Chapter Nine

The dark room stank of blood, of rot and death. The closed space, sound-absorbent wood walls and lack of light gave it a hugely claustrophobic feel. Forest could see his white hand in front of his face, but blessed little else. He turned around, giving one last look to the statue of the naked woman. Why a naked woman? Wasn't there one person that liked guys in this mansion? Forest sneered and looked back to the door.

The key entered.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

It was like going into another world. Specifically, a 120-watt lit, marble-walled hallway with high ceilings and loud echoes. Forest took one step forward, stunned expression on his face, and heard the sound of his footfall bounce off the polished white marble. There was a definite sterile look to the hallway.

Forest continued to walk, thinking as he did. Mostly about the type of people who must have lived in this place - stupid upper crust. Not that rich people were by necessity stupid, but when you have an entire room made of marble and not think to put a path to your home, it says something. To Forest, everything said something.

He turned the corner, the smooth marble being interrupted unfashionably by a dark wooden desk pushed up against the wall. What caught his eye was a dark rectangle on its top. Forest frowned, light of recognition in his eye, and jogged over. It was a 9mm Parabellum magazine. He scooped it up, cupping it in his hand - a mansion out in the middle of nowhere, and there was a handgun magazine just lying around?

Forest's reaction should be obvious.

The sniper looked up, noting the sole door. He slipped the magazine into his pocket - Bravos only carried two spare magazines for their weapons, and he may need the ammo - causing a clinking as he did so. Forest looked down, startled, and realized he was still wearing the belts of high explosive grenade rounds. He shook his head and passed through the door.

Rickety, dusty, creepy hallway. Enter Forest, stage left. Forest looked about, eyes narrow, and cautiously advanced forward. The twisting hall continued, but he grabbed the first door he could see. Best to do this in order - he certainly did not want to get hit the back. The door led to a bathroom.

It was a terrible mess. The floor was wet with black water, the mirror was cracked, and the sink was stained. They were also out of toilet paper. Forest eagle-eyed the bathtub, noting the black water. Forest had not gotten to his position by being careless, or stupid. It would be pretty easy to hide something in there...

But did he really want to do it? Forest stared at the tub out of the corner of his eye, as if expected it to snap and confess. Eventually Forest found a plunger in the corner, its long, wooden handle spattered with spots of brown. Dirt, or dried blood? Forest grabbed it by its rubber plunger and pointed the handle towards the surface of the water. Pointing his gun at the water with his other, good, hand, he stabbed downward, then immediately grimaced. He threw the plunger away - the wet mark on the handle showing it had only gone down two inches.

Forest reached under the water and felt cloth brush his fingers. Quickly, he yanked; using one hand he pulled an entire corpse out of the tub, water pouring off of its sopping clothes. His gun was trained on it the entire time, and he backed up immediately, waiting for it to get up so he could -

Its head was caved in.

Forest lowered his Beretta. It was dead. Its entire skull looked as if it had been crushed under some heavy heel. But why would a corpse be...

Forest leaned against the sink, forebrow furrowing. Wait. Maybe...

What if the people at the mansion - that had been at the mansion - hadn't been the murderers at all? Maybe they were only caught in the middle. Maybe these zombies had been from outside, something unrelated. Maybe this was just a sort of vacation home for some guy's family. Yeah...so zombies show up, and start kicking the crap out of people. Say the people manage to kill one - hitting it with a hammer, or a crowbar, or something - it doesn't matter. Crushing its skull, either way. But this is early on. Maybe it's the first, or something, but they have to do something with the body. Even if they're holed up in the mansion, they can't leave a corpse out to rot...but they can't bury it. Not in the dictionary sense of burial. Simply no time, simply can't go outside - whatever. Point being, they bury it in the tub...yes. Dirty the water to hide the body, stop the smell to an extent. Poor man's burial. And the handgun magazine - yes, the people were making a stand, setting up weapons around the mansion, ammo...

Forest was by this time exiting the bathroom, heading back to the lobby. He had to talk to someone about this. He had only been in the bathroom for ninety-one seconds.

