Pocalypse Road

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Sometimes, late at night, Carline thought of the bubbling happiness that filled her when Mandy smiled and said sure, sugar, and thought maybe that was why the zombies had come. Anything that hot-sweet-good had a bite at the end.

  Miz Frank had the shotgun settled. “Come on, you sonofabitch,” she yelled, and Carline yanked her foot in. The door slammed, and a variety of quiet fell, broken only by heaving breathing, thudding pulses, and Mandy’s muttered oh shit oh shit, her own particular chorus of disaster.

  The shotgun barked. Once, twice. Carline lay, half on Mandy, her ankle throbbing and her hand, too. Jesus, she was just all sorts of messed up today.

  “Ohshit,” Mandy whispered. “Ohshit mama, shoot him again, shoot him…good Lord.”

  Carline’s middle hurt, but she still managed to curl up enough to peer out the window.

  Miz Frank, the shotgun reversed, clubbed the zombie right in the head. Brains and spongy, discolored skullbone spattered. Carline, her jaw dropping, choked on a warning scream.

  More zombies boiled around the corner of the building, dropping to all fours and scrambling for the Toyota. Where were they coming from? Glass shattered, and Jorge stepped through the shivering ruins of the Marathon’s front door, firing his pistol at the mass. “Go!” he yelled, and behind him, Chantal and Holly half-carried Colleen, whose head hung. Colleen’s hair swung heavily, splattering drops of bright red. Skinny, nervous Mike Mock followed at high speed, paper-white, a hand clapped to his shoulder where a bright crimson rosette bloomed through his flapping flannel shirt. He’d hadn’t worn his coat inside, because Jorge kept the heat blasting in his truck. Mike’s red hair stuck up, coppery in the snowy light.

  Miz Frank almost ran into the Toyota’s side, blundered along it, and finally ripped the driver’s door open. She piled in, the shotgun shoved barrel-down into the passenger footwell, and had to jab twice at the door locks to get them to closed with that sweet chucking sound of safety.

  Jorge kept firing until there was nothing but dry clicks, backing up and damn near running into Mike. Chantal and Holly almost had Colleen to the Cadillac, and Mike staggered for Jorge’s big old Ford monster truck with its La Vida Loca decal on the canopy’s back window and the funny little plastic statue of Mother Mary glued to the dash. Jorge dropped the old clip out and slammed new ammo in, quick habitual movements. He kept backing up, now taking his time and choosing his shots. The zombies couldn’t decide whether to go after Holly, Chantal, and Colleen or him, and a couple had reached the Toyota and started slapping at the windows, their bloated, discolored, or skinny hands leaving wet prints as they smacked.

  “Ohgod,” Carline choked. “Ohgodohgod get us out of here, get us out of here!”

  Mandy started moving. “Ma’am!” She poked at Miz Frank’s shoulder, and the older woman, as if in a dream, fumbled the key towards the ignition. She’d been occupied in fishing it out of her jacket pocket. The shotgun’s stock, splattered with oddly dark zombie blood, slid sideways to tap at the passenger door. Better put your seatbelt on, Carline’s mother said dimly in the recesses of her memory, and the Toyota purred into life. “Put your belts on, kids,” Miz Frank said, softly, and Carline flinched. Her ankle sent up a red-hot distress signal, and she sobbed out a breath.

  “Oh no,” Mandy moaned. “Oh, God, no.”

  Mike had made it to Jorge’s truck, but he was having trouble getting in. Jorge was holding the zombies off, Colleen was loaded into the Cadillac. The things growled, milling around, indecisive.

  Miz Frank glanced at the rearview. Someone was home behind her eyes again, and that someone had a steely glare Carline had never seen on a mom-aged woman before. “Put your belts on!” she snapped, and dropped the SUV into reverse. She paused, then, deliberately, laid on the horn.

  Each zombie stopped and turned unerringly for the source of the sound, their heads cocked at strange doglike angles. Kasie Frank hit the gas, soft thudding sounds at the back of the car accompanied by shudders as it plowed through a knot of zombies, and twisted the wheel. Dropped it into drive, and hit the horn again. “Come on, you cheapshot motherfuckers!” she yelled, as Jorge boosted Mike into the passenger side of the truck and clambered up behind him. The pink Cadillac’s brake lights flashed, and Miz Frank let out a sobbing breath of relief. “Thank you, God. Come on, Jorge. Come on.”

