The Complex Read online

  “I left my door open,” Terri says. “What if they’re inside my apartment, too?”

  “I don’t hear them over there,” Sam says. “These…people… whatever you want to call them…they’ve been pretty noisy so far. Right now, they seem preoccupied with my apartment and the apartments downstairs. If we can get through this wall before they get through the door—and if we’re careful—we can close Terri’s front door without attracting attention.”

  “And then what?” Stephanie’s tone is unconvinced. “As soon as they break in here, they’ll see the hole in the wall and know where we went.”

  “What if we kept going?” Turo asks. “Go through all the walls, all the way down to the end of the building and shit. If they’re still all here at this end, we might be able to sneak out, or at least get a head fucking start.”

  Shaggy shakes his head. “That’s fucking crazy. We’d never make it.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” Sam says. “Like Mrs. Carlucci said, we can’t go out the window.”

  “Maybe y’all can’t,” Shaggy says, “but Turo and I can. I’ve jumped farther than that before.”

  “Go ahead.” Stephanie motions toward the window. “Good luck making it ten steps across the yard. Much as I’d love to see you go, though.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Stephanie winks. “No chance.”

  “Enough,” Sam snaps, as the noise from the hallway grows louder. “If anybody’s got any better ideas, now’s the time.”

  Watching him take charge, Terri is reminded of her father. Most of the time, he’d been quiet and good-humored, but when the situation called for it, her father had been quite assertive, and able to command and lead others without question.

  When nobody objects, Sam heaves the axe and tears into the wall. It sinks into the white plaster with a solid thunk, gouging several inches into the surface, but Terri is surprised by how little sound it makes.

  “Got to admit,” he says, “that I always wanted to try this.”

  Sam swings again. The axe blade cleaves through the wall, and plaster dust swirls around in the air.

  “Wait,” Stephanie says, picking up a claw hammer from the toolbox and pointing at the barricade. “Time your blows with theirs.”

  He nods. “Good idea. Just be careful you don’t hit a power line.”

  “The electricity is out,” Stephanie reminds him. “We shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  When the crazies beat on the door again, Sam and Terri simultaneously swing, digging further into the wall.

  “It works.” Sam sounds surprised. “Holy shit, we might actually do this!”

  “Here, dude.” Turo hands Shaggy the gun and grabs the other hammer from the toolbox. Then he joins them at the wall.

  Terri feels guilty watching them work while she sits in the corner, but she also has Caleb to think about. She catches Mrs. Carlucci’s eye.

  “Could you sit with Caleb?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Caleb, hop up, baby. Mommy wants to help the neighbors.”

  He stiffens, and for a moment, she’s afraid that he’ll resist. But when Mrs. Carlucci smiles at him, Caleb relaxes again, hopping off his mother’s lap and plopping back down next to the older lady. Terri hears them discussing her cats as she walks over to the others.

  “Do you have any more hammers?” Terri asks Sam.

  “No, but you can use one of my award statues over there.”

  He points to a pile of books and other items that were hastily swept off the bookshelves. Among them are two haunted house statues with pointy-spired tips. They look like they’re made of plastic, but when Terri picks one up, she realizes they are crafted from some sort of hard resin.

  “They’re pretty sturdy,” Sam says. “You can smash through the plaster with one of them. The little doors have a habit of falling off, but otherwise, they can take a beating. Believe me, I know. I got drunk once and threw one at…”

  He trails off, suddenly seeming embarrassed. Instead of finishing, he turns his attention back to the wall, swinging far above Turo and Stephanie, who are gouging away near the floor, timing their blows with the ones barraging the bedroom door. Terri turns the award over in her hands. A small brass door flips open. Inside is a tiny engraved plaque that reads: 2001 SUPERIOR ACHIEVEMENT NONFICTION – THE DEVIL’S DUE – SAMUEL MILLER.

  Terri looks at him doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Sam grunts, hefting the axe for another blow. “I was going to sell them on eBay, but I didn’t think I’d get much. Maybe if they help save our lives, they’ll be worth more.”