I need air, but I can't go up. He may be there. Did I hear him leave? Could I hear him leave? I need air, I want air, cravings bad. I can't go up yet, I can't, I need air, my lungs hurt, my side hurts, I hurt, I need air I can't go up i need air need air need air needairneedairneedairairairairairAIRGETAIRNOW

Billy Coen shot out of the bathtub, gasping for oxygen, vision going black. He wheezed, choked, and grabbed the side of the tub, feeling consciousness leaving him, and struggled to stay up. After a long second he won, gripping the edges of reality as life-giving air came back to him.

Well, at least the STARS - whichever one it was, Billy wasn't up on his nowhere-town trivia - was gone. Thank god he hadn't checked the tub for anything else - the marine had had to hide underneath the body in the tub when he heard someone coming. Billy had known it was a crappy plan, but he didn't have much to work with here. Water ran down his face, out of his hair. He looked over at the corpse on the floor. He was totally out of ammo, thank christ the zombie had fallen when it had come for him. He had to be the hero that killed zombies with his foot, now did he?

He started to pull himself out of the tub, but growling when a sharp agony stabbed him in the side. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself out, slipping on the wet tile floor.

He was hurt all over, but his side was the worst. Blood still dripped, now. It was the trip to the mansion, really; it was a hell of a run through hostile territory and all he had was a sidearm. He'd been bitten and slashed and clawed and pecked - but at least his arms, legs, and chest had clotted, but the bite in his side was a hell of a hit -

Damn fucking dog clamped on to my side, fucking eating me when I had to grapple with some rotting shit-eater, got to my left kidney before I could get around to killing him - His left hand was clutching his side. Doesn't affect you, Billy, you're a marine, you're a machine, a tank. He could feel slashed muscle and what he thought just may be an internal organ under his fingers. He opened the bathroom door and staggered out.

Billy could handle this. If he could only get to a safe place, someplace calm - somewhere with no zombies or dogs or crows or STARS trying to bring him back to custody. He just need a few minutes to tend to himself. He kept his right hand on the wall, supporting himself, as he stumbled down the hallway. He went in the opposite direction of the STARS guy; he could see his footprints, left from tracking through the spilled water in the bathroom. He passed by a large amount of glass windows, ignoring them. He had passed this way before. He came upon another door, which he had earlier skipped, and opened it. It opened inwards, towards the marble room.

Small marble room. Not that great, wasn't even something to sit on. There was a second door, though, which he tried. It opened into what could be called a living room. It was dusty and dreary, faded couches and springless chairs. But it caused Billy's face to light up in joy, a huge smile crossing his face - because on the opposite wall was a shotgun.

He lurched across the room, half-sure it had to be a hallucination, but when his fingers closed around the stock it was real. It was a real weapon, he knew, not like a boot; something that could kick ass all over. He pulled it out of the handles on the wall. It felt good in his hands, cool and comforting. He moved as best he could over to the door. With something like this he could grab some territory, take it and hold it, long enough to take care of himself...

When he opened the door, he was grinning broadly. Even when some dust and pebbles fell on his shoulder, it didn't faze him. But when he looked up, curious as to the pebbles' origin, his expression changed.

Man, that's a low ceiling, he thought. Was it always like that? Oh, wait, it's lowering. Hey, what the hell it's LOWERING?! Billy's eyes went wide as the ceiling, however many tons it must have been, came down to meet him. He was going to be crushed!

Billy leapt for the opposite door. It didn't open. He tried again - same result. Billy didn't know if he could break the lock, but wasn't about to try. He dived for the first door, checking above him. The ceiling was almost at head level! Two more inches and he wouldn't be able to open the door -

This door, luckily, was not locked. The door swung open, and Billy scrambled inside. He slammed the door behind him, momentum carrying forward to fall onto a dusty chair. He lay there, stunned, and all he could think of was: I was almost a Bill sandwich!

After a second, he heard a loud thump past the door. Billy rose, hobbled to the door and tried it. It wouldn't open. No, of course not, now the ceiling was blocking the door and he was trapped in here with his goddamned scattergun. Billy was pissed. "Stupid shit!" He screamed, kicking the door, over and over, feeling pain lance out all over his body but not caring. It was total fucking bullshit, just tempt him with an honest to god scattergun and then BOOM -

A simple test showed that replacing the scattergun would reset the ceiling, which Billy expected. "Shit christ motherfucking hell," he swore, grabbing his mullet in frustration. Give him a scattergun, one hell of a weapon, and then screw him. He couldn't take it anywhere, can't go...

