City of the Dead

"Is that why her nose is bleeding?"

"She became unruly. Her behavior has been quite erratic. I'm sure you know that the building has come under attack. We are simply restraining her so that we can move her to safety."

Frankie grunted, straining against the gag. The fat man's grip tightened on the wheelchair.

"Attack?" Jim stepped in front of Danny and slowly walked toward them.

"I know there was an alarm, but I haven't heard anything about an attack. Where are you taking her?"

"To salvation. She will be the new Eve."

"I think you'd better let her decide that."

"That's far enough, Mr. Thurmond." Ramsey brought the pistol up.

"How do you know my name?"

"I know everything about my children, even when they are disruptive and disrespectful, as Bates is now behaving. I'm sure he's told you that he thinks I'm insane?"

"Listen," Jim held his hands up, "I don't know what you're talking about. If you and Bates have a problem, then that's something the two of you need to work out. All I know is that you've got my friend tied to that wheelchair, and she's hurt. Why don't you go ahead and untie her, and then we'll be on our way and let you fellows go do whatever it is you're doing."

"We are attempting to save her." Ramsey sighed. "And you are trying my patience, Mr. Thurmond. I offer you and your son the same salvation. Come with us. Dimassi and I intend to leave this place. Ramsey Towers could have withstood this attack, but with Bates in charge, its defenses will weaken. Our time here is over."

Beaming, he offered his free hand. The other hand tightened on the pistol grip.

Beside him, Frankie grunted again. "Ungh umnh!"

"No chance," Jim said, and stood his ground.

"Then you leave me no choice." Ramsey pointed the gun at his chest. "You are standing between us and the elevator to the roof. Get out of our way, Mr. Thurmond, or I can guarantee that you and your son will join the undead."

"Fuck this, Mr. Ramsey," DiMassi grunted. "Let's just use the stairwell on the other end of the hallway."

Jim clenched his fists and whispered, "Danny, run back to the elevators and get help."

Instead, Danny stepped forward, his own small hands balled into fists like his father's.

"You leave my Daddy alone, and let Frankie go!"

Ramsey laughed. "That is exactly the kind of spirit the next generation of humanity will need to survive. You will definitely be an asset, young man. You may come with us."

Danny darted forward and kicked Ramsey in the shin. Before Jim could move, DiMassi seized Danny. He twisted the boy's arm behind his back, and used Danny as a shield. Danny cried out.

"Don't move, Thurmond," Ramsey shouted. "Do as I say, and I give you my word that your son will live. Disobey me, and I will kill you all, starting with him."

"That will be the last thing you ever do, you son of a bitch. Leave him alone."

"This is not the time for bravado, Mr. Thurmond. I know your story. You traveled hundreds of miles to save your son. You won't let him die now."

Jim bit his lip. Blood filled his mouth.

Ramsey motioned with the pistol. "Get down on the floor, now."

Jim hesitated. He saw his own fear reflected in Danny and Frankie's eyes. Then, reluctantly, he sagged to his knees.

Ramsey grabbed Danny's ear and twisted it between his fingers.

"Let me go!"

"Quiet, you ungrateful little brat. You will do as I say, or I will kill your father."

Frankie struggled against her bonds.

Ramsey pinched Danny's ear harder. "Lay down on the floor, Thurmond, and put your hands over your head. DiMassi, bring the woman. We're leaving."

"The only way you're getting out of here with my son," Jim said, "is to go through me."

"Indeed?"

"Over my dead body." Jim drew himself up, ready to spring.

Ramsey cocked his head and smiled.

"Very well then. If you insist."

The gunshot echoed through the corridor.

The zombies swarmed onto the second floor, pouring from the stairwells and spilling out of the elevator shafts. The men and women defending the entrances had no time to scream, let alone impede their progress. Like a tidal wave, the zombies washed over them, slaughtering everything in their path.

Nurse Kelli was on the third floor, on her way back to the medical wing to watch over Frankie and the quarantined family with tuberculosis, when the explosion occurred. The force of the blast knocked her off her feet, and ceiling tiles and insulation rained down on her. She lay there breathless, waiting to see if it would occur again.

She'd been assigned a small .22 semi-automatic pistol, which she knew how to use. Kelli's father and brothers had been avid target shooters and she'd received a marksman rating from the National Rifle Association years before. She'd been able to shoot a grouping of three tight enough to cover them with a quarter. Nailing a zombie in the head would be easy enough.

Picking herself back up and retrieving the pistol, Kelli ran for the stairwell. The gun made her feel safer. She wondered where Dr. Stern was, and hoped that he was okay.

Two men and a woman stood by the elevator doors, repeatedly jabbing the buttons.

"Don't take the elevators," Kelli cautioned. "That was an explosion."

"Are you sure?" one of the men asked. The others stared at her blankly.

"I think so, yes."

"Bates didn't say anything about explosions. What should we do?"

"Fight back."

"How?" one of the women asked. "There's nothing here to fight. They're all outside."

The man nodded. His voice was frantic, pleading. "Mr. Ramsey said they couldn't get in. He promised."

"Mr. Ramsey was full of shit," Kelli said.

The woman gasped. "You shouldn't talk like that! Mr. Ramsey saved us all."

Not bothering to respond, Kelli hurried on. She rounded the corner, and spotted an exit sign at the end of the hall. Just as she reached for the door, it slammed into her, shoved from the other side.

Zombies swarmed through the doorway and opened fire.

The first bullet caught her in the stomach. The second punched the breath and blood from her lungs in midscream. Kelli had time to see a butcher knife flashing downward and then her severed artery squirted blood into her eyes, blinding her. She slipped to the floor, crushed beneath their stomping feet.

She thought, I never got to fire the pistol ...

Then a zombie was kneeling over her.

"You're still alive," it rasped. "Good. I will show you horror, wench."

She remembered her nightmare.

The zombie slid a razor blade across her breast, parting both cloth and flesh.

The fire alarm began to wail, drowning out her screams.

The first round of artillery explosions rolled across the city, sounding like thunder. The building shook. Lights swayed back and forth and furniture collapsed. Screams and gunfire echoed through the corridors.

Above it all, the fire alarms shrieked.

Steve and Bates ran down the hall and ducked behind some sandbags.

"Is it an earthquake?" Steve shouted.

"No," Bates yelled. "They're shelling us!"

"But-but that doesn't make sense. They use us for food; possess us when they're done. They can't do either of those things if they blow us up."

"They aren't trying to blow us up," Bates grunted. "This is calculated. Think about it. In order to kill us, they have to get inside. The artillery barrage is creating entrances for them."

A second wave of explosions shook the skyscraper. Suddenly, the lights went out and the fire alarm faded. The emergency lights came on, but their illumination was faint.

"Shit." Bates grabbed for his radio. "They've knocked out the power."

The radio squawked. Forrest sounded frantic.

"We've lost contact with the lobby," he shouted. "I think they used a truck bomb, Bates. A fucking truck bomb! We've got zombies on the second and third floors. Two and three are breached. We're holding them off on four, but we need reinforcements."

Another voice broke in on the channel. "Sir, we've got birds on six and seven! They're coming in through the windows! We opened them to shoot at- They-"

The report was interrupted by one long, wailing scream. It went on and on, turning into a high-pitched shriek before finally tapering off.

"Forrest?"

"I'm here!" The sounds of gunfire erupted in the background. "Hard to see from all this smoke. They won't stop coming. There's just more and more of them!"

"Forrest, get your people out of there," Bates ordered. "You've got hostiles above and below your location. You've got to fight your way to the basement!"

The response was more gunfire, and muffled screams.

"Forrest, do you copy?"

Silence.

"Forrest?"

The channel went dead.

"The basement?" Steve checked his weapon. "What's in the basement?"

"A way out of here," Bates said. "It might be our only chance."

"But if they blew up the lobby, won't that have taken out the basement levels too?"

"I hope not. If the sprinkler system is still functioning, it should have been activated down there by now. That will help curtail the fires, along with the fireproofing between the floors. And the building's design features should keep the concussion damage confined to the lobby itself."

"What if you're wrong, Bates?"

"Then I'm wrong and we're dead. But to tell you the truth, Steve, we're probably dead anyway."

"But your speech-"

"Was designed to give these people false hope," Bates lowered his voice.

"Look at the odds. Look at what we're facing. We can't win this fight, Steve. But I'll be damned if I'm sending these people to their deaths without seeing them put up a fight. It's how I was trained."

"So why the charade? Why not just tell everybody about this escape route?"

"Because there are too many of us. Believe me, I'd like to save everybody, but we can't. The more we take, the better the chance that we attract attention. Then we all die."

Steve was quiet for a moment. Another scream drifted from the radio, and then it went silent again. The hallway slowly filled with smoke.

"That's harsh, Bates-but I guess that's the kind of thinking that will enable us to survive. So what's the plan?"

"You're going to fly us out of here."

"What?"

"Pigpen says there's a tunnel that goes under the river and leads to the airport. You can still fly a jet, can't you?"

"I've flown commercial and experimental aircraft all of my life. I can fly anything. But that's not the point. You're trusting Pigpen? Come on, man. He thinks his cat is God, for crying out loud. How do we know JFK is safe? Even if we can find a plane, we've got to fuel it and-"

Bates held up his hand.

"Let's just worry about getting out of here first. Quinn and some of the others are busy looking for Mr. Ramsey. I'm going to tell them to cancel the search and meet us downstairs."

"Do I have time to go to my room?"

"For what?"

"I'd like to get the picture of my son."

"I'm sorry, Steve." Bates shook his head. "I really am. But there's no time, and I need you to stay with me. You're too important to lose."

He tried reaching Quinn on the radio, but there was no answer. The building shook again, and somewhere on their floor, people began to scream.

Bates sniffed the air. The stench of rotting flesh overpowered the smoke.

"They're here."

Frankie and Danny stared in horror, the gunshot still ringing in their ears. Blood splattered across Jim's face, chest and arms, bright against his pale skin.

Darren Ramsey's blood.

The pistol clattered onto the floor, and Ramsey followed it. He clawed at the hole in his chest, his face a mask of confusion.

"I don't understand ..." he gasped.

Three men ran down the corridor behind Frankie, Danny, and DiMassi. Jim recognized one of them as Quinn, the helicopter pilot that had rescued them. He didn't know the other two.

DiMassi whirled, keeping Danny in front of him and a knife at the boy's throat.

Quinn and the other two soldiers slid to a halt, their machine guns raised.

"Let the kid go, DiMassi," Quinn shouted. "It's over!"

"Hey man," DiMassi protested. "I ain't involved with this."

"Bullshit," one of the younger soldiers said. "We heard you when we came down the stairwell, you fat fuck. Heard everything you and the old man were saying."

"Fuck you, Carson. Ramsey had me at gunpoint! What was I supposed to do?"

A radio clipped to Quinn's belt emitted a burst of static. Jim heard Bates's voice calling the pilot.

Quinn ignored it, his eyes not moving from DiMassi's.

"Come on, man, let the kid go. Hasn't he been through enough? Haven't we all?"

"And let you shoot me, the way you did Mr. Ramsey? I don't think so, Quinn."

On the floor, Ramsey groaned. Something gray and wet slipped from his belly. He tried to stuff it back in, but it flopped back out again.

With DiMassi's attention distracted, Jim inched toward Danny and Frankie.

The other young soldier spoke up. "DiMassi, the zombies are inside the fucking building. It's only a matter of time before they make it up here. Let's figure this shit out together. Let the kid go. He hasn't done anything to you."

"You're lying, Branson," DiMassi said, but sounded uncertain. "If they were in the building already, we'd be dead."

"We will be soon, you idiot," Quinn snapped. "Jesus-can't you smell the smoke? Hear those fire alarms going off?"

"The building's fireproofed. It can't spread between floors."

"Didn't you hear the fucking explosions or feel the building sway?

They're shelling us, you asshole! Fires are breaking out all over."

At that moment, the lights in the hallway flickered, and then vanished.

The emergency lighting kicked in, casting an eerie red glow.

Jim took another step toward DiMassi.

Shoulders sagging, DiMassi let go of the boy. Carson and Quinn covered him with their rifles.

Danny ran to his father. Jim hugged him tight and made sure he was unharmed.

"Looks like you've saved us twice now, Quinn. Thanks."

"Thank me later, Jim. We've still got to get out of this building."

"Is it really as bad as you said?" Jim asked, removing Frankie's gag.

"Probably worse," Branson quipped.

Quinn nodded at Ramsey's unmoving body. "Check him out, Branson. I got him in the gut. Finish him off."

Jim undid Frankie's bonds. "You okay? Your nose is bleeding."

"Fat bastard kneed me in it when I was going for his balls, but yeah, I'm okay."

"Thank God. I was worried we'd lost you, just like Martin."

At the mention of his name, Frankie started to tell Jim about her dreams. But before she could, he turned to DiMassi.

"You think you're a big man, beating up on women and children?"

"Hey," Frankie protested, "he sucker punched me, or else I could have taken him myself."

"I was just following orders," DiMassi defended himself. "That's all."

Jim's voice was like ice. "Following orders? We've seen what happens when men like you follow orders. You shouldn't have touched my boy, you son of a bitch."

Quinn slid between them. "Jim, let me handle this. And Branson, hurry up with Ramsey, before he gets back up."

Branson prodded Ramsey with the barrel of his rifle. When there was no response, he cautiously knelt down beside him. The old man's eyes stared sightlessly.

"Be a shame to let this gold Rolex go to waste. Can I have it, Quinn?"

Ramsey's eyes blinked.

Before Quinn could answer, Ramsey's corpse sat up and knocked the rifle aside. His intestines boiled from the hole in his stomach, splattering onto the floor. His teeth sank into Branson's wrist. The young soldier screamed.

Using the distraction, DiMassi shoved Jim and Quinn out of the way and bolted for the stairwell.

"Carson," Quinn shouted, "Get him. Shoot him if you have to!" Then he grabbed Branson's shirt collar and pulled him backward. A hunk of Branson's flesh disappeared down the zombie's throat. Blood dripped from the ugly wound in Branson's arm.

"I have come to join my brothers," the thing that had

been Ramsey hissed. "As shall you all. We are undefeatable!"

