by W. J. Lundy
Herb cleared his throat. “I think your good with the shovel.”
“What the hell, Herb? Why don’t you want me to have a gun?”
Herb started the Jeep and put it into gear, letting it roll forward. “For starters, you said you’ve never fired a gun before, and you’ve been drinking for the last forty-eight hours. It’s not safe to operate a firearm while under the influence.”
“Hell, Herb! You’ve been drinking too and now you’re driving the Jeep!”
Herb sighed. “Let’s not go making this about me, son.”
Wyatt bit down on his lip, shaking his head. “Fine then,” he said, pulling the shovel close to him.
The Jeep rolled down the hill, Herb only slowing enough to weave around an errant zombie that managed to find itself on the road. The dead eyed things would stop to stare into the Jeep then turn and walk away, seemingly uninterested in the vehicle.
“There,” Nigel said, pointing to a bleach-white concrete drive with several cars parked along its edge that led to the main house. “Take us right up to the front door.”
Herb eyed him sideways. “You sure about that?”
“Aye,” Nigel said nodding. “They won’t be expecting it.”
The old man slowed and made the turn onto the drive, moving around the cars, all of them luxury-imported sedans and flashy sports cars. “Got two more guards on the porch.”
“I see them. Just keep going. We’re in it now.”
Wyatt leaned toward the passenger window and searched the terrain. Outside of the hordes of zombies wandering the property, Wyatt only spotted the two guards. The men armed with rifles were staring directly at them but letting the rifles hang lazily in their hands. “What’s with all the cars?” Wyatt asked.
Nigel leaned forward and panned the vehicles. “I recognize some of them from the festival, and it is probably their owners we see stumbling about,” he said, lifting the rifle and checking the action. “Pull us up close to the house and let’s give them a surprise, shall we? Wyatt, you and I will dispose of the guards. When I step out, you jump the one on the right.”
Herb dipped his chin and made the final turn in the driveway. Just before pulling up to the porch, he gunned the engine. Racing directly toward the front steps, at the last minute he braked hard and cut the wheel. The guards, overcome by shock, reeled back instead of raising their weapons. Nigel flung the door open and launched himself toward the steps. Wyatt jumped forward. Catching his feet on the back seat, he fell to the ground.
Climbing up, he heard Nigel’s rifle bark and a man scream. When Wyatt looked up and saw the guard on the right leveling a rifle in his direction, he scrambled. The Infinitum sharpening his vision and allowing for quick reflexes, he rolled out of the line of fire and threw his shovel at the shooter. He watched as the man fired at him while the shovel flew through the air rotating on its axis, the handle looping around and connecting with the guard’s temple.
Wyatt launched himself back to his feet and looked to the left. Nigel was walking away from the motionless body of the first guard. Nigel was licking his lips as he approached the unconscious guard on the right. He stopped over the man and squatted down, grabbing at the man’s meaty forearm.
“Whoa! What are you doing?” Wyatt asked.
Nigel reeled back and shrugged. “Was just going to get your shovel. What did you think I was going to do?” He dropped the man’s arm and retrieved the shovel, passing it back to Wyatt.
Wyatt waved off the shovel and instead picked up the downed man’s rifle, smiling. “I’m okay with this.” He turned back to see Herb stomping up the steps. “We better get inside. The zombies are circling.”
Chapter Eleven
“Careful what you shoot at, boys; we need the Doc alive to get the antidote,” Nigel said.
Herb stood back and prepared to give the front door a swift kick when the knob turned and the door opened in. A man wearing a white, turtleneck sweater and khaki pants stood in the doorway, smiling. He looked at Herb and Wyatt suspiciously before turning to Nigel with a grin.
“Nige it’s good to see you, my friend. I thought we’d lost you.” He extended his hand for a shake, but Nigel dismissed it. “Here for more cider, I suppose?”
Nigel lifted the rifle and pointed at the man’s chest. “Come on now, back inside and keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man frowned and raised his hands. “Fair enough, Nige, but I’ll have you know this is no way to treat a friend.”
