Machines of the Dead

Chapter 24

Not wanting to touch anything, and with nowhere to go and nothing but crinkled porn magazines to read, Zaun grew bored. He was a little tired, but the few hours of sleep from earlier had done wonders. With nothing else to do, he found where the floor creaked, marking the places with pieces of paper he found in a notebook. He’d tell the others about it when they woke.

He checked the peephole, always finding the hallway empty. He thought it strange, or was it amazing that the undead hadn’t come upstairs? He guessed climbing steps was something like an obstacle to them, and the simple-minded things needed encouragement to do so. He supposed one could wander up, but so far it seemed like the third floor was safe.

An hour passed by, seeming like two. How many times could he walk around the apartment? Everything was disgusting, property of the scumbag who lived there. He should’ve grabbed a book from his own apartment before leaving. Now he understood the whole e-reader thing. Sure, it’d have to be charged once in a while, but he’d have his whole library on it, taking it with him wherever he went.

Standing by the front door, peering through the peephole, Zaun suddenly had to use the restroom. His stomach was gurgling. He must have eaten something bad, or maybe it was all the pressure and nerves from everything. Either way, he had to shit.

He headed to the bathroom, but stopped himself before entering. The dead female was there, and even with the pine-scented air fresheners, the corpse was stinking up the already grime-covered, filthy room. He couldn’t go in there, but the urge to defecate was coming on strong.

He had an idea.

At the front door, he looked through the peephole, and saw the same empty hallway he’d been seeing since he took up watch. Then his eye focused on the beautiful steel door across the way. 3F spoke to him, telling him to come and use its bathroom. No one would know. He could use the facilities in peace, in cleanliness.

He had wanted to check the apartment out anyway. A place so well-secured it had to have something important inside. He could kill way more than two birds with one stone-relieve himself, satisfy his curiosity, and pass the time. Maybe even find something the group could use.

Leaving his machine gun against the wall, Zaun unlocked the door, undoing the deadbolt as slowly as possible. He winced as the hinges let out a pig-like squeal. Freezing for a few moments, he opened the door the rest of the way at a snail’s pace.

Armed with his Glock, a knife, and a sword, Zaun stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him.

The need to use the bathroom was stronger now, and if it wasn’t for his martial arts training, he didn’t think he’d have the will to hold it in, or the ability to move silently like a panther. He’d practice Aikido, Closed Crane Kung Fu, Kali-Silat, and Tai Chi, and not the Tai Chi practiced in parks at five in the morning, but combat Tai Chi designed for self — defense. The other arts were external in nature, relying more on muscle movement for power. Tai Chi was an internal art where a person used inner strength combined with energy, or chi, to overwhelm an enemy. The art was also good for healing one’s mind and body. Zaun had found Kung Fu and Tai Chi to be the most favorite of the martial arts and the most deadly.

He carefully worked his way over to apartment 3F’s door. Anytime he heard the floor begin to creak, he shifted his weight to another spot, making sure to mentally draw up a map of the hallway so on his way back he’d be able to move in silence.

Reaching the door, he opened it and went in.

Zaun’s mouth fell open at how fresh the air smelled and at how clean the place was. Not a mark on the walls, and all freshly painted a light blue. The floor was tan ceramic tile. Just down the hall, Zaun found the bathroom, the layout appearing the same as 3R’s.

Taking one look at the place, his bowels relaxed. The room smelled like strawberries. The sink was clean. A metal soap dispenser sat on it. The toilet itself sparkled. Hanging his gun belt on the open door and leaning his sword against the wall, he pulled down his pants, and sat, the cool seat a welcomed feeling.

Next to the toilet was a magazine rack filled with periodicals. Zaun knew he should hurry, that what he was doing was not the brightest idea, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to rush. This was the most relaxed he’d felt in a long time, and he had no idea when he’d get to feel this way again.

Finishing up an article on how to prepare garlic sauteed ribs, Zaun placed the magazine back, ready to grab a sheet of toilet paper when he heard what sounded like the shuffling of feet. Someone was in the apartment. Jack had said everyone in 3F was dead, but he also told Zaun that he didn’t get a chance to check the entire place.

Unable to reach his sword, Zaun went for the gun belt hanging on the door, his fingers just grazing the leather. He stretched farther, but in doing so fell forward, pulling the belt with him as he landed face down on the floor.

Looking ahead, he saw a woman’s feet, the toenails painted a bright pink. Craning his neck, he looked up and saw her skeletal form. She had a small hole with red around it in the center of her half-shirt, trickles of blood covering parts of the tattoo around her belly button. Her eyes had no life in them. Zaun forgot all about his shit-covered ass. He fumbled with the belt, trying to get to the gun. The zombie stepped within inches of him and was bending down. Curling his fingers around the handle, he withdrew the pistol, pointed it at the zombie, and pulled the trigger only to hear a dry click. Fuck, he had to rack the slide. The zombie was on top of him, pulling at his hair. He could smell the coppery odor of its blood over the odor of his defecation. Racking the slide, he shoved the gun under the zombie’s jaw and fired. The thing’s head jerked back and then collapsed on top of him.

