by Rob Horner
“So, when people started getting sick, I come here. Management made us take the guns down, but they never collected ‘em up.”
Robbie had never been behind-the-scenes, so to speak, of a department store. Certainly not a sporting goods store. The area unseen by the shopping public was easily twice as big as the showroom, sectioned off by department just like the brightly-lit static displays of mannequins swinging a One-Wood at a cardboard backdrop or kicking the game winning goal along a rolled out piece of turf.
Shoes climbed racks twelve feet high, sorted first by brand then by size. Other aisles held mountain bikes and weight equipment, trampolines in boxes, and more isometric exercise junk than QVC could sell in a year. For every “Take a tag to the register” card out in the store, there was a huge, boxed disassembled hunting blind or air hockey game stacked atop flat pallets full of picnic and table tennis tables.
And behind all the quick-access stock, an employee break room, restrooms, and administrative offices, was a large loading bay and a smaller, securely padlocked storage room.
“We put them all in here. Had to. Corporate edict.” Bert spat on the ground. For all his talk, he had a smooth voice.
Probably sings in his church choir, Robbie thought.
“Well, they can sit in their fancy boardroom in Coraopolis, Pennsylvania and make decrees all damned day long,” Bert continued, “but that don’t pay the bills and it damned sure don’t compensate my boss for stock already purchased.”
Jasmine walked beside Robbie, following the portly man through the meandering aisles of merchandise. Her eyes looked as wide as Robbie’s felt, like one of those kids in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, utterly flabbergasted by everything around them, wanting to see it all and probably believing only half of it.
“So, they said…get this…they said you can’t sell it. Gotta pull it off the shelf cause it’s not ‘in keeping with our corporate environment to pursue a country free of firearm accidents.’ Say they’ll come do an on-site inventory and buy back our stock at the price we paid for it. So, I pull it because I don’t want them to pull my boss’s franchise, but I told him. I said, ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before they set foot back here in flyover country. Damned libtards never met a gun they liked, and this is just a way to take their hands out of this particular cookie jar and look all shiny and clean for their dope-smoking, Kumbaya-singing, Socialist Kool-Aid drinking political buddies. You mark my words.’”
Bert pulled a keyring out of his pocket big enough to give a high school janitor a hard-on and began flipping through it, each key making a ringing noise against its neighbors as it was assessed and passed over. The big man settled on the tenth or eleventh key and inserted it into a deadbolt set into the door.
“He marked ‘em, all right. Mr. Fross, that is, th’ owner. Said if’n no one came to inventory by the end of this year, we might let ‘em go at a show. So, I been getting my license, on account of he can’t be officially associated with anything like that. He’s a good man, Mr. Fross. I hope he’s all right.”
“You didn’t see him—” Jasmine began.
“Not out there, no,” Bert confided. “And if I did, well, I reckon he’d want me to put an end to it, you know?”
“Put an end to what?” Robbie asked.
Bert pushed the storeroom door open. The lights came on automatically, illuminating shelf after shelf stacked high and deep with dozens of pistols, hunting rifles, shotguns, and every caliber of ammunition imaginable.
“Are those…ARs?” Jasmine asked.
Bert nodded, his face a mask of pride. “Last two we had in the store. Had a run on ‘em about two weeks before the order to take ‘em down. Trust a liberal to make a decision that goes against capitalism. You start selling something, making a profit off it, so you decide to stop selling it. Fuckin’ idiots.”
Jasmine held her tongue. As much as his dismissive tone toward the Gun Control lobby rubbed her the wrong way, she couldn’t very well argue against it. Not when the world, it seemed, was going crazy around them. Robbie admired her for holding it in.
Bert beamed around the small storage locker and seemed to be waiting for them to say something.
“How much?” Jasmine asked.
“You said ‘zombies,’” Robbie said.
