfort in the arms of another man. Though the room was dark, Ramsey could see the tears on the young man's face, trickling around his splinted nose. The old man wondered if the tears were for his suicidal friend, or for himself, or for them all.

FLASH

Kelli, the young nurse, lay on her bed, vigorously masturbating with one hand while the other caressed her breasts. Ramsey briefly turned up the sound, but soon lost interest. His penis remained flaccid. He wondered if the videos that Maynard had filmed before his death would interest him more.

FLASH

Steve, the Canadian airline pilot, lay sprawled on his bed, fully clothed and snoring. A half-empty bottle of Knob Creek and a photo of the man's son sat on the dresser.

FLASH

On the roof, undead crows, pigeons, and sparrows strutted about or perched on the helicopter and the strobe lights, watching the door patiently.

FLASH

DiMassi, the sickened pilot, watched television, an old episode of Hogan's Heroes via the building's closed-circuit broadcast, and drank a can of warm beer. His room was littered with debris: crumpled cans and tissues, half-eaten pizza crusts and empty candy wrappers. Ramsey was filled with disgust, yet he considered the fat man's worth. DiMassi had recently had an altercation with Bates, and might yet come in handy.

FLASH

In the darkened lobby, all was silent, save for the distant curses of the zombies milling around outside the barricaded main entrance doors. A complicated nest of boobytraps and trip wires snaked through the lobby.

Two guards (he was fairly certain their names were Cullen and Newman, but it was hard to keep track of everyone), sat behind the sandbagged receptionist desk-fortress, and listened to the undead outside. Ramsey could see the smoldering fear that they tried to hide from each other.

FLASH

Bates had entered the radio room, and was seated in front of a console, with Val and Branson flanking him. He knew that Val was pregnant. He didn't know much about Branson.

Ramsey turned up the sound and zoomed in on them.

"... will be there to assist you. Message repeats. This is the Federal Emergency Management Agency, broadcasting to all who can hear this message. The United States Department of Homeland Security has determined that Manhattan and the other New York boroughs are now safe zones. The quarantine has been lifted. All civilian and military personnel are encouraged to make their way to the area immediately. Shelter and aid stations have been set up for your convenience, to provide food, water, and medical aid. Again, the threat alert for New York City has been lifted and the area is now designated as a safe zone. Make your way there for further assistance. Military and civilian authorities will be there to assist you. Message repeats ..."

"Unbelievable," Val breathed.

"It's something, all right," Branson agreed. "What do you think, Mr. Bates?"

Bates lit a cigarette, and snapped his lighter shut.

"I think we're fucked."

"How so?"

Val wished he wouldn't smoke around her, but said nothing. Branson cleaned his glasses on his shirttail and waited for his superior's response.

Bates exhaled a line of smoke. "Why haven't they done this before? Why now, all of the sudden? They've got a leader-somebody new, telling them what to do."

"Do you ..." Val paused, then continued. "Do you think any of our people will buy into it, try to go outside?"

"If they do, they'll be dead before they can get those lobby doors open.

All lobby guards have standing orders to shoot anyone who tries. That's what these things want. Just a crack-enough to get their feet in the door."

The two young radio operators grew silent.

"Let me hear this other broadcast," Bates said.

Branson shuffled his feet. "They've gone silent again, sir."

"Did you manage to record any of it?"

Both shook their heads.

"Damn. Well, what did you hear? Don't leave out any details, no matter how trivial they may seem."

Val reported, "There's a large force of zombies heading this way from Pennsylvania. Estimated time of arrival was maybe four or five hours from now, right around dawn."

"Which doesn't make any sense," Branson interrupted, "because Hellertown is only about two hours from here."

"Usually, yes," Bates agreed. "But I'm sure the roads are clogged with abandoned vehicles. I've been meaning to speak with the Thurmond party, and get their assessment of the area outside our borders, especially the parts out of the range of our reconnaissance flights."

"How far did they travel?" Branson asked.

"From West Virginia."

"Holy shit. They managed to survive that long on the ground? Put a gun in their hands. They'd be good to have. Sound like some ass-kicking motherfuckers."

Bates nodded to Val. "So the zombie army will be here by morning."

Val's mouth was a thin, tight line.

"Continue," Bates encouraged her.

She took a deep breath. "The zombie army seems to mostly be made up of the military units we monitored in that same area, sir."

"I'd figured as much."

"It's a mobile force, consisting of several hundred vehicles, both military and civilian. The caravan has been reporting over the radio to somebody named Ob."

'Ob?'

"Yes. We've been unable to determine who or what he is, but we assume he's their leader. If so, then he's obviously one of them."

"And where is he based? Do we know this Ob's location?"

Val's face paled.

"Here, sir. He's here in the city. And from what we overheard, he knows about us too."

"Of course they do. That's why they've stayed camped outside this building day in and day out."

"But, Mr. Bates, there's more. This leader, Ob, told the other group that the way was being cleared, but that the tunnel might not be cleared in time. He gave them alternate directions from the bridge."

"Directions to where?"

"Here, sir."

"The city? You already told me that."

Val grew even paler.

"No, sir. Here. To Ramsey Towers."

Ramsey switched off the camera, and logged out of the security system.

He sat back, bathed in the soft glow of his monitor's Screensaver-the cover of his best-selling autobiography.

They were coming. Soon. He was nervous, but at the same time, he could barely contain his glee. This was the perfect opportunity to finally showcase how much damage his indestructible building could actually withstand. All doubts would be laid to rest, and more importantly, his flock would remain safe and secure within its walls. And when the failed assault was over, they would thank him. Praise him.

Worship him.

But was it enough to simply bask in their adoration? Ramsey was used to the public eye-indeed, he craved it. But he wanted more than just their accolades. He wanted-needed-to be their savior.

Bates could get in the way of that. Bates, Forrest, and Stern. They thought he was crazy. Him, Darren Ramsey! He'd listened in on their conversation after he left the conference room. Pigpen presented a problem as well. Ramsey wasn't surprised that the vagrant knew of the private tunnel. The foreman had reported several cases of vandalism and skirmishes with the homeless during its construction. But now this man had told the others, and it sounded like Bates was planning on leading his people-Ramsey's people-down into the network of tunnels beneath the city. Leading them from the safety of the building.

He couldn't allow that. He needed to maintain control. He needed to prove to them all that both the building, and himself, were indestructible. Bates lack of faith was regrettable. Ramsey had enjoyed working with the bodyguard.

But now he'd have to fire him.

Ramsey picked up the pistol.

"Shoot me now," Don muttered, "and put me out of my misery."

Quinn laughed as Don, Smokey, and Etta all folded, flinging their cards down onto the table. Then he raised and called. Leroy cursed, displayed his losing hand, and Quinn raked the pile of cash toward himself.

"That's another twenty-five grand for me." "Don't know why you so happy," Etta grumbled, "That might as well be Monopoly money we're playing with."

"Yeah," Leroy chimed in, lighting a cigarette. "It ain't like you can go out and spend it, Quinn."

"It doesn't matter to me if it's useless or not," Quinn told them, pouring himself another glass of bourbon. "I just like to feel the cash between my fingers."

"Where did you guys get all this money anyway?" Don asked.

"The bank," Leroy grunted, "downstairs in the lobby."

"You-you just took it?"

"It's not like the customers will be needing it anytime soon. And besides, it gets old, playing for cigarettes."

"Shit," Etta groaned. "It gets old playing with this worthless cash too."

"You guys ever think about how much money is lying around out there? Not to mention diamonds and shit?" Smokey pointed to the window. A zombie bird hovered outside in the darkness. They ignored it.

Don did not. He shivered, and then turned back to the new hand that Smokey had just dealt him.

"Are you guys sure those things can't get inside the building?"

"Sure," Leroy said, and studied his cards.

"Absolutely," Quinn confirmed. "Aren't you?"

Don shrugged. "I guess I just feel like a passenger on the Titanic. It just seems so unrealistic. Nothing is totally impenetrable. Seems to me there should be a contingency plan of sorts."

The others were quiet. Finally, Smokey looked up from his cards, drained his glass, and spoke.

"We don't really like to think about it, Don. Not much we can do if they really tried, you know?"