  She crouches down next to Turo and Stephanie, and after a second of hesitation, slams the award statue against the wall. The spire snaps off, and a jolt runs up her arm. With her second blow, the plaster begins to give.

  “That’s it,” Sam encourages the others. “Once we’re through, we’ll just hide out until the police arrive.”

  Terri notices that Turo stiffens for a moment when the police are mentioned. Then he goes back to work.

  “They should have been here already,” Mrs. Carlucci says. “I remember when they showed up right away. Not like now, where you call 911 and get put on hold.”

  “I think they’re pretty busy,” Stephanie says. “I called earlier and before we got cut off, the dispatcher said there were a lot of calls. I think…I think whatever is happening here happened there, as well.”

  “Where?” Sam asks.

  “The emergency call center,” Stephanie explains. “I think they broke in.”

  “At least you got through,” Mrs. Carlucci replies. “The phones are down now. Maybe I should have gotten one of these mobile phones you young people use.”

  “They’re not working either,” Sam tells her. “I would imagine there’s too many people trying to place calls. The network is jammed. Whatever is going on, it must be affecting a much bigger area than just here in the complex.”

  “But what is going on?” Terri chokes back a sob. She doesn’t want to start crying in front of Caleb. He’s already scared. Seeing his mother cry will just upset him even more. “No police, no phones, no electricity—”

  “And a thousand naked crazy fuckers outside the door,” Shaggy says. “Motherfuckers acting like they’re on drugs or something.”

  Terri wants to ask him to watch his language in front of Caleb, but instead she holds her tongue.

  “I’m sure we’ve all seen that in the news?” Sam asks. “The synthetic marijuana. What do they call that stuff—Spice? K2?”

  “Black Mamba,” Turo volunteers.

  Sam shrugs. “I haven’t heard that one, but whatever. People take those synthetic drugs, rip off their clothes, and go nuts.”

  “Usually in Florida,” Stephanie quips. “But did you get a look at the people outside? They don’t all look like drug users to me.”

  “True that,” Turo agrees. “There were little kids.”

  “Old people, too.” Stephanie glances at Mrs. Carlucci and Caleb. “No offense.”

  Mrs. Carlucci smiles. “None taken, sweetie.”

  “I even saw a cripple,” Shaggy volunteers. “Naked bitch in a wheelchair.”

  “So what is it then?” Terri asks again. “What’s causing this? Why are they like that?”

  “Something in the water,” Sam suggests. “Or maybe some kind of neurological attack? Maybe somebody released a gas or a chemical. If it was one of my books, I’d say it was caused by radiation from a comet, but this is real life.”

  “Maybe they’re zombies,” Shaggy says. “Like on The Walking Dead and shit.”

  “Fuck zombies,” Sam mutters. “I said this is real life.”

  “Yeah?” Shaggy motions at the door with the gun. “Well, in real life, naked motherfuckers ain’t trying to break down the doors and kill people. Maybe you need to reconsider what’s real.”

  Terri sees Sam’s jaw clench. He opens his mouth to reply, but then turns his attentio
n back to the wall. He swings the axe again. This time, it cleaves through to the other side.

  “That’s it,” Sam gasps. “We’re through! Keep digging.”

  They renew their efforts, not bothering now to time their blows with the ones from the mob. Behind her, Terri hears Sam’s bedroom door begin to splinter and crack.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” Shaggy warns. “They’re almost through!”

  Sam raises the axe and says, “Everybody out of the way.”

  Terri, Stephanie, and Turo move aside, and Sam attacks the wall, chopping and gouging, making the hole bigger. Terri watches as Turo goes over to Shaggy and whispers something. She can’t hear what.

  Shaggy says, “Man, the cops are the least of our fucking worries right now.”

  Before anyone else can respond to this, Stephanie holds up her hand. “Listen! Do you guys hear that?”

