Zombies! Episode 1 - Shawn of the Dead
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by Ivan Turner
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***
SHAWN was already packed and ready when the bell rang. Then he was out the door and heading for the staircase without looking back. It wasn't as if he didn't like Mr. Arrick or his class. There was something about classic literature that actually appealed to him. And learning it from a Scottish guy seemed to make it more real. But the school day was long and he had to be home before five o'clock, which gave him very little time to spend with Marcus.
Shawn thundered down the stairs before most of the other classrooms had spilled their occupants out into the hallways. That was the way he thought about it, the time of passing between classes. After eating so many students, the classrooms finally got sick and puked up the contents of their stomachs. Which meant that everyone in the school, Shawn included, was just some disgusting vomitous chunk.
He needed to spend less time coming up with metaphors and more time thinking about Marcus.
At twenty three, Marcus was five years older than Shawn. That didn't really bother Shawn. He could do as he pleased. He wasn't sure how it would sit with his parents, though. Of course, the fact that he was dating a man would probably overshadow the age difference in their eyes. His mom would be okay with it, he knew. She was pretty open minded, having been taught the lessons of hatred as a child. But his dad would blow a gasket. My son?! A queer?!
Yeah, that wouldn't be so good.
On the Brooklyn streets at last, Shawn set a quick pace for the subway. It wouldn't do for him to be seen by his friends, some of which may have skipped their last class and waited. As it was, they would wonder what happened to him. If they caught up to him, he'd never be able to get away. A simple lie could go horribly wrong and he definitely couldn't tell them the truth. He had an image to maintain. One that kept him healthy.
Once out of sight of the school, he began to feel better. The train station was about six blocks away but it only took two blocks to clear the area of delis and pizza and Chinese places that the rest of the kids frequented. He was a regular at the pizza place and waved to the guy behind the counter as he passed. Shawn wondered if the guy owned the place. He wondered if his hopes fell when Shawn walked by without stopping in for a slice. Just how important was that two dollars and twenty five cents?
Three blocks from the school and three blocks from the train station and Shawn quickened his pace again. It was hot out, especially for a September day, but he'd be able to cool off in the air conditioned subway car. He always missed the train by seconds. Granted, he only had to wait about three or four minutes for the next one, but that didn't do anything to dull the frustration he felt when he'd hit stairs, Stand clear of the closing doors, please from the platform below.
Four blocks from the school and two blocks from the train station and he saw the zombie.
The sidewalk wasn't that busy but there was always traffic moving through the streets. As soon as the zombie came into view, Shawn was focused on it, though, and everything else faded. Even thoughts of Marcus slipped away. It came shuffling around the corner, close to the wall, still almost a full block away. Shawn couldn't see its face and couldn't smell its odor and yet he knew, he just knew what he was looking at.
The zombie had been a man, a white guy. Its hair was black or at least dark brown. Even at this distance, Shawn could see that its pallor had gone from the normal peach tone to a ghoulish sort of grey. The arms hung at the sides, moving only with the jerky momentum of the body rather than the careful rhythm of a human being. It wore a coat. It had to be close to eighty five degrees, sunny as it could get, but the thing wore a long rain coat. Shawn couldn't get a good look at the clothing beneath but he was pretty sure it was wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt.
What struck him the most about it was that there was no blood. Kind of like the guy at the beginning of Night of the Living Dead. You know, in the cemetery? He could have been a person if it weren't for the complexion and the way he walked, the way he just bounced off the wall. There were no wounds. This thing had yet to kill and it hadn't been killed by another zombie. That meant it was the first. Shawn knew it was the first.
Every few steps, someone would come into Shawn's range of focus, close to the zombie but not close enough for it to take notice. They seemed to wrinkle their noses and give it a wide berth but gave it no further consideration. This, if nothing else, jarred Shawn out of his reverie.
Doesn't anyone realize what that thing is?
A block and half from the train station and his ticket to Marcus, Shawn stopped. On his left was a stone building with glass doors and no windows. On his right was a giant pile of trash including bags and furniture and paper and various articles of mayhem. Beyond that the traffic. And ahead of him was the zombie.
And the woman.
Shawn saw her even before he gave thought to how he was going work out his passing of the zombie himself. The woman was also a white woman, somewhere in her upper forties, dressed for the office, and totally engrossed in the small screen of her smart phone. She was also oblivious of the impending danger. Smart phone. Stupid woman.
By the time she got close enough that she could no longer ignore the smell she was already too close. The zombie caught her scent and pounced. It grabbed the arm with the smart phone and, with the strength of the truly famished, pulled it right to its rotten teeth.
The zombie bit down hard.
The woman screamed.
She did not drop the smart phone.
Shawn's bag was off his shoulders in an instant and he reached out for a length of pipe sticking from the pile of garbage. It came free, one jagged end jutting away from the boy. Rushing forward, he used his momentum to drive the pipe into the gut of the zombie.
Shawn had never hurt anyone before. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd grown up in a culture of fist fights but had somehow managed to avoid anything that included knives, broken bottles, and most especially guns. The feeling of the pipe entering the body was weird. He'd expected a sucking feeling, like the blood and tissue gripping the pipe, but that didn't occur. Instead, it felt like stabbing a pillow filled with rotten lettuce. The dead tissue inside the zombie didn't react to the intrusion of the pipe the way live tissue would. The dead tissue hardly reacted at all.
