Chapter 43
Raven had been correct in her initial assumption. Beyond the swinging doors lay a massive open kitchen. Revealed in the beam lancing from the SBR’s light were dozens of feet of stainless-steel counters, industrial-sized glass-fronted ovens, utensils and pots hanging from the ceiling, and, to the right, a long, narrow cooking line that tested the reach of the encroaching beam.
She jumped off the chair and squeezed through the doors, the suppressed SBR’s business end leading the charge.
The stench of death tailing Raven through the doors was quickly nullified by the eye-stinging odor of disinfectants.
To her left, exposed by the light spill, was a cramped office. It contained a small desk, filing cabinets, and a paper shredder. Its windowless door was open and resting against the right-side wall.
On the other two walls were corkboards papered with official-looking documents.
Above the desk was a framed article from the Food Scene section of the local newspaper. It was full of praise for Ray’s. The article’s author noted how pleased the community was to see a locally owned concern move into a property vacated by a big chain.
The man and woman in the picture accompanying the story looked to be Duncan’s age—maybe sixty years old. Big smiles painted their faces. The American Dream.
Something banged against the wall, causing the picture frame to vibrate. Raven looked closely at the couple, studied their faces, then moved on.
A legal pad on the desk was covered with the names of people Ray had taken in. Next to the names were dollar amounts and contact numbers.
The evidence was mounting that the rumors were true. Raven didn’t know how she felt about it. Was Ray taking advantage of the families’ emotions? Or were the families taking advantage of his kindness?
Instead of chewing on it further, she filed it as yet another mystery of the apocalypse never to be told by those involved.
Again, something heavy impacted the wall at her back.
As Raven left the office to investigate, her light splashed across a massive steel-skinned door. It was just to the right of the office door and inset into a wall clad entirely with shiny, white tiles. Emblazoned on a plastic plaque below the door’s lone window were the words: WALK IN FREEZER - KEEP CLOSED! Under the plaque was a handwritten sign: DANGER! DO NOT OPEN DOOR!
The admonition only served to pique Raven’s interest.
Looking closer, she saw that the window glass was clouded by something smeared on it from the inside. Judging by the noises she had heard coming from within, she guessed the “something” was bodily fluids. That guess was confirmed when another “something” slammed against the door from inside.
Then a face filled up the window. It was bloated and gray and wore a full beard just like the man in the photo. The eyes darted in the sockets as it mashed its broken teeth against the glass. That the cataract of fluids on the glass didn’t smear as the dead thing dragged its tongue across it suggested to her it had been trapped in there for some time.
Raven had little doubt “something” number two was Ray.
But was he alone? Was the woman from the picture in there, too?
Parroting Duncan, she said to herself, “Only one way to find out, young lady,” and pulled a chair from the office and placed it before the walk-in door.
Raven climbed onto the chair, cupped her hands beside her cheeks, and pressed her face to the glass. She could feel vibrations through the glass as Ray’s corpse went into a frenzy, banging against the door again and again.
Probing the cooler’s interior with the tactical light revealed nothing. Just Ray, who she guessed had put himself in there. Pretty safe place to turn if you didn’t have the stomach to take your own life.
Suddenly she felt a lot of respect for Ray. Even if the rumors were true about him charging to take in people’s loved ones, he’d certainly redeemed himself by this one last unselfish act.
Deeming the importance of freeing Ray’s soul from his bloated corpse not as important as staying on this side of the grass herself, Raven went to step off the chair. As she leaned over and braced herself with one hand on the chair back, the banging abruptly ceased.
A deafening silence descended on the dark kitchen. Then, without warning, two things happened near simultaneously.
First, as if manipulated by a ghost, the door handle levered out all by itself. The follow-on audible click of a locking mechanism disengaging echoed about the stainless-steel-and-tile-clad walls. Then the door exploded outward and, accompanied by a blast of putrid air, Ray’s reanimated corpse careened through the doorway.