  They all pause, listening. Out in the hallway, the pounding continues, but now someone is knocking below them, as well. They hear it directly beneath where they’ve been working, softly echoing up through the floor.

  “Someone’s alive down there,” Terri says. “Knocking on the ceiling!”

  “Not in our apartment,” Shaggy says.

  “No,” Stephanie agrees. “It sounds like it’s the next apartment over. Mr. Hicks?”

  “Maybe we should dig through the floor,” Terri suggests.

  Sam shakes his head. “The floor’s too thick. Lots of cement. And besides, how do we know it’s not more of them?”

  Stephanie nods. “Good point.”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Mrs. Carlucci admits.

  “Turo,” Sam says, “peek out the window and see what’s going on out back. I want to make sure they’re not trying to climb up here.”

  Sam turns his attention back to the wall. There is a loud crack behind the barricade. Terri tenses, expecting to see Tick-Tock barge through, but the furniture holds.

  “They’re clustered off to the side,” Turo reports. “Around the car. Looks like they’re trying to move it to get inside Mr. Hicks’s apartment.”

  “So whoever is down there is one of us,” Stephanie says. “One of our neighbors.”

  “We don’t know that for sure” Sam says. “And even if it is Mr. Hicks, there’s nothing we can do for him right now.”

  “That’s cold,” Turo says. “I mean, the old dude ain’t very nice to Shaggy and me, but I don’t want to see him get fucked up by these crazy assholes.”

  “I don’t either,” Sam agrees. “But what can we do to help him? Any ideas?”

  Terri glances around the room. All of them are silent.

  Stephanie sighs. “This sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Sam nods “It does indeed suck. Okay, couple more swipes and this hole will be big enough. Get ready, just in case there are some of them in Terri’s apartment.”

  Terri’s heart hammers in her chest as she watches Sam swing the axe again. She makes her way across the room to Caleb, who leaves the comfort of Mrs. Carlucci’s arms and flees to hers instead. Terri’s tension eases somewhat as they embrace. She holds him close. Caleb hugs her back, squeezing tighter than he has in a long time.

  “I love you,” she whispers in his ear, “and I’m very proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I love you too, Mommy. It’s going to be okay.”

  The makeshift barricade begins to shake as the mob focus their efforts on it. The crazies still aren’t visible, but their voices fill the room. There are no words—just unintelligible growls and snarls.

  Sam jumps back from the hole in the wall, axe at the ready. It’s dark on the other side. Terri thinks of the boxes there in that darkness, filled with her and Caleb’s lives. Then she thinks about Randy, and sees the fat man hacking through his head once again. She shudders. Caleb smooths her hair.

  When no one comes charging through the hole trying to kill them, everyone in the room visibly relaxes.

  “Okay.” Sam turns to face them. “We’re through. Let’s grab one of these bookshelves. We’ll pull it over the hole behind us. Shaggy, you’ve got the gun, so you go first.”

  “Fuck that. You got a gun, too. And you got an axe, motherfucker. Go ahead. I’m covering the door.”

  “Then you’re in charge of moving the bookshelf.” Sam turns to the wall and stares at a framed 11 x 15 picture of him and a dog. He sticks the frame in his waistband, and pulls his shirt down over it. Then he flexes and twists, as if testing to see if it will impede his movements. Apparently satisfied, he looks at the others. “Okay, everybody ready? Let’s go.”

  He taps the axe head on the floor, knocking three times.

  “What was that for?” Terri asks.

  “I don’t know,” Sam admits. “To let whoever is down there know we’re still alive, I guess? Or maybe to say I’m sorry.”

  Shrugging, he crouches down and, holding his weapon at the ready, creeps through the hole.

  Twelve - The Exit and Grady: Apartment 6-D

  “I still don’t think you should have done that,” the Exit tells Grady as he binds gauze around the old man’s injured ankle. “We don’t know for sure who that is up there.”

  “I don’t think it’s these nudists,” Grady replies. “It sounded like the neighbors.”

