The Complex (9 page)

When the guy doesn’t notice, Sam snaps his fingers at him again. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Me? Shaggy.”

Sam suppresses a laugh, resisting the urge to shout, “Zoinks, Scoob!” He knows this reaction is driven by panic and shock, but that doesn’t make it any less amusing.

“Okay, Shaggy.” He nods at the gun in the kid’s hand. “You got more ammo for that thing?”

Shaggy glances down at his weapon as if he’d forgotten it. “Yeah. The magazine’s full and I got another in my pocket. All fucking hollow points.”

“Okay, good. I want you at that kitchen window. That’s our weakest defense, so you need to be ready to pick them off if they get through. Your buddy can help. What’s your name?”

“T-turo.”

“Okay, Turo. I’ve got kitchen knives in a holder on the counter. Steak knives and such. You can grab one of those.”

“The fuck am I gonna do with a steak knife?”

“Stab anyone reaching through the window. Just make sure you stay clear so Shaggy doesn’t shoot you by mistake. You guys got this?”

Nodding, Shaggy grabs Turo by the arm and directs him toward the kitchen.

“Come on, dude.”

Turo follows along as if half asleep.

Sam turns to Mrs. Carlucci, who is staring intently at the door. Behind her are their new neighbors, a pretty young red-haired woman and her little boy. Both of them appear as terrified as Sam feels. The boy clings to his mother’s side, and she in turn, has one arm tightly wrapped around him, holding him close. Stephanie stands behind them, seemingly in a daze. She has the same blank expression as Shaggy’s roommate. Moments ago, Sam saw her stab and slash several attackers with a butcher knife. She’s still holding the knife now, but seems unaware of it. Indeed, she doesn’t seem aware of anything. Her eyes are glassy, and her posture is slack.

“Stephanie, are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him.

“Stephanie? Are you hurt?”

Outside, the chainsaw roars again. Seconds later, there is a terrible screeching noise as the chainsaw’s owner tries it against Sam’s front door. Everyone except Mrs. Carlucci screams. Sam’s scream is the loudest.

“These doors aren’t made out of wood,” Mrs. Carlucci shouts. “They’ll hold.”

“What the fuck are they made out of then?” Shaggy yells from the kitchen.

“Watch your language and don’t be fresh! I don’t know what they’re made of. Plastic? Vinyl? But it’s not wood. I tried to drive a nail through one, to hang up my Christmas wreath one year. The nail kept bending.”

“Mrs. Carlucci, you keep an eye on that over there,” Sam suggests, pointing at the living room window. “Stephanie, can you help her?”

Stephanie blinks, as if waking from a dream, and turns her head to Sam. “The fat one had a Hello Kitty tattoo.”

“What?” Sam frowns. “Are you okay, hon? Did they hurt you?”

“The fat one,” she explains. “Outside. The one with the twitchy head. He had a tattoo. That’s the last thing I remember. After that I sort of…blacked out. What’s happening?”

“I think you’re in shock,” Sam says, and squeezes her arm in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “They’re trying to get inside. We’ve got to hold them off until the cops get here. Think you can help Mrs. Carlucci guard those windows?”

“Yes,” Stephanie agrees. “I can do that. I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m scared shitless, Steph.”

She tilts her head to the side, smiling slowly. “You’re the first person to call me Steph, Sam. Until now, it’s been Stephanie.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins. “Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. It’s…different.”

“Well, let’s make it through this alive and then you can decide. Fair enough?”

She nods, still smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”

The chainsaw scores against the door again. Stephanie flinches, but retains her composure and control. Sam jumps so hard he nearly drops his gun. The little boy buries his face in his mother’s thigh, and Sam notices that she’s squeezing him so hard her knuckles have turned white.

“I’m Sam,” he says. “You’re the new neighbor?”

The redhead looks at him as if he just asked her if she’d like a rabid weasel. Her pupils remind him of perfectly round circles of black ink. Her upper lip quivers, and her cheeks are wet.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “The barricades will hold. Can you do me a favor?”

