Lenore clutched the phone tightly in her hand, then forced herself to set it down lightly. “She’s not answering.”
“Let’s get the rope ready,” Ken said in a voice he hoped sounded both soothing and strong.
With a curt nod, Lenore followed him to the linen closet. His silk and satin sheets were dismissed quickly. They would be far too slippery, but the new cotton sheets he had bought would suffice. It hurt to cut the 800 thread count sheets into long, wide strips, but at least they would be velvety soft against Mr. Cloy’s hands when he climbed onto their roof.
“You better not tear up over these sheets,” Lenore muttered at him.
“But they’re Egyptian cotton,” Ken sniffled.
“I’m so gonna punch you.”
They knotted the ends together and tested them by pulling as hard they could. Lenore solidly won the tug of war. Ken ended up in her arms and gave her his most demure smile. She rolled her eyes and tugged the makeshift rope out of his hands.
“I’ll go check on him.” Ken skipped back to the room before she could let him have it. He loved teasing Lenore. It was more fun than he cared to admit. Though she would grumpily respond, he could tell she liked it as much as he did. He pressed himself against the wall and shouted into the crack.
“Hey, Mr. Cloy!”
It took a moment, but Mr. Cloy’s eye and bushy mustache came into view beyond the narrow fissure in the wall. “They’re up to the second door now.”
Ken inhaled sharply and listened for a moment. What he had thought was Mr. Cloy trying to get a bar out of the window was the dead actually beating on the door. “Oh, shit. Are you ready?”
“Almost got the second one out. I should be able to crawl out after that. Give me five minutes.”
“Do you have five minutes?”
“Dunno. Done wasting time. See you up top,” Mr. Cloy answered, then vanished from view.
Trying not to wring his hands or run like a Nancy boy, Ken dashed out into the living room, feeling panic welling up inside of him. “They’re about to bust into the storage room. We need to get up on top!”
“Aw, shit. I hate today.”
Together they climbed the narrow staircase to the roof. Lenore muttered about it being too narrow, but Ken shushed her. He could feel his nerves getting the best of him and his hands were shaking. The old stairway was supposed to be for maintenance and it was musty and dusty. He never used it and he felt embarrassed with his lack of housekeeping. They reached the roof and he shoved open the door.
The small town swam into view and he felt overwhelmed by the bright, glaring sunlight. He shaded his eyes. What looked like a quiet serene Texas town at first blush soon revealed itself to be a place of death and destruction. A building was burning on the edge of town and in the streets people were running, screaming, and attacking each other. Car crashes littered intersections and somewhere nearby a woman was screaming.
It was hell.
“I really hate today,” Lenore muttered.
Together they hurried to the edge of the building and peered down at the small storage room that lay flush against Ken’s building. There was no sign of Mr. Cloy.
“Mr. Cloy! Mr. Cloy!” Their voices were a chorus and Ken noted his voice sounded quite high next to Lenore’s. His stomach churned and he felt his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the building.
Mr. Cloy finally appeared and struggled to worm his way out of the window. The fit was tight.
“C’mon, Mr. Cloy!” They both started shouting encouragement and waving at him as if it would somehow help.
Mr. Cloy’s face tilted upward and they saw he had a look of pure terror on his face. That one look said it all. The zombies were about to break into the storage room. Gripping the wall, Mr. Cloy tried desperately to slide through the bars. His stomach finally squeezed through and he fell onto the roof.
“Hurry, hurry!” Ken’s voice reflected his fear and he swallowed hard to avoid vomiting.
Lenore had already secured the rope around a pipe sticking out of roof, and she tossed the line down to Mr. Cloy. He reached out with eager hands to grasp it. Behind him, battered hands and twisted, bloodied faces appeared in the window.
Wrapping the makeshift rope around his wrist, Mr. Cloy said, “Pull me up!”
Ken and Lenore heaved him up. Mr. Cloy was surprisingly heavy in spite of his skinny frame. The muscles in Ken’s arms and shoulders strained with the weight. Abruptly the rope went slack and Ken and Lenore both fell to the roof.
Shocked, they scrambled to their feet and looked over the edge of the roof to see Mr. Cloy lying on top of the storage room. Breathing heavily, he gave them a small wave.