  “It sounded to me like somebody chopping through the wall. Why would the neighbors do that?”

  Grady winces as the Exit finishes with his wound. The Exit takes no pleasure in this. He doesn’t like to cause suffering in others, and only does it when he has to. Still, he is no stranger to blood or pain. He has been an agent of both and has inflicted both, in order to save the world. Tonight has been the first time he’s ever had to inflict them to save himself. But then again, since the world will surely end if he dies, in saving himself, is he not saving the world?

  The Exit is still unsure what is causing the evening’s events. If it was a breach—if it was one of the others from outside the world—he’s confident he would have known about it before this happened. He would have been able to stop it. There is always a warning before a breach occurs. He’d noticed none of the signs—no tingling in the back of his head, or static on the hairs of his arms, and the air hadn’t felt like it did before a thunderstorm. He doesn’t think the others are involved. This doesn’t feel like their handiwork. There is nothing supernatural about what is occurring. So what, then? What would drive otherwise seemingly normal people to strip naked and run amok on a murderous rampage, indiscriminately slaughtering everyone in their path? A terrorist attack of some kind? Spiking the town’s water supply with some form of hallucinogen? Doubtful. He remembers seeing signs of trouble long before he reached Red Lion. All of York County seemed to be effected. And since each town and borough had their own municipal water supply, it was unlikely someone could have simultaneously polluted them all. If the cause is indeed some sort of hallucinatory agent, then it’s more likely it was airborne—some sort of gas or aerosol.

  “They haven’t knocked again,” Grady whispers, staring up at the ceiling.

  The Exit briefly follows his gaze. He hears pounding from another area above their heads, followed by a crash.

  “It sounds to me like the mob is getting in upstairs.”

  Grady glances toward the barricaded door and windows. “Think we’re okay down here?”

  The Exit shrugs. “For now. The car is holding them back. They can’t get around it to smash the door down. But we can’t get out, either. And they know we’re in here.”

  He places the gauze and medical tape on the kitchen table, next to a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a tube of super glue, which he used to seal the gash in Grady’s ankle.

  “Thanks for fixing me up.”

  The Exit nods. “Of course. We’ll need each other if we are going to survive this. I can’t have you limping around, leaving a trail of blood behind us. Can you stand on it?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Grady grips the side of the table and slow
ly rises from the chair. He tests his foot, putting a little weight on it, and then more. The Exit can tell by his posture that it hurts him to do so, but Grady’s expression remains stoic.

  “Good as new,” he says, but his voice wavers.

  “Okay. The first thing we should do is get away from these windows and move into one of the rear bedrooms. We’ll need to block up the windows back there, as well. I’m surprised they haven’t broken in through those yet.”

  “Remember, those windows are at ground level, and they’ve got those bubbles over them.”

  The Exit frowns. “Bubbles?”

  “Yeah, you know. Those plastic window well coverings?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “They’ve probably been so focused on the doors of the apartments above that they haven’t even noticed the windows yet.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of this makes sense, Mendez. But we can’t go applying sense and logic to these people. Sensible folks don’t run around naked while hacking and shooting people.”

  “Point. Do you have any other guns in the apartment?”

  “No.” Grady points at his pistol on the table. “Just that one. Got plenty of kitchen knives, though, and a bayonet I brought back from ’Nam.”

  The Exit stands and makes his way to the kitchen counter.

  “First drawer on the right,” Grady says.

  The Exit pulls the drawer open and selects two knives—a broad-bladed butcher knife and a long, serrated bread knife. He examines them both and says, “These will do just fine.”

  “You want the bayonet, too?”

  “No, you keep it. Judging by the numbers out there, sooner or later, you’re going to run out of bullets. You should have a back-up weapon.”

  “If it comes to that, I’ll use it on myself.”

  “That’s a coward’s way out.”

  Grady lunges toward him, catching him by surprise. Before the Exit can react, the old man clenches a fistful of his shirt. Grady exhales, stinking of denture cream and coffee. The Exit scowls.