Paranormal Double Pack: Gomers & Blooded

by Dixon, Chuck

  “Nothing left for them to eat. Light and noise could lure most of them away,” Caz offered.

  “Who wants to run out there waving flashlights with a boom box strapped around his neck?” Smash said, closing with a phfft.

  “I might have an idea,” Jim Kim said.

  49

  Using three hundred feet of rubber tubing (Aisle 9, Position 12) and several rolls of duct tape (Aisle 23, Endcap), Jim Kim made a sling line between two vent pipes already in place on the roof. He and Smash pulled the line back toward the rear of the building until it was taut. Caz watched from a safe distance as they loaded a gallon of paint (Buttermilk, Aisle 4) into the pocket and, on a count of three, released the band of entwined rubber tubing. The can struck the top of the curtain wall with a bang. The lid spun away. The can careened out over the lot and sprayed gomers with spatters of festive yellow paint.

  After some adjustments, the next can (Persimmon Rose) cleared the curtain wall and soared out deep into the parking lot where they could hear it tumbling over the asphalt. It came to rest somewhere out of sight in the gathering evening shadows. The days were shorter now with the colder weather coming on.

  A few gomers turned their heads at the thump and clatter, but none were motivated to investigate.

  The boys shook glow sticks and secured them to the next cans with duct tape. They fired a volley of three into the lot. Each described a trail of pale light as they arced into the dark to land with a crash. Even through a rifle scope, the light from the glow sticks was feeble in the distance.

  “None of them even noticed. More bang, more flash, guys,” Caz said.

  It was Smash and Jim Kim’s turn to stand clear while Caz, using a twenty-pound propane tank, duct tape, and kitchen matches, rigged a bomb. They watched from the shelter of the air conditioner housing. Caz loaded the bomb into the sling pocket, straining with all his weight to hold it taut, feet sliding on the gravel.

  “Little help?” he called.

  Smash and Jim Kim stepped clear of the air conditioners and hesitated.

  “Come on, pussies!” Caz hissed.

  They ran out to help him hold the line stretched back. He freed a hand and held a lighter to the kitchen matches until they flared.

  On a count of three from Caz, they released the line. Caz watched the fat propane tank spin out into the dark. The other two dove to the rooftop and covered their heads with their arms.

  The tank bounced somewhere out on the lot with a loud clang followed by a thunderous boom and a white burst of flame.

  Caz ran to the roof edge to see gomers turn in sequence toward the new stimulus. A few altered course to shuffle toward the source of light and sound. More followed along after them. But not all. A good half of the mob stood swaying, fascinated by the new development but not enough to stir them.

  “More,” Caz said and knelt to rig two more IEDs. He dragooned the boys into helping him launch two more bombs. The first came down even deeper in the lot and struck an abandoned car, engulfing it in flame. More gomers got with the program and hobbled out toward the blaze, leaving twenty or more still gathered in a loose scrimmage at the storefront.

  They could hear Wendy barking below. He heard the blast and was responding. His plaintive cries reached them through the open trap in the roof, where he stood at the bottom of the ladder, front paws on the lower rungs.

  The next propane bomb exploded in the air over the heads of the gomers who were nearing the first fire. Hot steel shards rained down from a blue-white ball of flame. Gomers fell under the concussive wave. Some rose to stumble around, clothing on fire. Others writhed broken on the paving, flesh cooking off. That got most of the stragglers moving. All but a handful headed for the multiple points of shimmering incandescence. The flaming dead acted like ambulatory lures, creating their own following of interested gomers shambling after them, reaching hands out to the once-human torches.

  “We make this quick. Smash follows me down to the RV,” Caz said, picking up a long-handled sledgehammer.

  Smash blanched.

  “What about me?” Jim Kim said, trotting after the other two to the roof ’s edge.

  “You’re overwatch,” Caz said. He unslung his rifle and pulled back the charging handle and released it. He handed it to Jim Kim, who took it in shaking hands.

  “Me?” Jim Kim stammered.