Because of Shawn's running start, the zombie was knocked away from the woman. It took with it a chunk of her arm but left behind the pipe. There was gore dripping off of the end of it but Shawn didn't take the time to notice. Adjusting his grip, he stepped forward and swung it down like a billy club just as the zombie was raising its head in recovery. Forged metal met hair and flesh and bone, all dead and desiccated. Now destroyed. The zombie went down like a paper doll, its skull caved in and its undeath at an end.
Still holding the dripping pipe, Shawn turned to the victim. She was bleeding badly, the smart phone gripped tightly in her bloodless hand. She was mumbling something about 911 when he came to his decision. Saying a silent and righteous prayer, he brought the pipe to bear once again.
***
STEMMY let Anthony drive. It was one of the reasons they were a good fit as partners. Anthony liked to drive and Stemmy didn't. Anthony would sit in the driver's seat, the window open in the most frigid weather, a lit cigarette in his left hand. He always used the driving time to smoke. He didn't like to smoke in front of the perps and he didn't like to smoke in front of the victims. But he always smoked in the car.
It wasn't just the driving. As detectives, each of the two of them possessed different skills. Stemmy was extremely intelligent with tremendous powers of observation. He'd notice if a button had come undone or a speck of dust had landed on your tie. Anthony was the charming one. He was tall and handsome with a shaved head and a meticulously groomed goatee. He somehow never smelled of cigarette smoke despite constant abuse of the habit. Stemmy was shorter, fatter, and dumpier. He was good in a fight. Despite the fact that his body type precluded any sort of muscular definition, his arms were solid as rocks and if those fists flew someone was getting hurt.
Stemmy was getting on in years. He was forty nine and had been a policeman for twenty seven years. He'd joined the force after graduating college with a degree in psychology that he felt was pretty useless at the time. Sure he could have become a therapist, helped people face down their problems, but that sounded pretty boring. The last thing he wanted to do was sit hour after hour and listen to someone bitch and moan. God had punished him for that attitude. In His mystical wisdom He had seen fit to grant Stemmy and his wife four daughters. Now it wasn't that Stemmy didn't love his daughters. Each one of them was a priceless pearl. And his wife was a gem, a tireless policeman's wife who always greeted him with a smile and waited until he had shrugged off the rigors of the day before presenting to him the problems of the household. But living with five women would make any man crazy. After all, not a one of them made a bit of sense.
Stemmy's given name was Johan. His mother had been from the Dominican Republic, a strong Spanish woman with fierce values. She had raised him with two hands, one firm and one tender. His father, Arthur Stemmy, was from somewhere in Europe. He had an accent that even Stemmy himself couldn't identify. When his mother had passed, poor old Arthur had lost a true step. He was a shadow of himself these days.
Anthony took one last long drag on the cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. That meant that they were almost there. He coughed once betraying the inner turmoil in his gut. He'd been to the doctor, Stemmy knew, but wouldn't say any more about it. A smoker like that just screams cancer, though. It had Stemmy worried. The last thing he wanted was for Anthony to have to go through that misery.
They pulled up next to a curb littered with garbage. Four patrol cars and a forensics van were already on the scene. He took in the scene as quickly as he could. The place was cordoned off with police tape. Both automobile and foot traffic were being diverted away from the area. With two black body bags laying on the sidewalk amidst a variety of stains, they didn't need spectators. The suspect sat in the back of one of the patrol cars. His hands were cuffed to the bar but he didn't struggle with them. He just leaned back, relaxing as if everything was proper. He was just a kid.
"Detectives!" one of the officers shouted as she ran over. Stemmy didn't know her and he didn't think Anthony did either. But a lack of familiarity couldn't stop Anthony from putting on the charm. He went and spoke to her quickly, as if they were equals, as if they were best friends. When he was done, he came back over to where Stemmy was standing, observing the scene.
There were statements from four eye witnesses. One of the victims was male and the other female. According to all four accounts, the male victim had attacked the female victim and the suspect had intervened, braining the male. Then he'd abruptly turned and finished off the female victim.
The two detectives went over to the patrol car where the youth was sitting calmly. Anthony summoned the same officer he'd spoken to before.
"What's his name?"
"Shawn Rudd. He's seventeen years old."
"Has he been read his rights?"
She nodded.
Anthony turned back to the squad car and addressed the suspect. "Shawn, my name is Detective Heron and this is Detective Stemmy…"
"What kind of a name is Stemmy?"
Anthony suppressed a chuckle. "Not really sure. You know that you don't have to talk to us if you don't want to."
Shawn shrugged. "I'll talk to you. I din't do nothin' wrong."
"Four eye witnesses say you killed two people with a metal pipe. That sounds pretty wrong to me." That was the bit Stemmy couldn't do. He would never have been able to leave the venom out of his voice. This Shawn Rudd punk would be able to read just how disgusted he was. But Anthony's tone of voice was fluid, almost sweet. Even a street kid like Shawn Rudd wouldn't have felt disrespected.
"That guy was already dead when I hit him."
"Was he already dead when he attacked the woman?"
Shawn smiled then. It wasn't a grin, not sheepish or cunning. It was a wide and genuine smile showing two rows of healthy white teeth.
"Why the woman, then?" Stemmy asked. He couldn't help himself.
Shawn looked up at the older detective. Stemmy could see that he looked at the two cops differently.
"She was bit. 'S only a matter of time after that."
Stemmy looked at Anthony and they walked away. This interview was finished.
"What do you think?" Anthony said, rubbing his beard.
"I think the kid's seen one too many monster movies," Stemmy answered.
Anthony nodded. "That's what they say in all those monster movies."