“Damn right, I did,” Bert snarled. Then, to Jasmine, “Just pick something, ma’am. But be quick. Only reason I came back here was to stock up a little ammo. Damn lucky I was here when I was or you wouldn’t be, if you take my meaning. No charge during the end of the world, am I right?”
“I don’t understand,” Robbie mumbled. “Zombies aren’t a real thing.”
“Neither are aliens, if you believe the media,” Bert countered. “Yet I haven’t heard a non-alien reason for Area 51, have you?”
Now it was Robbie who wanted to argue, and he was usually good at it.
Not being able to prove something doesn’t exist isn’t proof that it does, came to mind. But just like Jasmine, he held his tongue. The man was touched if not totally bonkers. Hell, maybe seeing whatever happened to his friends pushed him over the edge. Robbie couldn’t imagine what that must’ve been like, not just a few people but an entire community going full-on Donner Party during dinner. He was thankful him and Jasmine were out camping. Maybe that saved them.
Maybe they should go back to the camp site.
“Look, I know it’s a tough pill,” Bert said as Jasmine walked the perimeter of the small room. “I only put it together myself a few hours ago. That’s why I came into town. Saw right away what’s going on, though, same as you, with the people out there.”
“How’d you put it together?” Robbie asked.
“There was this explosion round-about Atlanta way,” Bert said. “Happened day before yesterday. No one’s saying what blew up, but all of a sudden, a lot of people got sick. Like, go to the hospital and die, kind of sick. People puking and shitting blood, spraying everyone around them like a skunk with a firehose. Worst thing was, it wasn’t just the shits. People with the bloody BMs went crazy, scratching and biting, chasing if they could, sometimes just crawling after folks. That didn’t make the National News, but it was all over the local radio. Now, here’s the worst part. Those people that got the stomach troubles, they wasn’t catching. But if they scratched you, or bit you or, god forbid, you got some of their nasty on you, then you might catch the crazy.”
Catch the crazy?
“You mean,” Jasmine translated, “their illness didn’t communicate, but the aggression did?”
“I dunno if you wanna call it that,” Bert said. “That’s putting a flower petal on a pile of shit, like calling a tiger just a big pussy cat.”
“Okay. So, the…um…insanity…that is contagious?”
Bert nodded. “Call something what it is and it won’t bite you in the ass. Words to live by. Anyway, yeah. If they bite you or scratch you, you die. Then you wake up and go attack other people.”
“That’s not poss—” Robbie began.
“Don’t tell me what’s possible!” Bert shouted. “You go look out there at Mrs. Kellar. You can’t have missed her. Prettiest woman in town and not a stitch on her. Tell me how she’s able to run around with a slit throat.”
Spittle flew from Bert’s lips and he saw it. The tall man made an effort to calm himself.
“You go look,” he said again. “And she’s not the only one. Old man Eric’s out there, too. Saw him myself. Half his side’s eaten open like someone thought he was a can of sardines. But there ain’t nothing leaking out, and he’s still moving around. Only damned thing the movies got wrong is ain’t a one of them hollerin’, ‘Brains!’” Bert lifted the side of his store shirt, revealing a small belt holster with an even smaller pistol strapped in place. The whole piece was almost lost in the roll of fat depending over his waistline.
“Found a couple of them running around my land,” he said. “Neighbors. Good people. Never said boo to a ghost. I came outside this morning to check
the mail even though I didn’t think it’d be runnin’, what with everybody getting sick, and there they were, meandering across the road from their place to mine. I don’t know which one got which end of the shit show. Both of ‘em had brown all over them. And stink? Whew. They smelled bad enough to put a dog off ass forever. Anyway, I been watchin’ and listenin’ to the news, so I know what’s what. Plus, the local CB crew’s been all over this, talking about people dying but not staying dead.”