Billy's eyes opened. His hands slowly lowered from his hair. His face went from that of rage, to that of a man receiving a revelation. Who said he had to go anywhere? Blood from his side trickled down his soaked jeans, but Billy didn't notice. He had everything here. No zombies, a calm place to tend to his injuries, enough raw bits of crap to make some bandages...and, if no shotgun, still a weapon. He could hear everything that went on outside. All he had to do is take the shotgun off the wall, and everything coming his way went squish.

Billy moved over towards the couch, grabbing something along the way - a bedsheet or a curtain or something, it didn't matter - and settled into the leather. He grinned as he tore the virgin white cloth.

Forest's military boots thumped in the echoing marble hallway. His mind was on the possibility of survivors, maybe, a scared few people still holding out against zombies. Maybe some that could tell them when this began, why it happened, and where was its origin. Forest rounded the corner, cracking his knuckles, crystal eyes narrowed and far off. That would do very nicely, the mission was no longer some search and destroy. Enrico would be -

The sound of breaking glass came suddenly from up ahead. Forest's head snapped up, eyes focusing on reality, thin eyebrows coming down in a sharp frown. He moved forward towards the origin of the sound; the next window.

It wasn't broken, but it was in bad shape. A spiderweb of crack lines fanned out from the centre, ready to fall into separate shards at a moment's notice. He attempted to peer through. Dark night, some rain pattering on the glass, but -

That's when a much louder sound of shattering glass came from right behind him, the other window. He also heard something heavy land on the marble floor. By the time a trio of growling barks split the air Forest was already turning, Beretta ready to kill.

He saw a flash of red and fired - a piece of marble was blasted off the wall. Forest couldn't hit a damn thing if he wasn't looking through a scope. The red streak - one of the dogs - flew at him, clamping down on his arm. Its weight pulled Forest forward, but he stayed on his feet. He could feel it gnawing on his arm.

Forest attempted to throw it off but failed. It yanked him forward again, and Forest yanked back. It still stayed clamped on. On Forest's third try he slung it around, putting his weight to good use, and threw the dog off him. It slammed into a wall and bounced off. Forest's pistol came up, caught red and black in its glass scope, and roared twice. The dog's side burst in a spray of red on two separate points. It was thrown back, yelped, and began to come forward. Forest dashed for the exit.

As he passed under the cracked window, it exploded. Another dog hit him in the head, throwing him to the side. He landed on his back, the dog on top of him, and began diving for his throat. Forest bucked and thrashed, throwing off its aim, but it was a very short-term procedure. He clamped his left hand around its jaw, held it, and brought up his Beretta. Four rounds tore through the dog's lungs, and it dropped instantly.

He rolled to his feet, heard barking very close behind him, and whirled, shooting as he did. Again, two rounds blasted bits out of the marble walls, and then his gun clicked. Nothing. It clicked twice more as he tried to pull the trigger, but the dog seemed unimpressed.

It latched again onto his arm, blood coating its teeth. This time, however, Forest didn't throw him off. Rather, he brought up one foot. The dog was blind as the boot came down, hitting it in the head, knocking it off its prize. The boot came down again, before it could move, crushing its bones. The third hit crushed its ribcage, and the fourth stomp pulverized its skull and silenced it forever.

Forest slumped back against the wall, eyes darting about like a scared finch. All was silent. He yanked the empty magazine out of the gun and threw it at the window. It bounced off the frame, landing among spent casings that rolled across the floor. Pawing at his vest, he found his ammo - three magazines. Two STARS issue and one from the dresser. He slapped one into the pistol, loading a round into the chamber. He peered at the other two small, so temporary magazines. He closed his hand about them, hiding them completely, disappearing so easily.

He looked upward, at the high marble roof, running a hand over his mullet. Bits of glass, tangled in the hair, fell to the ground.