by L. ROY AIKEN
“What about it?”
“I saw you with Mr. Sanderson today. You’re not afraid to approach these things.”
“Assuming you really saw me with Sanderson, you’d know I came at him from behind, after his attention was drawn by Brandon.”
“I do know that, because I was watching with the binoculars. We knew you’d left.” He adds quickly, “You’re honest. You’re not a braggart. That speaks to your character. I just thought you might be interested in seeing this room. Nick Teller was something of a collector.”
Evans takes a few steps forward and left and we’re in a windowless room full of glass cases. He had to have known the one that would catch my eye. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I say.
“You’re going out with us on the expedition tomorrow, right?”
“I can use this?”
“It’s not doing us any good in here.”
“All right, then. I can’t help but notice, though….”
“You’ll be surrounded by my people. Until we come to an understanding, they’ll have the guns.”
Because we have trust issues, Tanner. I catch myself smiling at the memory. I almost miss that shifty bastard. “Fair enough,” I say.
“You see the belt over there. That ought to go well with the clothes we have for you. Luckily we had enough old-school hunters on this street for a match.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, I love it and all but—this isn’t what you expect me wearing to the dinner party, right?”
Evans laughs. “No, no! I’ve got those laid out in your room. I just wanted you to see this. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do after dinner! You like this, though, right?”
“I can do a lot with that one blade I saw.”
“I’ll bet! Let me show you to your room!”
It’s still a pretty good size for a guestroom. It has its own bathroom, which is really the only thing I care about in these matters. Evans leaves me with a reminder of the cocktail hour time, and he lets himself out. I look among the clothes on the bed, and realize—well, what could have been done? No one thinks to stock up on underwear in the bag for the apocalypse. I’ll have to wash what I have on, either in the sink or in the laundry.
But only this one time. I’ll have to make a personal shopping list for tomorrow’s adventure. Underwear, shaving, and deodorant. I’ll look for a suitcase in the house. For right now, it’s a bathrobe, a shower, and hell, I just might take that nap. The more I rest, the better I heal. The quicker I heal, the quicker I’m on my way to what’s next.
Slipping between the sheets, squeaky clean and commando, I’m asleep before I can think to chant mission focus to myself. Just about the time I’m supposed to get up I’m awakened by something that doesn’t sound like my phone alarm. It’s my phone’s ringer. The one for calls outside my area code. I’m thinking Rob or Giselle until my eyes snap open and I realize where I am.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Grace. We have walkers in the neighborhood, just wanted to give you a heads up.”
“Where are they? That is, in relation to where I am.”
“They’re headed west on the avenue. Right down the middle of the street. We figure they’ll be out of here in about half an hour.”
“Where?”
“You’re not thinking of going out to meet them are you?”
“I’m just asking.”
“It’s just three of them. Five blocks east from you by now.”
“That’s all I need to know.”
“Just let them clear the area before you come over. I probably shouldn’t have called but I didn’t want to take the chance of you coming over early and running into them. We’re trying to get a system going for situations like this.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks.”
“All right. Just wanted to keep you in the loop. This shouldn’t affect our schedule.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
How long would it take three stumblers to cover five blocks? I figure I’ve got just enough time to get dressed. The hunting khakis it is, then. Wouldn’t want to mess up my dinner clothes. I make a note to get jeans—fuck these glorified cargo pants—and steel-toed work boots.
I’m dressed and out the door before it occurs to me to wonder where the neon blue hell my enthusiasm for killing zombies has come from. The answer is gripped in my right hand. A walnut grip large enough for two-handed action. The business end is a 20-inch blade that widens and curves upward at the tip. The tempered steel is coated in black carbon. This is a panga, kissing cousin of the legendary scimitars used by the Barbary pirates. Chief instrument of the Rwandan genocide. Shorter, non-coated versions are used to cut sugarcane. This one was meant to separate people from their appendages.
The people I have in mind had no trouble covering four blocks while I fussed with the blousing over my boots. Assistant liberal arts professors from K-State Natalia? At least one of them has that standard-issue smug, begging-to-be-punched face wrapped in a wispy beard and glasses. Apparently attacked in their offices—I see broad rips in the flesh of one of their hands, rips in the blood-stiffened forearms of their suits—I can’t imagine they’re coming home. Apparently they feel welcome enough here, though. A memory of fundraiser parties past?
A tall hedge screens me but the street is wide. I’m going to risk them doing the loud moan that brings on their fellows from wherever else they may be lurking. I’ll just have to move fast.
I need to know that I can do this.
These people cringing behind the curtains in their houses need to know it, too.
I’m listening for the scrape-slide of their feet. Instead, it’s a near-normal tread. I’m guessing these are fresh as these things go.
The footsteps slow. Do they scent me? I peek around the hedge. They’re still halfway down my block, they’re heads swiveling over their torn, ill-fitting blazers. They’re looking for something....
“Over here, gentlemen!” I say, stepping out behind the hedge. Their heads quit their back-and-forth, their scabbed noses bird-dogging on my voice. All of them have the gore-stripe down their Oxford shirts. Apparently they stopped to eat on their way out of Natalia, that’s why it took them so long to get here.