  “There’s one in the pipe. It’s set to semi-auto. You have thirty rounds. Squeeze, don’t pull. Got it?” Caz said, swinging a leg over the curtain wall to plant a foot on a rung.

  Jim Kim nodded dumbly.

  “Hold the ladder for us, dummy,” Smash said, straddling the wall to follow Caz down to the roof of RV. Jim Kim took hold of the top rails of the ladder, steadying it until they both reached the roof of the Coachman.

  “Shit,” Jim Kim said and sighted the M4 toward the shimmering haze of light out on the parking lot.

  50

  The roof hatch atop the Coachman was a tight fit for Smash. He squeezed through with Caz pulling on his legs from inside. Dropping through the trap, he struck a wall and slid to the carpet with a thump. Caz helped him to his feet.

  The interior was dark and filled with the sour funk of spilled blood.

  “Give me a hand,” Caz said low.

  Smash choked down rising bile at the sight of the near-headless man slumped over the steering wheel. A lumpy mess was spattered across the face of the dash. Caz pulled the dead guy from the seat. The corpse came away with a ripping sound as he was torn from the sticky grip of his own drying blood. The smell of the dead man grew sharper. Smash turned away, puffing shallow breaths through pursed lips.

  “I’m going out. Lock the door after me. Only open it when you hear me whistle,” Caz said, sliding into the driver’s seat and gripping the door handle.

  “What are you doing out there?” Smash said.

  “I’m going to get those bikes out of plain sight. If it’s clear after that, I’m going to get some stuff out of station wagon.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Listen for my whistle, okay?” Caz said and keyed the two-way secured to his Molle vest. “What’s it look like, Jim?”

  Jim’s voice squawked through their earbuds. “All clear. The gomers are roaming around the fire.”

  “Going out,” Caz said and opened the door and hopped down. Smash slid vinyl gloves onto his hands and put on a surgical mask to filter the foul air inside the RV. The cloth mask only took the edge off the powerful stench. He leaned forward to watch Caz trotting low over the lot toward a dirt bike still upright on its kickstand. Anything not to look at the sad heap sprawled between the front seats.

  Caz pushed one bike, then the other, over the lot and into the overgrown hedges of a landscape strip. He gathered the dropped weapons that lay near where the bike riders had fallen. He brought military-type rifles to the door of the RV, whistling low as he approached. Smash had the door opened and accepted the rifles.

  “We don’t have ammo for these. Just throw them somewhere inside,” Caz said and was gone.

  He came back and handed in two plastic ammunition boxes. They were heavy. Smash placed them on the counter of the kitchenette. Caz made three more trips. A backpack, two more ammo boxes, a plastic tote, and two padded rifle cases with weapons zipped inside.

  “That’s all my stuff out of the wagon,” Caz said and slid onto the driver’s seat.

  Smash placed the gun cases on the dinette table. Caz keyed the two-way.

  “Jim, I need you to pull the ladder up and then get down to the back door. Let me know when you’re in position.”

  Jim Kim affirmed and signed off.

  “I should see if there’s anything in here we can use,” Smash said.

  “Like what?” Caz said.

  “Well, I don’t know. She might have some clothes in here.”

  “Was this her RV? Or his?” Caz nodded toward the body.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We don’t know much about her, do we?�
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  “She’s alone. Scared. What are we supposed to do? Leave her out here?”

  “You know she killed this guy,” Caz said, nodding to the body again.

  “Maybe she had to.” Smash shrugged. “Maybe she just wanted to.”

  “We’ll ask her when she wakes up.”

  “Right,” Caz said. His earbud quacked, and Jim Kim was speaking.

  “I’m down at the back door.” Wendy yipped in the background.

  “We’re pulling around. Don’t open up until you hear from me,” Caz said and turned the key on the steering column. The engine ground then caught and stalled. The shifter was in drive. He moved it to park and tried again. The engine came to life. The headlights flashed on, and he cut them off. He put the lever in drive and pulled forward slowly.

  Out on the lot, the flames found the gas tank of an abandoned car. A fresh plume of flame reached into the sky. Blazing fingers whooshed from the car’s interior to wash over figures gathered around the source of light.

