A helicopter.
"Oh Christ-the zombies have a helicopter?"
He closed his eyes. What was the point? In movies, the zombies were slow and stupid, but in real life, they were something quite different. In real life, the zombies had helicopters. Already, the dead outnumbered the living, and their numbers increased every day. Humans.
Animals. No place was safe. Not the suburbs of New Jersey or the remote mountains of West Virginia.
Then he thought of Danny.
There was another explosion. Dropping his makeshift club, Jim started up the ladder.
Bullets peppered the concrete wall, and more of the creatures raced toward him.
"Once upon a time, there was a teeny-tiny woman ..."
Danny squeezed Frankie's hand as she led him toward the stairwell. They moved as fast as they could without giving away their position.
"She lived in a teeny-tiny town in a teeny-tiny house with her teeny-tiny dog."
They heard it chasing them-wet, dragging sounds. Definitely not teeny-tiny.
"Can you see it?" Don hissed, listening to the zombie approach them.
"No," Frankie answered, "but I can smell the son of a bitch."
Headlights appeared in the garage entrance. The Mazda's engine rumbled, reverberating off the cement columns as the car cruised down the rows, hunting for them.
Fumbling in the dark, Don picked up the lighter and flicked it.
"Put that fucking thing out," Frankie snapped. "What's wrong with you?"
The flame vanished, and the darkness surrounded them again. The zombie's stench grew stronger.
"Go!" Frankie urged. They broke cover and stumbled for the stairwell door.
Don pushed it open, ducking back in case anything leapt out at them, but the stairway was abandoned. Frankie limped inside, pulling Danny along with her. Don quickly followed, and eased the door shut behind them.
The Mazda's tires squealed. Through the window in the door, Don caught a momentary glimpse of the zombie crawling after them, illuminated by the red glow of the Mazda's brake lights. It was a female, her lower half missing.
"Up the stairs," Frankie whispered. "Don't make a sound."
Quietly as possible, they hurried up the darkened stairway.
"Here," the creature on the other side of the door shrieked. "They're going to the second level!"
Tires screeched again as the car sped up the ramp. Behind them, the legless zombie clawed at the door. More roaring engines drowned out its cries, and above them, Frankie heard a distant rumbling noise.
"Listen-you hear that?"
"It's a helicopter." Don shrugged. "Is that good or bad?"
"Probably bad. I've only seen two things fly helicopters-zombies and soldiers."
She took another step upward.
"And I don't like either of them."
Don panted for breath. "In the movies, people always escape zombies by flying away in a helicopter."
"This ain't a movie."
They reached the second-floor landing, and already the Mazda was racing for the stairwell. Below them, the door banged open.
"Give me my bone," the zombie tittered.
"I'll give you a bone, bitch." Don looked down at Danny and then apologized under his breath.
"That's okay, Mr. De Santos."
"Maybe the roof ain't such a bad idea after all," Frankie muttered.
"But what about the birds?" Don asked.
She lowered her voice. "At this point, I don't think it much matters. Whatever we do, we're pretty much fucked."
As one, the rotting flock banked toward their prey.
Jim heaved himself over the ledge and onto the roof. Only a few cars were parked on the top, their owners having long since abandoned them.
Exhausted and bleeding from a dozen different wounds, he stumbled forward, looking for the others and fleeing the birds.
A flock of crows is called a murder, he thought, and that's what is about to happen. A murder ...
He cupped his hands to his mouth. "Danny?" There was no reason to think they would have climbed up to the top, but at this point he had nothing to lose. Maybe he'd survive long enough to search the garage for them.
A sparrow pecked at his hand, drawing blood.
The sonorous thrum of the helicopter echoed off the concrete. Jim glanced into the sky and saw two things. The first was the helicopter, its running lights off and its outline almost invisible against the night, hovering directly overhead. The second was the birds, suddenly dropping like stones, their bodies limp and unmoving.
In a flash, the temperature jumped. Jim felt warm, then hot. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his ears turned red. Pain pulsed through his brain, pressing on the inside of his skull. His ears felt like they would explode. He gripped his head and screamed-and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the pressure increased.
The helicopter drew closer. The broken and battered birds rained down around him. The pain surged through his head again, and his eyes grew hot. Jim's ears began to bleed. He covered them with his hands and screamed again.
Jim kept screaming even after he collapsed.
The door banged open below them and a horde of zombies rushed up the stairs. Frankie, Don, and Danny barely heard them over the roar of the chopper, which was right over their heads. The garage shook, the concrete walls vibrated and the ceiling sounded like it was about to collapse. The noise of the rotors increased, making speech next to impossible.
Despite the cacophony, they could still hear Jim's screams.
"Daddy!"
Danny twisted free of Frankie's grip, pushed the door open, and ran outside onto the roof. Immediately, his small hands clenched the sides of his head. He collapsed, screaming.
Frankie and Don ran after him.
The zombies followed.
"Turn it off," Steve shouted. "For fuck's sake, Quinn, shut it off. You're killing them!"
"How do we know they ain't zombies?" the pilot answered. "Just because they aren't decaying yet doesn't mean they're not dead."
"The birds were attacking him, you asshole." He froze, staring in horror. "Jesus, Quinn-it's a little kid. Come on man, shut it off now."
"All right, all right already."
Quinn flipped a switch, and instantly, the man and boy stopped squirming. Now a young black woman and a middle-aged Hispanic man stepped out onto the roof, rushing to their sides and staring up at the helicopter in panic. They were obviously wounded, limping and bleeding.
Steve grabbed the bullhorn.
"How do you work this?"
"Press the fucking button. Don't you Canucks know how to do anything?
Why the hell did Bates stick me with your ass? Why did DiMassi have to go and get sick?"
"I'm here because I'm a pilot-just in case you don't make it back."