Karen’s body fought to sit and Dennis slammed his fist into her face. He felt her nose give way and hit her again. This time her jaw shattered and she tumbled over backwards, choking and sputtering. Blood spilled from her nostrils and lips and coated her cheeks.
—GODDAMN YOU—
The roaches flapped their wings, agitated. They flew from the closet door, from the walls, from the floor, swarming at Dennis, colliding into him with enough force to crunch their little bodies. They flew at his eyes, his mouth.
He held his hands in front of his face, lowered his head, rushed to the door. “Eileen! Come on!”
She bolted from the closet, frantically wiping roaches from her clothes. He followed her into the living room and slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. They wiped the bugs from each other as several hit the other side of the wood with hard, loud thumps.
A few crawled under the door and Eileen stomped them to bloody pulp. “What do we do?”
Dennis rushed to the window. Flames crawled up the base of the building. “Raynham’s on fire. We’ve got to get out of here.”
In the hallway, someone screamed.
“What’s out there?”
He opened his pocket knife. “I don’t know, but if we stay here...”
She nodded. Took his hand. Squeezed it.
They sprinted to the front door.
He squeezed her hand and threw it open.
They stepped out into Hell.
Chapter Twenty
Eileen had been through so much in the past few hours that her mind was starting to give. This had to be post-traumatic stress, she told herself. This couldn’t be happening.
The hall was dark. Blue light flickered from an open door with cadence like Morse code, illuminating the dead man propped against a brain-splattered door. She thought she recognized him. Kurt something?
Dennis stopped. “There were two of them,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Carl Petrie’s missing.”
“Was he alright?”
Dennis held the knife in front of him and inched his way down the hall. “Someone had blown his brains out.”
Had they stolen his body? She didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.
The heavy odor of smoke drifted into the hallway. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and glanced behind her, paranoid that Karen and her roaches crept after them. The hall was empty.
As they passed Kurt’s body, Dennis nudged it with his foot. The torso shook and slid down the door, the head making a hollow
thunk
when it hit the floor. Dennis grabbed the handle to the door—
—and was taken off his feet.
Eileen jumped as a dark mass collided into him, lifting him up and slamming him into the wall. The knife skidded across the floor.
The flickering blue light of the television revealed Carl Petrie, half of his face gone, chunks of gore dribbling onto Dennis’ face.
One hand tightened around Dennis’ throat. With his other, Carl worked a finger into Dennis’ mouth.
His left eye no longer had a socket. It turned toward Eileen from inside of a gnarled lump of red flesh.
She screamed.
* * *
The fat finger tasted like sour milk. Dennis gagged as it forced itself past his lips, over his tongue. It wedged against his cheek and tugged, trying to tear his mouth open like a fish on a hook. The pain was excruciating. Dennis bucked, punched him in what was left of his face, but the thing that used to be Carl didn’t budge. He knew he only had once choice.
He bit down hard on the finger. Locked his jaws. Wrenched his head back and forth like a dog.
Cold blood spilled into his mouth. Muscle parted. His teeth met bone. The hand around his neck tightened and stars exploded in his eyes. Carl half grinned at him.
Eileen struck Carl hard in the face. Blood and jelly plopped onto Dennis’ jaw. She hit him again and again, his eye turning to mush, his face disintegrating from the blows. It took Dennis a second to realize she held his knife.
She grunted, cried, hacked at the thing’s face until chips of bone flew, until its grip loosened and it slumped over motionless on the floor.
The pressure in his head and neck vanished as he sucked in a breath. It felt like an orgasm. He coughed.
She dropped the knife. “What the hell—”
“I dunno, but we don’t have time to figure it out.” He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the gory knife, and fought the door open.
* * *
—Eileen—
She looked into an open apartment. The television flashed images of the storm. A woman sat on the couch, a baby in her arms. She rocked it back and forth, her nipple pressed against its mouth. Its head hung limp from its neck, mouth open, eyes wide and cloudy. It was dead.
The woman didn’t notice. She continued to cram her nipple into its mouth.
