Right now, people were tromping across the logo, whichwas usually covered by three-quarters of an inch of ice. She wondered if anyonewould ever skate across that logo again. Katie sat, wrapped in dark thoughts, ablanket to keep her mind from the other emotions that were struggling to escapefrom her. She didn't want them. She didn't want the sadness, the grief, therage. She would take a triple dose of denial. When she had first come in, alady had greeted her, and chatted to her, asking her if she had lost anyone.Katie said, "No."
The lady had shaken her head in confusion at Katie'sterse response, then she had walked away, a hurt look on her face. That was finewith her. The people here wanted to bond. They wanted to feel better. Katiejust wanted her gun back. Her harrowing entrance into the refugee camp had beenthe first sign that she had most likely made a mistake. Now she was intent onescaping from the Coliseum, getting some sort of weapon, and leaving the cityaltogether. It was the only play that made sense. If her mind had been right,she would have figured it out a lot sooner, but the idea of being someplacesafe had called to something within her. Perhaps it called to her willingnessto abandon responsibility and let someone else do the thinking.
Katie's stomach gurgled. She was hungry and a littledrunk. They had taken her gun, but allowed her to keep her tiny bottles ofwine. She would have traded them in a heartbeat for the gun, but the soldiersweren't interested in trades. They were interested in talking big, maintaininga sense of authority, and denying the fact that every hour more and more ofthose things showed up, shambling and pressing against the woefully patheticfences that encircled the Coliseum.
The flow of refugees had slowed down, whether that wasbecause most people were dead or because they simply couldn't reach theColiseum, Katie didn't know. Either way, it all meant bad news to Katie. Shekicked the seat in front of her, and swore under her breath.
On the floor of the Coliseum, survivors huddled ingroups, their Styrofoam trays resting on their knees. Some slept, some wept,but they all had the same look of shock on their face. There were few children,and the ones that were there sat as if in a daze, their worlds shattered intoso many pieces that they had no idea how to even begin putting them all backtogether. Katie couldn't look at the children for long before thoughts of herown child started to bubble up.
Food. If she was going to escape, she was going to haveto find something to eat. Katie rose from her seat and stumbled down thestairway that led to the concourse, her purse in her hand, tiny bottles of wineclinking around inside. She exited the stadium and found herself on the dirtygray concourse. It had an industrial, heartless feel almost as uncomfortable asthe view through the glass front of the Coliseum. Soldiers packed theColiseum's broad courtyard, a square of concrete that sat before long windowsthat led from the floor to the Coliseum's airy ceiling. The soldiers were outthere, rifles in hands, and beyond them were the fences, backed by scaffoldingthat the soldiers stood upon to shoot at the dead outside. There were thousandsof them. There was a sea of rotting flesh out there, pawing at the chains ofthe fences. The soldiers on top were shooting at the dead below, the noise ofrifle shots was unceasing and muffled only by the thick glass windows of theColiseum. Other soldiers sat below, filling magazines with clips of ammunitionand stripping and cleaning rifles that had been fired throughout the day. Theywere all busy, and they were barely making a dent.
A chopper lifted straight into the air from the courtyard,its rotors whirring into invisibility and blasting the soldiers with a grittywind. Shell casings rolled across the ground, brass stars twinkling underneaththe generator powered floodlights in the courtyard. A soldier ran inside onsome sort of mission, and as the door swung open, a blast of air from outsidehit her in the face like a punch, the smell of thousands of dead that had spentmost of the day putrefying in the sun. Her gag reflex was strong, but sheclamped her hand over her face and moved away from the front of the building,stalking around the concourse to find where they were serving food.
She had seen other refugees moving across the Coliseumfloor, paper plates of steaming food in hand. She hitched her purse up on hershoulder. It was all she had left, and it was about the most worthlesspossession anyone could have in a time like this. Liable to be snagged by thedead, she knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to give itup. When her wine was gone, she would toss the bag into one of the many trashbins around the arena, along with her credit cards, her wallet, and all themake-up she had dutifully applied to her face for the last three decades of herlife. She hadn't quite decided what to do with her cell phone. Part of herwanted to keep it, but another part of her wanted to bury it in one of thegarbage cans, along with the pictures of her husband and child that were storedon it.
She pulled the cell phone from her purse, a clunky chunkof glass, metal and plastic. It was an outdated phone by society standards,nothing fancy, but it held pictures, some songs, and a list of her fewcontacts. Ever since Kevin had been born, her list of contacts had slowlydwindled until it was just her, her brother in Vermont, and her mother. Sheopened up her list of contacts... so small, so pointless. Having a child hadbeen the
