Chapter Seven: I Eat Cannibal
GREG
Okay, I can't really get mad at Sara for ralphing on me—I did drop nine feet and let her break my fall with her body, but I'm not really thrilled at being coated with semi-digested chunky peanut butter either.
"Gahhh," I mumbled, wishing I could wipe off my shirt; she'd missed my vest, luckily. Maybe we'd find a sink in the back of the ice cream parlor where I could wash it, hopefully. Sara had this expression on her face; half embarrassed and half laughing—sort of caught between the two as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Grissom was yelling at us from above. "Sara! Are you okay?"
"I'm okay . . . just got the lunch knocked out of me—" she chuffed up at him. I looked up at Grissom in time to see him smirking.
"Oh thanks for asking about my FALL," I called up to him. "Yeah, I'm a-okay."
"Oh that's good—" Ms Miller called down.
Nice to know SOME one cared. Sara was wheezing a little, but she managed to blurt out, "Sorry!" and I nodded. Not going to hold it against her—I'm just lucky, and I know it. I could be lying here with a broken spine.
"Let's see if we can find water down there, because I'm not wearing your peanut yak butter for the rest of the day, Sare."
"You never . . . know," she shot back, finally straightening up. "Could be . . . the ultimate Zombie deterrent."
THAT was a gross thought, and I pushed it aside as I carefully looked around the roof. There was enough light to see stuff, and I noted that they had a vent housing too, just like Manly Hammers—
Air conditioning is big in Vegas.
We both looked around a little, noting a lot of garbage up on this roof—crushed cups, some tumbleweed and stray paper mostly—and then wandered over to the railings curving over the side of the building. They looked a little like the handles of a pool ladder, and when we looked over the side, sure enough, it was a ladder.
Sara peered over the edge. "It's an extension. Our weight will bring it down, and if we wanted to pull it up again, we'd need to find the crank somewhere down in the store."
"Hear anything?" I asked her, and dropped silent. She still had her head sort of over the side and shook it. I jogged back to where the rope was dangling from Manly Hammers and called up to Grissom.
"It's an extension drop ladder."
"On springs, or ratchets?" Grissom asked, so I jogged back to Sara and relayed the question.
"Ratchets—that's why it needs a crank," she told me and I headed back to Grissom with the info.
He didn't look happy. "If you can't find the crank, the ladder will stay in the down position—it could be risky."
I waved my arms around. "Not like we're really safe here as it is, Grissom—besides, I reeeeeally need to change my shirt."
That last got to him and he nodded, so I headed back to where Sara was. She had her Glock out and was still looking over the side.
"Heard something?" I asked. She shook her head.
"Nope, but we're not taking any chances. I'll go first; you follow—" Sara looked at me and added, "—Try not to fall on me this time, okay? I do have a loaded weapon."
Like I'd done it on purpose last time—sheesh!
She climbed down, deliberately making her moves muffled, and I did the same. We slipped into the shadows of the buildings, and off to the right in the alley I saw nothing but the garbage dumpster between Cone, Cone on the Range and the Beauty Salon next door. Sara reached the concrete-covered ground and already had her weapon out, stance all alert, like one of Charlie's Angels.
It was quiet. Too quiet. I stayed close to the lady with the gun and we carefully made our way to the sidewalk along the front of the stores. I don't know about Sara, but I was on Red Alert, as Archie would say, ready for anything to pop out at us. We sort of shuffled together and looked around from the alley out at the parking lot.
Nothing. We could, however, hear faint moaning—far enough away to be over in Manly Hammers. Sara shifted a little and looked into the glass window of Cone, Cone. "Door's open. I don't see anyone . . . living," she finished in a sad little tone. I risked a peek, noting the blood spatter along the normally white freezer case in the front window.
And the former manager, folded up and stuffed inside it.
SARA
It always makes me sad when places geared for families and kids end up as crime scenes. I hate it when we have to process shoot outs at Chuck E. Cheese, or accidents at Arcade World.
And ice cream parlors are right up there. One of the few places in our society where the whole point is to have half an hour of close, fun times with the people you care most about—these should never be touched by violence, but they are.
The Cone, Cone store was open and quiet; mostly because the two employees were probably off with the crowd in Manly Hammers. As for the manager . . . He was definitely on ice. I tried not to look at him as Greg and I made our way in, step by step.
"Promise me if we hear anything, see anything dangerous, you'll run to the ladder, Greg," I whispered over my shoulder.
"Grissom would kill me if I left you behind," he replied. "And not just because you totally liplocked on him either. What's up with that by the way?"
