by Eli Nixon
Chapter 11
WE EVENTUALLY figured out there's a learning curve to being a zombie. See, at first, you don't know what the hell's going on. Something's shouting in your head about Vitala, your hands and feet feel a million miles away, random things in your body are shutting down, and you're stuck doing this clumsy shuffle that only takes you right to the business end of an axe or a bullet or whatever the junkheads feel like slinging at you that day. Some people take longer to get past that than others. Some people never really do. Imperfect programming maybe, who knows.
Eventually, you get the hang of it, figure out how to move like normal. At least, I figure that's what it is. I've never gone that far, and I don't ever mean to. I think of it like driving the same car all your life, then switching to a different style. You've got all the muscle memory for the first car, so there's a whole bunch of little things that don't do quite what they're supposed to in the shiny new one. But you learn. The zombies, they learn.
Mr. Collins was sharp as a tack, and I knew he wouldn't touch a Tylenol if his feet were chopped off, let alone anything stronger. When that first wave hit, when it hit Rivet in my living room and he bit Jennie's ear off, old Mr. Collins must have gone over like a slip in the bathtub. All while we were killing Janet Wazowski, trying to figure out what was happening, eating Lean Cuisines out west of town, Mr. Collins was learning the zombification way, breaking in that new car, so to speak.
So when we got there, he was already close to a runner. Not a full-on sprinter, but fast. The guy behind him, probably the same story.
The rest of them, either dumber than shit or just had a tooth pulled or sneaking a toke behind the back exit, so they didn't turn so fast. My money was on all three. There wasn't much else you could count on in Jericho Hill. Either because they'd gone over later or couldn't figure out how their shambly new bodies worked, they were a lot slower, and a lot easier to kill.
I saw four or five form up in a line to take turns letting Jennie whack the shit out of them with the poker. Rivet started working some half-cocked Crouching Tiger moves into his sacred shovel technique, then he just bashed and hacked, hacked and bashed, getting wetter and wetter.
Blood is a terrible thing.
You ever watched a cigarette butt burning out in an ashtray? Your brain's lit from some fresh powder—not Foley's tar shit, but the real primo, powder so clean you can see the little crystals melting away in the spoon, stuff a guy like me stumbles across once in a lifetime—and you're sinking in, so deep you can't move to get the shoelace off your arm, let alone reach out for the cig you left burning in the ashtray, and the smoke is rolling up in a lacy spiral, real lazy, silver and gold, just floating and twisting, and even though you're trying, you know there's no drug in the world that could make you as free as that little twist of smoke is at that moment, unbound, untethered, splitting and spinning and twisting into a hundred versions of itself, each one uniquely and beautifully different, a diaphanous creature born of air currents so soft they barely exist, spiraling toward the ceiling. Endless.
Blood's like that. Primal. Untethered.
It forms its own patterns in the air. Some blood mists, the particles too fine to coalesce. Other times it's a gush, sputtery and thick. It catches the light in unexpected ways, glistening and refracting, blood rainbows prettier than an oil slick. And always different. No human skull breaks exactly the same. The contours are different, changing the faultlines and points of fracture. Some skulls crack, others implode. Sometimes your axe blade hits on a dull edge and forces just enough pressure into the cranium to burst it out the other side in a dynamite geyser. Skull cavitation.
Rivet hitched up beside me, puffing, looking like modern art where the only paint left was red. He'd forgotten he was mad at me, because he draped an arm over my shoulders, propped his shovel against his chest, and lifted his safety goggles to his forehead. There was a raccoon-patch of clear skin around his eyes.
"Lot of juice in these fuckers," he said casually, with the jaded air of a construction worker on a smoke break. We watched in silence as Jennie punctured an old lady's jugular with the sharp end of her fire poker. The black iron burst from the back of the woman's neck, and when Jennie jerked it back, the recurved part caught like a fishhook and tugged the woman forward. Jennie swung the old lady around in a complete circle, then yanked back hard and tore the poker free. The left half of the woman's neck ripped away with it, leaving a concave opening from her chin to her shoulder blade. Her blood was the gushing variety. The old woman fell to the ground like an unloved doll and Jennie turned to see us watching. She waved, and Rivet whistled.
"She looks like Carrie," I said.
"She looks sexy as shit," said Rivet.
