Mina wasn't about to argue with his sense of destiny. She spent most of her time quietly observing everyone's own sense of entitlement. The world always revolved around one person, and in the middle of a disaster, this self-absorption provided the confidence and hope a survivor needed to continue. Vincent was just like everybody else.
"We'll find your boyfriend once we bust out," he looked up at her.
"You're such a nice guy. I like nice guys. You only have to ask if you need anything. I know you've done a lot of bad things, but I don’t think it matters anymore. You can do bad things with me, or watch me do them, if you want. I like to eat—"
Vincent ignored her and put his finger to his lips. "You hear that? Listen… you can hear them out there. It’s quiet, but they're still there, waiting for us."
Mina couldn't hear anything. She didn't need to be reminded of the dead; they followed her wherever she went.
"We gotta keep our voices down," Vincent warned her. "They're leaving us alone. They get distracted and they forget about us."
"You're afraid, but you don't have to be," Mina said. "When they tear your flesh apart, it burns for a little while. You feel like you're on fire, and you might take a long time to die. So it hurts a lot. But eventually, it ends. The pain ends, and then you get to eat people, too."
Vincent shrugged. "Whatever. You say some crazy shit. I didn't say nothing about being afraid. I've had guns pointed in my face; I've been paid to shed blood, and I've sold heaters so others could do the wet work. I ain't afraid of death, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to die. I've been in the shit before, too. Went to Iraq back in '03, but I ain't much for taking orders."
The life from his eyes seemed to be extinguished while he stared beyond her, and she recognized an expression that she saw whenever she looked into a mirror.
The cold visage of a killer.
Vincent had assumed his natural character. He had come unglued earlier, and now, he was comfortable with the violent world in which he found himself. Mina knew that his reality hadn't changed much at all.
"Is that the storeroom behind you?" Mina asked.
"I went down a couple steps to see if maybe I could hear something, but it's quiet. I guess there's a priest and a nun locked in there. You already heard about it?"
Mina nodded. "Father James and Sister Beatrice."
Vincent stroked his chin. "Yeah. So, why don't you come and get something to eat with us? Derek and Shanna are watching the back door. She ain't leaving his side for nothin'."
"Thanks. I might like the company. Shanna seems like such a cute little girl."
She followed him to the back where a chair had been placed against the door. Derek and Shanna sat around a square card table and played Uno. Derek looked up at Mina and nodded a greeting to her. He sat in a small folding chair that seemed like it might break beneath his heavy frame. When he brushed a dreadlock out of his eyes, Mina could see he wore a gold wedding band.
"All quiet," Derek said. "Nothing. Seems like we might be right about them. They can't hear any better or smell any better than we can. Did Vincent apologize to you for what he said?"
Mina nodded. "Um, he didn't have to. It was nice of him, though. Vincent seems like a nice guy."
Vincent sat down against the wall behind Derek and pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants. "I ain't down for sitting here like this while we just wait for them to break through. I got to get back, got stacks I worked my
ass
off for."
"Nobody cares about your money," Derek said. "If you're going to complain, why don't you hang out with your buddy, Jim? I'm sure he won't mind listening to you whine."
"Nigga, I bled for that shit. I run these streets…"
"Do you? Do you
run these streets
? Why don't you go outside and tell the zombies you're in charge, and they should ask for your permission to eat people? You could save us all a lot of trouble. Your gangster bullshit isn't going to help you. And the next time you stand, I want to see you pull your pants up to your waist, where they belong. Try to look and act like a grown man for once in your life."
Vincent shook his head and mumbled. "Just let me hit that weed, and I'll be straight. Sitting on ounces at the crib, just gotta get back. Ain't putting up with no white bread niggas…"
"I need to take a short break," Derek announced to Shanna. "You keep beating up on me at this game. Let Mina sit down and play with you for couple of rounds. There's only so much damage my confidence can take in one night." He winked at Mina.
Shanna shook her head. Mina was convinced the girl was going to start whining or carrying on, but instead, she just stared at her cards.
