shirts. One of them, obviously a tourist, gawked at the skyline. Its I Love New York T-shirt was crusted with dried juices. Some walked zombie dogs on leashes and others jogged, pieces of their bodies falling off in their wake. The streets were congested with zombies driving cars and pedaling bikes. A taxi driver leaned on his horn, cursing in a language that was old when the world was young. A bus flashed by her, and Frankie recoiled in disgust at the rotting faces staring back at her from the windows.
A zombie with a bloodstained beret perched atop its head stepped forward and said, 'Hey baby, how much for a blow job?'
'Fuck off,' Frankie snarled. 'I don't do that anymore.'
'You're standing on the street corner. How much? I've got money.'
He pulled out a greasy wad of bills. His decaying fingers left splotches on the money. Then he produced a needle.
'Or maybe you'd like some of that old black tar instead?'
'Not interested,' Frankie said. 'I don't do that shit anymore either.
Now get out of here.'
The zombie stuffed the crumpled money back in its pocket and jammed the needle into its eye. Then it pulled down its zipper, releasing something that looked like a gray, bloated sausage. Insects swarmed over the rotting member. The pubic hair was matted with filth.
'Come on, sweetheart. How much to suck my cock?'
The corpse squeezed the shaft, and a maggot spurted from the hole at the end and fell to the sidewalk. The zombie's shriveled testicles squirmed from the inside with more maggot sperm.
'Get the fuck away from me.' Frankie pushed the creature off the curb.
'Bitch,' it mumbled, and stalked away.
Frankie took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next.
A hand touched her shoulder.
'I told you to fuck off!'
She spun around.
Martin smiled sadly at her.
'Preacher-man,' she gasped. 'What are you doing here?'
The old man didn't reply.
'Hey, what the hell?'
Martin pointed over her shoulder.
'What is it?'
He pointed again, his face grim.
Frankie turned.
Ramsey Towers had turned into a giant tombstone, towering over the city.
It was engraved with her name- and those of Jim, Danny, and Don. A sudden cold gust of wind tore down the street, and the sky grew dark.
'I don't get it,' Frankie said. 'What does it mean?'
She looked back to Martin for an explanation, but the preacher was gone.
The zombies had disappeared too. She was alone in a city-sized graveyard. She thought of the graveyard they'd seen on the Garden State Parkway, just before arriving at Danny's house.
'Martin?'
No answer, except for the wind.
'Shit ...'
She stared back up at the skyscraper-tombstone. The sky grew darker-obsidian.
Something rustled behind her.
Frankie turned around again and the entire undead population of New York City was standing behind her. Their claw-like hands shot forward.
She didn't even have time to scream.
NINE
'I'll bet you guys are hungry,' Smokey said.
Jim's, Don's, and Danny's stomachs grumbled in agreement. After all they'd been through in the last twenty- four hours, food had been the furthest thing from their minds. But when they walked into the sprawling cafeteria, smelled the aroma of bacon and sausage and eggs and pancakes and fruit and coffee, heard the clank of silverware and glasses and serving trays-they were suddenly ravenous.
The room buzzed with conversation. About one hundred fifty people were gathered in the cafeteria, sitting at long tables, standing in line with trays, and standing around the coffee pots. Several of them looked up, appraising the new arrivals as Smokey led them into the room.
Smokey described himself as an ex-hippie. He was still in pretty good shape for a man in his sixties. A long, gray ponytail hung down over his flannel work shirt, and a matching gray mustache covered his upper lip.
Friendly and talkative, he'd been assigned to show the three of them around.