The rifle kicked against Quinn's shoulder, and the zombie's head exploded. Ramsey fell to the floor a second time.

"Your building was supposed to be undefeatable too, you son of a bitch."

Carson took off down the hall in pursuit of DiMassi.

Quinn pulled out a pocketknife and cut a strip of cloth from Ramsey's pants leg. Then he tied the cloth around Branson's wound.

"You okay to move?"

Branson nodded. His face was pale and sweaty.

"I'm not going to be able to shoot for shit, but I'll live. Don't think I'm gonna go into shock or anything."

"Just make sure you keep this tourniquet tight," Quinn told him. "Can't have you bleeding all over the place. That would be like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs."

Jim stepped forward. "I'll take your gun, if you don't mind."

Branson shrugged. "Sure."

Jim gave Ramsey's pistol to Frankie and then picked up the rifle for himself.

"You guys know how to use those?" Quinn asked.

"We didn't make it this far shooting spitballs," Frankie said. She got out of the wheelchair with a wince, and made a show of slapping her clip in and out of the semiautomatic pistol's handle.

Danny frowned. "How come I don't get a gun?"

"Doc Stern kept an aluminum baseball bat in that storage room over there," Quinn pointed. "He and Maynard used to hit the ball down the hallway. How would that be?"

Danny's face lit up. "Can I carry the bat, Daddy?"

"I guess." Jim sighed. "But if we come across any zombies, I want you to promise that you'll stay behind me and Frankie. Okay?"

Danny promised and then rooted through the storage closet. He came back out with the bat, and swung it like a sword.

"If they try to get us, I'll hit them in the nuts."

"Danny," Jim warned.

"Try their head instead," Frankie whispered, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.

Quinn checked the tourniquet and then disappeared into one of the offices. He came back out with a bottle of painkillers and made Branson swallow four. Then he turned to the others.

"Let's go."

"What's the plan?" Frankie asked.

"We've got to catch up with Carson, and stop DiMassi before he gets to the helicopter. Then I'll radio Bates and see what our status is."

"And if Bates is dead?"

"I'll fly us out of here the same way I flew us in. The chopper will hold us."

"Where will we go?" Frankie said.

"Anywhere but here."

Don's hands shook, and the rifle jerked up and down. He fought to calm himself. His handkerchief, tied around his mouth and nose to block out the smoke, was drenched with sweat, and his muffled breathing sounded very loud in his ears. Don wondered if the zombies could hear it too. He sighted on the first corpse as it rounded the corner, and squeezed the trigger. The hollow-point punched through the creature's throat. The second drilled into its head, painting the wall behind it. More zombies emerged, blocking the corridor, and the glow of the emergency lights.

Don poured bullets into them, readjusted his fire, and watched them drop with the second group of shots.

Smokey, Leroy, Etta, and a man who'd introduced himself to Don as Fulci, all had time to squeeze off shots as well, and then the zombies returned fire. They ducked behind their makeshift barricade of desks and filing cabinets.

Leroy dug in his pocket for more ammunition. "Anybody hit?"

"I'm okay." Smokey confirmed. Don and Etta murmured assurances as well.

Fulci said nothing, because his lower jaw and most of his throat were now a ragged, wet hole. Air whistled through it.

"Better finish him off, Etta." Leroy quickly reloaded. "Don't need any more of those things in here."

Etta slid a screwdriver into Fulci's ear, shoving it through his brain.

Blood trickled down the side of his mangled face.

"He ain't getting up again."

Don shuddered.

Another barrage slammed into the barricade, and all four ducked lower, hugging the floor. Smokey fired three wild shots, and the zombies laughed.

"What the hell do we do now?" Don asked, trying to eject the magazine.

"You're doing that wrong," Leroy told him, then took the weapon and did it for him. He handed it back to Don.

"There's two more stairwells on this floor," Smokey said. "One of them is behind us. The other, the fire escape route, is on the other side of the building."

"I say we make for that," Etta said. "Get up to the roof and the helicopter."

"Who the hell is gonna fly it?" Leroy scoffed. "Ain't none of us know how to pilot that thing."

More bullets chewed up the barricade.

"Well, we can't stay here," Don yelled. "Let's go."

Still crouched down, he turned to run and then froze. Four more zombies were creeping up behind them. None of the creatures were armed with ranged weapons, but each carried a knife or club.

"They flanked us!"

With a triumphant cry, the zombies to their front charged. A second later, an explosion went off in their midst. Shrapnel and bits of pulped flesh showered down upon the group. Leroy cried out, hands flailing as a hot fragment of metal scorched his forearm. The stench of his burned flesh filled the air. The zombies to their rear pulled back, hesitating.

"Make a hole, motherfuckers," Forrest shouted. He clutched another grenade in one beefy hand. The other held an M-16.

Pigpen stepped out from behind him and drove an axe through the forehead of a zombie crawling across the floor. God poked his furry head out of a backpack slung over the vagrant's shoulders.

Smokey and Don took advantage of the four remaining creatures' hesitation and gunned them down. Then they stood up.

"God damn, it's good to see you, Forrest!" Leroy grasped his hand, and then winced, favoring his forearm.

"Good to see you guys alive too. Now let's move."

Etta grabbed Leroy's arm, her face concerned. "You gonna be okay?"

"It hurts like a bitch, but I'm fine."

"No time to talk," Forrest insisted. "They're all over the place. We need to go, now."

"Where?" Don asked.

"The back fire stairs, and then the sub-basement."

"And then," Pigpen grinned, "God will lead us out of here."

Val finally left her post in the communications center. The radio traffic was becoming ominous-more attack orders from zombies than humans-and she figured it was time to bolt. Naval radio operators went down with the ship, but not her.

She crept down the corridor, wondering where Branson had gone, when a zombie bird slammed into her face. Screaming, she grabbed the creature and flung it away. It smashed against the wall and crumpled to the floor. Val stomped it, feeling the bones snap beneath her feet.

The elevator doors at the end of the hallway stood open, revealing an empty shaft. The darkness inside the gaping hole wasn't just black, it was solid. From somewhere far below her, she heard muffled gunshots and explosions. A drought of warm air drifted from the empty shaft, brushing against her face. With it came smoke.

"Shit. Guess I can't go that way."

Val retraced her steps down the darkened hallway. Something fluttered behind her. She turned around and stared at the shaft. The noise repeated itself, a dry, rustling sound.

"What the-"

Without warning, a dozen undead pigeons flew out of the dark hole, soaring down the hallway toward her. Val ran, fleeing their terrible, squawking cries. She felt claws rake at the back of her neck, and beat them away. Another bird snagged her hair, pulling out a clump by the roots. She pumped her legs faster, lengthening the distance between herself and her attackers. Her hand instinctively covered her abdomen, protecting her unborn baby.

She rounded a corner and slid to a halt. At the far end of the hall dozens of zombies were searching room to room. They hadn't noticed her.

Quickly, she tried the first door to her left. It was unlocked.

Val heaved herself into the room. Two birds made it through before she could slam the door shut. One launched itself at her face, and its razored beak clamped onto her eyelid and flew away. Val shrieked as it tore loose. The second bird darted for her lidless eyeball, plucking it from its socket.

Half-blind, Val grabbed a lamp from the table and swung it, clubbing the first bird to the floor. Still screaming, she smashed the other one against the wall. Both the lamp and the pigeon exploded. The first bird rose from the carpet and speared her other eye. The last thing she saw was the pointed beak. Then, everything vanished in a red cloud of pain.

She clutched at the bird, feeling the gore-matted feathers, her fingers tracing over her own eyeball before she squeezed both it and the bird into a pulp.

Doubled over with agony, Val crashed around the room, blindly searching for the door handle. She found it, and stumbled out into the hall. Blood streamed from her empty eye sockets. Part of her brain warned her that there were still zombies in the corridor, but she didn't care. Something flared inside her head. Hands held out in front of her, she weaved down the hallway, one shoulder sliding along the wall.

"Can somebody help me?" she sobbed.

The air stank of smoke and cordite-and rot. She smelled the creature before it spoke.

"Where are you going, bitch?"

"Please ..."

"Come here, little mouse."

"Somebody help me!"

"One blind mouse. See how it runs ..."

"Leave me alone!"

Val turned in the darkness, seeking only to escape the stench and that horrible, grating voice. She ran, hearing the unmistakable sound of a racking shotgun. She fled, sightless and crippled from the pain and shock.

"Please," she sobbed. "Somebody-"

Still running, she tumbled down the open elevator shaft.

Ob and his lieutenants strolled through the burned-out lobby, stepping over the smoldering ruins and surveying the damage. Above them, the slaughter continued.

Relentless, the undead hordes pressed forward, murdering every living creature in their path-humans hiding in apartments and offices, cowering in bathroom stalls and ventilation ducts, and making a stand in the hallways and stairwells. For the most part, the killings were quick and efficient, but some of the Siqqusim who had remained trapped in the Void for a lengthier time than their brothers stopped to feed, relishing the moment.

The residents of Ramsey Towers fought back; cab drivers and models and clerical assistants and telemarketers- all turned warriors in the face of their own extinction. Both the living and the dead suffered heavy casualties, and pieces of human wreckage littered the building. But for every walking corpse that was destroyed, four more rose up to take its place. The bodies of the recently dead returned, hunting down their former friends, family members, and lovers. Methodically, the creatures swept through each floor of the building, choking the passageways with their presence and leaving abominations in their wake. Slowly, they worked their way to the top.

Bates and Steve emerged from the armory, each carrying a flamethrower.

Their backs were strapped with lightweight canisters full of jellied gasoline. Bates had used one in Iraq, and had seen the liquid fire melt skin and bones.

They ran down the hall and straight into a massacre. Thirty feet away from them, ten zombies stood in a circle feasting upon the gored remains of three adults and two children that lay in a dismembered pile between them. Absorbed in their meal, the creatures didn't notice their approach. Quickly, the men ducked out of sight, and watched, deciding what to do next.

"We should move on," one of the creatures grunted around a mouthful of liver.

"I'm hungry," another moaned, carving a layer of yellow fat from one of the children. "Let's finish eating first. I haven't had man flesh for three days."

A third elbowed its companion out of the way, and wrenched the heart from another body.

"We must continue," the first one insisted. "We can enjoy these spoils later."

"Not until we replenish ourselves. I waited longer than you for release from the Void. I will eat my fill!"

Another zombie held up one of the children's arms like it was a chicken leg, and greedily bit into the bicep.

"Try this first." It smacked its lips, nudging the first one. "The children are much more succulent than the adults. Have a bite before we move on."

"Ob's orders were to-"

Bates and Steve leapt out, and pulled their triggers at the same time.

The flames whipped toward the clustered zombies, incinerating them in mid-feast. They howled, not in pain, but in enraged confusion. Two of the corpses stumbled forward, scorching the floor with every halting step. Bates directed the flame toward them, and they crumbled. Nothing remained but burning meat.

Steve turned away and retched. In the ceiling above them, the sprinkler system kicked in, drenching them both.

"Bates," Steve gasped. "I can't take this anymore, man. I can't..."

"With luck, it will all be over soon." "You think so? Because I sure don't see it." Without a word, Bates flicked his wet hair from his face and led Steve toward the stairwell.

Dr. Stern was inside an elevator between the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth floors when the power went out. He froze, terrified that the car would plummet to the bottom of the shaft. When he realized it was still suspended safely by its cables, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He pressed the emergency call button, not expecting results and not receiving any. He tried the radio clipped to his belt, but there was no response. Then he waited, wondering what to do next. He studied his M-16, refamiliarizing himself with the weapon. He recited from memory the crash course that Forrest had given him. He listened, hoping to hear voices, footsteps, anything that would indicate that somebody was aware of his predicament.

Nobody came.

The air inside the elevator grew hot. Stern removed his shirt and mopped his brow, trying not to panic. His throat felt dry and scratchy. His eyes seemed to swell, as did his hands and fingers. His ears burned and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

My blood pressure is up, he thought. Need to calm down, think rationally, and get the hell out of here.

He tried the radio again. There was a burst of static, and then a garbled voice. He listened carefully, but couldn't make out what the other person was saying.

"Bates? This is Stern. Do you copy?"

Something unintelligible.

"This is Dr. Stern. I'm trapped in an elevator. Can anyone hear me?"

Static, and then, "My dick ..."

"Say again?"

"Dick ... it's gone. They ... took it..."

"Who is this? I need help. I'm stuck inside one of the elevators."

"They're everywhere, man ... Thousands of them ... They..."

"Who is this? Can you hear me?"

"It's c-cold. Savini's missing. George is dead ... So is ... Ken. Ripped his arms out ... Joe and Gary ... They shot them both before I could do a-anything. And then ... and then they ..."

"Go ahead, son. I'm listening."

"They turned on me. They tore my pants off ... and ..."

Stern drew in a breath and held it.

"They ... cut it off and ate it... and then they just... they just left me here."

Stern was speechless. The elevator suddenly seemed to spin. He closed his eyes against the vertigo. His stomach churned.

The man on the other end began to sob.

"They left me here to ... to bleed out and die. They cut my fucking dick off!"

"It-it's going to be okay," Stern said, feeling foolish. "Can you tell me your name?"

"I don't want to be like them," the man wailed. "Not like that! I don't want to come back."

"Please," Stern whispered. "Tell me your name."

"I don't want to come back."

"Please? Can you tell me who you are? Where you are?"

"Hail Mary, full of grace ..."

There was a gunshot, and then silence. Stern turned the radio off, wrestling with a wave of nausea. After a moment, it passed.

The air inside the elevator grew hotter, stifling. After a moment, he sat the rifle aside, stood up, and studied the doors. He experimented with them, sliding his fingers in between the crack. Grunting, Stern pulled. The doors didn't budge.

"Damn it."

He strained again, pulling with all his might. The doors slid a half-inch, then an inch, and then stopped. He let go and caught his breath.

"It never looked this hard in the movies."

He put his eye to the crack and peered through. The wall of the shaft stared back at him. Two feet above his head, he saw the bottom half of another pair of doors. He realized that the elevator was stuck between floors. If he could force these doors open, and wedge the others apart as well, he could climb through.