Stemmy laughed at that, couldn't help himself. They walked together over to where the two body bags lay. The coroner handed each of them a pair of latex gloves and stepped away.
Kneeling down, Anthony pulled a corner away from the first victim. It was the woman. Her name was Allison Ciccio and she was forty nine years old, the same age as Stemmy. As a detective, it was tough to see victims who were young, but it was tougher when they were the same age. You begin to wonder if she lived enough of her life. You begin to wonder if you have. Ciccio worked for the Department of Labor in a building two blocks away. She was married with three grown children.
The coroner looked sadly down at her. "The cause of death was clearly the blunt trauma to her head and the time of death was about an hour ago."
"I could've told you that," Stemmy blurted.
Anthony pulled the corner away from the other bag. The body inside was much different from the first. Allison Ciccio still had some color in her cheeks. If the two detectives hadn't seen so many dead people over the years they might have thought she was just passed out. This guy looked dead. His skin was taught and wrinkly, the color a grayish blue. His eyes and mouth were open, a piece of flesh still sticking out from between his teeth.
"John Doe," the coroner said. "He's got no ID on him. Cause of death is unknown and time of death is between ten and twelve hours ago." He looked squarely at Stemmy. "Could you have to me that, hotshot?"
Stemmy seemed unfazed. "I could tell you that he'd got a bashed in skull and that seems like a pretty obvious cause of death to me."
The coroner shook his head. "The tissue was already dead when the wound was sustained. The same goes for the puncture wound in the belly."
Anthony pulled the bag further down to inspect the belly. The hole was clear but there was very little blood surrounding it.
Stemmy looked back over at Shawn Rudd, just sitting the squad car, his eyes on nothing at all. Despite everything he'd ever come to know, he shivered a bit.
***
IT was getting close to six o'clock by the time they wrapped up the preliminary paperwork on this case and Stemmy was itching to go home. The medical examiner's report wouldn't be in until the next morning and there were no other pieces of the puzzle presenting themselves right away. That report was the key. As much as he hated to admit it, Stemmy was beginning to think about monsters. If the coroner put the time of death about ten hours before the attack then that was consistent with Shawn's testimony that the guy was a zombie. Stemmy had talked with two of the witnesses. The first was a little old Chinese man who hardly spoke a word of English. The second was young girl who worked in the shop just around the corner. She'd been grabbing a hot dog from the corner vendor; Stemmy would catch up with the vendor in the morning. Both witnesses confirmed that the alleged zombie certainly looked and smelled awful. The girl had laughed when she said he looked like a zombie.
And he had bitten Allison Ciccio.
When all was said and done, Johan Stemmy was just glad to get back to his five women. The clock on his dashboard read 7:03 making him later than usual. He had missed dinner and Eileen would have had to put the kids to bed by herself. Well, that wasn't so bad anymore. Emma, at four years old, was still difficult. Eileen had to bathe her and make sure she brushed her teeth. She'd never outgrown the nighttime milk but at least it came in a sippy cup now instead of a bottle. She'd been a surprise, Emma. Her youngest older sister was twelve. That was Marisol. She was every bit of the troublesome teen in the making. Stemmy feared the next five years with Marisol. It wouldn't be like Lucia, who was now fifteen. Lucia was a little wild but too smart to get into too much trouble. If anyone should have scared him it was Antoinette. She was a classically beautiful girl. Lucia said that every boy at school turned his head to look at her when she went by. She said it often because it annoyed Antoinette. Lucia, pretty but not gorgeous, was jealous and resentful of her older sister. They didn't get along particularly well, Lucia pushing for a fight every five minutes. But Antoinette was as sharp as she was beautiful. She never took the bait. Stemmy always thought that if she would allow herself to be lured into an argument, just once, that it would do a world of good for Lucia.
Emma was already curled up on the couch in front of the television as he walked in. Stemmy lived in an old Brooklyn brownstone. His was long and thin, four floors with a basement apartment. He'd inherited it from an uncle who'd never married just two years after he'd married Eileen. They'd been living in a Manhattan studio before that, just the two of them…with Antoinette on the way.
Uncle Albert's death had been one of the best things ever to happen to Stemmy.
He put away his coat to the tune of Dora and Boots singing about where they were going. Over and over. Emma looked up once, saw it was just plain old daddy, and went back to her show. No one else seemed to be on the ground floor. Upstairs he heard shouting.
"Lucia?" he asked.
Emma nodded. It wasn't like an actual response but at least she was acknowledging his presence today.
A moment later, Eileen came down the stairs. Three years older than Stemmy, the missus was starting to look her age. She'd given up coloring her hair so the white was beginning to come through. There were wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She always wore a smile but it had lately become a tired smile. Stemmy felt bad. She worked, too, albeit part time, and yet she was constantly saddled with the kids' problems. As a detective, his work often kept him extra hours and odd hours. He'd considered retiring a number of times. His twenty years had come and gone a long time before. He just didn't think he had the stomach for retirement. Stemmy wasn't prone to hobbies and he hated to sit and watch TV. If he was home during the day Eileen would besiege him with list after list of chores. Chores were for children.
"Rough day?" Eileen asked as she came up to give him a hug and a kiss. He put his arms around her, trying to ignore the fact that she'd put on weight (more trying to ignore the fact that he noticed that she'd put on weight). He chided himself for his silent criticism. Nineteen years before he had chosen Eileen as his companion. He'd said an oath which he took very seriously and didn't regret for an instant. Besides which, he wasn't exactly too much to look at.
