Dead Mann Walking

33

We followed the signs to the main entrance. The automatic sliding doors were powerless, so we had to pry them open. Misty broke a nail. I nearly lost a finger. We did it, though, only to be rushed by a torrent of light and sound. The sun washed everything gray; even the colors had run away. The noises blurred and shredded.

The doors had opened at the head of a wide drive that led to the street. Beyond that, we had a great view of the plaza. Frying pan to fire.

Crowded, surrounded, attacked, the chakz gave the people what they wanted: proof that they were dangerous. Flashes of chak bodies moved in elegant waves, like flocks of migrating birds. It was as though that group mind-set the LBs worried about had actually kicked in. Maybe the ferals just never had the numbers before, or maybe you had to be far enough back to see the patterns. The livebloods, for all their higher functions, fled without grace.

The big picture pulsed and throbbed. The personal tragedies played out in tiny spaces. It was like the two had nothing to do with each other, no trees for the forest, no forest for the trees. Near the center of the gray swirls stood the fair-haired cop, the one I’d seen from the window. Bullets sprayed from his AK-47. They tore some dead flesh here and there, but mostly he hit livebloods before the ferals took him down.

My eyes singled out a male teen, all buff and dressed to shock with shaved head tattooed and pierced. He ran halfheartedly, grabbing the spot on his head where an ear used to be. Red liquid dripped between his fingers. Eventually, he slowed down and fell.

Groups formed and collapsed like cauldron bubbles. Two families banded together. The mothers carried the little ones, forcing the older children ahead. The fathers had somehow gotten hold of some doors and were using them to shield the others as they inched across the plaza. Weirdly, two danglers banged at the doors like they were knocking. They even tried the knob.

I hoped the family would make it. Something should survive, and it didn’t look good for anyone else. The elegant swarms of dead had surrounded the LBs and, as they squeezed in, began to lose their pretty shape. Together now, ferals and livebloods pushed and pulled, so many, so close together, they could barely move. Limbs tangled, the center of the blob tumbled all at once, like football teams in a joint tackle.

Somehow the mob had formed a single creature, like one of Colby Green’s orgies, many limbs, many mouths, some screaming, some chewing. In my head, I heard Turgeon, or the devil, giggle.

At the edge of the mass, stray livebloods and ferals tried to pull the bodies free, but for different reasons. The cop with the flamethrower stared at it all, unsure what to do. He tried to help. He used his free hand to grab a hand and yank. When he only succeeded in pulling a feral free, a chunk of dripping meat in its mouth, he’d had enough.

Feral in his own way, the cop let loose with the thrower, turning a dripping tongue of fire on the writhing pile. Before the cop could barbecue the whole lot, a liveblood clonked him with a crowbar, then dived into the smoldering mess, screaming that he had to find Tanya. His girlfriend, I figured.

We wouldn’t be spectators much longer; we’d be part of the scene. Having reached critical mass, the blob broke and scattered. Bodies, some moving, some smoking from the flamethrower, spilled into the street, then onto the long black hospital entrance ramp where we stood. Bullets ripped the ground a few yards ahead of us. The tide was coming in.

“Hess, we’ve got to do something,” Misty said. She was still weak, barely back from death’s door.

“We have to run.”

Beyond the ER entrance a service dock formed a bit of an alley. In it were several big Dumpsters, painted green, rusted at the edges, but whole.

“There. We climb in one and wait it out. It won’t smell pretty, but it should be safe.”

I pulled, but she wouldn’t come. I wasn’t strong enough to drag her.

“We can’t just leave those people!” she said.

“Are you delirious or did you just develop superpowers? All we can do is try to stay in one piece,” I said. “Don’t look. Don’t think about it. Just keep moving.”

She was slow, uncertain.

“You don’t move now, you’ll die!”

“Fuck it; then I’ll die,” she said. “I was sick of it all beforehand and it just got a lot worse.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “Your fart is too big for your own good!”

I was so angry my bruised tongue had seized up in midsentence. Turned out it was a lucky break. Misty looked at me, then laughed. “You said fart.”

“Yeah, I said fart. Can we go now? We’re in this together, remember?”

She nodded and we moved. We made it to the dark of the alley, the first open bin yards away. Misty followed my lead, but it was the blind leading the blind. It’d been bright and my eyes hadn’t adjusted. I saw one shadow moving on its own, but I took it for a plastic trash bag until it rose up, strips trailing from its arms. I couldn’t tell if they were torn clothing or skin.

