Highways to Hell

by Bryan Smith

  This went on for a time.

  He even began to feel a mild arousal.

  What the hell, right?

  He was dead anyway. Might as well go with it.

  Something happened.

  The dead bitch twisted her head away from him and snarled. Then she was ripped from the embrace and Rick staggered backward. He felt woozy and his vision blurred. He gave his head a hard shake to clear the cobwebs and gaped at the sight of a reanimated, zombified Danny locked in a thrashing, savage battle with the dead bitch. They rolled on the ground and tore at each other with their fingernails. Strips of the dead bitch’s flesh came away from her back as Danny raked at her.

  Rick shivered.

  And a glint of light on steel caught his eyes.

  The .38.

  He picked the gun up.

  Approached the combatants.

  Aimed carefully.

  Fired.

  And fired again.

  The bodies of the zombies went still.

  Danny stared at them for a long time. At first, he couldn’t connect Danny’s violated body with the man who’d been his best friend since childhood. Then a wash of memories assailed him. Forts built in the woods. Secret clubs formed with their other friends. The wild times as teenagers. The quiet sadness they never talked about as their other friends grew up and started families, became responsible. The subsequent total commitment to drugs and booze as the only way of life that made any sense to guys like them. And now this. One of them dead in some anonymous section of wilderness. Eviscerated. And here he was, smoking gun in hand, no idea what to do next. After a while, he turned and walked back out to the road.

  He swept the glass fragments from the driver’s side seat—barely noticing the sting of multiple cuts to his flesh—and slipped behind the steering wheel.

  He stared at the road ahead.

  It was almost full light out now.

  The road was just a road.

  Leading everywhere and nowhere, like always.

  But maybe there was a monster lurking somewhere toward the horizon, after all.

  Maybe a lot of them.

  Rick switched the radio over to the AM dial, found a 24-hour news station.

  An announcer’s static-garbled voice told him some things he’d already guessed at: “Washington has declared a national state of emergency. Citizens are being advised to stay in their homes until the crisis has passed. Again, the bodies of the dead are rising to attack the living. Authorities urge everyone to avoid contact with the dead. If you must engage a reanimated corpse, be advised that you must destroy the creature’s brain to kill it. A team of top scientists is working around the clock to solve this problem, although at this time no one knows the cause of the uprising. Some theorize radiation from—”

  Rick stopped paying attention.

  It was weird how on some level he was completely unsurprised by this. As if somehow he’d always known it was going to happen, that it was inevitable.

  He switched the radio back to the tape deck and picked up Danny’s Zune. Scrolling through the list of artists, he stopped on one and laughed.

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  “You fucking liar.”

  He cued up “The End” by the Doors and pushed play.

  After the song was over, he did the only thing he could think to do. He lifted the gun and put it to his head. He closed his eyes and spent a last few moments thinking of the good things in his life. Family and old friends. Fun times he’d had. The music he enjoyed. Yeah, there were some people and things he would miss. But the world was dying, and he didn’t want to face that alone. He began to apply pressure to the trigger.

  And a voice from the passenger seat said, “Don’t be a dick.”

  Rick’s finger eased off the trigger. He opened his eyes and lowered the gun, turned his head toward the source of the voice. “Um…”

  Danny’s ghost sat stretched out in the passenger seat, one arm propped on the door, that familiar smirk on his face. At least he appeared to be a ghost--he had that sort of glowing spectral transparency they often had in movies. A more rational part of Rick’s mind reminded him that he had done a lot of drugs in his life, had in fact done a lot of drugs within just the last twenty-four hours, and so this could very well be a hallucination.

  Danny chuckled and said, “I’m not a hallucination.”

  “Fuck, you can read my mind.”

  Danny shook his head. “Nah. It’s just you’re as transparent as I am in your own way. And Rick, seriously, you weren’t really about to blow your brains out after listening to “The End”, were you?”

  “Well…”

  Danny’s smirk deepened. “My God, you really were gonna do it. Look, unless you’re some kind of morose high school kid, that’s just weak. Even then, it’s weak.”