He set to work again, and with a final heave, the doors slid open all the way. Warm air brushed his face. He smelled smoke.

"Well, that's half of it," he panted.

He laid the radio on the floor next to the rifle and his shirt, stood at the edge of the elevator, and reached up. His fingers just reached the outer doors, but he had no leverage to pry them open.

"Where's the ladder? In the movies, there's always a ladder inside the shaft."

Cursing, he slammed his hand against the shaft in frustration.

An answering knock came from the other side of the doors.

"Hello," he called, "Is somebody out there?"

The knock sounded again, along with muffled voices.

"I'm in here!" Stern pounded on the shaft wall. "Can you get me out? I'm stuck."

They called back to him. Stern wasn't sure what they said, but it sounded like "Hang tight."

So he did. He waited, listening to the activity on the other side.

Within moments, the doors slid open, bathing the shaft with the soft glow of emergency lights. A flashlight clicked on, and one of his rescuers shined the beam into his face.

"Thank God," Stern gasped, squinting against the light. Several figures stood illuminated in the open doorway, but the beam blinded him and he couldn't make out who they were. "I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of here."

There was no response.

"Could you kill that light, please?"

"Sure," came the reply. "Right after we kill you."

The zombies reached down and grabbed his hair and shoulders, yanking him upward. Screaming, the doctor thrashed and kicked, as they pulled him out. They threw him to the floor, holding him down as they tore into him with their bare hands. They clawed open his abdomen and reached inside, pushing and prodding. One of the creatures gripped a fistful of his intestines and pulled them out, running its tongue along the glistening offal. Another grabbed a fistful of his lung, pulping the organ between its fingers.

Stern tried to scream, but no sound came out. His lips moved silently as a zombie thrust its hand inside him, wrenched something loose, and then held it up for him to see.

He stared at his own spleen, and minutes later when he came back, he ate some of it himself.

DiMassi slipped through the fire door and ran up the last flight of stairs. His heart hammered in his chest, and his lungs burned. Gasping, he stopped at the door leading out onto the roof, and looked through the window.

The roof was gone. Presumably, it was still there, but he couldn't see it beneath all the undead birds. Even the massive strobe lights were buried.

"Holy shit."

Hands shaking, he pulled a bright yellow protective suit from its hook on the wall and put it on. When he was a boy, DiMassi's father had been a beekeeper, and the outfit reminded him of that. Heavy mesh Kevlar covered him from head to toe, including a hard plastic visor, sewn into the hood to cover his face. Movement was laborious while wearing the protective suits, but they kept the birds from tearing the pilots to shreds on their way to the helicopter.

His muffled panting sounded loud inside the covered hood, and his breath fogged the face shield. He pulled on the thick gloves and waited for the fog to clear. Outside, the zombie birds stared back at him through the window.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway below, and Carson crashed through the door.

"End of the line, fat boy."

DiMassi flung the door open and stepped outside. The birds took flight, moving as one toward him. Crows, pigeons, finches, sparrows, robins-dead wings beat the air. Their deafening cries sounded like children screaming, and the sky was black with their bodies. They slammed into the pilot, crushing him with their numbers. More creatures soared through the open door.

DiMassi stumbled, falling to his knees in the middle of the roof. His back, legs and arms felt heavy from the weight of the birds. Their beaks and claws pecked and tore at his protective suit, but the material held up. He collapsed into a ball and rolled around, crushing them beneath him. DiMassi struggled to his feet. Slowly, methodically, he plodded across the roof to the helicopter. The birds were so thick that it was like walking underwater. He yanked the door open but the birds crashed against it, forcing it shut again. A large crow pecked at his visor hard enough to crack the plastic. Another managed to wedge its beak in the seam between his glove and wrist, drawing blood.

Screaming, DiMassi pulled the cockpit door open again, and lunged inside. He pulled the door shut, smashing the birds that had made it inside with his gloved hands.

"Fuck you, Carson! You fucking faggot! Fuck you too, birds!" He tossed the gloves and hood into the seat next to him, and raised his middle finger to the stairwell door. But the door had vanished inside a cloud of rotting, feathery bodies.

"I did it. Son of a bitch-I made it!"

Laughing, DiMassi crossed his fingers and started the helicopter. The engines whined to life and he laughed louder.

Carson was halfway up the stairs when the air turned black. He managed to let out a short, strangled cry and then they fell upon him, smashing into him like torpedoes. Razored beaks jabbed at every inch of his exposed flesh. His ears and cheeks were sliced to ribbons. His eyeballs were plucked from their sockets, and his nose was ripped from his face. His weapon slipped from his bleeding hands, clattered down the stairs, and discharged. The explosion was lost in the din of the screeching zombies and Carson's tortured shrieks. He screamed as something clawed and pecked its way into his stomach. The bird took wing again, a curd of fat hanging in its beak. Agony erupted in his groin. His throat was flayed open.

Carson collapsed, tumbling down the stairs and rolling to a stop against the closed door. The birds swarmed down, tearing his clothes to pieces.

Then they dug into the rest of him, turning the young soldier into a quivering mass of bloody meat and exposed nerve endings. Despite the pain and blood loss, Carson remained conscious through it all.

It took him a very long time to die.

Jim, Quinn, Frankie, and the others arrived at the stairwell in time to hear Carson's screams. Branson turned white and Danny shrank away, covering his ears with his hands.

"We've got to get him out of there." Branson reached for the doorknob with his uninjured arm. "They'll tear him to pieces!"

"Don't open that door," Quinn cautioned. "You'll let them in here!"

"But Quinn, we can't-"

The rest was drowned out by Carson's shrieks.

"There's nothing we can do." Quinn steadied himself, trying to remain calm. "If we open that door, those things will be on us in a second."

"He's right," Jim said. "Frankie and I have both seen what a flock of those birds can do. We won't stand a chance."

"But it's Carson ..."

"And it will be us next if you don't listen to me." Quinn seized his shoulders and shook him. Branson winced, and the wound in his forearm began to bleed again.

"But, Quinn-"

Something slammed against the door. Then another. The door rattled in its frame.

"They're trying to break it down," Frankie said.

"Can they?" Quinn asked.

"Damn straight they can. How many birds are in New York City?"

Quinn shrugged. "Millions. Why?"

Jim spoke. "I reckon all of them are on the other side of that door."

The thudding continued. Jim was reminded of the sound of hammers falling. More birds hurtled themselves into the door, heedless of the damage to themselves. The metal began to buckle.

Suddenly, the grille on the air duct above them snapped open, swinging on its hinges. An undead child dropped from the ductwork, landing in a crouched position behind them. Giggling, it lurched forward.

Quinn raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The zombie's head was sheared off. It took two more faltering steps and then toppled over.

Danny slugged it with the bat.

The pounding continued on the other side of the door.

"Come on," Frankie urged. She ran inside Ramsey's office. Jim and Danny followed her.

"Get your shit together, Branson," Quinn said, and then pushed him out of the way. He pressed his back against the door and braced his legs. A second later, Branson joined him. The weight on the other side of the door was immense.

Quinn's radio crackled. He grabbed it with one hand, keeping up the pressure with his legs and other arm.

"Quinn."

"It's Bates. What's your situation?"

"Situation normal. All fucked up."

"Say again?"

"We're on the top floor. Ramsey and Carson are both dead. DiMassi's either dead or fleeing in the helicopter."

"How many are in your party?"

Quinn paused, counting in his head. "Five. There's me, Branson, Thurmond, his kid, and the woman, Frankie."

"Can you move?"

"We'd love to. Anything's better than where we're at now."

"Good. Remember where we caught you getting head from that hooker the first week here?"

"The sub-basement? Yeah, I-"

"Don't say it out loud. This channel may not be secure."

"Okay," Quinn coughed. The door started to slide, and he pushed harder.

"Put your back into it, Branson."

"Quinn," Bates barked. "Do you copy?"

"Copy! I'm a little preoccupied here, Bates. How the hell do we get down there? Aren't those things thick by now?"

"Be advised, they are everywhere. You'll have to fight your way down.

But it's our only chance, Quinn. Meet us there, and hurry."

"What's going on? Why there?"

"I'm not saying anything else over the radio. They might be listening.

Just do it. We've got a situation here, too. Got to go. Out."

The door slowly began to slide open again. Quinn and Branson gritted their teeth, shoving against it.

"Hurry up," Quinn yelled. "We can't hold them much longer!"

The door inched open, and a small bird darted through the crack and fluttered into the air. The two men shoved the door closed again, smashing feathered heads and wings.

Frankie and Jim lugged Ramsey's heavy, oak desk out into the hall. The bird darted forward and pecked at Jim's cheek. His hands slipped off the desk and it dropped on Frankie's toes. She yelped, letting loose with a string of curses. Jim ducked as the bird swooped toward him a second time, but suddenly, Danny stepped forward.

"Leave my Daddy alone!" He swung the bat, and the bird exploded like a rotten tomato.

"Nice shot, kiddo," Frankie said. "Now tell your daddy to get this frigging desk off my foot."

Jim smiled with pride. They picked the desk up again and shoved it against the door, blocking it. Carson's screams echoed from the other side. Jim turned back to thank Danny and froze, stunned.

Danny was savagely beating the bird's corpse into a red smear. Gore and feathers splattered both the walls and stuck to the bat. His lips were pulled back in a grimace.

"I-told-you-to-leave-my-daddy-alone!" Each syllable was punctuated by another swing.

Jim's mind flashed back to the car crash, and the look on Danny's face when he saw his father beating the zombie with a rock. And now ...

My God, what effect is this way of life having on my son?

"Danny? Danny, stop."

The boy's grunts faded. He looked up at his father, and his face was pale and tired.

"Danny. It's okay now. Stop. It's dead."

"I know, Daddy."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders. "That was very brave and I'm proud of you, but-"

"It was hurting you, Daddy."

"I know. But you need-"

Carson mewled on the other side of the door.

"Oh, Christ," Branson shouted, horrified. "He's not dead yet!"

Quinn interrupted Jim and Danny's embrace. "We need to move."

"Never mind," Jim whispered. "We'll talk about it later."

"I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too."

They ran for the rear utility stairs, and Carson's fading screams followed along behind them.

The helicopter rose into the air, blades and rotors chewing up the zombies hovering around it. DiMassi activated the U.B.R.D. and the remaining birds dropped from the sky like stones. Still laughing, he swerved to the left and soared out over the city, high above Madison Avenue.

"Sayonara, suckers."

He checked the fuel gauge, and considered his destination options.

Getting far away from New York City was his top priority, but eventually, he'd need to refuel, and find food and shelter. He decided to head northwest, toward Buffalo. There were lots of mountains and forests between here and there, some with airstrips or flat areas where he could land safely and take off from again.

Perhaps the wilderness would be more hospitable-or at least less populated.

DiMassi eyed the dials, making sure everything was functioning properly.

Slowly, he relaxed, the tension melting from his limbs. The gray, sunless sky opened before him, promising more rain.

He was still going over the instruments when a zombie on the ground raised an RPG, locked onto him, and squeezed the trigger. DiMassi saw a brief flash out of the corner of his eye, and then it was too late.

The helicopter exploded in the skies over 35th Street, looking very much like the second sunrise of the day. Twisted metal and burning fuel rained down into the streets. The smoke from the explosion mixed with the black cloud rising from Ramsey Towers and the burning buildings around it.

Inside the structure, the massacre continued.

Jim, Frankie, Danny, Quinn, and Branson began the long trek down the fire stairs. Quinn took point and Frankie brought up the rear.

"I can go last if you want me to," Branson offered.

"You're hurt," Frankie reminded him, "And the back of this hospital gown doesn't tie completely. I don't want you checking out my ass."

Blushing, Branson turned away. Frankie grinned.

They zigzagged downward, their footsteps echoing around them. The stairwell was quiet, save for their heavy breathing and the metallic clink of their weapons. The sounds of carnage drifted from behind closed doors with every level they passed: screams of fright, pain and dying; cruel, guttural laughter; gunshots and crackling flames.

"It's hot in here," Danny complained. "How far down is it?"

"A long way," Jim told him, his voice concerned. "You okay?"

Danny nodded. "Just sweaty and tired. My feet hurt."

"I'd carry you, squirt, but if the zombies come after us we may have to fight, and I can't do that with you on my shoulders."

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm a big boy. I can do it."

They continued down, pausing occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit.

Branson wiped sweat from his forehead. "Kid's right, though. It is getting hotter in here. I'm sweating like a motherfucker."

"Probably the fires," Quinn mused. "But I don't think we have to worry."

"Why's that?" Jim asked.

"If I remember correctly, these stairwells were designed to act as a deterrent to fires. I don't know the engineering specifics, but they built them with the World Trade Center disaster in mind."

"So they're fireproof?"

Quinn nodded. "I think so."

"I hope so," Frankie added.

"How can the fire jump floors?" Branson asked. "I thought each floor had fireproofing materials in it to prevent that."

"Don't know," Quinn admitted. "But I'm guessing that the zombies are starting fires on each floor. Either that, or the shelling started several small fires, and they're out of control."

"So what's the plan?" Jim asked.

The pilot stopped, listening. He brought a finger to his lips. The others halted behind him. After a moment, he relaxed and continued on.

Frankie stared back up the stairs. "What was that about?"

"Thought I heard something above us, but I guess it was just our shoes.

Sound is funny in here."

He led them forward. "Anyway, about the plan. I talked to Bates on the radio while you guys were getting the desk. He wants us to meet him in the sub-basement."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't say, in case the zombies were monitoring our communications. I'd guess we're going to escape through the sewers. Or try to at least."

Frankie halted, remembering her journey through Baltimore's sewer system: the darkness, the stench, the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia-and the rats. Especially the rats. It hadn't helped matters that she was withdrawing from heroin at the time.

Jim touched her arm. "You okay?"

She nodded, her mouth a thin, grim line.

Quinn noticed her demeanor too.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Had a bad experience inside the sewers back in Baltimore. That's all. If we get out of here, I'll tell you about it. But don't sweat it. I'll be okay."

They walked on, footsteps still bouncing off the walls.

"So where do we go once we're underground?" Jim asked.