Jasmine worked her way along the wall, looking at various firearms in their brand name packaging. Robbie watched her but didn’t offer any advice. He had nothing personal against guns or those who owned them. He’d learned to shoot as a boy and knew how to take apart a pistol and clean it. But he didn’t know which brands might be better than others, or what ammunition was most common. Jasmine walked a fine line with her friends, able to see the need to curb rampant gun violence by imposing stricter requirements for ownership while also appreciating the value in a stable, trained individual maintaining a firearm for self-defense.
“So, I call out to them, and they don’t say nothing. Just start shambling across the road at me. They weren’t arms out staggering, but they weren’t coming slow, neither. The missus was all tore up, nightgown crusted and ripped in places which probably ain’t been exposed since their wedding night, and that was maybe half-a-century ago. He’s in khakis and a button-up like always, only there’s brown below and red above, if you catch my drift. And neither one right in the head.”
Jasmine pulled the box for a Walther PPQ M2 9mm off one of the shelves, exposing an identical box behind it. While Bert talked, she grabbed the second, then began scouring the ammunition racks.
“I been hearing what I been hearing, you know? But hearing something and believing it are two different creatures. I know I look tough, but I ain’t never had to shoot no one before. But as they got closer, and I could see the dead in their eyes, well, I pulled out my old Bersa—” he patted his bulging hip, “—and warned them to stop. They didn’t, so I backed away and warned them again. And when they kept coming, sped up even, I…I shot Mr. Frank dead-center.” He tapped his own chest. “He dropped…plop…but then Missus Jean kept on coming, so I put one in her too, same place.”
Bert’s eyes had taken on a faraway look, reliving the events of earlier that morning.
Robbie figured the man needed a moment to fully accept what he’d done. Maybe he’d even come to the conclusion he was wrong to shoot the old people, no matter what he believed.
“It didn’t stop them,” the big man whispered.
“What?” Robbie asked.
“I hit them both with a .380 hollow point. Saw the blood and bits of bone go flying out their backs like confetti. Hell, I swear I could see daylight through them before they hit the dirt. But they got back up.”
“Bullshit!”
“Naw. And that’s what you gotta accept. I see you all dressed for the outdoors. But you’re dressed like a city boy playing country for a weekend. Got your gal-pal with you for some deep woods loving. No offense, ma’am.”
“None taken,” Jasmine replied, smiling. She’d unboxed both pistols, loaded them, and had them sitting on one of the shelves. “You got any spare magazines for these?”
Bert focused on her. “Maybe one of you’s got a lick of sense, after all. Over there.” He pointed at a lower shelf. “Now, as I was saying, they both got back up. Being shot didn’t slow ‘em down. Hell, I blew their hearts out their chests, and they came on the same way they done before. No faster, no slower. Now, I remembered what the CB group was saying. They’s zombies, and you gotta put one in their heads. So that’s what I did. They didn’t get back up after that.”
More than when Desiree had him by the hair and was angling for a bite of his throat, fear twisted Robbie’s testicles. The matter-of-fact recitation of killing two people left him nauseous, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with Bert.
“You can still shoot, right, Robbie?” Jasmine asked.
He looked from her to the big man, then down to the pistols she’d selected. Not trusting himself to speak, Robbie nodded.
“Mr. Bert,” Jasmine said, “you’ve been really kind, pulling us back here and letting us arm ourselves. Is there any way we can trouble you a little farther? Can you help us get out of here?”
Bert nodded, blushing when she smiled at him. “Shucks. I’m more impressed a pretty girl like you knows her guns. I can take you to a place. Both of you. I don’t have enough squirreled away at my place for more than me, but the CB group’s hunkering in at the Wilds. Got the place tightened up and wired in. Might be they’ll take you in.”
Robbie didn’t know what Jasmine had planned, but it was obvious she was thinking a step farther ahead than he was. He couldn’t get over Bert’s casual belief in an end of the world scenario, and didn’t think Jazz subscribed to it, either. Bert wasn’t a bad person, but even good people could do very bad things if they believed their cause was justified. Would Bert hurt them?
Given the right motivation, he might. Especially if Robbie pushed him too hard on his beliefs.
