Hope was staring at him.
Liz still dangled from the carrier on Maggie’s chest. Ken wondered if it was better this way. He didn’t know if he would be able to deal with it if she opened her eyes and stared at him with that same knowing gaze, or gave him the same grin that Hope kept turning on him.
He looked away from her. Back at Maggie. Her eyes flitted to his eyes, then away, to his eyes, then away. Not looking at anything else, but not able to face him for long, either.
We’re in trouble.
He knew it wasn’t just the elevator, either. Wasn’t just now. It was Derek. It was losing their son.
He was the father. He was the protector. The one thing he was supposed to do was keep his family alive.
And he had failed.
He turned to the front of the elevator. More to avoid having to look at Maggie than for any concrete reason, but as he turned he thought of something.
They’re not smart.
Yes, they are.
But not smarter than us.
He went to the doors. Careful to avoid putting his foot through the hole that Buck had nearly plunged his own leg through a moment before. The doors were open a quarter-inch. Enough to wedge his fingertips between. No more. He pulled with his good hand.
No give.
He cast his eyes at Buck. The big man was gazing at him with an “I told you so” look, large arms crossed over his chest.
Ken nodded for him to join him at the front of the cab. Buck hesitated as though deciding how much of a fuss to put up. Then he seemed to remember they were all in this together.
He came to Ken’s side. “They won’t move.” He whispered the words.
Ken looked up. Waited for a cough. For acid to rain on them. Nothing.
He looked back at Buck. “Pull them,” he whispered.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Just do it.”
Buck sighed. He couldn’t fit his fingers in the crack. Just lay the bloody pads of his fingers against the edges of the door and began scrabbling.
Ken took a deep breath.
And began making noise.
68
Buck stared at Ken in horror, and stopped pulling for a moment.
Two hands stabbed out and took his place. Christopher. Grin back in its normal position, his fingers darting into the crack and pulling for all he was worth as Ken continued banging away at the door.
Whud… whud… whud….
The sound of his fist thumping against the door sounded not merely loud, but deafening in the space. The crackle of burning floor and ceiling tiles was the only other noise, an eerie and almost painful crepitation that crawled through the empty spaces in the cab like a many-legged insect.
Whud… whud….
Something coughed above him.
Not directly above, I hope.
He looked down. Hope was still staring at him. Not smiling, not looking with that too-knowing gaze. She appeared almost confused, and Ken chose to take that as a good sign.
He kept hammering at the door. Three more hits.
Another cough. Gagging and rasping. The first time he had seen one of the things vomit the acid, the stuff had melted its own flesh. He wondered if that would happen every time; if the things would have to essentially suicide to produce this weapon.
That’s assuming they’re not already dead.
The world had gone insane hours ago. The pre-change rules no longer applied.
The sound of sizzling, the acid-smell of charring plastic and metal drew Ken’s attention outward.
He looked up. Waiting for the glowing appearance of the acid. Expecting it to fall through the ceiling, to splash over his face, to burn through his skull and fry his brain to mush.
Nothing.
Something else was happening, though.
“You feel that?” whispered Christopher.
Ken nodded. And banged harder.
69
“It’s starting to hurt!”
“I know!”
“Really!”
“I know!”
Ken was aware they were no longer whispering. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t let it stop him. He kept hitting the door. Kept pounding at it – with both fists now, even though each hit with his maimed left hand sent shockwaves of pain through his entire body.
The things were moving again. They sounded surprisingly light, a soughing of leaves overhead, a sighing of wind to the sides and beneath their feet.
Then more gagging, more coughing. More sizzling.
More heat.
The elevator doors were starting to get hot to the touch. Ken had gambled that the things were following the sounds the survivors were making. Had hoped that if he hit the doors, the monsters would spew acid on them – behind them – and maybe melt whatever was holding them locked in place.
So far it hadn’t worked. The zombies weren’t puking acid directly on their heads, true, so that much had worked out. But the doors were still solidly shut. And getting hot. Acid must be waterfalling its way down the other side of the metal. Eating through from that side.
The elevator began sliding down.