Machines of the Dead (8 page)

Taking the other mop, he loosened the metal bracket that held the mop-head on, then broke the stick in half. Now Jack had a bludgeoning weapon; a misshapen battle mace, and something he could use to bash in the heads of the undead. It wasn’t ideal, but it looked like it would do the job. 

With the spear tucked between his back and the pack, and the mace in hand, Jack took a deep breath and opened the door.

Chapter 9

A lone zombie stood outside the door, coming forward with shuffling footsteps like an elderly person in need of a walker. It didn’t hesitate at seeing Jack holding a weapon. It didn’t duck or dodge when he swung the weapon. The crude mace’s metal head struck the zombie on its left cheek, slicing open the skin and shattering its top row of teeth. The zombie lost its balance for a moment, slamming into the
doorframe
, but
it
righted and came forward. Jack raised the stick over his head, not having enough room to swing it
the way
he wanted to, and brought the mace down, over and over, onto the zombie’s head, until the forehead caved in and the undead thing collapsed.

He stood over the corpse, hands shaking and heart thumping almost painfully. He didn’t recognize the dead man, but if he had he would’ve acted the same, like he did with the super. Most of the building’s residents were strangers to each other. It was the same all over the Metropolitan Area. People had family and friends living here and there, and that’s who a person talked and spent time with. A very different picture than some of the smaller communities and towns Jack had visited, where a person knew his neighbor as well as every store clerk in town. Jack had become friends with Zaun, but everyone else living on the hall was a “hello” and a “goodbye.”

Jack did his best to scrape off the flesh caught in the crevices of the mace’s head, but small pieces, like food stuck between a person’s teeth, remained
,
and he wasn’t about to go picking them out with his fingers. Cleaning it as best he could, he stepped over the dead body and into the hallway. To his right, a few feet away, were two more dead bodies, both with their heads sliced cleanly off. He couldn’t know for sure if the deceased had been killed when they were alive, or un-alive, but maybe, along with electricity and destroying the brain, chopping off the head worked too. Made sense, he thought.

He wanted to call out, check apartments, but didn’t want to risk attracting more undead. And it might’ve been selfish, but he wanted to get to the twenty third floor and see if his friend was still alive. Together with Zaun, he would have a much better chance of rescuing people; of growing the group, making the task at hand even easier. He hoped to leave the apartment with a small army of weapon-carrying civilians. He never did discuss how many survivors he was allowed to bring back. Fuck it,
he would
bring as many as he could and if that
were
a problem, he’d mention the escape tunnel and have the refugees exit Manhattan through there.

Slowly and cautiously, Jack worked his way to the stairwell door. Looking through the narrow glass window, he couldn’t make out a thing. It looked like the electricity was out for the entire building. Clicking on his flashlight, he shined it through the window and saw that the immediate area was clear
,
up or down a flight, the stairs working in a vertical zigzag
pattern
could be a different story. 

Jack pressed the push-bar as quietly as possible and opened the door. He shined the light down the stairs to the next landing and saw nothing, then did the same going up the stairs. He waited a moment, listening. The eerie silence was almost too much to bear, but considering what could’ve been waiting for him, he was thankful to hear nothing.

With the flashlight’s beam leading the way, Jack took each flight of stairs slowly and quietly. There would be no sneaking up on anyone or anything, the light giving him away. At each level, he peered through the glass into the sunlit hallways, making sure to turn the light off as he approached each one. So far, only floors 10 and 14 had a few undead on them, but almost every floor was littered with corpses, many of which had their heads severed, as well as arms and legs. To Jack, it looked like someone had come through and slaughtered person after person, or undead after undead, like some crazy character in an ultra-violent video game.

On the
twentieth
floor, as he glanced through the window, a zombie
that was
standing and facing the
door
spotted him. Jack backed away quickly, but it was too late. The undead thing was at the door, pawing at the glass and working its jaw. Jack’s heart sank a little. The undead was a young female, and looked to be no older than sixteen
years old
. A thought, sudden and awful, flashed through his mind
:
all the dead and undead children in the city. There must be thousands, maybe even millions. His chest felt heavy, and he wanted to vomit again. He thought
he had
seen the most awful things, thought about the worst possibilities, but he hadn’t. How could he face an undead infant, or even a four-year-old member of the undead?

Jack closed his eyes, needing the momentary escape, as he was safe in the stairwell. He heard a click. Opening his eyes, he saw the door opening. Shit, Dr. Reynolds had been wrong; the undead were intelligent. Jack shuffled backward toward the next flight of stairs. Then it dawned on him. The undead weren’t smart, capable of thought or reason; the zombie had just pushed up against the door’s push-bar. Relief flooded his mind, but it was only temporary, as the undead corpse, arms out, was coming towards him.

He swung the mace repeatedly, bashing the zombie in the side of its head. The thing’s right eyeball popped out of its socket, dangling from the optic nerves. Another couple of whacks and the undead corpse fell down; dead for good this time, the side of its head a mangled mess of matted of hair, skull, and flesh. Looking at the mace, Jack saw that some of the girl’s hair had gotten caught in the weapon’s crevices, along with pieces of flesh. He didn’t know if he could carry it around with the girl’s hair in it; he’d have to pull the strands out. Upon doing so, he noticed the wood, just below the mace-head, was badly cracked. The weapon was useless. One more whack and the mace would only be a stick. He tossed the weapon away as something thudded against the stairwell’s door. Shining the flashlight’s beam at the small window, Jack saw the face of another zombie. Its nose was missing, revealing the thing’s gore-filled nasal cavity.