Derek stood up and offered Mina his chair. "I need to straighten Vincent out a little bit. Have a seat. We'll be back in a minute." He habitually brushed a dreadlock away from his face and looked her over. "Wish we could get you some clothes. Jim told us what happened. Anyway, Shanna's a tough little girl. She doesn't say much, but who could blame her? There really isn’t anything we can say."
He didn't wait for her response; it was obvious she made him feel uncomfortable. What else did Derek know? He was a perfectly sane man, and their small group already looked to him for leadership. They had all been together for a short while, and they knew nothing about each other. If it wasn't for Desmond's half-hearted attempted to quickly get to know everybody when they found temporary shelter inside of the garage, they might still be complete strangers to each other. Derek wanted to make sure everyone was safe; even with all the egos, it was clear that Derek followed all of his convictions. There was no hypocrisy in his heart, or perhaps he carried himself as a man who must always atone for some terrible mistake.
They knew nothing about Jim.
She sat down across from Shanna, who pushed the deck of cards in front of her. Mina piled up the remaining cars and began to shuffle. Derek and Vincent argued at the end of the hallway, and Shanna looked up at her with wide eyes.
"Uno's a fun game," Mina said. "Go easy on me, okay?"
"It's not
that
fun," Shanna corrected her.
"Do I look scary to you? I hope not. This blood isn't even mine."
Shanna sighed. "I don't care. I don't give a
shit.
"
The little girl's sudden anger was almost endearing, although given their situation, it was easy to see why innocence was no longer needed to mask the emotional fury that boiled within the girl.
"There're monsters in the basement," Shanna announced. "Derek's afraid, but I'm not afraid. I can run from them because I'm fast."
After Mina dealt the cards, she said, "You go first."
Shanna stared at her cards and moved them between her fingers. Mina was at a loss for words
"It's not fair, is it?" Mina asked.
"We're supposed to feed my dog. He's hungry." Shanna wriggled in her seat, the tips of her feet barely touching the floor.
"What's your dog's name?"
Shanna didn't say anything, but kicked her feet beneath the chair. Derek and Vincent continued to shout at one another. Mina turned around to see Derek's finger pointing right into the smaller man's chest.
"You’re so brave," Mina remarked because she thought it was the right thing to say.
"I shouldn't even
be
here," Shanna said angrily. "I want to run, because I'm faster than everybody. I can just keep running."
"Where will you go?" Mina asked. "Home?"
Shanna stared at her cards while Derek and Vincent continued their argument.
Mina tried and failed to make small talk. It was hardly something she was good at. She'd always been a listener. When Patrick used to complain about his ex-wife, she was there for him. When Jake would come into her room at the hospital, he would launch into tirades about how difficult it was for a middle class kid to make it after graduating from college.
Dark ridges beneath Shanna's eyes hinted at her exhausted state. An interesting thought occurred to Mina then.
"Well, um, have you ever eaten brains before?" Mina asked.
Shanna looked up at her with wide eyes.
"They're actually quite good. Um, you see, it might be like biting into a peach. You like fruit? I used to eat fruit. I like when the juice runs down my chin. No, wait. I mean, you know brains have juice, too. I'd let you eat my brains, but I'm using them, right now. Maybe after I find my boyfriend. Would you like that?"
Shanna's mouth slowly opened.
"Maybe you can let me eat your brains, instead?" Mina asked.
The little girl jumped up from the chair with a scream. Derek was immediately attentive, and crouched down with his arms stretched wide for her. She sobbed hysterically into his chest while his dreadlocks hung in front of his eyes.
He rubbed her back."You look like a freak show and I don't trust you. I don't trust your friend, either. I got a feeling I might know who you are, too. Stay the hell away from Shanna."
Vincent nodded his head to agree with the judgment. He crossed his hands in front of his waist with the gun in his hand. "Lucky I don't feed your ass to them things out there."
"That's enough!" Derek hugged Shanna and stood with her head buried firmly into his shoulder. "As far as I'm concerned, the monsters are supposed to be outside, and that's where they're going to stay. I'm not going to let anything happen to Shanna. She's seen enough. I can't speak for Rhonda or Jerome because I don't make their decisions for them, but if I had it my way, you and Jim would be locked in a closet. And he knows I'm not putting up with your shit."
