Free Left With the Dead by Stephen Knight Page B

bit more to keep eyeballs on target, but he saw other zeds look up in his direction. He stepped back from the window and headed for the apartment door. He unlocked it and double-checked to ensure that he could open the door from the hall and that he wouldn’t get locked out. He ran toward the stairway across from Jolie’s apartment, and as he reached for the door, he realized he wasn’t wearing his helmet—and his NVGs were still mounted on the helmet’s bracket. He dithered about for an instant, wondering if he should go back for it, then decided he didn’t have the time. He pushed open the stairwell door and kept it open with one foot as he looked down over the banister.
    Below, the darkness was total, complete, unbroken. Gartrell heard the sound of his own breathing, loud in his ears, magnified by the tight confines of the stairwell. He put a hand on the butt of his pistol, and waited.
    From below, he heard something, a distant banging noise. He recalled the glass in the apartment building’s front door was reinforced with wire, and thought that one or two zombies would be unable to break through it. But what about five? Or ten?
    The banging stopped, but other sounds slowly rose up the stairwell. The crash of a door flung against a wall. A distant moaning. A far-off shuffling of feet…
    Fuck, they’re inside!
    As if to bring the point home, light flooded into the bottom of the stairwell as the door on the first floor was pushed open. Shadows filled the light, shadows in the shape of human beings.
    Gartrell had seen enough. He pulled back and closed the door to the stairs behind him and hurried for the apartment at the end of the hall.
    “Falcon, this is Terminator, over.”
    “Terminator, this is Falcon. What’s happening down there? Over.”
    “Falcon, Terminator.” Gartrell stepped inside the Skinners’ apartment and locked the door behind him. “I’m suffering from some major déjà vu, this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours the building I’m in is overrun by stenches, and it’s not getting any easier with practice. I’ve got maybe a dozen stenches on their way up, over.” As he spoke, Gartrell sprinted for the hole he had cut in the closet wall and pushed through it. He went straight to the bureau and donned his helmet and body armor, then collected the remains of his gear. He put water bottles in his pockets and ensured the grenades were close at hand. He would need them soon.
    “Jolie! Load up one of those backpacks with as much food and water as you can carry, and get your revolver and that shotgun. We’re leaving!”
    She appeared at the door, still holding Jaden. “Where will we go?”
    Gartrell pointed at the hole in the wall. She started to say something else, but he waved her to silence.
    “Ma’am, listen to me. The stenches are on their way up. You want to save that little boy of yours? Do as I tell, and do it damned quick.” Falcon was speaking into his ears, and he put a hand to one of the ear phones. “Falcon, Terminator. Say again, over.”
    “Terminator, this is Falcon. They’re hot-refueling one of the Chinooks. They’ll come for you as soon as they can. Twenty minutes, tops. Over.”
    “Not sure we can hold out for ten minutes, Falcon. I’ve got a little over a hundred rounds of ammunition total, not really enough to hold down the fort.” He slipped on his knapsack and pulled out the remaining drum of 12-gauge ammunition for the AA-12. He swapped out the almost-depleted one—down to three shells!—and slapped on the new one. “Falcon, how many soldiers are in the Second Avenue subway line? Over.”
    “Terminator, Falcon…uh, not really sure at the moment, why do you ask? Over.”
    “Because there’s a station right in front of the apartment building, and it might be our only chance. If we can stay ahead of the zeds and link up with the lightfighters, we might have a good chance of getting out of here. I’d love to catch a ride on that Chinook, but