by Jack Flacco
With both bottles in his hand, he drifted around the counter, between the tables and chairs, and returned to the front entrance of the restaurant from where he came. He poured a few ounces of water down his throat and twisted the cap lightly, saving some for later.
When Ranger opened the door and stepped outside, he kept his focus on the bottles and thought how Randy would enjoy fresh spring water imported from the mountains. He didn’t think for a moment things would change so quickly, but as he took one step after another from the sidewalk to cross Center Street, he slowly lifted his head, and the scowl he sported around whenever the undead would make an appearance, returned. The bottles dropped and splashed water on Ranger’s boots. In their place, his shotgun filled his hands.
Randy’s back slammed against the passenger-side door as three eaters attempted to push inside the SUV through the smashed window from the driver’s seat. One swipe after another, he dodged and bobbed backward. He shot a glance to the rear seat where he had left his gun. He could reach for it, but the eaters’ arms would grab him first. In addition, as silly as it sounded, he didn’t want to dirty the inside of the truck. Not after hearing how Ranger had complained about the frequency of vehicle exchanges done in one day. Then again, broken glass covered Ranger’s seat, so trading the trucks would be inevitable. Nonetheless, he kept well back hoping the eaters would get tired. Somehow, though, he didn’t think it possible. Two of them already had squeezed through the window with their arms swimming through the air, while a third pressed against them from the outside to slide in. They screeched and hollered wanting Randy for their dinner. Sinew and broken flesh hung from their heads as their dull white eyes stared at their struggling prey.
The shot blasted the windshield hitting the first eater on the side of the head, blowing a good portion of its green brains over the back of the truck. Another shot ripped half the face off the second eater spilling its insides on the front seat and all over Randy. The last shot tore apart the third eater’s head, discharging half the contents to the side of the truck. It fell to its knees, then toppled to the ground.
From a distance, the gun smoldered until the shooter hid the weapon under her jacket.
Matty.
She made it to the meeting place, and on either side of her Jon and Charlie stood as witnesses to the brutal devastation she caused with her silver Colt .45.
“That’s the second truck in one day.” Ranger said as he marched from the street to the rear of the SUV. He holstered his weapon, and without looking beyond the vehicle at what might have caused its destruction, he came along the side and hoisted the dead bodies from their shirts. He tossed them into a big mound next to each other wondering why he had such bad luck.
“Would you rather have had Randy dead?” Matty asked, after having appeared from the trees to walk toward the front of the SUV.
Ranger spun to his left, but the shock of seeing Matty didn’t last long. “I would rather have had a truck more than a few hours before another episode of squash the melon took place.”
“So you’re saying Randy’s not important?”
“I didn’t say that at all. You’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“And you’re as obstinate as ever.”
Ranger’s veins in his neck bulged. “Okay, I need a dictionary.”
Charlie didn’t know what to make of it. He’d never seen anything like it. They all talked as if it was an ordinary thing to kill the undead and pile their bodies to the side of a truck. He also didn’t know any of them had gone through a lifetime together fighting zombies. He wanted to know more about them.
“Hey, Randy,” Jon bent and waved at the teen through the blown windshield “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess.” Randy said, frozen in place, covered in green splatter from Matty’s handiwork.
Ranger examined the SUV’s damage and determined with a shake of his head that it no longer suited his tastes in vehicles. “A damn shame,” is how he put it. Who could blame him? Bullet holes riddled the windshield, green blood covered everything, and chunks of zombie brain littered the interior of the vehicle.
“I’ll get another truck.” Randy wiped his face. “I’m a mess anyway and no point anyone else hopping in here getting dirty.”
“Do you remember where the car lot is?” Ranger asked.
“I remember it, but can I suggest something?”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get two trucks this time. I’m getting tired of cleaning up after every kill.”
Chapter 10
Once Randy had dried his hair, he tossed the towel in the backseat, then slammed the rear door of the spoiled SUV—again. He scooted across the lit parking lot to the main office of McDover Motors. The showroom had the latest models of everything on display. That is to say, all the latest models before the change.
Matty stood behind the service desk rummaging through car keys hanging in a cabinet by the wall. Her idea of a ride had nothing to do with a truck. She had her eyes on the exquisite Camaro with the über-horsepower, the amped-up racing wheels and the sizzling cherry finish. Why settle for a boring old SUV when she could go for a fancy-schmancy sports car?
“Ranger wants two trucks.” Randy said, noticing how she kept eyeing the Camaro.
“Ranger wants a lot of things.”
“C’mon, Matty. We can play tit-for-tat when we’re out of here and back into the safety of the Arizona desert.”
She dropped three keys in the center of the counter and stood on one side while Randy on the other. “Two sets belong to the trucks out front. One belongs to the Camaro. Choose two.”
“I’m not choosing.” Randy pushed the keys to her side.
“If I do it, Ranger’ll think I’d planned it all along. If you do it, we’re guaranteed at least one truck out of the deal.” Matty again pushed them to the center of the counter.
“I know you’re still upset at Ranger—”
“The word upset doesn’t cover it.”
“Okay, you’re outraged, angered, fuming—”
“Pissed.”
