*
I was expecting more news about the Fireman, the serial killer, who after torturing his victims, used gasoline to set them ablaze. He’d moved effortlessly from one young woman to the next, without leaving any usable clues for the FBI.
In desperation, the Bureau had released a sketchy profile of a killer deemed not to be an arsonist, but rather one who used fire as a weapon of choice to gain power over his victims. This was an attempt, they said, to punish over and over again a woman who had once wronged him. It was hoped that neighbors might notice someone with this bent and phone the tip line. These horrible murders had been the major thrust of each newscast and it was no surprise that it had taken a zombie apocalypse to finally send the news in another direction.
And now, everyone else at the news station having been slaughtered, I watched as a lone, behind-the-scenes crew member sat tensely at the anchor’s desk. In a shaking voice, he confirmed the death knell of humanity.
"The zombies are everywhere. There is no hope. If anyone can hear me, remember this: Don’t waste your bullets. It must be a head shot."
The sound of breaking glass and splintering wood sounded off camera. The fellow jerked his head wildly in the direction of the disturbance before continuing. He raised a gun and pressed it against his temple.
"Just one shot left," he announced, "and it’s for me." His eyes turned off camera and he gasped. "Experts say that in about 10 years whatever’s powering those dead brains will run out. That the zombies will no longer be animated."
There was a low, moaning howl and then a dead thing charged into view. But the announcer had waited too long and his attacker slammed the gun aside. Limbs flailing, eyes rolling madly, the zombie dragged his victim under the desk. I stared at the screen until the screaming stopped.
That was enough for me! Figuring Katmandu and I were the only survivors, and since we were nearly out of supplies, I tossed the cat in the carrier and packed whatever I could carry. But how to get out? And where to go?
ESCAPE INTO HELL
We waited until dawn broke, when the dead had again hunkered down in their hidey holes, and left my apartment. A Brinks truck was just pulling up across the street. I watched as a misguided Brinks’ guard, who apparently never watched the news, attempted to make a pickup from the bank. And when he entered, the zombies who loved to curl up in dark corners, suddenly sprang to life.
When the screaming began, the guard who been left inside the truck hopped out, only to be met by a zombie exiting the bank. You can guess the driver’s fate and, once both guards had become happy snacks for the undead, their double-parked truck lay abandoned. Well, the damn thing was like a tank. And I wanted it.
After the last zombie had shambled off, I peered in all directions. All had become quiet again, so braving the stench of the rotting dead; I slipped across the street and opened the truck’s door. Tucking the carrier and my bundles inside, I bent to grab the driver’s keys before he turned. Or another zombie appeared.
His keys were chained to his belt and I had to flip him over to drag the whole thing free. And then I was up in the driver’s seat, locking the doors, and sliding the key into the ignition. The armored truck roared to life and rolled up the street. Breathing a sigh of relief, I drove northwest, and soon neared the George Washington Bridge.
The zombies had taken Manhattan! But what about New Jersey?
Having no idea, I turned on the radio, but all the stations were silent. The death of that nameless crew member had to have been the local station’s last hurrah. After taking a wrong turn, a sign came into view, directing me to the Cloisters museum. What a great idea. I’d always loved this part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the place was like a fortress. Up on high so one could see invaders approaching and surrounded by ramparts with steep drops, with the mighty Hudson and majestic palisades to the west. But I found a padlocked chain around the gate.
As I sat there, wondering what to do, a museum guard appeared. After a few words, it seemed he wanted to get out and I wanted to get in.
"Washington Heights is overrun by zombies," I insisted. "Morningside and lower Manhattan, too. Everyone outside is dead or turned. Jersey is gone, so don’t even think of crossing the George! Why do you want to leave this safe haven?"
"My family is holed up in our apartment. I need to save them," he begged. "Let me have the truck. I know I can get them out."
"Why did you wait so long?" I asked.
"This is a very large building. Very large grounds. Too many places for dead things to hide. Had to be sure it was really safe first. My family’s been living quietly in our apartment, without lights or noise. I phoned them today and said to get ready."
