Not Flesh Nor Feathers

Every sound echoed against the cement floors and the super-high ceilings that stopped several stories above us. The place was busy but not crowded with emergency workers and cops; but then, the place was just too big to be crowded. Several times we were stopped and asked what we were doing outside of the sky-box area, but Nick just repeated his story about hunting supplies for the Red Cross and they let him go. A little bit of celebrity in this city goes a long way. I suppose they thought that if it turned out he was lying, at least they’d know where to find him later on.

We tried not to sneak because sneaking called attention to our presence. But we made a general effort to avoid the busier places, because why take extra chances? It was tricky, and it took us a few minutes more than I would’ve liked, but it worked out. We found ourselves alone together, staring at a scratched metal door that said, “Employees only.”

“Is this it?”

“It’d better be,” he said, and he pushed the lever latch to move the door aside.

The stairwell was packed with moldy shadows and it smelled like old meat. We took the stairs quickly because it was nasty in there and we didn’t like it. The floor was shiny with something gross, and the handrails were covered with old paint that flecked off under our palms.

Our feet tapped way too loud in the narrow space, but there was a door at the bottom so we opened it. I caught it before it closed, just in case, and kicked a little wooden wedge in its way so it couldn’t shut and keep us there.

“Where’s the goddamn light switch?” Nick demanded. “I’m not going to do a Yosemite Sam down here and strike a match. There’s got to be one somewhere.”

I spotted it first—a thin, dangling chain, like the kind that dog tags hang from. I gave it a yank and the old fashioned yellow bulb popped to life, drenching the basement storage with a sick-looking ochre light that was only somewhat better than none at all.

Inside we found stacks and stacks of junk, boxes, and dusty things that smelled a tad tart.

Nick wrinkled his nose. “Gunpowder. You smell it?”

“I guess that’s what it is.” I gazed around and saw mostly things that looked like ordinary storage.

“We’re in the right spot. Jesus, look at this stuff. This has to be it—look at all these warnings.”

“So maybe you should be careful about how you pick them up and shuffle them around,” I suggested.

“I am being careful. Don’t be such a worrywart—and holy shit, these are heavy. We’re going to need . . . huh. How many do you think we’ll need? You’ve seen the hole, I haven’t. What are we talking here? Major demolition? Minor cave-in?”

“A minor cave-in ought to do it.” I tried to remember all the junk over the hole, and I had to believe that it wouldn’t take much to bring it all down and bring the earth down with it. “What do you think those old tunnels are, anyway? Mining tunnels? A lot of the kids out here think they’re part of an underground city, but that seems highly unlikely.”

He wiped the side of a box, and gray dust coated his sleeve. “I couldn’t say. I’ve heard about it; it’s a popular little urban legend here. Maybe tunnels or earthworks left over from the war? I don’t think there’s any way to know, not anymore. No one has any records of making them, and all the folks without any imagination say that they don’t exist anyhow.”

“Oh, they exist”

“I believe you. But for all you know, it could be a big unfinished basement.”

“No way. I heard them down there—”

“You heard something down there. I want you to keep in mind that there’s an excellent chance we’re going to bury a whole bunch of rats and no shambling undead.”

“I know what I heard. And they’re coming up from the river, so the tunnels have to go at least that far. Anyway, I’m not worried about it. This is a good idea, and it’ll work. As long as we can smuggle these things out and back downtown.”

“All right then. But we’re not going to be able to do it by hand. We’re going to need bags, or backpacks, or something. Stay put and start picking out your poison. I’ll run upstairs and see about raiding the souvenir shop.”

I did as he suggested and stayed behind in the smelly, dark room, while he went upstairs to see what he could steal. I ran my hands along the box seams and popped a few open, taking a peek inside and reading labels.

“Not intended for indoor use—well, no kidding. ’Five hundred foot minimum fallout area required.’ Five hundred feet?” The canister was cylindrical and heavy, like an oatmeal tin filled with pennies. “Salute,” I read aloud from the label—apparently the name of the shell. I thought about trying to pry the shells open, but then remembered that my knife might well make a spark or two, and then we’d have our Yosemite Sam moment after all.