  Taking advantage of the new distraction, Caz gunned the Coachman along the storefront and turned the corner at the garden center.

  “Open up, Jim,” Caz said into the two-way as he pulled the RV up close to the rear of the building. Jim Kim shot the bolts and pushed the door open. Wendy bounded out and put paws up on Caz’s shoulders as he struggled under the weight of the tote and backpack.

  Jim Kim grabbed Wendy by the collar and pulled him back to squat by him, where he could brace the door open. He kept watch on either end of the rear lot while the others unloaded the Coachman.

  They resecured the door and piled the goods from the RV onto a flatbed cart.

  “This is heavy,” Jim Kim said, heaving the plastic tub on the cart.

  “Dog food,” Caz said.

  Smash tore off the vinyl gloves, gummy with blood and ichor, and threw them aside. Jim Kim handed Caz back his rifle to push the cart along the corridor.

  “I have a shotgun and another rifle and plenty of ammunition for both. We get this stuff squared away and one of us has to go back up top to keep watch,” Caz said.

  “You still think someone’s going to come looking?” Jim Kim said.

  “Let’s ask our guest what she thinks,” Caz said, walking ahead.

  51

  Mercy woke to a soft rapping on the door of her borrowed room.

  She sat up, reaching for the shotgun, which wasn’t where she’d left it on the bed beside her. Her hand found the silver crucifix and chain on the covers.

  Bare plywood walls that didn’t reach all the way to a ceiling of kraft paper stapled to roof joists. A white plastic chest of drawers. The bed was a pair of chaise lounge cushions Velcroed down onto a platform.

  “Excuse me.” A polite voice muffled by the door.

  Her jeans, shirt, and jacket lay clean and folded on the floor by the door.

  “Hold on,” she said as she dressed in a hurry.

  “We have some questions,” the tall bearded guy said when she opened the door. No threat but no smile either. Behind him, the two nerdy guys gaped at her with mouths open in shared fear and wonder.

  “Me too. What’s for breakfast?” Mercy said.

  Over a breakfast of coffee, SlimJims, and home fries made from onions and potatoes grown in the garden center farm, Mercy told her story. Most of it, anyway. Telling the last part, about Doe, was hardest.

  “You were travelers,” Caz said without accusation.

  “What’s that?” Smash said.

  “Grifters. Conmen. Up from the Carolinas. Ever have some guys offer to sell you speakers out the back of a van?” Caz said.

  “Yes,” Jim Kim said.

  “That was travelers,” Caz said, eyes on the girl for her reaction.

  “Not like any of that shit matters now, does it?” Mercy said with a shrug.

  “Nothing matters now,” Caz said. His eyes met hers. This conversation was between them alone.

  “So, can I have my shotgun back?”

  “Sure. Are you staying?”

  “A few days. Then I go look for my family.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “You can’t keep me here. Don’t even think about it.” She turned her eyes to Smash and Jim Kim with a sharp expression. They blinked.

  “We don’t want to keep you here,” Caz said, voice flat. “But we can’t have you bringing anyone else back here either.”

  “Like my mama and sister?”

  “Like those assholes who chased you here. You go out stirring them up, don’t plan on running back here.”

  “I won’t. You sure you trust me with my gun?” she said, pushing her plate away.

  “Wendy likes you,” Caz said and nodded down to where the dog lay sound asleep at the girl’s feet.

  Caz gave her back the shotgun, cleaned and oiled, along with the rounds he’d found in her jacket pockets and a fresh box of mixed slugs and shot.

  “You need anything else?” he said.

  “Some more clothes. A change of underwear.”

  “We brought in stuff we found in your RV. Might be some clothes in there.” He nodded toward a heap of bags still on the hand cart.

  “Okay if I stay a couple of days? Let things settle down out there?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Thanks. I like your dog. What’s his name,” she said, patting the top of the Shepherd’s head. The dog’s tongue lolled out, brown eyes fixed on her lovingly.

  “Wendy.”