In the darkness at the back of the room, something shifted. Its white form moved between the shadows, between the pages of books on a shelf, between fibers on the carpet.
—Step inside, Eileen—
Its voice was high-pitched, yet gravelly.
—The wonders in here will take you away.
The fire is hungrier than I am,
and much slower to work.
You won’t like it as much as what I have to offer. Isn’t that right,
Sarah?
Didn’t I treat Peggy well?
And little Charlie—
The woman on the couch stared at her baby’s corpse and nodded.
Something in its voice made a twisted kind of sense. How could they hope to escape? Better to offer herself up than to face what waited for her in the halls.
“Eileen!” Dennis grabbed her by the arm and jerked her into the stairwell. He slammed the door behind her. “Here.” He pointed to his face. “Focus on me. Forget everything else, okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I—”
Another scream, this time below them.
Dennis inched down the stairs. As they rounded the corner, eyes met hers. They were a woman’s. Dead. Glassy. She lay on her back, blood spreading out below sliced wrists, as a wretched corpse plunged in and out of her, grunting through sewn lips.
She held Dennis tighter and turned her head away.
They turned the corner and Dennis stopped. She heard the ripping, tearing sounds, heard the growling, and didn’t want to look.
* * *
A pack of large, black hounds paced around. Their fur was shaggy and splotched with dried blood. Terry Crowley was spread out on the ground between them. They had torn his chest open, his ribs jutting out into the air at odd angles. His intestines were strung around the corridor and the dogs feasted on parts of him. His body twitched, his eyes staring past Dennis, his hand reaching out for help...
One of the dogs made eye contact with Dennis. It stepped forward and emitted a low, deep growl.
The other dogs stopped chewing, dropping bits of Terry onto the floor, and stared.
“Back up.” Dennis and Eileen walked backwards up the stairs.
One of the dogs followed.
They darted to the second floor door and dove out into the hallway. Dennis shouldered the door shut, wedging it firmly into its frame. It shook as the dog rammed against it from the other side.
A loud blast. The window behind them shattered.
He glanced up in time to see a large, bald man stomping towards them, his shirtless torso covered in tattoos, pumping a shotgun for a second shot.
Dennis turned to the door across from him and slammed his shoulder against it. Pain shot through his arm. He ground his teeth together and hit it again. It flew open and he fell inside, dragging Eileen behind him, just as another shot fired in the hallway.
He jumped to his feet, slammed the door, grabbed the bookshelf next to it, tipped it over. It crashed onto the ground, spilling books onto the floor, and he shoved it against the door.
The smell of smoke was stronger on this floor, burning his eyes and lungs. His ears rang from the shot.
Eileen rushed into the kitchen and ripped drawers from cabinets, scattering their contents across the tile.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for something.”
“What?”
“I don’t fucking know! A gun, a meat cleaver—something to help us get past him!”
The door shook.
Dennis walked toward her, but stopped when he saw the blood. She caught the look in his eyes and looked behind her, where a large red puddle soaked into the carpet. Tiny, bloody hand prints covered the wall.
Whimpering. “...no...please...”
Dennis threw his pocket knife down and grabbed a butcher knife from the floor. “Stay here.”
“But I—”
“Shhh!”
He tiptoed through the apartment, following the sounds to a bedroom.
An old man sat in a corner. Three other bodies lay across the room, butchered like pigs. Crimson gashes carved up the man’s face, neck, chest and arms.
“No,” he pleaded. “Please. It’s me. Grandpa.”
A group of young children walked toward him. None looked older than eight or nine. They were splashed with red stains. Their hands and jaws dripped blood. Each gripped a knife, except for the little blond girl in the green dress in back. She held a cleaver.
A dark headed boy stepped forward. “Grandpa,” he said, and plunged a steak knife into the old man’s throat.
The children fell on him like a pack of hyenas. Wild. Frothing at the mouth. Arms a blur. Blades flying. Teeth gnashing.
Dennis rushed back down the hall.
