Not Flesh Nor Feathers

But it was a thought, and the germ of a plan. Put them where they’re weakest—lure them there. Then beat them down. Into how many pieces must they be broken before they’d stop coming?

I didn’t know, but I aimed to find out.

Alas, it’s never quite that easy. I heard them slowing behind me; I thought maybe it was just the way the water was getting lower, but then I looked over my shoulder and saw that I was mistaken—or partly mistaken.

Those sons of bitches were getting sidetracked.

I’d gotten them as far as the front door, no more than a few yards—which was aggravating, even as I considered it a mini-success. They weren’t looking into the parking garage anymore, and from the space beneath the concrete layers of the garage I could hear the scuffling echoes of people moving quietly, quickly, but not easily, across the cement.

The things behind me weren’t looking that way, or listening that way. They were stopping in front of the open double doors beneath the main overhang. They were looking inside, with those faces that didn’t have any eyes left.

No one within looked back at them; I glanced up at the upper floor windows, wondering how many people might still be left in there. A crowd was assembling on the interstate, less than a quarter mile away. People were hanging off the edge and the guard rails, pointing and chattering, talking, screaming.

I looked up again. Up in the windows I saw a few faces, yes. But only a few.

“Shut the doors!” I shouted up to them. “Wherever you are, shut your doors and hide, for God’s sake!”

Most of the few faces disappeared immediately. I’d stayed in the Read House before. I knew good and well you could hear street noise from the rooms. I knew good and well they’d heard me. To the ones who remained, I shouted again, “Shut your doors! Go shut them! Lock them and hide!”

One or two remained transfixed at the panes, but I figured that Darwin would have to sort them out, if that’s what it was going to come to . . . because like it or not, those things were going in.

They pushed past the doors—which were still propped open—fell inside, recovered, and staggered on.

On the other side of the building, glass was breaking again and there was some shrieking. Were they taking the back entrance too?

“What the hell?” I yelled, demanded. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

The rest of them were there too, even though the water was all but nonexistent. It made them slower, as I already knew; but maybe they’d been practicing while we weren’t looking, because it didn’t stop them. On creaking knees and with reaching hands they dragged themselves up away from the water pooling in the streets and on the sidewalk.

I counted six, no, eight. And there were more on their way. I saw them on the street, still coming and coming faster than those who’d climbed out of the river, because down the street they still moved in their element.

All of them were homing in on the Read House like it was calling them. I had no idea why; but I had an idea who to ask.

I turned on my heels and ran back to the front entrance, where the big green canopy was sagging with the weight of the rain and the glass doors were smeared with greasy black soot and skin. One of the things came close, within arm’s reach. I ducked out of its way but it was quicker than it looked and it snared my sweater.

I kicked at it—threw my foot against its torso and hips because that was all I could reach. It hung on for dear death, and when I shoved my heel against it I heard the cracking of old bones.

One more kick, and by sheer force of inertia I fell free from it, taking a finger or two with me. I picked them off my sweater and threw them down onto the carpet, where they wiggled a redundant, round pattern like a rolling egg.

Two more, up from the other corridor. There they were. And another three through the front door. Jesus, how many of them were there? This was the most I’d ever seen at one time.

For a hysterical second or two I wondered what the proper word for a group of zombies would be—a cluster? A shamble?

Then I remembered they were quickly cornering me—not by speed but by numbers. Access to and from the Read House was limited to a few doors, and these were all being filled with jerking, smelly bodies.

Two sides blocked: coming and going. Still free: the main staircase, and one hallway, which led towards the place where the parking garage opened into the first floor. There were elevators there. I dashed forward and slapped at the up-arrow button. It lit up immediately, but there was no corresponding reassuring ping that indicated a car was waiting.

And just like that, I’d lost my third free corridor. Two more things—I thought maybe they liked to move in pairs—were coming in from the parking garage. If the elevator didn’t open by the count of five, I’d have to double back and try to take the stairs.

One.

Over my shoulder, still no sign of the shuffling, struggling undead. I could hear them all around me now.

Two.

But they hadn’t come into view, which meant the way to the stairs was still free. Not much longer, though.