"So you just sit in here and wait? Isn't that a bunker mentality?"

Quinn threw several thousand dollars into the pile in the middle of the table. Then he rolled up a hundred dollar bill, lit it, and then touched the flame to his cigarette. He stubbed the burning currency out in the ashtray.

"The world's gonna end anyway," he said. "Whether we're inside or out there on the streets. I prefer to wait in here and play cards and light my smokes with hundreds."

"We're gonna have to start rationing food," Etta said. "Leroy and I took stock of everything in the restaurant and the cafeteria's freezers and storage rooms. And we got all the stuff from the vending machines and such. But it won't last us more than a month. I don't know what we're gonna do after that."

"Maybe we can start eating zombies," Quinn joked.

Smokey gagged. "That's sick, man."

"Hey, why not?" Quinn scowled at his cards. "They eat us, right? I say we turn the tables and start eating them. Not the ripe kind, but think about this. Get one that's freshly dead and cook it up before the meat goes bad. Like if you drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow, Leroy cooks you up before you turn into a zombie."

"With the right amount of spice," Leroy grinned, "I can cook anything. Even zombie."

"That's just wrong." Etta's expression was sour. "You all are nasty."

There was a soft knock at the door. Smokey opened it and Forrest and Pigpen entered the room. God trailed along behind them, darting through Smokey's legs and jumping into Etta's lap.

"What the fuck's he doing in here?" Quinn frowned, fanning his nose.

"Joining the party," Forrest said. The big man looked uneasy.

"You play cards, Pigpen?" Leroy asked.

"No, God won't let me. But thanks anyway."

Forrest walked over to the window and stared out into the night. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles popped.

"You want in?" Quinn asked him.

Forrest gave no indication that he'd heard him.

"Forrest? Forrest! Yo, big guy!"

He turned. His dark face was solemn.

Smokey poured another drink. "What's on your mind, Forrest?"

"Nothing." He tried to smile, but it looked forced. He turned to Don.

"How they treating you, roomie?"

"They're robbing me blind," Don replied. "Of course, since I had no cash of my own, they were kind enough to let me use theirs, so I guess it doesn't matter."

Forrest's radio squawked. He picked it up and keyed the mike.

"Go ahead."

"Forrest." Bates sounded grim. "Where are you?

"At the evening card game. What's up?"

"Is Pigpen still with you?"

"Yeah. He's here, and so is his cat."

"Both of you meet me on the basement level."

"Now?"

"Now."

He grabbed Pigpen's arm and guided him from the room. The cat trailed along behind them.

Smokey sloshed his drink around in the glass. "I wonder what that was all about?"

Quinn grinned around his cigarette. "Probably just the end of the world again."

Jim woke up to the insistent urging of his bladder. Blearily, he crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. He pissed, but did not flush so as not to wake Danny. As he washed his hands, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He'd aged ten years in the last two weeks. Carrie wouldn't recognize him now.

Thinking of his second wife brought a sudden pang of grief. Without warning, tears spilled from his eyes. Jim sat down on the toilet as sobs wracked his body. His emotions were a mixture of sadness and relief. He cried for Carrie and their unborn baby. He cried for Martin. He even wept for Tammy and Rick. He cried sad tears for what Danny had been through, and tears of joy that the boy was safe and with him now.

When he was finished, Jim turned off the bathroom light and slipped back into bed. He immediately fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted.

"The workers hadn't reached here yet," Pigpen told them as they stood in the sub-basement, "so we'll have to go about a mile through the sewers before we get to where they'd stopped."

Forrest's nose wrinkled in disgust.

God stood over a manhole cover in the corner of the sub-basement's cement floor and meowed. Then he twined between Pigpen's legs, purring.

"Down there?" Bates asked, skeptical.

"Yep, God says that's where we got to go."

"And you're absolutely positive you can lead us to the tunnel?"

Pigpen nodded. "And from there, it's a straight shot to the airport."

"And if they flank us?"

"Then I'll take us to the bomb shelter."

"Bates," Forrest asked, "how the hell are we gonna get all these people through that sewer entrance?"

"We're not, at least, not yet. We'll send a reconnaissance team, make sure this private tunnel of Ramsey's really exists. Get an idea of the challenges we're going to face. We'll go from there. But we'll need to send them soon."

"Why soon?" Forrest asked.

"Because there's an army on the way here."

"Ours?"

"Theirs."

God suddenly crouched down on all fours and hissed.

"What is it, God?" Pigpen reached down to scratch the cat, but it backed away, hissing.

The other two men ignored it. Bates studied the cover.

"Let's pull it up and have a look."

He threaded a thin length of steel cable through two of the holes, and then he and Forrest squatted on either side and lifted, grunting with the effort. The manhole cover rose into the air with a grating sound.

They dropped it onto the floor and stared down at the hole. The interior opening was dark, and all they could see was the top rungs of a service ladder.

Forrest fanned his nose. "Jesus, that stinks. Smells worse than a month-old zombie."

Bates produced a small flashlight from his pocket, crouched down, and shined the beam into the hole.

A pair of red eyes stared back.

"Shit!"

The undead rat launched itself from its perch on the ladder. Its claws raked across Bates's cheek, drawing thin ribbons of blood. Its teeth sank into the material of his shirt, ripping the fabric.

Shouting, Bates rolled backward and yanked the

squirming creature from his face. He tossed it across the room as more squeaking rats poured themselves from the sewer entrance.

Forrest freed his pistol from its holster, but before he could draw a bead, two of the rats swarmed him, climbing up his legs. He screamed, beating at them with his hands. Sharp, needle-like teeth bit into his palms and the soft flesh between his thumbs and index fingers.

Another rat raced toward Pigpen. The old man tripped and fell, sprawling on his back. Just as the rat darted for his groin, God leaped between them, seized the creature in his jaws, and shook it apart. Rotting limbs and clotted fur showered both man and feline.

Bates grabbed the cable and dragged the manhole cover back over the hole. Then he ran to help Forrest. The big man shook his leg, dislodging one of the rats. God pounced on it. Forrest clutched the other in his bare hand and smashed it against a steel support beam.

The rat that had attacked Bates skittered across the cement floor, making a beeline for the cat. Bates grabbed the zombie by its tail and swung it over his head. Then he let go. The rat sailed across the basement and splattered against the wall.

The three men stood gasping for breath. The cat licked its fur.

"How are your hands?" Bates asked Forrest.

"Fuckers bit the shit out of me, but I'll be okay."

"Go find Doc Stern and have him take care of those wounds. No telling what kind of diseases those things were carrying."

Forrest suddenly looked sick. "At least it ain't like in the movies, where if they bite you, your ass turns into one of them."

"I'm going to find Mr. Ramsey and take care of that

situation. When I'm finished, we're calling an emergency meeting."

"You're not still thinking about going down there?"

"Why not?"

"Bates, what the fuck just happened? Zombie rats, man! They were down there waiting for us."

"Consider this, Forrest. How many birds are waiting on that roof and outside our windows? For that matter, how many zombies are down in the street? All they need is an opening and then they'll break through."

"No shit. What's your point?"

"Only four rats came through that opening. There wasn't a large force waiting to rush us. Just those four."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I think they were up to something else. I think they were sent to spy on us. To look for a way in."

"Spies? Bates, you're beginning to sound crazy too, man."

"We can send out a reconnaissance team. Why can't they?"

Forrest opened his mouth to reply, but just shook his head. He pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around one of his bleeding hands.

"Okay." He sighed. "But once we're down there, what's to stop us from being sitting ducks? What if this tunnel doesn't exist or if it don't go all the way to the airport?"

"Worst case scenario, we make for the bomb shelter. That much I know exists. There was an article about it in Time magazine. The city is riddled with them."

God rubbed against Bates's shoes. Bates scratched the purring feline behind its ears.

"I guess your cat came in handy after all, Pigpen."

The bum crossed his arms. "I told you, Mr. Bates. God will protect us."

Bates stared back down at the sewer entrance.

"He can take point if and when we go through there. And I'll be right behind him with a flamethrower."

"A flamethrower?"

"Yes. While I still think these zombies were an advance team, I have no doubt that there are plenty more down there. Between God and a flamethrower, I think we can even the odds."