The door edge struck Raven on the temple, lifted her off the chair, and sent her sprawling to the floor. She landed on her back with the chair on its side by her feet and the sharp edges of the SBR biting into her ribcage on one side.
Now at floor-level and aimed in the cooler’s general direction, the beam thrown by the tactical light created ominous shadows that danced across the ceiling and walls.
Survival instinct kicking in, she went for her Gerber.
Retaining a good deal of momentum, the zombie encountered the upended chair shins first. Tripping over its own feet, the thing that used to be Ray pitched forward, arms fully extended, dead eyes locked firmly on what was likely the first fresh meat it had seen in a long while.
With the chair the only thing between being trapped underneath a couple of hundred pounds of snarling monster, Raven raised her left hand to ward off Ray and yanked the black dagger free of its sheath with the other.
Ray’s knees impacted the floor at nearly the same instant his upper body hinged over the upturned chair. The sharp crack! of bone striking tile was followed immediately by the distinct noise of fabric tearing.
As Raven grabbed a fistful of neck flesh with her left hand, she felt something heavy fall across her knees and shins and pin them to the floor. In the next beat, with cold hands pawing at her face and her lungs coming under assault from the sharp acidic stink of feces, she extended her left arm and locked the elbow.
With just the chair and weakening arm muscles keeping the snapping teeth from tearing into her neck, she buried the Gerber into the thing’s left eye. A quick twist of the wrist stilled the corpse for the last time.
Releasing her grip on the loose skin hanging off its throat, she kicked and squirmed her way out from underneath the dead weight.
After getting her wind back, Raven lifted the rifle and trained the light on the scene she’d only been privy to small snippets of.
The cooler door was wide open. Protruding from it about midway up was a six-inch-long metal shaft. Capping the shaft was a red plastic disc. Tracing the curvature of the disc were the words EMERGENCY LATCH RELEASE.
Thankfully Ray had been alone. Only thing she could make out in the cooler were a couple of metal beer kegs and a dozen or so white buckets.
Just outside the door, Ray lay sprawled over the chair, his ample midsection punctured through by both chair legs.
Explaining the pressure and spreading wetness Raven had felt on her legs, his guts and other internals had burst forth and now lay in a big greasy pile on the floor. Best guess was that the continuous slamming against the cooler door led to the emergency handle being depressed. Also likely was that all that slamming had contributed to the horrific horizontal gash the chair legs were buried in.
As Raven rose and went to wipe off the dagger, she heard a loud crash from the other side of the restaurant. She was on her way to investigate when the crashing noises were replaced by a plea for help. Then came the pop, pop, pop of a pistol being discharged. As she was passing by the pie cooler, there was a final spasm of gunfire, then silence.
All in all, from the initial crash to the gunfire abruptly cutting out, maybe six seconds had elapsed.
Staying low, she crossed the entry tiles. Poking her head around the divider separating the lunch counter from the main dining area, she called, “Daymon? Duncan? You guys all right?”
“Yeah,” replied Daymon. “Some of us are more all right than others.”
Hearing this, but still harboring a bit of trepidation, she rose and stalked the length of the head-high divider. When she entered the right-side dining area and trained the light on her friends, she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
Chapter 44
“How about giving me a hand here?” Daymon said. He was kneeling next to Duncan, who was lying on his stomach in the center of the room.
Drained of color, eyes closed, Old Man’s face was a mask of pain.
The Saiga shotgun was propped against one of many fallen booths. Arranged neatly on the floor next to the weapon were Duncan’s aviator glasses and one of Daymon’s machetes.
On the floor behind the men, illuminated by the beam of a dropped flashlight, were the bodies of nearly a dozen headshot Zs. They had come to rest in every imaginable position, their blood and bodily fluids already comingling on the carpet.
Spotting on the floor near Duncan a dark wet spot the size of a dinner plate, Raven blurted, “Is he bit?”
Speaking through clenched teeth, Duncan said, “My damn back went out on me.”