Rolling onto his back, he shoved the corpse off, then sat up. Grabbing the rim of the toilet seat, he pulled himself up and sat back down. He stayed there a moment as he caught his breath and calmed down. That was too close. He’d almost been killed while taking a dump.

Looking down, he checked his legs and pants for fecal matter. Finding none, he cleaned his rear, pulled up his pants and re-armed himself. Exiting the bathroom, he walked down the hall to the living room.

A large man’s body was lying face down on the floor-the guy Jack had killed. The couch was woman-less, confirming the zombie Zaun had put down, was the woman Jack shot. Chunks of flesh were missing from the man’s meaty legs and back, his clothes torn to shreds. That meant the woman Jack had shot was infected. Jack hadn’t said anything about her state, that she’d looked sick. Maybe she hadn’t. It was possible she’d been bit just before they all arrived. Maybe that was why the guy had come out of his apartment, to see if Jack could help. If that was the case, the man sure didn’t know the proper way to ask. Why hadn’t Jack shot her in the head as he did to Kevin?

Seeing a closed door, probably the bedroom, Zaun went over and tried it. Locked. It was a common wooden door, maybe a little more solid than usual with two Mul-T-Locks on it. Without hesitation, he kicked the door a few times, splintering the wood around the locks. A final kick and the door opened.

Stepping into the room, his jaw dropped. Along the entire rear wall were tall, extra wide lockers. To his right was a monitoring station, with three computers and eight twenty-inch monitors. Each monitor was showing a different part of the building. One view was of the hallway outside the apartment. Others were of the alley out back, the foyer downstairs, the stairwells, and the hallways. These people had eyes on the whole building. He hadn’t noticed any of the cameras either. They must have been well-hidden. First, it was the apartment being totally out of place. Now he was in some kind of security center. What the hell was all this about?

Walking up to one of the lockers, Zaun tapped a knuckle against it. The thing was solid, safe-like, and had fireproofing over the steel. Each one had a thick steel lock on it. He tried rocking the thing, but it wouldn’t budge and was either too heavy or bolted to the wall, or perhaps both. He came to the conclusion the things weren’t lockers, but some kind of vaults. He had never seen such a thing before. Lockers used padlocks; safes and vaults used combinations. Why would someone have such secure devices and not use combinations?

Glancing at the monitors, Zaun found the two labeled “third floor” and saw the staircase and floor were still clear of undead.

Turning back to the lockers, he was dying to see what they held. He didn’t think shooting off the locks was a good idea or that it would even work. He’d have to find the keys.

He checked the computer station, scanning the tabletop and rifling through the drawers.

Not finding any keys, Zaun went back into the living room and over to the dead man. He checked the right front pocket of the corpse’s pants and found a wad of twenties. Pocketing the cash, he checked the left pocket and felt the bite of something hard and jagged against his fingers, then pulled out a set of keys.

Returning to the lockers, he tried a couple of the cut pieces of metal before one slid into the lock. Turning the key, the lock clicked open, echoing around the room. He maneuvered the U-shaped piece from the locker and placed it in his pocket. A little voice inside his head screamed at him, yelling for him to stop what he was doing. To turn around and walk away. He had heard this voice before. It was usually right, but not always, and he had to see what was inside. He had to know why the place was set up the way it was. Wrapping his fingers around the locker’s handle, he pulled the door open.

Zaun staggered backward, his mouth agape. The little voice snickered. He knew then that he should’ve listened to it. Inside the locker, stacked one on top of the other, were kilos of white powder, cocaine.

Now he understood the reason for the security. For the monitors and the guns. For the soundproofing. Apartment 3F was a narcotic storage house. A place where drugs were kept before being distributed or cut down.

Zaun closed his eyes. He was sweaty, shaking. His chest ached at how fast his heart was pounding. The little voice inside his head was mocking him. Telling him that he should have listened to it. That he was fucked, his ten years of sobriety was in jeopardy.

“Damn it.” Zaun slapped the locker in anger. If he’d stayed in 3R none of this would be happening. Why did he always find himself in such miserable places? Making so many mistakes? He’d made plenty throughout his life, but becoming a drug addict was by far the worst. He wouldn’t go down that road again. Couldn’t. Coming here was a bad idea. He could walk away. He was strong enough. He had a focused, determined mind. Just close the locker and leave; forget what he saw.

He’d been through so much. The time he spent in his apartment during the first days of the epidemic still haunted him. He’d been so alone. The images and sounds from those days, and what he had been through since that time, always reared their ugly heads. The screams outside his door. The dead bodies. The mutilated corpses. Watching the dead eat the living. All of this weighed heavily, like an anvil, on Zaun’s mind. The only way to cope was to keep busy so he didn’t have to think about what had happened. He hated sleeping, the dreams filled with the screams and pleas of the living. He’d needed something to take the edge off, but had been fighting against it since being locked up in his apartment on the 23rd floor. He shook his head. No, he knew better than to head down that road again.