Don stumbled back to his room just after two in the morning. He hadn't planned on staying awake so late, but he'd been reluctant to leave. It had felt so good to laugh again, to just hang out with people, talking and playing cards and just having fun. No walking corpses to shoot or flee from, no jumping from one peril to another. He hadn't realized how bad his cabin fever had been while he was sequestered inside the panic room- and finally, he felt alive again.

He hadn't thought of Myrna during the entire card game. He realized it as he slid his key into the door lock. At first, he felt guilty about it, but as he fumbled for the light switch, he decided that it was okay.

In fact, it was probably healthy.

He slipped out of his shoes, leaned back on the bed, and looked around his new home. Forrest still wasn't back, and his bed was made, unused.

Dimly, Don wondered where he was. He wondered if Jim, Danny, and Frankie were asleep. Then alcohol and fatigue got the best of him, and he passed out.

The zombie army rolled over the bridges and tunnels leading into Manhattan. Riding in armored tanks, Humvees, and deuce-and-a-half trucks, they poured into the Necropolis, bringing ordnance and reinforcements. Tractor-trailers and civilian vehicles followed along behind them. The caravan rumbled through the streets, smashing aside the few remaining abandoned and wrecked vehicles that the New York forces hadn't cleared away. The concrete and steel canyons echoed with their thunder.

Ob ordered all of them to converge on his location, several blocks away from Ramsey Towers. Although the streets had been cleared of major blockages, barricades were constructed in the streets surrounding the skyscraper.

Watching the approaching forces through binoculars, Ob said, "Our forces arrive quicker than we predicted."

"Our brethren are anxious to begin, sire," said one of his lieutenants.

"Have our rat spies returned yet?"

"Not yet, lord Ob. They are overdue."

"Perhaps the humans discovered them. No matter. We have what we need from other sources."

Turning to the plotting table at his side, Ob resumed his study of the maps of the area, blueprints of the skyscraper and the sewers and tunnels that lay beneath it. He conferred with his generals and gathered his army together. They planned and plotted until dawn.

One of the sentries radioed Bates as he was on his way to search Ramsey's office, and private living quarters, along with Branson and Quinn, who was still drunk from the card game. The red-haired pilot sipped a mug of hot coffee, trying to sober up as quickly as possible.

Bates had filled both men in on Ramsey's crumbling sanity. Bates then advised Quinn of the approaching zombie army, which Branson verified. Bates told them both about the possible escape route.

Bates answered the radio and told the sentry to go ahead.

"Sir, this is Cullen, down in the lobby."

"What is it, son?"

"There's-there's some kind of activity going on down here. Several trucks just pulled up, and it looks as if they're arming the zombies."

"Arming them?"

"Yes, sir. It's hard to tell for sure through our barricades, but it looks like they're handing out weapons and ammunition. And there's more zombies showing up too. A lot more than we normally have milling around outside. I think they're lighting the other buildings on fire."

Bates stopped in the middle of the hallway and exchanged wide-eyed looks with Branson and Quinn. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. What should Newman and I do?"

"Stand fast, and keep me advised. I'll send some reinforcements down to you."

"This is getting fucking bad, man." Quinn moaned.

"We've got to alert everybody. I need the two of you to continue searching for Mr. Ramsey. I'll send you some help as soon as I can."

"What are you gonna do, sir?" Branson gulped.

"Call an emergency meeting."

The radio squawked again. Frustrated, Bates answered.

"This is Bates."

"It's Forrest."

"Did Doc Stern get you fixed up?"

"Yeah. Any sign of the old man?"

"None. Obviously, he's somewhere in the building. Wake up Carson and DiMassi. Apprise them of the situation and get them involved with the search too. Tell them to meet Branson and Quinn on the top floor."

"But DiMassi's still quarantined."

"Then he'll need to get better in a hurry. Meanwhile, have Val sound the alarm over the P. A. system. I want everybody in the building, with the exception of those on watch, to assemble in the auditorium in twenty minutes."

"Before that, there's something else you ought to see."

"What, Forrest? I don't have time for anything else."

"I'm down on the thirtieth floor."

"And?"

"There's a shitload of zombies out there. That army you were talking about? I think they just arrived."

"I know. I'll be right down."

Forrest stood at the end of the hall, looking out the thirtieth floor's big observation window. The way the building had been designed, it seemed as if he was standing overtop the street itself. Raising the binoculars, he studied the skyline and the burning city below.

"Jesus Christ."

His dark skin had gone ashen. He was still staring when Bates arrived.

Both stood speechless.

The occupants of Ramsey Towers slept.

Entwined in the arms of his lover, Carson dreamed of Kilker. In the dream, Kilker teetered on the edge of the roof, his body blanketed by zombie birds. But when he went over the side, Kilker flew instead of falling, flapping his arms and cackling as he hovered above the helicopter pad. He swooped toward Carson, dead but alive, pleading with Carson to have sex with him, just as Maynard had done with the corpses.

Carson ran back inside the building, and stood there panting, his back to the door. Kilker clawed on it from outside. Carson whimpered in his sleep.

After falling asleep in the comfortable throes of her masturbatory post-orgasm, Nurse Kelli had a nightmare as well. In it, she was walking down the halls of the Mount Sinai Hospital in Queens, where she'd worked before the world fell apart. The lights still worked, the rooms buzzed with the sounds of equipment, yet the hospital was deserted. Her heels echoed in the silent halls. Someone had painted the word HORROR on the walls in blood, over and over again. She touched one wall and her fingertips came away sticky. She was still wondering what it meant, when a zombie lurched out of the ICU and rasped, "I will show you horror, wench." Kelli woke screaming, and couldn't fall back asleep.

Steve dreamed of his son. They were in a field near their home in Ontario, and his son was flying a kite. Steve glanced up at the kite, watching it soar through the clear blue sky. The sunlight blinded him for a moment. When he looked back down, his son was gone. Frantic, Steve ran through the field, calling his son's name. Unfettered, the kite rose into the sky, disappearing behind the clouds. Tears ran down Steve's face as he slept. He moaned his son's name, and then rolled over, entangled in the sheets.

Don's dream was an alcohol-fueled exercise in surrealism. In it, he was back at his home in Bloomington. He opened the refrigerator to make a snack for himself and Myrna, and a bologna sandwich started talking to him in a language he didn't understand. Despite that obvious handicap, he continued trying to communicate with it, until Rocky padded into the kitchen, rose up on his hind legs, and wolfed down the intelligent sandwich in two bites.

Smokey thrashed, gripped in the throes of a nightmare. In it, he walked through Ramsey Towers's cafeteria. Etta and Leroy were serving their fellow occupants as dinner entrees. Alarmed, Smokey backed away. When he tried to run, the undead versions of his daughter and son-in-law blocked his way. Smokey's arm lashed out in his sleep, knocking the glass of water containing his false teeth from the nightstand.

Danny sighed happily. He and his father made a trip to the mall, where his daddy bought every comic book there was at the comic store, even the ones he wasn't allowed to read, like Hellblazer and Preacher. The two of them sat on the floor, eating potato chips, wiping their greasy fingers on their clothes, and reading the exploits of Hulk and Spider-Man and the Justice League of America. Then his mother and Rick walked in with even more comics. Carrie entered the room after them, carrying a stack of Godzilla movies. His new stepsister lay in the nook between her other arm and her chest. In the dream, all the grown-ups were getting along.

Jim did not dream. He slept the sleep of the dead, sound and still.

Frankie dreamed of Martin.

They stood in a forest. The lush greenery was aromatic and vibrant.

Frankie could smell honeysuckle and maple and pine. A light breeze ruffled the leaves over their heads.

"You gonna talk this time, preacher-man?" Frankie asked.

"Yes."

"What is this place? Where are we?"

"Earth," Martin answered. "White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, to be exact. This is where Jim and I met.

The town is down yonder through that hollow. And my old church, too."

"So what are we doing out here in the damn woods?"

"Waiting."

"For what?"

"For them."

The foliage parted, and a man, woman, and child emerged, cautiously looking around. The group of survivors crept past Frankie and Martin, seemingly unaware of their presence. Leaves rustled beneath their feet.

"Who are they?" Frankie asked.

