Buck straightened. “Don’t…” (coughing) “… tell me to….”
He couldn’t finish.
Ken saw something. He didn’t recognize it at first. And then recognized it, but couldn’t believe it.
He had seen the zombies vomiting acid. The bilious stuff was black and thick, a tarry fluid that melted through metal and concrete and wood with equal ease.
But that was what he had seen in the light of day.
Here, in the gloom of the dark and smoke-filled cab, Ken saw a dot of light on the ceiling, a purplish glint that reminded him of the black lights the DJs used for some of the high school dances –
(Only there’s no more high school, there’s no more world, for crying out loud.)
– or at some of the clubs he and Maggie used to go to. Smoke roiled around it, and a low sizzling skittered through the cab. The acid glowed. It burned, both inside and outside. But the light it brought was cold. Cold light that burned. Beautiful color that would kill.
The sight of it made discordant bells go off in Ken’s head.
The glowing drop of acid finished searing its way through the ceiling tiles. It rolled into a ball and began to elongate, an oval pearl extending into the cab right above Buck’s head.
Ken grabbed the big man and yanked him over. Hope squealed as she was pancaked between the two of them, but Ken didn’t have time to worry about whether he had frightened her, or if she was even reacting to this or to some other, unseen stimulus.
“What the hell are –“ Buck fell on top of Ken, but stopped speaking when he saw the acid fall to the floor and start sizzling through the spot where he had been standing.
Everyone moved instinctively to the sides of the cab.
Ken cast his eyes around. Looking for Maggie. Caught her glance, saw the terror in her eyes.
The car lurched again. He wondered how many of the things were on the walls and ceiling of the elevator, how many were clinging below the floor. How many would it hold? Surely the brakes would have to give out eventually.
So would they fall to their deaths?
Be asphyxiated by the smoke?
Or be burnt by the acid?
He looked at Buck. The man was shaking. “The doors won’t open,” the big man said. He sounded like he wanted to add the words, “I want my mommy.” Instead he simply repeated, “The doors won’t open.”
And Ken saw more acid – not a drop this time but a stream – gathering on a crack in the ceiling directly above him.
62
A scream pulled Ken’s attention away from the beading string of glowing liquid above him.
It was Aaron. Not just screaming now, but shrieking. And coming from the unflappable cowboy the sound was nearly as out of place as the sight of the disembodied hand that had gripped Ken’s leg earlier.
Still howling, Aaron shook his left arm, then slammed into the wall of the elevator, not seeming to mind that he hit his dislocated and broken fingers into the wall.
Ken had seen a rabid animal once. A wolf. He was eleven, hiking a trail near Caldwell with his Webelos Scout den. It was late fall, and an early snow had already fallen. Some of the parents wanted to cancel the hike, but the Den Mother, a woman named Mrs. Prescott who Ken remembered as being lanky and so strong she could probably bench press God, had successfully argued that the drive to Caldwell would probably be the most dangerous part of the trip.
She was mostly right. The hike was nice. Snow frosted the evergreens that anchored the edges of the trail, but little of it was on the trail itself. The scouts were bundled up in layers of clothes and most had thermoses of hot chocolate in their coats. It was fun. Just enough snow to make a snowball from time to time, not enough to make it miserable.
Ken had run ahead to avoid being hit by a snowball, in fact, when he saw the wolf. He ran around a sharp curve in the trail and saw the beast. It wasn’t doing anything. Just standing there. Its fur was black with white spots, its muzzle streaked with flecks of froth and blood.
Ken froze. The wolf didn’t seem to notice him at first. It was biting its own leg. Then it spun around three times, chasing not its tail but nothing at all.
Mrs. Prescott came around the corner next. The wolf noticed Ken now. It growled, drawing its muzzle back to show teeth so long and sharp that Ken thought he was going to faint dead away.
The wolf jumped at him. And Mrs. Prescott proved to be not only strong, but a believer in concealed carry laws. She pulled a gun out from under her jacket and pulled the trigger and put a single shot right through the wolf’s right cheek.
The wolf flopped at Ken’s feet. He screamed and cried. Mrs. Prescott held him and rocked him and told the other Den Mother – Ken could never remember her name – to take the boys back to the cars while she waited next to the wolf’s body until someone could call in the shot and get the thing hauled off for testing.