by L. ROY AIKEN
A few blind heads turn as I make my run. I stop abruptly at the edge and hop over, bending my knees as hit the ground. I edge around the back of the mob. The heads that turned to follow my movement have lost sight of me behind their fellows. I look around. No reinforcements. Yet.
My bright idea was to use the Glock to draw their attention. Here with their backs to me, though, I see a way to draw them off that doesn’t involve making a racket that brings more dead people to the Supercenter.
I have to put nearly everything I have into these two-fisted swings. I get through one row and half of the second, the heads smacking the pavement, the bodies falling stiffly after, the corpse-gravy red-brown and everywhere. Then the remaining three and a half rows go quiet.
The quiet is so sudden, and such a contrast to the racket before, everyone freezes. The only sound being the scraping of their feet as they shuffle around to face me. I make a quick slash at the ones closest to me, then back away. When they don’t come at me right away I run up and take off three, four, five more heads.
At last they scent me. The moaning begins anew as the mob begins moving away from the trucks. I slice away a hand and two more heads, then dart back again.
I look at the (once) people coming towards me. Not all of them have the bib. I see some in the crowd who seem to be there for no other reason than that’s where everyone else is. The ones in the more expensive clothing, the suits and the silk pajamas obviously not from Wal-Mart or Target, are the ones who seem to be most aggressive, the most entitled to the meat before them. The ones in the more “common” clothing defer to these, though it’s clear they’ve got a hunger, too.
It’s like a gift, their coming at me like this. I think of that child in the Wal-Mart, the tears she cried, how she must have screamed as she was manhandled and chewed into by these monsters. I tease the crowd towards me. They shuffle faster than you’d think but I manage to dart back, watch them reform as they come towards me, gathering closely behind their alphas.
After a while I can’t stand it anymore and I charge into them.
They bring their arms and hands up. Some of these things even manage to touch me and it makes me crazier. My arms and shoulders and chest burn with the exertion, the swinging, the chopping, the shocks of impact. They don’t falter. The more I look into their faces, their stupid, dust-whitened eyes, the harder I swing.
“Goddamn, save some for somebody else!”
“Fuck you!” I’m chopping into torsos, arms, faces, asses. I swing from both sides, moving up and down the line. By the time I get to the last four they’re backing off. I’m kicking their heads across the lot, watching them disappear over the edge of the knoll. Some are biting and snapping, some are plain dead and bug-eyed astonished for it.
Those last four run into Marta’s machete, Timcat’s demo bar, and Randy’s hunting knife, stabbed through the soft part under one’s jaw and into his brain. The fourth one staggers helplessly away. Three quick, long-legged strides and I’ve got his head rolling over the side of the lot.
“Holy fuck, man!” says Timcat. He looks about the bodies carpeting the lot.
“What?”
“You got over forty of these things! That ain’t even countin’ the ones at the dock!”
“I got more than that!” growls a voice from the flatbed.
“Yeah, so many you let yourself get wore out and bit!”
I walk over to Randy. “You know a way back to the school from here that doesn’t take us down Oak Blossom Lane?”
Randy is wiping his blade on the shirt of the man he dropped. “Yeah, sure. We’re not supposed to cut through the Good People’s neighborhood anyway.”
“All right then, I gotta follow you.”
“No you don’t,” says Marta. “Krystal ‘n’ me both know the way.”
“All right, then.” I look at Randy. “You know to take the goods to the school, right?”
“It ain’t what we’re told to do.”
“I know, and I take responsibility for that. I’ve got a feeling that—”
The very molecules in the air are humming: THOOOOOOOM!
“Let’s get out of here!”
If the thud of the subwoofer wasn’t enough inspiration, the ghastly chorus of dead raising their voices in answer puts a real spring in our steps. I run to meet the Big Yellow Truck as Krystal drives it towards Marta and me. Krystal stops and scooches over just in time for me to leap into the driver’s seat. Marta climbs in the passenger side and we’re backing up and pulling away in time to see the next wave of walkers leaning into the incline of the parking lot, coming right at us. I turn sharply to dodge them and punch it down the side where we first came in.
“Just turn left and follow it straight out,” says Marta.
I note the dead are all coming from the direction behind us. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to drive as fast as I can down this straightaway lest these things think to follow us. I hand my phone to Krystal. “Text those guys on my phone. Ask them for their status.”
“What do you think’s goin’ on?” says Marta.
“One or more of the squads has gone rogue,” I say. “Either all the other ones are working together or one has managed to shut down the other two. No doubt whoever fired that gun outside was looking to take us out.”
Krystal is shaking her head. “I’ve messaged everybody but no one’s replying.”
“Well,” I say, “that’s good news and bad news.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“The good news is I’ve done my due diligence as the sacrificial lamb in charge of this mission. The bad news is the bad guys know we’re still alive.”
The ringtone for a text message fills the cab. “Gitmo says he’s fine. He wants to know where we’re at,” Krystal says.
“Don’t respond!”
“Wait, there’s another—it’s Brick. He wants to know where we’re at.”
“Great. So now we know.”
“Know what?”