He pulled out the spear, his only other weapon being a knife. Should he run? Fight? The door clicked and was opening. Screw it,
he would
stay and finish off the next one too. With the spear, he could jab it in the head from afar, keeping it away until he killed it
,
leaving one less zombie to deal with on the way back down.

Readying his weapon, he watched as the zombie, a large undead man, standing about six feet plus, walked into the stairwell. Damn, why couldn’t it have been a little old, undead lady? As the door was shutting behind the big guy, it stopped halfway, colliding into another member of the undead, also making its way into the stairwell. Now, Jack had two undead to deal with
,
and not being able to see into the hallway, he had no idea how many more there might be. 

The one thing he did know was that the undead were mindless machines, programmed to walk forward and search for flesh. They couldn’t reason
,
didn’t care
, and
they couldn’t open doors, at least not doors without easy-to-push handles.

With only three floors to climb until he reached his destination, he decided to flee. Could the undead climb stairs? He had no clue, but even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to open the stairwell doors, leaving them trapped there. Of course
,
that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to deal with any zombies, for there might be plenty on the other side of the door too.   

The ascent to the 23rd floor was easy going, and clear. Opening the door, he found the hallway void of any bodies, dead or undead. There were however, blood stains covering areas of the floor and walls, as if a battle had ensued and the corpses were removed.

Moving down the hall, Jack saw that all the apartment doors, save Zaun’s, were open, including his own. Upon coming to his apartment, he listened from outside the doorway. Hearing nothing, he looked inside, and saw that at least the immediate hallway leading to the kitchen was clear.

He went in.

The place had been ransacked. The kitchen cabinet doors were all open. The foodstuff, cans, sugar, teas, and whatnot were all gone. Some glassware and dishes were on the floor, mostly broken. Checking the hall pantry, it had been cleaned out as well. Jack went to the fridge
and saw that
it was empty too, except for a few items that he couldn’t make out
, since
they had rotted too badly
. The
odor
was
nauseating. He quickly shut the door and headed for the bedroom
,
his and Jess’ bedroom.

The room was exactly how he remembered leaving it: the bed unmade, Jess’ and his pairs of slippers on the floor by the bed, her hairbrush on the nightstand. Going over to the long dresser, Jack picked up the couple’s wedding photo. Tears welled in his eyes. She looked so happy, so beautiful.

After a few moments, he wiped his face, removed the picture, folded it so that none of the creases would mar his or Jess’ figures, and placed it in one of his pockets. After that, he went for his wallet, which he
usually
left on the nightstand. It was gone. Panic hit him like a sledgehammer, and he began to shake. He didn’t care about the wallet or anything in it; he just wanted the picture of his wife that was inside.

Jack left the bedroom and went to the hallway coat closet. Checking the pockets of the last jacket he wore, he found the wallet
,
his pulse settling down again as elation filled his heart. He must have forgotten to take the damn thing out after
he had
come home from work.

Opening the wallet, he took out
a recent
picture of Jess, taken the last time they went to Central Park. Staring at it, his body suddenly felt heavy. He was so tired
. H
e had to sit.

Putting the small photo in his pocket, Jack went back to the bedroom, removed the spear from its place between his back and the pack, letting it drop to the floor. He then took off his backpack and sat on the bed. Still feeling weary, he laid down on Jess’ side, letting his face sink into her pillow. He inhaled, smelling her scent. He could taste her sweetness. Touch her soft skin.

“I miss you, baby,” he said, “so damn much.” Breathing was becoming harder with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to stop smelling her, but turned himself over, needing the air. Lying still, he stared at the ceiling. He needed to get up
and
keep moving. Remaining where he was, in his old room, was pointless.
Too
painful. Jess was dead.
He had
gotten what he came for: the pictures, and a little closure.

But he was so tired. He didn’t want to go on. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife telling him to get up
,
that he needed to help others
.
Get
himself and them out of the city.

Jack forced himself up. Looking around the room, his gaze stopped on the open closet doors. Guns. He had guns.

The weariness left him
as if
he’d been doused with ice-water. He got to his feet and raced over to the closet. He checked the top shelf for his handguns, finding that the cases they rested in were gone. His rifle and shotgun were missing too. Whoever had cleaned out the food,
must have
taken the weapons.

Damn.

Reaching up, Jack felt along the door’s frame, his fingers coming into contact with a small metal case that was attached by magnets to a metal strip. Sliding off the cover, he saw that his set of keys were still inside; the same set of keys that opened the lock boxes as well as the trigger guards to his weapons. Whoever did have his guns wouldn’t be using them, not without getting those locks off the triggers. Jack pocketed the keys, wanting to keep them in the event he came across his guns as he searched the building.

Pushing the clothes aside, Jack found that his Louisville Slugger baseball bat was still where he had left it. Picking it up, he felt the smooth wood finish, marred slightly from playing a few games of ball in the park. The baseball-hitting implement was about to get uglier,
because it would
no longer
be
used as a tool to hit baseballs, but to smash in the heads of the undead.

Jack had an
idea
and went back to the hall coat closet where he kept his toolbox. H
e would
hammer a few nails through the bat head
.
Damn it; his tools were gone too. Sudden rage swept over his body. He began pulling on the coats, snapping the plastic hangers, then throwing the garments to the floor. With the final jacket in his grip, he stopped. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. If
he had
been running around fighting for his life,
he would
have done the same, and taken whatever he could use. He only hoped that whoever had taken his stuff was still using it
and
that the
person, or people, was
still alive.