Mina rose from the chair. "I'm not a good person. I'm not too interested in staying alive. I just want my boyfriend. He was the only person who ever wanted to be with me and love me. I think… I need to use the bathroom, now."
The random string of sentences she put together did little to help her organize her thoughts. She knew everyone was afraid of her, and they had reason to be suspicious.
She could feel the hunger returning. The nightmares would once again claim her soul if she didn't feed.
She walked past the gallery of their suspicious eyes, and she already knew, deep down, that they were all doomed. The mysterious morsel that was Shanna's brain just had to be hers. Mina could see herself dipping her hands into the girl's skull and scooping out the contents of her hand with her open hands, filling them with sweet, sticky blood. The hunk of gray matter in her hands would be mapped with spider web lines across the curvature of the toddler's mind.
Father James and Sister Beatrice might be willing to help her if she let them out of the storeroom.
GRIGGS
At first, Griggs thought it might be like hitting a deer, but after he clipped four people who may or may not have been dead, he figured it would be a lot easier to just drive
through
them rather than around them.
No cell phone service. No actors. No film. No money. No way out.
He needed to get back to his apartment for the weapons; he would need guns to protect Mina once he found her. He would need to shed more blood.
When he pulled up in front of his apartment complex, the first thing he did was look over the hood of his truck. Splattered with blood and dented in several places, the truck had taken a beating, but he had to hope insurance would cover it. Hell, he certainly didn't have
zombie
insurance, but with half the customers dead or undead, maybe his people would give him a break.
Griggs felt incredibly calm. Some of the units in his apartment complex were on fire, and several people were screaming in the street, but there were relatively few zombies. The corpses seemed uninterested in what was happening. Griggs couldn't help but think about how harmless they actually were. So what the hell was happening, if these things were hardly as threatening as they seemed? Where was the army, or the marines?
One of his neighbors, an old Vietnam War draft dodger, was using a claw hammer on a corpse that was at his feet; he beat on it incessantly, making a mess out of the former-person's face. Frank Barrister was normally locked in his apartment with his medically prescribed marijuana, smoking the day away for some kind of neck ailment. Frank was a grumpy bastard, and Griggs never could find out what the guy actually used to do for a living before becoming a smoked-out couch potato. He spent a lot of his time arguing with his wife, Betty, who used to work as a janitor in a Detroit school before she was forced to retire because her employer decided to hire a privately contracted service.
"Hey, Frank!" Griggs said casually.
The man looked up and wiped sweat from his brow. "Aw… uh… fuck. What's up?"
Griggs shrugged. "Not much. Nice night for a walk, huh?"
Frank struck the corpse in the jaw again with the hammer. He was covered in blood, and it was difficult to make out who the victim was. The face looked more like a pizza with thick tomato sauce and only a little bit of cheese.
"Zombie trouble, Frank?"
"No," he wiped the hammer on his shirt. "Wife trouble."
"Sorry to hear that. How're the neighbors? Any trouble?"
Frank sat down on the stoop. "Well, a couple people fell down the stairs. You'll see 'em when you go up. Pretty trippy, man. You know what's going on?"
"Nah. Not really."
"Figured maybe you knew. Weren't you some kind of cop or something?"
"Detective, actually. Homicide."
Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve. "Oh. Well."
An overweight mother Griggs recognized leapt out of her second-floor balcony window and onto the lawn. A figure stood in the window from which she'd fallen, and then flopped out of the window and landed a few inches away from her. The mother moaned and tried to sit up. The other person who'd fallen out after her was a thin man with a mullet and several tattoos on his arms. Griggs recognized them as a married couple who were always shouting at one another about bills.
The woman's husband grabbed onto her fat and pulled himself along the length of her body until his face was right above her stomach. She screamed and begged. He didn't seem to hear, because he buried his face against her stomach and pulled on a mouthful of her flesh with his teeth. Her scream intensified, and she kicked until her husband pulled way with only a little bit of her skin in his mouth, which hung from his bottom lip. She rolled onto her stomach and attempted to crawl away while sobbing and mumbling words only she could understand. The undead husband grabbed onto her back and tried to regain leverage so he could take another bite.
