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  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s pack everybody up and go.” Williams nods, then seems to hesitate. Keller is easing Tanner into the passenger seat of Tanner’s cruiser. Tanner says, “You’re going to need more rounds for the shotgun. Take the keys, there’s more in the trunk. While you’re at it I have five loaded mags of .40 cal back there. Bring them too.”

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  Keller walks around to the trunk.

  Talaski notices Williams is still hanging around. “Spit it out Brenda. Is something bothering you?”

  “I’m bringing Bronte, Tracks and Daric with me in my cruiser.” Talaski looks up. The younger black guy is looking at him, eyeballing

  him . He’d look tougher if he didn’t try so hard. The other guy doesn’t appear to be looking at anything—It’s almost as if he is switched off. He doesn’t even seem to notice that the kid is still on his shoulders. The boy has to be at least ten years old and probably weighs over a hundred pounds.

  “I’m glad,” he says at last. “Call me Ski, if you want…” He extends a hand to shake.

  The younger man takes his hand, “I’m Bronte and this is Tracks.”

  “TECHNICIAN HAWKINS TO DECEDENT STORAGE.” Blake delivers this intercom message at least twice more before he gets a reaction. Hawkins calls Blake’s phone extension and bellows into his ear. “This better be good Blank! I’ve got no tolerance for bullshit tonight. I—”

  Blake cuts him off. “Doctor Bastrov wants you to come to the autopsy room now.”

  “Tell her I got five minutes left of my break.”

  “She wants you now.”

  “Okay, Mr. Blank. I get you. Tell her I’m coming.”

  Blake puts the phone in its cradle mount on the wall. “He says he’ll be right here, Doctor.”

  “Thank you Mark… it is Mark isn’t it?” she says, trying to smile. She’s on a razor’s edge.

  “Yeah,” he lies. He’d tell her anything to see her smile at him like that.

  Unfortunately the banging is getting louder, more insistent. Or is the sound just coming from more drawers now?

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  Her smile fades into a look of terror. “I don’t want to know what’s happening in those drawers Mark.”

  He stands there, still holding his mop. He wonders what she’d say if he suggested they just leave. My name’s Morgan, and I’m in love with you. Somehow this just doesn’t seem the time to tell her. Precious time is going by, though. Hawkins will be here any minute. I’m crazier than a bedbug and so is this situation.

  “I’m going to…” she says, and then Hawkins practically charges into the room. The noise stops him in his tracks.

  “What’s going on, Doctor?” he asks.

  Doctor Bastrov shakes her head. “We hoped you knew—Is this a joke Joss?”

  “A joke? Not that I’m aware of…” Hawkins’ expression has gone from enraged to wide-eyed.

  “Mark, watch out!” shouts the Doctor. Blake spins around just in time to see the corpse sit up on the table beside him.

  “Mother of God,” says Hawkins in a hoarse voice. Bastrov’s scream is a terrible thing, and Blake wonders at his own centeredness in this situation. I should be out of my mind. Maybe it’s the fact that this thing is so feeble it has no power to scare him? I get emotional over a woman who doesn’t know my name, but stay calm when the dead reanimate? The fact of the manner is this corpse is in terrible shape. It’s looking at them, but is fastened down at the pelvis and the legs. The hole for his colostomy tube really is disgusting, and the drawn hellish look to his face is scary, but…

  “I’m getting out of here,” says Hawkins in a broken voice. Blake can’t help but let his contempt show for the much larger man. He can hear it in his voice and feel it in the sneer on his lips. “Maybe you’d better, Hawkins, before I have to clean up after you, eh?”

  “You son of bitch, you don’t have the balls to say that to me,” Hawkins says, with his face now contorted by shame and rage. “I’ll…”

  “You’ll do what?” says the Doctor. She has evidently recovered somewhat from her initial shock and fear. “Mark could you please tell the switchboard to call the coroner for me? This is big.” She gives him a little smile.

  “Sure thing, Doctor, I’ll get right to it.”

  She turns toward the big man. “Technician Hawkins, do you think that thing understands us?”

