pass the time. Maybe even find something the group could use.
Leaving his machine gun against the wall, Zaun unlocked the door, undoing the deadbolt as slowly as possible. He winced as the hinges let out a pig-like squeal. Freezing for a few moments, he opened the door the rest of the way at a snail’s pace.
Armed with his Glock, a knife, and a sword, Zaun stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him.
The need to use the bathroom was stronger now, and if it wasn’t for his martial arts training, he didn’t think he’d have the will to hold it in, or the ability to move silently like a panther. He’d practice Aikido, Closed Crane Kung Fu, Kali-Silat, and Tai Chi, and not the Tai Chi practiced in parks at five in the morning, but combat Tai Chi designed for self — defense. The other arts were external in nature, relying more on muscle movement for power. Tai Chi was an internal art where a person used inner strength combined with energy, or chi, to overwhelm an enemy. The art was also good for healing one’s mind and body. Zaun had found Kung Fu and Tai Chi to be the most favorite of the martial arts and the most deadly.
He carefully worked his way over to apartment 3F’s door. Anytime he heard the floor begin to creak, he shifted his weight to another spot, making sure to mentally draw up a map of the hallway so on his way back he’d be able to move in silence.
Reaching the door, he opened it and went in.
Zaun’s mouth fell open at how fresh the air smelled and at how clean the place was. Not a mark on the walls, and all freshly painted a light blue. The floor was tan ceramic tile. Just down the hall, Zaun found the bathroom, the layout appearing the same as 3R’s.
Taking one look at the place, his bowels relaxed. The room smelled like strawberries. The sink was clean. A metal soap dispenser sat on it. The toilet itself sparkled. Hanging his gun belt on the open door and leaning his sword against the wall, he pulled down his pants, and sat, the cool seat a welcomed feeling.
Next to the toilet was a magazine rack filled with periodicals. Zaun knew he should hurry, that what he was doing was not the brightest idea, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to rush. This was the most relaxed he’d felt in a long time, and he had no idea when he’d get to feel this way again.
Finishing up an article on how to prepare garlic sauteed ribs, Zaun placed the magazine back, ready to grab a sheet of toilet paper when he heard what sounded like the shuffling of feet. Someone was in the apartment. Jack had said everyone in 3F was dead, but he also told Zaun that he didn’t get a chance to check the entire place.
Unable to reach his sword, Zaun went for the gun belt hanging on the door, his fingers just grazing the leather. He stretched farther, but in doing so fell forward, pulling the belt with him as he landed face down on the floor.
Looking ahead, he saw a woman’s feet, the toenails painted a bright pink. Craning his neck, he looked up and saw her skeletal form. She had a small hole with red around it in the center of her half-shirt, trickles of blood covering parts of the tattoo around her belly button. Her eyes had no life in them. Zaun forgot all about his shit- covered ass. He fumbled with the belt, trying to get to the gun. The zombie stepped within inches of him and was bending down. Curling his fingers around the handle, he withdrew the pistol, pointed it at the zombie, and pulled the trigger only to hear a dry click. Fuck, he had to rack the slide. The zombie was on top of him, pulling at his hair. He could smell the coppery odor of its blood over the odor of his defecation. Racking the slide, he shoved the gun under the zombie’s jaw and fired. The thing’s head jerked back and then collapsed on top of him.
Rolling onto his back, he shoved the corpse off, then sat up. Grabbing the rim of the toilet seat, he pulled himself up and sat back down. He stayed there a moment as he caught his breath and calmed down. That was too close. He’d almost been killed while taking a dump.
Looking down, he checked his legs and pants for fecal matter. Finding none, he cleaned his rear, pulled up his pants and re-armed himself. Exiting the bathroom, he walked down the hall to the living room.
A large man’s body was lying face down on the floor-the guy Jack had killed. The couch was woman-less, confirming the zombie Zaun had put down, was the woman Jack shot. Chunks of flesh were missing from the man’s meaty legs and back, his clothes torn to shreds. That meant the woman Jack had shot was infected. Jack hadn’t said anything about her state, that she’d looked sick. Maybe she hadn’t. It was possible she’d been bit just before they all arrived. Maybe that was why the guy had come out of his apartment, to see if Jack could help. If that was the case, the man sure didn’t know the proper way to ask. Why hadn’t Jack shot her in the head as he did to Kevin?