"I'm going up to my place," Griggs said to Frank.
"Cool. You want to smoke a joint? I got some pretty good shit."
Griggs looked down at the corpse. He thought he could finally make out a tuft of white hair escaping out of the mashed puddle of blood, bone, and teeth that used to compose a face.
The woman on the lawn was still trying to escape her husband, who'd climbed onto her back. A nude man ran along the length of the street, screaming as he pumped his arms. A zombie seemed interested and started to walk slowly toward him, but then seemed to notice the struggling wife, and decided to help the husband eat his wife.
"I'll be back in a minute," Griggs said. "I need to get some shit together, and then I'm going to go find my girlfriend. You alright just sitting here?"
The corpse's hand was draped across Frank's thigh. The hand twitched for a moment, and the corpse tried to lift its head while grabbing Frank's leg for support. Frank brought the hammer down upon the face two more times, splashing blood across his face and shirt.
"I'll be alright," Frank replied."Going up in a bit, though. Getting hungry."
Griggs stepped past him and walked into the apartment building. He was amazed at his ability to tune out the horror. He used to kneel beside dead bodies while camera bulbs flashed and reporters milled around outside of the murder scene. In the beginning, he would remind himself that the victims had been people, and it was appropriate to express loathing for the perp. The first time he approached a homicide victim, too many people at the scene remarked about his detachment, because it was expected of him to display "humanity" and vow to find the killer, whoever or wherever they were. As a rookie, he was expected to show revulsion, to feel sick to his stomach, to become nauseous and ask thousands of questions he shouldn't be asking. Instead, he approached the scene in the manner of a surveyor, taking notes on a little pad of paper and nodding his head whenever new information was given to him. He gave orders and made suggestions. He was already an expert in the game of death, and for each murder case afterward, he pretended to care deeply about the victim.
Griggs was surprised to find the electricity still working—the lights were on all over the apartment. The collision of sound and terror made it seem like the volume on every television in the building had been turned up full blast. He stood in front of the mailboxes to retrieve his mail.
At the bottom of the stairs was a grotesque pile of bodies. Twisted ankles, knees, and necks combined to create a tangled menagerie of limbs. Waving hands opened and closed. Blood-drenched clothes soiled by open wounds added to the metallic smell that permeated the air. When four pairs of eyes looked up at Griggs, the corpses attempted to unlock themselves; they writhed and slipped against one another. Griggs watched them struggle, and considered putting a bullet into each of their heads with his 9mm.
It was a waste of good ammo.
In his mailbox was another notice from the court. They wanted to remind him that he was behind on his child-support payments. Like any good father would have done, he dropped the notice right onto the twisting corpses and stepped over them. He walked past open doors that smelled like human waste. In one living room, a pack-and-play sat open with Sesame Street playing on the little television.
Inside his apartment, it didn't take him long to recover the .50 Desert Eagle magnum, his favorite weapon. He bought the weapon with his own money five years ago after one of his old police associates let him fire it at a gun range. He loved the feel of its power in his hands; for him, it was the perfect death-dealer. He'd never used it on a live target before, and this was the perfect opportunity.
He strapped on a black tactical vest and loaded the pouches with ammo for both of his guns. He spoiled himself by throwing on an old sport coat and combing his hair in front of the mirror.
The former detective had been rushing, and in his haste he neglected to close the door to his apartment. He looked up and realized he had company.
Standing on the threshold of his apartment was another neighbor, a broad-shoulder black man named Devon who worked construction during the day and legally sold pot to those who "needed" it, like Frank.
"Hey, Devon!" Griggs called out to him. "Come on in! Anything I can do for you?"
Devon took one step forward, and Griggs watched his hands open and drop bloody, human remains from his fingers. His face passed through the light in the hallway, and Griggs could see that half of his teeth were exposed where there should have been flesh, while one eye had been ripped or torn from a much larger hole than the socket originally was.
