by Won, Mark
The running guy turned and came in my direction so I backed up into the alley a bit. Running out in the open like that was kinda dumb. Just because there weren’t many zombies around was no reason for him to push his luck. The alley was between a couple of houses so there was no way for the cop car to fit past the trees and shrubbery. Mr. Run (as I named him) cast a surprised glance at me as he ran on by. I made a peace sign at him, real friendly like.
He turned even more pale and said, “Run you fool!” but before he could reach the end of the alley another cop car pulled up, blocking his escape. The first cop car drove up to the alley and blocked off the end of the alley I was at, and Big Nose and Beardo got out and started walking over, real confident. Another cop got out of the other car and began to make his way to the entrance of the alley at his end.
Uncle was the best. He taught me all of the most important things. Well, I guess he didn’t teach me much about the coming zombie uprising, but I don’t hold that against him. Almost nobody was really ready for that one. What he did teach me was that if I was ever in an alley and it got blocked off by some suspicious looking people I had options. Like, for example, I could charge the one guy and, using that tree stump as a boost, jump over his head, bounce off his car, and be off in an instant. Or I could just climb the wall using the windowsill for a toe hold. Or, if I wanted to do things the boring way, I could wait for the one cop, and before he got too close I could probably just dodge around him (Uncle said I was spry) and run away. So, you see, I wasn’t really trapped at all. It just looked that way to the unenlightened.
Now Mr. Run, on the other hand, he was trapped and shaking. I tried to comfort him by telling him, “Chill out dude. It’s just the cops. You know, like, the fuzz,” I tried to use words from old movies that I’d seen. That way old people like Mr. Run would understand me better and maybe be more relaxed. It didn’t work, though. Mr. Run paid me no mind, he was totally focused on the approaching police. I decided to stick around to see what would happen next. Scrounging for bullets can be surprisingly dull a lot of the time, so I was grateful for the distraction.
The two cops came up to the alley on one side and the lone cop came to the other. Mr. Run said to me, “There not cops!” in a strangley sort of whisper. Then he peed himself. I’m not kidding! He really did! I always thought that was just a made up thing, that someone could be so afraid that he’d pee himself. It was totally gross.
I just had to ask, “Hey, Mr. Run, what did you do to piss off these fake cops so much?” I made sure to emphasize the word ‘piss’ because that was funny.
As he lay there in his own waste, curled up in the dirt and grass, he whispered at me, “One of them got bit and I couldn’t save him.”
I was about to ask him what he was talking about when all three fake cops finally passed their respective alleyway openings and saw me standing over their prey. Beardo said, “Well, well, well. What have we here?” What an unoriginal chump, I already didn’t like him.
Big nose said, “Looks like we won’t be so hard on you after all, Doc. We won’t be able to once we get through with your boy there.” They all laughed. I didn’t get the joke but that didn’t matter.
Uncle had taught me all about how normal people laugh. About how which kind of laugh means what kind of thing. The laugh that the three fake cops were using was the kind people use just before they hurt someone for fun. I sometimes laugh before I hurt people too, but it never sounds like that.
Because I knew I was about to have the fun of killing three fake cops, I found their laughter entirely infectious. I couldn’t help myself, and just burst out with a full belly laugh. See what I mean? It’s a completely different laugh. Totally honest and not snide or dark at all. My laugh shut them up like someone flipped a switch.
Beardo said, “I think he’s retarded.” That had me almost doubled over with the hilarity of it all. I was pretty sure my intelligence quotient was greater than any two of them put together. Uncle had made me take a test.
I was wearing a beautiful red cloak that I’d found in the remains of a Renaissance fair. Maybe it did make me look silly, but it was great for hiding things in. Like my nifty imitation LeMat that Uncle had made for me. It was kind of big for me but I liked it anyway. I called him ‘Bob’ because he looks like a Bob. It used bullets instead of cap and ball and was a nice .44 caliber (nine shots) revolver with a 20 gauge shotgun shell loaded in the center. My only problem with it at the time was that I was out of .44 ammo and I didn’t want to waste my last shotgun shell.