The doctor turned and Nigelpressed the rifle’s barrel into the center of his back before following the man inside. They passed into a large great room decorated in a blend of farmhouse chic—lots of wood and fabric-covered furniture. An ornate rack filled with cider bottle covered an entire wall of the room. Herb looked at Wyatt, raised his eyebrows, and gestured for him to follow them. Wyatt stepped into the room and waited for the old man to secure the door behind them.
“Who else is in the house?” Herb barked.
The man turned back with a surprised expression. “Who are these men, Nige? I don’t recognize their faces. Were they on the guest list?”
Nigel poked the doctor with his rifle. “They are my plus two. Now answer his question; who else is in the house?”
“Why, it’s just me, of course.” The doctor walked away toward the wall-length cider rack. “Now what is it I can do for you, Nige?” The doctor stepped across dark-stained, hardwood floors to a small, granite bar top just in front of the cider rack. In the center was a silver tray with a set of fine crystal pint glasses. He rested his hands on the bar’s surface and leaned into it. “More cider, I suppose? Have you finished the distribution agreement I asked for? I do believe that was our arrangement.”
Stepping forward, Nigel said, “Are you mad? I’m not writing you a contract. Do you know what’s going on out there? Your creation killed half the city.”
Wyatt let his eyes search the cider rack behind the bar. There were hundreds of red bottles neatly positioned in the slots. The long rack made of a dark wood formed an intricately curved shape of the infinity symbol; the same symbol that they’d seen on the van and the bottle labels. Where the shelving looped around and intersected in the shape of an X, there rested a single bottle of gold-tinted liquid with a green cap.
The doctor caught Wyatt’s gaze and followed it. “Ahh, so it’s the Sweet Apple, The Witches Bite we call it. That’s what you are after. Who told you about it? Was it Alex? The boy never could keep a secret,” the doctor said, laughing. “How is he anyhow?”
Nigel shook his head.
“Don’t tell me you ate him? Very poor manners, Nige, very poor.” Winchester waved a hand along the racks. “I assure you the Infinitum is far superior. That is what you really want.”
The doctor went to reach below the bar and Herb raised his rifle. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Doc. It’s been friendly so far; let’s keep it that way.”
Winchester smiled and showed Herb his open palms. “Just fetching a chilled bottle. We aren’t animals here. Our posh friend is liable to blast me in his precious circles if I serve him at the wrong temperature.” The doctor kept his left hand raised while he removed a bottle from below the counter. Holding it up, he waited for Herb’s approval before sitting it next to the silver tray. “What exactly has Nige told you about my cider,” Winchester asked while opening the bottle.
“Is this guy for real?” Herb said, shooting the doctor a sideways expression.
Winchester glanced up at the men’s blank expressions, ignoring Herb’s question, and said, “Ahh, so not much at all… that is disappointing.” The Doctor poured four pints then waved his hand, signaling for the others to take a glass. “I invited Nige all the way here from London, all expenses paid, and he cannot even share the graces of my new discovery. Please, gentleman, enjoy.”
Wyatt went to step toward the bar with a hand raised to receive the offered beverage when Herb cleared his throat. “Nope, uh-uh, Doc. Like you said, we’re
here for the Witches Brew. Not interested in anymore of your Zombie elixir.”
Pursuing his lips, Winchester gave Herb a scowl. “Witches Bite,” he corrected, “Are you sure? Everyone comes to my door asking for the Infinitum, nobody comes for the Witches Bite. I could offer you a lifetime supply. I’m sure an arrangement could be made.”
Herb changed the point of aim of his rifle and fired, blasting away two of the filled glasses of cider, the round continuing through to the cider rack and exploding several bottles.
“Not going to ask you again, Doc,” Herb shouted.
The doctor waved his hands toward the rack, looking at the splatters of cider covering his sheer white turtleneck sweater. “This is insanity and completely unnecessary. I have treated you as guests, why would you do this?” Winchester continued his rant as he approached the cider rack. “Do you realize how rare this bottle of Sweet Apple? How much effort it takes to produce? And you want me to just give it to you?” he scoffed.
The old man raised his rifle, now directing it at the chest of the doctor. “Hand it over.”
