City of the Dead by Brian Keene Read Free Book Online Page A

though he couldn't be sure if it was from distance or because of the thickness of the walls around him. He strained to hear them over Claude Debussy's "Arabesque #2," floating softly from the battery-operated portable stereo. One shot-maybe-followed by a second. Most likely it was zombies hunting their dinner-some unlucky bastard that had the misfortune to wander into the neighborhood. He considered checking, then decided against it.
    He lit another candle and returned to his book, John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. He'd read it three times since he'd sealed the door. It was the only book inside the room, with the exception of an old issue of Entertainment Weekly, a thriller by Andrew Harper (with everything going on outside, that was the last thing he wanted to read), and Myrna's Chicken Soup collection. He hated those Chicken Soup books. Wondered if there'd ever be a Chicken Soup for the Undead Soul book. Probably not.
    The muffled gunfire erupted again. This time, it didn't
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    fade, continuing unabated for a full minute. He heard different explosions, which meant different guns. There was a brief pause and then more.
    Don De Santos jumped out of his chair.
    "Jesus Christ!"
    His voice sounded funny to him. It was the first time he'd spoken aloud in nearly four weeks.
    He listened to what sounded like a war breaking out nearby and wondered what to do about it.
    Before the Rising began, Don De Santos had been a successful media consultant, one of the thousands for whom New Jersey was simply a bed and breakfast in between the daily treks into Manhattan. He had a lovely wife, Myrna, and a son, Mark, who had just started his first year at UCLA. A house in the suburbs, a dog named Rocky, a silver BMW, black Ford Explorer, and matching his and hers Honda motorcycles. Life was good, and his investment portfolio was even better.
    That changed when Rocky got hit by the car. Had it happened two minutes later, he would have been on his way to catch the train and Myrna could have dealt with it. But fate hadn't worked that way. He was just pulling out of the garage; his coffee nestled between his legs and one hand already dialing the cell phone, when he heard the alarming squeal of brakes in the street, followed by a sickening thud.
    Rocky had sneaked out of the garage and run into the road, where he'd met the bumper of Mr. Schwartz's Chrysler. Most of his innards had spilled into the street. At least he hadn't suffered.
    Myrna dashed across the yard; shrieking like a banshee, robe trailing behind her. Panting, Rocky raised his head, looked at her, and then died. Myrna knelt over
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    him, weeping and clinging to his fur while Schwartz apologized over and over.
    "Oh Christ! He ran right out in front of me, Don! I couldn't stop in time!"
    "It's all right. There was nothing you could do."
    "Not my Rockeeeeee ..." Myrna wailed.
    In the distance, the old air-raid siren at the fire station blurted to life, startling all three of them. Its wail eclipsed Myrna's.
    Don sent Schwartz on his way, assuring him that there were no hard feelings or pending lawsuit. Then he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and gently peeled Myrna from the dead dog's corpse. He rolled Rocky onto the blanket, nose wrinkling in disgust as more of the dog's entrails spilled out, and dragged him into the garage, unsure what to do next. He folded the blanket over the dog. The fire siren blared on, making it hard for him to think. It was answered by what would be the first of many police sirens that day. An ambulance raced down the street, and for one bizarre moment Don thought it was coming for Rocky. Then it sped past.
    "I wonder what's going on?" Myrna sniffled.
    "I don't know. Go on inside, hon. I guess we'd better call Mark's dorm and let him know about Rocky."
    "It's too early out there. Remember, he's in California."
    "But it was his dog too. You know how much he loved Rocky."
    She began to cry again.
    "What will we do with-"
    "I'll take care of it."
    "I want to