Chuy’s lyrics came to an abrupt halt as they turned the corner and encountered a stiff breeze and light rainfall.
“Damn, this weather is a bitch,” he lamented.
“Speaking of bitches, it sucks that neither one of us pulled a girlie to the house.”
“I got shot down by Juanita Velasquez.” Chuy said the words as if her particular rejection was a badge of honor.
“What did you expect. Holmes? She’s way outta your league. She only sleeps with ballers.”
“We’re part of the DSR,” Chuy said. He shouted, “Duncan Street Raiders!”
“Yeah, you’d think that would carry more status than just protection. You’d think we’d get laid on the strength. I thought women liked malos muchachos.”
“I dunno about all that.”
“At least they didn’t shoot us down in favor of one of the Diablos.”
Rafael’s reference was to a rival gang. Both groups were made up of delinquents, pseudo-gangsters, wannabe rappers and a handful of genuine killers.
“Man, I’d love to put a few hot ones in one of those hijo de putas.”
“Hard to do without our guns,” Rafael said.
“We should have rode with Toro, then we wouldn’t have to worry about getting caught out here naked.” Chuy looked worried. “I hate being without my piece.”
“If we were packing and the cops were to stop us, you know we’d be in lock-up within the hour.”
“Ain’t like we’ve never been to jail before.”
“I don’t feel like going tonight.”
Chuy didn’t hear a word. His mind was on his rap star fantasy. He began moving his body in tune with a beat playing in his head. Suddenly he stopped and declared, “Cutty, if I had a record deal I’d never come back to this sorry ass town.”
“Better than living in Pittsburg.”
“No shit,” he said with a chuckle. “Did you hear about what happened out there tonight? The train wreck and all? Sixty-something people dead.” Chuy shook his head as if he had genuine concern for the victims.
“I heard about it and some whack ass reports about zombies or…”
Rafael shifted his gaze in the direction of a staggering pedestrian on the other side of the street. Chuy saw him, too.
“Our friend looks like he could use some help,” Chuy said. “Why don’t we see if we can lend him a hand.”
“Yeah, maybe we’ll get rewarded, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, we play the good Samaritan jackers?”
“Exactly.”
The streetlamps cast long, eerie shadows painted in a shade of pale green. The man, wearing a suit and tie, staggered along and nearly fell as he stepped off the sidewalk into the street. Chuy veered in the direction of the man. Rafael continued on a straight path until he was past them, then he jogged across the street with his fist balled.
Damn, he’s one pasty-looking dude. Maybe this guy’s sick with that bird flu or some other shit..… Rafael looked in both directions to make sure there was no one to bear witness to their deed. He nodded to Chuy, who was now within ten feet of their victim.
“Yo, homey, got a light?” Chuy grinned as he set himself to put his all into his punch.
The man looked as if he was about to speak and the side of his cheeks ripped apart and his mouth opened so wide that Chuy tried to stop the flight of his fist. The blow caught nary a tooth, but went directly into the man’s mouth and Chuy’s fingers hit the back of the man’s throat. When Rafael saw the look on Chuy’s face, his own wild punch went awry, as his upper body wanted to continue with the blow, but the lower part of his anatomy was already engaged in retreat mode. He gasped when he saw Chuy draw his arm back, minus the hand and wrist.
Chuy emitted a scream that sounded louder and more desperate due to the echo caused by the lack of foot and vehicular traffic. The thing grabbed Chuy by this hair and tore off his scalp.
“Rafael! Help me!”
Rafael spun, put his head down and broke into an all-out sprint. Behind him he could hear the blend of the wolf-like mewling of the creature and the gurgling sound Chuy made. Rafael ran faster and longer than he ever recalled, and a mile and a half later, he was tearing into the lobby of the Concord Police Department babbling about how “A monster ate my friend’s hand and head.”
He was immediately dismissed as a disturbed individual and thrown into the drunk tank until an available officer could transport him to the psychiatric ward at County Hospital.
***
5:08 a.m.
Ned stood guard while Grace and the kids got situated. The others toted whatever they could salvage from nearby apartments, which included another gun. Ned stewed in a kettle of sour disposition as he saw his plan to woo Valerie go up in smoke. Every time she exchanged a smile with Cash it was the equivalent of a divot being torn from his heart.
The two had spent the last three years conducting their business and keeping it hush-hush, but now she was sitting at the kitchen table and flirting brazenly with the younger man. While Ned was aware that she entertained other males; there was something about the current situation, first with Noodles and now Cash, that caused him to ball his fists, unclench them and ball them again. Adding to his woes was the throbbing gunshot wound. The vicodin he’d taken earlier failed to ease the pain.
Why would she give that thuggish little trick the chance to be her protector? I’m being made a fool of. Ned looked out the window. The sun will be rising within the hour. Soon as I can, I’m getting outta here and I might just go to the police… Would serve ‘em right.
The more he hoped, the less likely it seemed, for she and Cash shared a private joke and were laughing. She playfully touched Cash on the shoulder and that simple gesture made Ned suddenly feel old. He wondered if the joke was about him; that perhaps she’d told the youngster he sometimes faced trouble getting it up.
We don’t have time for all that lollygagging, not with those monsters outside, he thought.
“Ned!”
The sound of Roy’s voice startled him, and Ned reacted with a twitch. “Huh?”
“You were dozing off and mumbling to yourself.” Roy shook his head. “Since you’re immobilized, I’m going to have Jenny sit with you to man the front door. Cash and Valerie got the back covered and me and sis will handle the rest of the place.”
Ned hung his head as if he was a teenage boy caught masturbating in a church lavatory. “Sorry, but I think I’d be better off by myself.”