“Who the players are. Five gets me ten Brick is with Kerch. And Gitmo is worried he’s going to end up like Kerch’s personal security.”
“You mean Amos and Andy?” says Marta.
“What?”
“That’s what they called ‘em. They didn’t like it, but that’s what they called ‘em.”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It just looks like Kerch has gotten a little overt with his ethnic cleansing. Can’t say I blame Gitmo for making a move.”
“So don’t send any messages out?” says Krystal.
I take the phone from her. “Nope. Radio silence from here on out.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing. Except maybe fight the zombies when they come. If they come. You guys are the labor force. Any side would be stupid to kill you.”
“Not that stupid ever stopped anybody,” says Marta.
“You dropping us off?” says Krystal.
“You know of any place you’re safer?”
I’m already slowing for the turn as I say this. In under a minute I’m pulling into the high school. I see where Randy and Timcat have already organized the unloading of their truck. Meanwhile, the barbecue is on. I’m no sooner stopped than my flatbed is being unloaded. If I was thinking of getting away with any meat, I was wrong.
“Shit, there he is, man!” says Timcat as I get out of the truck. “The Dead Motherfuckin’ Silencer!”
A confetti of hoots and cheers erupt from the people standing around the large grill.
“What?” says Randy. “Oh! Yeah! We didn’t think we were getting outta there, we could hardly hear ourselves think over all that moaning and shit! Fuck, man, I thought we were done for! And then this old motherfucker jumps off the dock and starts choppin’ ‘em up from behind—!”
Timcat finishes for him. “And they all turn like to look at him after a while and it’s just dead…silence!” He spreads his arms and hands out and the people go quiet. “Like that!” he stage whispers.
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“Oh, bullshit!” I see they’ve got the Goth kid lying in a low folding lounger, which is why I didn’t see him at first.
“Yeah, Lonely Boner over here’s still gettin’ over havin’ his ass saved by a man who knows how to dress himself,” says Timcat. The crowd laughs, albeit uneasily. It’s obvious Goth kid has been bitten; they’re going to have to put him down sooner than later.
“What I don’t get is how Kerch is goin’ around embarrassin’ him sayin’ he got three at once.”
Marta steps forward. “That’s so you’d be all be hatin’ on Mr. Grace for being the new guy while you’re takin’ all the food you risk your stupid fuckin’ lives for to old man Kerch! That ever occur to ya?”
“Well, shit, Marta, you don’t know that!”
“Why were you gonna take all this food over to Kerch, anyway? What makes you people think he knows better what to do with it? Though to tell ya the truth, I hope you don’t eat all this tonight and tomorrow! This is the last meat we’re gonna have for a long, long while!”
The people start murmuring among themselves. It’s apparent this is the first time most of them have even heard Kerch’s name. The highest-up person they’ve ever known is Evans.
The rest seem merely confused. “You don’t have to eat nothin’ if you don’t want to!” says Timcat.
“Oh, I’ll have a plate!” says Marta. “So will our hero of the hour, too! We ain’t done yet, today, not by a long shot. We might have to drop everything and board ourselves up in there and hope we don’t get broke into!”
“Oh, my man the Silencer is definitely gettin’ some of this steak! Got some fries, too, you want some, man?”
I feel Marta nudging sharply into my side. “Get yourself re-fueled. I’m gettin’ some Tupperware an’ I’ll meet you at the truck in a little over half an hour.”
Everyone wants to shake my hand and cheer me on for saving the squad. I smile and nod, wondering how Marta knew I’d want to get something to eat before hauling ass. She says she’s going for Tupperware? Oh, let me guess….
The steak is damn near perfect, seared on the outside and hot pink and bleeding on the inside. The only side I wanted was the fries. I have a feeling I’ll need the carbs. Besides, steak fries were one of the few decent things about this civilization fading before our very eyes. Might as well enjoy them while I can.
Krystal plops herself on the opposite end of the cafeteria table they’ve pulled out of the school. She sighs theatrically to get my attention. I cut another piece of steak, put it in my mouth, and savor it in a way the dead can never know before I give her an acknowledging glance.
“You’re going back out, right?”
“As soon as I finish this.”
“I mean, you’re gonna look for Brandon, right? He was supposed to hit that supermarket. He hasn’t texted you, has he?”
“Only Brick and Gitmo were thoughtful enough to get in touch. Either Brandon took up with one side or another or he got shot just to get him out of the way—”
“They wouldn’t shoot Brandon! He’s too good at what he does!”
“Amos and Andy looked like they were good at their jobs, too.”
“Well, what are we gonna do about this! We can’t just leave him out there!”
“Krystal, if he’s dead, he’s dead.”
“You don’t know that!”
“So we’ll look. Marta knows where the supermarket is.”
“I’m coming, too!”
“Like hell you are! We’re going into a combat zone!”
“So I drive the truck while you and your new girlfriend do your combat thing!”
“It’s not gonna work like that.”
“How do you know how it’s gonna work?”
“That’s just it! We don’t know, and we don’t need your goddamned drama distracting us and getting us killed! You want Brandon back, you’re gonna have to trust us. That’s all there to it.”