  Rick nodded. He set the gun down in the tray beneath the radio. “You’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right.”

  “So how is it I can see you?”

  Danny shrugged. “Who knows, man? Maybe all the drugs you’ve done have opened receptors in your brain that are usually closed.” He giggled. “The fucking doors of perception. You’re probably gonna have to stay high as hell to keep me around.”

  Rick smiled. “Makes sense.”

  He fished a half-smoked joint from his shirt pocket and lit it with the dashboard lighter. He inhaled deeply and made like he was going to pass the joint to Danny.

  Danny scowled. “Dude, I’m a ghost. Non-corporeal. Get it?”

  Rick frowned. “Oh. Right.”

  “So you’re gonna have to get twice as high for both of us.”

  Rick choked on another lungful of smoke, laughter wheezing out of him. “Yeah. Shit. Didn’t think of that. Good point.”

  Danny shifted in his seat, clasped his ghostly hands behind his non-corporeal head. “What can I say? I’m a smart motherfucker. Now cue up some tunes. And not fucking “The End” again. Some good road tune. Then let’s get mobile again. We’ve got us a goddamn zombie apocalypse to check out.”

  Rick picked up the Zune and scrolled through the selections until he found “Deep Purple’s “Space Truckin’”.

  He clicked Play.

  And made a sound meant to mimick Jon Lord’s keyboards.

  Danny unclasped his hands and played air drums.

  In a few moments, the Chevelle was rolling on down the road.

  Walter Percy’s wrinkled face was expressionless, a calm exterior that betrayed none of his inner rage. He had always been good at masking his true feelings, a dubious talent that had contributed greatly to the breakup of his marriage. He was nearly as adept at blocking out emotion as he had once been at playing The Game.

  The Game was baseball, of course. And he loved it with an obsessive passion; it ruled his life, touching every facet of his existence. It was the only thing left that still held any real meaning for him.

  Today was the home opener for the Rochester Red Wings, a triple A club in the Orioles organization, and he should have been happy. The hell of off season was over, spring training and its petty controversies all but forgotten. He was in a ballpark, as close to nirvana as he ever got.

  But the fucking kids were ruining it for him.

  They laughed at him, giggling wildly like fucking idiots, taunting him with rude remarks about his enormous girth. They were clean-cut teenagers, all-American in appearance, and drunk on grain alcohol and youth. Kids who would have been begging for his autograph had his career not come to such an untimely end.

  Instead, they were throwing paper beer cups at him. Only one found its target, striking the bridge of his nose, and then falling into his lap. A small quantity of beer—mixed with a liberal dose of saliva—poured out of the cup, soaking the crotch of his jeans.

  “Hey fatso!” one of the brats yelled, “You piss yourself?”

  He knocked the cup away, and continued in his attempt to ignore the creaseless barrage of insults. There was a game to watch, after a
ll. A good game. The bottom of the sixth inning was just getting under way, and the score was tied. Mike Jensen, Denver’s premier power threat, was stepping to the plate. The crowd rose as one, a tidal wave of flesh, and booed in unison.

  Except for the assholes Walter Percy was sharing this otherwise deserted section of the right field bleachers with. They had lost all interest in the game, finding the verbal abuse of Walter more worthy of their attention. This was sport of a decidedly crueler nature than baseball, and to their way of thinking, more fun.

  His head rigid, motionless, Walter’s eyes moved side to side in their sockets, scanning the immediate area for security guards; none were in sight. They were apparently content to focus their energies on problems in the more crowded areas of the park.

  Ordinarily, he enjoyed sitting out here, isolated from everyone else, apart from all the bullshit and the swarming mobs of children. He could see the action on the field well enough, and he had his binoculars, after all. So rarely did anyone else ever sit out here, he had come to think of this remote section of the bleachers as a home away from home, his own personal property. This was the only place that made him feel everything was right with the world; it acted as a sanity buffer, an assurance that maybe things weren’t really so bad, and maybe he could cope with life another six months, hell, maybe even make it through yet another dreary off season.