  Hawkins stands there a moment, forcing himself to look. The thing stares back at him and opens its mouth in a snarl. “I don’t think so, Doctor, but it does appear to be angry.”

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  “If it was smart, it would free itself, don’t you think?” asks Blake. “Who asked your opinion, Blank?” asks Hawkins.

  “Where is this man’s file?” asks the doctor.

  “Right here,” says Blake, and hands her a clipboard that was lying

  on the floor near the puddle. “No one is answering the phone at the switchboard, by the way.”

  “That’s odd,” she mutters, but her attention is already on the file.

  “Maybe I should walk down there and check?” Blake offers.

  “Yes, do that,” she says. Hawkins gives him a dirty look behind her back.

  Blake shrugs at him and stops short. “Heavens to Murga…”

  Every corpse in the room is sitting up. Some of them are already standing. There are at least six between him and the door. “Doctor?” he says.

  “Quick! Into the observation room!” she shouts.

  All three of them retreat into the room and lock the door. Meanwhile the corpses crowd around the door and pound on the window. There’s something hellish—or demonic, even—in their gaze. The eyes, those awful staring, hungry eyes.

  “That wasn’t too bright bitch!” shouts Hawkins. “We’re trapped in here. I could’ve run past ‘em. Not now. Oh man…”

  Fish in a bowl.

  H E SITS IN HIS CRUISER, head back on the headrest, and listens to the frantic voices on the radio. “All units! All units! Proceed to Tropicana Field. We have set up a rally point there… National Guard and Army Reserve troops are…”

  The cruiser is parked in front of his apartment building, just one of ten or so off Fourth St N not far from the Howard Franklin Bridge. All is quiet here. But for how long?

  For the moment, he can’t make himself move. His arms and legs are still jittery.

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  Another voice cuts in on the radio during a brief lull. “Tyrone Mall is on fire! Officer Lloyd is down! Officer down! Rioters are torching everything! Please assist!”

  “This is Dispatch. All units are to ignore that call and report to Tropicana Fie—”

  Dodd switches off the radio. “Enough of that shit,” he mutters. He gets out of his car and notices the empty parking space next to his. One of his two titty-dancing neighbors didn’t come home tonight. The roommate’s car is there. Too bad his uniform doesn’t give him any traction with those bitches; either one looks like a guaranteed good time.

  “Where are you tonight slut?” he says out loud. “Where are you?”

  “Are you talking to me Officer?”

  Dodd turns around, and sees a thirtyish guy with a comb-over and glasses with thick lenses. They are the horned rim type and they make him look more like an insurance salesman than a mechanic. He works down at the City Motor Pool. “Not fucking likely Larry, but thanks for asking.”

  Larry grins and pushes his nerd glasses back up his nose. Larry is also a first class suck-up, but Dodd likes that. This guy worships him. “I’d like to get a piece of the blond one myself, James,” says Larry. “You’re talking about the dancer who lives next to you right? I keep hoping she’ll come down to Singles Night at the clubhouse, but she never shows.”

  “She’s probably a dyke Larry, but who knows maybe you’ll get your chance.”

  “Thanks man, but I’ll settle for Debbie over in Dispatch.” He grins. “She’s always a sure thing.”

  Dodd laughs. Debbie is big as a house, but everybody nee
ds love. “Are you headed off for work?”

  “Yeah, I need to go in early; Cliff wants me to look over the Chief’s car. Something about a transmission problem. My day’s shot already…”

  Dodd thinks about warning him, but that might lead to questions of about why he is home early. No way is that going to happen. “Have a good day Larry,” he says and turns away.

  “Want to have a few beers later? I got a case in the fridge.”

  “God willing Larry, I’ll drink a few with you later.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you then.”

  Dodd is already walking away, his mind racing. Whatever is going on is sure going to change things around here. At least one of those dancers should be home. Her car is there… and everybody needs love, right?

  39

  HE CROUCHES BEHIND THE BURNING CIVILIAN HUMMER and tries for a better grip on the axe, but it’s hard with the gloves on. He lost his helmet somewhere near the mall entrance about a hundred feet behind him, but his anti-flash hood is still pulled up over his nose. The smell of burning gasoline and pork is heavy in the air—Only, it isn’t pork.