Seeing a closed door, probably the bedroom, Zaun went over and tried it. Locked. It was a common wooden door, maybe a little more solid than usual with two Mul-T-Locks on it. Without hesitation, he kicked the door a few times, splintering the wood around the locks. A final kick and the door opened.
Stepping into the room, his jaw dropped. Along the entire rear wall were tall, extra wide lockers. To his right was a monitoring station, with three computers and eight twenty-inch monitors. Each monitor was showing a different part of the building. One view was of the hallway outside the apartment. Others were of the alley out back, the foyer downstairs, the stairwells, and the hallways. These people had eyes on the whole building. He hadn’t noticed any of the cameras either. They must have been well-hidden. First, it was the apartment being totally out of place. Now he was in some kind of security center. What the hell was all this about?
Walking up to one of the lockers, Zaun tapped a knuckle against it. The thing was solid, safe-like, and had fireproofing over the steel. Each one had a thick steel lock on it. He tried rocking the thing, but it wouldn’t budge and was either too heavy or bolted to the wall, or perhaps both. He came to the conclusion the things weren’t lockers, but some kind of vaults. He had never seen such a thing before. Lockers used padlocks; safes and vaults used combinations. Why would someone have such secure devices and not use combinations?
Glancing at the monitors, Zaun found the two labeled “third floor” and saw the staircase and floor were still clear of undead.
Turning back to the lockers, he was dying to see what they held. He didn’t think shooting off the locks was a good idea or that it would even work. He’d have to find the keys.
He checked the computer station, scanning the tabletop and rifling through the drawers.
Not finding any keys, Zaun went back into the living room and over to the dead man. He checked the right front pocket of the corpse’s pants and found a wad of twenties. Pocketing the cash, he checked the left pocket and felt the bite of something hard and jagged against his fingers, then pulled out a set of keys.
Returning to the lockers, he tried a couple of the cut pieces of metal before one slid into the lock. Turning the key, the lock clicked open, echoing around the room. He maneuvered the U-shaped piece from the locker and placed it in his pocket. A little voice inside his head screamed at him, yelling for him to stop what he was doing. To turn around and walk away. He had heard this voice before. It was usually right, but not always, and he had to see what was inside. He had to know why the place was set up the way it was. Wrapping his fingers around the locker’s handle, he pulled the door open.
Zaun staggered backward, his mouth agape. The little voice snickered. He knew then that he should’ve listened to it. Inside the locker, stacked one on top of the other, were kilos of white powder, cocaine.
Now he understood the reason for the security. For the monitors and the guns. For the soundproofing. Apartment 3F was a narcotic storage house. A place where drugs were kept before being distributed or cut down.
Zaun closed his eyes. He was sweaty, shaking. His chest ached at how fast his heart was pounding. The little voice inside his head was mocking him. Telling him that he should have listened to it. That he was fucked, his ten years of sobriety was in jeopardy.
“Damn it.” Zaun slapped the locker in anger. If he’d stayed in 3R none of this would be happening. Why did he always find himself in such miserable places? Making so many mistakes? He’d made plenty throughout his life, but becoming a drug addict was by far the worst. He wouldn’t go down that road again. Couldn’t. Coming here was a bad idea. He could walk away. He was strong enough. He had a focused, determined mind. Just close the locker and leave; forget what he saw.
He’d been through so much. The time he spent in his apartment during the first days of the epidemic still haunted him. He’d been so alone. The images and sounds from those days, and what he had been through since that time, always reared their ugly heads. The screams outside his door. The dead bodies. The mutilated corpses. Watching the dead eat the living. All of this weighed heavily, like an anvil, on Zaun’s mind. The only way to cope was to keep busy so he didn’t have to think about what had happened. He hated sleeping, the dreams filled with the screams and pleas of the living. He’d needed something to take the edge off, but had been fighting against it since
