Zombie Bitches From Hell (18 page)

“Check it out,” I told Tim, handing him the
binocs.

“Man…” he said as he looked through.

A sudden updraft caught us and shifted us
toward the building. Tim ran to the jet control and full-blasted
it, but it was too late. The gondola slammed into the side of the
air conditioning apparatus on the roof, the whole gondola tipping
hard to the side. Hadley was knocked out and over. I reached for
her arm as she went by but I grabbed nothing and she fell to the
roof below, about twenty feet.

The gondola dropped and hit the roof, the
balloon cables snagged on a cellphone tower. Tim tried to lift up
but the force of the propane blast made the tower creak and moan,
so he shut the gas down. Too late. We were tethered to the
building. Tim had blood coming from his right ear where he’d
smashed into the gondola rail. My wrist felt like a gorilla used it
as a back-scratcher.

“Hadley!” I yelled, hoping to God I got a
response. She was rolling around in pain, her lungs knocked clear
of air. I start freaking out big time, reach one foot tentatively
onto the rooftop, sliding from the basket warily as I quickly
assume a defensive position on the tar. She looks up and coughs
once, then gets up and takes my hand. I lead her back to the
gondola and tell her to stay put. She wraps her arms around MG and
lets the dog lick her face.

The pistol in my hand is cold, blue steel
while the rifle on my back is light and sleek, to say nothing of
the knife strapped to my left ankle. My eyes scout every nook and
cranny on the deserted rooftop, looking for any signs of life or,
for that matter, afterlife.

I hear Tim’s familiar boots crunching on the
rooftop gravel behind me, his breath sour and stale from another
meal of Slim Jims and stale fruit roll-ups from our dwindling food
stash.

“That’s it, Kent,” he breathes on my neck.
“This is home until we find some gas and refuel.”

“Spot any undead?” I ask, craning left and
right and seeing none myself.

We climb the six short steps down from the
ledge to the roof proper, leaning as far as we dare over the side
to peer down twenty stories below. My stomach lurches to see the
sight of a well-organized bitch horde patrolling the perimeter.

“What do you think?” I ask Tim. “Two hundred
or so?”
“From the looks of it,” he sighs, wiping his hair before putting on
his backward baseball cap. “I hate it when they get organized like
that.”

I watch half the horde pace patiently to the
left, the other half to the right.

“Get used to it,” I say, turning around to
avoid the depressing sight. “It’s like they get smarter with each
passing day.”

“Not smart enough to talk, though,” Tim
points out with a grin. “At least not more than grunts.”

Good old Tim; it all comes down to good guys
and bad guys with him, even now.

We scout the perimeter of the rooftop, every
inch of it, just in case. It takes a while and by the time we’re
done my legs are sore. Floating over New Jersey looking for fuel
has left me feeling out of shape and lazy.

I wipe my brow with a handkerchief from my
back pocket and rest on the bottom step of the roof. Tim leans
against the railing behind him, tall and wiry with eyes that don’t
miss a trick.

Tim clears his throat to get my attention and
says, “Sun’s getting low, Kent.”

I swallow and think, God, I hate the
night.

“Right,” I say out loud. “Let’s see what
treats this building has in store for us.”

He helps me to my aching feet as we approach
the metal door leading down from the roof. I can tell from the
swollen bolts and scarred lock that it’s been barricaded, but by
now what hasn’t been?

Months of straight-up zombie sieges have
left every building in every city a fortress, though by now most of
them have been deserted – or overrun.

“Looks recent,” Tim says, running his fingers
over the swollen seam between the door and the rooftop.

A familiar ripple of anxiety passes through
my stomach as I inch back up to the balloon to retrieve our tools
from the back storage compartment.

“How recent?” I ask, returning with two
crowbars; one for work – one for what possibly waits on the other
side of the door.

Tim takes his rifle and we both wedge the
bars into the seam.

“On three, Kent,” he grunts, digging his
deep.

“One,” I count, digging even deeper, “two…
three.”

The lock gives an inch or two as the door
buckles in the middle but the door itself holds fast, even as Tim
begins searching the seams for additional locks.