"How can you tell?"
"It's that look on your face."
"Yeah," he said. "I guess."
The day had actually gone by pretty easily. But that last case was preying on his psyche. He couldn't get the image of the guy in the body bag out of his head. The word zombie played at the corner of his mind like some teasing shadow. He was not a superstitious man, not prone to a belief in the supernatural. He didn't care for horror or science fiction movies. Comedies were really all that he watched. Stemmy liked to laugh. But that didn't mean he'd never seen a zombie flick. Those pathetic sons of guns always seemed to take over the world in the middle of the night. Would he awaken tomorrow to find some undead thing chewing on his leg?
"…tomorrow night…" Eileen was saying.
He looked at her blankly. "What? What did you say?"
She pouted, walking off to the kitchen. He followed her and sat down when she sat down.
"Okay," she said. "You'd better tell me about it."
So he did.
She laughed at first. It was all so ridiculous. There had been a mistake. Dead people don't walk around biting live people. There were no such things as zombies. But the sober look on his face dispelled her attempt at gaiety.
"You think it's possible," she said.
"Huh? No. No way."
She shook her head at him.
"Really," he said. "It's just been a long time since I've seen anything for the first time. The rest of it is just a bunch of sensationalist crap made up by people who've seen too many monster movies."
"Uh huh," she agreed dubiously. "That's what they say in all of the monster movies."
This time, Stemmy didn't laugh.
***
THE night yielded a couple of leads. The report from the medical examiner confirmed the John Doe's time of death. The man's prints didn't produce an identity and without ID they'd have to pound the pavement looking for someone who knew him. Prior to his death, he'd been in pretty good shape, well toned. While there was no way to know how far he'd traveled before and after his death, Stemmy and Anthony agreed that checking out the local gyms seemed a good place to start. So with a belly full of coffee, donuts, and sickening dread they got to it.
Most of the morning was unproductive. With the help of the world wide web, they compiled a list of thirty gyms within a feasible radius. Graphic artists and their software were able to produce what looked like a decent picture of the John Doe before his death. Maybe the shape of the eyes was off. Maybe the mouth, too. But most of the features were intact, even in death and it was mostly a matter of color.
Their last stop before lunch was a small gym called Push Ups. It was a local place, not part of any chain, and it was situated in Fulton in between stores that were twice its size. When they walked in they could smell the sweat. A small reception desk was off to the left just past the doors. Beyond that was an open area that was packed in with weight benches, treadmills, elliptical, and all other sorts of exercise equipment. To Stemmy lunchtime didn't seem like the best time for a workout but the place seemed crowded. The five treadmills were occupied and there was one very well toned woman working with some of the lighter weights in the corner. Steam rolled out of a doorway in the back indicating showers.
Behind the reception desk was a middle aged woman. She had dark hair that was worn in a way that indicated that she just didn't know what to do with it. Stemmy's first observation was that she didn't seem to be in particularly good shape. She wasn't fat or ugly but she didn't have that workout look. She was pouring over a ledger, an unidentifiable sandwich sitting on the desk next to a can of iced tea. A nametag pinned to her shirt read Abby.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," Anthony said as he pulled out his badge. "I'm Detective Heron and this is Detective Stemmy."
She looked up from the ledger, closing it slowly as she took in the two officers. They were quite a pair, Heron and Stemmy. The weather was warm today so neither wore a coat, but Heron was dressed well in a casual suit with a jacket. Stemmy wore what looked like it had been a suit at one time but the jacket was absent.
"What can I do for you, detectives?"
"We're trying to find the identity of this man." Anthony produced the picture and laid it on the counter in front of her.
She looked at it a moment, then again. "The picture's a bit off," she said.
"It's computer generated," Anthony confirmed. "Unfortunately, the gentleman is deceased."
Abby reacted to that. "Well if it's the same guy then he was a regular here."
"Do you know his name?"
She nodded, still staring at the picture.
"Abby," Anthony said to her, spying the name tag. "We need to find out this man's identity."
"Yes," she said, breaking out of her stupor. "Of course. I'm sorry. His name's Larry. Larry Koplowitz."
Stemmy was already scribbling in a pad. He asked for a spelling of the last name and got it. "Do you have an address?"
She hesitated again, looked toward the back of the room. Sensing her indecision, Anthony said, "Ma'am, this man was the victim of a violent crime yesterday. Right now his family is wondering where he is."
That seemed to make up her mind for her. She started typing into the computer and within a couple of minutes, the two detectives had the information they needed and were out the door.
***
THE phone rang as the two detectives walked out, leaving Abby in a state of confusion and despair. Though she hadn't known Larry well, he was still a person she saw on a regular basis. He came into the gym at least three times a week. Most weeks he came in more often. Sometimes he worked out alone. If Suzanna was in, he'd work out with her. In fact, she was in right now, working out with the weights. She'd barely glanced up while the policemen were there. Abby wondered if she should tell her about Larry. She didn't know how close the two of them were, but she guessed they were just work out partners. Suzanna was dating that teacher.
The phone rang again. Abby hadn't been counting the rings but a sixth sense told her that the person on the other end was growing impatient. She hastily grabbed for it, jostling it around as she brought it up to her head.
"Push Ups Fitness Center. This is Abby." She said that last part with a British accent. She didn't know why. She'd been born and raised in Connecticut.
"Abby? Everything all right?" Oh, yes. That was why. She'd just picked it up from Martin.
"Hi, Martin," she said. "I'm okay. I was just lost in thought."
