“Hopefully,” I said, “you won’t get that chance. If we can get to the marina without running into any more of those things, that would certainly be okay with me.”
We started walking again, going slowly, all four of us watching for more of the undead. Behind us we heard the crackling roar of flames as the fires continued spreading, punctuated with the occasional gunshot or scream. The smoke wasn’t as bad, though—maybe because the buildings in Fells Point were mostly two-stories high and the smoke could rise into the sky easier, instead of getting trapped in the city’s concrete canyons.
“You must have owned a gun store, right?” I asked Mitch.
“Nope.”
“A gun salesman, then?”
He shook his head. “No, but you’re close. I was a salesman, but not guns. I’m just a firearms enthusiast. I always liked hunting and target shooting.”
“So what did you sell?”
Mitch grinned. “Bibles.”
“Get the fuck out of here. You look like a Hell’s Angel.”
“I’m serious, Lamar. I was a Bible salesman; sold to Christian bookstores and churches and private academies, mostly. I covered my tattoos up with sleeves when I needed to, and took out my earrings. Bibles were my business. Guns are just my hobby.”
I frowned. I don’t know what it’s like for other gay people, but in my experience, the Christians I’d known had been less than understanding when it came to my sexuality. Of all the people to fall in with as we escaped the city, it looked like we’d joined forces with a possible fundamentalist who would judge me based on some old book supposedly written by the world’s most omnipotent bigot.
Mitch must have been able to read the expression on my face. “Don’t worry. I’m not a believer in the product. I’m just a spokesman.”
I snorted. “You don’t believe in God?”
He waved the pistol around. “Do you, after all this shit?”
“No. But you
“Sold,” he corrected. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll have much business anymore. Yeah, I sold them. I sold lots of things-televisions, cars, computers, insurance, and vacuum cleaners. There was just more money in Bibles.”
Laughing, we continued on our way.
Behind us, the fires spread, driving the dead forward.
Chapter Four
After fifteen tense minutes of sneaking through alleys and side streets, staying out of sight of the zombies when we could, we finally emerged at the waterfront. We smelled seawater. To our right was an old factory that had been converted into a nightclub. It took up the whole block. Past the nightclub was the old Sylvan Learning Center building and several luxury hotels that towered into the sky. In the distance was the Inner Harbor itself, along with the stadium and downtown Baltimore’s skyline. Buildings were on fire there, too. On our left was the private yacht club. We could see all kinds of little boats and pleasure crafts tied up at the docks. Leftover yuppie toys. There was no movement inside the club. We heard a bell toll once; probably mounted to someone’s mast. It was the loneliest sound in the world. A twelve-foot high wire mesh fence surrounded the yacht club. The gates were chained and padlocked. Curled lengths of razor wire stretched across the top of the fence. Security cameras were stationed every ten feet, along with floodlights. The cameras and lights were dead, of course, just like everything else.
“What is it with fucking padlocks tonight?” I fingered the lock and then turned back to Mitch. “Don’t suppose you got a pair of bolt cutters in your backpack?”
“No. Wish I did. I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve been stymied by a lock tonight?”
I shook my head. Above us, a pigeon took flight with an angry squawk. I envied the bird. Found myself wishing we all had wings so we could fly above the city. Mitch stared up at the bird, too, and then turned to the fence.
“We can’t climb it either,” he said. “The kids would cut the shit out of themselves on that razor wire.”
“I can climb,” Malik said. “I ain’t afraid of no wire.”
“I am,” Mitch replied. “And you should be, too. It’ll cut the hell out of you. Slice your arms and legs to ribbons.”
Malik appeared doubtful.
I stared at the boats—so close and yet so far away. “Couldn’t we just shoot the lock off?”
“Not one that big. That’s high-end, American-made steel. A smaller lock, yeah, it would work. A round or two from the forty-five and we’d have no problem. But we don’t have the firepower to even dent that fucking thing. We could use a grenade, but that would attract too much attention.” He kicked the fence in frustration. “The owners really made sure no one could get in.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “There were a lot of homeless people in this area. Used to beg off the tourists and college kids, and the folks over in the office blocks. No doubt they’d have slept on the boats if they could have gotten in.”
Instead of responding to me, Mitch raised his pistol and fired a shot past us. The empty shell clattered onto the ground. Tasha, Malik and I all jumped in surprise. I turned around. A zombie lay in the street, blood spreading in a pool from its head. It had been creeping up on us in silence.
“We’d better figure something else out,” Mitch said. “And quickly. That shot is sure to bring more of them.”
I pointed at a small, cinder block building next to the nightclub. A sign outside indicated that it was a machine shop. “Maybe we could try in there. Find something to cut this chain with?”
“Good idea.”
“Come on, guys.” I motioned for Tasha and Malik to follow us and they did.
We ran across the street to the machine shop. The only entrance from our side of the building was through a large, graffiti-covered garage door. I figured it would be locked, but when Mitch bent over and tugged at the handle, the door rose a few inches. Maybe the owners had not had time to lock it, or maybe someone else had already broken in. Unoiled pulleys screeched. A horrible slaughterhouse stench drifted out.
Tasha grabbed my arm. “That smells like…”
Grunting, Mitch yanked on the door. It rose higher.
“Mitch,” I whispered. “Wait.”
My warning was too late. Mitch let go of the handle and the door shot upward, disappearing into the ceiling. The interior was pitch-black, but something moved in the shadows. We saw feet. Then legs. Zombies lurched out of the darkness—two; then six; then a dozen. The machine shop was full of them. Guess they’d been trapped inside for a while, unable to open the door. Just standing there rotting, waiting for someone to free them. A few of them had exploded abdomens. Others suffered from swollen, leaking limbs. Mitch jumped backward and the dead spilled out into the street. There were more inside, stumbling toward the light.
Mitch stayed cool. He raised his pistol with both hands. Keeping his feet spread apart at shoulder-width, he opened fire, squeezing off six shots. Each one was true, and six zombies fell to the pavement. Tasha screamed as one of the corpses lunged for her, but then she raised her pistol and fired. The handgun jerked upward, and the bullet missed. She fired again, blowing a hole in the creature’s shoulder. The zombie reached for her and I slammed it in the jaw with the butt of my rifle. It toppled backward, sprawling on the ground. Tasha stepped forward and shot it in the head at point-blank range. The corpse’s hair caught on fire. Blood and brains and skull fragments splattered upward. Tasha gagged.
“Good girl,” I said softly. “You didn’t get any blood in your mouth or eyes, did you?”
“No,” she answered. Then she leaned over and threw up on her shoes.
Malik, meanwhile, clutched his grenade in one hand and darted back and forth in front of us, dodging zombies and staying out of Mitch’s line of fire. The boy seemed excited. Frantic, even, but he showed no fear. Despite everything, I smiled.
