Dog Blood

and scrambles through. Once on the other side he pulls at the plywood and manages to yank away a piece about a yard square. I slide his bag through, then follow him.
    We’re standing on an empty, relatively uncluttered landing. There are three apartments on this floor, two doors on one side of the landing, one on the other. Two of them are open. I quickly check one over. Its three main rooms are empty and fairly undamaged. There’s even the stale, mold-covered remains of a final untouched meal on a table in front of a lifeless TV. The owner of the apartment must have left (or been dragged out) in a hurry. Keith disappears into the other open apartment and reappears on the landing after a few seconds.
    “Nothing,” he says quietly, “just a corpse on a bed.”
    “On a bed?” Carol says, surprised.
    “Someone’s laid out their missus or their mother or something. Dressed her up nice and brushed her hair. Still looks fucking horrible.”
    “Very touching,” Paul mumbles as he presses his ear against the closed door of the remaining apartment. He pushes it gently, but it doesn’t move.
    “Smash it?” I suggest, my axe ready in my hand. He thumps it pointlessly, then nods his head and moves to one side. I lift the axe and thump it down, the clang of metal on metal filling the air as I mis-hit and catch the Yale lock. I lift my arm again. Keith grabs my wrist before I can bring it down.
    “Listen.”
    I do as he says, but I can’t hear anything. I try to pull my hand free, but he tightens his grip and glares at me.
    “I hear it,” Carol whispers. Then I do, too. A quiet, muffled voice shouting at us from deep inside the apartment.
    “Not my…” it shouts, the third word unclear.
    “Not my floor?” Keith suggests.
    “Not my fault?” Paul offers, shrugging his shoulders. “Get the door open, man, and let’s get him killed. It’s just some nutter.”
    I do as he asks, smashing the blade down again and again until the weak wood splinters and the lock gives. I kick it open and peer into the gloom. A well-timed explosion outside bathes everything in ice white light like a camera flash for a fraction of a second, just long enough for me to see that there’s someone standing at the far end of a short hall on the other side of the door. I catch a glimpse of his motionless outline, or hers, directly ahead. The door slowly swings shut again.
    “How many?” Carol asks.
    “Just one that I can see,” I answer. “Pass me the flashlight, Keith.”
    Keith switches on the flashlight, but before he can pass it to me, the door flies open and the figure throws itself at me. The force of the sudden, unexpected attack takes me by surprise. I trip over my own feet as I stagger back, and before I know what’s happening, I’m lying flat on my back with a foul-smelling fucker right on top of me. He grabs the collar of my coat and lowers his face until it’s just inches from mine. His breath is so bad it’s making me want to puke.
    “Not my fight,” he shouts, peppering me with spittle. “Not my fight-”
    Keith smashes the side of his head with the flashlight, sending him reeling.
    “Not my problem,” he sneers, trying not to laugh at his own joke. The man who attacked me rolls over and gets up and stupidly starts walking back toward Keith again.
    “Not my fight,” he says, blood running down his face. “Leave me alone. It’s not my fight. Get out of here…”
    Keith lunges forward again, flashlight held ready to strike, sensing the kill.
    “He’s one of us, Keith,” Carol warns, but it’s too late. He swings the flashlight around and smashes it into the man’s face again. He drops to the ground, and this time he doesn’t get up. Keith shines the light down. Christ, Carol’s right. He was one of ours. Keith looks at him with disdain, then steps over the corpse and goes into the apartment.
    The small, squalid place is like a cocoon. The door I broke down hadn’t been opened for weeks. The air is musty and stale, and the rooms are filled with boxes of supplies. On closer inspection, we find that almost all of the supplies have been used up. The dead man on the landing hardly had any food left.
    “He’d done well to last this long,” Paul says, watching me as I check through more empty cartons.
    “If you ask me,” Keith says, wiping the flashlight clean on a floral curtain, then opening a door into another room and glancing around it, “people like that are as bad as the Unchanged. Not