"I don't know," Quinn said. "Bates couldn't talk long. Sounded like they were in a firefight. He said to hurry. If they get there before we do, they won't wait for us."

Their descent continued for another fifteen minutes before the group stopped to rest. They were exhausted and thirsty. Branson's arm dripped blood, and Danny's eyes had black circles under them. They debated sneaking onto one of the floors and raiding a soft drink machine, but decided against it.

"Can't believe we haven't run across any of them yet," Branson said. "Hell, do you realize just how many of those things must be in the building?"

"Don't jinx it," Quinn replied. "Let's just hope our luck continues."

Frankie pulled Jim aside.

"I need to ask you something."

"Sure. What's up?"

"Have you been having weird dreams?"

"Not really," he said. "In fact, I've only dreamed once since Martin and I left West Virginia, at least as far as I can remember. Why?"

Frankie shrugged. "I don't know. I-I've been dreaming about Martin."

"About how he died?"

"No. About the present, and the future. He shows me things. It's like he's a fucking ghost or something. He's been warning me."

"Warning you about what?"

Before she could answer, a door squeaked open several floors above them.

For a moment, the booming sounds of battle grew louder. Then the door swung shut again, muffling them.

They froze, staring upward in silence. Footsteps padded down the stairs.

Quinn put a finger to his lips and readied his weapon. Frankie and Jim did the same. They could smell the zombie as it drew closer. Not rot or decay, but blood. The air was thick with blood.

"I know you're down there, little piggy," the corpse chuckled. "You left a trail of breadcrumbs."

Horrified, they glanced down at their feet. Dime-sized drops of Branson's blood had dripped from his wrist, spattering every other step on their way down.

"Shit." He cradled his wound to his chest.

"Helloooo," the zombie called. "Why not go easy on yourself? I'll make it quick and painless, and I promise only to eat a little bit of you."

They shrank away from the railing, their backs against the wall. The zombie continued its descent. Suddenly, they heard another door open, several landings below them. They were surrounded, cut off on both ends.

Danny and Branson exchanged frightened looks. Quinn signaled Frankie and Jim to deal with the zombie above them, and then slowly crept forward, inching his way down the stairs toward the second group.

The footsteps grew louder, as did the stench. The zombie was on the landing above them. Jim could see its shadow in the glow of the emergency lights. Then they heard something else: the racking of a shotgun.

"Ready or not," the zombie chuckled. "Here I come."

Frankie and Jim pointed their rifles back up the stairs, waiting.

Unnoticed, a blued shotgun barrel was lowered between the handrails on their level and the level above them. The explosion was deafening, and rocked them all.

Frankie ran halfway up the stairs, spun around, and dropped to her knees. Her eyes widened in surprise. Dr. Stern's dead face split in a wide grin. His abdomen had been emptied; his ribs pried apart and sticking out of his flesh like porcupine quills.

Frankie squeezed off three wild shots and then ducked down again, crab-walking back to the wall. One bullet plowed into the wall, and the others ricocheted through the stairwell.

"Did you hit it?" Jim asked.

"I don't think so."

"Now that's not very nice," Stern taunted. "After I took such good care of you when you were hurt."

"No," Frankie said, "I guess not."

The thing began talking in a language that Stern had never known. "Enga keeriost mathos du abapan rentare."

Several landings below them, Quinn's M-16 rumbled a staccato beat.

Distracted by the sudden gunfire, Frankie and Jim didn't notice the zombie. Stern rounded the corner and charged down the stairs, shotgun pointed directly at them. When the thing that had been Stern saw that he was outgunned, he pulled the trigger and then turned to run.

The shotgun pellets peppered Branson's face. Blinded, he slammed into the handrail and tipped over the side, teetering for a moment like a seesaw before he fell. His screams ended in a sickening thud from far, far below. More cries drifted up to them from Quinn's location.

Frankie and Jim simultaneously returned fire. The barrage ripped into Stern, severing one arm and splattering his brains all over the stairs.

Jim whirled. "Danny, are you okay?"

Staring in horror, Danny pointed at the handrail. His bottom lip quivered.

"Daddy-Mr. Branson fell..."

Jim rushed to Danny's side and pulled him close, whispering in his ear and smoothing his hair.

"And that nice doctor turned into one of the monsterpeople. He was all opened up."

"I know," Jim soothed. "I know. It's okay. There was nothing we could do."

Frankie stepped past them and looked over the handrail.

"Quinn?" she called. Her voice bounced back to her. "Quinn? Are you okay?"

"Come quick," he shouted. "Get down here. We've got trouble!"

Another voice followed his, one that sounded familiar. "You're a god damned idiot, Quinn."

"Who the hell is that?" Jim asked. "Is somebody down there with him?"

"Couldn't see. They're too far down. It sounded like Steve."

"Who?"

"The pilot that was with Quinn when they rescued us. The guy from Canada."

Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"Come on," Frankie urged. "Let's go."

They ran down four more flights of stairs. Steve and Quinn were crouched over a body. They saw black combat boots and black leather pants. The legs beneath the pants trembled in pain and shock. A white shirt, soaked with blood, and more blood spreading onto the stairs in a widening pool.

The blood, the shirt, the pants and the boots all belonged to Bates.

"Oh shit," Jim muttered.

"Understatement... of the ... year, Mr. Thurmond," Bates hissed through clenched teeth. His face was chalk white.

"I'm fucking sorry, Bates," Quinn sobbed, clenching the wounded man's hand.

"This is Bates?" Frankie whispered. Jim nodded.

"And you must ... must be Frankie. Nice ... to make ... your acquaintance."

"Does it hurt?" Quinn asked.

"Shock ... is starting to ... set in."

"We need to move," Steve said. "The zombies must have heard the gunshots. They'll be here any second."

"What happened?" Jim asked.

"Bates and I entered the stairwell," Steve said. "We heard you guys above us. Before we could call out, the fighting erupted. That was when genius here shot Bates in the stomach."

Jim caught a glimpse of the wound, and turned away.

"It was an accident," Quinn insisted. "I thought he was a fucking zombie!"

"Getm ... out of ... here," Bates coughed, spraying bloody spittle.

"Steve's right. They'll be ... on us any second. I'll hold them ... off."

"Bullshit," Steve told him. "Jim, strap on his flamethrower. You can carry that and sling your rifle at the same time. You're covering our rear. Frankie, you've got point. Quinn, give me a hand."

Quinn and Steve used the straps from the rifles to hold Bates's guts in, wrapping them around his waist. Their wadded up T-shirts covered the exit and entrance wounds. They cinched the straps tight, and Bates grew even paler.

They hoisted him to his feet, and he moaned, clutching at his stomach.

"Put your arms around our shoulders," Steve told him. "I know it hurts, but you're not gonna die. It takes a long time for somebody to die from a gut shot. We'll get you out of here and fixed up in no time."

Bates tossed his head, trying to see past the long hair plastered to his face.

"Steve," he rasped, "whom ... did you have ... in mind to ... fix me up?

Where are they ... going to operate-in the sewers? Just ... shoot me in the head and ... leave me here."

"Stop that," the Canadian pilot answered. "Just stop that talk. You'll be fine."

"I'm so sorry, man," Quinn apologized again.

"Shut up, Quinn."

"How do I work this thing?" Jim asked, strapping the flamethrower's tanks to his back.

Steve gave him a quick lesson and then they started down the stairs again, Frankie in the lead, Steve and Quinn supporting Bates, Danny behind them, and Jim bringing up the rear.

They only made it three more floors before the zombies poured into the stairwell above them. The creatures opened fire, and the air rang with the soft pop of .22 rifles, the thunder of a .45, and the concussive blasts of a Browning sub-machine gun. Jim unleashed a stream of liquid fire, torching the creatures in midrun. The descent became a running battle. Frankie shot the creatures below them and Jim incinerated anything to the rear. The stairway echoed with gunfire and reeked of burning hair and flesh. The smoke grew thick, and they had to put their clothing over their mouths and noses to filter the air they breathed.

Their eyes stung, and their ears rang from the constant explosions.

A zombie on the next landing shimmied up the handrail and clutched Steve's foot. He tried to shake it off without jostling Bates, and the wounded man groaned. Dirty fingernails clawed at Steve's ankle, slicing into his flesh. The pilot screamed as the nails burrowed deeper.

Danny swung the baseball bat. He brought it down again, shattering the creature's wrist. The hand pulled away. A second later, Frankie shot the zombie from its perch.

Eventually, the pursuit dwindled, and then died. Still, they kept running, moving as fast as they could without jostling Bates or losing Danny, who was having trouble keeping up.

Then they found Branson. His body had plummeted more than twenty stories before coming to rest on one of the landings. His back was snapped. His legs and arms hung askew, splintered and broken, and his head had split open like a melon.

"Guess he won't be coming back again," Quinn said. "Lucky bastard."

Bates croaked, "We should ... all be so ... lucky."

Frankie checked her magazines and reloaded. Steve and Quinn caught their breath, grateful for the stop. Danny snuggled close to Jim, hugging him tightly. None of them spoke.

Footsteps pounded after them from far above.

They ran on.

Carson's body wasn't recognizable as a human being, yet the red, raw mass struggled to its feet, controlled by another. His hand had only two remaining fingers and a thumb, but he managed to turn the doorknob. With the combined weight of the birds slamming against it, the door exploded outward, shoving the desk out of the way.

The zombies flew down the hallway, darting through open doorways and soaring down the empty elevator shafts and open stairwells. The thing that had been Carson stumbled along behind them, shedding pieces of meat.

The hallway was quiet, and there were no humans in sight. It wondered where its host's friends had gone. The creature searched Carson's memory, and then traced Branson's trail of blood down the corridor.

Eventually, it found its way to the utility door, and opened it. The

birds followed him, pouring into the stairwell. With each floor they passed, more zombies joined in the chase. The stairway filled with dead bodies, all hurtling downward in pursuit of the living.

SEVENTEEN

"Forrest, how much longer are we going to wait?" Smokey whispered.

The sub-basement was dark, cold, and dank, reeking of smoke from the fires above them. Their only sources of illumination came from a flashlight that Pigpen found on a tool bench, and a battery-operated lantern. The concrete floor was piled high with boxes and storage bins.

Workbenches were heaped with tools and scraps of pipe and wiring.

Spider-webs dangled from the air ducts.

Forrest shifted his weight from foot to foot, guarding one of the doors.

"As long as we have to. We ain't leaving without them."

Etta found some clean rags in one of the boxes and changed the bandages on Leroy's burned forearm. God brushed up against her side, purring loudly, and she shooed him away.

"Get this damn cat out of here," she snapped at Pigpen. "Leroy don't need his arm getting infected."

Leroy pushed himself up. "I'm fine. It's just burned. Quit your fussing, woman. You cluck more than a chicken."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Leroy Piper," Etta's head darted back and forth like a snake's, "or that burn on your arm will be the last of your worries!"

"Etta," Forrest snapped. "Keep your voice down! For God's sake, why don't you just walk upstairs and let those things know we're down here?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but saw the storm brewing behind the big man's eyes, and shut it again.

Forrest glanced at his wristwatch, and chewed his lip. He looked around the basement again. There were four entrances: a service elevator, two regular stairways- both of which led to the destroyed parking garage, and the fire stairs. Don guarded one stairwell, and he kept watch on the other.

"Smokey," he grunted, "get over there and watch that fire door. Pigpen, shut that damn cat up. He's meowing as loud as Etta."

"Hey," the big woman protested.

"Sshh!"

Forrest's radio hissed static. He snapped it up.

"Forrest?" It was Quinn. "You copy, big guy?"

"Here. Where you at?"

"We're ..." There was a moment of silence, and Forrest heard somebody else in the background. "We're on our way to the location you and Bates agreed on."

"He with you?" The relief in Forrest's voice was unmistakable.

"Yeah. So are Steve and the Thurmond party."

Don looked up, the grin on his face infectious, spreading to the faces of Leroy, Smokey, and Etta.

"Where are you?" Quinn asked. He sounded out of breath. "And who's with you?"

"We're waiting on you," Forrest said. "I got Smokey, Leroy and Etta, Pigpen, and Don De Santos."

"And God," Pigpen added. "Don't forget God."

The cat rolled over onto its back and Pigpen scratched its belly.

"Which way are you guys coming down?" Forrest asked. "We'll clear a path."

There was another pause, and then Quinn said, "Bates says not to tell you over the radio. Just be ready for us. If we don't run into anything else, we should be there in about five minutes."

"Copy that. We'll be ready."

"And Forrest?"

"Yeah?"

"See if you can find some clean linens, alcohol, maybe even some duct tape."

Forrest translated the list in his mind. Bandages, disinfectant, and sutures. Battlefield medicine. A poor man's triage. That meant someone was injured.

"Who's hurt?" he asked.

"Bates."

"Is it bad?"

"Yeah. Yeah, man, it is."

"Shit."

Forrest started to ask what had happened, but a gunshot cut him off.

"Got to go, man," Quinn shouted. "They're on our ass again!"

More gunfire crackled from the speaker, and then Quinn was gone.

Forrest clipped the radio back onto his belt and looked at his companions. Their faces were grim.

"They better get a move on," Leroy grumbled.

Etta got to her feet. "If those things is chasing them, won't they lead them down here?"

Nobody replied. Smokey, Don, and Forrest turned back to their posts.

Pigpen began searching through boxes and storage bins, looking for anything that could be used to treat Bates. God trailed along behind him.

Suddenly, the door in front of Don burst open. He brightened, expecting to see Jim, Frankie, and Danny walk through. Instead, it was a lone zombie, dressed in a dirty, tattered delivery uniform. Before it could even step through the doorway, Don dropped it with a single shot to the head. Terrified, he checked the stairwell for more.

"Clear?" Forrest asked.

Don nodded, shuddering. He grabbed the creature's feet and dragged it out of the way so that the door would close again.

"Forrest," Etta pleaded, "we've got to go. If that one found us, then you can bet your ass there's more coming. They must have heard that gunshot."

"We're not leaving without Bates."

"And I'm not leaving without my friends," Don said.

"We don't even know if they're alive!"

"Of course they are," Don argued. "We just heard from them."