  It is the smell of roasted human flesh.

  He can hear them following him, but for the moment, he is panting for breath. He keys the mike on his two-way radio. “Anybody there? This is Mills and…”

  From somewhere nearby he can hear his own voice echoed, and shuffling footsteps even closer! Time to go back into action! He stands and goes around the still warm wreck in a hurry, axe held high. He sees four people. Three are coming right for him while the fourth is getting to his feet about ten feet behind them.

  “If you can hear me, back off!” he shouts. Their only response is to focus on him, raise their arms as if to embrace him, and continue shuffling in his direction. Though his arms are trembling, he feels a terrible nervous energy coiled within him. I won’t run. He takes a deep breath—the first, closest one, is about to touch him, and he swings the axe. The blade bites deep and a large chunk of white bone with hair still attached flies off to land in the dirt. The guy staggers and topples to the ground.

  The next guy looks like a derelict or wino—Only one that’s had a big hole punched in his throat. Late sixties with long sideburns and slightly bugged eyes. Mills’ first swing on this guy fails to connect, but succeeds in slicing through his tie. He tries again and this time there is a modest bloody spray and the guy’s head flies across the parking lot and rolls under a Honda. The third guy—A police officer, tries to grab his arm, but his fingers slide off of the sleeve of his bunker coat.

  The cop is a tall goony guy. His hair is very curly, even though short. He tries for a bear hug and Mills clips him in the side of the head with

  40

  the axe. The cop drops to his knees, and the blade whistles down and into the tight knit curls. Mills’ breathing is labored. The fourth person, a young man, hasn’t come any closer. He’s still standing, as if paralyzed, about ten feet away. Mills struggles with the axe, but it is in deep.

  “You’re not one of them,” he hears the young man say. “No, I’m not. Now get over here and grab the goddamn cop’s gun, kid. He’s dead. He doesn’t need it anymore.”

  The ‘kid’ is a hulking teenager in a green football jacket that says ‘Green Devils.’ He appears twenty but is probably seventeen, with a brown buzz cut hairstyle which ages him—a little. He’s standing a few feet away looking toward the burning shopping mall. He turns to Mills and says, “I ain’t no kid,” then walks over.

  Mills’ bunker coat and pants are spattered with blood. The axe head is running with it. He laughs to himself. Why am I laughing? I must be losing it…

  “You laughing at me, Mr. Fire Man?” says the kid.

  “No kid, just at the situation. So… what’s your name?”

  “I’m Sam Turner. I think my girlfriend may be in there.” The kid stands and stares toward the mall.

  “In the mall? Oh man. She might be dead.”

  “We got separated. There was a big group of us standing near the south entrance to Sears, you know, on the other side?”

  “Yeah…”

  The kid seems to lose his train of thought. “You just killed a cop, man.”

  “I don’t think what I just killed were still rational human beings. I saw them kill two of my squad mates. They were chewing on them, for Christ’s sake.” Even now, Mills can’t bring himself to think about what remained of his two best friends…

  “Yeah, it’s still freaking me out. I’ll get my bat out of my car’s trunk, but I ain’t touching that cop’s body, man.”

  “Okay, well I’m going to then. Keep a watch out.” Mills leans his axe against the Hummer, and squats down beside the body wearing a St. Pete Police uniform. The guy’s name tag says ‘Lloyd,’ and there is already a film over his staring eyes… He forces himself to reach down and unfasten the guy’s gun belt. It’ll be better to have the whole thing, ammo, taser, cuffs and all. There’s even a flashlight still clipped to it. He holds the body up and unfastens no less than five clips that help bear the weight of the belt. It is a struggle, but finally he lifts the belt out from

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  under the corpse. He stands back up, still looking at the belt, furrowing his brow as he concentrates.

  “I’ll get my bat,” says the kid. “That’s my Acura right there.”

  Mills nods without really looking. This isn’t going to fit over my fire jacket. If I put it under, I won’t be able to get the gun quickly… He pauses a moment, watching the kid cross over to a white four-door car. The kid holds his keys out and the trunk pops open. I’ll just put the pistol in my bunker coat where I can reach it and I won’t even have to keep my jacket unbuttoned.