"Oh, well. All right then. I was wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch. I've an interview three blocks from you in an hour and a half."
She looked at the half-eaten sandwich on the counter. Then she thought of Larry. Poor dead Larry. She was in no mood for company and in no mood for food. But Martin had been sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Every failed job interview got him started on going back to England. They argued about it. The job situation wasn't any better over there and Abby didn't really want to leave her family. Most importantly, she didn't want to take Sam away from her parents.
She and Martin Benjamin had met while he'd been on holiday in New York. She and her parents had only moved to Queens a few months before so she wasn't all that familiar with the city. The two of them had learned it together and fallen fast in love. With no attachments in England, Martin had brought his considerable technological skills to the States. He'd landed a good job easily enough and it wasn't long before she became Mrs. Martin Benjamin. A year after that Sam had come along. Six months after that disaster had struck the economy and the Benjamin family had fallen victim to it. Martin lost his job and Abby had scrambled to get the position at the gym. Her hours were bad and they had to put Sam, now two years old, into daycare while Martin looked for a job. Her parents weren't physically capable of taking care of him day after day but they had insisted on paying for the daycare. Under the circumstances, Martin and Abby had been left with little choice. It ate at him, she knew. And silently he had vowed to pay them back once he was on his feet. But for now they were doing the best they could and taking help from wherever it came.
"Abby?"
She was startled by his voice on the phone. "Oh," she cried again. "I'm so sorry, Martin."
"What is it?" He sounded tense. Everything made him tense nowadays. He was losing confidence in himself as a provider and as a man. She knew he harbored suspicions of her finding some buff rich guy and taking Sam and ditching the English washout. But of course that was all in his imagination. She loved him dearly even though his recent and frequent mood swings drove her to the point of madness.
"There were two policemen in here just before you called," she told him. "One of our customers was killed yesterday."
He was silent for a moment, chewing it over in his mind she supposed. It was possible he didn't believe her. For just a moment, he would doubt. Then surely his rational side would take over.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said and it was clear that he didn't quite know how to feel.
"I didn't know him that well," she said as much to put him at ease as to carry forward the conversation. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But his workout partner is here at the gym now. Should I tell her, Martin?"
"I suppose you should," he said. "Who else will tell her if you don't?"
She nodded to herself. She would have to tell Suzanna. "I don't know about lunch, Martin. I don't think I could eat. But come by anyway, just so I can see you. I think I need to see your face."
He went quiet again. "All right. I'll stop in. Will you be all right for the time being?"
"I guess so," she said, then, "Of course."
"See you in a bit then, love." And he hung up before she could say anything else.
Absently, Abby put the phone back on the cradle, her eyes on Suzanna. Suzanna was tall and thin. She was maybe twenty five years old but Abby wasn't sure. She was so fit. At the moment she was standing in her spandex leggings and tank top with her legs spread wide, working out her shoulders with ten pound weights. There was always this determined look on Suzanna's face. Defiant, too, as if anyone who stood in the way of her determination was in for a fight. She brought this to bear right then. Without even looking over at Abby she called out, "You're staring at me."
Abby didn't even react for a moment, just continued staring. Only when Suzanna looked up, her sharp dark eyes locking with Abby's own did she break from her reverie. With one hand, she beckoned Suzanna over. The younger woman seemed put out but returned the weights to the stand and came over.
"What is it?"
"Did you see the two gentlemen that were in here a few minutes ago?"
"Yeah. So?"
"They had a picture of Larry."
It didn't dawn on Suzanna right away but then something about her face seemed to change. Then she blushed.
Oh my God, thought Abby. They don't just work out together.
"Is he in trouble?" Suzanna asked. "Did something happen?"
"I didn't know, Suzanna. I'm so sorry."
Suzanna went cold again. "There's nothing to know. What are you sorry about?"
Abby was beginning to regret getting involved. "He's…They said he'd been killed."
Everything froze then except for Suzanna's expression which morphed from confusion to shock to anger with just the briefest glimpse of grief thrown in somewhere. She said nothing before turning away. There was a tear welling in her eye.
"Suzanna, I…"
She put up a hand to forestall anything further. Then, drawing in a deep breath, Suzanna went back to her workout.
***
IT was lunchtime but neither Stemmy nor Anthony felt like stopping on their way to Larry Koplowitz's apartment. Stemmy could wait and Anthony forestalled the hunger with a cigarette. They called in to inform the captain of their good fortune and then proceeded straight to the building.
Koplowitz lived on the third floor of a small building located in downtown Brooklyn. It was an older building and the lobby hadn't been refurbished in a while. Anthony buzzed the super and the two detectives waited patiently for him to arrive.
"What's this all about?" he said gruffly, as if he couldn't be bothered with two policemen in the middle of the day. The super was in his late fifties or maybe even his early sixties. He wore a checked shirt over some old carpenter's pants. There was a large ring of keys dangling from his belt loop which Stemmy found to be both cartoonish and out of place. He had three days' worth of grey stubble on his face and a perpetual scowl. The scowl did not alter when they explained why they were there.
"I doubt the missus is home," the super said. "She's got some kind of high power job in the city."
Stemmy glanced at Anthony. There had been no missing person's report matching Koplowitz's description or identity. They had assumed he lived alone. The existence of a wife who had not shown the usual signs of concern was a bad omen.
"Do you have a key to that apartment, sir?" Anthony asked.
"Of course!" The super was already leading them into the elevator. The three men said nothing to each other during the short ride up.