"Yeah, and they was in the middle of a fire-fight. They're probably dead now. I say we go."

"Etta." Smokey tried to reason with her, turning his back on the fire door. "Why don't you just sit back down and rest?"

"Smokey," Forrest warned, "watch the door."

At that moment, the door opened. Smokey turned and Don and Forrest raised their weapons. Then they lowered them in relief.

Frankie ran into the basement, followed by the two pilots, supporting Bates between them. Jim and Danny entered last.

They gaped at Bates's wound. Smokey tore his eyes away. He shut the door and began stacking boxes in front of it as a crude blockade.

Don exchanged hugs with Frankie, Danny, and Jim. "I was worried about you guys. Everybody okay?"

"We're all right." Jim nodded. "How about you."

"What happened?" Forrest helped lower Bates to the floor.

"Quinn fucking shot him in the stomach," Steve said.

"You what?" Forrest's eyes bulged.

"It was an accident! We were under attack. I thought he was a zombie."

Bates reached up and clutched Forrest's arm with one weak hand.

"Got ... your ... pistol?"

"Never leave home without it." He tried to smile, but "it looked more like a grimace.

"Give ..." Blood dribbled from his mouth. "Give ... to me."

Forrest lifted up his shirt and pulled the weapon from its holster.

"Pigpen," he called, "you find anything?"

"Some sheets, and a roll of duct tape. Found a bottle of water too. Ain't been opened. No alcohol though."

"Bring them here."

Steve and Forrest poured the water over the wound to clean it. Bates clenched his teeth and writhed with pain.

"Do we have anything to cut the sheet up with?" Forrest asked.

"D-don't worry ... about it," Bates gasped. "Just ... g-"

"Lie still, Bates. It's gonna be okay."

"No." Bates grabbed his hand. "Get them ... out of... here."

"But-"

Bates squeezed harder, and Forrest flinched, surprised by the wounded man's strength.

"Listen ... to me. We're all... that's left. Get ... them out ... I'm going to ... die."

"You're not going to die, god damn it!"

"Yes ... I am." Bates coughed. "And ... we both ... k-know it."

Forrest's eyes were wet. His lips quivered. The big man tried to speak, but the only thing that came out of his throat was a choking sound.

"Pig ... pen," Bates groaned. "You ... ready to ... lead them?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

Bates stared up into Forrest's face. "Go."

Forrest swallowed hard.

"Quinn, Don. Get that manhole cover up. Jim, have that flamethrower ready, just in case there's anything down there. The rest of you stand back."

"Danny." Jim pushed him backward. "Stay here with Frankie."

Quinn and Don set their weapons aside and gripped the cable that Forrest and Bates had threaded through the cover earlier. Jim stood next to them, the flamethrower at the ready. They counted to three and pulled.

The manhole lid inched upward, revealing darkness. Forrest and Pigpen tensed, coiled and ready, remembering the dead rats that had poured out of the hole earlier. Don and Quinn eased down on the cable, setting the cover to the side. The shaft was empty, the ladder rungs disappearing into the dark. All of them breathed a sigh of relief.

"Block the doors," Forrest ordered. "Boxes, crates, anything heavy."

Steve, Don, Jim, and Frankie began stacking things in front of them.

"Bates?" Quinn turned back to him. "We can't just leave you behind."

"You ..." Bates couldn't finish. He broke into a fit of violent coughing. Blood sprayed from his mouth and oozed from the gunshot wound.

"Bates made his decision," Forrest grunted. "And he's right. We can't waste any more time."

"But he's our friend."

"You think I don't fucking know that, Quinn?" Forrest exploded. "There isn't anything we can do! Now move!"

They finished with the blockades. Frankie found a pair of ratty old work boots that fit her feet, and changed out of her hospital slippers.

God sniffed the open shaft and meowed.

"I found some glow sticks on that workbench over there," Pigpen said.

"Figure they'll come in handy."

Nobody responded.

Suddenly, the stairwells thundered with sound, the doors vibrating on their hinges.

"Here they come!" Etta screamed.

"How many?" Forrest asked.

Frankie pointed her weapon at the door. "All of them. And this barricaded door ain't gonna stop them for long."

"Go," Bates urged them. "I'll ... hold them off when ..."

They gathered around him, unsure of what to say. Pigpen broke the silence.

"Thanks."

Bates nodded, clenching his fists in pain.

Pigpen clicked on the flashlight and quickly started down the ladder.

God perched on his shoulders, entwining around his neck. Leroy and Etta said their goodbyes and climbed along behind him. Smokey went next, followed by Frankie. Danny climbed down after her, and Jim prepared to follow.

The approaching din grew louder.

"Mr. Thurmond?" Bates wheezed.

Jim stopped, his head and shoulders sticking out of the shaft.

"I... hope it turns out ... okay ... for you and your ... son. Your story is ... an inspiration."

Jim nodded sadly. "Thank you, Bates."

He vanished from sight.

Steve, Quinn, and Forrest stood over their dying leader.

"No time ... for ... regrets. Just go. Hurry ..."

Steve and Quinn walked away, leaving Forrest and Bates alone. They didn't look back.

The zombies began pounding on the door.

Forrest knelt down and wrapped Bates's fingers around the butt of the pistol. He held them firm, and stared into his friend's clouding eyes.

"You've got six shots in there. Don't forget to save one for yourself."

"Got... it..."

Tears ran freely from Forrest's eyes.

"Been a pleasure to serve with you, Bates."

Bates smiled. "The honor ... was mine."

"Semper fi."

"Ooo rah ..."

Forrest swung his legs over the shaft and climbed down the ladder. With one hand, he grabbed the cable threaded through the manhole cover and pulled it shut behind him. The last thing he saw was his friend, lying in a pool of blood, eyes half-closed. Forrest let go of the rungs and dropped the last six feet, his boots thudding on the cement.

They crowded together in the tunnel. The impenetrable darkness increased their anxiety. Pigpen handed each of them a glow stick, and fastened another one to God's collar.

"This way," Pigpen said, pointing the flashlight beam into the blackness. God ran ahead, his tiny paws splashing through a pool of water. They followed.

After they'd disappeared around the corner, other tiny paws trailed along behind them, scurrying in the darkness.

Bates struggled to sit up, his back against a steel support pillar. The zombies battered at the doors. The racket was horrendous, and their cries were terrible. Something skittered through the air ducts over his head, searching for a way in.

Bates had known fear in his life. When he was eight and he'd almost stepped on a copperhead while walking through the woods behind his home.

When he was sixteen, asking Amy Schrum to the prom. He'd been frightened during his first night in boot camp-lying there on his rack in the dark barracks, and listening to the guy below him sobbing. In Iraq, as they advanced north toward Baghdad with winds whipping at fifty miles-per-hour, burying everything under a fine coat of sand. That was the first time Bates had seen combat, and he'd been terrified. And more recently, when he'd first seen the hints that his employer, Darren Ramsey, was slowly going insane from what was happening in the world around them.

Bates was no stranger to fear. Yet now, as the zombies smashed through the doors, he did not feel it. A strange sense of calm washed over him.

Nothing mattered, not even as the creatures descended upon him, surrounding him with their rotting forms.

Smiling, Bates tried to raise the pistol and found that he couldn't. He suddenly felt weak and cold. His stomach hurt. He tried to lift the pistol to his head again, but it clattered from his numb fingers. Bates closed his eyes as the zombies drew closer.

He didn't feel the blade of the handsaw as it ripped across his throat.

"It is finished, lord Ob. The humans are defeated."

"None left alive in the building?"

"Our forces have just slain the last one, sire. We are victorious."

Ob looked up at the burning building, a funeral pyre towering into the sky. The clouds spat rain, but still the fires roared, engulfing floor after floor. The buildings surrounding Ramsey Towers were also ablaze, and the smoking wreckage of the helicopter lay scattered in the streets.

"Well, if there are any left inside, cowering in some dark corner, they won't be for long. Gather our forces. Have them regroup. And set the rest of the necropolis alight."

"But lord Ob, is this place not to be our base of operations?"

"If all the humans are destroyed, then our time here is done. We'll have no need of this city. It will be our kindred's turn, and we shall move on to conquer other worlds. The second wave can begin."

A zombie stepped from the ruins, dressed in black leather pants and a bloodstained white shirt. Long, dark hair spilled down its back. The corpse was fresh. Its throat had been sawed open from ear to ear. It walked toward them.

"Lord Ob!"

"Yes?"

The thing inside Bates struggled to speak through its damaged vocal cords. "I just took possession of this body mere moments ago. I have searched my host's memories."

"And?"

"A number of the humans still live. They've escaped."

"Where?" Ob growled.

"Under the city, my lord. Directly beneath our feet."

"How many?"

"Ten of them, sire. Several of them are formidable warriors."

"How so?"

"Three are trained soldiers. And one of them traveled several hundred miles in search of his son. His example rallies the others-gives them hope."

"In search of his son?" Ob thought back to his previous host, the scientist, Baker. He'd had two companions: Jim, the father searching for his son, and Martin, the elderly holy man.

"This father-what is his name?"

"Jim. Jim Thurmond."

Ob clenched his fist so hard that the fingernails punched through his palms.

"Was one of them an old black preacher?"

The Bates-thing shook its head. "There are two black males, sire, but neither is a preacher. One is named Leroy, and the other, Forrest."

"What is it, lord Ob?" the lieutenant asked.

"Unfinished business," Ob said. "Associates of one of my former hosts.

They escaped me in Hellertown. It's a trivial matter. Not really worth wasting time over. But still-it would be beautiful to destroy this father and son after everything they've been through. The irony, the violation, would burn the Creator's ears and eyes."

"How shall we proceed?" The lieutenant stood ready.

"We didn't do all of this just to let ten of these creatures slip through our net. Order all of our forces into the tunnels beneath this city."

"All of them, sire?"

"All of them."

The rain drenched them all, spilling onto the streets and into the gutters. It swirled down the drains and sewer grates, into the tunnels below.

The zombies followed.

They followed Pigpen in single file, while God darted ahead of them, exploring the shadows. The glow stick in the cat's collar flashed neon green in the darkness. The cat stopped occasionally, licking his paws until they caught up. Each step took them deeper and deeper into the network of tunnels spreading like veins beneath the city. The silence and darkness were overwhelming-the quiet broken only by the faint sound of dripping water. The dampness seeped through their clothing.

Frankie shivered, wishing she had something more than the hospital gown to wear. The thin cloth barely covered her, and her ass was an ice cube.

She decided she'd conserved her glow stick long enough and snapped it on, activating the chemicals inside the plastic cylinder. The darkness surrounded the light, as if trying to extinguish it. She slogged forward, her fingers trailing along the wall to her left, and then yanked them away. Slimy moisture dripped from her fingertips. Wincing at the thick, unmistakable reek of raw sewage, Frankie wiped

her hand on her leg and buried her nose in the neckline of the gown.

"Maybe we should have stayed upstairs," she joked.

The ceiling rose and sank like a roller coaster. They walked farther along the tunnel, alternately ducking under pipes and stepping over puddles. Jim gripped Danny's hand, making sure they stayed close in the darkness.

A small arch led into another tunnel, reeking of hydrogen sulfate. A pipe in the wall dripped black sludge. It felt like the weight of the city was crushing down on them.

Pigpen and God led them on, emerging into a new passageway. They stepped over a jumbled mound of cinder blocks and a discarded roll of copper tubing. The floor was dry, and the darkness wasn't as thick. Thin beams of light from the burning buildings in the streets above filtered down through overhead grates.

Frankie caught a whiff of burning flesh from the streets above, and wished for the darkness again. A roach the size of a half-dollar popped beneath her heel. She thought back to her dream in the hospital, of the plants and the insects becoming reanimated after humanity and the other life forms were destroyed. She opened her mouth to mention it to Jim and Don, but then decided against it. No sense alarming the others because of a dream.

Pigpen stopped, tilting his head and listening.

"What is it?" Forrest whispered.

"God heard something," the vagrant breathed. "His hackles are up."

They peered into the darkness, but saw nothing.

Danny squeezed Jim's hand, and clenched the bat tighter in his other fist.

"Daddy, I'm scared."

"It's okay. None of us are going to let anything get you. The cat probably just smelled a mouse or something."

"But what if the mouse is one of them?"

God prowled ahead, and Pigpen followed. The rest of the group plodded along behind them.

"So how far does this tunnel run?" Forrest asked, whispering now.

"Almost the whole way," Pigpen answered. "They ain't finished building it, but it's sturdy enough. We'll pass a few rough spots, places under construction. We used to sleep near one of them sometimes, when we couldn't get below Grand Central. There's a bomb shelter a few stories below our feet too."

"A bomb shelter?" Smokey was puzzled. "Who built that?"

"Mr. Ramsey. There's bunches of them under the city, and I know where a few of them are located. Most of them got built during the Cold War, and they've sat empty since then. But folks live in them now. Last time I checked, Ramsey's was vacant, but it's got food and stuff inside."

"Well shit," Leroy grumbled, "why don't we just make for that? Hole up inside, barricade ourselves? Might be easier than going to the airport and stealing a plane."

Forrest snapped a glow stick and wedged it into his belt. "If we do that, and the zombies found us, then we'd be trapped. I say we stick with the original plan. I don't want to spend the rest of my days holed up in a bunker."

"You've got that right," Jim said. He thought back to how this whole thing had started-trapped in a backyard bunker while the dead raged above him. He didn't want it to end that way as well.

They continued down the tunnel. Minutes later, they passed a manhole shaft. Shelves made from pallet boards and scrap wood hung over the ladder rungs, along with soiled sleeping bags. Needles, crack vials, broken bottles, and shriveled condoms lay scattered on the floor. The darkness grew thicker again, enveloping them all. The temperature dropped, and they could see their breath reflected in the soft light of the glow sticks.

"It's getting colder," Etta whispered.

"That's because we're getting farther away from the fires," Pigpen explained.

Frankie shivered again, and pulled the hospital gown closer.

They came to a section where muddy water dripped from the ceiling, forming a pool on the floor. A layer of scummy film floated atop it. It stank worse than the corpses in the city streets above them. More cockroaches scuttled through the detritus. But that was it. No humans or rats, undead or otherwise. They skirted the pool and moved on.