“I can’t join you, kids,” Mr. Cloy said in a ragged voice as he tried to catch his breath. He pointed toward his leg, then lifted his pant cuff.
“Oh, shit,” Lenore whispered.
Fresh tears sprung to Ken’s eyes as huge gouges in Mr. Cloy’s flesh were revealed.
“They got me when I was coming out the window,” Mr. Cloy sobbed. “It’s the bite that does it.”
Ken shivered. The bloodied, feral faces in the window groaned. The dead creatures stretched grasping hands in his direction, their milky eyes glowering up at him and Lenore.
No one spoke as the moans and howls the dead filled the air.
8.
At Hell’s Mouth
“This is bullshit,” Ken declared.
Lenore shushed him as he stomped his foot and crossed his arms in irritation.
They stood at the edge of the building watching Mr. Cloy. Their friend and neighbor sat in silence, arms resting on his knees and his head bowed. Beneath him, the zombies clawed at the bars and edges of the window.
The heat of the sun weighed down on Ken’s shoulders and made them itch. Perspiration slid down his spine. He frowned. He hated being sweaty and hot, but he didn’t want to leave Mr. Cloy to face his fate alone.
“We can’t just leave him down there,” Ken whispered to Lenore.
“We can try and make him comfortable. It’s freaking hot out here,” Lenore admitted. “Go get him stuff. I’m going to stay here with him.”
Ken hurried downstairs and threw together items to make Mr. Cloy more comfortable. The air mattress and its pump were the first things he pulled out of his closet. He added an umbrella and a small fan that ran on batteries. Clean cotton sheets were added to the pile along with a pillow. In the kitchen, he tossed several water bottles and some cookies and chips into a tote bag. Finally, he lugged the whole thing upstairs, nearly tripping a few times, but managing to reach the top without falling down the stairs.
Lenore sat on the edge of the building staring out over the town. Ken nearly fell to his knees by the time he reached her with his load.
“He’s not talking,” she whispered to Ken.
“Well, he’s, like, going to die and be one of those things,” Ken said in a low voice back to her. “How would you feel?”
“I can hear you,” Mr. Cloy said, slowly raising his head. He looked pale and was crying. “You ain’t gotta whisper.”
“I brought you stuff!” Ken heaved the duffel bag with the air mattress and bedding over the side of the building and dropped it down next to Mr. Cloy.
Mr. Cloy got to his feet and Ken lowered the rest of the stuff into his friend’s waiting arms. Mr. Cloy sighed and held the bag close to his chest. “Thanks, Ken. I do appreciate this.”
Lenore sat in silence and viewed the chaos happening in their small town. Her expression was inscrutable. Ken sat next to her and didn’t say a word.
Mr. Cloy set up the air mattress and propped the umbrella so he could hide under its shade. He sat eating cookies as the dead moaned beneath his shelter.
Ken tried not to watch what was going on in the town, but he couldn’t help it. Cars raced around with small packs of bloodied people chasing them. A few houses were under siege with the walking dead beating on the doors and windows. Gunshots barked in the distance and Ken heard a chainsaw start somewhere nearby.
“You guys don’t have to stay out here with me,” Mr. Cloy said finally. “I know you guys did your best by me, but I gotta face the Maker on my own now. I’m just...I just thought the rapture would come before now.”
“Maybe this isn’t the Tribulation,” Ken suggested.
“I dunno. Dead coming out of their graves is somewhere in Revelations.” Mr. Cloy’s dark hair was glistening with sweat and he kept rubbing his bushy mustache.
“Well, it don’t matter if it is or not. It’s just a bad day all around,” Lenore decided somberly.
Somewhere nearby, a baby was crying piteously.
“Yeah,” Mr. Cloy said.
“Mr. Cloy-”
“Leslie,” Mr. Cloy corrected Ken. “My name is Leslie.”
“Really?” Ken raised an eyebrow.
“That’s why I never use it. Sometimes go by Les, but then people said I was “less-than” and it just got to be an old joke.” He shrugged. “I never gave you shit about being queer ‘cause I got it enough when I was a kid ‘cause of my name.”