The front door shook again.
Eileen held a Maglite. It was easily three feet long. The fluorescent light of the kitchen sparkled from its blue steel. “Best I could do,” she said.
“We gotta go.”
The children’s laughter echoed down the hall.
The door shook again. This time the bookcase fell over onto its face.
“We gotta act fast. Grab that and pull it away from the door.”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
Eileen grabbed the bookcase and dragged it across the carpet.
Dennis stood next to the door and took a deep breath. He knew he’d have to kill the man. He hoped he could.
It’s him or us, he reminded himself.
The man hit the door again. With the bookshelf gone it flew open. He stumbled inside, off balance, expecting resistance. Dennis hit him hard from the side, the knife sliding in easily under his ribs. The man fell over, the shotgun firing a wild shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down over them as Dennis stabbed wildly, piercing the man’s side over and over again. The bald man tried to shove his attacker off, but years of wrestling allowed Dennis to stick to him. It didn’t take long for his flailing hands to lose their strength.
Dennis shoved the shotgun away and stood. Bloody bubbles popped on the man’s lips as he wheezed.
I killed him.
“Dennis!”
The children shuffled out into the living room.
Dennis threw the knife down, snatched up the shotgun, and pumped it once. He had never fired a gun before and prayed he wouldn’t have to do so now.
He moved to grab Eileen’s hand, but the little girl swung the cleaver at him. He jumped backwards and kicked her in the chest. She fell on her ass and tumbled over.
Eileen came toward him, but the dark headed boy growled and rushed her, a bloody knife held in his outstretched hand. Dennis aimed and fired.
The stock punched hard into his shoulder. A sound like a thunderclap erupted and the boy’s head exploded into a fine, red mist. Blood sprayed from his neck stump as the body dropped to its knees, fell on its chest.
Dear God…What had he just done?
The other children turned toward him, smiling.
He grabbed Eileen’s hand and jerked her out into the hallway.
“You...you...killed that boy.” He could barely hear her through the ringing in his ears.
“I had to. There was no other way.” Was there? Was there something else he could have done? “I had to.”
In front of them, the hallway filled with people. They fought and wrestled each other to the ground, biting and clawing. Knives flashed, bats swung. People screamed, yelled in rage. Thick fingers of smoke crawled up the walls.
Behind them, the children shuffled through the door, murder in their eyes.
“Back to the stairs!” Eileen tugged his hand toward the door.
“The dogs—”
“Shoot them! C’mon!”
* * *
Eileen kept her hand on Dennis’ shoulder as they crept down the stairs. Smoke choked the stairwell. Muted yelling echoed all around. Dennis placed the butt of the gun on his shoulder as they rounded the corner.
Terry’s insides littered the ground like trash. His body was no longer there. Gory paw prints painted the floor, but the dogs were gone, too.
Eileen felt eyes on her. She turned and looked up the stairs. The amorous corpse stood on a landing. It seemed to stare at her, even though its eyes were sewn shut. Its pants were still open and one hand slowly stroked.
“Dennis!”
He spun and raised the gun. She gripped his shoulder tighter.
The corpse tilted its head back, moaned, and stroked faster.
She had to get out of here. She couldn’t take this anymore, was close to collapsing into a corner and screaming. “Leave it.”
Dennis nodded.
They stepped past the meat scattered around the floor and opened the door. Gray clouds smothered their faces. She started coughing and couldn’t stop.
Noises drifted into the stairwell—screams, yells, thumps, wet slaps. The undulating red-orange light of the fire shone on the door. Dennis glanced back up the stairs.
Eileen grabbed his jaw and turned his face to the door. “We have to go, goddammit! NOW!”
He nodded and they stepped into the hall.
* * *
Flames licked up the walls of the first floor hallway, grabbing at the ceiling. Chunks of plaster fell crackling into the fire. Smoke strangled the corridor. Dennis crouched, pulled Eileen down. He coughed hard. “Stay low, below the smoke.” She nodded through red, watery eyes. “We gotta move fast.”