The huge serial killer zombie advanced on me. I held the surgical tool up, ready to drive it through his eye as soon as he made his move, hoping it wouldn't be too late.
I reflected on what had happened—how had the situation have gotten away from me like this? I've had a lot of people strapped to my table, and not one has ever popped up after dying.
The undead murderer loomed over me, growling, moaning, drooling. He had finally slowed down. Now I really wanted him to get on with it, and he was stalling. I blinked the sweat from my eyes, clenched my jaw, and said, "Get it over with already, big boy."
Riveted by my presence, he drew closer. He was only a few feet away now and I tightened my grip on my weapon, ready to strike. He opened his mouth and dipped his head—
Just then, small-arms automatic fire outside caused him to look to his left. I started too, but quickly recovered my composure—taking advantage of his momentary inattention, I reached out and took hold of the lamp. Turning back, he lunged at my arm and tried to bite it. He got a big mouthful of glass and ceramic instead. Stunned by the blow, he stared at me, chewing the broken pieces absentmindedly. I brought it down again, hard, shattering the rest of it against his temple, and he fell down at my feet. Just to be sure it was done, I extricated the metal center and drove it down as hard as I could into the back of his head.
As the blood-dimmed fury cleared from my head, I realized that the gunfire was still going on outside. The groping, grasping hands were disappearing from the window. I watched them slide out as their blood spattered over the window pane. Then the firing stopped and I heard a familiar voice over the sound of the clip reloading: "Get the fuck away from my place! Motherfucker! That's not food, that's my-!" The firing resumed, and the remaining zombies on the landing were quickly mowed down. I grinned in spite of the situation. Big sister was home.
I saw her walk through the ruined door and found myself staring down the barrel of an Uzi. "Not a zombie!" I called, throwing my hands up in the air. She just nodded and quickly dispatched all of the rest of the creatures that were wandering around my place. "God!" she cried. "I hope that was the last fucking one."
"I kinda doubt it, Deb." Stepping over the gruesome corpses, I made my way over to her and gave her a big hug. "Thanks for saving my life."
"Forget it, Dex." She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said, "We have to get the fuck out of here. We'll have time for the reunion later. Where's Harrison?"
"Not here, thank God." I had no idea where my son was, but the body sprawled over his highchair made me appreciate how fast we had to find him. I noticed a note tacked to the fridge and walked over. It was from the nanny.
Took Harrison for a walk. Back in a half hour.
"Totally…Doubtful," I muttered.
"Where is she?" called Deb from her bedroom. I could hear her packing up a duffel bag.
Then I noticed another note, this one hastily scribbled and left on the table next to the phone.
Museum Tower. 13th floor
I repeated the address out loud and Deb called back, "She took Harrison fucking Downtown in this mess? What is wrong with her?"
"Good help is hard to find these days," I said, kicking one of the zombies in the head. I rarely get frustrated and try to cover up those emotions, but right now I was trembling. My son was missing, out there in this Hell somewhere. I had to find him. "Let's go. Are you ready?"
I walked to the bedroom and she flipped a .38 caliber handgun at me. I caught it and stared at the weapon in distaste. I prefer my kills close up and personal.
As if reading my mind, she indicated the killer's tools spread out on the bed. "What's this?"
My heart leaped up into my throat and sank back slowly. I felt the lie spring to my lips before I could stop it. "They called me in to investigate a murder scene this morning," I said, indicating the guy resting comfortably on the floor. "These were his tools—I was examining them for spatter and ran out still holding it, I guess. Wasn't exactly dead…looks like I get the day off."
She nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation. "No one's going to be checking up on this. I was down at the station and…let's just say...if you show up on Monday you better bring a box of brains instead of doughnuts."
I was relieved she wouldn't be checking up on my story, but at the same time I thought about all the people I had worked with over the years, reduced to mindless cannibals. "I think I'll be calling in dead. Where'd you get the piece then?"
"Fucking gang member tries to bust my head with it like he was cracking a fucking walnut this morning."
"Could be useful, if we can find another clip."
She nodded and picked up my bag of killing tools. It was so surreal to see her standing there in her bedroom, closing it up the way I had done so many times in the past. "These could come in handy too. Let's bring them with us." She handed me the pack.
"Great idea…"
Miami was closed.
We drove up to a huge blockade when we tried to enter the downtown area. The whole place was under quarantine. A National Guardsman came out from around a pile of sandbags rigged with barbed-wire, pointing an assault rifle at me.
"Jesus!" Deb started shouting out the window. "Don't point that thing at my brother, you asshole! He's not a zombie! You ever seen one drive a car?"
"Easy, big sister," I said, placating her. I kept my stare on the guy, though, and my hand on the handle of the .38. "It's probably just their policy."
"State your business." He spoke in a flat monotone as he wearily put his gun up. Clearly he was getting tired of screening for the undead. I relaxed a little. The guy was just doing his job.
"Couple of members of the living organism club, seeking passage to find my baby boy." I reached for my credentials, but he was already waving us on before I had finished talking.
Then he spied something in the distance and said, "Hurry."
From behind the blockade I heard someone call out something, sounded like, "Riot," then nothing else, because all sound was blotted out by the crisp, distinct rattle of machine guns.
