The Complex by Brian Keene Page A

was them.”
    “That’s some callous bullshit.”
    “Maybe so. I apologize if you are offended, but the fact remains—they’re dead. I’m still alive. And I intend to stay that way.”
    He rushes into Grady’s kitchen, and begins to push the refrigerator toward the windows. Shaking his head in dismay, Grady sets the gun down and goes to help him.
    “Trust me,” Mendez grunts as the heavy appliance scrapes across the floor, scratching the linoleum, “I can’t die.”
    “What do you mean you can’t die? Everyone can die. Nobody lives forever.”
    “I don’t mean immortality,” Mendez says. “I’m talking about here. Tonight. I can’t die.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “As bad as things are right now? If I die, they’re only going to get worse. Believe me.”
    “How so?”
    “If I die tonight, then those people outside won’t be the only things we have to worry about. There are things out there in the universe—things that want to exterminate us. I’m the only one that can keep us safe from them.”
    Grady decides that his neighbor has cracked under the strain. He doesn’t exactly know Mendez well. The man travels a lot—always on the road. Grady thinks he’s a salesman or something. But they greet each other in passing, and make small talk on occasion. Mendez has always seemed like a decent sort. Charming, smart, occasionally funny. He’s never struck Grady as mentally ill—or what his daughter would call a whack-job.
    Yes, Grady decides. It must be stress. The poor man has snapped.
    “Let’s just get this fridge moved,” he says. “We can worry about dying later.”

Eleven - Sam, Terri, Caleb, Stephanie, Mrs. Carlucci, Shaggy, and Turo: Apartment 1-D
     
     
    Sitting on the floor in the corner of Sam’s bedroom, Terri cradles Caleb in her lap, kissing the top of his head and rubbing his back and trying to reassure him. She hasn’t held him like this in a while. He used to be cuddly when he was younger, but ever since he turned six, he’s been less inclined. Sure, he still wants a kiss goodnight and he still hugs her on occasion and tells her that he loves her and that she is the Best Mommy Ever, but cuddle time has grown sparser. Terri dreads the day when it stops altogether. She wishes he would stay this age forever. She’s terrified of him growing up. Terrified of him becoming a man.
    But right now there are more immediate things to be terrified of.
    She keeps her eyes on the hastily constructed barricade in front of Sam’s bedroom door. All of the bookcases in the room have been stacked against it, as have his dresser, mattress, headboard, and box spring. Sam had a toolbox stored on the shelf in his closet and he, Stephanie, and Turo are currently nailing the headboard into the wall. Shaggy (Terri doesn’t know if that’s his nickname or his real name, and there hasn’t been time to ask) stands guard, keeping his pistol at the ready. They can hear the group of crazy people on the other side of the door, beating at it and hammering on the walls, but so far, the blockade remains strong. Luckily, the chainsaw has stayed silent.
    Mrs. Carlucci stands next to Terri and Caleb, peeking out the bedroom window. A few moments ago, the car motor fell silent. Now, that silence is filled by the sounds of breaking glass and pounding, and guttural growls and yelps.
    Caleb stirs against her. “I want to go home, Mommy.”
    “I know, baby. I know.”
    “Not here. I mean home to Grandma’s.”
    Terri wants to respond, but she can’t. Her throat feels thick, and she begins to tremble, choking back the sobs welling up from deep inside of her.
    Sam, Stephanie, and Turo stop hammering. All three are drenched in sweat. They step back and check their handiwork. Terri hears Sam murmur something about it holding. Shaggy mutters that it damn well better. Then he hands his gun to Turo and stretches, flexing and swiveling his arm, as if he has a cramp.
    Mrs. Carlucci turns around and then slowly kneels.