An excerpt from the forthcoming novel, “One Million Dead”.
They had made their way to the armory, at the end of twisting hallways, deep within the prison. One of the guards, Ortiz, was leading the way, and the cook, Petowski, limped along with them leaving behind a trail of blood from his ravaged thigh.
Somehow, the three had fought through the mob of rioting prisoners and the twitching, violent throng of hungry, newly-awakened corpses to slip away behind the door that led down to these tunnels. Pubudu recognized that Ortiz had knowledge of the layout of the prison, and keys to secure areas. He had seen him in action and the man was competent.
Anybody who could keep their heads in the madness that had taken place in the last few hours was ok in Pubudu’s mind. The huge, hulking cook, Petowski had thrown people aside with his massive arms, at one point picking up a body and swinging it like a baseball bat, knocking would-be attackers aside, while he flashed a maniacal smile full of gleaming metal teeth.
As they made their way down the long hallways, away from the melee, Ortiz had wanted to put Petowski down, fearing his wound would turn him into one of them. Pubudu pointed a gun at the guard’s face, shaking his head. There had been enough killing for the moment, and the crazy cook had saved them more than once in the last few hours.
Once they reached the armory, they locked themselves in and quickly armed themselves with assault rifles and ammo. The island’s power source had been temporarily restored and there was enough light to see by.
Their plan was to sneak back out through the lower tunnels to the main area. Once they made it, they would blast their way to the shore and swim for the city.
“You ready?” Pubudu asked Ortiz.
The grim guard nodded, slamming home a magazine in his AK-47.
“How about you, Petowski?”
The big Pollock smiled, showing off those metal teeth, thick with blood.
“Head shots.” he replied.
Pubudu nodded, smiling grimly for a moment before turning around, and flinging the door open.
A wall of the living dead stared back at them, choking the hallway with mottled flesh, gnashing teeth and glowing red eyes.
“Mother...” Ortiz began to scream, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Pubudu and Pewotski’s gunfire.
Pubudu tried to hit them in the head, but the bodies were packed in so tight, clawing and scrambling at each other, it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. He shot for the eyes, forgetting his training to use short, controlled bursts.
They’re right fucking THERE! His mind screamed as he unloaded on the mass, blue smoke choking him and filling his eyes. They tumbled into the small space, some of them still moving, some just pushed along by the massive weight of flesh behind them.
Pubudu had time to think just how fucked they were, before Petowski roared and began slamming the door back on the bodies, trying to close it against the impossible torrent of ravenous dead. He slammed and slammed, his gun forgotten on the floor at his feet. He looked up at Pubudu wildly, his eyes wide.
Pubudu stepped back and began firing at the bodies being crunched and jammed by Petowski’s thrusts. Ortiz broke out of his frozen state and ran behind Pubudu, dragging corpses out of the way, pausing every second or two to put a bullet in the brain of the ones still struggling.
The crazed cook’s low bellows filled the close space and the smoke threatened to choke them, but they fought on while black blood splattered them and bones broke and flesh tore.
At some point, the door slammed home, staunching the flow of irate corpses and Pubudu heard the lock click. Then the sounds of gunfire deafened him as the three men dispatched the last of the twitching monsters that had made it in.
After a time, all movement stopped. Pubudu was choking – blind and deaf.
The first sound he heard over the deafening silence was the whir of the ventilation system, sucking out the smoke and the stench of ancient blood, rotting flesh and gunsmoke.
Still working, he thought. Still working. He fell to his knees on a floor made of unyielding, unmoving flesh and thanked a God he thought he no longer believed in.
Petowski was breathing heavily, his hair dripping with sweat.
“We need another plan, Boss.” He said between breaths.
Pubudu nodded, looking over at Ortiz. The guard was looking around the chamber with his gun at the ready, searching for any signs of life from the bodies on the floor. The stink was horrendous, despite the fans. His eyes were a bit glazed over, but it might have been just the smoke.
“Ortiz.” Pubudu said, and when the man did not look up or reply, Pubudu said his name again, louder. “Ortiz!”
The guard jerked his head up and pulled up his gun in the same motion.
“What?!” he asked, his voice confused and angry.
Pubudu looked at him steadily and asked softly, “Any ideas?”
Ortiz seemed to come out of his fugue and shook himself, visibly. He glanced around the small room and then spoke, a note of embarrassment in his voice.
“How…” his voice cracked for a moment and he winced, but went on.”How many do you think there are?”
Pubudu thought about this, and the weight of the question caused him to squat down, setting his assault rifle aside and rubbing his temples. He did not want to ask the next question.
“How many are buried here?”
Ortiz looked down at the bodies on the floor, then back at Pubudu before shaking his head slowly.
“Too many.” He breathed.
Pubudu had lived in New York for quite a few years. He knew the background of Hart Island…of Potter’s Field.
The biggest graveyard in the world, a ghostly voice whispered, and he wondered at the weight of flesh behind that metal door. For the first time, he felt fear. Real fear.
This was much worse than the adrenaline-soaked confrontation on the plane, or the survivors’ struggle to endure the madness of the prison riot. This was an all-encompassing acknowledgement – acceptance – of the fact of his death. He felt deflated…defeated.
He thought back to his CIA training – the classes he had taken in strategy and logistics. He had been more impressed with the stark simplicity of the class on Statistics, the pure logic and untouchable reason of mathematics…of numbers. Everything was an equation.
Numbers were all that mattered.
The numbers were against him – the equation so lopsided that it bore no contemplation.
They were fucked. He knew this, and still his brain refused to shut down…refused to give up.
Petowski seemed to feel Pubudu’s resignation and sank to the floor, clutching his rifle, staring at it. Ortiz turned away and looked at the concrete walls, splattered with a collection of Rorsarch images, painted in black blood
Pubudu looked up at the vents, hoping for another way out. The airways were the size of a small chess board, not worth a thought. One of Pewowski’s arms could not fit through them. At least they had clean air. He wondered how long they would last…if they could wait it out. He choked down a crazy laugh.
The dead could wait longer. They could go without eating, without breathing…without thinking. They were like non-sentient robots…feeling nothing but hunger. They would go on and on…and on, while the three men in the tiny lunchbox waited and starved and died.
Against his will Pubudu looked at his own gun and admired its dark simplicity.
I speak once. It said, its voice cold, hard, oily, and true. “I speak once, and you can go.”
Pubudu closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the insistent and utterly reasonable voice.
“The bad things…” Petowski said, his voice clear in the silence of the room, broken only by the moans and muffled poundings on the metal door and the whir of the ventilation. “They are…dumb.”
“They are…like machine.”
Pubudu thought about this and nodded.
A long silence ensued, and Ortiz turned around, slowly.
The massive cook stood up and strapped on his weapon. Dark, puffy circles had formed under his sky-blue eyes, and with his pale skin, he could have been one of those things outside. Before he spoke again, his lips peeled back, revealing those awful teeth.
“They follow me.” He said simply.
Before he could reply, Petowski unlocked and ripped open the door, his low, screaming voice bouncing off the walls of the small place. He ran forward, firing his weapon, his elbows swinging manically from side to side.
Pubudu jumped up, trying to stop the man or slam the door home, he wasn’t sure which, when the silence and the blackness of the outer corridor finally registered.
They were gone.
At some point in the last few moments, the dead had taken their trade elsewhere. Petowski’s screams died away in the long corridor, and his gun fell to his side. Pubudu stared into the darkness, unbelieving.
Somehow the equation had changed.