Nick returned with two duffel bags made of sturdy nylon. He’d thrown in a few towels, too, plus a smallish can of paint thinner and a roll of plastic wrap.

“Why the paint thinner? And plastic wrap?”

“We might need something flammable later on. Makeshift running fuse, or some such. As for the wrap, it’s raining again. And the towels, you know, to keep all this stuff separate. We’re basically going to be playing terrorist here—running around downtown carrying little bombs. I hope that this soothing mental image causes you to rethink this thing, but I bet it won’t.”

“That’d be a safe bet. We’re here now, we’ve got the fireworks, and I say we load up and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“How long are we going to have to carry this crap, anyway? It’s fucking heavy.”

“Not far,” I said, but I had to think about it. “A few blocks. It’s back towards the Read House—practically across the street from it, come to think of it. Catty-cornered, anyway. We can’t let zombies arise from the earth right near a shelter, where there are old people, sick people, and kids.”

He put down the shell he was holding, and looked at me with a fresh glare of disbelief. “But it’s okay to set off industrial grade pyrotechnics there?”

“It’s across the street. Not exactly across the street, but down it. Probably a thousand feet, anyway.”

“You have no earthly idea how far a thousand feet is, do you? And that’s an awfully specific number; you wouldn’t have pulled it out of your ass because you’ve been reading these labels, would you? Because some of these labels say two thousand feet, not one thousand, and not five hundred.”

“No. That’s not why,” I lied. “Look, Nick, it won’t take very much. A couple of these—the ones that say five hundred feet.” I carefully hoisted one of the smaller shells, and damn, it was heavy. “We’ll start with these, and if it doesn’t work, or the place doesn’t come crashing down, then we’ll give up and call the SWAT team. Grab some directions, though. I haven’t the foggiest clue how to light one of these bad boys.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll just grab this ‘How to Set Off Giant Fireworks’ pamphlet over here . . . wait, I see no such thing.” He was getting frustrated with me, but that made two of us.

“Just . . . whatever paperwork you see. Take that. Stuff it in, and we’ll read it later, or on the way, or something.” I started reading from the first sheet I found. “ ‘1.3G fireworks, not intended for use by amateur consumers. Licensed pyrotechnic . . .’ yeah, whatever.”

In the end we just took one each, because if it was going to take more than that we were probably screwed anyhow. We wrapped them in the towels and put them in separate duffel bags, each of us toting one of the bags.

There was a hearty moment of awkwardness as we stood there facing one another, stolen goods slung over a shoulder and no real plan. Also, well, I had kissed him, and it was kind of weird, but I sort of wanted to do it again. But I didn’t know if the feeling was mutual, and, besides: zombies. We had better things to do with our time than get busy in a ball park basement—but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.

“All right. Back to the hotel?”

“Back to the hotel.” It felt Freudian to say it, but I didn’t stop myself—so there the words hung, and we each waited for the other to take the lead.

He did.

I followed him out and we kept to the shadows, trying not to skulk and trying not to draw too much attention, either. For the most part, everyone was busy running around, talking into radios, reading maps, and toting an ungodly amount of munitions from place to place. If anyone noticed us, it was usually to tell us to get back up to the skybox.

We agreed to do so every time we were told, then immediately returned to our escape.

None of us were prisoners there, so it wasn’t very hard. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that anybody would be fool enough to dash back out into the undead-populated water outside the park, so all the gates were open and no one was watching them. We hopped the turnstile at the side entrance where the fewest people could see us.

As soon as we were free of the concrete and the parking lot, we were clear—or, rather, we were back in the water.

“It won’t go down, will it?” Nick did a prancy girl-step when his foot hit the mush of grass and dirt.

“Apparently not.” I tried to be less prissy about it, but, God. I felt like I’d just gotten dry; I wasn’t in any huge rush to get dank again. “This is unreal. The river, I mean. How could this happen? I thought TVA was working on it.”

“Hard to believe the government hasn’t got a handle on it, I know. Just ask New Orleans. I’m sure Uncle Sam is just about to come up with a solution.”

We decided to head up, then over. It was a course of action that took us out of our way but kept us drier than simply cutting through downtown. And, since we weren’t yet sure how to handle the small horde of splashing undead, it was probably best to stay out of their known domain.