Winchester signed audibly. “Very well then.” The doctor necked the bottle with the green cap, his hand began to withdraw it from the rack. As he did, Nigel stepped closer. The Brit slung the rifle and rubbed his palms together eagerly. Winchester grinned and ripped the bottle from the rack, flipping it through the air in Herb’s direction. Herb dropped the rifle and dove for the bottle of Witches Bite tumbling through the air.
Wyatt watched in horror as Winchester pulled a small semi-automatic pistol from within the rack. He pointed it at Nigel who struggled to unsling his rifle. Wyatt leveled and aimed his own weapon, pulling the trigger. He flinched, expecting the recoil, but nothing happened. Winchester fired twice, hitting Nigel in the chest and knocking him back. The doctor then spun toward Wyatt who dove to the floor next to Herb, the older man now cradling the bottle of Witches Bite and crawling for cover behind a large, maple desk.
“The gun don’t work!” Wyatt screamed over the blasts of the doctor firing wildly in their direction.
Herb looked over at the M4 carbine Wyatt was holding. “It’s on safe, you fool! I told you to stick to using the shovel,” he said, reaching over and flipping the selector switch on the rifle. “There… now shoot.”
Wyatt rose up holding the rifle, trying to impersonate his best commando pose. Doctor Winchester was gone, the back door of the house swinging open.
“I don’t see him. I think he went out the back,” Wyatt said. He slowly rose to his feet and searched the room. He stepped closer to the bar and saw the crumpled form of Nigel on the floor, blood pouring from his chest wounds.
“Herb!” Wyatt called out, running to Nigel’s side.
He pulled Nigel up into a sitting position, causing the wounded man to cough and gasp, blood beginning to form at his lips. The wounded man pointed to the remaining glasses of Infinitum. Herb retrieved the glass and held it to the Brit’s lips who gulped between coughs. The man’s breathing calmed and the blood stopped pouring from his wounds, but the color continued to fade from the man’s face.
“Did it heal you?” Wyatt asked.
Nigel shook his head. “No, it’s kept me alive, but the wounds will never heal now.”
“Never?” Wyatt asked.
Nigel fought himself upright and stood leaning against the bar. He took the second glass from the tray and downed it in a single gulp then reached down and retrieved his rifle. “I’ll go after Doctor Winchester. You two get out of here.”
“What about this?” Herb asked, holding up the bottle of Witches Bite.
Nigel stared at his hands, watching them fade to gray. “Drink it, and get out of here. I’m afraid I’m finished,” Nigel said. The man righted himself and looked down at his rifle. “I’ll kill him if I can, but you two need to leave now.”
They watched as Nigel ran through the back door in pursuit of the doctor. Just as Herb set the bottle onto the granite bar top, the pair jumped at the sound of banging coming from the front of the house. Turning, they saw the porch covered with zombies, drawn in by the sounds of the gunfire.
“Guess we better do this quick and get out of here,” Herb said, prying at the capped bottle with his knife.
Soon he had the bottle opened and sitting in front of him. “Beauty before age,” Herb said in a smooth tone.
Taking a deep breath, Wyatt grabbed the bottle and took several gulps before sitting it back on the table. He shook his shoulders, shivering. “It tingles,” he said.
Herb snatched the bottle and downed a third of it before coming up for air. He rolled his shoulders and belched. “Eww. It has a bit of a bite, don’t it?”
Wyatt flexed his wrists and back, feeling the normal aches and pains return to his body. Looking across to Herb, he watched as the old man’s posture returned to his previous stature. The zombies continued to pound on the glass. He looked up. “Wait, do you think we should have drank this later?”
Shrugging, the old man asked, “Why?”
“Cause now the zombies will want us.”
As if the zombies had been listening to the discussion, the door broke open.
Chapter Twelve
The undead flooded into the room, arms flailing, dressed in shredded clothing, moaning and growling at the two men gathered by the bar. Herb raised his rifle and stepped hard to the side, taking aim. The old man fired twice, hitting the lead zombie in the neck and face, knocking it back.