Three.

The pair at the garage entrance thrashed forward.

Four.

Hands, one missing a couple of fingers, gripped the corner and used it to pull itself forward, bringing a badly burned and barely functioning body along with it. No point in waiting for the stroke of my fifth count.

Now or never. Elevator or stairs.

Judgment call time—elevator was an unknown quantity. Doors might open in a fraction of a second or in another three minutes. Three minutes was not an option. No elevator. I whirled the other way and doubled back, sliding on the slick marble floors still wet with the footprints of refugees.

Inches ahead of the zombie things, I skidded on squeaky-damp boots almost into the mirrored wall, but I caught myself and dropped palms-down onto the stairs.

The stairs were marble too, or some other shiny, polished stone. They were hard to climb on with wet feet, but if it was tough for me, it’d only be tougher for the things coming my way. Were they chasing me again, or had I simply tossed myself into their path?

Up, to Caroline—that’s where I was headed. Were they, too? Was that where all of us were going?

I made double, maybe triple the time of my pursuers. If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve really put some honest distance between us; but as it was, I was glad to stay even a few steps ahead of them.

I hit the mezzanine floor with a running start and charged towards Caroline’s room. The hotel was deserted now, or it looked and sounded deserted except for the crawling things coming up, always coming up. And then there was me—panting like a horse who’s run too long but is too afraid to stop.

“Caroline?” I called. “Caroline? Where are you, Caroline?”

She didn’t answer, and I had a full hallway between me and the things now, which wrapped around the corner of the mezzanine, overlooking the main common area with its pretty plush couches and lovely brass fixtures that cast warm reflections on a room littered with the trash of hundreds of refugees.

There were more things coming inside, too—one had broken a window and was making its way into the common area to join its fellows.

That made—at my best count—maybe twelve to fourteen.

And more coming. I don’t know how I knew it, but I knew it. Not many more—you don’t need too many to create a horde. That must be the word for a group of zombies—a horde. How many would you need for that? Two’s only a pair, so three or more, right? It might not be Romero-worthy, but I was willing to call a baker’s dozen a horde. Again the hysterics were setting in, and I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t, because it sounded too much like crying.

“Caroline?” I shouted again, coming to the corridor that housed her room—there on the end, on the right. It was locked.

I kicked at the door.

“Caroline? I know you’re in there. Open up, goddammit!”

And then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, just like I’d asked. I didn’t believe for a moment she’d done it because I told her to, but I was in a bit of a jam at the moment, so I took the invitation and pushed the heavy door against its hydraulic hinge.

I leaned it shut behind me.

“Caroline, what’s going on? Why are they coming here, and what do they want? You know, don’t you? Where are you?”

She wasn’t manifesting yet, but I was in a hurry. Things were coming up the stairs, lurching and tottering down the lovely halls of the old hotel, leaving stinking trails of black oil and sloughed skin.

“They’re coming for you, aren’t they? I can’t think of any other good reason—and they aren’t chasing me or the people. They were coming here all along, weren’t they? You tried to tell us, and we didn’t know what to make of it. But they were coming for you!”

Me.

“There you are, you crazy bitch. There you are—now talk, and make it good, because people are dying all over the place.”

But she probably didn’t care about that. Better to turn it into something else; what did she need? What did she care about?

“The hotel,” I told her. “They’re going to take this hotel. They’re going to destroy it and everything in it. When they’re through with it, even if there’s anything left, the people who own it will just tear it down. Is that what you want?”

No. No, they cant have it.

“The zombies? That’s who you were talking about before, right? The ones who were coming for you, the ones you thought I brought. Well I didn’t bring them. They knew you were here; they knew all along. I tried to keep them away but it didn’t work—it isn’t working.” I talked fast because I could hear them again, through the thick door, though they weren’t at the end of the hall yet, or I so I thought and hoped.

She knows.

There was an emphasis on that first word, and I knew exactly who she meant. There wasn’t anyone else to move them. She was doing all of this. She was running the show.

“Why? Why is she coming for you—the little girl, the one who didn’t die in the fire? What does she want from you?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">