Read Online Night of the Living Trekkies by Kevin David Anderson, Sam Stall, Kevin David, Sam Stall Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
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two blocks away, he made out a pair of pedestrians. But something was wrong, and it took him a moment to realize what was missing.
Smokers. On any normal night, one would find a knot of guests and staffers puffing away in front of the hotel, near the entrance to the alley where he’d spotted Rodriguez earlier in the day. It was the Botany Bay’s unofficial nicotine refuge. Midday or midnight, rain or shine, there were always smokers.
Except now.
Jim took a few hesitant steps toward the alley. He noticed a pack of cigarettes lying on the ground. And an iPhone. There was also a purse.
And a smear of black liquid that might have been motor oil.
Jim took a few more careful, quiet steps. He was close enough to hear noises coming from the alley. Footsteps shuffling. Voices grunting. Something ripping.
The homeless men and women he’d glimpsed earlier in the day, hiding in the shadows at the far end of the alley, were now just around the corner from him. And their numbers had grown. They sounded like an angry mob.
For a moment he contemplated simply confronting them. Until he remembered that this was probably what Oscar had done. Oscar the ex-Marine who was now MIA.
This isn’t in my job description
, Jim thought.
I’m just the goddamn bellhop.
He retraced his steps to the hotel entrance, keeping a careful eye on the alley’s mouth. He was almost to the doors when he realized the two pedestrians were now much closer, less than a hundred yards away. They were walking so strangely. Staggering, really. Just like zom—
No
, he thought. Rayna and Gary were right. Zombies did not exist.
But these two people—whatever they were—were definitely staggering toward him. They’d seen him and were coming his way as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them.
As Jim watched, he became aware of gunshots in the distance—the
pop-pop-pop
of a semiautomatic pistol, followed by a staccato blast that could only be produced by a fully automatic AK-47 assault rifle.
All of a sudden, Houston sounded like A-Bad on a Saturday night.
Chapter 8
That Which Survives
Jim couldn’t remember the last time Janice Bohica greeted him with a smile. But tonight, when he reentered the lobby, she did just that. She seemed almost hysterically relieved to see him.
“You came back,” she said.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Isn’t there a button under the counter that locks these doors?”
“Yes, but it’s only for emergencies.”
Jim nearly said something mean but looked into Janice’s eyes and restrained himself. Everyone in the hotel would need to stay calm. As soon as people panicked, they would be no help at all.
“This
is
an emergency,” he said, keeping his voice under tight control. “I guess you could call it a riot. And a couple of the . . . of the rioters . . . saw me and they’re heading this way. We need to secure the doors.”
Janice reached beneath the marble countertop and punched several digits into the keypad. “I haven’t used this code since the Astros lost the World Series. I think it’s 2063.”
The keypad responded with three affirmative chirps and the front doors bolted with a loud
clunk
. Jim pulled on the three interior doors. They were all secure. He assumed the outer ones were locked, too.
Trouble was, they were all made of glass.
“Should I lock the other doors, too?” Janice asked.
“What other doors?” Jim said.
“All of them. All of the Botany Bay’s exterior doors.”
“You can do that? Nobody told me there was a code for
that
.”
“Right after September Eleventh, the hotel got codes for everything.”
“Use them,” Jim said. “Lock us in.”
Janice punched another set of digits into the keypad and the machine responded with three more chirps. Then Jim escorted her to Dexter’s office. Halfway through the warren of cubicles, Janice stumbled and fell to her knees. Her breathing grew shallow and ragged. For a moment, Jim wondered if she was having a heart
Smokers. On any normal night, one would find a knot of guests and staffers puffing away in front of the hotel, near the entrance to the alley where he’d spotted Rodriguez earlier in the day. It was the Botany Bay’s unofficial nicotine refuge. Midday or midnight, rain or shine, there were always smokers.
Except now.
Jim took a few hesitant steps toward the alley. He noticed a pack of cigarettes lying on the ground. And an iPhone. There was also a purse.
And a smear of black liquid that might have been motor oil.
Jim took a few more careful, quiet steps. He was close enough to hear noises coming from the alley. Footsteps shuffling. Voices grunting. Something ripping.
The homeless men and women he’d glimpsed earlier in the day, hiding in the shadows at the far end of the alley, were now just around the corner from him. And their numbers had grown. They sounded like an angry mob.
For a moment he contemplated simply confronting them. Until he remembered that this was probably what Oscar had done. Oscar the ex-Marine who was now MIA.
This isn’t in my job description
, Jim thought.
I’m just the goddamn bellhop.
He retraced his steps to the hotel entrance, keeping a careful eye on the alley’s mouth. He was almost to the doors when he realized the two pedestrians were now much closer, less than a hundred yards away. They were walking so strangely. Staggering, really. Just like zom—
No
, he thought. Rayna and Gary were right. Zombies did not exist.
But these two people—whatever they were—were definitely staggering toward him. They’d seen him and were coming his way as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them.
As Jim watched, he became aware of gunshots in the distance—the
pop-pop-pop
of a semiautomatic pistol, followed by a staccato blast that could only be produced by a fully automatic AK-47 assault rifle.
All of a sudden, Houston sounded like A-Bad on a Saturday night.
Chapter 8
That Which Survives
Jim couldn’t remember the last time Janice Bohica greeted him with a smile. But tonight, when he reentered the lobby, she did just that. She seemed almost hysterically relieved to see him.
“You came back,” she said.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Isn’t there a button under the counter that locks these doors?”
“Yes, but it’s only for emergencies.”
Jim nearly said something mean but looked into Janice’s eyes and restrained himself. Everyone in the hotel would need to stay calm. As soon as people panicked, they would be no help at all.
“This
is
an emergency,” he said, keeping his voice under tight control. “I guess you could call it a riot. And a couple of the . . . of the rioters . . . saw me and they’re heading this way. We need to secure the doors.”
Janice reached beneath the marble countertop and punched several digits into the keypad. “I haven’t used this code since the Astros lost the World Series. I think it’s 2063.”
The keypad responded with three affirmative chirps and the front doors bolted with a loud
clunk
. Jim pulled on the three interior doors. They were all secure. He assumed the outer ones were locked, too.
Trouble was, they were all made of glass.
“Should I lock the other doors, too?” Janice asked.
“What other doors?” Jim said.
“All of them. All of the Botany Bay’s exterior doors.”
“You can do that? Nobody told me there was a code for
that
.”
“Right after September Eleventh, the hotel got codes for everything.”
“Use them,” Jim said. “Lock us in.”
Janice punched another set of digits into the keypad and the machine responded with three more chirps. Then Jim escorted her to Dexter’s office. Halfway through the warren of cubicles, Janice stumbled and fell to her knees. Her breathing grew shallow and ragged. For a moment, Jim wondered if she was having a heart
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