Its mouth was open, every other tooth missing, and what was left had been filed down to points. Once upon a time, it may have been a freaky fashion statement; now substance had vanquished style. When it came at us, I shoved Misty out of the way. On impact, I wrapped my arms around it and tried to bring us both down.

I put my hand under its jaw and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. Bony fingers raked my jacket, tearing the pockets off one after another, as if it thought they were parts of my body. I put my good foot up into its solar plexus and shoved. It flew up, landed on its feet, and came at me again.

On my back, I accidentally kicked at it with my bad leg. My foot flopped to the side. It was still held on by that last layer of dry muscle, but the leg bone was exposed and had a bit of a point. I pushed it deep into its gut. Yeah, chakz don’t always feel pain quite the same way livebloods do, but that hurt like a son of a bitch, let me tell you. It also staggered the feral. It tumbled back, hands out, trying to keep its balance. As its feet skittered along the trash-laden floor, I hoped it might trip, but it righted, snarled, and started at me a third time.

I was trying to roll out of the way when something heavy and silver thwacked it upside the skull. It turned in the direction of the blow just in time to get another. It was Misty, swinging at it with an old wooden crutch. She must’ve found it among the hospital garbage.

While she kept swinging, I struggled to my feet, or rather, foot. She didn’t need my help, though. Her next few blows took it down to its knees, then down. She smacked its skull again and again. As it lay there, she kept swinging. She swung so hard and so often, I winced. After seven blows, the skull cracked. After that, it twitched more than moved.

Puffing, she handed me the crutch.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she answered.

I spoke slowly to avoid any more gas jokes. “Let’s get in. The shitstorm should be over by morning.”

She leaned against the garbage bin. “Then what? Go back to the office? You know once this is over any surviving chak will be locked up or worse.”

I leaned against the crutch, using it as . . . well, a crutch. “Probably. I’ll run from that bridge when it comes for me. And even if they catch me, at least I solved the case.”

She eyed me. “Yeah, you’re a regular zombie Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, I’ve got proof! A recording of Turgeon confessing. Booth hears it, even he’ll know I didn’t kill Lenore. If it got into the press that a chak caught a serial killer, it could help things for a change . . . a little.”

As I spoke I used my free hand to rifle through my pockets. Two had been torn off by the feral. Another had my wallet, some change, and . . . that was it. Where was the recorder? I scanned the ground. I got down on my knees and looked under the bins. Nothing. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. I had a vague memory of something tugging free from my pocket while I struggled with Turgeon.

“I dropped the recorder in the hospital. I’ve got to go back.”

Misty’s face twisted so harshly she looked like a ghoul. She leaped in front of me and shoved me back. “Are you crazy? We just ran out because there’s a bomb in there!”

“I have to! That recorder’s the only proof I have. No one’s going to sift through twenty million tons of debris to find a bunch of severed heads!”

“I won’t let you go, Hess.”

I tried to step around her. “Didn’t you just say there was no point? That they’re going to lock me up anyway?”

She jumped in front of me again. “And two seconds ago you said we were in this together!”

“I have to go! It’s not just about me; it’s about every life that sick bastard fucked up. If I don’t go back and find that recorder, no one will ever know.”

“You’ll know. I’ll know.”

I didn’t have time to be nice about it. Every word was another second down on the timer. I made a big show, like I was thinking about giving in. Then I knelt, grabbed her legs, and stood, lifting her against the bin. Before she finished gasping, a little twist of my hips sent her in. I slammed the lid and slid the bolt shut.

She pounded against the metal. “Bastard! Bastard! Filthy freaking liar!”

“Watch the screams, Misty. They attract ferals. Any luck and I’ll be back soon.”

She was right. I had lied. It wasn’t about Turgeon’s victims. Anyone else who might care was either dead or the next-best thing, except maybe Booth, and I wasn’t going to risk my dry ass for that fuck. It was about me solving my wife’s murder, chasing a shadow of what I used to be.

In case more of the riot decided to head my way, I stuck close to the walls. At the entrance, I caught a final, brief glimpse of the mad, mad world. Any shape to the chaos was gone. The was no composition to the scene, no choreography to the violence, no orchestral score rising and falling. Ferals chased livebloods; livebloods chased chakz. Cars were flipped, windows smashed, bones broken, skin flayed. Things burned.

