Chapter 6
Someone two apartments down had his phone on speaker in the hallway.
I could hear the automated message through my door.
"—experiencing unusually high call volume. If you are calling regarding a non-life-threatening—"
A man's voice cut in.
"Non-life-threatening? She bit him!"
I moved toward the peephole.
He paced outside apartment 309. I recognized him but didn't know his name. A red smear crossed one hand.
Another neighbor stood several feet away.
"What happened?" she asked.
"My brother got attacked."
"Where?"
"Gas station. He's inside. He was bleeding."
She took a small step backward.
The door to 309 opened. A woman said, "Josh. He's getting worse." She noticed the neighbor in the hall and stopped. Josh hurried inside and shut the door.
The woman in the hallway stared at it, then retreated to her apartment.
I remained still.
She bit him.
Maybe I had heard wrong.
I checked the local feeds again.
More videos. One showed a police officer backing away from a woman who ignored his shouted commands. Another showed people running through a grocery store. Another showed a man lying beside a bus stop while someone screamed for help.
There were hashtags now. People naming something they didn't understand. One account claimed rabies, another contaminated drugs, another terrorism.
Then I saw the first use of the word.
Zombies.
I snorted.
"Okay."
I closed the app.
Once the internet reached zombies, we'd officially exited useful information.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face.
The man in the mirror looked normal. A little tired. Hair flattened from hours at the desk. Fit enough in a gray T-shirt, but there was nothing imposing about me.
I'd never been in a real fight.
Not once.
I'd never hit another person as hard as I could.
I'd certainly never had another person try to seriously hurt me.
I dried my hands.
A heavy thump sounded somewhere below.
Then another.
I listened.
A door slammed.
Someone shouted.
Footsteps hammered along the second-floor hallway.
Then up the stairs.
I stepped into the living room.
The footsteps reached my floor.
Stopped.
Someone knocked hard on a door.
Not mine.
"Open up."
An older man's voice.
Again.
"Open your door."
I knew that voice.
Mr. Dombrowski.
He lived directly below me in 203.
Late sixties or early seventies.
Gray hair. Heavy eyebrows. The same brown jacket all winter. I knew more about what irritated him than about his actual life.
People parking crooked. Laundry left in the dryer. Delivery drivers blocking the entrance. Someone once told me he'd complained because a resident's wind chime was audible from the parking lot.
Dombrowski did not wander around talking to neighbors, especially after one in the morning.
He hit another one.
"Listen to me. Don't go downstairs."
A door opened.
Marcy.
"What happened?"
"Stay up here."
"Why?"
"Don't go downstairs."
"What happened?"
He didn't answer.
I moved to the peephole.
Dombrowski stood halfway down the hall.
He wore plaid pajama pants, slippers, and a white undershirt.
I'd never seen him without proper clothes.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
The second was his face.
Pale.
Sweat across his forehead.
His glasses sat crooked.
He looked toward the stairwell every few seconds.
I opened my door against the chain.
"Mr. Dombrowski."
He turned.
Relief crossed his face when he recognized me.
"Gabe."
"What's happening?"
"Stay inside."
"What happened downstairs?"
He came a little closer, but not all the way.
"Something's wrong."
"With what?"
"The people."
"What people?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"Did somebody attack you?"
"No."
"What did you see?"
His mouth opened.
Closed.
He looked back toward the stairs.
"There was a woman."
"What woman?"
"She came in."
"From outside?"
"I think."
"What happened?"
"She was hurt."
"Okay."
"Then she—"
He stopped.
Marcy had stepped into the hallway behind him.
"Then she what?"
Dombrowski looked at both of us.
"She attacked Walter."
"Who's Walter?" I asked.
"Second floor. Two-oh-eight."
"Is he okay?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Not I don't think so.
No.
"Did you call 911?"
"Everybody called."
"Are they coming?"
"No."
That frightened me more than anything he'd said.
Dombrowski moved toward the next apartment.
"Lock up."
"Mr. Dombrowski."
He looked back.
"Why are you going that way?"
"To tell them."
He meant the remaining apartments on our floor.
"Stay inside after."
His face tightened.
"You too."
"I am."
He stared at me.
Then said, very quietly, "Don't go downstairs."
He walked away.
Marcy looked at me.
"That was weird."
I almost laughed.
Instead I said, "Lock your door."
"You too."
We did.