  Now, though, these fuckin’ little jerks were violating his space, defiling its sanctity. He was royally pissed off, but he knew any action on his part would just inflame them, make the whole situation even worse, if that was possible. If he could just concentrate on the game properly…

  “Lardbucket!”

  Goddamn! Just leave me alone, he thought. Go pick on someone else, for Christ’s sake!

  “Bet you need a fuckin’ shovel to find your dick in all that shit, don’t ya, lardbucket?”

  One of the girls, a striking blonde, shouted, “How do you jerk off, blubberbutt? I know, you use a bulldozer to get to it and a crane to bop it.”

  The blonde’s salvo was apparently the funniest thing the kids had ever heard; they dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, sounding for all the world like asthmatic hyenas.

  Once it had subsided they were ready to resume the verbal strafing. Apparently impressed by her previous shot, the others deferred to the blonde. “You know, you’re SOOO sexy, blubberbutt; there’s just SOOO much of you. I bet you have to—”

  Enough! There was just so much a guy could take, and he had just reached that point. “Fuck off, cunt.”

  This hushed them instantly; they seemed momentarily unable to believe that this thing—this gluttonous pig—had dared to strike back.

  It didn’t last.

  “Maybe,” one of the guys said, “I should just come over there and kick your fat ass.”

  He faced them squarely for the first time. “Why don’t you just go ahead and try, you stupid little prick.”

  The one who had made the threat set down his drink, then stood. He was tall and well-conditioned, muscular like a weightlifter. Walter had looked like that once, many years ago. Back then, he wouldn’t have felt fear facing a guy like this; now, though, fear was exactly what he was experiencing, and he didn’t like it one damn bit. Suddenly, he was furioius at himself for having let himself go so badly; mental self-denial blocks he had spent years building unclogged in a matter of seconds. God, it didn’t have to be like this! He could have kept himself in shape, and doing so, he could easily have dealt with an asshole like this. He shook with the fury of his self-hatred.

  The weightlifter grinned. “Some tough guy, huh?” The others laughed. “You’re scared shitless, aren’t you, fatso?” The blonde giggled.

  Walter stood, but not with any intention to fight this guy; it was a fight he couldn’t possibly win, and he knew it. He had decided to cut his losses and leave. He sighed, his heart heavy with sorrow. He instinctively sensed it would be a long time before he would come back. He wouldn’t chance meeting these assholes, or others like them, again.

  He turned away from them, and started walking towards the concrete steps that led to the vending area. He descended the steps as quickly as his massive frame allowed, moved rapidly through the vending area—waving off a scantily clad girl who wanted to sell him a program, and finally stepped out into the parking lot.

  He scanned the lot for his grey Honda, squinting to see in the rapidly gathering darkness. It was, he knew, somewhere in the third row to his right. He began to move in that direction.

  As he neared the car, he sensed the people behind him before actually hearing them. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was the kids from the bleachers. He had no doubt they had some malicious intent in mind. They were like hunting dogs who refused to give up their prey’s scent. And that’s what they are, he thought, animals. He picked up his pace, knowing full well the effort would be for naught. They were younger and faster than him.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  A well aimed kick to the ass sent him sprawling on the pavement. His lungs expelled most of their air-supply upon his belly’s contact with the ground. He breathed heavily, raggedly, desperately pulling in large gulps of air. His eyes watered, forming tears that spilled down each side of his nose.

  “Get up.”

  It was the weightlifter; he recognized the voice immediately. He remained on the ground, unable to move; he still hadn’t caught his breath.

  “I told you to get the fuck up; I know even lardasses like you can hear, so do what I told you.”

  A girl laughed. The blonde. The one who had been the most vociferous and cruel of them all. A girl, for Christ’s sake. What had the World come to? “I don’t think he can get up,” she said. “He’s so heavy he can’t even lift himself off the ground.”