"Nothing," I blurted out, damning myself for doing it because Greg knows me well enough to pick up on my lies. We were inside the store now, walking through the overturned tables and moving towards the register. The smell of old blood hung in the air and I knew the flies would be thick pretty soon.
"Yeah, well that 'nothing' is the biggest 'something' going on outside of our little situation here," Greg replied, his tone just smug enough to get my hackles up. I hate that tone and he knows I hate that tone, too.
"Greg—" I growled, making my way behind the counter. I noted the back cabinets were closed, and there was a sink here. "—Take off your shirt."
"Now we're talking," he responded, as glad to see the sink as I was. He peeled off his vest and shirt, then carried it to the sink, turning on the faucet while I looked around for bottled water.
There was a standing refrigerated case against one wall filled with sodas and near the bottom, water, so I moved over to it and loaded up my vest pockets with several of them. Over at the sink, Greg was doing that laundry thing, but I got his attention. "On the wall—"
He looked over at the display I was pointing to. "Not my size—"
"Better than wearing a wet shirt," I told him and there wasn't much argument for that. Greg's a clothes horse—he doesn't like to admit it, but it's true. He came over, arms crossed over his bare chest—as if I hadn't seen it before.
Snerk.
He tugged the Cone, Cone tee-shirt off the wall, away from the "Join the Birthday Club!" display and pulled it on over his head. I kept my eyes on the door, feeling a little prickle along the back of my neck. Something seemed off, but I wasn't sure what, just yet.
It dawned on me how tired I was; the adrenaline had me jazzed for the moment, but under it, I was close to exhaustion. I looked around again, at all the melted cardboard tubs of ice cream, soupy and sad in the freezer cases around me and for a minute I was tempted to just scoop some up and lick it off my fingers. Didn't of course—it was probably full of Salmonella by now.
Greg whined. "Crap. It's too small," and I looked at him.
Oh God—the bright blue girly tee-shirt barely made it to his cute little belly button, and the sleeves just capped his long biceps—he looked like a total hootchie Boy Toy now, complete with pissed off, pouty expression, and I started laughing.
Greg rolled his eyes and looked to the ceiling as he put his vest on over the shirt. This did not make things better, since now he looked like a biker's bitch. "Knock it off, Sara—if you hadn't have barfed on me, I wouldn't be stuck in this."
"Oh really? Yeah, um, dropping down on me like I was your personal trampoline had nothing—" I began, but we both stopped when across the parlor, the body in the front freezer case began to move.
GRISSOM
Nearly two decades ago I first watched the superlative film Zulu, starring Michael Caine and Stanley Baker, and while sitting with Ms. Miller, the movie came back to mind with full force as I noted the parallel of the movie plot and our own situation.
Down below us were an unknown but significant number of nameless, faceless enemies eager for our flesh, if the evidence could be trusted.
There were four of us against them. Like the soldiers in the movie, we'd lasted through the night, but unless we got help or re-enforcements at some point soon, we'd be stuck in a siege up here—one that would end slowly and very painfully. These were the facts, ugly but honest, and I was weighing our course of action carefully.
It seemed unavoidable that we would have to climb down to Cone, Cone on the Range and down the extension ladder then make a run for the Denali. The initial problem was getting Ms. Miller and myself off the roof. I'm lighter than I used to be, but climbing down the side of a building would be risky for me, and probably beyond the capacity of Ms. Miller without help.
Nevertheless, if we didn't hear from someone within the next three hours, we'd have to start planning on it.
I looked out towards Las Vegas, and then northward, towards Nellis, realizing I hadn't heard a single plane all through the night. Ms. Miller was keeping an eye out over the ledge where the rope hung, patting Pepito as she did so.
"We will get out of this," I told her. She looked up and flashed me a smile; small but confident.
"I know it--You got good people with you, Mr. Gil Grissom. Smart, calm—seen all the right kind of movies . . . " she pointed out. "Good at takin' care of themselves."
"I'm lucky that way," I agreed. Just then there was a 'thump' from the roof hatch. Both Ms Miller and I looked over in time to see the iron doors jump a little.
"Oooooh shit—" she whimpered. The last thing I wanted to do was go back towards that hatch, but a few more hard bumps would dislodge the satellite leg pinning it closed. What I needed was either a chain, or weight.
All I had at the moment was weight. I climbed up on the low platform and stood on the hatch doors, hating it, feeling the cold chill of panic nipping at my spine, but doing it because this was the only thing I could do.
Ah the irony of being nothing more than one large paperweight, for the moment. Fortunately, I had time to wedge the metal bar of the satellite dish more tightly along the handles of the access at my feet, which helped. The zombies under me would have trouble with leverage now, but I couldn't—WE couldn't—allow them to be able to get even a finger through.