They could try to make it out of the area on their own. But without a car and with crazy people running around, it might not be the best idea.
Maybe if they could get a hold of some news, get a better idea exactly what was happening, they could plan better.
For that, they needed information. And for all that Bert was willing to share, he was biased and already had his mind made up.
This can’t be happening.
“Sounds great. Lead the way.”
Chapter 26
“What’re you doing?” Robbie whispered to Jasmine as they followed Bert to the back door of the store.
“Getting us out of here. Isn’t that obvious?” she whispered back.
“But with this guy?”
“He got in here. Saved our butts. Let’s go with him and see what’s what. We have no supplies, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Can’t you just call the cops?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” She held up her phone. “I’ve got full bars, but no one answers when I call 9-1-1. Maybe if we can get someplace I can think, we can see who else we can call.”
“What about Facebook or Twitter? What do they say?”
“I’ll check outside,” she replied. “Now, here. Take this.” She pushed a loaded 9mm into Robbie’s hands, along with a spare magazine. “Each magazine holds fifteen rounds.”
“If I have to use this many, we really are screwed,” Robbie replied.
Bert had an old, open-sided Jeep Wrangler parked behind the store, which almost set Robbie to laughing. Of course, it would be a Wrangler. The body might have been dark green at one point, but the runners and side panels were so coated with dried mud that it seemed tan was the color the vehicle wanted to be. The tires were new, bristling with thick tread, and the engine gave off a throaty roar when Bert hopped behind the wheel and turned it over.
“Get in,” he said, indicating the back seats. “And hurry. They’re attracted to noise.”
Jasmine climbed up on the back bumper like she’d been getting in and out of Jeeps her whole life. Robbie took a moment to appreciate the view of her tight ass in her beige cargo shorts, then climbed in after her.
“I’m going to try to stay far away from anyone else, but keep your eyes peeled, just in case,” Bert said.
Despite the exterior coating of dirt and grime, the interior was clean. Bert drove slowly out of the parking area behind the store, making for the backside of Palmerton Avenue. As they came around the side of the building, Robbie saw the crowd of people milling around outside the store. Some had crawled through the windows of the drugstore as well. Once they were out of sight, the bloodlust receded, and the group of people was back to being a shifting, shuffling horde without purpose.
That changed as the Jeep came into view. Heads came up, mouths opened, and teeth showed. They stopped whatever they w
ere doing and turned, moving as a couple dozen individuals with a singular purpose.
The naked woman was still there, and without the impetus to get away, Robbie was able to get a better look at her. Her throat hadn’t been slit so much as clawed open. She turned her head as they passed, and he could see the long muscle running from jawbone to collar bone beneath the skin flexing and twisting. With more sunlight bearing down, her skin appeared ashen, certainly not a color anyone would associate with words like “healthy,” or even “alive.”
Hastily, he swallowed and looked away.
Bert wasted no time, flowing out onto Flatwoods Road, cutting a left which took them north, up and around a long curve, passing an elementary school where even more people were out and about, all of them with the same dead eyes, the same twitchy movement to their arms and legs, and the same urge to give chase to the roaring Jeep.
It’s like a breakout at the dog pound, he thought.
“So, get this,” Jasmine said from beside him. Her face was tilted down with the phone held close to her body, using her own shadow to shade the screen. “Twitter is blowing up with hashtags. Zombie this. Undead that. Hashtag coverup is also getting a lot of hits, people tying together some kind of explosion with a rash of stomach viruses and the crazy people like we’ve been seeing.”
“Bert said something about people throwing up blood.”
“Yeah, his language was…colorful. But accurate.”
“Told ya,” Bert offered from the front seat.
“Most of the illness was confirmed around Atlanta,” Jasmine continued, flicking the screen with her finger, “but there’ve been a bunch of pockets popping up all around. It looks like everywhere a pocket of stomach bugs crops up, the craziness follows.”