The Killing Floor Read online

  The corridor’s volume fills with hot, flying pieces of metal. The creatures disintegrate under the withering fire. The grenades burst, sending a thick, rolling cloud of smoke and dust surging toward the soldiers. They cough on it, blinded, and continue to shoot.

  “Loading!”

  Light flashes in the smoke as another grenade bursts. The building trembles. The concussion blows a fresh wave of particulates into their faces. Dark shapes swarm toward them through the dust, like ghosts.

  “Loading!”

  Rod empties his shotgun and reloads until he has no more full drums in his pouch. Hundreds of warm shell casings flicker in his peripheral vision and roll across the carpet to gather in piles.

  One by one, the rifles click empty.

  “Last mag!”

  “I’m out!”

  Rod orders the boys to fix bayonets as the SAW gunners empty their belts.

  The last gun sputters, falls silent, leaving a deafening ringing sound in their ears.

  Rod draws his knife and offers a brief prayer for his family. Around him, the firing line, emptied of ammunition and bristling with bayonets, waits for the end.

  The smoke and dust dissipate, revealing a jumbled carpet of black pieces of carapace and limbs crushed into a thick layer of white slime.

  “Joe, what you got?” Rod calls out.

  “I can’t see shit,” Navarro answers. “But I don’t see any bugs either.”

  Several creatures squirm wetly through the sticky remains, their legs broken, making clicking sounds. At the end of the hallway, near the elevator lobby, the ceiling is on fire, the flames obscured by a growing haze of smoke. Another threat. They are going to have to move within the next few minutes.

  “They ain’t coming,” Arnold says in disbelief, blinking. “We got them all.”

  “Kicked their ass,” Sosa says, but without force.

  “Aieeyah,” Lynch answers mechanically, spitting into the dust.

  Tanner slumps against the wall hugging his ribs, his body shaking. Davis lights a short length of foul-smelling cigar and sighs. Some of the other boys pass around a can of wintergreen dip.

  “Hellraisers 1, this is Hellraisers 3,” Rod says into his headset. “How copy, over?”

  The platoon’s private channel hisses with static.

  “Do you copy, Hellraisers 1?” He glances at Navarro, who looks back at him with a grim expression. “Check the Comanche net, Joe. Outlaw needs our sitrep. Tell him the Lieutenant is down, the building is on fire and we’re coming out.” Then he tries to raise Jake Morrow again, fearing the worst.

  “Rod,” says Navarro, his eyes glassy as he listens to the chatter on the company net. “It’s a shit storm. Captain Mack is wounded. We’d better get moving.”

  Ray

  The children walked among the trees, feeling the energy of the crisp autumn air, their sneakers crunching dead leaves. Ray knows this place; it’s Cashtown Elementary. And he is seven years old again, guiding a blindfolded and laughing Shawn McCrea.

  His father, Ray Senior, got drunk and beat his wife and sucker punched his son until one day he died of a heart attack. Ray Junior adapted to a world where you were either a taker or a giver. Whatever goodness his mother had to offer was not enough. Ray had nature and nurture going against him.

  People are not born greedy or violent or cruel; the world teaches them.

  The children drifted among the trees, the sighted leading the blind under the watchful eyes of the teacher. The point of the game was trust. You trusted the person guiding you. It was an exciting game.

  When Ray pushed Shawn face first into the oak tree, he thought he was winning.

  ♦

  Infection rages in his blood. In his fevered dreams, the memories blur one into the next, settling on him sitting hunched over the counter at Pete’s Tavern, slowly converting his last paycheck into shots of Wild Turkey and mugs of draft. Just three years out of high school, he had already been hired and fired from Walmart, the local Exxon station and the facilities department at a local hospital. As for next week, he had no idea what he’d be doing. A friend at a moving company had said he could use him, so maybe he’d do that for a while and see how it went. Anything but the Army. Ray liked to do what he wanted, when he wanted to do it.

  He glowered at his image in the mirror behind the bar.

  If I see that bitch Lola again, I’m going to slap her good.

  (Whatever you think is best, Ray.)