I hear rustling inside and crouch, wedging
my crowbar against a bolt soldered near the bottom corner of the
rusty door. He finds a similar bolt at the top and, after five
minutes, the door gives a few more inches with a yawning sigh, its
seal finally breaking to reveal, through the crack, a dark and
dingy stairwell just on the other side.

“Smell that?” Tim asks knowingly, taking
huge, gulping whiffs.

I nod; the overpowering smell of stale sweat
and canned food and the slightest trace of urine is
unmistakable.

“This building’s occupied,” I gasp, just as
the door bursts fully open.

I find a pistol pointed at my face, the hand
holding it delicate but unwavering as I back up a quick two paces
until the heel of my hiking boots hit the bottom rung of the
landing pad stairs.

The shooter has dark hair swept back in a
thick, unkempt ponytail and quick, brown eyes that stare at me,
unblinking.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
she spits and I avoid giving Tim a quick “eyes right” as she covers
him just to the side of the open stairwell door.

“It personally took me two weeks to seal that
door shut,” she hisses, a tendril of black hair moving back and
forth in front of her lips as she berates me. “Do you know how hard
it is to spot weld without the proper equipment!”

“I’m sorry,” I sputter, holding my gun up and
out in a non-threatening gesture. “I didn’t think the building was
occupied.”

She finally blinks, if only to help her focus
on the balloon tangled in the tower at my back.

It should have been a quicker revelation for
me. This bitch is a breathing, living, pussy-juiced, firm-titted
human female.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asks, gun
never moving from the point where my heart lies buried somewhere
between my pit-stained, army green T-shirt.

“Don’t get excited, honey,” drawls Tim,
kicking the door shut and slamming it into her wrist. “She’s not
going anywhere until we get some gas in her.”

I assume he doesn’t want to say anything
about our asses being tangled and if we had all the propane in the
world, we could not get outta here without some ingenuity.

She curses as her pistol clatters to the
rooftop with a marvelous thud.

I pick it up and pocket it quickly, aiming my
pistol at the heart now beating slightly more rapidly beneath a
yellowed blouse with one sleeve missing.

“Shit,” she says, more to herself than either
of us. “That really hurt, you asshole.”

Tim says, “One way to avoid getting a broken
wrist is to stop pointing pistols at my buddy Kent here.”

She rotates her wrist a few more times,
making sure nothing’s broken, before extending her hand in Tim’s
direction. I’m thinking that this girl has not been infected. No
way. How is this possible?

“That’s Kent,” she says, still a little
huffy, “I’m Molly and you are…?”

“Tim,” he says, not offering his hand.

“Before answering any more friendly
questions, how about explaining why you’re not trying to eat my
dick and balls or anything else you could get your teeth into?” I
ask.

“You’re not my type?” she says with a smirk.
Tim puts his gun to her head.

“You’re not my type either, you fucking
bitch. Now tell me why I shouldn’t blow your zombie-prone brains
out right now,” he eloquently states
.

She cuts him a pissy look that indicates
it’ll be “Timothy” for the duration.

“My gun?” she asks me.

“Answer first,” I say.

“I don’t have an explanation. I was in the
secretarial pool when the shit hit the fan. Every female in the
building turned just like it said on TV and…I know you know how it
all goes down. But I didn’t get the disease. I can’t explain
it.”

“Maybe you’re a genetic freak,” says Tim.

“I wish it was that easy. But it’s not. These
guys have kept me alive here for the sake of the future. They’re
assuming that someday I’ll be valuable to science.”

“I imagine you’re valuable for some other
stuff as well,” Tim says.

“Fuck you, you low-life hick,” she says.

“I’m a low-life but only my father was a
hick.” He shoves her and she cuts her hand on the bent door.

“Fuck you!” she shouts rubbing the wound.

“There’s got to be more to your story. Tell
it,” I say.

“Okay, okay. I’m a carrier. I don’t get the
disease, but I can pass it on to other females. As far as anyone
knows, which is not very far, I’m the only known specimen. So the
guys here figure something in my genes or immune system is unique
and if there’s any chance of curing this plague or whatever it is,
I’m it. Though my guess is their motives are more financial than
humanitarian.”

“Why do they let you out of their sight
then?”