  The Ford’s door closed—Jorge and Mike were loaded. Miz Frank stamped the gas, chained tires bit packed snow, and Carline was shoved back into Mandy’s lap by the acceleration. She didn’t mind so much, because Mandy folded over her, and for a few moments, in the darkness behind Carline’s eyelids, her breathing muffled by Mandy’s coat, things were safe and they had survived.

  Again.

  Stay Handled

  Step. A pause. Another soft footfall. Whoever it was, they were trying to move quietly, and that brought Lee out of his bag in a thrashing hurry, yanking the knife under his pillow free and ending up in a fighting crouch, ready for anything.

  Anything, that was, except Ginny, her T-shirt torn half off and glaring bruises down her soft shoulders, braceleting her pretty wrist. The wrist was his fault, he’d had to put his boot there while she thrashed and he tried to get the bandanna around her upper arm tourniquet-like to jab her with the needle. There was a rough abrasion where he’d yanked the bandanna tight, and vivid red-black bruising marched down both her long, pretty, pale legs under the penguin-starred boxer shorts. She’d probably been throwing herself around the room for a bit, banging against things. Or maybe he’d hurt her that badly, trying to get the needle in.

  Jesus.

  Ginny stopped, her pupils huge in the dimness. The drapes were closed, but the bathroom light was on and the door ajar. She stared down at him, her hair a soft, wild cloud, and Lee exhaled hard, lowering the knife. “Uh,” he managed, and had to clear his throat. She’d almost stepped on him, his sleeping bag barring the way to the hall door just in case. If anyone came in, he’d give them a bad time—and he’d wanted to wake up if she moved.

  Well, he had, thank Jesus. His heart thundered northwards, attempting to lodge in his throat; he tried to force it down. “Ginny.” Raspy as a smoker’s morning growl. His voice didn’t want to work. “It’s all right.”

  Was she sleepwalking? She just looked at him, and Lee was suddenly very aware that he was barefoot in his thermals and she was barely even half dressed. Lord, even after all that, she was…

  Well, she was just plain beautiful. That glory of hair, and the bruising only underlined how fine her skin was. The beautiful bow-curves of her hips, the softness of a woman’s belly, one of her breasts rising like a moon behind a scrap of cotton T-shirt—he could stare for hours, every circuit in his fool head fusing.

  Her fingers twitched, and she peered at him. “Lee?” Like she didn’t recognize him. “Am I…”

  He straightened, keeping the knife well back. Had she noticed it? “You’re all right, sweetheart. Get some rest.”

  “I just…I need the bathroom.” She took a swaying sideways step. “I hurt all over.”

  Lee winced. “Well, yeah. It got…I’m sorry. I just…” God damn it. Couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut?

  She headed for the bathroom and closed the door, leaving him in welcome darkness. Lee got the knife stowed and rubbed at his face, trying to wake the fuck up and get himself together. She was bound to have questions.

  Water ran. Thank God the pipes weren’t frozen. He made his way over to the bed and worked at the pillows, getting them straight, the covers too. She’d probably appreciate that, though she’d barely disturbed them once he’d laid her down.

  She turned the light off with a quick habitual flick when she left the bathroom, and stumbled in the dark. His eyes were better adapted; he made it across a few feet of scratchy carpet, guided her around his sleeping bag, and got her to the bed. “There you are. Just lie down. It’s all right.” Don’t let her ask what I did. Now’s not the time. She was sleep-warm, but not feverish. Her skin didn’t fe
el stove-hot anymore, no damp dewy breath of clinging fever.

  When she put a few things together, he’d have to explain Grandon and the syringes. He’d managed to get the empty one hidden before dragging hotel furniture away from her door—how a bitty thing like her had managed that, he didn’t want to think about. When she got determined, it stuck.

  Lee liked that about her, even though it was fair to driving him up the wall. He was beginning to believe she was still alive.

  “Lee?” She settled on the edge of the bed, tipping her chin up and squinting, trying to get her night vision working. “I was sick. I had a fever.”

