He pulled out the spear, his only other weapon being a knife. Should he run? Fight? The door clicked and was opening. Screw it, he would stay and finish off the next one too. With the spear, he could jab it in the head from afar, keeping it away until he killed it, leaving one less zombie to deal with on the way back down.
Readying his weapon, he watched as the zombie, a large undead man, standing about six feet plus, walked into the stairwell. Damn, why couldn’t it have been a little old, undead lady? As the door was shutting behind the big guy, it stopped halfway, colliding into another member of the undead, also making its way into the stairwell. Now, Jack had two undead to deal with, and not being able to see into the hallway, he had no idea how many more there might be.
The one thing he did know was that the undead were mindless machines, programmed to walk forward and search for flesh. They couldn’t reason, didn’t care, and they couldn’t open doors, at least not doors without easy-to-push handles.
With only three floors to climb until he reached his destination, he decided to flee. Could the undead climb stairs? He had no clue, but even if they could, they wouldn’t be able to open the stairwell doors, leaving them trapped there. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to deal with any zombies, for there might be plenty on the other side of the door too.
The ascent to the 23rd floor was easy going, and clear. Opening the door, he found the hallway void of any bodies, dead or undead. There were however, blood stains covering areas of the floor and walls, as if a battle had ensued and the corpses were removed.
Moving down the hall, Jack saw that all the apartment doors, save Zaun’s, were open, including his own. Upon coming to his apartment, he listened from outside the doorway. Hearing nothing, he looked inside, and saw that at least the immediate hallway leading to the kitchen was clear.
He went in.
The place had been ransacked. The kitchen cabinet doors were all open. The foodstuff, cans, sugar, teas, and whatnot were all gone. Some glassware and dishes were on the floor, mostly broken. Checking the hall pantry, it had been cleaned out as well. Jack went to the fridge and saw that it was empty too, except for a few items that he couldn’t make out, since they had rotted too badly. The odor was nauseating. He quickly shut the door and headed for the bedroom, his and Jess’ bedroom.
The room was exactly how he remembered leaving it: the bed unmade, Jess’ and his pairs of slippers on the floor by the bed, her hairbrush on the nightstand. Going over to the long dresser, Jack picked up the couple’s wedding photo. Tears welled in his eyes. She looked so happy, so beautiful.
After a few moments, he wiped his face, removed the picture, folded it so that none of the creases would mar his or Jess’ figures, and placed it in one of his pockets. After that, he went for his wallet, which he usually left on the nightstand. It was gone. Panic hit him like a sledgehammer, and he began to shake. He didn’t care about the wallet or anything in it; he just wanted the picture of his wife that was inside.
Jack left the bedroom and went to the hallway coat closet. Checking the pockets of the last jacket he wore, he found the wallet, his pulse settling down again as elation filled his heart. He must have forgotten to take the damn thing out after he had come home from work.
Opening the wallet, he took out a recent picture of Jess, taken the last time they went to Central Park. Staring at it, his body suddenly felt heavy. He was so tired. H e had to sit.
Putting the small photo in his pocket, Jack went back to the bedroom, removed the spear from its place between his back and the pack, letting it drop to the floor. He then took off his backpack and sat on the bed. Still feeling weary, he laid down on Jess’ side, letting his face sink into her pillow. He inhaled, smelling her scent. He could taste her sweetness. Touch her soft skin.
“I miss you, baby,” he said, “so damn much.” Breathing was becoming harder with his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to stop smelling her, but turned himself over, needing the air. Lying still, he stared at the ceiling. He needed to get up and keep moving. Remaining where he was, in his old room, was pointless. Too painful. Jess was dead. He had gotten what he came for: the pictures, and a little closure.
But he was so tired. He didn’t want to go on. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife telling him to get up, that he needed to help others. Get himself and them out of the city.
Jack forced himself up. Looking around the room, his gaze stopped on the open closet doors. Guns. He had guns.
The weariness left him as if he’d been doused with ice-water. He got to his feet and raced over to the closet. He checked the top shelf for his handguns, finding that the cases they rested in were gone. His rifle and shotgun were missing too. Whoever had cleaned out the food, must have taken the weapons.
Damn.
Reaching up, Jack felt along the door’s frame, his fingers coming into contact with a small metal case that was attached by magnets to a metal strip. Sliding off the cover, he saw that his set of keys were still inside; the same set of keys that opened the lock boxes as well as the trigger guards to his weapons. Whoever did have his guns wouldn’t be using them, not without getting those locks off the triggers. Jack pocketed the keys, wanting to keep them in the event he came across his guns as he searched the building.
Pushing the clothes aside, Jack found that his Louisville Slugger baseball bat was still where he had left it. Picking it up, he felt the smooth wood finish, marred slightly from playing a few games of ball in the park. The baseball-hitting implement was about to get uglier, because it would no longer be used as a tool to hit baseballs, but to smash in the heads of the undead.
Jack had an idea and went back to the hall coat closet where he kept his toolbox. H e would hammer a few nails through the bat head. Damn it; his tools were gone too. Sudden rage swept over his body. He began pulling on the coats, snapping the plastic hangers, then throwing the garments to the floor. With the final jacket in his grip, he stopped. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. If he had been running around fighting for his life, he would have done the same, and taken whatever he could use. He only hoped that whoever had taken his stuff was still using it and that the person, or people, was still alive.
Before leaving, Jack grabbed his backpack, leaving the spear where it fell, and worked his way to the exit, eying everything for the last time. Standing in the doorway of his and Jess’ apartment, because it would always be theirs, he turned around. There wasn’t much to see except the narrow walls that led to the kitchen. He said a final good-bye, then stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Again, the silence was overwhelming. He thought about what to do next: go door to door, or check on Zaun. He decided to check on his friend. Now that he had the bat, a decent weapon, he felt better about roaming around, although he still wanted a firearm.
As Jack moved down the hall, he stopped beside each open door; listened, then peered inside. Clear, he moved on. He did this four times before coming to Zaun’s closed apartment door. Raising his hand to knock, he stopped himself. Instead, he grabbed the doorknob and turned it. Taking a deep breath, bat in hand, he pushed. The door opened.
Chapter 10
Zaun’s place was dark; the apartment was set up similar to Jack’s. An acrid odor, like wet-canine fur and rotten eggs filled his nose. Unable to see much as he walked down the hallway, Jack took the flashlight from his belt, and clicked it on. With his other hand, he let the bat slide through his fingers a bit, choking up on the weapon.