They stepped out of the elevator into a brown carpeted hallway. Here, too, the walls were in need of repainting and the window at the end of the corridor was grimy. Stemmy wondered how the tenants tolerated it. If he was paying the price of a Brooklyn rental, he would be a lot more vocal about the condition of his building.
"It's that one there," the super said as he pulled the key off his ring.
Stemmy put a hand out to halt him while Anthony approached the door, the third from the end, and knocked. When there was no reply, he called out. "Mrs. Koplowitz, are you home? This is Detective Anthony Heron of the NYPD. We need to speak with you regarding your husband."
There was still no answer.
"Told you," the super said.
"Can you open it up, please?" Anthony asked. He looked at Stemmy, who'd gone white as a ghost. It was on both of their minds. There was a man whose time of death preceded the event by ten to twelve hours. They couldn't escape the meaning of it no matter how unreal it sounded.
As soon as the super had the door open, the smell wafted into the hallways.
"What the hell is that?" he said angrily, wondering about the cleaning up he would have to do. He moved to march right inside and find the source but Anthony put a strong hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. One look at their two faces quelled any defiance the super might have felt rising.
The interior of the apartment was dark, all of the shades pulled. There was a table and a lamp right next to the door and Anthony switched it on, bathing the room in dim light. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The door opened up into a small entryway that became the living room. A couch was out in the middle of the room, facing their left, with a long table behind it. Pictures sat on the table, one of them knocked over. The TV was across from the couch with a DVD rack next to it. There was an easy chair on the far side of the coffee table and just behind that was the kitchenette. An opening led into darkness to the right of the kitchen.
The smell was awful. There was no doubt that something dead was in that apartment.
"Wait out here," Stemmy said to the super as he moved in behind Anthony. They both drew their weapons.
"Mrs. Koplowitz," Anthony called. "Are you there, ma'am?"
Even in the face of the undead, Anthony was polite.
"What do you think?" Stemmy whispered, beginning to sweat.
"I think she's probably laying in the bedroom or the bathroom dead," Anthony whispered back. "If he was eating people, God knows what she'll look like now."
"What if she's like him?" Stemmy asked. "What do you think about that?"
"I don't want to think about that."
But they were both thinking about it. You didn't move cautiously through an apartment, checking under tables and into corners with your gun drawn if you weren't worried about being attacked. Stemmy looked back once to make sure the super wasn't coming in and was relieved to find that he wasn't. Apparently the detectives' apprehension was infectious. All manner of surliness had gone out of the poor old super and he just stood in the doorway, protected by the light of the hallway behind him.
There was a switch on the wall between the kitchenette and the hallway that led deeper into the apartment. Stemmy prayed that it would light up the place better as he reached for it. But he froze in mid stride as a soft moan drifted from out of that darkened passage. It had the pitch of a woman's voice but the tenor of a rush of air through an empty tunnel. Stemmy was close to the hallway, not yet close enough to reach the switch but close enough that the odor tripled inside of his nostrils.
"Stemmy, back up," Anthony said and Stemmy obliged.
A shadow appeared. From that shadow reached an arm. The hand gripped the corner of the wall inches from the light switch. The fingers were a woman's fingers but cold and grey.
"Mrs. Koplowitz?" Anthony stammered.
Stemmy gave him a look.
As she came into the light, such as it was, they could see that there was no Mrs. Koplowitz in that body. She swayed and stumbled a bit, the eyes glassy. Her face was drawn, the skin hanging off of the skull like a shirt that almost but doesn't quite fit. She didn't seem to see the two detectives and yet had clearly come out in response to their presence. One leg was turned at an odd angle but not broken. It looked as if she didn't quite know how to use it. Aside from the rigor, there wasn't a mark on her. There were no wounds and no blood. Unless zombies had somehow learned to wash up she hadn't eaten anyone. And it didn't seem as if Larry had been responsible for her death.
There was a strangled curse from the super behind them but both detectives were too preoccupied with the thing in front of them to look.
"Shoot it," Anthony whispered despite the fact that he had his gun out and aimed.
"I can't just shoot her," Stemmy whispered back. "Maybe they can help her."
At that, Mrs. Koplowitz seemed to finally notice the detectives, Stemmy in particular. Her head shot up and she lunged. She was clumsy and weak but she was only a few feet from him. Both policemen fired at once. Anthony's shot took her in the shoulder. Stemmy's hit her full in the chest. She lurched backward trying in vain to make good use of her legs. Only the wall, so close to her, kept her from falling to the floor. With her dead hands, she gripped it, the paint scraping clean under her fingernails. It took all three of them a moment to recover, the officers only a bit quicker than the zombie. The shot to the shoulder seemed to have no effect at all. She could still use the arm. From the chest wound oozed an odorous blackened substance. It didn't look like blood and it didn't smell like blood. It had the consistency of old motor oil, the kind you should have changed a year before.
Stemmy uttered a curse and shot her in the head.
This time she dropped and did not rise.
Only now did Anthony turn to look back at the super. He was still standing where they had left him, the look of terror on his face indescribable. He didn't move and didn't utter a sound. The leg of his pants was wet.
When he turned back, holstering his weapon at the same time, Stemmy was prodding the body with a broomstick.
"Be careful!" Anthony hissed.
"'I don't believe it," Stemmy was muttering. "I just don't…"
Stemmy's statement was cut off by his strangled cry as something tugged on the leg of his pants and then bit clean through. He dropped the broomstick as he turned. At his feet, crouched like a panther and gnawing on his calf was a little girl. She may have been eight years old with little blond curls. He knew then that he had missed it. He had seen it and he had missed it. There were pictures all over the apartment. Pictures of Larry and his wife and their daughter.