My fast draw gun (Zippy) was another .44. Real tiny with just five shots. Uncle and I had loads of fun with him teaching me how to quick draw and fire it. That had been another thing I had to be careful to not tell Mom and Dad about. They probably would have told me that I’d put an eye out or something. I had no bullets for it either.
I also like to keep my knuckleduster in a side pocket in my jeans. It’s a real cool little .22 with a seven shot cylinder and a wraparound knuckle guard, perfect for punching people and cracking zombie skulls (although a little too close for comfort for me). No ammo, though. I’d shot the last of it off last Tuesday in a gas station. In my other side pocket I keep my other derringer, a two shot .44, just in case. Uncle didn’t much care for the idea of branching out too much in the caliber department.
I did have one other gun on me. It was a 9mm that I’d taken from the zombie of a real cop. Zombies are so stupid. It held fifteen bullets and I had to think that the three fake cops probably had plenty of 9mm ammunition on them. After all, if they had the uniforms and badges and guns, surely they had the bullets too. The trouble was, I didn’t really like that pistol. Uncle hadn’t made it for me.
Those dummies were so overconfident they never even saw it coming. Big Nose was reaching for me while the other two were busy unbuttoning their pants. That’s when I brought Polly out to play.
She slipped free of her sheath and I sliced Big Nose’s hands right off. You should have seen the look on his face. Priceless. All open mouthed surprise, too shocked to speak, waving his arms around like a spaz, with blood spurting all over the place. I almost burst out laughing again.
Everybody else looked surprised, too. Even Mr. Run was gawping shamelessly. That did make me chuckle just a little, but not enough to hamper my roundhouse back swing. I managed to decapitate Beardo and throat slice the other guy with one nice slash. I probably could have cut both heads off with one swing if it wasn’t for my unfair height disadvantage.
Zombified Other Guy got up pretty fast but I was way ready for that move and put him right back down. Then I split Big Nose’s skull and (just to be thorough) stabbed Beardo’s head. I might have kept it to talk to for a while, but I had Mr. Run, so why bother?
I was glad to see Tracer hadn’t gotten involved. Sometimes he does that and I don’t like it. He could get himself hurt. There was no amount of training that could completely turn off that dog’s need to protect me, though, so I’d had to learn to kill stuff quick, before he had time to feel the need to take action.
“Hey, Mr. Run, help me loot these corpses, will ya?” He just sat there like a bump on a log. I would have got better dialog from the severed zombie head. Tracer was over with him, sniffing his pee.
The fake cops had lots of neat stuff. Bullet proof vests, guns, bullets, handcuffs, badges, tasers. I even liked their uniforms. I’d have to wash them, sure, but I bet I’d look real nice in one of them (once I grew some). Their cars were full of stuff, too. I got some nice shotguns (12 gauge), first aid kits, mace, and beer (yuk!).
Eventually, I did rouse Mr. Run and got him into a cop car. Uncle had taught me how to drive when I was only nine. I’m an excellent driver. I was thinking about trying to get some answers out of Mr. Run when the radio in the cop car started talking to me.
“Razor, Joe, Slasher, where the *$%^&* are you guys? Can’t you find one runner? You’ve had all day. Lars says to quit *$%^&* around and get him back here.” I looked at the radio and I thou
ght, that could be fun.
I picked it up and (after a little fiddling with it) put on my best Big Nose voice (Uncle and I had loved playing ‘who am I?’), “I got some car trouble here. Need a pick up. We’re at,” I gave our upcoming street corner, “shhhesheee, both stuck in the mud, shhhesheee, can’t, shhhesheee, both need pick up. Got the runner but, shhhesheee, kicked out the radio, shhhesheee, at,” I gave the address again, “need pick up.” Then I hung up the radio. Pretty smart, huh?
Mr. Run didn’t think so. He just looked at me like I was some kind of nut. The guy trying to talk to Big Nose, Beardo, or Other Guy had some more to say, “You *#$%^* let him kick out your radio? What was he *$%^&* doing in the *$%^&* front seat, anyway? You know what? Don’t even *$%^&* tell me, I don’t need to *$%^&* know. Why don’t Ron’s *$%^&* radio *$%^&* work? You *$%^&* dummies are in so much *$%^&* trouble...” That jerk had a dirty mouth on him so I turned the radio off. Then I pulled the car over, parked on the dirt, and got out with Mr. Run and Tracer following me. I entered the nearest residence with a door busted out. Tracer gave no sign of trouble.