“Fine. But that’s no reason to make it hard on all of us.”
“How am I making it hard? We’re going for a cool set of wheels.”
“I know. How about leaving the Camaro and just bringing back the trucks?”
“Are you asking me?”
“Let’s not start that.” Randy raised his hand giving her a stop sign.
“No, Randy, listen. Are you asking me? ‘Cause if you’re asking me, then I’ll do it.”
“Matty, I’m not asking you to do anything. I want you happy, that’s all.”
“Fine, I want the Camaro.” Matty grabbed the keys to the car and one of the trucks and smacked them on the counter. She dumped the keys to the other truck in the wastepaper basket.
Randy left the keys on the counter, turned to face the front door and was about to leave when he muttered under his breath, “At least you could have thanked us for coming back for you.”
“Excuse me?” Matty stomped around the counter, swung Randy around, and pushed him against the front door. “If you don’t remember what happened, Wildside is not with us because Ranger had it in his mind to take out his vengeance on Worship Square. How difficult would it have been if we left to live in peace in the desert? I would have enjoyed that. Not Ranger. Once he gets something in his mind, there’s no telling what he’ll do. I blame him for Wildside. It was totally his fault and I can’t forgive him for that.”
Gazing at the floor, Randy stroked the back of his head in frustration. “I don’t remember what happened to me before escaping Katlyn County Jail. Ranger found me in Jessum, brought me back to the military silo and that’s how we all got to know each other—me, you, Jon, Ranger and Wildside. We became a family, and if you don’t remember, for the longest time Wildside hated me. He hated my parents for what they did to his parents, and he hated me for no apparent reason. I wouldn’t have guessed he could have ever forgiven me. But h
e did.”
Now Matty was the one staring at a spot on the floor.
“Remember that day what you said to Wildside about me? I overheard the entire conversation. You said, ‘let it go.’ Matty, you have to do the same thing. Let it go or it will eat you alive. If you don’t, one day it will cause you to do something you will later regret.”
Matty stood there and absorbed the words. For a while, she didn’t give Randy any clue of what she would do. Her face had simply gone blank. In an awkward moment, though, she left Randy standing there, walked to the other side of the counter and reached for the keys in the wastepaper basket. When she turned around, she noticed Randy hadn’t left. She placed the keys to the other truck on the counter and moved the keys to the Camaro to the side. “When you have everything set to tow the second truck, let me know. On second thought, I’ll help you hook the second truck to the first.”
“When we get out of here, I’ll have to teach you how to drive.”
“That would be a good idea. With all the wheels Ranger goes through, we’ll need more than one person to replace them.”
Randy gave her a smile and hoped what he had said would make her realize they needed Ranger as much as Ranger needed them. From the beginning, it worked out that way. Who was to say Matty was one to carry a grudge anyway?
A convoy of a half-dozen military jeeps and Humvees squealed their brakes on Center Street, and turned into the dealership parking lot to stop near the entrance of the showroom. Armed soldiers poured from the vehicles, stretching their tired muscles and bending their stiff backs. The strain from riding for hours had taken its toll. A pair of boots popped from the last Humvee and hit the ground. The laces, bound tight in neat knots, presented a man of precision. His supply belt looked as if he had replenished it hours earlier. His face appeared worn and faint, but Sergeant Baskins was not one to allow his feelings or state of mind affect his duty as an officer of the army. He had a mission and he would not let anything get in its way.
From inside the showroom, a cold sweat broke on Randy’s back. Seeing the military in full gear wandering around the two disabled trucks—the first, bullet holes to the front windshield, and the second, a zombie body rotting in the backseat—brought shivers. He knew if the army got a hold of him, it wouldn’t have been because they liked how he wore his T-shirts. They would want to finish what they had started when they had him as their prisoner the first time.
Unlike Randy, Matty took a direct approach to the situation. She flung her hands on his chest and dragged him over the counter to hide in a crouched position. She whispered, “We have to get out of here.”
“But where?” He matched her voice, not remembering a time when their faces were so close.
The showroom had three entrances—the front, where the kids had walked through freely, the back, where they had yet to explore, and the side, where it connected to a maze of offices that ran along behind the counter to a second floor stairwell outside.
In the meantime, Sergeant Baskins inspected the bullet holes in the windshield of the truck Matty and Randy had dropped off earlier. He opened the driver side door and surveyed the interior with a small flashlight he had pulled from his supply belt.
“What’ya think, Sarg?” Private Witham asked. He was one of the few soldiers in the crowd who had enough guts to speak his mind with the sergeant.
“Looks like a rescue mission had taken place.” He pointed to the green debris that had exploded in the rear, then shifted the light to the front. “Minimal blood on the passenger seat. The shots must have torn through the windshield, smashed the chewers in the head and sprayed their brains all over whoever sat here.”
“There’s a towel in the backseat.”
“Someone must have ditched the truck for another in the lot.”
Like Private Witham, Private Norris wasn’t shy when he stood gazing through the window into the back seat of the other vehicle and said, “Hey Sarg? You may want to have a look at this.”