They continued in silence, with only the sloshing of their wet shoes and the sound of their breath as company. The network seemed endless, each tunnel vanishing into the distance, beyond the reach of the flashlight.

But Pigpen and God crept on with unerring assurance, tirelessly guiding them through the twisting, graffiti-covered catacombs. Eventually, they arrived at a crossroads where several tunnels merged into an open area.

"What was this gonna be?" Forrest asked.

Pigpen shrugged. "I don't know."

"It looks like some sort of hub," Don whispered. "Service tunnels maybe?"

Quinn lit a cigarette. "Well, one thing's for sure. It'll never get finished now."

They crept on through a large, round tunnel, which emptied out into an uncompleted subway station, deserted except for a skid piled with new turnstiles, and an abandoned lunchbox and thermos. The flashlight beam reflected something in the darkness, and Steve stepped closer to investigate. A decapitated head stared back at him; a Ramsey Construction hardhat perched on its scalp- The skin on its face looked like wax-greasy and swollen. The lips moved silently, and the eyes darted back and forth, tracking his movements.

"Ugh!" Steve lashed out with his foot, kicking it down several flights of stairs to the lowest platform. The head rolled off the platform and bounced onto the tracks, coming to rest against the third rail. He held his breath, waiting for the crack and sizzle of electricity, but there was no power. Instead, the head just lay there, cursing him without vocal cords.

"Touchdown." Quinn smirked. "Hell, Steve. You could have played for the Giants."

They continued on; Pigpen and God in the lead, Steve and Quinn bringing up the rear, and the rest of the group sandwiched between them. When the glow sticks began to fade, they cast them aside and activated new ones.

"Pick those up," Leroy suggested, pointing at the discarded glow sticks.

"No sense in leaving a trail for them to follow."

They put the discarded sticks in their pockets and kept walking.

Jim took hold of Danny's hand again.

"Daddy?"

"What, squirt?"

"Do you think they'll ever make a new Godzilla movie?"

Jim stifled a laugh. The question surprised him, so unexpected and removed from their surroundings.

"I doubt it, Danny. I think Hollywood and Tokyo are probably just like everywhere else now."

"That sucks," the boy pouted. "I'll miss Godzilla. And Spider-Man and Dragonball Z. Maybe when I grow up, I'll make new ones."

"Maybe we can find you some comic books somewhere along the way, after we get to where we're going."

Danny's face brightened at the prospect. "I miss my comics. They were all back at Mommy's house. Now they're probably burned up, or else the monster-people are reading them."

"You know what I missed?" Jim asked him.

"What?"

"I missed you." He gave Danny's hand a squeeze.

"But what do you miss now, Daddy?"

Jim thought about it. "Your stepmom. And West Virginia. My friends back home. Watching the Mountaineers play, even if they're losing. And Martin."

"You know what I miss?" Quinn spoke up from the rear. "An ice-cold beer.

God, I'd kill for a beer right now. And a big, juicy steak, cooked rare with a baked potato on the side."

"I miss Days of Our Lives," Etta said.

"You and those damn soaps," Leroy grunted. "That's all you ever watched."

"I watched it ever since I was a little girl. Last I saw, Abe and Lexie was getting back together, but Stefano was gonna stop it. Now I don't guess I'll ever find out what happens next."

"You won't be missing much." Leroy shook his head in frustration. "I miss my car. I swear, my damn feet got blisters from all this walking."

"What about you, Steve?" Quinn asked.

"My son."

They grew quiet. In the darkness, Steve sniffed.

"Yeah," Don finally broke the silence. "I miss my wife, Myrna."

Pigpen's eyes were far away. "I miss that Italian place on 24th. They used to give me a meatball hoagie every day. God and I would share one, and eat it outside on the sidewalk bench. Boy, those were good. Didn't last long, though."

"You mean God didn't turn the sandwich into more, like Jesus with the bread and fish?" Quinn teased him.

"God's just a cat, Mr. Quinn."

They all laughed at this. In the darkness, Quinn's ears got as red as his hair.

"What about you, Forrest?" Don asked. "What do you miss most?"

"Honestly? This will sound weird. I was a news junkie. Growing up in Harlem, my momma made me watch the news every day. Stuck with me when I became an adult. Always started the morning with a cup of coffee and The Daily News. Then I'd watch Fox or CNN in the evening. I miss the news-I miss feeling connected to the world. I don't feel like I'm a part of it anymore."

"You might not want to be a part of it," Frankie said. "It belongs to those things now."

"I miss my home," Smokey mumbled. "And my dog. He was a good dog-kind and gentle, scared of his own shadow. Followed me around the house all day. I boarded him in a kennel when I came here to visit my daughter. I wish I knew what happened to him."

"Maybe it's better that you don't," Leroy said.

Frankie didn't speak her desire aloud. She missed her baby-her stillborn child. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force the image from her mind. She could still hear the nurse's screams when the infant had come back to life.

Danny murmured, "I miss Mommy."

Jim put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

They all fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts.

Soon, the sounds of running water echoed from ahead. They emerged into a wide space filled with tools and construction equipment. A seamless curtain of water poured from a broken pipe fifteen feet over their heads. To their right, there was a hole in the cement wall. It looked like something or somebody had chiseled it out. Pigpen shined the flashlight beam into the hole.

Etta and Smokey both screamed.

Rats had eaten half of the zombie's face-whether before or after it had died they didn't know. The eyes were scratched out, and the tongue had been chewed away. An ear was missing; the other was a ragged lump of gnawed cartilage. When it sat up, the creature's empty eye sockets swarmed with wriggling maggots and a plump, white worm dropped from its nose.

The blind creature slumped out of the hole and crawled toward them, guided by their screaming. God reared up, hissing, and Pigpen dropped the flashlight. He bent, fumbling for it, as the monster crept closer.

Forrest raised his rifle to his shoulder, carefully lined up the crosshairs of his scope, and squeezed the trigger. The stock bucked against his shoulder and the zombie's rotting head exploded, splattering the wall with gore and maggots.

Pigpen snatched up the flashlight and gasped for breath.

Behind them, a thin figure separated itself from the darkness and glided toward the group. They didn't see it until it's yellow, broken teeth sank into Leroy's neck. Flesh and tendons tore, and blood gushed from the hole. Leroy's scream became a long, drawn out wail. He beat at the creature with his hands, but the jaws clamped down on the wound again. The zombie shook its head back and forth like a dog, burrowing deeper into his neck and shoulder. Its pus-covered fingers dug into the burn wound on his arm, popping the blisters and peeling his skin back.

"Get it off me! Oh God ..."

"I can't get a shot," Quinn yelled. "Steve! Nail it!"

Steve ran forward, clubbing the creature with the butt of his rifle. He smashed the stock against its face a second time, and the zombie reared backward, taking another mouthful of Leroy's neck with it.

The wounded man collapsed next to the zombie on the tunnel floor. He tried to scream, but blood shot from his throat rather than sound. He inhaled, the air whistling in his chest. The zombie reared up on its hands and knees and gnashed its teeth.

"Leroy!" Etta screamed.

She ran to his side and the zombie lunged for her. Steve swung the rifle over his head and slammed it down a third time. There was a sickening thud, and then blood and other fluids gushed from the cracked skull.

Steve clubbed it again. The corpse went limp, sprawling in a puddle of sewage.

The others checked the perimeter, but there were no more zombies. They gathered around Leroy and Etta.

Leroy held his hands up to his face and saw the blood on them. His eyes widened in panic and he grasped his throat. Etta sobbed, begging him not to die. He tried to speak one more time, and then his lips stopped moving.

"No," Etta cried. "This ain't happening. You come back, Leroy. You come back to me right now, god damn it!"

Forrest's voice was gentle, but firm. "Etta, you know what we've got to do."

"He ain't gonna rise. Not Leroy. He ain't gonna come back."

Smokey knelt down beside her and clasped her hands. "Etta, you know that's not true."

Don sniffed the air. "You guys smell something?"

"Just the sewer," Frankie quipped.

Suddenly, God howled. The cat paced back and forth in front of the large tunnel, hissing and spitting with rage. He peered into the darkness and then backed away.

"Listen," Quinn gasped. "What the hell is that?"

"Whatever it is," Frankie whispered, "the cat doesn't like it."

Then they all heard it, racing down the tunnel toward them-the whispered scurrying of rats. Hundreds of beady red eyes reflected back at them from the darkness.

"Oh, God," Quinn whispered. "We are so fucked ..."

Frankie shoved him. "Run!"

"Jim," Quinn shouted, "Get that flamethrower back here! Toast the fuckers!"

"No," Forrest yelled. "Those are gas mains over our heads. You light up and you'll kill us all. Move, people!"

Jim glanced upward and spotted the gas pipes hugging the ceiling. Small, furry shapes darted along the top of them.

The undead rats rushed down the tunnel like a brown wave. They made no sound, save the clicking of their claws. As they drew closer, they began to squeal. The sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

God was the first to run, followed by Pigpen, Frankie,

Don, and Smokey. Jim scooped Danny into his arms and raced down the tunnel after them. Quinn, Forrest, and Steve brought up the rear. All three fired into the scurrying mass, but it had no effect.

Etta never had a chance. The undead vermin swept over her as she struggled to get to her feet, crushing her back to the floor. Her body was completely obscured. They stripped the flesh from her bones in minutes, and then did the same to Leroy. The rest chased after the group.

Ob stared down the shaft in the sub-basement's floor.

"They went down there? You are sure of it?"

The gash in Bates's throat opened and closed as he talked. "Yes, lord. It is all here in my host's mind. They could not have gotten very far."

Ob turned to his lieutenant. "I want our forces to enter through every manhole cover and subway station within a twelve-block radius. Hunt them down and eradicate them. I would be done with this. Also, have a group dispatched for the airport, just in case they slip through our net."

The zombie nodded, and then lurched off to convey the orders.

Ob realized that his right pinkie finger was loose and dangling by a thread of sinew. He hadn't noticed until this moment. Perhaps he'd cut it on a piece of wreckage, or maybe the body was deteriorating faster than he'd expected.

He ripped the half-severed digit from his hand and dropped it down the hole.

"I don't like loose ends."

Ob climbed down the shaft. His forces followed.

They ran down the tunnel, their breath burning in their lungs. The rats bounded after them, unstoppable, closing the gap.

Smokey tripped over the rail and fell, sprawling across the tracks.

Forrest bent to help him. The others kept running, not looking back or stopping until a sudden hail of gunfire from in front of them brought them to an abrupt halt.

The human zombies surged forward, blocking their escape. Frankie and Don dropped to their knees and returned fire, aiming for the muzzle flashes.

Jim dove to the floor, sheltering Danny beneath him. Steve and Quinn fired into the rats, still bearing down from the rear.

"We're cut off," Forrest shouted. "Defensive positions!"

"Defensive my ass," Quinn wheezed. "This is gonna be a massacre."

"Jim," Steve hollered, "Get back here with that flame thrower."

"What about the gas lines?" Jim shouted back.

Quinn clamped his tongue between his teeth and squeezed off another shot. "The hell with the gas lines! I'd rather get blown up than eaten."

"I'm not leaving Danny!"

"God damn it, Jim! Get your ass back here or we're dead!"

Thin, rusty ladders climbed up the sheer cement walls on each side of the passageway, providing access to two small service tunnels. God scurried up the one to their left, and Pigpen followed him. The vagrant wrenched the steel door open and turned back to the group.

"This way," he called. "Hurry!"

Jim lifted Danny into Pigpen's waiting arms and then scrambled up the ladder behind him.

"Go," Frankie urged Smokey and Don. "I'll cover you."

Smokey stood up and ran for the wall. The guns sang out, and the air buzzed with lead. A bullet plowed into him, and his heart exploded through the front of his shirt. Smokey collapsed back onto the tracks, eyes staring sightlessly.

"Fuck!" Don returned fire. "I can't see what I'm shooting at. It's too dark!"

Frankie's weapon clicked empty. She cast it aside and grabbed Smokey's.

"Is he dead?" Don asked.

"What do you think? You see the size of that hole in his chest?"

"I can't see shit. That's the problem!"

Another explosion rang out and more muzzle flashes erupted in the darkness.

"I'm hit," Steve cried out. "Oh shit, that fucking hurts!"

Frankie returned fire, aiming for the muzzle flashes.

Steve writhed on the tunnel floor, blood streaming from his leg. Quinn and Forrest knelt over him, and fired into the wave of dead rats.

"Get out of here," Forrest told Frankie and Don. "That's an order!"

"We don't work for you," Frankie shouted. "You can't hold them yourselves."

"Go, god damn it!"

A bullet pinged off the concrete next to Frankie, and fragments of stone pelted her skin.

Don tugged her arm. "Come on. We need to move, now!"

Crouching and firing at the same time, they reached the ladder. Frankie tossed Jim her weapon and climbed up while Don and Jim laid down cover fire. Then Don hoisted himself up, while Jim and Frankie held the zombies at bay.

Pigpen, Danny, and God watched from inside the service tunnel. Jim, Frankie, and Don remained on the ledge, turning back to the others. The zombies had the men pinned down, and the rats were less than twenty yards away, and closing fast.

"Get out of there!" Don yelled.

Forrest reloaded and unleashed another barrage into the moving wall of vermin, then spun and fired into the midst of the other zombies.

"You guys go," Steve groaned. "I'll hold them off."

"Bullshit," Quinn snapped. "We ain't leaving you behind the way we did Bates. He was mortally wounded. You're just shot in the fucking leg."

"And I'll slow you down," Steve insisted, clenching his teeth. "No way I can run from those rats."

Forrest kept firing. "Help him to his feet, Quinn."

"Damn straight. We'll carry him if we have to."

"No," Forrest said, wincing as hot shells bounced off his forearms.

"Steve is right. He'll just slow us down. Help him to his feet and give him a gun."

Quinn gaped in disbelief. "You cold hearted-"

"You heard the man," Steve grunted.

"Oh fuck," Quinn moaned. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! This isn't right, man! What about the airplane? Who's gonna fly it?"