I jog up towards Smug Face. He’s got dried blood all over his glasses. Not that he needs to see me; his senses of smell and hearing are at maximum capacity. He staggers forward, mounting the closest thing he can to a charge.
I’ve got two hands on the walnut grip. I wait until his arms come up. The blade hums through the air as I swing left. His forearms thud to the asphalt. I step back lest I get sprayed but after the initial pressure squirt the blood merely oozes from the stumps.
Stumpy bellows angrily at me. I’d bury the blade in his skull but his companions are close behind and I have no time to free a stuck blade. I drive a two-handed swing into his neck and send his head tumbling over his shoulder to the street.
His buddies behind him already have their arms out. The body of the first one is falling over, though, which slows them down just enough to step in position and make my move. One rightward swing carries the blade through one neck and into another. The first skull cracks loudly as it hits the pavement and is still; the other slaps to the street on one cheek, its jaw still gnashing up and down. The bodies fall over stiffly, not buckling at the knees but tilting off-balance and down. I step to the side to avoid the splatter from the neck stumps and the blood that spills slowly, endlessly into the street. And that’s the end of it.
Except it’s not. Two heads are still snapping about me on the wide street. And here comes Evans and a couple of other old geezers across their bluegrass knolls. I really wish I had my meat hammer. Any kind of hammer. I use my boot to roll one head over to face the sky (and really wishing I was wearing steel-toed boots) and bring the blade down across the eyes. I’m standing over the wispy-bearded man’s face and raising my blade when an unfamiliar voice cries out, “Stop!”
Evans a
nd the two other men arrive at the scene. Evans speaks first, “Why did you feel you had to come out here?” He’s trying to sound stern but the words are coming out too fast, and his voice nearly cracks with his panic.
The look on his face, his body language among the two older men confirms what Krystal and Brandon were telling me earlier, that despite Evans’ pretensions he answers to other people. And here’s two of them.
So it’s to these two liver-spotted old fossils—one of them wearing a cowboy hat, so help me—that I address: “You’re welcome. Does it occur to any of you that the more of these things you drop, the fewer there will be to violate the sanctity of this Very Good Neighborhood?”
The former Major Evans of the United States Army is so mortified I swear I can hear his breath catch in his throat. I keep my eyes on the two thin, bald old men, letting them feel the full weight of my contempt.
Not that old rich men feel much of anything outside their own thick little skulls. That I do not fear them, however, makes them uneasy. “This was Lenora Jefferson’s grandson,” says the one not wearing the cowboy hat. He has the stern carriage of someone who is accustomed to being listened to, not the other way around.
“What of it?”
“We need to treat his remains with more respect.”
“Like he respected the victim he spilled all the way down his front? Well, since you’re the obvious expert, why don’t you show me how it’s done?” With the tip of my boot I give hard nudge of the still-snapping head of Beloved Grandson towards the man’s feet. To his credit, he doesn’t move, even as the dried, cracked eyes roll in his direction, the teeth snapping at the brown leather tips of his old rich man shoes. “Maybe you can put it in a box and give it to her.” I nod towards Evans. “Be sure to get the glasses.”
Evans looks at me, takes a step back—and the glasses go crunch beneath his heel. He stumbles back again and looks in horror and what he’s done.
“Or not,” I say.
Evans leans over to gather the remains of the glasses. The old man sighs, steps back. “You may finish him,” he says.
“No,” I say, “I ‘may’ not.” I turn to Evans. “I’ll pack my gear and get out.”
Evans glances up at me from where he’s picking up the glass. He’s pale, and the sweat glistening on his face isn’t from the heat. I turn and begin walking away.
I’m just at the foot of the driveway leading up to my place when I hear, “Mr. Grace!” I turn at the unfamiliar voice. It’s the man in the cowboy hat.
“Are you sure you want to pass up drinks and dinner before you leave?” he says with an unnaturally white and expensive grin. “I’d be honored to have you as my personal guest!”
I walk back towards the men. The man in the cowboy hat looks at Evans, nods to the body. “Take care of this.” As I approach Evans is crossing the street to the other side while tapping numbers into his phone. No, he sure as hell isn’t touching those bodies. We still have superior feudalism through telephony. Call the poor bastard tasked with the cleanups on Aisle 7 and git ‘er done.
The man with the cowboy hat seems to have lit up in the last minute; even in the shade I can see his blue eyes glinting. He holds his hand out to me. “Emory Kerch,” he says. “This gentleman over here is the former police chief of our fair city, Duane Paulson.
I take Kerch’s hand, shake it. “Derek Grace.” I look at the man named Paulson. He’s got nothing more than a hard-faced scowl for me, his hands firm by his side. I smile and nod at Paulson and turn back to Kerch. Who still has my hand….
“So it’s ‘Derek’’ then. I wondered if you might not go by your middle name ‘Samuel.’ My father’s name, a fine name!”
“I wouldn’t disagree on that account. If you’re buying the drinks, call me whatever you want. But only for the drinks.”
The man guffaws loudly. “My great and merciful God, we have a flesh and blood American man in our midst! Derek, my good man, let’s do something with that messy blade of yours and get started on those drinks!”