I thought for a moment, eyes darting around the street in case we were interrupted. "How about we drive up to the castle and you let me inside. Then you can have the truck."
He agreed and unlocked the chain. I rolled the truck onto Margaret Corbin Drive and waited for him to relock the gate before climbing aboard. When we arrived at the castle, I toted the carrier and my bundles into the entry hall, insisting he leave his keys with me.
"No, I will need them to bring my family back inside. But I will show you where the curator’s extra keys are kept. You can use those." He led me to an office and took a ring of keys from a hook. "Your set," he announced. "Each key is marked. And now your end of the bargain." He looked at me most fiercely, as if he might overpower me for the truck’s keys, and I held out my hand.
"I’ll be using the tunnels below ground," he confided. "The one that opens onto the west drive. And will be relocking the gates as I come and go. Just so nothing nasty finds it way inside." He hopped into the armored truck, promising to return soon, hopefully by the same tunnel.
"Before darkness falls," I cautioned.
"Before darkness falls," he repeated.
"Or else, remain locked in the truck. It’s like a tank."
He nodded and pulled away. And I went inside the castle and relocked the huge, double portal.
I scampered about trying to choose a bed chamber, knowing that no lights could be used after sundown. Perhaps near a restroom, thought I, before I tumble down the stairs in total darkness. In the end, I was drawn to the Unicorn room, and toyed with the idea of adding a chamber pot for emergencies.
Despite the zombie invasion, I was filled with joy as the cat and I moved from room to room. My secret fantasy had always been to live in the Cloister museum and now it had become my home! Well, cat, I thought, paraphrasing the Bogie and Bacall song, we’re going to have it all!
And once the cat and I had eaten supper and settled in, I hurried to the ramparts overlooking the tunnel.
Nearly an hour later, as the sun was leaving the sky, my vigil was rewarded. The armored truck came into view, slowing long before it neared the tunnel. One tire had been flattened and the rim appeared so damaged that the vehicle could barely progress. As it limped and bumped noisily along, steam rose from under the hood. And then, about 50 feet from the tunnel’s gate, the truck died completely.
I hurried down to unlock the west side gate and gather the survivors inside. As I watched, his wife, five children, a set of grandparents, and a large dog emerged. They started for the tunnel. I had begun to push the iron gate open, when the dog gave a frightened yelp. Immediately, zombies dropped down from the wall above and snatched at the children.
"Here! Here! Quickly!" I screamed, trying to grab the nearest child, but one of the dead things pulled her away. The guard lost his grip on his keys and grabbed the girl by one arm, while the attackers dragged him farther from the safety of the tunnel. The screaming mother was already down and the elderly couple followed. One of the monsters lifted the whimpering dog in the air, loudly cracking the animal’s spine, and tore into its flesh.
As I stood there, staring, holding the gate ajar, more zombies crept forward. They quickly joined the feeding frenzy, igno
ring me for the moment. Before they took notice, I slammed and relocked the gate. Then crying and stumbling, retraced my steps back to the castle. Katmandu jumped into my arms and licked my tears. "Oh, kitty," I wailed, "we really are the last living creatures on Earth."
That night brought little sleep and my thoughts turned to the museum guard’s keys still lying on the ground. Surely, zombies no longer remember how to use keys. I would try to retrieve them in the morning.
When daylight came, I trotted down the tunnel to find the bodies gone. It seemed the newly dead had already turned and shambled off in search of human flesh. But the keys were still there! Fearing more zombies might be hiding outside, I went back to fetch a long, skinny branch. Poking it out through an opening in the gate, I tried to use it to reach the keys, to drag them nearer. Clumsy fool that I am, every attempt was unsuccessful. In the end, I gave this up as a bad job, believing there was no one left alive who could use those keys to enter the grounds.
Every day, for the next three weeks, I went back through the tunnel, trying to find something long enough to reel in those keys. And, finally, I just gave up. That was when someone, not a zombie and not so very nice, found the keys and used them.
Since the museum’s food supplies would eventually run out, I decided to go onto the grounds and bring back enough earth, little by