Mr. Run asked, “How do you know this house is safe?” What a funny question.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Run, I saw the door was busted outward. That usually means the zombies have cleared out. And my dog told me.”
“What’s a zombie?” he asked.
Sometimes I forget other people don’t know what I know. It’s not really fair of me. When the Change had first happened I’d been at home, and after I’d killed my zombie parents I’d naturally used the shortwave that I’d inherited from Uncle. That’s how I heard all about some survivors out west. They named the zombies ‘zombies’. Someday when I was feeling better I hoped to go there.
While I took up a nice sniper position overlooking my chosen intersection, I explained to Mr. Run all about zombies, ogres, and ghouls. The cop shotgun was a bit big for me but I knew I could handle it. Uncle had taught me use one when I was just a kid.
We didn’t have long to wait before a couple more cop cars came along and parked right next to my abandoned cop vehicle. As traps go it was embarrassingly simple. I’d like to think that real cops would never have fallen for it. I more than half expected the fake cop reinforcements to not fall for it. Each approaching cop car had only one person inside. I suppose because they thought they would be taking back four more people and didn’t want things to be cramped.
Once both drivers had gotten out of their cars they cautiously walked over to the abandoned vehicle’s driver’s side. I expect they were confused as to why there was only one car, and why they couldn’t reach anyone on the radio, and why there was no one in the car. Then I popped up and blasted them. The way they were both leaning over to look at an empty drivers seat was like a gift. I managed to kill them both with just one shot. Right through two heads with one spread. I’ll admit, that did make me giggle. Uncle would have been proud of the way I took advantage of my enemies’ stupidity to conserve ammunition.
Mr. Run was back to staring at me like I was weird or something. He asked me, “Who are you?”
Fair enough. Uncle taught me that it’s rude to know someone else’s name and not introduce yourself. That’s why everybody hated telemarketers. So I told him all about myself while we got back in one of the new cars, one that didn’t have brain gore splattered all over the side, and I drove us away.
I took us back to where I’d stashed my bike, just outside of town. I had Mr. Run get in the rickshaw while Tracer rode in the basket, as usual. Before we could go anywhere, Mr. Run had to move some of my stuff to underneath the seat. Then I pedaled us away for a mile and a half, before reaching last night’s camp (the gas station which had cost me the last of my .22 pistol ammo). Once there, Tracer and I settled down to have a long chat with Mr. Run.
He had a lot to say.
Chapter 2
“So, to sum up, there are fourteen of them left, the only way into the hospital that hasn’t been locked shut is the emergency entrance, and there are twelve doctors, nurses, and patients being kept as prisoners. Is that right?”
He’d told me all about how that when the world Changed the rest of the city had Changed with it. That included the hospital, everywhere except the top ten floors. He and all his fellow survivors had tried to ride it out by sealing off their level and waiting for help. They had put sheets out the windows with a message calling for help, and help, of a sort, arrived after three more days of privation. Mr. Run and company had thought they were saved when all the fake cops had showed up to clear the building of zombies. Then things got dark. I don’t want to write about it, so I’ll just say everybody was wishing they could have been left to die of hunger rather than have suffered the kinds of things that happened. The fake cops did eventually kill almost everybody. Of special interest to me was that when the fake cops killed people on the upper floors of the hospital the victims didn’t turn into zombies. It was a safe zone.
While I was talking to Mr. Run (whose other name was Doctor Ian Donaldson) I was busy cleaning the pee out of my rickshaw seat. Those things are hard to come by. I had got lucky when I went bicycle shopping after the Change. There was this nice place in Jersey called ‘Biketastic Wonderland’ and it had everything. Including the bike I was using, a sweet recumbent painted all dark blue. I named her ‘Blue’. I know that sounds weird because Blue is a boys name, but it just seemed to fit. She even had a cute little engine in case I ran into a real steep hill (and didn’t mind making some noise).
