None of the police seemed to give two shits about them,even though the black man had been yelling for help for the last ten minutes.There were only three cops visible in the station, and this alone told Zeke howbad things had become. By now, with all of the things that he had seen andwitnessed, the entire police force should be up and running. His black friendhad been right; the shit was most definitely going down.
The fourth man on the bench was kicking at the man nextto him, fending off his clumsy attacks, but he wasn't long for the world. Hewas old, overweight, and out of breath, and you could see each shove becomeslightly weaker than the last. Zeke kicked the bar again. Concrete dust tumbledto the ground, and he could see the bolts wiggle in their moorings.
He looked over his shoulder. The three cops, the chiefand the two that had brought him in, were covered in bites, but they seemed tohave the situation mostly under control. The bites were not good, and at thispoint, all he wanted to do was break the bar and run out the front door like amadman. When his black friend turned to yell at them, Zeke shushed him,"Don't even bother. They're dead already."
The man's eyes showed his understanding, and he redoubledhis efforts, kicking at the bar furiously. The bolt on his side was loose, butwas it loose enough? Zeke squatted down and indicated for his black friend todo the same. They sat down on the floor, their legs in the air, their armswrapped awkwardly around the brass bar. With their legs they pushed against thewall, pulling on the bar with their arms. The concrete on Zeke's side cracked,and the bolt came loose. His black friend wasn't so lucky.
The bolt caught against the concrete, waving aroundloosely, but showing no signs of coming free. Zeke removed the loose bolt fromthe bar, and with a little painful maneuvering, managed to slip his handcuffpast the square nub of metal where the bolt had secured it to the wall. Hisblood dropped to the floor, but he was able to slip the handcuff off the bar.He was free.
His friend looked at him, pleading in his eyes. Zeke feltthe cold in his heart, the empty place where a lifetime of service had burnedout everything that he had once been. He turned to leave while the cops werestill busy with their friends.
He could hear his friend kicking as he slipped out thefront door.
Chapter 33: The Last Tear
The pounding on the door hadn't slowed down or stopped.Each thump jarred Katie a little less, until it became more of a backgroundnoise than anything else. The human body can grow accustomed to anything, eventhe incessant pounding of an ill child who seems to want to kill people. Nowait. He wasn't ill; he was dead. She knew that now. Even if she hadn't knownit, she wouldn't have cared. He was as dead as dead could be, and her lifewould never be the same.
She had helped the old man to his bed, though he hadscreamed in agony in the process. There would be no running for him. She had tostifle a laugh when he told her that his name was Fred... Fred Walker. Theirony was too much for her. That's when she knew her brain was changing,transforming into something alien... something better able to cope with theimpending death that seemed to wait for her on the other side of the door.
Fred had an old, pea-green telephone sitting on his nighttable, but when she had tried to use it to call for help, there was nothing buta busy signal. They must have knocked the phone in the living room over in allof the commotion. She sat on the bed, heavy-hearted and trying to adjust to thenew reality.
His covers were rumpled, and the old man grimaced in painevery time she shifted on the lumpy mattress. A picture of an elderly woman saton the nightstand in a black metal frame. She smiled at the camera wanly; ayounger version of Fred had a yellow sweater on, his arm loosely draped overthe woman's shoulder.
"Is that your wife?"
The thumping at the door continued. "It was,"Fred replied.
"Is she dead?"
The old man's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat before heanswered, "Darla passed away a few years ago now. Cancer. She was fine oneday, and then she got diagnosed. A couple of months later, and she wasgone."
A tear found its way out of Katie's left tear duct. Itwould be the last one she ever shed. "Do you miss her?"
The old man sighed heavily. "They say it gets betteras time goes on, but I won't lie. There isn't a damn morning that I don't wakeup and miss every little thing about her. The smell of her hair. The warmthnext to me." Fred laughed a little. "Hell, even the morning breath.I'd trade it all just for one whiff of that god-awful breath." His eyesdrifted towards the ceiling. "Yeah. I guess I still miss her."
Katie had heard enough, "Do you have a cell phone?Anything?"
Fred shook his head. He had never felt like buying aphone. Truth be told, he didn't have a whole lot of people to call.
"Does that radio work?" she asked, pointing atan old digital clock radio. It must have been from the '80s. It had a nice fakewood finish, some dusty buttons, and a bright red, digital display.
"Every morning for the last 25 years or so."
Katie began to fiddle with the radio. She turned thedial, inching it along until she found something that wasn't music, or whatpassed for music on the radio these days. The first station she found was areligious channel. The man on the radio was rambling about Judgment Day,sinners, and hellfire... it was business as usual. The second station she foundwas a little better. It was a news report.
The man on the radio spoke in his news reporter voice,confident, deep, and somehow soothing. She took a deep breath as she caught theflow of his words, the thumping on the door