Planting a knee on Duncan’s lower back and both hands on his shoulder blades, Daymon remarked, “At the worst possible time, too.”
Exhaling sharply, she said, “Went out? Is it broken?”
“Muscle spasms,” answered Duncan. “Hurt it years ago tryin’ to shear a big ol’ sheep. First time in a long time it’s done this.”
Words dripping with sarcasm, Daymon said, “To quote that old thespian dude … ‘timing is everything.’”
Duncan grimaced. “Shakespeare you ain’t.”
Biting her lip, Raven asked, “What’s the wetness on the carpet?”
Continuing to apply the pressure to Duncan’s upper back, Daymon switched knees and averted his gaze.
Duncan sighed. “I pissed myself.” His eyes opened and he fixed a watery gaze on Raven. “Please don’t tell anyone. Especially not Glenda.”
Backing off the pressure, Daymon said, “You ready to try again?”
Sweat was beading on Old Man’s brow. After taking a swipe at it with his sleeve, he said, “Roll me over.”
With little help on Duncan’s part, Daymon got him rolled over onto his back.
Raven’s eyes flicked to the man’s BDU pants. Sure enough, though not as noticeable as the stain on the floor, a similar-sized wet spot had spread across the front of the camouflage pants.
Nodding, she said, “Of course I’ll keep this between us. It’s nobody’s business anyway.” She shed her coat and draped it across Duncan’s midsection.
Lifting his head off the floor, Duncan said, “It’s not dead. I just pissed my pants. Wasn’t the first time. Surely isn’t the last.”
Raven said, “Too late now.”
Changing the subject, Daymon fixed Raven with a knowing look. “What happened with you over there? What’s that slime on your legs?”
“Taking care of the kids was no problem. I still need to harvest the ears.”
“Damn girl,” Daymon said. “You’re getting cold-blooded in your old age.”
Ignoring the comment, Raven went on. “Ray trapped himself in the refrigerator.”
Duncan said, “He’s a real tiny guy, huh?”
“Far from it.”
Having worked a couple of restaurant gigs as a teen, Daymon knew what she had meant. He said, “She’s talking about the walk-in refrigerator. I used to sneak to the walk-in at this one restaurant and suck the gas out of the whipped cream canisters. Talk about a head rush.”
“Talk about dead brain cells,” Raven shot.
“Was Ray an opportunist?” Daymon asked. “Or was he being altruistic.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Raven said. “But I do think Ray meant well. The money was in the office with a ledger. I think he thought this was all going to blow over. Looked to me like he was planning on giving the families back their money.”
Daymon said, “What was all the noise I heard coming from over there?”
“Moving chairs and bodies,” Raven said, straight-faced.
A half-truth, for sure. For if word of what really happened got to her dad, her Golden Ticket might just get revoked. And that was the last thing she needed, especially considering the location of the graffiti crew’s stash house.
With considerable effort and a little help from Daymon, Duncan got into a sitting position.
“Pressure down there is so bad,” Duncan said, “it makes me think I’m about to shit myself.”
Hearing this, Raven snatched up her coat and shrugged it on.
Daymon said, “Really?”
Illuminating her own legs from the knee down with the tac-light, Raven said, “Can’t be any worse than Ray’s gut juice.”
Daymon’s dreads whipped as he shook his head in amazement. “Cold-blooded.” Threading his arms under Duncan’s armpits, he said, “Ups-a-daisy,” and clean-jerked his friend off the floor.
Raven asked, “What happened here?” Though it looked to her as if the booths had come crashing down, and the avalanche of red vinyl had led to the teenaged Zs escaping their confines—which explained the gunfire and spent brass dotting the carpet—there was no accusatory tone to her voice.
“Like I said … bad timing.” Daymon pointed to the jumble of booths beside the bullet-riddled corpses. “We were lifting the last of them off the top row and it just happened. Old Man collapsed and took me and the booth to the ground with him.”