  He heard the soft pad of running shoes on the pavement. Then the blonde was squatting beside him. His eyes looked up at her; she smiled down at him, and his mind reeled, unable to accept the reality of the situation. She was pretty, very nice-looking, a cheerleader type. She was the kind of girl all high school boys—and a lot of older men—fantasized about. But the eyes at the center of that face were filled with unfathomable hate. Where did it come from? he wondered. What could possibly cause it?

  Her smiled shifted, the lips puckering; they parted, the mouth opened wide to expel a large wad of saliva. Spit splashed down his face, mingling with the tears. Fresh tears poured down his face. He began to sob.

  They all laughed. One of the other girls said, “poor baby.”

  The blonde still wore that bland smile. She was like a Barbie doll come to life, emotionless, devoid of any real feeling. Except unadulterated hate. “Yeah,” she said, “poor fat little baby; you deserve to be punished, little baby.”

  She stood, and he stared up at those long, sleek, tanned legs; fantasy-worthy legs. Entranced, he watched as one of them reared back, then swung forward, the foot connecting solidly with his chin. His teeth ground together, biting into the tip of his tongue. A tiny amount of blood trickled out the corner of his mouth.

  The others joined her. Three stood on each side of him. “Guess you don’t have to get up, after all,” the weightlifter said, then kicked him in the side. He saw the blonde’s pink running shoe swing toward his again, felt it connect, felt the imprint of its sole on his flesh. Soon, the others joined in, delivering a seemingly endless barrage of blows to his beleaguered body.

  He began to pray for quick death.

  Miraculously, though, they left him alive. Bored with the casual torture of the fat man, they left him—a bloody heap—on the pavement. His mind was numb, his body the same. Through the haze, he heard their soulless laughter, their talk of making a beer run.

  Alive.

  He couldn’t quite believe it.

  But something did die in Walter Percy that night; that essential flicker of genuine humanity that had kept him sane, basically good, decent.

  It was just gone.

  Like it had never exi
sted.

  He had been called “Slugger” once, a long time ago, back in his days as the prime prospect in the New York Yankees minor league organization. Scouts had him pegged as the second coming of Mickey Mantle; he hit monstrous home run shots that inspired awe in all who saw them. Aside from his hitting prowess, he was a graceful ball-handler—scooping up grounders and snagging line drives with effortless ease—and he could scorch the base paths. He had been a sure thing, a can’t-miss prospect on a fast track to the majors.

  Life had been so simple then, uncomplicated; he knew what he was all about, where he was going, and what he would do when he got there. He saw everything in simple terms, in shades of pure white and pitch black; delineations between concepts of right and wrong were easily discerned, such as his impulsive decision to marry Louise after signing his first minor league contract.

  In those days Louise was a pliable woman, and she had accepted his proposal immediately. They honeymooned in New York, visiting Yankee Stadium three straight days, knowing it would one day reverberate with the cheers of his adoring fans.

  Those dreams were short-lived, however; two years later—just days after their anniversary—he collided with an opposing team’s second baseman. His right knee was blown out, rendered useless; it would take years of rehabilitation before it would work right again.

  His purpose in life taken away, he became a shell of a man, a mere husk. He compensated for the void in his soul by constantly filling his body with food, all manner of snacks and junk. Louise complained, bemoaning the ruination of his once Adonis-like physique. His body swelled, especially his belly; the once washboard-flat stomach now quite effectively hid his feet from view; their marital problems grew exponentially.

  He was served with divorce papers on the day of their ninth wedding anniversary. The timing didn’t faze him in the least; he was way past the point of caring. He knew she had been with other men lately, but that didn’t matter. He wanted her gone; she was just a symbol of his shattered past, the broken dreams that could never be mended.

  That was ten years ago. The intervening time had been uneventful. He worked at a gas station, earning just enough money to pay his rent and keep him well stocked in Twinkies and poptarts. In his free time he watched baseball on the cable superstations. He went to see the Red Wings whenever they were in town. He made a once a year trip to New York to see the Yankees play. During the off season, he kept track of the winter league, subscribing to the newsletters of each team.