  “You’re all right now,” he said, numbly. He couldn’t bring himself to step away, everything about her was goddamn distracting. That faint perfume of hers was tantalizing, even with the coppery musk of sweat and fear underneath. “No fever, no nothin.”

  “Oh.” She swayed again, and he touched her shoulder gently. She eased down, and he got her settled, pulling the covers up, tucking her in. He was about to leave her there, too, by God he truly was, but she reached out, her slim fingers catching his wrist. The touch was warm, and soft, and likely to drive him out of what little remained of his mind. “Lee? Don’t go.”

  Oh, my dear Lord. How many times had he wanted to hear that? “Uh,” he managed. “I’ll be right there. On the floor.”

  “If you want.” The words caught, and her fingers tensed. “I just…I was going to die. I knew it.”

  “Nah. You were sick, is all. Not eatin, and the stress.” The lie rolled off his tongue, smooth and natural, like he’d practiced it a million times. “Just a touch of somethin. You got worked up, but it’s all right now.”

  “Please,” Ginny persisted. “Please don’t go.”

  What was the word for a reward a man didn’t deserve but got anyway? Lee racked his brain, trying to come up with it. “Uh,” was all he could produce. Again. He was a gatdamn idiot.

  He was the idiot who had kept her alive, though. Surely that was worth something.

  Lee tried to stretch out on top of the covers, but she moved over and pulled on him with surprising strength. Once he got under the sheets, she cuddled against him just like in his nicer dreams, and dear Jesus in heaven she fit right-perfect. Her head settled on his shoulder, her arm over his chest, and the slim sweet soft length of her all along his side threatened to short-circuit anything approaching rational thought.

  “I’m probably dead,” Ginny whispered. “This is a lot quieter.”

  “You ain’t dead,” he managed. I’m not gonna let that happen.

  “Okay.” Her breathing deepened, and she dropped into sleep. Must’ve been tuckered right out. Probably wouldn’t remember asking him to lie down in the morning, but Lee couldn’t make himself move. Her breath made a soft warm spot through his thermal top, and her hair tickled his chin. His free hand lifted, worked its way out from under blankets and sheets, and touched a soft springing curl, another. Traced the line of her forehead, skated across her cheek. His fingertips found her cracked lips; she’d need some ChapStick. Or whatever girls used now.

  How the hell was he gonna explain this? Juju hadn’t asked many questions, but he was going to. And Ginny was too goddamn smart for her own good. Lee needed a reasonable story, and he couldn’t figure one out with her snuggled up against him as if…

  “You just got yourself tangled up,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. “Combat nerves.” Juju would believe that. They’d both seen what unremitting tension could do to the trained and untrained alike. The quiet ones, when they snapped, snapped hard.

  But what if she asks about…

  No. What mattered, Lee decided, was that it had worked. She was alive, Juju and the kids and the damn dog were fine, and if Grandon hadn’t been looking to rope Lee into whatever had gone screaming sideways and pulled them all into this shit, it could have turned out very differently. But it hadn’t, and it didn’t matter if it was luck or Lee finally getting a few good breaks to make up for the bad ones. He had a handle on this, and it would stay handled, God willing. Whatever story he told would have to work, because Lee wasn’t having it any other way.

  The vile-looking crap in the syringe had done its job. He’d figure out the rest after Ginny saw to her folks. Maybe then she’d listen to reason. Certainly wasn’t the best plan he’d ever come up with, but Lee was tired too. And, amazingly, even as his arm started to go numb from being trapped under Ginny’s head, he smiled, and fell into night’s embrace.

  Heightened Circumstances

  Her Moleskine journal was a bit battered. Hell, Ginny herself was a bit battered. She was bruised all over, and every muscle ached savagely. It took a few liters of bottled water before her head stopped pounding, and she longed for nothing more than some strong tea, some of Mom’s chicken soup, and a stack of latkes a mile high. With extra garlic. So much garlic her breath could kill a cactus at fifty paces.

  Instead, she had percolator coffee and protein bars, and everyone looking at her like she was crazy. Steph almost burst into tears, hugging her just short of ribcracking before bounding away to fetch more coffee. Mark, his thumbs in his belt in a completely unconscious imitation of the older men, looked from Ginny to Lee several times, hunching his broadening shoulders like he expected an explosion.