"Use your head, Quinn. There's no way you guys will make it to the airport now!"

"This isn't right."

Steve grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight as another bullet ricocheted off the rail.

"Listen to me. We don't have time to argue. I'll never see my son alive again. But maybe, if there is an afterlife-and God, I fucking hope there is-just maybe, I'll see him there. I want to find out. The only thing that matters right now is that little boy up on that ledge, and his daddy. You want to do something for me? Get them out of here. Now!"

Slowly, Quinn nodded. "Okay, man."

The rats drew closer, their stench thick and cloying.

"Kick some ass, Canuck," Forrest said.

"You know it." Steve wobbled, shifting his weight onto his uninjured leg.

Quinn hesitated, eyeing the rats. "I still-"

"Don't. Just go..."

Forrest handed Steve an extra magazine and then shoved Quinn forward.

They were halfway to the ladder when Smokey's corpse sat up and grinned at them.

"Hey guys," it slurred. "Who's up for a game of cards?"

The zombies opened fire again. Bullets slammed into the ledge where Jim, Don, and Frankie were standing. The three of them ducked inside the tunnel.

Quinn frantically reloaded. "We're cut off."

"This way!" Forrest lunged for the other ladder. He climbed to the top, and then helped Quinn clamber up behind him.

The others stared across the tunnel in dismay.

"Where you going, Forrest?" Smokey's corpse called.

"You guys go ahead," Forrest shouted to the others. "We'll catch up, if we can!"

Jim flashed him a thumbs up and shut the door.

"Hurry up!" Steve shouted.

Forrest and Quinn spared Steve one last glance, and then they disappeared into the second service tunnel.

Steve cracked his neck from side to side, and planted his legs as firmly as he could, wincing from the pain. His leg felt cold, and the blood had run down into his shoe, soaking his sock and pants leg.

Smokey stumbled to his feet and pointed at the rats. "Say hello to my little friends, Steve."

"Never figured you for a Pacino fan," Steve grunted.

The zombie ran toward him, blood still dripping from the hole in his chest. Steve opened fire. The bullet shattered the zombie's sternum. The pilot readjusted his aim and the second one drilled into the creature's forehead. Smokey tottered forward over the tracks and lay still.

"Come on," Steve shouted, turning back to the rats. "Let's see what you've got!"

His machine gun roared. Brass jackets rained down, and the air became thick with smoke. The weapon grew hot in his hands.

As the rats bore down on him, Steve realized that he had never felt more alive.

He smiled, hoping that his son would be waiting on the other side.

Pigpen turned the flashlight back on, and they gathered around him.

"What about the others?" Frankie asked.

"Cut off," Jim said. "Forrest said they'd try to catch up."

"How? They got a map?"

Jim shrugged.

Don wiped the mud and gore from his face. "What now? They've blocked our way to the airport. And even if we could, going there would be useless without our pilots."

God meowed, twining himself between Danny's feet. The boy reached down and petted him.

"The bomb shelter," Pigpen said.

"Ramsey's?" Jim asked. "But we're cut off from that too."

Pigpen shook his head. "I told you-there's lots of them down here. I know of one nearby. Last time I was there, it was still stocked. Ain't been used in years. Government built it and then forgot about it when the Russians became our friends."

"Surely there are people in it now," Don said.

"No, I don't think so. Only folks that knew about it were me and God, and my buddies Fran and Seiber. Fran got killed at a soup kitchen in the East Village. A zombie shoved his head into a vat of boiling stew. And Seiber was shot by five-oh, down on Madison Avenue during the riots.

They caught him looting a jewelry store."

"How far is it?" Jim asked.

"Eight stories down and a little to the south."

"And you know the way?" Frankie whispered, not at all convinced.

"Yeah." Pigpen started forward, then stopped and turned back to them.

"And if I don't, God will deliver us instead."

The cat sprang out from between Danny's feet and ran ahead, green eyes glinting in the darkness.

Quinn stopped when he heard the gunshots. Steve yelled something unintelligible, muted by the concrete between them.

"Forrest? Maybe we ought to go back. We can't just leave him. Abandoning Bates was bad enough."

There was no reply. The big man had been swallowed up by the darkness.

"Forrest?"

More gunfire echoed.

"Forrest, quit fucking around!"

Quinn crawled on his hands and knees. The tunnel was tall enough for him to stand up in, but it was pitch-black, and the feeble light of his glow stick only made the darkness worse.

He crept forward, cautiously feeling his way. Then the floor disappeared beneath his hands, replaced by a hole. The chasm ran from wall to wall, completely blocking his progress. The edges of the crevice were jagged, and the masonry crumbled beneath his fingertips. Cold air brushed his face.

"Forrest?"

His voice echoed back to him from below.

"Oh shit."

The big man had obviously fallen down the hole.

Quinn called again, but there was no answer. He had no way of knowing if Forrest could even hear him. How far down was it? Maybe he was unconscious. Or dead.

Behind him, more distant now, Steve continued shooting.

Carefully, Quinn turned around and started crawling back to him.

"I'm not leaving you, man. We've lost enough people today."

The shots were sporadic now.

"I'm coming, Steve! Just hold on!"

He made it back to the doorway and put his ear against the cold steel.

The gunshots had stopped, both Steve's and the zombie's. All he could hear was a high-pitched squealing.

Slowly, he opened the door. The rusty hinges creaked.

Quinn gasped, horrified at what lay before him.

The squealing didn't belong to the rats. It was coming from Steve. The tunnel was flooded with wriggling, rotting vermin. The brown, furry creatures were almost six feet deep in places. If he weren't seeing it, he would have never believed there were this many rats in the world, let alone New York. They crawled overtop one another to reach the ledge. The human zombies waded through them, toward the doorway that Jim and the others had disappeared into.

Steve's arm jutted from the sea of rats, like a buoy in the middle of the ocean. The rest of him was buried beneath the squirming mass.

Incredibly, his fingers were still twitching, his fist clenching and unclenching.

"Steve!"

Quinn crouched on the edge of the service ledge, and reached for Steve's hand.

"Get off him, you little fuckers!"

The rats chattered angrily, and Quinn was sure he could hear words-formed by creatures that lacked the necessary equipment for speech. Attracted by his outburst, the human zombies turned, and raised their weapons.

Quinn grabbed Steve's hand. Steve's fingers curled around his. Quinn pulled. His friend didn't budge. He jerked harder, and suddenly, the arm came free. Quinn stumbled backward, knocking his head against the concrete wall. Steve's arm came with him, their hands still clenched together.

The rest of Steve stayed with the rats.

Gibbering, Quinn tossed the severed arm aside and turned to run. A rifle cracked. The first shot caught him in the leg, but he felt no pain. The second round punched the breath from him, and brought a muted burning sensation. Teetering, he fell backward, landing on top of the writhing masses. Hundreds of razor sharp teeth and claws ripped at his flesh. It felt like thousands of tiny needles piercing his skin.

Quinn opened his mouth to scream and a small rat scrabbled inside it, stretching his cheeks as it forced its body farther into the orifice.

Its nails slashed at his tongue. Blood welled in his mouth. He was unable to spit it out because the rat blocked his airway. He tried to move his arms and legs, but the creatures' combined weight kept them pinned. His lungs pounded, desperate for air. The last thing he saw was a large rat's misshapen, decaying head, darting for his eyes. Then there was a bright flash of pain, and then he saw no more.

Quinn sank to the bottom of the pile.

Forrest awoke in the dark, soaked to the bone. When he opened his eyes, the darkness did not dissipate. He grimaced, tasting blood, and spat. Gingerly, he explored his mouth with his tongue, and found a gaping hole where a tooth had been.

He was half-submerged in a pool of warm, stinking liquid. He shuddered to think what it was. Slowly, he rose to his feet, sloshing out of the foulness, and checked the rest of his body for injuries. No broken bones, but he was bleeding from at least a dozen different cuts and abrasions.

He stood there in the darkness, shivering and dripping with slime, and tried to get his bearings. He'd been crawling along the tunnel, feeling his way, when suddenly, the floor had disappeared beneath him. He remembered falling, so surprised that he hadn't even had time to shout a warning to Quinn-and then he remembered no more.

"Must have blacked out," he said aloud, and immediately wished he hadn't. His voice echoed off unseen walls, sounding strange and alien to him. When the noise faded, the silence was deafening.

He knelt, feeling around beneath the pool's surface for his weapons, but came up empty. He checked his belt and was relieved to find that he still had an unused glow stick and his knife. He grasped the hilt and pulled it from the sheath. The feel of the blade in his hands was comforting.

Forrest stood still as stone, snapped the glow stick, and waited for his eyes to adjust. The liquid came halfway up to his knees, clinging to him. He wondered again what it was. Finally, he dipped a finger into the pool and brought it to his lips, tasting it. Water- brackish and foul, but only water.

At least it isn't shit, he thought. Even so-I'm in a world of shit anyway.

He cocked his head, listening for anything that would indicate his location and whether or not he was alone. Water dripped, but other than that, the silence was as solid as the blackness around him. There were no shouts or footsteps or even gunfire, nothing that meant the others-or the zombies-were nearby.

When he could see, he edged forward. He was in an old, unused tunnel, left over from an earlier era. The walls were circular, and lined with crumbling, red bricks. Lichen and mold clung to the cracks, and a thin stream of brown water trickled along the floor.

He debated whether to call out for Quinn, or to remain silent. If there were zombies nearby, he didn't want to alert them to his presence. But what if Quinn had tumbled down after him, and was hurt or unconscious?

He couldn't just leave him here.

"Quinn?"

The darkness didn't respond.

"Yo, Quinn! Speak up if you're there."

His voice taunted him, transforming into something unfamiliar.

Forrest crept slowly forward, his body coiled and ready for anything.

The tunnel sloped downward at a steady decline, and he picked his steps carefully, not wanting to slip on the slime-covered bricks.

"Hello?" he called again, and thought he heard something rustle behind him.

Forrest turned and his feet shot out from under him. He landed on his back, his jaws slamming shut. His knife skittered away, and he slithered down the tunnel, desperately grasping for a handhold.

Then the tunnel disappeared, and suddenly, he was falling again. He splashed into a large pool of water, and sank beneath the surface. His feet touched bottom and he kicked for the top. He emerged, choking and gasping for breath.

Something brushed against his leg. Forrest jumped, and slapped at his thigh. He glanced down to see a small, white flash darting away beneath the surface-some kind of albino fish.

Treading water, he swam across the pool to a circular concrete platform.

He pulled himself up and collapsed, gasping for breath. He wished for his knife, and glanced back down at the pool. Albino fish teemed in the water by the dozens. Forrest wondered if they were some type of deformed goldfish, flushed down here long ago.

He tried to figure out what to do next. Climbing back up the shaft was impossible, yet he didn't see any other tunnels to escape through. He considered the possibility that the exit might be underwater, and surveyed the pool. The ripples had ceased, and the dark surface was still again. Something white jutted up from the center; a pipe or possibly a piece of wood, bleached from years of floating in this chemical soup.

He bent down and peered over the edge, studying the fish closer. One of them swam up to the concrete island, and Forrest froze.

Its left eye was missing.

"Dead. They're fucking dead."

The piece of wood began to move, slowly coming toward him. Something glinted in the darkness. Teeth. Rows of long, pointed teeth.

"Oh my God ..."

His conversation with Pigpen, when he'd scoffed at the bum's tales of what lay beneath the city, came back to him.

And there are alligators down there, Forrest. Big albino fuckers with red eyes and white skin. I had a buddy named Wilbanks. He lost a leg to one.

A baleful red eye glared at him, and then the alligator clambered up onto the platform. Pustulent, open sores covered its scaly hide, and its snout was a raw, red wound. Vertebrae poked out of the creature's side, and a chunk of flesh was missing from its massive tail.

Forrest backed away. The alligator lumbered after him. It opened its mouth and hissed. The stench of its foul breath was overpowering.

Exhausted and weaponless, his back to the wall, Forrest could only scream.

The zombie nosed his legs with its decaying snout. Forrest kicked it hard. The jaws snapped shut on his leg, and the darkness erupted with hot points of light. The alligator tugged hard, dragging him toward the water.

Forrest slammed his head against the concrete, desperately trying to crack his own skull open before the creature could kill him.

The creature severed his leg at the knee with a loud crunch. Forrest struck his head against the platform again and again, and felt warm wetness on the back of his scalp. But it was too late to kill himself.

The alligator rushed forward and opened its mouth.

"Headfirst, you motherfucker. Headfirst! I ain't coming back!"

He leaped into the gaping jaws, and they crunched down on his shoulders.

His last thought was, Choke on it ...

Minutes later, Forrest's severed head opened its eyes inside the alligator's stomach.

TWENTY

They ran, not caring now if the creatures heard their flight. Caution and their sense of self-preservation had given way to sheer terror.

Their feet pounded down the tunnel, the echoes pursuing them. God leaped through a hole in the wall and they jumped through after him.

Pigpen slid to a stop and opened a circular hatch in the floor, revealing a narrow shaft. They started down it, Jim assisting Danny with the climb. Don brought up the rear and closed the hatch behind them. The shaft continued downward for thirty feet, and the rungs were cold and slippery. Jim's flamethrower tanks kept getting stuck as they descended, and he had to struggle the whole way down.

They reached the bottom and Pigpen glanced around them, seemingly unsure of which direction to go. The tunnel ran north and south, and he stared into the darkness in both directions.

"Which way?" Don gasped, breathing hard.

"I'm not sure," Pigpen admitted. "This way, I think." He pointed with the flashlight beam.

"You think?"

"Been a while." He looked down at the cat. "What do you think, God?"

Without hesitation, the cat headed north. They stumbled along behind it.

"I don't believe this shit," Frankie muttered.

"What?" Don asked.

"We're following a fucking cat named God, and trusting it to lead us to safety."

Don chuckled. "Would you prefer a burning bush?"

They continued onward, their wet shoes rubbing against their feet. They climbed down another shaft, and exited into a tubular passage. Gas mains and fiber optic lines ran along the top.

"We're close." Pigpen sighed, sounding relieved.

Don stopped and knelt to tie his shoe. Danny, Jim, and Frankie passed him.