Griggs took aim with both hands. "Thanks for coming over to hang out, Devon. You're a great neighbor!"
The gun rocketed upward and he managed to hold on to it. In that confined space, the explosion from the gun caused his ears to ring. Devon was lying against the opposite wall in the hallway, smoke rising where the top of his head should have been, bloody chunks of face and hair sliding down the length of the wall and staining the threadbare carpet.
Griggs couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face. "That was pretty damn cool. I feel like I should tweet that." He pictured himself spreading his social media poison over his network of followers, many of whom had pirated his films.
His entire investment, everything Modern Fantasy Films ever accomplished, was backed up on an external hard drive. He grabbed it out a drawer in of his measly self-assembled particleboard desk. He could always come back for everything else, but just in case, the external hard drive was his most important possession.
Mina's last video was on there.
She had begged him to make sure that he never watched it. She wanted it destroyed, but Mina had been an investment. Even if the last video involved her eating another man alive, it still meant something. He could find the market for snuff films, if he played his cards right.
But he always listened to her last request.
Until tonight.
Richard had watched it. He also gave a copy to his lawyer, Desmond Hunter, who was just as desperate for a client as Griggs was for representation. But still, he had never seen it with his own eyes. Didn't Desmond mention something about giving it to a doctor who lived in Grosse Pointe for a second opinion regarding Mina's sanity?
He vaguely recalled some mention of violence in Gross Pointe sometime this afternoon, something brutal and bloody. He was too busy preparing his script for the doomed movie shoot with Nikki and Richard... could the video be connected to it all, somehow? That was too damn stupid, too far-fetched. But he was never supposed to watch it. She wanted him to destroy the video.
Griggs stepped back into the hallway and made his way back outside. He discovered the halls weren't as empty as they were before.
Standing in front an open door, a toddler stood with his arms hanging at his sides, staring at the wall in front of him. A little boy with a navy blue Detroit Tigers shirt hanging over bare knees, his mouth and shirt crusted with spaghetti-stains that were likely something else. Purple bruises around his neck told the story of his death; he'd been murdered in order to be saved.
The boy's head slowly turned to find Griggs at the other end of the hall.
He'd already murdered Richard in cold blood, and he arguably performed a favor for Nikki. The boy was different. The antics of Bert and Ernie on Sesame Street no longer amused him—he preferred chomping on eyeballs and fingers instead.
He could feel a sluggish line of sweat form at the apex of his brow and slide along the length of his face, tracing the edge of his nose. He inhaled deeply and flexed his fingers along the magnum's icy grip.
The lights flickered. The boy turned to him and took a step forward. Griggs brought the gun up and bit his bottom lip. There was no going back now. No overrated sense of morality or valor would help him survive.
The lights died completely, leaving him alone with the boy in the dark.
Griggs flattened himself against the wall. The undead couldn’t possibly be imbued with incredible powers. Since he couldn't see the creature, he had to assume he was just as invisible to the boy's dead eyes.
With his back pressed against the wall, he quietly took tiny steps forward, hoping he would be able to find the banister so he wouldn't fall and end up in that pile of creatures near the mailboxes. The stench of blood was so strong he could taste it on his lips. He tried to slow his breaths, but he worried the corpse-boy would hear his heart hammering against the inside of his chest.
Most of the screaming inside the building had stopped.
The porn studio magnate's stomach growled. He shut his eyes tightly and thought about praying. He took another step along the wall. And another.
His hand found the banister, and he carefully dangled his foot over the space where the floor dropped off to the thin steps. His breath shuddered and he licked the sweat from his lips again. He searched for each step with his foot, every hair on his body standing on end. Any moment, he expected to be grabbed from behind. Teeth would sink into his flesh. He would scream and fall down the stairs.
One more floor to go.
Something tumbled down the stairs behind him. Griggs was careful not to let the sigh of relief escape from his lips too loudly, lest he draw attention to himself. He was incredibly alone in a void of silence. He slipped through phases of darkness, as meek light filtered in through the windows in rooms that were still open. Griggs preferred the darkness to the light.