Krystal gets up. Others take this as a sign they can sit and talk but I get Timcat and Randy to hold them off so I can finish my lunch in peace. After a while I get up, accept a bottle of cold beer and make social for a few minutes, checking my phone for the time. In a few more minutes I see Marta standing by the Big Yellow Truck. I excuse myself, do the thumbs-up soul handshakes, the one-armed hugs, and make my way on over.
I pop the lock with the remote and Marta climbs in her side—loading a stack of Tupperware with steaks and barbecued chicken. “You’re sharing some of that with me, right?”
“Oh, I’ll treat ya right,” Marta says. She situates the stacks of plastic containers in the rear cab and climbs in. “You got any place you need to go before leaving town?”
“I’d like to go back to my house on Oak Blossom and collect my stuff.”
“Good. We can do that.”
“Nice to know,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”
“Weapons. I got a cache of ‘em.”
“Could be useful. Where are they?”
“Let’s hit your place first. Make it fast. We need to be settled in before sundown, you know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I say as we pull out of the lot. “I think I got an idea.”
I speed away down the narrow road between the fields of wheat and soybean. So far, so clear.
“I figgered out why you got that stuff you did in the pharmacy,” she says as we speed down the straightaway. “I wanna trade ya.”
“One on one, then. That Vitamin C is going to be all that stands between us and scurvy until someone learns how to cultivate some year-round fruit. Even then it’s only good for a year. Just like your Vicodin.”
“Shit, ya kiddin’ me!”
“Nope. Most of the people who live to see all this one year from now are going to have another set of problems entirely. Even the canned food will start going bad.”
“Well, shit,” says Marta. “One day at a time, I reckon. We gotta live through this day and a whole buncha others before we level up to those problems.”
“Yeah,” and I mentally kick myself for worrying this far into the future. I’m not getting anywhere until I get through today.
We cross the bridge, make the turn. You can feel the temperature drop ten degrees as we enter the sheltering trees. I race down the empty street to my assigned quarters on this old town aristocrats’ street and pull up fast into the driveway. Apparently all hands are on deck with the former citizens of Natalia, Kansas, because I skid to a halt in old, half-dried blood no cleaning crew showed to clean up.
I’m unlocking the front door when Marta says, “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“No, what I mean, is I heard you spent the night with Rebecca last night.”
“She drove me home from the party.”
“That’s all?”
I push the door open. “That’s all.”
“I guess the fact you’re here says it all,” she says as she steps in behind me.
“How’s that?” I say, heading immediately up the stairs.
“I’ve watched her kill a man just for smartin’ off at her. I bet y’all didn’t talk much on your way over.”
“No,” I say as I reach the second floor ahead of Marta. “We didn’t.”
“I heard she was here this morning.”
“Yeah, they were looking for that girl.”
“That’s what’s left of her out front, ain’t it? That girl, I mean.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, unlocking the door to the trophy room.
“Yeah, that was so sad—oh!” Marta is stunned by the array of weapons in the room. “Why aren’t you carrying that crossbow?” she says.
“That’s why I’m here now.”
“Can I have this?” she says, holding up a long, heavy spear.
“Knock yourself out.”
“All right!”
The crossbow and every arrow in the room is all I can bother myself with. I’m halfway through packing the last quiver whe
n the air horn blats loudly in the street.
Not once, but several times. Ringing the dinner bell on Oak Blossom Lane. I grab what I’ve got and run to the master bedroom in front.
Through the sheltering boughs I see the bright red fire truck pulling up in front of the house. It pulls close to the curb, thoroughly blocking the driveway. And whaddya know, Krystal: there’s your boy Brandon sitting tall in the driver’s seat, living every five-year-old boy’s dream.
I turn and run from the room.
“What are you doing?” asks Marta.
I’m tearing through the closets, looking for the luggage I might have had the sense to find and pack last night if I hadn’t gotten lucky. I’m damned if I’m leaving without a change of clothes.
THREE
Burn
21
I find a small suitcase, the wife’s I presume. I shove in all the clothes that fit, zip the toiletries into the appropriate compartment. I shoulder the crossbow and quiver. Marta’s carrying her spear and we’re on our way out the door.
Brandon sees us coming out of the house. “Yeah, y’all better be gettin’ outta here, muthafuckas…hey! You!”
I’m putting the suitcase into the rear cab, careful not to disturb the Tupperware stacks. Brandon leans on the horn. “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” he shouts.
I close the rear cab door. I turn to look at Brandon. “What?” We have to shout to be heard over the idling fire truck, even as I close the distance to stand below Brandon’s high perch in the driver’s seat.
“You s’posed to be dead, man!”
He’s drunk. So is the young man smirking over Brandon’s shoulder in the cab. So are the six others who have stumbled laughing from the side and rear panels of the fire truck, pulling cigarette lighters from their pockets and scattering among the yards. One squats to strike fire to the dry debris around the privacy hedge.
“Hey, what are you guys doing?”
“New bossman says clear this shit out! Burn ‘em out and feed ‘em to the former citizens!” Brandon turns up his beer bottle and throws it to shatter at my feet. “Bossman’s orders. Whatchoo gonna do?”
“Who’s Bossman?”