  And if I ever see her little jerk college boyfriend, I’ll break his goddamn face.

  (If you think that’s best, Ray.)

  Damn straight.

  Lola Rivera was the one good thing that happened to Ray in high school. School had been like prison to him, a place to kill time smoking in the boys’ room and terrorizing the weaker kids and thinking deep thoughts during detention. She was a good girl attracted to his unintentional bad boy charm, which smacked of honesty to her. For his part, her beauty and intelligence awed him, made him want to be a better man to give her what she deserved instead of what she was really getting.

  Then Lola went to college, while Ray got a job wearing a blue vest. She called him a few times and they had awkward conversations about her exciting new life. Gradually, the calls stopped as they drifted apart, or rather, recognized how little they actually had in common. He hadn’t thought of her in years until hearing she’d brought a guy home with her on Christmas break, some pansy ass named Bob. The happy couple had been spotted holding hands at the mall. Ray counted the years and realized she would be graduating soon. She would start a career, get married, buy a house and have kids, while he’d be stuck in Cashtown for the rest of his life, one of the losers he’d always ridiculed and sworn he’d never become.

  Stewie and Brian entered the tavern, laughing and slapping snow from each other’s shoulders, and joined Ray at the bar. Ray scowled at them.

  “You’ll never guess who’s right behind us,” Stewie said.

  “Merry Christmas, Ray,” Brian snickered.

  The door opened with a jingle and a young couple stepped blinking into the warm neon gloom. Ray squinted and recognized Lola. His heart fluttered unexpectedly in his chest; she had flowered into a beautiful woman over the past several years. Bob struck him as your typical mild-mannered jock with his clean white oxford shirt and powder blue sweater, his blond hair neatly combed to the side. More Clark Kent than Superman, though; Ray believed he could push this college boy around pretty easily if he wanted. Lola called out to Pete to bring a pitcher. Bob pointed to a booth, and they took their seats and shucked their coats. Lola laughed and socked Bob playfully in the shoulder while he grinned, apparently teasing her.

  She used to do that to me, Ray thought, feeling sorry for himself. He realized he’d let something great slip through his fingers due to sheer laziness.

  Stewie and Brian snickered while Ray glared at the couple. Eventually, Bob noticed and bristled. Lola saw Ray and whispered into Bob’s ear.

  Listen to your girl, Bobby, Ray thought, giving him an evil smile. You’d better stay put or you’re going to get hurt tonight.

  Bob gently shrugged off her hands and stood. Ray downed his shot and made a show of cracking his knuckles as Bob approached.

  “You’re Ray Young,” Bob said uncertainly, glancing at Stewie and Brian and sizing them up before leveling his gaze at Ray.

  “You found me,” Ray said.

  “All right,” Bob said. “Well, here it is.” He took a deep breath. “I heard you’ve been talking shit about me and Lola. Saying how you’re going to kill us or something.”

  Before Ray could answer, Bob stepped forward and stared into his eyes from inches away. “Is that true, Ray?”

  Ray’s height and size and scowl intimidated most people, but not this kid. His fantasy of how this was supposed to roll dissolved in an instant. His alcoholic bravery abandoned him, leaving him feeling naked. He smiled, fighting to keep his cool.

  “I don’t know who told you
that,” he said.

  He realized the bar was growing quiet. Everyone was watching.

  “People told me,” Bob said. “Worse, they told Lola.”

  “Well, they’re liars. I never said anything like that. No, sir.”

  It might have worked if Jeff Vogler, standing at the other end of the bar, didn’t laugh.

  Bob’s eyes narrowed. Ray couldn’t believe this guy’s self control. He felt what little courage he had left drain away.

  “Let me put it this way,” Bob breathed into his face. “Do we have a problem?”

  Ray smiled again. “You’ve got a lot of heart coming in here, Bob. I’m willing to let it go.” He raised his half-finished mug. “In fact, let me buy you a beer. You and Lola, for old times’ sake. Peace offering.”