Now sitting on a padded chair, Duncan said, “Then that booth hit the other booths—”
“And Jinga!” Daymon finished. “The walls, they came a tumbling down.”
“I watched it all from the ground. Helpless as a blind kitten who’s wandered into a coyote’s den. Pissed myself watching the deaders pour out.”
“Glad I brought the Beretta,” Daymon conceded. “Burned an entire mag of nine-mil on them.”
Duncan said, “Shoulda seen it. Damn Wyatt Jr, this one. Head shot after glorious head shot.”
Raven said, “I heard it all. And it was over before I got out of the kitchen.”
Duncan rose from the chair and shuffled toward his friend. Standing on unsteady legs, he wrapped the taller man up with both arms and hugged him hard. “Surprised the heck out of me.”
“Surprised me, too,” Daymon said. “Didn’t know I had it in me.”
“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” Duncan quipped. Then, voice all business, he added, “We’re even for me rescuing you from the attic in Hanna.”
Looking side-eyed at the man, Daymon said, “Really? We’re still keeping tabs?”
“Just pulling your leg. Now how about you two go collect our ears?”
“On it,” Raven said.
Feigning a scowl, Daymon said, “What are you going to be doing?”
“Keeping this chair warm and supervising.”
Raven had already trooped off for the other dining room.
Alone in the room with Duncan, eyes going misty, Daymon said, “That was close.”
Staring at the floor by his feet, Duncan answered back, “Way too close.”
Chapter 45
The Antlers
“For the third time,” Raven said, “start passing the dang food.” She looked at her watch. Saw the minute hand click forward yet again.
Twirling a length of his blond locks around one finger, Peter said, “Your dad is never late.”
Duncan met Peter’s blue-eyed gaze. “It’ll be all right,” he said, adding emphasis to the words by bugging his eyes at the teen. “He’s probably being held up at the gate. A technicality with his papers, or something.”
Sasha said, “Maybe the Tahoe broke down. Lord knows Wilson doesn’t lift a finger to keep it in good running shape.”
Through clenched teeth, Wilson said, “Sore subject. Pass the potatoes, Sis.”
Bumping Wilson’s knee under the table, Taryn said, “We are eati
ng. Not here. Not now.”
Wisely, Wilson kept “the truck is brand new” comment to himself and instead speared a boiled spud and plopped it on his plate.
Finished shuttling food-laden serving dishes to the table, Tran crossed his arms and watched the people whom he considered family fill their plates with pappardelle noodles and canned chicken and potatoes and homemade rolls. Only thing missing was a salad and fresh churned butter. The former problem would soon be rectified when spring took a firm foothold and his first planting in the rooftop garden could commence. He had big plans for his garden.
The latter would take a miracle. Out of all the people he’d talked to since arriving at the new capital, not a one of them had seen a single live cow during their travels across the country.
After bowing her head in prayer, Raven took a roll and passed the basket.
“Maybe he’s getting the Tahoe’s oil changed,” Sasha speculated. “Or having the tires rotated. Least he could do after holding it hostage for two days.”
Deciding to let Wilson stew over the whereabouts of his precious rig, Raven changed the subject, saying, “Thanks for the information, Glenda. Ray’s was everything you said it would be. I can’t imagine being in a city this size when it all started. The choices people had to make in order to survive. Pure madness.”
Peter said, “Salt Lake changed overnight. Most of our neighbors kept their kids inside. Dad’s business was booming as people stocked up on gas and oil. We even opened a contract with FEMA and the National Guard.”
Sasha said, “Denver sure was a shitshow. Wilson had to do some stuff he’s not proud of.”
Gesturing with her fork, Taryn said, “That’s enough, Sash. Try working on your filter.”
Pointing her fork at Taryn, Sasha said, “You’re not my mom. Try working on minding your own business.”
“I’m old enough to be,” Glenda said, “and then some. So zip it while we eat, Sasha. You want to spar with your brother and sister-in-law—take it elsewhere.”
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 23