The new neighbor nods, but when she opens her mouth to speak, she only whimpers.

“Can you and your son…I’m assuming he’s your son?”

She nods again, a bit more emphatically.

“Okay. Can you take him into the bedrooms and check the windows back there?”

“But…they might be outside.”

“They might,” Sam agrees, raising his voice as the chainsaw attack is renewed on the door. “But those windows are way up off the ground. It’s a twelve foot drop. Basically, I just want you to close the blinds and curtains, and see if the back yard is clear. Maybe we can get out that way, somehow.”

He pauses, lets his gaze drop down to the terrified little boy, and then back up to hers.

“Plus, it’s probably quieter back there.”

Something slams against the front door, and this time, they all jump. Glass shatters in the kitchen.

“They’re coming,” Shaggy yells. “Heads up!”

“Go on,” Sam tells her. “Take him in the back. We’ve got this.”

Biting her lip, the redhead blinks back tears. Then she gently pries her son from her side and guides him down the hallway.

“Come on, Caleb,” she says. “It’s going to be okay.”

Sam turns his attention back to the front of the apartment. The door shudders again in its frame as something heavy batters against it on the outside. Judging by the sound, Sam suspects it is the fat man. The sound of the idling chainsaw shifts, moving toward the living room windows. A moment later, it begins to rev again. More glass breaks in the kitchen. A gunshot thunders through the apartment.

“They’re trying to get through the kitchen,” Shaggy hollers.

“Hold them off,” Sam responds.

“Fuck you, motherfucker. Get in here and fucking help us!”

The bookshelves in front of the living room windows vibrate and tremble. Then the chainsaw chews through them, sending splinters of pressboard and plywood flying into the air. Mrs. Carlucci raises her weapon to fire.

“No,” Sam calls. “Don’t waste your bullets! Just wait.”

“But they’ll get through.”

“Wait until you see them. Otherwise, you’re going to waste your ammo.”

The door groans on its hinges, and the chainsaw bursts through another section of bookshelves. The smell of gasoline and oil fills the living room. In the kitchen, pots and pans crash to the floor with a clatter. Then two more gunshots ring out.

“You got him,” Shaggy’s roommate shouts.

“Push that fucking microwave back in place,” Shaggy says.

Another blow rains down on the door. This time, the force of it sends the bookshelves in front of it toppling to the floor. Sam jumps back, narrowly avoiding them. The light fixture in the ceiling swings back and forth. At the same time, the chainsaw makes another thrust, splintering the barrier in front of the windows. A naked mob swarm against the broken panes, reaching through, and pushing what remains of the blockade out of the way.

Mrs. Carlucci raises her gun again and fires, squeezing off two shots directly into the crowd. Both rounds find their targets, but the attackers’ screams of pain are lost beneath the cacophony of rage. More blows batter the door in rapid succession.

“I’m empty,” Mrs. Carlucci yells, backing away from the window.

“You only fired two fucking rounds,” Shaggy says.

“I fired the rest outside,” the old woman explains, “and I told you to watch your mouth!”

Sam tries to respond to them but finds himself speechless. His heart pounds in his chest, and his ears are ringing.

Screaming, Stephanie rushes forward and slashes at the cluster of grasping arms, hacking and slicing through fingers and palms and forearms. The crowd recoils, yanking their arms back through the broken windows, cutting them more. Sam’s splintered bookshelves and windowsill are splattered with blood, chunks of fake wood, and broken glass.

“We need help in here,” Shaggy pleads. His voice sounds frantic. “Somebody?”

“I’m empty,” Mrs. Carlucci repeats.

“What is that?” Sam asks, panting as the door vibrates in its frame again.

“What’s what?”

“Your gun. What caliber?”

“My husband’s forty-five.”

“I don’t have any ammo for it.” He holds up his gun. “I’ve only got this.”

“Then you’d better point me toward those kitchen knives.” She crosses the living room, heading for the kitchen.