Baskins marched to the second SUV parked behind the first with a group of soldiers trailing behind. When Private Norris stepped aside, the sergeant opened the rear door and the first thing to hit him was the rancid odor. It caused the other soldiers in the unit to cover their noses in disgust.
“God!” Norris said. “It smells like a horse’s ass.”
Sergeant Baskins couldn’t help his smile from appearing, then he said, “Private, I didn’t know you knew what a horse’s ass smelled like.”
Everyone broke out in laughter except Private Norris who stood there taking it.
Back inside the showroom, Matty peeked from behind the counter to scan the military unit for numbers. Too many to count, her head slowly disappeared from view.
“What are we going to do?” Randy whispered.
“I’m thinking.” Matty pinched her chin.
He eased his back on the cabinet door under the counter and waited with his legs scrunched into his chest. Nothing he could think of could save them from capture. Perhaps Matty could think of something. Their enemy had intelligence and weapons and their focus was to search for humans to bring back to their base. He assumed that was the reason since most of the soldiers possessed a vast array of weapons customized for crowd control. He also thought they could have been out on patrol to find undead fit for slaughter, but he didn’t think it made sense. Then the thought hit him. Maybe they were looking for someone specific.
“I have good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?” Matty asked.
“Let’s not do that.”
“Fine, good news it is then. We can run along the wall to the door there on the side. Let’s hope it leads outside away from this.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“They’ll see us making a run for it.”
Randy covered his eyes with his right hand in frustration with Matty’s idea.
The front door swung open as Private Witham and Private Norris ambled into the showroom in conversation, then laughed at Sarg’s joke.
“I’m telling you.” Witham said, “He should have been a comedian.”
“Let’s hope we find this Randall guy so he could return on stage.”
Then, without a word, they froze with a sudden realization. They gazed into the distance, jaws opened and brows raised. It wasn’t Matty and Randy that caught their sights, otherwise, the soldiers would have pulled their weapons and hauled them to Sergeant Baskins who would have greeted them with a cold stare. No, it was the Camaro with the beautiful cherry gleam that had the soldiers’ attention. It reeled them into its world of fast cars and solid performance.
“Whoa.” Private Witham said.
“Yeah. Now that’s a sweet ride.” Private Norris nodded.
They strolled to the gorgeous sight and placed their rugged hands on the finish, stroking it as if it sat there like a pet. Norris bent on one knee and felt the new tire. He even took a long whiff of the rubber.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing quite beats the smell of a new car.”
Witham smiled.
Meanwhile, Randy sneaked into a corner and shook in his spot. He didn’t want to fall into the hands of the military nor did he want to lose Matty. Who knew what they’d do to her if they took her as their prisoner.
“Hey,” Private Norris said, “let’s take it for a spin.”
“You’re crazy.” Witham looked at his reflection in the passenger side mirror.
“Why not? We’re due for a break anyway. I’m sure the Sarg wouldn’t mind.”
“No way. You’re on your own with this one.”
Private Norris glanced at Witham, then glanced at the counter. What were the chances he’d find the keys? What would the Sarg say? He wouldn’t mind. They’d traveled in and around the city with no luck finding Randy, who’d say they wouldn’t find him if they had a Camaro tagging along? The Sarg would want to take a spin in it himself. And why not. Maybe the whole unit would want to take turns riding such a beauty.
“I’m gonna look for the keys.”
Back in the parking lot, the crowd of military personnel withdrew from the truck with the rotting corpse. Most, if not all, had covered their noses except for Sergeant Baskins who, with a stone face he saved for those special gut-churning occasions, stuck his head in the truck. While the other soldiers were about to faint, Baskins examined the body, drawing the towel from its face. He noticed the multiple stab wounds concentrated on the head and upper torso.
What Baskins did next made even the most hardened soldiers wish they were somewhere else. He hid his flashlight, and slipped his hand in the dead zombie’s pockets getting green blood all over him. No one knew what he sought, but knew then why he had become sergeant and they remained lowly Privates. He didn’t find anything in any of the pockets.
Baskins then resurfaced from the truck for a breath, hands almost soaked, and a determination on his face not seen since the beginning of his search. The others around him didn’t say anything. They knew he was on to something but hadn’t a clue as to what.
“Pop both trunks.” He said, grabbing a rag from one of the soldiers and wiping his hands.
Without any questions, the soldiers unlatched the trunks.
As he wiped his hands, he drifted to the back of the SUV that had become a grave for the dead body and inspected the storage compartment. It was empty. Not what he expected. He dumped the rag on the pavement and wandered to the other truck where he then stood gazing inside the storage compartment of the first truck. Again, it was empty. With his clean hand, he rubbed the stubble on his face deep in thought.
His unit gathered around their leader but no one said a word. They’ve seen Sarg this way before, and he didn’t like it when people interfered with his thought process. Something had his interest yet they didn’t know what.
Without wasting any more time, Sergeant Baskins turned, marched to the other side of the second truck and tugged the rear door where the body’s legs popped from backseat. The towel covered its shoes, which Baskins removed with a swift jerk. The soldiers stared at him wondering what went through his mind.