The Smoky Corridor

120

The room they had dropped into had six solid walls, no doorway.

But that hadn’t stopped someone from entering it: There were huge holes bashed through two of the thick stone walls. Flickering light fluttered through the far opening, from which Zack heard clinking and someone who sounded like Azalea on a really bad day barking orders: “More! Load the backpack!”

Zack raised a finger to his lips. Malik nodded.

In the dim light, Zack could see a steel support beam lying in a pile of rubble. Probably why the ceiling, which had been Zack and Malik’s floor, had opened up into a sinkhole.

Why was this room sealed off from all the others? Zack wondered.

“Check out the jars,” whispered Malik. “On the shelves and on the floor. Only one has a lid.”

“There’s something written on the sides,” Zack whispered back. “See the labels?”

“Yeah.”

“They look like names.”

“What’s the one with the lid say?” asked Malik.

Zack took it off the shelf. The glass felt warm, and something glimmered inside. “McNulty.”

They heard a thud and clank of something heavy falling to the floor. Carrying the jar, Zack crept closer to the hole in the far wall.

“You weakling!” shouted the voice that sounded like Azalea’s. “Surely you can carry more than that! Pile those bars on top of each other!”

Zack gripped the edge of a broken cinder block and peeked into the adjoining chamber—a room filled with shimmering bars of gold stacked ten feet tall, maybe ten feet deep.

“Faster, McNulty! I want to haul two dozen bars out of here before midnight tonight!”

“Yes, master.”

Azalea wasn’t alone.

The zombie was with her. And apparently, his name was McNulty.

Just like the name on the jar.