Anthony came up quickly and kicked the little girl in the head. He didn't even think twice about kicking this child. She literally flew away from Stemmy and collided with the wall. In an instant, Anthony had the broom in his hand and was roughly pushing her back into the hallway. As he followed her, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was a bathroom coming up on the left. Quickly switching his grip, he took her full in the middle with the broom itself and swept her deep into the room. She fell and he used the opportunity to grab the door handle and pull it shut. He was already on the phone as he went back to his partner.
Stemmy had made it to the couch. He'd grabbed up a pillow and was using it to staunch the blood flow. All that he could think about was that infection and Shawn Rudd saying She was bit. 'S only a matter of time after that. The leg ached but it wasn't the fiery pain that he expected. He thought he might be going into shock. He saw Anthony with the phone but couldn't hear what he was saying over the rush of blood in his ears. Oddly enough, his powers of observation, those powers that had failed him moments ago, returned in spades. The super was gone, only a small puddle left in his wake. There was another person there, an elderly woman just poking her head in, covering her mouth as she saw what she saw. Anthony screamed at her and his screams were like those in a pool of deep water. But all of that was outside this world. Inside this world was the life of Larry Koplowitz and his family. There was his wedding picture; they looked so happy. Then there was one of he and Mrs. Koplowitz. Her belly was huge, the little girl inside almost ready to come out. Larry looked happy in that picture but the missus looked like she was just ready to give birth already. He remembered Eileen when she'd been that big. It was something the first time. But by the fourth time she didn't even put up the pretense of civility. That was when Stemmy had known she was having their last child. And he'd so wanted a son. But instead he'd had four daughters, four wonderful pearls of nature.
I'm never going to see them again.
He felt the pillow being ripped away and looked up to see Anthony with a frosted plastic bottle. All at once, his partner was pouring the contents of that bottle over his exposed muscle…
…and he screamed!
Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he heard himself mutter, "Does alcohol cure a zombie bite?"
Time must have passed because there were more cops now. They were in uniform and Anthony was giving them orders. To tell the truth, he wasn't just giving them orders. He was shouting at them. He took one small rookie and shoved her hard in the direction he wanted her to go.
Paramedics came in and began to dress the wound. They wore latex gloves as they worked which was an important thing. Maybe the bite wasn't the only way the zombie disease was spread. After all, poor Mrs. Koplowitz hadn't had a mark on her. The paramedics gave him a shot and he knew he'd been sedated. Normally he would have protested but he wasn't given the choice and he was too tired from the screaming to really care. As the blackness swept in, Stemmy was grateful. The sedation would save him from the tears that were finally starting to form in the wells of his eyes.
***
SHAWN'S arraignment hadn't gone well. The public defender had seemed competent but inexperienced. The assistant DA had torn him a new one and the result was that Shawn was held without bail.
At least they gave him his own cell.
When an officer came to escort him out, he was curious. All the officer would say was that he had a visitor. Now Shawn didn't know anything about prison but he was pretty sure they would have told him if it was visiting hours. Cuffing his hands, they led back out the way he came in, then down a long corridor into a part of the building he hadn't seen. There were small rooms here, interrogation rooms. He had a momentary bout of panic as the officer showed him into a bare grey room with a one way glass window. There was a table with a chair at either end. Shawn was ushered to far side of the table and told to sit.
He didn't recognize the detective who came to see him right away. After all, he'd had limited exposure to the two cops who'd questioned him when he'd killed those two zombies. And this guy did not look the way he had on that day. The first thing that Shawn noticed was that his confidence was shot. This detective had been tall and strong. He was good looking, too, with thick arms and powerful legs. Out of the two of them, he was the good cop. He was the one who spoke because the other would probably just piss you off. But now his posture was slumped and his eyes were sunken. There was a brown spot on his white shirt that could have been chili sauce. But it could have also been blood. The jacket of his suit was missing. His tie knot was down.
Why would he come to see me? Shawn wondered until, just a split second later, it came to him.
"Do you remember me?" the detective asked as he took a seat at the plain table between them.
Shawn nodded. "Didn't catch the name, though."
"Heron."
"Right. Where's the other one, the white guy?"
"Surgery."
"Tough break."
"How did you know?"
Shawn's brow came down over his eyes. "Know what?"
"There are no such things as zombies!"
Shawn shrugged. "There are now." But he thought about the question. He hadn't even questioned it when he'd seen the zombie heading down the street. Maybe it had something to do with his age. Kids are always expecting something they see in the movies to become real. Adults are too colored by their experience. They're less likely to believe what's right in front of their eyes if it doesn't fit into the picture of the world they've grown accustomed to.
"And the woman? Why did you kill the woman?"
Shawn threw his hands in the air. "I told you, man. She was bit. There wasn't…"
Silence fell over the room as the two looked at each other. Detective Heron's face never changed but Shawn felt himself lose a shade of color. What he felt in his gut now stomped on his earlier panic at being led to an interrogation room.
"You seen more? Are you bit?"
The cop lowered his eyes. "My partner."
Shawn breathed a little easier. "Tough break, man."
The cop looked back up. There was fire in his eyes now. "This isn't some god damned movie! And it certainly isn't the end of the world. He's in a hospital right now, in surgery. There are doctors who can help him. And if you'd had a brain in your head, you would have realized that and left that woman alone."