"You okay?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Don said. "Just don't want to trip down here in the dark.

Knowing my luck, I'd break my neck or something."

Danny squeezed his father's hand.

"How about you, squirt?"

"I'm scared," Danny whispered. His voice was weary. "It's quiet down here."

"Maybe that means we've lost them."

"We'll be safe now?" Danny stared up into his father's face.

"I won't let anything hurt you, Danny. I promise."

"Anybody else smell something?" Frankie asked.

Pigpen's nose wrinkled. "You mean besides the sewers?"

She shrugged. "Good point. Forget it."

Jim rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Boy, what I wouldn't give for a pair of gloves right now."

Frankie shivered in the darkness. "I hope there's something to wear inside this shelter. I'm freezing my ass off."

Pigpen shrugged. "I don't know. There's food. Freeze-dried stuff. And cases of bottled water. I'm not sure if there's clothing, but it is warm inside."

The flashlight beam flickered. Pigpen smacked it against his palm.

"Batteries are starting to die. I think I saw some of those in the shelter too. Hopefully they're still good."

"So what's this thing like?" Frankie asked, her teeth chattering.

"Kind of like a big boiler," Pigpen told her. "It's made out of steel, and the door is a hatch, like on a ship or a submarine. It's divided into two big rooms. The government stocked it up and then forgot about it. Your tax dollars at work."

"Lucky for us," Jim said.

"You can lock the door from the inside," Pigpen continued. "So that nobody else can get in. We used to do that, to keep the other homeless out. It's warm and dry. We'll be okay there. Hell, you could set off a bomb right next to it and that steel wouldn't buckle. It's stronger than anything Ramsey ever built."

Frankie's brow creased in thought. "Is there more than one exit? I'd hate to get trapped inside."

"There's a door on each side," Pigpen said. "We can lock both of them from the inside."

Jim thought again of how things had started. Then, he'd been alone, and left the safety of the bunker to find his son. Now, Danny would be with him, along with Frankie, Don, Pigpen, and God.

"God is with us," he whispered, quietly so that the others didn't hear him. He thought that Martin would have found it funny.

"Not much farther now," Pigpen reported. "I bet your feet are tired."

Frankie, Jim, and Danny all groaned in agreement. Don didn't reply.

"You okay, Don?" Jim asked. "You're awfully quiet back there."

"I'm fine," the zombie answered, and leaped onto his back.

Jim and Don tumbled to the floor. Don clawed at his face, his fingers seeking to rip open Jim's cheeks. Jim rolled, crushing Don beneath him.

He sat up and punched the zombie in the face.

Danny and Pigpen screamed, and God hissed. Frankie grabbed Don's hair in her fist and yanked his head back.

His throat had been cut. Something had slipped up behind Don and slashed it in the darkness.

How long was he dead? Frankie wondered. How long has he been following us?

Pigpen shined the flashlight beam back the way they had come.

Zombies filled the tunnel.

He turned and ran. God raced along behind him.

"Run!" Frankie shrieked.

Jim jumped to his feet, kicked Don in the jaw, and grabbed Danny's hand, dragging the terrified boy along with him.

"Mr. De Santos," Danny screamed. "Daddy, Mr. De Santos is a monster-person!"

Jim swept his son into his arms and rocketed down the tunnel. Frankie pounded along behind him.

Enraged, the zombies pursued them. One of them worked the bolt on its rifle, aimed, and fired. Jim cried out, and sprawled across the tunnel floor. Danny fell with him.

Pigpen, Frankie, and God rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. The tunnel ended at the fallout shelter, the exterior steel wall of which blocked their way. Pigpen flung himself at the hatch and grasped the wheel-like door handle. He grunted, straining to turn it. Frankie latched on and helped him. Slowly, the wheel began to turn, squeaking in protest.

There was an explosion behind them, and a bullet ricocheted off the shelter's outer wall.

"Danny," Don called, "want to come back to Bloomington with me? We can play with Rocky."

"Leave us alone," Danny shrieked. "You're not Mr. De Santos! You're not!"

"Come on, Danny. I'll take you back to your home. Don't you want to see your mommy? We'll find your comic books."

Tears coursed down Danny's cheeks. "Daddy, make him go away!"

The zombie tittered, "You can join us, Danny. You can be just like your mother and your stepfather and Mrs. De Santos. It only takes a second ..."

Jim clenched his leg, trying to stop the flow of blood. It ran between his fingers, staining them red.

"Danny," he grunted, "Listen to me. Go with Frankie."

"What about you, Daddy?"

Don rounded the corner and Jim leapt to his feet, yelling in pain and rage. Blood streamed from the wound in his leg. He gripped the side of Don's head, and slammed it against the wall. Blood and teeth exploded from the zombie's mouth. The gun slipped from the creature's fingers. Jim smashed its head against the wall again.

Screaming, he released the zombie and dug his fingers into the neck wound, pulling the flesh apart. The gash widened, and he thrust his hands inside the hole.

"Leave my son alone, you bastard!"

Pigpen flung the hatch open and God darted inside. More zombies appeared. Jim and Don struggled between them and the others.

Frankie grabbed Danny's arm. "Come on, Danny! Get inside!"

"Daddy!"

"Danny," Frankie shouted. "Get inside the shelter! Now!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

One of the zombies raised its rifle, peered through the scope, and squeezed the trigger. Pigpen cried out, and slumped against the wall, holding a hand to his chest. He stumbled through the open doorway, leaving a bright trail of blood behind him.

"Danny," Frankie urged, "come on!"

"Daddy!" the boy screamed again, turning back to his father.

Don's head lolled to the side, dangling over his shoulder. Jim had ripped it halfway off. He flung the corpse aside, pointed the flamethrower at the zombies, and backed away. Another bullet slammed into his leg. Jim bit his lip to keep from screaming. His head swam.

"Don't shoot him again," one of the zombies warned. "Hit those tanks and we all go up."

"So? What does it matter? We can get new bodies. This one is falling apart anyway."

"Lord Ob said to wait. He wants to deal with these humans himself."

"Where is he then?"

"Here," said a new voice, deeper and more powerful than the others.

Jim wobbled to a halt. "Frankie, get Danny inside and shut the door."

"What? Jim, you-"

"Do it. Please?"

"Daddy?"

The group of zombies parted, and one of them stepped forward. Jim didn't recognize the corpse, but he instinctively knew who resided inside it.

"Ob."

"Nice to meet you." Ob grinned. "We were never formally introduced, but Baker's memories told me so much about you. I see that you found your boy. That's touching. Now you can die together."

Jim's eyes didn't leave Ob. "Danny, I love you."

"Daddy!"

Jim's vision blurred as shock set in. He felt weak from blood loss, and the pain traveling up his leg was excruciating. He turned toward Danny.

"I'm very proud of you, and I love you."

"DADDY! NO!"

"I love you more than infinity."

He turned back to Ob.

Weeping, Frankie pulled the screaming little boy inside the shelter, and slammed the door shut. The clanging steel echoed in the sudden silence.

Hell, Pigpen had said, you could set off a bomb right next to it and that steel wouldn't buckle.

Jim hoped the old vagrant was right. He'd started out on this quest to save his son.

He'd succeeded.

He thought back to what he'd told Martin inside Don's garage.

I'll sacrifice myself before I'll let those things get my son.

Ob kept smiling.

Jim grinned back, even as the pain surged through him and his blood continued to flow.

The zombie craned his neck upward, studying the reinforced steel walls.

The other zombies closed ranks again, gathering around him. They pointed their weapons at Jim. Their stench was masked by the smell of the sewers, and Jim guessed that was how they'd snuck up on them. Don's corpse leaned against the tunnel wall, the head dangling at an impossible angle.

"Did you think you'd be safe inside that tin can?" Ob asked. "You humans amaze me. So determined to survive, when the alternative would be much easier."

Jim fingered the trigger, stroking it slowly. "What alternative?"

"Having the good grace to die, and quickly. What do you live for? What is there to look forward to? Cancer? War? Famine? We offer a much better choice, don't you think?"

"No thanks."

"It doesn't matter where you hide. Did you really think you could escape us underground?"

"I started this underground. I reckon I'll finish it underground too."

Ob laughed. "You aren't the first. The slaves in Egypt and Rome lived and died in the mines. I remember the Sumerian priests, who lived in underground dwellings, and used tunnels to visit one another. Poor bastards weren't allowed to see the daylight, and only ventured to the surface after dark. The Crimeans hid underground during the Tartar invasions. You are no better than a lowly worm. Your kind always cowers beneath the earth, Jim Thurmond."

"My boss and my fourth-grade teacher called me Thurmond. Everybody else called me Jim. You don't know me, so don't call me either."

"But of course I know you. Your friend Baker's memories are my own. I know all about you and Martin. Where is he-inside with the others? No matter. You escaped me once, but it ends here. I'm going to enjoy killing you, but I think I'll keep you alive long enough to watch as I pull your son's intestines from his stomach and feed them to him."

Jim's eyes flicked up to the ceiling and then back to Ob. Ob noticed the movement and looked up as well. He laughed, and then stepped closer.

"Praying to your God? He can't help you now, Jim. All He can do is watch. And when we've killed the rest of you, and my brothers are freed from the Void, His screams will be like thunder and His tears will be like rain. And then, when the second wave is over, we will drown His creation in fire."

Jim rocked backward on his heels. "Well, you're half right."

"What do you mean?"

Jim tilted the flamethrower upward and squeezed the trigger. Orange fire erupted from the nozzle and engulfed the gas mains in the ceiling above them. There was a bright flash of light. Jim closed his eyes as the heat blasted against his face.

"More than infinity, Danny ..."

On the streets above them, the earth moved.

The rain had stopped.

EPILOGUE

The motherless child and the childless mother awoke in the darkness. The cat lay between them, purring and twitching in its sleep. Frankie turned on the flashlight, thankful that the shelter had included batteries among the stockpiled supplies.

She rose, and checked the door. Remarkably, the reinforced steel had withstood the blast, but the door had twisted in its frame. The second night, undead rats had burrowed through the wreckage and tried to squeeze in through the crack. She'd fought them off, and then used a tube of silicone sealant and some boards to seal it off. She'd found both in a storage locker. It wasn't a marvel of engineering, but it was enough to keep the smaller zombies out.

So far ...

She made her way across the room, and rummaged through a cardboard box, producing a package of freeze-dried corn. She tore the wrapper open with her teeth.

"You hungry, Danny?"

"No." His voice was hoarse.

She emptied the package into a container, and poured a bottle of water over it. They had no way to heat the food up, so she set it aside, waiting for the water to be absorbed.

"You've got to eat, kiddo."

"I don't want to eat. I want Daddy."

Frankie fought back the tears. In the corner, Pigpen's blood still stained the floor. He'd died of his gunshot wound shortly after the explosion. Frankie cracked his skull with an iron bedpost before he could get back up again, and disposed of the corpse out the rear exit.

The front entrance was blocked, buried in tons of rubble, but the back door was clear. She'd briefly opened the hatch since getting rid of Pigpen, just to empty the coffee can they were using for a toilet.

She crossed back over to their cots and sat down next to Danny. He snuggled tight against her and she held him close, smoothing his hair and stroking his back with her fingernails. She breathed in his scent and closed her eyes.

Danny tried to speak, but his voice was cut off by a sob. His entire body trembled.

Frankie wasn't sure how long they stayed that way, but eventually, Danny sat up and wiped his nose on his hand.

"Maybe I am a little hungry," he said.

"Good. I'll get the corn."

She got up and spooned the corn into two bowls.

"Frankie? What will we do next?"

"I don't know, Danny. We're okay for now, but eventually, we'll have to leave this place. We've got enough food and water to last for a while, but we can't stay down here forever."

"But where will we go?"

She didn't respond.

They ate in silence. Danny let God lick his bowl clean while Frankie used the coffee can. When she came back out of the spare room, Danny was looking at her with an odd expression.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"You'll think I'm making it up."

"No, I won't. What is it?"

He paused before continuing. "While we were asleep, I dreamed about Daddy. He said he was in a better place now, and that I shouldn't be sad. He said we would see him soon. Him and Mr. Martin and Mr. De Santos and everybody else that died."

Frankie's breath caught in her throat.

"Do you believe me, Frankie?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, Danny, I do. I dream about the preacher-man, and he says the same thing."

Danny reached down and scratched God behind the ears. The cat raised its face to him and closed its eyes in contentment.

"Maybe they're not dead. Maybe the monster-people are the only ones that are really dead."

"Maybe," Frankie agreed.

Still exhausted, they lay back down on their cots. Frankie turned the flashlight off. Soon, the sound of Danny's soft breathing filled the room.

Maybe death isn't the end, she thought. I still don't know if I believe in Heaven, but hell is right outside that door. Maybe Danny is right.

Maybe death is just the beginning for us, and maybe it gives us an escape from those things. Maybe that's why they are here-so that we don't have to deal with them in the place we go to next. So that it's free of their kind ...

Frankie pulled the sleeping boy to her womb and closed her eyes.

What was it Martin had told her?

Everything dies, but not everything has an ending.

In the darkness, God watched over them while they slept. Eventually, the cat curled into a ball and drifted off as well.

The three of them slept like the dead.

When the rats finally chewed through the wood and silicone that blocked the hole in the door and poured into the shelter, Frankie, Danny, and God never woke up.

When they did, their loved ones were there to greet them.

In the streets of the Necropolis, silence reigned once more. Far above the empty skyscrapers and concrete canyons, the newly risen moon shined down upon the world, staring at a mirror image of its cold, dead self.

In Central Park, a broad, gnarled oak tree began to move its branches, stretching the massive limbs with a deep rumble. Individual blades of grass began to sway.

The moonlight disappeared, and the city was engulfed in darkness.

Thunder crashed in the sky, and the heavens wept one final time.

***

BRIAN KEENE is a two-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author of several novels and short story collections, including The Rising. His work has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, and several of his novels and short stories have been optioned for film. He has also edited several anthologies. He lives somewhere on the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland, where he spends too much time writing, walking his dog, and worrying that his readers or his editor will demand another sequel. If so, contact him at www.briankeene.com.