“Help,” Shaggy yells.

“Hold your horses,” Mrs. Carlucci responds. “I’m coming.”

“That door isn’t going to hold,” Sam tells Stephanie. “Can you stand watch while I check the bedrooms for something else to bolster it?”

She salutes him with the knife. “Don’t take too long.”

“That’s the idea. Just hold them off.”

As he turns away, Sam hears Mrs. Carlucci in the kitchen, hollering at Shaggy and his friend to get out of her way.

Sam hurries down the hall. His bedroom is dark. He fumbles for the light switch on the wall, but when he flicks it, nothing happens.

“The power is out,” the young mother tells him.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he spots her sitting on his bed. Her son is curled up with his head in her lap. She’s stroking the boy’s hair, trying to soothe him.

“I’m Terri,” she says. “You’re Sam, I think I heard them say?”

“That’s right. Sam Miller. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but under the circumstances…”

“Yeah.”

Sam hears the pounding on the door getting louder again. Shaggy fires another round. Sam is grateful that he’s taking his time, and saving his bullets, rather than simply emptying the magazine. He might be a stoner, but the kid can obviously keep a cool head under pressure. Sam hurries to the dresser and opens the top drawer. Then he feels around and begins filling his pants pockets with spare ammunition.

“There are more crazies in the backyard,” Terri says, “and somebody in a car. But I don’t think the driver is one of them.”

“A car?”

Sam moves over to the window and peers outside. Sure enough, he sees a car—one he recognizes as belonging to the man in apartment 7-D—running over naked people. He also spots the neighbor from apartment 6-D and another, younger man, both of whom are fleeing toward the building.

“Sam,” Stephanie calls, “better hurry!”

“Coming!” Sam kneels next to the bed. “What’s your name, buddy?”

Stirring, the boy looks him in the eye.

“I’m Caleb,” he mumbles.

“Caleb, I’m Sam. I want you to know that it’s okay to be scared. I’m scared, too. You wouldn’t believe how scared I am. But right now, I need you to help me with something. You think you can do that?”

Caleb sits up slowly. “What?”

“Help me empty out that dresser over there so your mom and I can haul it into the living room.”

“Okay.” Caleb glances up at his mother.

“Come on,” Terri says, standing up. “Let’s hurry, though.”

“Sam,” Stephanie shouts again, “the door’s not going to hold much longer!”

“Just a second!” He yanks out the top drawer and dumps his underwear and socks on the floor.

Grinning, Caleb does the same with a second drawer, depositing a pile of t-shirts at his feet. Sam and Terri make quick work of the remaining drawers. Sam shoves the Taurus in his waistband and tilts the dresser back toward him. He nods at Terri.

“Grab the bottom.”

The dresser is made from the same cheap materials as the bookshelves, so it isn’t heavy. This makes it easy to carry, but Sam isn’t sure it will do anything to help secure the front door. He realizes he isn’t thinking clearly. He shouldn’t have bothered emptying the drawers. The extra weight would have helped. He’s letting panic drive him, rather than logic. They reach the living room, and he’s about to voice his concern regarding the dresser’s weight, when he realizes that it no longer matters.

The lock snaps with an audible pop and the door bursts open, dangling on one hinge. The fat man fills the doorway, grinning and drooling as his head tilts from side to side. In his hands are the bloodied remains of a partial corpse, missing its arms, one leg, and part of its head. The portion of its head that remains has been squashed like an overripe melon. With dawning horror, Sam understands what’s been banging on his door. The fat man has been using the corpse as a makeshift battering ram. Now, he tries to squeeze his greasy bulk through the doorway. His rolls of fat fold and crease, and the door leans crookedly on its one remaining hinge. Sam gags. The stench wafting off of the fat man is revolting.

Terri drops her end of the dresser and shrieks, “Randy!”

It takes Sam a second to realize that she’s referring to the corpse. How she recognizes it is beyond him, but apparently she does.