"Survivors, like yourself. They haven't seen a zombie in over a week, so they think it's safe to come out."

"And is it?"

"No. As a matter of fact, it's even deadlier now."

"I guess so." Frankie smirked. "There's dead people walking around everywhere, not to mention the dead animals and shit."

"But that's just it, Frankie." Martin swept his hand around. "Do you see any zombies? Can you smell them?"

She sniffed the air and glanced around. She smelled pine and moss, but no decay or rot.

"No. Where are they? Waiting in hiding and planning on ambushing these folks? We should warn them if that's so."

"Let's follow them. I reckon you ought to see this for yourself. That's why I'm here. To show you what's to come."

"You're just as crazy now as you were when you were alive, Preacher."

Martin smiled. "Then you'll really think this is crazy. Look at them again."

She did, and stumbled from the shock. The man was Jim, the child was Danny, and the woman-

--the woman was herself.

"Fuck it." Frankie ducked beneath a branch, walking directly behind herself. I'll play along. This is a dream anyway. At least there ain't no zombie babies in it."

"There are no zombies at all," Martin confirmed. "They're gone-moved on to the next world."

"So you gonna explain that? What happened? Did they all rot away to nothing or turn to dust or something?"

"The dead are not our true enemy. We named them zombies because we did not understand what they were. The creatures that possess the dead are demons called Siqqusim, and they are our true antagonists. They are older than man-far older. They were worshipped alongside Baal on the mountain of Peor, in the land of Moab."

"Moab? That anywhere near Baltimore?" Frankie quipped.

"Not quite. The Siqqusim held sway over the court of King Manasseh, and their cults sprang up in Assyrian, Sumero-Akkadian, Mesopotamian, and Ugaritic cultures. They were consulted by necromancers and soothsayers, before finally being banned. Secret worship of the Siqqusim continued into the Middle Ages, but by then, they'd been banished to the Void and were unable to hear their servant's entreaties."

"I don't understand a damn thing you just said. Get to the point, preacher-man."

"They wait until our souls have departed, and then they take up residence in the empty space left behind. Specifically-in our brains."

"Animals have souls too?"

Martin nodded. "Every living thing has a soul. And that energy leaves the body at death. All the Siqqusim have to do is wait in the Void for one of us to die, and then they move right in."

"And that means we're fucked," Frankie said. "Because sooner or later everything dies."

Martin smiled.

"Everything dies, Frankie. But not everything has an ending."

"Who are you? Obi freaking Kenobi? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You'll understand in time. Meanwhile, let's get back to the zombies-or perhaps, more accurately, the demons. You're right. The odds look grim.

The Siqqusim boast that their numbers are more than the stars, more than infinity. But the truth is something different. Although there are many more of them than there are us, they have a finite number, just like everything else. The only thing that's infinite is God. That's a fundamental rule of the universe, and even the stars bow to it. We only see the Siqqusim as infinite, because we cannot fathom their number.

It's like trying to count the number of stars in the universe. Although they are finite, it would be impossible for us to do so."

"How do you know all this?"

Martin laughed. "I know many new things. There is great knowledge where I live now."

"Where you live now? In case nobody bothered to tell you, Martin, you're dead. You're fucking arm came off in that car crash. Jim split that gray old head of yours open like a watermelon when your corpse came back.

Where you live, my ass. You don't live at all."

"But I do. I exist on a higher plane. That's what I'm trying to get through to you, Frankie. Our bodies are just shells, casings made of flesh and blood to temporarily house our souls. When our souls move on, these things take over the shell. But with the exception of Ob and some of the other major demons, they have to wait their turn."

"Who the fuck is Ob? That's the one the scientist told you and Jim about?"

"He's the one, the leader of the Siqqusim. You, Jim, and I actually crossed paths with him, though we didn't know it at the time. When we were all at the government facility in Hellertown. Ob led that zombie army. And soon, you will all meet him again."

"Well that's just wonderful. Looking forward to it. You got any other cheery news for me?"

She noticed that the forest had grown dark. Clouds blocked out the sunlight filtering through the treetops.

"There are ancient laws, set forth by God before this planet ever existed. These are not laws of physics or science, but of magic-which is a force more powerful than any other. And a force that sadly, mankind has forgotten."

"You know something?" Frankie observed. "You look, and sound like Martin, but you talk differently. Your words are different."

The preacher ignored her. "One of the laws is that once the Siqqusim have been freed from the Void, they reanimate the flesh and blood constructs of the planet they're on. But those host bodies have limits, and sooner or later, must give in to decay. Once the body is destroyed, the departed Siqqusim returns to the Void and awaits transference to a new host. The process begins anew. Finally, when they have destroyed the planet's lifeforms, they move on to somewhere else, just like locusts, and start all over again."

"So you're telling me that if we stay alive long enough, there's a chance these things will move on to another planet and not come back?

That we can just wait for the zombies to rot apart and turn to dust and sooner or later, they'll leave us alone?"

"Yes and no."

"I'm gonna smack you, talking in riddles like that. And I guess you expect me to believe in little green men too?"

"There are a multitude of life forms out there, Frankie, and yes, some of them are green and others are what we would consider little. There are also life forms on other planes of existence, other realities. And Ob's kind has reign over them all. But I don't speak in riddles. The Siqqusim aren't the only demons awaiting release from the Void. There are other groups of creatures there; a second and third wave of demons that, according to magical law, cannot be released until a certain percentage of life has been destroyed. That is one of the reasons why the zombies are so intent on destroying us-so that this second wave of possessions can begin, and they themselves can move on to the next planet."

"How much? What percentage of the population has to die before this next wave begins?"

Martin shook his head. "I cannot tell you. It is forbidden. Look to your Bible. It is full of numerology. And there are other books too, tomes even older than the original Bible or Koran. Books like the Daemonolateria."

"Never heard of it."

"Some call it a spell book, but it is really nothing more than a book of laws. Everything, even demons, must obey the laws of the universe. There is a finite number of living beings on every planet, and once a percentage of those living beings have been corrupted, each new wave is free to attack."

"And I guess that new wave takes over the rest of us that are left alive?"

"No. The Siqqusim are given reign over mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians. But those aren't the only life forms on this planet, or on any other planet for that matter. Look around you."

Frankie paused.

"The plants. You're talking about the plants."

Martin nodded.

Around them, the greenery began to wither and turn brown. A leaf crumbled at her touch.

"Zombie plants, Martin? You've got to be kidding me."

"The plants, and the insect life that exists on this planet, which is neither mammal nor reptile nor amphibian. There are over two hundred million insects per each person on this planet. Both the plant and insect kingdoms are given to Ab and his kind."

"Ab?"

"Ob's brother and leader of the Elilum."

"Don't any of these creeps have normal names like Fred or Leon?"

"The Elilum possess the plant and insect kingdoms just as the Siqqusim do with mammals, amphibians, and reptiles."

"Fuck me running ... How are we supposed to hide from bugs?"

Martin continued as if she hadn't spoken. "There is a third and final wave, and that one involves fire. The demons in that group have many names. In the Arab cultures, they are known as the Iffrit, but their true name is the Teraphim. Ob and Ab's brother, Api, leads them, and they are the most terrible of all. They are beings made of fire, and the earth burns with their every step. At the end of their reign, the entire planet is consumed."

"Well Jesus fucking Christ in a god-damned chicken basket, Martin! What kind of a chance does that give us? I mean, if all the plants die, then we've got no fucking oxygen, but that doesn't really matter anyway because everything gets burned up at the very end!"

As if in answer, the dead, brown plant life began to move. Desiccated vines snaked across the forest floor, slithering around her other self.

A withered tree limb speared Jim through the chest. A giant Venus flytrap's jaws slammed shut on Danny, swallowing the boy whole. His muffled screams echoed from inside the plant.

"There are rules, Frankie. The third wave cannot leave the Void and begin until all life forms-all of them-are destroyed. The Elilum can run amok once the Siqqusim have destroyed a percentage of life. But the Teraphim cannot be loosed upon the planet until all the kingdoms of life are gone. Don't you see?"