  The room relaxed a little. Ray had chosen an honorable withdrawal. Now it was up to the college kid to do the right thing, which everyone knew he would. Back at Bob’s booth, Lola’s eyes were wide and glassy. Pete started to fill a pitcher, which he would offer on the house.

  Bob shrugged. “All right—”

  Ray swung the mug into his face, spraying beer and blood and sending a chipped tooth skidding across the countertop. Then Ray was on top of him, straddling his chest, punching him with both fists.

  When they pulled him off, he couldn’t stop laughing because he had never felt such joy.

  ♦

  Twelve years later, the Screaming changed everything. This is where his fever takes him next. That day, Ray woke up moaning in his basement apartment, his head pounding like a drum. He snoozed for another hour and decided it was time to get up. Rubbing his belly, he plodded into the bathroom and noisily emptied his bladder while he inspected his bleary eyes, bristling stubble and wild handlebar mustache in the mirror. What a night. By now, Ray accepted he was a loser, but took an odd pride in the fact he was somehow good at it.

  He paused while brushing his teeth as he realized he had not heard his mother’s characteristic plodding around upstairs. The floor was always creaking.

  Pulling on a clean T-shirt, frayed jeans and his trademark STEELERS ballcap, Ray lit a cigarette, coughed up a ball of phlegm, and thought about hitting the old lady up for some breakfast.

  He stepped outside and climbed the stairs to the main house. The air was filled with distant sirens. A haze of smoke hung in the sky. That figured. He’d joined the volunteer fire department to try to experience a little excitement that didn’t come from a bottle or between a woman’s legs. There was finally a big fire, and he’d missed it.

  Ray opened the side door and walked into the house on bare feet. Too late, he remembered his mother’s injunction against smoking and rushed to drop it into the kitchen sink.

  “Mom?”

  No answer.

  “Ma, it’s me, Ray.”

  He checked the couch and her bedroom, wondering if she was taking a nap, but there was no sign of her. He speculated that she’d gone out for a walk. Miracles do happen, he thought. For years, his mother had been a shut-in for the most part. He made a strong cup of coffee and sipped it, feeling a little better. Any minute now, she would squeeze herself through the front door and make him some bacon and eggs, all the while muttering some vague assurance that he was a good man, destined to do something special.

  Ray noticed the bathroom door was closed. It was never closed unless his mother was actually using the toilet.

  “Mom? You in there?” He knocked. “Can I come in, Mom?”

  He opened the door and gasped. His mother lay sprawled in the bathtub, her massive belly rising above the gray water like the back of a whale, giant breasts swaying in the murk.

  “Ma!” he roared, falling to his knees and trying to pull her slippery bulk out of the tub. He settled on raising her head. Water spilled from her mouth, open and stretched wide in a horrific, soundless scream.

  Soaked with soapy water, he reached under her back and pulled the plug, letting the water drain out. He kissed her cold face, sobbing.

  “No, no, no,” he told her. “Don’t die.”

  As a volunteer firefighter, he was trained in CPR. First, he had to get help on the way. Running to the kitchen, he grabbed the cordless phone and dialed 911 on the way back to the bathroom. The phone beeped in his ear, telling him all circuits were busy. Roaring a string of obscenities, he clasped his hands and pushed his mother’s sternum, cracking it. The bathroom filled with the smell of shit. He breathed into her mouth, counting. Her body was freezing.

  “Don’t give up, Ma,” he whispered.

  The tears flowed. He could not stop crying. She was a giver and he was a taker but he had never looked down at her for that. Ray loved his mother more than himself. He loved her because she had given him whatever shred of goodness he had.

  He finally got through to 911 after two hours, continuing to give CPR with his aching arms while shouting his address into the phone.

  The ambulance never came.

  Ever since that day, he had the nagging feeling her death was somehow all his fault.