I kept most of my favorite things in that rickshaw. I had a fantasy shield on the bottom, and on top of it I kept my extra food, water, water filter, alcohol, parts, tools, and stuff. Like Frank, my throwing axe (he’s French but I never held that against him). That was all under the seat. At the feet of where someone would sit, I kept my (imitation) Evans rifle. Uncle had made it with a few improvements. It was a .44 caliber and used tube magazines to save on reload times. I had five magazines for rifle ammunition (holding twenty-eight bullets each) and two for the short ammunition (they held thirty-four bullets each). She was my favorite rifle. I called her Mary Ann. The rifle on the other side was a 1903 Springfield, in case I wanted a lot of range (sometimes that can be fun). Uncle had made it with a five round internal magazine. When I asked, he said that he could have made it with a twenty five round box but that would be pointless. If I were to snipe somebody I really should only need the one shot. Her name was Ginger. I had both rifles positioned so I could draw them quickly while pedaling my bike.
Of course, I kept my most favorite stuff on the bike with me. Like Tracer and the companion sword Uncle had made for me. She was a beautiful kopis forged from bronze with a two foot long blade. Totally authentic (maybe a bit long) with a cute little horsey head wrapping around the pommel. I named her Buttercup. I mean the pommel, not the whole sword. She was called “Abaddon the Harbinger of Final Judgment who Paves the Path to Perdition with the Souls of Mine Enemies” (Abby for short). She was kind of upset about being left out of the fight earlier. Also I had a small holster for my sawed off double barrel shotgun. The shotgun doesn’t have a name because it’s only a shotgun, but I sure do like to blow zombies heads off with it. Other things’ heads too. I kept my cross on the handlebars and let Tracer lay on my bible in the basket. He likes riding up front.
Mr. Run said, “What are you going to do?” I was really beginning to like Mr. Run. That guy just wouldn’t stop with the one liners.
After an appreciative chuckle, “I’m going to kill off the rest of the fake cops, of course.”
Mr. Run looked appalled, “Why?” It came out in his funny strangley voice.
I like playing games and Mr. Run was turning out to be way funner than any zombie head. I told him, “Two reasons. I can’t just let a bunch of innocent people keep on getting hurt by a bunch of fake cops. That wouldn’t be right. Uncle would want me to do the right thing. It’s in my religion.” Simple enough, really.
Mr. Run looked like he had a bunc
h of questions still, but he settled on, “What’s the other reason?”
“Huh?”
“You said you had two reasons. What’s your other reason for wanting to kill those men?”
I answered, “I like to kill people.” Then in a stage whisper, “Sometimes when I go on a zombie killing rampage I like to pretend they’re not actually zombies.” Uncle had always warned me not to say stuff like that because it would get me in trouble with the law. As far as I could tell, though, there was no more law (no more of Man’s law, that is), so why hold back? One thing I really liked about life after the Change was that I could just be myself without any fear of mental institutions.
Mr. Run seemed to enter into one of those meditative states Uncle had tried to teach me (I was never any good at it) and I used the opportunity to go over the maps I’d had Mr. Run draw for me. The whole thing looked pretty simple. I could probably just go in tomorrow night and kill them all, but that wasn’t what Uncle would have wanted. He would have said, “Don’t be stupid, boy! Minimize your risk! Quit underestimating your enemies! How are we even related, you moron!”
Good Lord, how I miss him sometimes.
“How are you going to do it?” Mr. Run was back with me.
“Kill the enemy?” I said. “I’ll use some bullets, some tactics, maybe some fire,” I really like fire, “Definitely some fire. You know, the usual. Why, do you have an idea?” It never hurts to try and learn new things. And new kinds of fun can come from the most unlikely sources.
“Why don’t we just drive away?”
I was appalled. I even said so, “I’m appalled, Mr. Run. How could you even suggest such a thing, with all your friends in trouble?”
“I don’t think that I can go back there. I don’t know how to shoot. If I go back they’ll catch me again. I just can’t do it.” He looked so dejected I felt sorry for him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Run, I’ll kill everybody for you and then come back and pick you up, okay?”