My existence was just as pointless. The recording wouldn’t change a thing. Hell, the MRI magnets probably erased the whole thing anyway. But I’d been going through the motions for so long, I had to finish the dance. If I didn’t make it, just as well. If I survived, instead of my being D-capped by a psycho, the authorities would do it, or I’d be carted off to some chak camp. I didn’t have the heart to tell Misty that if I were in a pen, keeping her off crack wouldn’t be enough to keep me going. If I could prove I was innocent, then at least I’d have a story to tell myself in the dark.

I went through the entrance, down the hall, scanning the floor. Just as I stumbled past the radiology sign near the MRI room, the floor shook. I heard a sound like an enormous bubble bursting deep in the belly of the earth.

The bomb had gone off.

I tried to run, but cement floor cracked beneath me. The walls folded in like cards. Support beams shattered. Holes opened. Everything moved in on itself. Nothing under me anymore, I fell. As I spun in midair, the stench of something thick and burning hit my nose. I think I saw a fireball, a huge blossoming flower, but my eyes might have already been closed.

It went dark. The crashing and moving continued for what felt like hours. When it settled at last, I was still there. Things hurt, but I couldn’t be sure if what hurt was even part of me anymore. Lost limbs still hurt amputees. They call it phantom pain. Hell, I had a whole phantom life.

I was in some air pocket, some crappy little corner; I’d be here forever. I’d go feral, I’d lose my mind, but I’d still feel, still see and hear. Same nightmare as being a head. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized what a bad idea this was. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And the recorder was gone forever. For some reason, it didn’t depress me, not yet, anyway. It struck me as funny, but I couldn’t laugh.

I was lying on my side, legs stretched out beneath me, right arm stretched in front of me, my head cradled on my shoulder blade. I felt like I was lying in a narrow ship bunk on a jagged, concrete mattress. Head turned down, I opened my eyes. I didn’t expect to see anything, but I did. There was mist in the air, dripping water. Past my feet, far off as a star, a security light swayed and flickered.

The hallway I’d been standing in had been shoved into a space a quarter of its original size. I wasn’t completely flat. I was at an angle. There was a space above me, maybe a foot or two, narrower spaces right and left. Ahead, past my hand, I thought I saw daylight.

Then I heard something rattle deep below. The hospital wasn’t finished dying yet.

I thought I should try for the daylight before my little hollow collapsed, but I couldn’t talk my body into it. Trying to get motivated, I told myself Misty would be pissed if I didn’t get out. Nothing. I imagined being stuck here for good. Still nothing. Then I told myself it would mean Turgeon had won. All his victims would be gone. That did it.

With my right hand, I grabbed at the debris, trying to snag something heavy enough to pull myself along. I moved an inch or two. There was another rattle. I tried to move faster, but it felt as if the ceiling were closing in on me. I closed my eyes to better concentrate, but when I did all I saw was Turgeon’s leering face. It made me angry, but I still couldn’t move faster. So I kept my eyes open, even when the dust fell into them.

All of a sudden it got dark. Ahead, something had blocked my little view of sunlight. Had the way out collapsed ? Was it over? No, the light returned. A shadow was wavering in front of it. It looked like a drape, its wispy shape created by the breeze. Then it got thicker, longer, larger.

Something was moving toward me.

Someone. Too big for a head. Chak or liveblood? Couldn’t tell. It came near as it could and knelt right in front of me but I still couldn’t make it out. It vanished again, but a few seconds later it reappeared and shoved the back end of a fire hose at me.

“Take it,” a rough voice said.

Someone was saving me. Had Misty gotten out of the bin?

I wasn’t going to complain. I grabbed hold. Whoever was at the other end pulled. I pushed with my good leg until I passed into a larger hollow. There I got up on my elbows to get a look at my benefactor.

It wasn’t Misty, but it was a woman. At least, it was shaped like one. I stared, trying to focus. When I recognized the pale skin, black hair, and green eyes, I was startled and confused.

“You came back?” I whispered, pushing myself up on my knees.

It was Nell Parker, silhouetted in the gloom.

She took a step back as if I were a dog that might bite. “I was hiding when I saw you run back in. I heard the blast. I couldn’t leave you in here. Not after you . . . after you . . .”

Turns out maybe some of the dead do have feelings.