  ♦

  Three mornings later, Ray climbed into his battered pickup after a twelve-hour stint at his rent-a-cop job guarding a self-storage facility, and started his drive home. He was exhausted from the long night shift, his grief and battling with the mortuary people to take his mother’s body and put her into the ground with some dignity. It was a fight he’d lost; several guys in bright yellow hazmat suits had loaded her corpse onto a truck the day before, and had handed him a receipt. Leona Young would be buried in a collective grave outside of town. Later on, when resources freed up, he could arrange to have her dug up and buried right. Meanwhile, the government had plenty of other problems to worry about. One in five people had fallen down. It had just been Leona’s bad luck she’d caught SEEL Syndrome while taking a bath, which had led to her drowning. Most of the screamers were still alive, and needed around-the-clock care.

  He was so preoccupied by these things he nearly missed the pajama-wearing lunatics running down the paper boy and ripping his body apart by the handful.

  Ray slowed his truck, gaping, as they crammed his flesh into their mouths while the kid was still screaming.

  “Hey,” he hollered. “Hey!”

  They reared their heads, still chewing, their chins stained black.

  “Mike, what the hell are you doing to that kid?”

  A woman stood, snarling, and sprinted toward his truck.

  “Oh shit,” Ray hissed, throwing the vehicle into drive and stomping on the gas pedal, pulling away on squealing tires.

  He drove from the scene feeling shaken and unsure of what had happened. Did a group of people—one of them Mike Parsons, who got up early every morning to walk his dog—really run down the stupid redheaded kid who delivered the papers?

  They were eating him, bro.

  Naw, impossible.

  All he knew was whatever they were doing to the kid, he didn’t want anyone doing to him. He never claimed to be hero material. He would drive into town and call the cops; they could handle it.

  Ray turned the wheel, feeling the truck bang over something. People ran across the street in front of him, chasing a screaming woman wearing a jogging outfit. She ran toward the truck, waving her arms.

  He stepped on the gas and sped past, knocking down a mailbox. His truck glanced against one of her pursuers and sent him spinning through the air onto a parked car. The others tackled the woman, bearing her down onto the road.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Ray sobbed, and then flinched as a man stormed onto a porch in a bathrobe, firing his shotgun.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. A dog bolted across the road, its head down. A car fishtailed and crumpled around a light pole. The driver looked at Ray in a daze as he passed.

  “Sorry,” Ray whispered, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Something big was happening, something horrible, even worse than the Screaming. He turned on the radio, set to his favorite station. At this time of morning, Kaptain
Kyle and Betty Boo did their morning zoo program. A muffled voice was shouting.

  I swear to Jesus I saw this. The school bus was shaking. People were shoving at each other to get inside. Swarming. The bus was packed with people. They could barely move in there, there were so many. There was blood all over the windows. The windows were streaked with it. Those people were doing something awful to those kids—

  Kaptain Kyle: And you’re done. Another caller bites the dust. Look guys, it’s a funny joke, but enough’s enough already. I’m not falling for it. From now on, I’m cutting you off immediately. Even think the word “zombie” and you’re gone, okay?

  Betty Boo: It sounded real though, didn’t it? Jeez, it gave me the willies. A school bus.

  Kaptain Kyle: Some kind of War of the Worlds thing going on today.

  Betty Boo: Is today the anniversary?

  Kaptain Kyle: You’d think after the Screaming, people would show a little class. Should we take another caller? Dare we risk it?

  Betty Boo: What’s she doing?

  Kaptain Kyle: Ladies and gentlemen, our producer, Sharon, is waving her arms at us. That is how cutting-edge modern producers tell their on-air talent to go to commercial, instead of using their microphone. They wave their hands in the air like they just don’t care.

  Betty Boo: Must be important. She’s kind of freaking out. Is she crying?

  Kaptain Kyle: Curioser and curioser. Ladies and gentlemen, we will return after the break.

  Ray’s truck rocketed down the street until coming to a skidding halt on the sidewalk in front of his house. He killed the engine, cutting off an ad for a better mattress, and jumped out. The air felt warm here and he smelled smoke. He had a rough plan sketched in his head. He knew a place where he could hole up for a while, but he needed supplies.

  Inside the house, food, beer, liquor, cigarettes and dip, jugs of water, flashlight, packets of Kool-Aid, burritos and TV dinners all went into a plastic cooler until it was full. He had no idea how long it would last him, but it was all he had.