Ms Miller was slowly moving closer, looking fearful in the early morning light. I tried to smile reassuringly. "They won't be able to push through from the ladder—no momentum."
"Uh-huh," she muttered doubtfully, but with a determined look she joined me in standing on the metal doors of the hatch, wrapping one arm around me to balance herself.
Ah.
"Let's do this thing right then—you plus me on these here doors is going to hold the fort, right?" she murmured a little more confidently. "At least until Greg and Sara make it back."
"Yes, easily," I told her, feeling a camaraderie of the damned. "I'm one hundred and eighty pounds, and that added to your—"
Ms Miller's hard-eyed Don't-GO-there look stopped me dead. I coughed. "—ahhhh . . . we're going to be fine, " I finished, lamely.
"Amen," she nodded. "Amen."
We stood there, and the moans rising up around our feet were louder, and more ominous, muffled only by the metal. I tried not to hyperventilate but it wasn't easy, and just when I thought I'd gotten a grip on my breathing, a gunshot broke the stillness of the morning.
"Sara!" I yelled instinctively, and hopped off the hatch door, running to the ledge of the building, in my blind haste leaving Ms. Miller standing alone.
GREG
For the record, I love baby teeshirts—on girls, that is. I love the way they cling and tease, allowing for a flash of belly button and the promise of riding up. I do NOT, however, like wearing one.
Especially one in powder blue, with 'Cone, Cone on the Range' across the front in rainbow lettering.
Not only is it a terrible thing for a man of proud Viking heritage to wear, it's even worse to think of being turned into a zombie wearing one. You've heard the phrase "wouldn't be caught dead wearing that?" It looked like I was just about to be, and even my CSI vest wasn't going to be enough to offset the damned shirt.
"I thought he was dead!" Sara griped, her Glock out and aimed at the whitish-blue arm that was now hanging over the edge of the freezer case. She and I were still behind the counter, but that wasn't going to offer us a lot of protection.
"He is—he's just not taking it lying down," I told her. Yeah it was a stupid thing to say, but it just popped out. You have to understand . . . this guy—zombie—was between us and the door.
Between us and the door. As in, we would have to kill him to get around him.
What am I saying? The dude was already dead—we'd have to incapacitate him to get around him. And not get bitten ourselves.
I was pretty close to wetting myself—something that hasn't happened since I was six. Sara shifted her stance and took better aim. She spoke over her shoulder to me, in that low voice she gets when she's concentrating. "Is there a back door?"
I hadn't even thought of that. There would have to be, legally. I hesitated. "You want me to check?"
"Yesssss---" Even when she's scared Sara can show she's pissed off too. I backed up and turned, looked around. Back little walk through with more freezer cases, and yes, two doors—one to the bathroom, and one that looked as if it faced the alley. I turned the handle and it was locked.
Then I turned the lock and unlocked it, feeling massively stupid—I guess fear really does make you overlook the obvious. In any case I called back to Sara. "It's open."
"Get out—" she told me, and I looked up to see her tightening the trigger. Mr. Mangled Manager was halfway out of the case now, and permafrost was not a good look on him. He had a huge hole in his neck and his head was crooked because the muscles are all severed on that side.
He was still wearing his name badge: Jeff Tullon.
Worse than that, he was focusing on us; I could see him sway a little, centering in on me and Sara in a self-correcting way, like a hunting dog. It was fascinating and scary as shit. "Shoot Sara, shoot!" I muttered.
She did—fired off a round right into the middle of his managerial forehead, opening up a big hole and blowing out bits of . . . matter out the back of his skull. For a moment he staggered, driven back a step by the impact.
But—and this was the real testicle tightener—he didn't fall.
"Oh fuck," Sara groaned. We both heard Grissom's yell way above us, and it broke the spell; Sara shifted her aim and fired again, taking out the zombie at the kneecap; this did make him fawl down boom, as Brass would have said. I hooked an arm around Sara's waist and tugged her towards the door in back.
"Come on, the others will have heard that—" I warned her, feeling new adrenaline and wanting to run like hell. Sara nodded, crowding so fast behind me she was practically plastered to my backside, and we stumbled through the door. Three long steps and we were at the ladder again, full circle. I waved to her to go up but she shook her head.
"I have the gun—go, GO Greg!" she ordered, and I clambered up, slipping a little, feeling my heart pounding like a heavy metal baseline. Up I went, stumbling over the ledge and falling onto the gravelly roof, rolling to get out of the way. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grissom on the Manley roof, staring anxiously at me, and I scrambled to reach back to the ladder to help Sara.
She was halfway up, Glock still in hand, looking grim when I noticed the blood running down her forearm.