Wyatt, following the old man, moved around the bar and raised the M4. He pulled the trigger rapidly, hitting the next two zombies in the shoulders, elbows, and stomachs then managing to hit the large picture window, bits of door, the floor, and some random furniture. He continued pulling the trigger until the bolt of the rifle locked back on an empty chamber.
Herb turned to look at him. “You done?”
Letting out an exaggerated yelp, Wyatt pointed at the maimed herd of zombies continuing their march forward. Herb planted his lead foot and leaned into the Garand. Firing calmly, he knocked down the last of the undead blocking the doorway. He moved out to the porch and checked left and right. Wyatt rushed up behind him. “Did you get them all?”
“Not all of ‘em,” Herb said, pointing toward a barn where another horde was slowly moving in their direction. The old man reached over and snatched the rifle from Wyatt’s grasp and tossed it to the side; he then reached down on the porch and retrieved the young man’s shovel.
“Here,” he said, pushing it into Wyatt’s chest. “Get in the Jeep. It’s time to go.”
Together they ran for the Jeep still parked up on the sidewalk where they had left it. Closing the doors, they could hear the faint sounds of a distant gun battle. “Nigel,” Wyatt said.
Dipping his chin, Herb put the Jeep into gear and let out the clutch, launching them down the driveway. “Should we look for him?” Wyatt asked.
He shook his head no while cutting the wheel to the right to bump a zombie walking on the shoulder of the lane, the rotting corpse launching into the grass with a sickening thud.
“Nope, you heard him; he’s a stinker now, nothing we can do for him.” Herb found the end of the lane and eased the Jeep through the gate and back onto the open road. He shifted into high gear and gunned the engine, leaving the farm in their wake of dust.
As the Jeep barreled down the road, Wyatt leaned back into his seat. “What do we do now?”
Herb gripped the wheel. “I thought we would go by the station. If the girl isn’t there, we go back to the original plan.”
“Original plan?”
Herb slowed and steered around a series of abandoned cars. “My cabin at the lake. It’s stocked, plenty of fishing; we can hold out there.”
Herb moved the Jeep to the shoulder and slowed to a stop. Ahead there was a police roadblock, two tan and white Sport Utility vehicles with flashing lights on the top.
“What do you suppose it is?” Wyatt asked.
“I don’t know,” Herb said, pu
lling the vehicle ahead. As they got closer, they could begin to make out officers resting over the hood, holding shotguns. Behind the vehicles, sat an ambulance with the rear door open. Just inside the door, they spotted a woman with a space blanket over her shoulders.
“It’s Susan,” Wyatt said, pointing.
“Well, looks like your girlfriend found her boyfriend,” the old man chuckled.
Herb drove the vehicle to just in front of the police cars. Before they could exit, they had guns pointed at them and officers yelling for them to exit the Jeep. Wyatt swung his door open and stepped out. As soon the men saw them, they lowered their weapons. A man in a pressed uniform and Stetson hat walked toward them looking smug as ever. Wyatt immediately recognized the cop as Reid Jamison.
“You know you boys could be shot on sight for breaking the perimeter. What the hell were you doing out there?” Reid asked.
Wyatt ignored the cop’s question. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, no thanks to you knuckleheads. Just dehydrated and hungry. Lucky to be alive the way you all rescued her. Whose idea was it to take her to a rat infested gas station then send her out on her own?”
Herb shrugged. “I don’t know. Reckon it was me. How’s the wife and kids, Jamison?”
Reid stepped forward with a scowl. “That’s none of your concern. Now, Susan said you all were sick infected maybe, and she demanded we drive out here to find you. You both look okay to me.”
Wyatt turned to Herb and then back to Reid. He began to speak but before he could open his mouth, he saw the black duffle bag lying crumpled next to one of the police vehicles’ tires. Wyatt pointed at the bag. “Where’d you get that?”
The cop pulled a pack of cigarettes and slapped them against the palm of his hand before removing one. “Yeah, she told me how you two sat up all night drinking and raising hell. I confiscated your cider. I figure it’s the least you could do for all the trouble you caused me, having to drive all the way out here.”