"So what are you telling me? Go hide out in a greenhouse somewhere and make sure we keep enough of us alive, keep having babies and growing new trees and shit? Make sure we keep some animals and bugs alive too? That way we prevent the other attacks from happening? We're just supposed to wait it out, and then repopulate and reseed the fucking planet when the third wave doesn't happen? What is this Noah's ark bullshit, preacher-man?"

Martin didn't respond.

"Or are you telling me that it's hopeless-that we're gonna die? That we'll lose these bodies but go on to this other place where you went?

That's it, isn't it, Martin?"

The old man was gone.

"Soon as people start getting eaten, you pull a Houdini. Am I allowed to wake up now?"

Remember, his voice whispered inside her head, everything dies, but not everything has an ending.

Around her, the forest continued to die. Then it started to come back to life again.

Frankie awoke in her hospital bed. Somewhere above her head, an alarm was shrieking.

"What is it, Daddy?" Danny sat up, startled awake by the blaring alarm.

His eyes were sleepy but frightened. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, buddy. Hang on a second. I'll check."

Jim jumped out of bed and pulled on his jeans. There was some kind of commotion outside, people running down the hallway, clamoring voices. He opened the door, barefoot and shirtless, and shivered in the air-conditioning. The alarm continued to blare over the building's speaker system.

An overweight man ran past him. Jim grabbed his shoulder.

"Sir, can you tell me what's going on?"

The man scowled, out of breath. "Emergency meeting, buddy. Just like the drills. What rock you been sleeping under?"

"I'm new here. We just arrived ..."

"Oh, sorry about that. Well, like I said, they're calling an emergency meeting. Everybody is supposed to meet in the auditorium right away. And they never do drills at this hour, so whatever's going on, it must be real. Best get down there."

The man pulled away, hurrying on before Jim could ask him how to get to the auditorium. He dimly recalled seeing it during Smokey's tour of the building, but he couldn't remember what floor it was on.

Jim ducked back inside and shut the door just as the alarm stopped.

Danny was sitting up in bed, looking small and frail. "Is there trouble, Daddy? Are the monster-people coming?"

"I don't know, squirt. I'm sure it's okay. Probably just a drill."

Danny looked confused. "You mean like a fire drill? We had those in school. They were kind of fun."

"You know what? Why don't you get dressed and we'll see what's happening?"

"Okay."

Danny clambered out of bed, his hair mussed and his face creased from the pillow. He slipped out of his pajamas and into some clothes that Jim laid out for him. While he dressed, Jim slipped into his shirt, socks, and work boots. It felt strange to be wearing the steel-toed boots again, the same dusty, weather-beaten boots that had carried him from West Virginia to here. Once again, he thought of Martin. And Frankie.

Frankie ...

Jim wondered if they should check on her. If there was trouble, they needed to make sure she'd be safe, and aware of what was happening. He felt a sudden twinge of unidentifiable dread.

"Daddy?"

"What, Danny?"

"I'm worried about Frankie."

Danny felt it too, whatever it was.

"So am I."

"Maybe we should go check on her," Danny suggested. "Make sure she's getting better."

"I think that's a good idea. Let's go."

Jim locked the door behind them. The hallways were crowded with people, and they elbowed their way through the throng. Danny clutched Jim's hand so they wouldn't get separated.

It took ten minutes to get an elevator that wasn't heading downstairs.

They stepped inside and the elevator lurched upward. While they waited, Jim's apprehension grew worse.

Danny squeezed his hand.

Jim smiled, trying to be brave for his son. He felt anything but.

DiMassi belched, and said, "What's up, fellas?"

Branson nodded, but said nothing. He continued to watch the corridor.

"I thought you had tuberculosis or some shit," Carson said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nah, I'm fine." DiMassi coughed. "Forrest told me to get up here on the double. What the fuck is going on? This better be important. I was asleep."

Branson shrugged, stifling a yawn. Carson just glared at the overweight pilot.

"Listen up," Quinn whispered. "Ramsey's gone off the deep end."

"Say what?" The fat pilot's belly hung over his belt, wiggling as he laughed. He stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

"I'm serious," Quinn insisted. "The whole building's

getting cabin fever or something. Everybody's going crazy. Maynard and Kilker snapped today too."

Carson's face darkened at the mention of both.

"Sorry man," Quinn apologized, and then turned back to DiMassi. "Maynard tried to kill Carson and Doc Stern, and Kilker jumped off the roof this morning."

DiMassi turned to Carson. "That true, faggot?"

"Yeah." The young soldier nodded in affirmation. "And I told you before, you fat fuck. Don't call me a faggot."

"Both of you knock it off," Quinn bristled. "We don't have time for that shit. Mr. Ramsey's lost it, too. He's no longer fit for command, and apparently, something big is getting ready to go down. Bates wants us to take him."

"Kill him?" DiMassi asked.

Quinn shook his head. "No, we're just supposed to arrest him. Doc Stern's got a safe room set aside to restrain him in."

"What's this big thing that's supposed to happen?" Carson asked.

Branson stiffened, and glanced at Quinn. The red-haired pilot shrugged.

"There's an army on the way here," Branson told them while cleaning his glasses on his shirt. "A zombie army. They've got heavy armament-tanks, Bradleys, the works."

"Shit," Carson breathed. "What's their ETA?"

"Anytime now."

DiMassi sneered. "Fuck. I'm out of commission for a few days and this whole place goes crazy. What's big bad Bates's plan for this army?"

"I don't know," Quinn admitted. "All I know is we've got our orders."

"This doesn't seem right," DiMassi grumbled, "arresting Mr. Ramsey. I mean, he's Darren fucking Ramsey. The guy's a celebrity. A billionaire.

Maybe Bates is mistaken. You guys ever consider that?"

The other men didn't respond. Weapons drawn, they crept down the hallway. Quinn produced a key card that Bates had given him, and slid it into the office door. The door opened silently. Inside, the office was pitch black. The air-conditioning hummed quietly.

Quinn fell back as Carson and Branson rushed in. Quinn charged in behind them, ducking low. DiMassi brought up the rear, and flicked on the lights. It looked like a hurricane had blown through the office. The computer monitor lay smashed on the floor, and the tower casing was dented. Shredded paperwork lay strewn like confetti. The desk's contents were scattered across the carpet. Chairs and lamps had been knocked over, and soil from the potted palm tree covered everything.

Quinn pointed at Branson and indicated the private restroom door, then motioned for Carson to check the closet.

"It's clear, dog," Carson confirmed.

"He's not in here either," Branson called.

"Why would Mr. Ramsey do this to his own office?" DiMassi asked.

"Because," Quinn said, ruffling through some paperwork, "I told you. He's suffered some kind of breakdown."

"How do we know Bates didn't do this? Maybe him and Forrest are gonna pull a coup."

The other three looked at him with distaste.

"Come off it, DiMassi," Branson grumbled. "You really think Bates would lie about this?"

"Wouldn't surprise me one bit. Makes more sense than this cock-and-bull story about Mr. Ramsey going insane."

"That's crap and you know it," Carson snapped. "You're just pissed off because Bates reprimanded you last month for taking the chopper out without clearance."

"Shut up, Carson," DiMassi warned.

"Why should I? It's true. You took that blond schoolteacher for a ride, just so you could get laid."

"Least I got laid by a woman, you fucking faggot."

Carson ran across the room, fists clenched. His eyes shone with anger.

Quinn stepped between them.

"Knock it off, both of you! We've got a job to do. DiMassi, you stay here in case Ramsey comes back."

"But I-"

"Carson. Branson. You guys come with me. We'll check out the rest of the floor."

"Quinn," DiMassi argued, "this is bullshit! If there's a fucking army getting ready to attack us, we should be doing something about it, not looking for the old man."

The two pilots squared off. Quinn stepped closer, his face inches away from DiMassi's. The fat pilot's breath reeked, and drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Quinn's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"I told you," he hissed, "that Bates has it under control. Now unless you want to face disciplinary action when this is all over and done with, I suggest you do as you're told. We don't need you, DiMassi. In case you've forgotten, Steve and I can fly that fucking chopper too. You dig?"

DiMassi stepped back. "Yeah, man. I'm cool. Shit, Quinn, you don't have to bite my head off."

Ignoring him, Quinn stalked out of the office. Carson and Branson followed. On his way out, Carson blew DiMassi a kiss and curtsied.

