1.2 - In the (DEAD) Heat of the Night, part 2

Using flashlights are a bad idea, Jack says to himself. The light kills night vision and visibility is limited to what the beams actually shine on. The survivors can’t see the horde of zombies they are running into. The dead, on the other hand, are well aware of them. Like ships guided by lighthouses, they hone in on the three oblivious survivors. Jack leans his forehead against the window sill, closes his eyes. He could open the window, yell out to them, warn them, but his voice will only attract more of the dead. How would that help anyone?

Already, the crowd below grows larger; he can see their silhouettes moving in and out of the shadows. He can hear them staggering from both ends of his street and from the alley of the restaurant across the way.  They moan to each other, signaling that dinner is served. Jack can also hear the footsteps following behind the survivors—three, or maybe four, sets of them. He opens his eyes. Runners.  Those idiots outside don’t stand a chance, Jack says to himself. Those noisy idiots with their flashlights are being chased by Runners—not fast ones, mind you, but still. Runners.

Jack vaguely recalls a news report, one from sometime after Outbreak started being called “Outbreak” but before the networks went off the air. The news anchor interviewed a writer, the son of a legendary funny man, who was famous in his own right for the zombie novels he wrote. The freshly reanimated, he said, are only as fast and athletic as they were when they were alive. But because the dead do not heal, over time decay and damages to the flesh will eventually take their toll, slowing the zombies down into something more like the shambling corpses surrounding the building. Even if the three survivors somehow avoided the slower zombies that now formed a small herd at the intersection, their pursuers will eventually run them down or into another horde. That is, unless the survivors can get off the street.

Jack pads cautiously towards his bed, arms outstretch slightly. Feeling the folds of his blanket, he guides himself to his nightstand. A sharp pain radiates from the second toe of his right foot as his foot meets the leg of the nightstand. His thigh collides against the top edge and the lamp falls off and shatters with a resounding crash. “Shit!” Jack yells, half in pain, half in self-reproach.

A loud screech startles him, causing his muscles to tighten. Icy sweat forms on the small of his back and runs downing between his butt cheeks. In the dark, it sounds as if the source is in the room with him. The zombie shrieks again and a dull thud reverberates from wall behind Jack’s headboard. There must be one in Ms. Serrano’s apartment; the noise from the lamp must have attracted it.

Well, Jack thinks, no point in being quite now. Even if he remains silent, the zombie next door (he hopes it isn’t old Ms. Serrano) will let the others in the building know of his presence. He can hear it now, sniffing like a dog and scratching at the wall, trying to get at him.

“Oh, my God!” Jack hears the younger woman outside. They see the wall of dead in their way now, he’s sure of it. The scratching stops and the sniffing moves towards the scream. Cautiously, Jack reaches for the nightstand, running his fingers gingerly across the surface. His fingers find the flashlight and, with a deep breath, he grips it. It is rectangular with rounded edges and he feels the retractable hand crank that powers the ten small LED lights.

The weight is reassuring.

Jack thumbs the switch, illuminating the bare, off-white wall. On the other side, the zombie stops moving and sniffs the air violently as if sensing Jack. It shrieks, returning its attention to Jack with a thud. He jumps backs slightly. Outside, the man screams. “Fuck you, Asshole!” Both women call out in unison and keep running. The man’s cries for help drown in a gurgle of blood and terror.

Jack backs away from the wall, turns around, and walks purposely to the bedroom door. No point in keeping quiet now. He opens the door slowly, sweeping the light around the living room—just to make sure. The light flickers.

Jack flips open the crank handle and winds it rapidly. The light beam flickers slightly as he winds, growing stronger and steadier with each turn. Satisfied, he sweeps the light around the room again. Clear.

He directs the light to the windows and walks briskly to the closest of the three. He pulls the curtains open and looks out. A flashlight laying on the street illuminates a mass of decaying bodies huddled over, vying violently with each other for the best pieces of human flesh. The man ran straight into the zombies. He saw them too late to avoid his fate. His death, however, distracts most of the zombies, allowing the women to move past the horde in relative ease. In the distant, their pursuers draw even closer.

They need to get off the street, Jack says to himself as he opens the window. An acrid stench fills his nostrils and greets the back of his throat. He shines the light on the fire escape then hesitantly leans out. He points the light above him, then below. Clear.