“Where am I gonna go? Down there with the
undead? It’s safer here, sadly. So I wouldn’t be abusing the last
best hope of humanity if I were you because the two of you are not
worth the lint in my navel compared to me. Get it, fuckers? Now
give me my gun back and let’s cut the palaver or whatever you
assholes call conversation. I’m in no mood.”

I glance at Tim, who shrugs; I give it
back.

She pockets it in an ill-fitting holster
around her narrow waist; it clashes with her gray tweed skirt,
which might have been longer once upon a time but now rests just
above her knees and looks torn rather than hemmed

She wears black sneakers with no socks,
making her legs look even longer and more shapely than they might
have in heels. This is sick, I think.

Her face has the same hungry look we all have
now; lean and tight, wary and unamused. Her lips are full without
makeup, her eyes tired but luminous as she once again eyes the
balloon on the roof.

“She’s really out of gas?” she asks.

As I pray Hadley and MG stay quiet and ducked
out of sight (they’ll be alright for a bit in the balloon), I
notice the slightest hint of Jersey upbringing in this girl’s
accent.

“Why do you think we crashed your little
party here, sweetheart?” Tim asks, doing that cocky, creepy thing
he always does when he’s in on a joke.

Tim was married once and I’m sensing that the
sudden confrontation with a “normal” woman is bringing back painful
memories

“It is a private party, isn’t it,
sweetheart?” he goads her, inching closer.

She stands her ground and, with a simple eye
roll brings Tim back to earth. “You wish, Romeo. There’s about
nineteen more of us just down that flight of stairs, and they’re
not going to be very happy knowing you landed here with no fuel in
your ride.”

“What choice did we have?” I ask, admiring
the steel in Molly’s jaw.

“None, I suppose,” she sighs, leaning back
against the railing behind her. “Still, it’s not the friendliest
bunch, if you know what I mean.”

“If you’re the welcoming committee,” Tim
quips, “We know exactly what you mean.”

Molly finally snorts, but only once she’s got
the butt of her pistol familiarly in the palm of her hand.

After re-barricading the door with one of our
crowbars wedged into the gap, we follow her down the stairs. The
smells of habitation get stronger with each step, but even given
Molly’s expensive clothes and obvious pedigree, she doesn’t seem to
notice – or mind – the stale frat house scent of moldy food cans
and human waste.

A fire flickers near an open window, the
flames rising from the charred metal body of a reconditioned
photocopier. It illuminates a handful of assorted shapes who linger
on its fringes. Like all survivors they are pale and wan, hungry
and distrustful. They eye us warily as we pass, making no move to
follow us or, for that matter, fear us.

They eye Molly with a look of either
reverence or distrust. I can’t tell.

Several more survivors line the other office
windows, the rifles slung over their backs prominent in profile as
they perform obvious sentry duty. The windows are mostly closed,
the shades mostly open, giving the barren floor a spooky end of the
world feel as the last of the day’s light bathes all in a savage
orange glow.

Molly gives us a quick tour, showing us the
various cubicles in the back where the office dwellers have set up
makeshift bunks, with curtains for comforters and rolled up
motivational T-shirts from some long ago corporate pep rally
serving as pillows.

Along the wide windowsills sit solar lamps of
various sizes, gradually growing brighter as the orange sky outside
the towering plate glass windows eases from orange to a stunning
gray.

We hear male voices, loud ones, as Molly
inches toward a hallway lined with metal shelves heaped with canned
food and bottled water. I give Tim a wide-eyed look and she catches
it, smirking as she warns, “Hands off, boys; unless you want to
leave without ’em, that is.”

Our pace slows as we face two armed guards,
burly but surprisingly clean-shaven, standing on either side of a
conference room door. Through the open blinds I can see three men
sitting inside, not big but clearly powerful, smoking cigars and
sipping carefully from rationed drabs off a scotch bottle encased
in a locked box.

Molly nods to the guards, who frisk us
thoroughly. By the time they’re through, eight lethal weapons lie
on a fold-up picnic table to their right. I sigh for show, but am
secretly grateful that Tim is acting the gung ho. Thankfully
they’ve missed a few surprises we’ve carefully hidden on
ourselves.