Shawn didn't have anything to say. It was a thought that had occurred to him over and over again in the past twenty four hours. Clearly the zombie apocalypse had not come. Outside the walls of this prison there were people doing their jobs and going to school and meeting for lunch. He thought about Marcus often, a hot fire in his gut.
The detective seemed finished with him then, his point made. He stood up and knocked on the door. When the officer opened it for him to leave he turned back to Shawn and said, "When they ask you why you killed that woman you say you were scared."
Shawn pursed his lips and blew. "I ain't scared of nothin'."
"You say it, Shawn," the detective told him. "You tell them you were scared of the end of the world."
***
IT was getting close to dinner time when Heron got back to the Manhattan hospital where Stemmy had undergone surgery. He was out and had been moved to recovery in an isolation ward. They wouldn't tell him where so, despite three cigarettes on the way over, he started to throw a tantrum. It wasn't a childlike kicking and screaming tantrum, though. It was more of an adult shouting and threatening tantrum. When the people at reception had had enough of him, they made a phone call and asked him to wait.
He gave them exactly two minutes.
Captain Lance Naughton appeared from one of the many exiting hallways and walked right up to Heron. Naughton wasn't the kind of guy that just appeared places. If he was there, the situation was serious. He had his hands up in the air before Heron could say anything and beckoned him away from the room full of people staring at him.
"I hear you went to see Shawn Rudd," Naughton said as they passed radiology.
Heron shivered.
"Yeah," the detective said.
"Did he say anything useful?"
Heron shook his head.
"Listen to me, Anthony. Stemmy's still a little groggy but he's awake. We've got him quarantined because the doctors found a rampant bacterial infection on the wound. It seems to be spreading."
Heron went cold inside. All he could think about was the face on that little girl. Eight years old with cute blond curls and a death mask of a face, all grey skin and bugged out eyes. Was that what was going to happen to Stemmy?
Naughton turned them into a short passageway that ended in a metal door with a keypad and a buzzer. The captain hit the buzzer and waited for the door locks to click. He then pushed his way through and Heron followed.
Behind the door was a staircase that led down into the basement of the hospital. The lighting was good for a stairwell. Heron wasn't sure but he felt like they went down at least three flights. At the end was another door with another keypad/buzzer set up. Naughton repeated the process and led the detective into the isolation area. It was darker in here than outside. The labs were well lit but the passages were dim. Inside the rooms he could see various people at work. Most of them gave the two police officers barely a glance as they passed through. Eventually they reached yet another door. This time it opened with just a push of Naughton's hand. In here were the patient rooms. Though there were large windows through which one could see in, the rooms were sealed tight. Naughton stopped.
"Stemmy's at the end of the hall. Don't go in the room."
Heron nodded.
"And, Anthony, the little girl is in the room next to Stemmy. We need her…it…the way it is."
Heron nodded again.
Naughton turned and left him.
Heron took a deep breath before he started down that passageway. There were rooms on either side of him. He could see through the glass into the enclosure. There was a bed and a nightstand and a TV. There was an adjoining bathroom. A large drawer was set below the viewing window. It was hermetically sealed at both ends and could be used for transferring meals or what not. That way people didn't have to put on biohazard suits all of the time.
The empty rooms passed out of his vision on either side as he marched. He stopped when he got to the little girl's room. He didn't even know her name. Turning his head, he looked inside. He didn't want to but he couldn't help himself. She was curled up on the floor but seemed to sense him. Looking up, he could see the hunger in her eyes. She was still unmarked, though there was dried blood around her mouth. Stemmy's blood. They stared at each other for a few moments, the living and the undead. She didn't move but he could see the minute wriggling of her nose. She was sniffing the air, looking for him. She knew he was there but she couldn't smell him and it confused her.
At that moment, he could no longer think of her as a little girl. He felt no pity for this poor child whose abominable fate had been sealed by some unknown plague. This creature had bitten and infected his good friend. What would happen now?
Heron moved on.
Stemmy was in the bed, his injured leg wrapped up and elevated, an IV tube leading from his left arm to a bag on a stand. The bag was filled with a yellowish liquid. On the other side was a monitor with wires that snaked down and disappeared beneath his gown. Stemmy looked up, also sensing Heron's presence. He looked okay.
"Anthony."
He sounded like crap.
"How're you feeling?" Heron asked before he could stop himself.
With some effort, Stemmy raised himself to a sitting position. He was still groggy from the anesthesia. "Yeah, I'm okay. Leg hurts like hell."
Heron nodded, not knowing what to say.
"They've got someone next door. I heard movement, scratching. Is it…her?"
Heron nodded again.
Stemmy shook his head. "I don't remember much. The last thing I remember is shooting that woman in the head. But I have flashes of the pictures all around the apartment and I know the girl bit me."
Heron said nothing.
Stemmy got out of bed and hobbled forward. He forgot the IV stand and had to go back for it when the tube tugged on the needle in his arm. When the same thing happened with the monitor he yanked it forward by the wires in frustration. He came right up to the glass and pressed his face against it, craning to see into the next room. But, of course, he had no view of the zombie inside.
"That's what's going to happen to me, isn't it?" he asked.
Heron said nothing.
Stemmy nodded to himself. Then he looked up at Heron. There was a lot to say and he wanted to say it all. But none of it came. "You don't let that happen, hear?"
Heron said nothing.
Stemmy nodded again, this time to his partner.
They stood silently for a while. Finally, Stemmy asked, "Did anyone call Eileen?"
"I don't think so."
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