  He reaches for the front of his coat. Thank God I have this coat and pants. I think it saved me from getting bit.

  From somewhere a few miles off, he hears an explosion.

  His radio is silent.

  “S ONOFABITCH, THAT HURTS,” says Tanner, cradling his doubly injured forearm and wrist. He is in the passenger seat of his cruiser and Keller is driving. “I don’t think the bastard’s teeth broke through the bandages, but goddamn, it was enough to make me bleed again.”

  Keller doesn’t know what to say, but mostly he is transfixed by what he is seeing as they drive. They are on 16th St South, and are just coming up on the 22nd Ave South intersection and traffic light. Two cars are burning in the intersection and ten or twenty people are standing on the northern edge of 22nd. Several bodies are in the street, burned to a crisp. Keller and Tanner are in the third cruiser back, with Talaski leading and Williams and the others in the second car.

  Talaski’s voice comes over the radio, “Be ready, this doesn’t look good. It’ll probably be best if we just drive through no matter what.”

  “I think I broke my wrist when I fell,” says Tanner, apparently oblivious to Talaski. “I can see something moving beneath the skin.”

  “Try to relax, man,” says Keller. “We’ll find you a doctor.”

  “Fuckers bit me too. I might have something…”

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  Keller is trying not to let Tanner get to him, but it’s building. He tries once more to reason with him. “Listen man, I need you to get it together. This isn’t just your typical bad day…” He trails off as he sees people in the crowd throw things at Talaski’s and Williams’ cars. One of the objects explodes just short of Ski’s car, while the other adds to the blaze already engulfing one of the wrecked cars. Flaming bottles—the bastards are throwing Molotov cocktails! Ski chooses to floor his gas pedal and people scatter as he rockets through the intersection. Williams is being more careful and that gives that guy, Tracks, time to poke a shotgun out of a window and fire into the crowd.

  “Jesus,” says Tanner. “One of them just dropped a bomb and three people are on fire now.”

  “Hold on, we’re going around the other way,” says Keller as the car turns sharply left around the wrecks and arrows down 16th Street after Talaski and Wi
lliams. Tanner keeps talking, but Keller has turned inward. He is driving alertly, but the radio earbud in his ear is a constant welter of information, pleas for help and panicked voices. The dispatchers are overwhelmed. Many of the cops have given up call signs altogether and are just using their names… “This is Officer Earnest Potts. Me and Sergeant Mendoza are trapped in Isaac’s Lounge on 34th Street South. There must be fifty psychos outside. We’ve shot six or seven of them, but one of them actually bit Mendoza on the neck. He seems all right. At least the bleeding stopped, but they’re banging on the doors…”

  So many tortured voices. He thanks God that he’s been gone from St. Pete for so long. No family to worry about for me. But what if this is happening everywhere? What then?

  Tanner’s voice breaks back through. “I think the Dome’s on fire…”

  “You mean the Trop?” Keller asks, thinking of Tropicana Field.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” says Tanner.

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  “I’VE BEEN IN AN ACCIDENT AND I NEED A PHONE…” she says, but the man shows no reaction. He looks kind of scrawny. The dinette table is made of glass, so she can see he’s wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans and a white sleeved t-shirt. Every muscle in his thin arm is defined with no fat. The skin on his face is tight enough to frame his skull. He has small high cheekbones and a thin nose with flared nostrils. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. The silence draws out.

  “I was hoping you’d let me use your phone,” she says, and tries to smile at him. “But why don’t I just run up to the StopGo and use theirs.”

  He mumbles something.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  He coughs, then clears his throat in a series of painful, nasty sounding hacks. The pistol never wavers. “Pick up the lamp and come in,” he says.

  She picks up the lamp and sets it back on the endtable beside the door.

  “Good, now come and shut the door behind you.”

  “I don’t think I will. I think I’ll just be on my way.” She backs up, left hand trailing along the door, feeling for the knob.

  The man stands up and fires the gun. Something zips past her right ear and into the door. The sound of the shot almost paralyzes her.