Empty. The entire city was vast and desolate and unnerving. It made me want to cry. We stood on the sidewalk, the five of us, and just gawked at the sight. People were dead in their cars, dead on the street, dead everywhere. And, frighteningly, many of them were walking. The dead bodies were walking, and they were eating the corpses of some of the other dead people, the ones that weren't reanimated. Daisy let out a choked cry, and the things turned towards us. They began to advance towards us, and quietly, we started in the other direction, shuffling quietly at first, then, after we put some distance between ourselves and the creatures, sprinting hastily, almost trampling each other, Daisy sobbing, and Tom grumbling about Gatsby. Gatsby, thinking on his feet, stopped and swung open a door to a building, holding it open as Daisy, Jordan and I rushed in. He closed it before Tom got there, who entered moments later, seething.
"Hey!" he shouted angrily. Gatsby stepped forward, while Jordan, Daisy and I backed slowly a corner of the room. It was a lobby, adorned with a secretary's desk on the west, a couple of chairs and side tables on the east, and another door at the north.
"Shh," Gatsby replied coolly. "You don't want to attract those... things."
"Maybe I want to!" Tom roared. "So they can rip you to pieces and eat you and I can have Daisy!"
"This has nothing to do with her."
"It has everything to do with her!"
"Please!" Daisy cried, "Don't argue over me like I'm not even here!"
"What does it matter if you're not with me!?" Tom slammed his fist against the wall.
"Daisy..." Gatsby whispered. He took a half-step back, tentatively, eyeing Tom cautiously. "Tell him."
"Jay, please, not now." There was a thud, and we all turned towards the door through which we entered the small room. More noise followed, including a faint, guttural moaning. The things, as Gatsby had called them, were trying to break in. Gatsby picked up one of the side tables, and broke off a leg. I stared at him in fascination as he took the jagged-ended piece of wood and approached the door.
"Daisy," he said firmly, "Get back. All of you." He reached out a shaky hand and drew the door open. The things started shambling in – that's what I'll call them, Things. He allowed one to enter, then slammed the door shut quickly again, and I could hear the snap of bone as one of the Thing's arms was crushed in the door. Gatsby grimaced. "We have to figure out how to kill these things," he explained, thrusting the wood through the Thing's stomach. It made a low-pitched gargling noise, but it didn't die. Then he swatted it across the head, and it kept on coming. Finally, with a grunt, he plunged the stake through the Thing's head, right where the brain is, and it keeled over backwards. Daisy gasped. "The head," Gatsby recapped, frowning at the dead Thing on the ground. "You have to get it in the head."
"You're a murderer," Tom accused, smirking.
"Tom!" protested Daisy, to no avail.
"You just killed a man!"
"That," Gatsby scoffed, motioning towards the disfigured corpse lying at his feet, "Is not a man. That's… well, I don't know, but it sure as hell isn't a man."
"But you killed it, you son of a bitch!"
"Did you see those things outside? They were eating human corpses. I don't think they'd mind fresh meat." We stood in silence, looking at each other tensely.
"Do you suppose the rest of this place is clear?" Jordan asked, gesturing superfluously at the door on the south of the room.
"We can find out," Tom said gruffly. "We should find out." Then, after a pause, "I nominate Gatsby."
"I'll go with," I offered. "We shouldn't split up."
"You're right," Daisy agreed. "Let's stay together." Tom grunted something that might've been a begrudging approval, and Jordan nodded.
"So," she asked, "Are we going?"
"Yes," Tom said emphatically. Gatsby swung the door open, hoping nothing would be on the other side. The door lead into a long corridor, lined with six doors total, three on either side. Gatsby went ahead.
"One of the rooms is a closet. Two are bathrooms. The other three are unmarked," he explained. "I'm going to try the closet." He rattled the doorknob, and the door slid right open. A woman gasped. It wasn't Daisy, and it wasn't Jordan. I scooted next to Gatsby. There, on the floor in the closet, sat George and Myrtle Wilson, cradled in each other's arms.