I considered it.Considered my legs.There was a chance there’d be stairs and grates and awkward walking.With my luck, I’d pitch off it when my hamstrings gave out and hit the ground with a splat.
Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped here, after all, I thought.Stupid friendship.Stupid savior complex.Stupid Stacey, thinking she could spearhead everything herself.No wonder Al and Eddie and Vic thought I was acting like a child.One fall off a bike and I was practically out of the game already.
Dark thoughts swirled in my head.There was a mirror in the corridor.I paused and looked at it.Looked at my ugly birthmark.The Moon-Kiss, the undead all said.Some high and mighty sign that the divine had marked me.Well, bully on that!The divine hadn’t marked me.Cursed by the devil, that seemed a bit more appropriate.
For some reason, this was a comforting thought.If I was cursed—if that’s what this was, a sign of misfortune—then that meant I had something to fight against.Something unfair.Something to prove myself against.I didn’t know why, but it sat with me in a good way.I could feel my inspiration flowing.Feel my guts readying themselves.I could do this, I thought.I bounced back and forth between weak legs that were getting a second wind and punched the air a few times.I could do this.I could do this.
“I got this.You got this.We’re gonna go down thirteen flights of steps, find your friend, take her car to the mall.Nice and simple.”
I turned and headed toward the corridor.A pale-faced man with half of his face missing turned the corner, groaning and staggering towards me, his hands smearing more blood on both sides of the wall.No way around him—but he seemed off-balance.If I got in close, I could walk backward, jump out of his way…
“Blagh,” the zombie said and vomited.A thick, tarry crust of black liquid splashed out.Worms crawled around in it.
“I thought I could do this, but I can’t,” I said.“And there’s no shame in running from a situation you’re not strong enough to face yet.”
The zombie vomited again.
I turned and ran toward the fire escape, sticking my head out and looking down.The ground looked far away, and the iron latticework on the outside did not look the most in-shape, but it was either this or wormy extrusions from dead people.I took my chances.
The wind blew as I swung myself out over the window.I wanted to shut it behind me—but there wasn’t a latch or anything but cold dew on this side of the smooth glass.The only thing I could do was leave it alone and crouch, quickly stepping down the iron steps, watching through the windows on apartments as I passed.
Someone pumped their fists as I went down.Someone else was staring from their window, their eyes missing in their sockets, their forehead smearing the glass with what I hoped wasn’t brains.I had no idea how many turns meant a floor.I just kept going and going.
I heard a moan and a cry, and the whole fire escape jerked.I looked back up.The zombie from the floor I was on had squirmed his way out the window and landed on the floor above.His arms were stuck through two steps.He couldn’t seem to move.
“That was lucky,” I said.
And then I heard him vomit again.A cold splatter of wormy putrescence hit a step next to me, and I shrieked.There was another open window as I rounded the bend, and I made it inside just as a bit of sludge hit my shoe.
I pulled the shoe off, staring at it with horror.It was covered in—I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.It smelled like hazelnut creamer.What?Worms danced as they gasped for air.
I threw the shoe back out the window, and then my other one, because why not.The apartment I was in was dark.Judging from the linoleum touching my toes, I was in the kitchen.I had no idea where I was—no idea what floor I had made it to.A slight bit of light came in from the air outside.Just enough for me to see where I was going.I tried to remember the layout of Tamara’s kitchen and crept my way over to where I thought the light switch was.I flipped it.
With a zap, the lights dimmed on and then snapped back off because of the power.I sighed.Okay, I thought.That’s fine.
I had passed a stove earlier.Tamara’s was gas—she had bitched about it enough to make that memory stick in my brain.I hoped beyond hope, this one was an auto-light.I flicked the nearest burner on, picking up the skillet that was on it, and waited until the blue flame flickered up.
Just enough light came on for me to see a scented votive near the window I’d crawled in.At least this was something.I grabbed it and lit it, then turned with it in my hand.
A row of very mean-looking mallards were perched on the island that looked into the living room.
“Good duckies,” I said.“Maybe I wandered into the apartment of a nice duck-keeper.Maybe you’re good ducks, and I won’t have to bash your brains in.”
One of them quacked restlessly, its beak nibbling at something under a wing.They seemed content, just sitting there.I dared not turn my back on them—just made sure I turned the gas knob off on the stove behind me.The darkness reclaimed the kitchen, save the single candle I had sat on the side of the stove.I slowly picked it up and walked, barefooted, through the living room.Candle in one hand.Skillet in another.
The ducks swiveled, turning but seeming uninterested.Maybe they were only trained to attack fast-moving things…
I backed into the living room.A sharp pain hit my foot.I tried not to make a sound.I looked down, shaking my already-hurt foot.A plastic building block piece skittered from the sole of my foot into the kitchen, making noise against the tile.The ducks seemed to train in on it.
My back hit what I assumed was a door.I carefully turned, trying to balance the skillet in the crook of my arm as I tangled with the locks.
“How many fucking locks do you need, lady,” I whispered.
Seriously, there were at least six in a row.This wasn’t a bad side of town, either.Still, I got through most of them.And then the latch was last.I tried to press the skillet between my breasts and the door, and use a free hand, but there was a horrible scrape of metal as the skillet slowly lost its grip on my boobs.
Angry ducky grunts were happening behind me, and feathery flaps.I finally abandoned all caution and ripped the door open, bending down and grabbing the skillet and slamming the door behind me.There was a series of bangs and thumps on the door.The wood cracked right where my head had been—a duck’s bill, bloody and broken, protruded from the broken door.
“Jesus,” I said.