"Oh, my fucking God…" I heard from the passenger seat during a brief lull in the gunfire. I couldn't bring myself to look back, and drove carefully through the gate. The National Guardsman followed briskly behind, slamming it shut behind us with a clatter.
"They turned the whole fucking city into a giant fort," she said incredulously. Here everything seemed completely normal. Traffic was flowing, people were walking on the sidewalks, talking on cell phones, even laughing. "Give them a week and they'll have a drawbridge up."
"It'll do more good than the barbed wire…come on, let's go find Harrison."
I like standing outside skyscrapers at the close of the business day. I imagine that the workers are blood cells pumping through an artery out of a gigantic, pulsating heart. They break around me, uncomfortable, jostling each other not to touch me, to get too close to me, me, interfering with their daily function. I was like the blockage that kept them moving faster around me—an infected blood vessel, a tumor. They have no choice but to go around—I could stop any one of them if I chose and end their endless, robotic flow. As long as they keep feeding the system, as long as they do not cull others from the flock or interfere with my task, they are beneath my notice. I allow them to keep on their daily rounds. It makes me feel powerful in a way, knowing that I have that ability.
It was unbelievable—all of these people going on with their everyday lives while the world fell completely apart outside of the city. Instead of buying survival gear, spending time with loved ones, saying goodbye, they went to the office. They must have total faith in their government to stop the problem. But there is no way to stop it, I realized, watching them on their mindless march. The army could kill every last undead creature on the planet and we would still have a zombie problem, because people like these carried that mindset with them wherever they went. They breathe, their hearts beat, but they are zombies all the same, living lives that are repetitive, robotic, and utterly without purpose.
I am never sure whether I should pity or envy them.
We entered the Museum Tower as the last of the businessmen were trickling out. Many gave us dark looks, giving us a wide berth. I couldn't say I blamed them. We were a reminder of what was really going on out there. In ordinary times, a woman holding an Uzi with a revolver stuck down the crotch of her pants and a man nervously clutching a looted police-issue shotgun while weighted down with edged weapons probably would not be permitted inside an office complex.
We got on the central elevator as a group of suited men and skirted women rushed anxiously past us, pleased to leave us well behind them. I wondered how many of them were going to be spending time with their families tonight, those who still had them, and how many would be catching up on paperwork.
"Hold the door." I had spotted an abandoned handtruck loaded with restaurant supplies and wheeled it into the elevator, pushed it to the back of the car, and punched the number 13.
When we got to the 13th floor, we were faced with a long corridor, a row of endless-seeming non-descript doors. "How the fuck do we find her in this mess?" said Deb.
I put up a hand to shush her and listened. I thought I had heard…
"There." I ran towards the small noises I heard—uncontrolled weeping: the nanny's voice, sobbing. I stopped at door 1323 and looked back at Deb. She held the Uzi up and gave a slight nod, so I turned the doorhandle and went inside.
She saw me and ran over, sobbing, and threw her arms around me. "Oh my God, Dexter. I'm so sorry!" I held her stiffly, feeling awkward. I'm not much for human contact, and this was my second hug of the day. I was more concerned about Harrison than comforting this nanny, but I couldn't get to him with the crazy woman clinging to me, so I inclined my head towards Debbie. She got my meaning immediately and picked up my son. I think he's put in enough time sitting around dead bodies. He wasn't even crying this time. I hoped that didn't mean he was getting used to it.
"Calm down, just take it easy. What happened here?"
"He came after Harrison!" she pointed accusingly at the corpse. "I came here to find my husband, and he tried to eat your son! I didn't have a choice…"
My blood froze on hearing that. I had left my son in her care so I could go off and kill someone who would be dead now anyway, and he had almost become one of the lifeless horrors.
I tried to make my tone even, to belie the angst I was feeling. I turned away to hide my face and took Harrison from Deb, who seemed shocked to see the tears standing in my eyes. This was my son! Didn't she understand? I couldn't be calm and collected all the time! To be completely disaffected, like an emotionless—nevermind.
"They have some kind of rudimentary logic. If they see an easy meal, they go for it. There was nothing of your husband left by the time you saw him—he coldly assessed the situation and decided the baby would be easier to eat than you. That's all." I bobbed Harrison up and down and stared at the body in front of the desk. "Thank you for saving my son. It couldn't have been easy…I mean…I know it wasn't him anymore but it looked like…your quick action saved my boy. When we get out of this…you're getting a raise."
Her face crumbled and she broke down again, sinking to the ground, wailing in abject despair. Deb and I exchanged glances. I wasn't sure she was ever going to get over this. She was a liability, for sure but…I owed her my son's life. We couldn't just abandon her here…could we?
"just leave me," she sobbed. "Leave me with him."
"We can't do that," said Deb, and looked at me. When I stayed silent, her mouth dropped open, and she kicked me in the ankle.
"Yes," I hissed, glaring at Deb. "You've said your goodbyes. We have to keep moving, before…"
The words died on my mouth. The two ladies turned and looked at me quizzically. I put a hand up so they would stay quiet. Then I heard it again.
Thump…thump…and then a soft metallic rattle.