“Up here!” He calls outs. “Fire escape!” He can barely see the women’s silhouettes now, his night vision destroyed. He looks between the iron bars of the fire escape and follows the movements of their flashlight beams across the street. “Up here!” He calls out again, this time aiming his light on the street in front of them. The light flickers.

He winds the crank again, desperately trying to maintain the light beam on the women’s path at the same time. Suddenly, one of the light beams sweeps the air in a giant arch and Jack hears a sound much like that of metal colliding with a wet canvas loosely wrapped around a rock. Not totally defenseless, Jack thinks.

The women reach the sidewalk. “Up here! The fire escape!” Jack yells out, aiming his flashlight straight down. He hears the sound of jumping. The women can’t reach the retracted ladder.

“I can’t reach it!” The younger woman yells between sobs and deep sucking in for air. “Mom, I can’t reach it.”

The wet sound of metal against human skull reverberates again. And again. “Keep…Ugh!…trying!” The older woman says.

“Help us! Please!” The younger one cries out. Jack knows that plea is directed at him.

You can do this, Jack, he says to himself. You’ve been out on the fire escape before. Several times since…since… You can’t let them die!

He draws a deep breath. “Geronimo,” he whispers and climbs out. His shin catches the windowsill and he stumbles a bit. Catching himself on the railing, he steadies himself then slowly begins the decent down to the second floor landing. Once there, he can lower the ladder to the two women. After two steps, he stops and shines his light above him at the fifth floor. Clear.

“Help!” He moves down two more steps, then two more. Halfway to the third floor a realization strikes him: he did not bring a weapon. “Help us! Please!”

Metal on wet canvas—thick canvas: soaked and wrapped around a large brittle rock.

Too late to think about that now, he says to himself, pressing forward. Just get to the ladder and let it down.

Two steps more.

Jack’s breathing becomes shallower, harder. He knows he’s descending the fire escape, but feels as if he is running up a twenty-story building. What if a zombie climbs up with them? What if the women let him be taken like that other guy?

One more step.

He doesn’t have a weapon. Maybe he should go back to the apartment, get his snub nose revolver from the nightstand.

He stops just above the third floor. Maybe.

No time. Make time?

One more step and he’ll be on the third floor.

He thinks of Gretchen. He thinks of her soft blue eyes looking into his—smiling, encouraging Gretchen. 

—That’ll break your record, Jack. That’ll be the furthest you’ve ever gone. One more step and you’ll be on the third floor.

“Help us, please!” The young woman pleads.

“Come here!” The older woman says to her daughter. “I’ll pick you up. You reach for it.” She drops her weapon and it clanks on the sidewalk like a spoon struck against a cowbell. Dinner!

“Higher! I almost got it.”

The older woman grunts.

“Oh, God! Please!”

Jack takes the next step, his left foot touching the cold metal. He’s barefooted, he realizes, barefoot and weaponless. His chest feels as if it is wrapped in chains and the chains are being drawn tighter and tighter.

“I got it!” The young woman yells, surprise in her voice. Jack hears the sound of the ladder scraping the landing as it begins to slowly descend. 

He’s barefooted. And weaponless. And he’s gone further than ever before. He takes his right foot off the last step and steps onto the landing. Third floor. There! It’s the furthest he’s ever gone.

The ladder release catches. “Oh God!” There is surprise in the young woman’s voice.

Jack’s knees buckle and he falls forward, hitting his for head on the railing.

“Umghff!!” The older woman says, decaying flesh muffling her screams.

“Umghff!” Her daughter says, landing on top of the Runners that tackled her mother. Her screams are not silenced as the dead eat her.

Jack rolls onto his back. His forehead throbs and he can feel warm liquid running into his hair. Barefoot and weaponless and further than ever before. His lungs are filling with sand, he is sure of it. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Panic sets in. He’s going to die out here.

“You bastard! You bastard!” The young woman screams again and again until blood fills her throat. After which she gurgles her curses at him.

Jack closes his eyes, listening to her die. Before he passes out, he swears he hears her turn into one of them.

***

The sun caressed Jack’s face, waking him gently with its warmth.