"If that's your thing," I said. "We need to get moving. These slow ones, we can just work around." There were only five zombies left on the street that I could see. They shuffled up slower than the rest, mostly elderly, one missing his dentures, gnashing gums. They'd be a cinch to avoid.
"Yeah, let's get going. Jen!" he called. "Come on, hun."
Jennie took a leaping swing at the toothless guy, shattering his cheekbone, then trotted over to us. She was breathing hard.
"This is better than zumba. Sickening, but what a workout!"
"Get over here, slayer," Rivet pulled Jennie to him and kissed her. Jennie made a halfhearted attempt to push away, but I could tell she enjoyed it.
"Ew, Rivet. The blood."
"We're moving on," Rivet said. We skipped around the last four zombies and trotted into town. We were already close; as we'd fought, we'd steadily worked our way about half a block up River, so the drugstore was now visible on the right. Rivet was in the lead, followed by Jennie and then me. Another stag worked its way across the hardware store parking lot, but we ignored it. We'd be in and out before it even reached us. The door was propped open, and I could see a cigarette stand through the display windows. I knew where I was going first.
As Rivet trotted past the cars parked outside Dinkins, an explosive boom rang out across the quiet town. The window of the car beside Rivet shattered, and he ducked instinctively. Another gunshot, so loud it left my ears ringing, and I swear I felt the air shake as a bullet ripped past me.
"What the hell?" Rivet yelled.
"Turn around!" shouted a deep voice. It sounded like it was coming from inside Dinkins.
"What's it matter to you?" Rivet challenged. He was hunkered down beside a bright yellow Chevy. Gummy safety glass from the shattered window littered the ground at his feet. Jennie and I huddled behind the rear fender of a black sedan right beside him.
"I said turn around," the voice called again. "Ain't nothing for you here."
"Mr. Dinkins?" I shouted. "It's Ray. From the hardware store? I sold you your gutters."
"I seen you, kid. I don't want to shoot you, but I will you come any closer. Turn around and live your life." His words rolled out in a rapid-fire slur.
"Son of a bitch got into his own stash!" Rivet cried. "Never trust a pharmacist."
"We don't mean any harm," I called, "but we need your help."
"Ain't got no help to give," Dinkins said.
"You do. You know you do. We won't come in, I promise. But just throw us something. We'll leave you alone."
"Like hell we will," Rivet muttered darkly. On hands and knees, he scooted around the back of the yellow Chevy, paused, then leaped across the gap between the Chevy and the next car down the line like a feral cat. Instantly, thunder roared and a metal slug pinged off the fender of the Chevy.
"Whatever you're trying out there, it won't work. Now back the fuck away before my aim gets better. Life don't need to end here."
"I don't know if you've seen, but there's not a shit ton of life out here," Jennie shouted.
"Nice try, sweet thing. I seen this movie in the seventies. One gets in, they all get in. You won't sway me with your bouncy teets. I ain't swung that way in years."
"You better hope you don't run out of ammo, creep," Jennie shot back
. To me, she mouthed, what the fuck?
"Let's go," I said. "Let's...Rivet! Where are you?" He'd disappeared. "Shit." The stag from the hardware store parking lot was halfway across the street, loping with one leg dragging lame behind him. Three more came out of the courthouse next to it. They were wearing smart pantsuits and ponytails, legal secretaries. Old Judge Mathers loped out behind them, blood caked to the front of his officiating robe. He leaped the curb with a gutteral shriek and made a beeline for us. We'd be trapped in a few seconds.
"Can we..." Fuck, how do I even ask this? "...can we kill these zombies real quick?" I shouted. "Without you shooting us?" In reply, two gunshots rang out of the pharmacy and both of Judge Mathers's kneecaps exploded neatly under his flowing robe. He pitched forward and began to crawl, leaving a long red stain on the road behind him.
"You have to shoot their heads," I called. Pause. "I think."
Another shot. The judge's head unplugged at the top, spritzing the double yellow lines in the middle of the street. He lay still. Dinkins began to laugh.
"Good sightin', son," Dinkins cackled. "Been a few years since 'Nam, but this old fag ain't forgot how to sling lead. Call 'em out for me—hey! How the fuck'd you...ahhh!"
"Get in here, Ray!" Rivet's voice shouted. "Help me with him."