Free The Gathering Dead by Stephen Knight Page A
Authors: Stephen Knight
discernable above the soft noises of building machinery doing whatever they did. The two men listened to it for a time, keeping silent, trying to decipher what might be making it.
Finelly turned back to the major finally and leaned toward him. “Sounds like someone banging on a door,” he whispered. “Not real close, but definitely above us.”
McDaniels moved forward and slowly pressed his way up the stairs past Finelly. The rawboned sergeant didn’t protest, but McDaniels knew he wasn’t happy with McDaniels taking the lead. To mollify him, McDaniels stopped on the next landing, which was a no-reentry door.
“If that’s what it is, it’s not a human doing it,” he murmured to Finelly. “Too regular. Too mechanical.”
Finelly didn’t know what to make of that. “You think it’s a machine?” he asked, and McDaniels almost laughed at the comical expression of confusion on his broad face.
“No, sergeant. I think it’s a zombie.”
“Oh.” Finelly leaned to his left and slowly looked up between the hand rails. McDaniels did the same, and mentally kicked himself for not doing it sooner. They saw a small slice of the distant ceiling, still ten stories away, and other than being able to tell the lights were on, there was not much else to see. McDaniels looked down and saw pretty much the same.
“So what’s the plan?” Finelly asked. “I gotta tell you, major, I’m not too keen about getting into a firefight. If we open up on these things in here, every freaking zed in the building will hear us.”
“Understood. Let’s keep moving. Maybe it’ll turn out to be something else.” McDaniels looked up the stairwell, then back at Finelly. The soldier didn’t look happy.
“I’ll lead,” McDaniels said.
Finelly shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll do that.” He shouldered his MP5K and advanced up the stairs, keeping the weapon ready at all times now. If anything happened to pop out in front of him, it would get a face full of nine millimeter steel jacketed rounds. He kept his back to the far wall as he ascended, and McDaniels did the same. At the landings, Finelly would halt, and McDaniels advanced to the base of the next stairway and secure it before Finelly pushed past him and continued on.
The banging sound grew louder as they climbed. Its rhythm did not alter. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
At the 25th floor, McDaniels grabbed the back of Finelly’s uniform blouse and brought him to a halt. The big enlisted man looked down at the major and waited for him to tell him what’s up.
“You smell something?” McDaniels whispered.
“I think I smell a deadhead,” Finelly whispered back.
“No, not that. Something else. Cigarette smoke.” As a reformed smoker, McDaniels could detect cigarette smoke at what seemed like one part per one hundred billion. It drove him mad, because the scent almost always triggered a bout of craving before revulsion could make its appearance.
Finelly glanced up the stairs. The banging sound continued unabated, so the zombie — or whatever it was — hadn’t heard them just yet. He looked back at McDaniels and just shrugged. McDaniels motioned for him to stay put, then retreated down the steps to another landing.
“Gartrell, this is McDaniels, over.”
“Terminator Six, Terminator Five... are we going dress casual with the commo? Over.”
“There’s no one on this frequency to hear us, though I’d love for us to be proven wrong. Listen, we have a deadhead up here on twenty-seven. We haven’t put eyeballs on target, but if I’m right, we’ll have to go to guns on it. Over.”
“Roger that. We’ll keep an eye on things down here, over.”
“Roger. McDaniels out.” McDaniels took a moment to put yellow foam hearing protectors in his ears. They were good for preserving one’s hearing during gunnery practice and while riding helicopters; McDaniels hadn’t put them in before as there just hadn’t been enough time before the Black Hawk crashed.
“Hearing
Finelly turned back to the major finally and leaned toward him. “Sounds like someone banging on a door,” he whispered. “Not real close, but definitely above us.”
McDaniels moved forward and slowly pressed his way up the stairs past Finelly. The rawboned sergeant didn’t protest, but McDaniels knew he wasn’t happy with McDaniels taking the lead. To mollify him, McDaniels stopped on the next landing, which was a no-reentry door.
“If that’s what it is, it’s not a human doing it,” he murmured to Finelly. “Too regular. Too mechanical.”
Finelly didn’t know what to make of that. “You think it’s a machine?” he asked, and McDaniels almost laughed at the comical expression of confusion on his broad face.
“No, sergeant. I think it’s a zombie.”
“Oh.” Finelly leaned to his left and slowly looked up between the hand rails. McDaniels did the same, and mentally kicked himself for not doing it sooner. They saw a small slice of the distant ceiling, still ten stories away, and other than being able to tell the lights were on, there was not much else to see. McDaniels looked down and saw pretty much the same.
“So what’s the plan?” Finelly asked. “I gotta tell you, major, I’m not too keen about getting into a firefight. If we open up on these things in here, every freaking zed in the building will hear us.”
“Understood. Let’s keep moving. Maybe it’ll turn out to be something else.” McDaniels looked up the stairwell, then back at Finelly. The soldier didn’t look happy.
“I’ll lead,” McDaniels said.
Finelly shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll do that.” He shouldered his MP5K and advanced up the stairs, keeping the weapon ready at all times now. If anything happened to pop out in front of him, it would get a face full of nine millimeter steel jacketed rounds. He kept his back to the far wall as he ascended, and McDaniels did the same. At the landings, Finelly would halt, and McDaniels advanced to the base of the next stairway and secure it before Finelly pushed past him and continued on.
The banging sound grew louder as they climbed. Its rhythm did not alter. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
At the 25th floor, McDaniels grabbed the back of Finelly’s uniform blouse and brought him to a halt. The big enlisted man looked down at the major and waited for him to tell him what’s up.
“You smell something?” McDaniels whispered.
“I think I smell a deadhead,” Finelly whispered back.
“No, not that. Something else. Cigarette smoke.” As a reformed smoker, McDaniels could detect cigarette smoke at what seemed like one part per one hundred billion. It drove him mad, because the scent almost always triggered a bout of craving before revulsion could make its appearance.
Finelly glanced up the stairs. The banging sound continued unabated, so the zombie — or whatever it was — hadn’t heard them just yet. He looked back at McDaniels and just shrugged. McDaniels motioned for him to stay put, then retreated down the steps to another landing.
“Gartrell, this is McDaniels, over.”
“Terminator Six, Terminator Five... are we going dress casual with the commo? Over.”
“There’s no one on this frequency to hear us, though I’d love for us to be proven wrong. Listen, we have a deadhead up here on twenty-seven. We haven’t put eyeballs on target, but if I’m right, we’ll have to go to guns on it. Over.”
“Roger that. We’ll keep an eye on things down here, over.”
“Roger. McDaniels out.” McDaniels took a moment to put yellow foam hearing protectors in his ears. They were good for preserving one’s hearing during gunnery practice and while riding helicopters; McDaniels hadn’t put them in before as there just hadn’t been enough time before the Black Hawk crashed.
“Hearing