"Call me a faggot when this is all over, you fat fuck."

A pencil snapped beneath DiMassi's boot. He sat Ramsey's leather chair upright, and then plopped down in it. The springs creaked beneath his weight. He laid his pistol on the desk and cracked his knuckles. His shoulders slumped, and after a moment, he closed his eyes and rested.

He opened them again a few minutes later, when he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

"Mr. DiMassi," Ramsey whispered, "I would appreciate it if you did not move. My office is already a mess. It would be a shame to add the interior of your cranium to it."

Yawning and bewildered, Don stared around in confusion, trying to find a seat in the crowded auditorium. The rows were full, and more people stood in the back and in the aisles. He got his first sense of just how many people occupied the skyscraper. They milled around, half-awake like himself, wondering what was going on. The sounds of rustling papers and nervous babbling filled the room.

Don searched the crowd, looking for a familiar face. There was no sign of Jim or Danny, and he wondered where they were. He thought of Frankie, wondered if she was okay, and then pushed it from his mind. His head pounded. He'd woken with a hangover and then realized just how little sleep he'd gotten before the alarm sounded.

"Don! Hey, Don!"

Smokey waved to him from the front. Don weaved his way down the aisle and then cut through the row, excusing himself to each person that he slid by. He took a seat between Smokey and Etta, who still had in her curlers. Leroy sat next to her, his eyes half-open, his face cloudy.

"Where are your friends?" Smokey asked.

"Frankie's still in sick bay, I guess. I don't know where Jim and Danny are. What's going on?"

"Emergency meeting."

"This better not be another god-damned drill," Leroy grumbled.

"I don't think it is," Smokey muttered. "Didn't you guys notice how troubled Forrest was acting tonight, when he stopped by the card game?

Something's up."

"Any idea what?" Don asked.

"Looks like we're about to find out," Etta said, nodding to the front.

Bates walked out onto the stage, flanked by Forrest and Stern. There were scattered cheers, some brief applause, and a few shrill whistles; but for the most part, the audience was subdued. Without pausing, Bates strolled up to the podium and spoke into the microphone.

"Good morning."

There was an electronic squeal of feedback. He paused, and then repeated himself.

"Good morning. I know that it's very early, and I want to thank you all for your promptness. I assure you that this is not a drill."

A rumble of concern rippled through the crowd.

"At approximately 0100 hours-"

"Wait a minute," Etta interrupted. "Aren't we forgetting something?"

Bates paused, and bowed his head.

"Of course," he apologized. "Thank you, Etta. Forrest, will you lead us?"

The crowd rose to their feet and a hush fell over them. Forrest stepped to the podium and sang the first line of the National Anthem.

"Oh, say can you see ..."

Don stared in amazement. Forrest sounded like an angel. It was like Marvin Gaye had been reincarnated in the body of this hulking soldier.

Goose bumps broke out along Don's arms as he joined in. The crowd's voices swelled as one, buffeting against him like waves. Many people were holding hands and many more were crying.

When it ended, Forrest launched right into another song, one that Don didn't recognize.

"In times of wounded hearts, when souls are torn apart..."

Next to him, Smokey, Etta and Leroy sang along. Don listened to the words.

"We need to let them heal, and time it will reveal. For all the things that we believe in-freedom in our time, for all the people in the world.

I know that we will rise."

Don shivered.

"I know that we will rise ..."

When the song was over, Don leaned over to Smokey and whispered, "What was that?"

"It's a song called 'Our Dream,' by a musician named Fiz."

"The pop star? He was from New York, right?"

"Yeah. He wrote it about the first terrorist attack on the city, but now we've adopted it."

"What happened to him? He was huge!"

Smokey shrugged. "Probably got eaten-or ate somebody else."

"Thank you all, again," Bates said.

The crowd returned to their seats, quieting down once more, with the exception of some sniffling and one woman's sobs.

"At approximately 0100 hours, our communications center detected a large, mobile zombie force. We determined that they were heading here, to Ramsey Towers."

Shocked gasps, and even a muffled scream, met this statement.

"They are heavily armed. We've verified both through continued monitoring and through visual confirmation that they are now within the city limits. Their intent is to launch an assault on this building. We must assume that this attack could come at any moment, so I'll be brief."

"What are we so concerned about?" a man yelled from the back. "This building is supposed to be able to withstand anything."

There were shouts of agreement. Bates cleared his throat and the room got quiet again.

"Indeed, Mr. Ramsey has repeatedly assured us that this building could withstand any attack. However, he designed it with terrorism and natural disasters in mind. It is my opinion, and the opinion of others in our command structure, that it will not hold up to the sheer amount of firepower we expect to be launched at us."

"They've attacked us before," another man hollered. "What makes it different this time?"

"This is a full-scale military attack. They didn't have tanks and artillery before, and they didn't have a leader."

Don thought about something that Jim had mentioned to him; that there had been a zombie named Ob who led the others. But Bates couldn't be talking about the same creature, could he?

"His name is Ob," Bates continued, "and though we don't know much about him yet, it's clear that he seeks our destruction. So we must fight.

Every able-bodied man and woman will be given a weapon immediately after we adjourn. You will join those already on sentry duty. This is not open for debate. I expect each and every one of you to defend yourselves and your fellow man- because we cannot do it for you. Forrest will be in charge of the lower floors and I will be in command of the upper stories of the building. If you refuse to help protect this building, you will be put out onto the streets."

An old man rose to his feet. "You can't do that!"

"Try me. I'm not playing around here, people."

"What about Mr. Ramsey?" a woman called out. "Why isn't he in charge?"

Dr. Stern stepped forward and took the microphone. "Mr. Ramsey is ill and unable to assume command. It's not life-threatening. But he gave express orders that Mr. Bates was to lead this battle."

Bates shouted down another question. "We must prepare immediately. None of us could have ever conceived what has happened to our world. It's like something out of a horror movie. But it's real, and it's coming for us all. There's no more time for debate."

He paused, gripping the podium. When he spoke again, his voice cracked.

"I know that it looks hopeless. Believe me. We ask ourselves, late at night, what the point of all this is. For all we know, we might be the last people left alive in the world. Those things are everywhere, and there are more every day. All they have to do is wait for us to die. So why bother?"

Some murmured ascension and nodding heads greeted his question. Bates continued.

"Because this is our last stand. Think about everything humanity has accomplished throughout history. Do we really want it all to mean nothing in the end? Should our achievements be worthless-appreciated and enjoyed only by those things outside? We stand at the brink of total extinction, but I will not go without a fight."

Scattered applause broke out amongst the crowd, but many more people remained quiet, still unsure.

"Maybe you're thinking this sounds hokey or stilted. You're probably right. I'm not a public speaker. I'm a warrior. I don't have a lot of oratory skill, and it's not easy for me to inspire people through speech. Believe me, I've been in situations where I've had men looking at me for inspiration. I gave it to them through leadership. I inspired by example. Hopefully, I can do that for you too. But let me tell you of another example. A few days ago, our scouts brought in a father and his son."

Don sat up straight, listening.

"The father, Jim Thurmond, traveled from the mountains of West Virginia all the way up the coast to New Jersey. He and his companions faced unimaginable horrors with every step of his journey-things that we haven't even considered, clustered away here in our stronghold. Mr.

Thurmond did this for one reason and one reason only. The love he had for his son. That's what powered him, what kept him going.

"I ask you to look around. Is there someone here whom you love? Will you lay down your life so that they have a chance to continue to live?

Perhaps your loved ones aren't here. Maybe they're outside, their bodies corrupted by those things. Maybe our enemies have turned

the one you love into a perverse mockery of who they were before. How many of you saw your loved ones turn into a zombie? Don't you want an opportunity to set things right? This may be the last chance any of us will get. It's us versus them. I say we reintroduce these things to death. Show them what it really means to die. Show them just what humanity is capable of when its back is against the wall! Will you fight?"

Thunderous applause filled the auditorium. The crowd rose to their feet, cheering wildly. Bates held his fist in the air and pumped it a few times, eliciting more shouts.

"Report to the armory," he shouted. "Each of you will be assigned a weapon and get a crash course in how to use it. From there, you'll be directed to where we need you. Let's show them that we are not afraid to die, that we reject their promise of what comes after death. Let's show them that we will not go quietly! Let's reclaim our bodies-and our lives!"