  Not from her end, though. She was too damn tired. Getting cleaned up and dressed had absorbed all her limited energy, and her lips were so cracked and chapped she tasted blood when she licked them.

  Finally, the kids took Traveller down to the parking garage for his afternoon piddle, which left her with Juju. And Lee’s thick, not-quite-cold silence.

  She flicked through her journal pages, her eyebrows drawing together. “I had a fever, though. I logged it.” Several times, as a matter of fact. In increasingly shaky handwriting, along with rising blood pressure and approximations of her pulse. “It rose, and rose, and then…God.”

  Lee stood by the French door, late-afternoon sun catching highlights in his dark hair. Gold threads and a few honey streaks, and it was beginning to develop a bit of a curl, which suited him even more. Long nose, strong jaw, his mouth a straight line, he said nothing. At least he wasn’t wearing that disconcerting, light, intense stare. His gaze was dark, and wholly shuttered.

  Juju glanced at him, then at her. “I knew this guy when I was in Iraq.” He leaned forward in the bedside chair, elbows braced on his knees. His sleeves were rolled up to show his forearms, fuzzed with dark hair. The pink-cushioned hotel chair squeaked a little. “It got to him. He started sweating, and said there were worms everywhere. Even under his skin. Had to send him out to get his head back together, but get this. He kept yelling about it, and you could see his skin move. Like there was worms underneath.” The black man took a deep breath. “We’ve all been through some shi—ah, stuff. Heavy-duty stuff. And if your nose starts runnin, and you start feelin peaked—you see what I mean? You can get a little weird, especially if you bottle it up.”

  “Yeah.” Ginny’s shoulders slumped. A little weird was putting it kindly. “How embarrassing.”

  Because it was. They were not pointing out that she’d gone completely bananas and slowed down their travel, but they were certainly thinking it.

  “Nah. You tell a lot about someone by how they go crazy.” Juju glanced at Lee again, obviously hoping for some kind of help. He rubbed at the burn scar on his left hand, a thoughtful motion, and his velvety eyes were kind. “I mean, if you really had it, blocking off your door like that? Shows some real grit, ma’am. You was lookin out for us, wasn’t you. An’ anyone else who happened along.”

  Of course. “Well, yes. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get out the door, and the drop to the parking lot…” She hunched even further. “I’m sorry. For making you worry.”

  “Why? You did the best you could.” Juju pushed himself upright. “You’ll bounce back. Promise.” He held out his hand and she took it, slightly baffled. But he simply shook, carefully, no bone-grinding pressure. “On
e smart cookie, Miz Ginny.”

  “Thanks.” Her unwilling smile made her lips crack even more, and she stared down at the journal pages. At least she hadn’t written anything…oh, God, there was a whole page with Lee’s name written, again and again. With curlicues. And hearts.

  Great. Hopefully he hadn’t seen that. Hopefully none of them had seen it.

  Lee simply stood there, arms crossed, while Juju shut the door gently as if on an invalid. Well, technically, she was one. Her legs had a little starch to them, but not much. She braced herself, but Lee still said nothing.

  It was probably best to plunge right in. So she did. “You’re mad at me.”

  That made him move a little, restlessly. The hem of his leather vest peeked out from beneath his blue sweater, vanished.

  “Go ahead and yell,” she continued. “I can tell you want to.”

  “I ain’t.” He stepped out of the sunshine and stalked across the room to the bedside and halted, looking down at her. The gun riding his belt sat quietly, and his boots were scraped conscientiously clean. “You ain’t never gonna see me mad at you. But you listen to me, Ginny. You have got to start tellin me what’s in that pretty head of yours. Christ, you coulda thought you could fly or some foolishness, and stepped off that balcony.”

  Startled, she studied his set chin, his dark eyes. He still wasn’t wearing that yellow-eyed stare, which was good. “Lee…” Her breath failed her. She waited for the coughing, but none came.

  Which was bizarre. The postnasal drip, the deep productive coughing, the fever…Had it all been psychosomatic? Surely it couldn’t be, even in heightened circumstances.

  But she had bruises all over, and dried sweat thick enough to crackle when she’d leaned against the shower wall an hour ago. Her hair had been positively stiff; it took two rounds of shampoo before all of it washed out.