  “But he’s a boy dog,” Mercy said.

  Caz was already walking away, whistling once. Wendy broke his trance to trot after his master.

  52

  The watches were taken more seriously after Mercy’s arrival. They replaced the fan in the lookout post with a space heater.

  Jim Kim and Smash split the day watches. Caz took nights.

  One of the guns Caz retrieved from his station wagon was a Savage bolt action rifle chambered for a heavy .308 round, a sniper round. He fixed a night scope on it as well as a long suppressor at the end of the barrel. He had a thousand rounds for the piece and kept it wrapped in a plastic sleeve in the blockhouse atop the roof. He showed the boys how to use the rifle and sight through the scope but forbad them from firing it.

  There was increased traffic in the streets around Tool Town for a few days. The rumble of packs of motorcycles could be heard prowling the roads leading from the city. The lights of a slow-rolling fire engine could be seen on one night. The red and blue lights strobed through the branches of the leafless trees down on the parking lot. The gomers became agitated under the harsh glare swirling over them. Through the scope, Caz watched the firetruck move past down Western without turning onto the lot. It continued on, followed by a dozen or so men on bikes.

  They were searching for the girl and the runaway Coachman. They were looking for their buddies, now residing on the parking lot as turds of zombie shit. After a week or so, the searchers gave up. The sound of bike motors became more and more rare; the bikes moved at speed between one place and another. No longer on the hunt.

  Caz wondered who this man called Bird might be. Whoever he was, he was obviously in control of the city now. The lights had returned to a few of the buildings visible on the horizon in the city center. The government and the Army had retreated to God knew where, leaving a vacuum behind. It was inevitable that someone would step in to fill that void. From Mercy’s description, they were animals, men scavenging to live in some loose confederation of violent men. All of it under the control of this Bird guy.

  It all sounded familiar to Caz.

  “Why does his dog have a girl’s name?” Mercy asked and moved her racecar past GO to land on Mediterranean Ave.

  “I own that,” Smash announced.

  “Shit. But why’s he call his dog Wendy?” she asked, counting out play-money bills into Smash’s waiting hand.

  The Monopoly game was one of the items Smash had snagged from the RV. It was Raquel’s. A Christmas gift from long ago
. The three played marathon games and watched movies while Caz took his turn on the rooftop. Tonight was the Matrix trilogy.

  “We asked him a couple of times,” Jim Kim said, plucking the dice from the board.

  “And?” Mercy urged.

  “He walks away. Pretends he didn’t hear us. Unless he’s telling us what to do, Caz isn’t much of talker,” Smash said.

  Three turns, and Mercy wound up in jail.

  “Who wants to buy me out? I’m losing anyway, and this movie is giving me a headache,” she said, upsetting her race car with a fingertip.

  “I’m out too. The sequels suck,” Jim Kim said.

  “Guys ...” Smash wheedled.

  Mercy was up and walking from the media room into the greater indoor space of the store. Wendy loped behind as she walked the dark aisles behind the beam of her flashlight. She killed the flashlight and climbed the ladder to the rooftop, leaving the dog whimpering softly below. At the top of the ladder, she raised the hatch and blew a low whistle.

  “Who’s that?” A hushed voice from the block lookout shack.

  “Me,” she said.

  “Come on.” The door swung open. The space heater cast a mellow orange glow on the gravel.

  She stepped up into the tiny room, and Caz pulled the steel door closed behind her. There was a raised wooden floor and a bar stool, a shelf with bottled water and some snacks. It was dark but for the moonlight coming in through the viewports and the rising and falling radiance of the heater. The black rifle leaned against a wall.

  “What do you do if you need to use the bathroom?” she asked.

  “Just go off the back of the roof.”

  “Men.”

  “Did you come up here to ask me that?” he said. Both were standing under the low ceiling. Caz had not retaken his seat.

  “I can only take so much Monopoly.” She shrugged.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, I could take watches, too. I’m damn sure a better shot than the other two,” she said.

  “I would guess so. Probably hunted with your dad, right?” he said.