Bates strode off the stage. Forrest and Stern followed him. All three were already talking into their radios.

"Well," Leroy quipped, "I guess it wasn't a drill after all."

As they filed out, Don's legs felt numb, as if they'd fallen asleep.

Fear gripped him, but at the same time, he felt determined-and proud. He wondered again what had happened to Jim and Danny, and how Frankie wasif she was aware of what was going on. Then he fell in with the crowd and was swept away.

DiMassi's pistol was tucked in the waist of Ramsey's tailored slacks.

Ramsey clutched his own pistol in a liver-spotted hand, pointing it directly at DiMassi's chest.

"I assure you, Mr. DiMassi, that I am not crazy. I'm just trying to save us."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but then why do you have that gun pointed at me?"

"Bates is drunk on power," Ramsey said, his voice calm and assured.

"He's attempting a coup, and he's involved Dr. Stern and Forrest as well. Think about it, Dimassi. We are about to come under attack. Does this seem like the most opportune time to arrest me?"

DiMassi agreed that it seemed odd.

"They've killed Dr. Maynard and poor Kilker, because both of them tried to warn me of their plans."

"But are we really going to be attacked, sir?"

"Look out the window," Ramsey told him. "Go ahead. Look and see for yourself."

DiMassi pressed his face against the glass and looked down upon the city. The streets were blazed with thousands of pinpoints of light.

Ant-sized vehicles and miniscule zombies surrounded the building, and more were on the way. Barricades had been constructed, sealing off the block. As he watched, the creatures began to set the neighboring buildings on fire.

"Holy shit," DiMassi breathed. "There must be thousands of them!"

"Indeed," Ramsey nodded. "Now do you see? Bates is out of control, and you've been tricked into following along with him."

"Okay," DiMassi nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding far below. "I believe you. Hell, I always did. Used to watch you on TV, had stock in your company."

Ramsey smiled, and lowered his gun.

"The question," DiMassi continued, "is what are we going to do about it?"

"We must flee," Ramsey said. "We can't remain here any longer."

"But, I thought the building could-"

"This tower can take anything those creatures throw at it. But that is not my concern. There is simply no way Bates will let either of us live now. He's absolutely mad. He may very well be in league with the zombies. It pains me to say this, but our only chance for survival-indeed, humanity's only chance, is to flee immediately."

"But to where? Quinn and I have been all over. The fucking zombies are everywhere."

"Leave that to me."

"We should stop off and grab one of those M-60's. Happiness is a belt-fed weapon, after all. If we're going on foot, we'll need a lot more firepower."

"We're not traveling by foot. There was a subway tunnel under construction beneath this building, but sadly, it was never completed.

And obviously, we can't go out into the streets."

"The helicopter?" DiMassi looked up, as if he could see it through the ceiling.

"The helicopter. How far can it fly?"

"Depends on how much fuel is in it. Quinn and the Canuck were the last ones to take it out. I don't know if they refueled."

"Could we make it as far as the Haverstraw marina?"

"Up near Brackard's Point? Sure-even on fumes. But the airstrip in Brackard's Point is overrun."

"But you could land us near the marina, yes?"

"Yeah. Not much there. Blue-collar folks' boats, mostly."

"You'd be surprised." Ramsey winked. "I keep one there myself, away from the media's prying eyes."

"Why not just steal a boat here in the city? Maybe one of those armored Harbor Patrol boats or something?"

"You've seen the situation below. Do you really think our enemies wouldn't have anticipated that, and taken the appropriate counter-measures?"

"I guess not."

"You will fly us to Haverstraw, and from there, we shall begin the second leg of our journey."

"We gonna go to an island?"

"Something like that." Ramsey's smile faded. "I have many strongholds.

One is directly beneath this building, far below the tunnels and sewers and pipes and layers of fiber optic cables. But I fear we'd never reach it, especially not as a group."

"A group?" DiMassi glanced around, verifying that it was just the two of them.

"We'll need others, of course. A woman, at the very least, for breeding.

Two of them, if possible. We have to keep the human race alive."

DiMassi nodded in agreement, half listening. He watched the burning buildings below, watched the zombies as they swarmed around the skyscraper. His mind was still on the boat, wondering how dangerous a journey on the open water would be. Then he looked back outside and decided it couldn't be as perilous as staying here.

"A woman would be good," he said.

"Perhaps the young woman under Dr. Stern's care?" Ramsey suggested. "She is strong and beautiful-fierce. She was brought in two days ago."

"Sure. Haven't seen her myself, since I was quarantined, but I'll take your word for it."

A red light pierced the darkness outside the window. Both men turned.

"They're shooting flares," DiMassi gasped. "What the hell are they up to?"

"A signal of some kind, I should imagine. Perhaps we'd best be going. I think our time grows short."

"Maybe we should just forget the broad," DiMassi said. "Get the hell out now."

"Nonsense. It has fallen to us to save the human race. How are we to do that if we can't procreate?"

The pilot shrugged and retrieved his pistol from the desk.

"Go into the hall and see if the coast is clear," Ramsey commanded.

DiMassi peeked outside. There was no sign of Quinn or the others.

"We're good," he said.

"Excellent. Let us proceed."

The two men hurried for the elevators.

The wailing siren echoed inside Frankie's head even after it stopped.

"H-hello?" Her throat felt like sandpaper, and her voice rasped as she tried again. Her head throbbed.

"Is anybody there?"

There was no response. The equipment around her bed beeped and hummed in the silence. The room smelled of antiseptic.

"Anyone?"

When her queries went unanswered, she sat up and took several deep breaths, slowly regaining her strength. The weakness in her limbs melted away after a few minutes. Other than the headache, thirst, and an insistent urge to pee, she felt fine. Better than she had since kicking heroin. Her stitches itched, but the flesh around them was a healthy pink, rather than the vicious red of the day before.

"Got to hand it to them," she said aloud. "They really fixed me up."

She slipped out of the bed, swallowed several times to wet her throat, and padded to the bathroom. She sat down on the cold toilet seat, shivering in relief.

As she sat there, Frankie considered her options. She could get back into bed and wait for the doctor or nurse to show up. Or, she could find her clothes, get dressed, and track down Jim, Danny, and Don.

Deciding on the second option, she pulled her panties back up and flushed. Something was obviously happening, unless the alarm had been a drill. And the absence of the medical staff concerned her as well.

When she walked out of the bathroom, a man was standing next to the bed, pointing a gun at her. She recognized him from television-Darren Ramsey, the billionaire developer. Except that without a team of makeup artists and public relations handlers, he looked old. Sick. Frankie also recognized the look in his eyes. She'd seen it before, in the gaze of certain Johns. Ramsey was insane. Next to him was a fat, greasy, nervous-looking man.

"Please," Ramsey said, "don't be alarmed. We won't harm you."

"You planning on lowering that pistol anytime soon? That would go a long way toward helping me relax."

"Of course." He smiled, and dropped it to his side. "You must excuse me.

We weren't sure who, or what, was coming out of the bathroom."

The fat man's eyes crawled over her, resting on her breasts and the triangle of hair between her legs, peeking out below her hem. Frankie pulled the gown down as far as it would go and glared at him.

"Anything more than a look costs you twenty," she quipped.

His face turned a dark, angry scarlet.

Ramsey opened his mouth. "My name is-"

"I know who you are," Frankie interrupted. "Seen you on television a bunch of times. You're Darren Ramsey. Who's this?"

"Frank DiMassi," the fat man grumbled, then turned to Ramsey. "We've got to get going, sir."

The old man nodded impatiently.

"You'll have to excuse us-I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Frankie."

"You'll have to excuse us, Frankie. The building is about to come under attack."

"What?"

"I'm afraid so. We're completely surrounded. The zombies have gathered an army like nothing I've ever seen. Mr. DiMassi and myself are leaving for a safe location. We'd be honored to have you accompany us."

Frankie's eyes darted to the gun and then back up to his face. His smile faltered a bit under the scrutiny, and his upper lip and forehead were beaded with sweat.

"Thanks," she said, side-stepping past him, "but I've got friends that came in with me. I need to check on them, make sure they're all right."