Zaun spent his younger years filling his body with poison, becoming a prisoner to its call. He was a different person now. He’d gone through the recovery process, had received help, but as with all addicts, that dark part of him, that ominous shadow that followed him everywhere, was always with him to some degree. There were times after his recovery when the darkness would whisper to him. Tell him the tough times were easier to get through with the help of an old friend. Some days were harder than others, but he’d been able to keep the darkness at bay, even shove it deep down where it almost seemed to disappear.

He felt the shadow, the darkness, coming alive at seeing its salvation. At seeing months, maybe years, worth of magnificent nose candy. He and it could live here forever.

Zaun opened his eyes. His body felt weak, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He knew it was his mind battling against itself. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he shook his head and told himself he could beat this. He didn’t need any of his old friends. His breathing grew faster, nostrils flaring with each intake of air. “No,” he said, feeling the warmth of anger build in his chest. His toes and fingers tingled. “No.” He was strong now-had been trained in dealing with his addiction. Grabbing the locker door, he slammed it shut, the air seeming to shake around him. The darkness within lashed out at him, screaming at him to open the door. Zaun grinned, knowing the dark part of him was in pain. He enjoyed knowing it was suffering.

The darkness’ rage departed. Zaun felt a moment of relief before the voice whispered softly to him. It begged him to reconsider, merely to have a taste, something to ease the pain and get him through these horrendous times. Once he made it out of the city, he could relax, get his mind back to full strength and forget all about his little “slip up.”

Zaun’s grin became full blown, knowing how desperate the voice was. How pathetic. He wished he could kill it, make sure it never came back, but that could never be. He was an addict and always would be, having accepted the fact long ago.

During and after rehab, Zaun left his old associates behind. They weren’t his friends. He needed to start fresh; make new ones. He also wanted to keep the number low. He and Jack had hit it off after Jack moved into the building. The two had just clicked, enjoying the same sports teams, eateries, and movies. He had never told Jack about his past and not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted his new life to be just that, new. Part of accepting responsibility was acknowledging his problem and he always did, going to meetings when he needed to, but he kept his friends ignorant of his past. Much of it was shrouded in a haze and what he did remember was awful, but it was something he had to remember, never wanting to go there again. Blackouts, binges, waking up in places he had no idea where he was or how he arrived at them. He’d been in jail a number of times too. He hit rock bottom when he woke up naked in a dumpster in Hell’s Kitchen. He had finally decided he needed help and began the long arduous road to recovery.

Those were his life experiences and choices. They didn’t need to be shared with others, especially others who had never gone down his path. He didn’t think Jack would look at him differently, but he could never be sure. His past had told him anything was possible.

Now, he was on his own with no one to talk with, well, no one to talk with that would understand his situation. The people in his support group were most likely all dead or walking around the city looking for a bite of human flesh. For now, he’d have to rely on everything he’d learned, including his martial arts training which helped play a huge part in his recovery.

Martial arts were always something he had been interested in, having grown up watching Bruce Lee movies as well as the great Shaw Brother’s films on Saturday afternoons. His sponsor, a practicing martial artist, brought him to an Aikido class and from there it was full steam ahead. After receiving his black belt in Aikido, Zaun moved on to Closed Crane Kung Fu, Kali-Silat, and combat Tai Chi. Martial arts supplied him with focus and an inner strength that he had never known.

Zaun was a tough, strong-minded individual in a normal world where things could be controlled or managed, at least to some degree. The undead epidemic had shattered that. Things were turned upside down and inside out. Now he was in a place where he didn’t know if he’d make it to the next day.

With determination, he turned away from the coke-packed locker and left the room. He marched through the apartment, making it to the front door and stopped.

Maybe just a little taste before you go? The darkness whispered. Take some with you, just in case you need it.

Zaun turned around and went back to the locker. Without thinking, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys, not remembering taking them with him. He removed all the locks on the lockers, then opened the door to one. He felt the shadow burst with excitement again, screaming at him to take a sniff, just a sniff and all would be better.

“Ten years sober,” he said aloud, his words hitting the shadow like a sledgehammer. He felt it cry out. It was angry. Maybe he’d kept it at bay for too long and now it was its turn?

Didn’t people slip up? At least once? He hadn’t, at least not yet.

“You can beat this,” he told himself. “You did it before. You can do it again. Others are counting on you. You’re part of a team.”

Then just take some for later, the shadow suggested. Just in case. Better to have than to not have. It’ll keep you alert, focused.

“No. Fuck you, you fuck.” Zaun slammed the locker onto his hand, the pain mind-clearing. Sobering.

In a controlled rage, he began pulling the kilos from the locker, creating a pile on the floor. From there he carried the drugs into the living room. When he was finished, he went back and did the same for the next locker until all the lockers were empty and all the cocaine was in the living room. He raised one of the gates, then opened the window and began tossing the kilos out into the street.