“If it’s all right with you, Emory, I’d like to get into some more appropriate attire.”
“All right, now!” says Emory. “Just don’t take too long! You like beer, right?”
“I’ve been known to drink one or two.”
“You like it on tap?”
“Love it.”
“I got the finest pale ale from the local microbrewery. Frosty cold in the keg!”
“I’d change right here in the street if I could. Where’s this all happening?”
Emory points to a side street coming off this avenue. “Turn there, then the first house on the right. You’ll know it when you see it. I can send someone to pick you up if you need me to.”
“I appreciate that. I need to get my strength back, though. I was out for a while. I won’t say no to a ride back, though.”
“If any of us are fit to keep it on the pavement! All right, now, we’ll be lookin’ for ya!”
“Be out and on my way in ten!”
All this time Emory and I were talking the man complaining about Mrs. Jefferson’s grandson was looking away and around like I did when Brandon and Krystal were kissing. Nice to be getting a feel for the real hierarchy around here. I walk up the driveway, knowing full well it’s all about taking out the dead and re-taking the city. And my new friend Emory is going to count on me to do the first part for him. As for how the second part shakes out, it’s probably best I’m somewhere else when that comes up.
For right now, it’s all about the beer. Pale ale? Goddamn it, Emory had better be shooting straight with me. I can handle being lied to about anything else. Hell, I expect it. But for God’s sake, let me have that cold beer!
15
Seriously, fuck these boots. These cammie pants aren’t cutting it, either. A good, tough pair of jeans is what I need. Something I can run in without a bunch of crap clanking about my legs in the cargo pockets, which I know I’ll be stupid enough to use.
I change out quickly. These dressy-casual khakis aren’t bad. Even the shoes are more comfortable than they look, but that’s what money will get you.
At least I don’t have to worry about money anymore. I’d say Thank God for small favors, but that wouldn’t be right. It’s not a small favor. It’s an epic blessing.
One I traded the wife and kids in for.
Goddamn it, Emory Kerch better not be lying about that beer.
I hear loud talk over rushing water as I start down the driveway. The bodies have been removed from the street. Two men aim a fire hose at the residual gore while another stands by, an empty bottle of bleach in each hand.
How much blood is in the human body? We had three bleeding out through open necks here. All that dead-person blood full of Final Flu and God knows what else. Good idea on the bleach, but I’m not sure two gallons was enough.
The cleanup crew looks up at me as I pass along the lower edges of the knolls beneath the houses. I look back at them and their gaze returns to where the force of the water pushes ripples of brown-red ichor towards the storm drain. They just want to get this shit detail over with and get the hell out.
I’m not even halfway down the block when Evans’ Big Yellow Truck pulls up. Evans leans out the window. “Mr. Kerch isn’t in the mood to wait the half-hour or 45 minutes it’ll take you to get to his place.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Evans rolls alongside as I continue walking. “Look, what if I told you there’s a doctor Mr. Kerch called up to look at you?”
“Carrots first, Evans. Sticks when you run out of options. Don’t tell me Army OCS taught you backwards.” Not that it would surprise me.
“Mr. Grace, I admire your attitude. But you need to understand who you’re dealing with.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got the guns. Use ‘em, then! I’ve lost everything and everyone I ever gave a shit about. You’re threatening me? Fuck you!”
“No, no! Shit! All right, so I’m no diplomat! What I’m trying
to tell you is you’re valuable to them. They want you to clean out Natalia for them. But it’s not a good idea to piss them off!”
“It kinda goes without saying in most relationships.”
“Look. Please. Get in the truck. We’ll be there in two minutes.” Evans pauses. “The beer does look good. He’s got frosted mugs.”
“They’re already drinking?”
“It’s a fine day.”
“Hmm. All right. Goddamn it.” Whatever the hell this is, let’s get it over with.
I walk around the back of the truck to the other side of the cab. “You might want to watch it with the language,” Evans says as I climb in.
“Yeah.” I’m looking into the backseat. Clear. We’re moving the moment I close the door behind me. I pull the seatbelt on while keeping an eye on Evans.
“Look,” says Evans. “Like I said, I admire your attitude. I lost my wife, too. My ex-wife, really, but—look, we all lost someone, all right?”
“Evans, I lost everyone. So don’t take it too harshly if I insist you shut up about all this and just drive.”
We arrive at the side road. He’s making the turn. To the house? I’m told I’d know it when I saw it.
Okay. I see it.
I can’t even guess how many acres this is. The grounds are enormous; it would have taken me forever to walk this twin-rutted path up to the mansion wrapped in its own vast and thick copse of trees. “Wasn’t this party supposed to be at your house?”
“I live in the house on the back of the grounds. Right on the edge of the golf course.”
“Oh.”
“For what it’s worth—and I’m not trying to put you down, now—this change of plans has nothing to do with your work with Mrs. Jefferson’s grandson and his friends.”
“So long as I’m not a victim of my own success.”
“Look, I don’t know how else to tell you this—this isn’t Mr. Kerch’s house. Last week this belonged to an old, good Natalia family going back generations to pioneer days. That’s all I got to say about it!”