"I assure you, Frankie, if your companions are on the floors below, their fate is sealed. It would be better- safer-if you came with us."

Frankie edged farther away, but doing so put her closer to DiMassi. The fat man licked his lips, gawking at her legs.

"Thanks anyway," Frankie said, "but if it's all the same to you guys, I'll take my chances finding them."

Ramsey raised the pistol again.

"I'm afraid I must insist. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but you are essential to my plan for repopulating the planet. DiMassi, if you would, please?"

The fat man lunged, crushing her beneath his weight.

Ramsey Towers rose into New York's gray pre-dawn sky, already half-obscured by the smoke pouring from the burning buildings around it.

Beyond the reach of the flames, thousands of zombies formed ranks, surrounding the block.

Ob gazed out at the undead force, reveling in the sheer size of his army. Then he turned his attention back to the skyscraper.

Inside, humans took position at the windows, or scurried back and forth behind them like frightened mice. Mounds of splintered, broken furniture lay strewn around the building's exterior plaza and sidewalks, forming a crude but effective barricade. The exterior doors and the windows on the first five floors, including the large plate-glass windows in the lobby, had been boarded over.

One of his lieutenants approached him. Its intestines hung loose, swaying with each step. Flies clung to the strands.

Ob turned to him. "I take it that the last flare signals everything is in order?"

"Everything is in position, my lord. Our forces are ready."

"Excellent," Ob hissed, exhaling fetid air. "Let's finish this, so that our remaining brothers can be free of the Void once and for all.

Commence the attack."

The zombie lieutenant barked orders back to the line. Minutes later, a box-truck cruised down the street, rolling to a stop in front of the skyscraper. The zombie behind the wheel gunned the engine, revving it to a frenetic crescendo. Then the truck shot forward. It crashed up over the curb, racing along the sidewalk.

Above, windows opened and the humans fired at the vehicle. Undead birds immediately swarmed the snipers. The humans reeled backward, screaming and clawing as the birds poured themselves through the open windows. A shotgun plummeted to the ground, clattering on the pavement. A zombie darted forth from the lines and snatched it, but fell sprawling as a bullet obliterated his head.

Another zombie stepped forward and pulled the pin on a grenade. Before he could throw it, a round tore into his wrist, severing his hand. The hand fell to the ground at his feet, still clutching the grenade. A second later, the explosion tore the creature apart.

"Now that's what I call a hand grenade," Ob quipped. "That's what he gets for not following orders."

His lieutenant said nothing.

The truck continued to pick up speed, rocketing toward the building. It crashed through the barricades and roared toward the lobby entrance.

"This is going to be good," the lieutenant gloated.

Ob agreed. "Let's knock and see if anybody is home."

Cullen and Newman both hated the midnight watch, but they hated lobby duty even more. Normally, they would have been relieved at dawn, when the next shift took over. But now, with the attack underway, Bates had ordered them to hold their position. He'd promised that reinforcements were on the way down.

Neither man had been a soldier before the rising. Newman had worked in a recording studio, and Cullen had been an attorney. Now, they were volunteers in Ramsey Towers's security squad. Never had they regretted that duty more than they did now. The lobby stank, not just from the constant stench of the rotting flesh outside, but from the smoke as well. It seeped into the building from various cracks in the windows, and through the ventilation system.

"What's happening?" Cullen hissed from behind the sandbagged receptionist desk. He remained crouched, not wanting Newman to see him shaking.

"I can't see much because of the smoke." Newman peered through a peephole. "The fuckers are burning everything down though, man."

"Figures," Cullen snorted. "The rain stops just when we need it."

"Yeah," Newman agreed. "Guess it don't matter. I don't think we're going to see the sunrise today."

"Hope the reinforcements get here soon," Cullen said. "I'm fucking tired, man. We've been up all night."

"Dude, we're about to be attacked. You really think you're going to get some sleep?"

"No," Cullen admitted, "but I thought maybe I'd track down Rebecca."

"Who's that? The nurse?"

"No, that's Kelli. Rebecca works in the greenhouse up on the fifteenth floor. Met her a few days ago in the gym. I'm worried about her."

"Better worry about yourself instead, man. Stay focused on what's happening."

The elevator dinged and its doors slid open. Ten more heavily armed men stepped out of it and hurried toward them, taking positions. Their gear clanked as they ran.

"What's the situation?" one of them barked.

"We're not sure," Newman responded.

"How many are out there?"

Suddenly, Newman gasped in alarm. He backed away from the peephole as headlights raced toward the blockaded doors.

"Oh sh-"

A second later, they saw the sunrise after all.

It burst inside the lobby.

"

The fertilizer bomb exploded as the truck crashed through the barriers, the massive concussion rocking the building. Fire and smoke ripped through the first floor. Shards of metal, chunks of concrete, and shattered glass hurtled into the air. The lobby and all inside it were instantly vaporized. Then, the billowing smoke cleared, revealing twisted steel girders and tongues of orange, flickering flame.

Amazingly, the building stood firm.

Ob watched through the binoculars. His gray lips pulled back in a grimace.

"The bomb didn't work as well as I'd hoped. That blast should have taken out the first five stories. Instead, it only destroyed a portion of the first floor and the parking garage. The building was touted as being indestructible. The designer was a bit of a gadfly, given to hype and self-grandeur. Perhaps it wasn't hype after all. No matter. Ready the artillery and the mortars. Take out the section where the building's generator is housed. I want the power out immediately. Also, bring the tanks forward and have them create some more entrances. And send in the first wave of foot soldiers."

As the column of tanks rumbled toward the skyscraper, a horde of zombies charged across the plaza toward the gaping hole created by the truck bomb. Heedless of the damage to their bodies, they strode through the flames. Their burning corpses emerged on the other side. Not slowing, they clambered through the wreckage. Moments later, they burst into the stairwells in search of more prey. When the stairs became crowded, they even climbed up the elevator shafts, using the service ladders and cables.

Then the screaming began.

The elevator doors slid open. Danny squeezed Jim's hand tighter as they stepped out.

"Was that thunder, Daddy?"

"Sure sounded like it. It rained most of the night, I think. But you're not scared of a little thunder and lightning, are you?"

Danny shook his head. "No, but Frankie might be."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she's a girl."

"You might be surprised," Jim chuckled. "Frankie's pretty tough. Girls can do just about anything boys can do-Frankie especially. I bet she'll be happy to see us."

They started down the corridor. Despite the alarm, Jim was surprised that none of the medical staff was present. The entire floor was eerily silent. His boots echoed on the tiles.

"Do you like Frankie, Daddy?"

"Sure I like her. She helped me find you."

"Are you going to marry her now that Mommy and Carrie are dead?"

The question stopped Jim in his tracks.

"Now where did that come from?" he asked.

Danny shrugged. "I think she's pretty."

She is pretty, Jim thought to himself. But with everything that's been happening, I guess that I never really thought about it until now.

"I think we've got more important things to worry about right now," Jim said, hoping Danny would change the subject.

But the boy refused to be diverted. "I think she'd make a good mommy."

They approached Frankie's recovery room. Jim considered explaining to his son that Frankie had been a mommy, and what had happened to her child. But he decided against it. Danny had seen enough horror and lived through enough traumatic events. He deserved some time to be a kid again, free of violence and terror.

"Daddy?"

"What, buddy?"

"I smell smoke. Something's burning."

Before Jim could respond, the door to the recovery room opened and a man stepped out. He wore wrinkled gray trousers and a sweat-stained white dress shirt. His right hand clutched a pistol. Despite his disheveled look, Jim recognized him immediately. It was Darren Ramsey.

A large, unkempt man followed, pushing Frankie in a wheelchair. She'd been gagged, and bound to the wheelchair's armrests with rubber surgical tubing. A thin line of blood dribbled from her nose. Her eyes widened in surprise as she spotted Jim and Danny.

"Frankie!"

"Stay where you are," Ramsey ordered. "We mean you no harm. I'm Darren Ramsey."

"I know who you are," Jim said, pulling Danny close. "That's my friend you have tied down in that wheelchair."

"I can assure you, it is for the young lady's own good. Her welfare-indeed, the welfare of us all-is my utmost concern."