Zombie Road | Book 8 | Crossroads of Chaos Simpson, A. (new books to read .txt) 📖

Complete gridlock, cars bumper to bumper and massive pileups where panicked truck drivers had dropped the hammer and tried to force their way through on the shoulder. He imagined all the bridges in the boroughs were in the same condition. The undead were trapped, there was nowhere to go.

Jessie listened as he made his way under the elevated road and through the overgrown swath of trees but there was only the wind, a far-off flapping of torn canvas and the scree of the gulls high overhead. He made his way past a jumble of cars and walked silently down the sidewalk, occasionally climbing over a car that was parked in the walkway. He kept to the shadows, and under awnings when he could, as he watched the alleys and windows for any signs of life, whether living or dead. Some of the buildings towered high in the sky but most weren’t skyscrapers in this part of town, they were older and only stood seven or eight stories tall. Once he got a few blocks in, the wrecks and stalled vehicles disappeared. Broadway was clear and didn’t have a car on it. He thought that was odd but supposed everyone had tried to escape, bottlenecked the routes out then abandoned their cars when the undead came screaming in.

The streets were eerily empty. A few windows were broken but there hadn’t been time for looting and chaos. The people awoke to screams and screeches and those that had been outside didn’t last long. He imagined tens of thousands were still inside apartments, turned and trapped when they ate the infected meats. He peered up and down the wide avenue and a few dozen blocks up he saw the gray of a wandering horde as it ambled down the street. They were coming straight for him and the street was littered with the debris of their passing. Broken shoes, tattered bits of cloth, chunks of skin that had sloughed off, trampled jewelry, wallets and wigs. The whispering brush of old cloth, feet worn down to the bone rasping on the pavement and the creaking of their joints was a creepy, unforgettable sound. He couldn’t see the end, it was a giant, slow moving mass in continual motion that moved tirelessly down the street.

If he waited for them to pass, he’d be waiting for hours. He stepped out and started a slow shamble, moving at an angle across the road. They didn’t notice and he lumbered along until he could roll under a bus blocking the side street. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say somebody had tried to set up roadblocks back in the beginning. A few blocks later he came across more barricaded roads. The street leading into Central Park was completely blocked, jammed with cars that were bumper to bumper. He hopped over the short concrete wall, disappeared into the tall grass, hunkered low and moved faster. This wasn’t so bad. The dead had amassed into a giant horde. Their numbers were uncountable but at least they were all in the same general area and every street wasn’t crawling with them.

He stopped at the bronze Alice in Wonderland sculpture, checked the Manhattan attractions tourist map then folded it away. Central park was over two miles long but he was getting close; he should be able to spot the museum soon. In the brochure the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit and Alice were shiny and parts of them gleamed where tens of thousands of hands had rubbed them for luck. Now they were covered in a soft green patina and weeds had forced their way up through the concrete.

He stayed on the walking trails away from the roads and came to the back of the Met ten minutes later. It was a huge, rambling stone and glass building that had been expanded over the years. He found the dumpsters by the loading docks and hopped up to the door. He pushed a stack of pallets out of the way that had been piled against it. It was key card entry like he figured and opened easily. The magnetic locks needed a constant flow of electricity to work. Another little tidbit of knowledge from Slippery Jim.

He flipped on his flashlight, pulled the door closed and made his way out of the maintenance areas. The building was enormous and beautiful with sweeping arches, glass domed ceilings, polished marble floors and filled with priceless works of art. His boots made small squeaking noises and the cavernous rooms were echoey without the hum of thousands of people that would normally fill the spaces on any given day before the fall. He passed marble statues, hundreds of paintings, knights and horses in full battle armor and paused when he saw the painting of Washington crossing the Delaware. It was massive, twice as tall as him and twenty feet long. He’d only seen pictures of it in books and on the net. He had no idea it was so huge then wondered how big the Mona Lisa was. He’d never considered it. He might have to cut it out of the frame and roll it up but wouldn’t that damage it? It was hundreds of years old, maybe the paint would flake off. He stared at Washington and his men for a long time. He was one of the Founding Fathers. Did that make his dad and Griz Founding Fathers of the new United States? He grinned. If so, then so were Stabby, Scratch and Hollywood. That ought to make a great painting someday.

He took his time, wandered the halls and rooms and saw what there was to see. It was a shame that most of this art would molder away. The building was intact, he hadn’t seen any broken windows yet but there would be eventually. Once the weather got in, everything started going bad in a hurry. He was going to have to spread the word, let the other Retrievers know how easy it was