“Now’s not the time to wallow in self-pity. If a bunch of those things show up, you can’t fend off all of them.”
“Think I’ll take that chance.”
Ned rose and hobbled to the door. Roy collared him and slammed his against the wall. He made sure to keep his voice low.
“Listen you pussy-whupped bastard! Get over it! We need every available body we can get!”
Through clenched teeth Ned responded, “Fuck all-a y’all junior flip, hot headed assholes! I’m going home!”
Roy released him. “You get bum rushed by those things and start screaming like a bitch, don’t expect any of us to come and save your funky ass.”
Ned straightened his shirt and left. Roy stood in the door and watched as the old man passed the gutted apartment that use to belong to Bob Goodman. As Ned bent the corner he heard a collective of haunting noises. There was no time for him to react, but Roy raced forward, fired off three rounds, and hollered for Cash.
Ned broke free from the first attacker, but in his haste to extricate himself dropped his gun. Cash arrived and his shot knocked the beast backward and gave Ned time to scramble for his repeater. On one knee, Ned fired at a trio of green-hued creatures, including one who was a little girl of no more than eight. Roy’s second shot tore the child’s head halfway off her neck. Ned scrambled to his feet and started to retreat toward Valerie’s.
Valerie entered the living room with her hatchet and Grace was on her heels with the machete. They handed over their weapons to Roy a
nd Cash who went to work chopping and lunging. Blood splattered all over their clothing as they took apart the quartet of the wild-eyed flesh-eaters.
Once they finished, Cash looked down at the mess. “That’s it for the King family. Pop, Grandma, Junior and the girl.”
Roy glared at Ned as if he was trying to make up his mind whether to hit or shoot him. Ned was doubled over and panting.
“Still wanna go it alone?” Ned snapped.
“Naw,” Ned panted. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Get your ass in the house.”
Roy led the way inside.
***
After scouring Bob Goodman’s house for clothes, Cash and Roy took showers. Their next move was a pow-wow behind closed doors with Grace. They asked Jenny to keep Ned company, so that he wouldn’t try to listen in or attack Valerie.
Once they were alone, Grace let them know her intentions. “We’ll spend a few nights in a nearby motel so I can tie up any loose ends concerning my job.”
“Okay, Roy and I will keep an eye on the kids while you do that. But we can’t be anywhere near Pittsburg. WE need to be at least fifty miles away.”
“That’s fine with me.” Grace sat on the edge of Valerie’s bed and looked relieved.
Cash lowered his voice and paced the floor as he talked. “Roy and I have to find out if any evidence of the robbery exists. Thing is, other than the police station, we have no idea where to look.”
“Let’s just get out of town and lay low,” Roy countered. “When this mess is sorted out, we’ll know. It will be all over the news.”
“I hate not knowing.”
“Get some rest,” Grace said. “You and everyone else. Jenny, Valerie and I can handle everything. If we get into a bind, we’ll just yell.”
“I’m too tired to sleep,” Cash said yawning.
He went into the living room and plopped down onto one corner of the sectional. He set his gun at his feet. Ned sat so that he was between Valerie and Cash. After several minutes, Cash became bored and stared out the window.
***
5:12 a.m.
Noodles and Duke received a near hour-long tongue-lashing. Once they arrived in San Francisco, Noodles father stepped up his complaining.
Forrest Baker, was a man who’d grown up in the south and was brought up in the peculiar passivity reflected by some black men, who bowed to whites and later came home and inflicted their anger on those close to them. Noodles always overheard his father telling his mother that he would “kickoff in” some man’s ass, usually a neighbor whom had unknowingly overstepped his boundaries. On the flipside, there were instances where Noodles became engulfed by shame as his father “yes sir” and “no sir” his way out of confrontations with white people; from police officers to bill collectors.
Noodles recalled reading a book by 1960’s radical H. Rap Brown, and remembered Brown’s assertion that “The biggest difference between being known as a Black man or a negro is that if you’re Black, then you do everything you can to fight white folks. If you’re negro, you do everything to appease them.”[2]
Noodles thought his father belonged in the latter category.
Forrest pulled into a gas station and looked over the backseat at the pouting boys. He handed them a twenty-dollar bill.
“Go in there and get ten dollars on pump six. Get me a pack of Newport and I guess a soda for yourselves. I guess you can do that without messing up.”
“Lay off the boys, Forrest” Darlene Baker said in a tone heavy with compassion.
“Thank you,” Noodles mumbled, as he got out of the car. He looked at Duke and said, “I’ll pay, you pump.”
Darlene glared at her husband. “You know Forrest, you are a real pain in the ass and then you want to take your bullshit out on them. You know those boys went to the neighbor’s because they were afraid to be alone.”
“I don’t wanna hear that shit.”
“You never wanna talk about anything unless it makes you look good. Would it have been too much for you to tell those people thank you?” Darlene lit up a cigarette. “You’re just pissed off ‘cause I couldn’t give you any punanny. You act like you don’t understand the idea behind a woman’s period.”
“You shoulda told me you were bleeding.”
“We’ve been together almost twenty years. I shouldn’t hafta tell ya.”
“You got me out spending all kinds-a money and at the end of the night spring that surprise on me, just like when we were dating. You’d dicktease me, leave me broke, and then tell me no poonycake, but not until after my dick was harder than the life and times of Kunta Kinte.”
“I’ve never seen a man so obsessed with that one thing. Get over it, baby.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Forrest mumbled.
“Be happy our son and your nephew are safe.”
‘They’d have been safe if they’d stayed home like I told ‘em.” Forrest’s lip curled in anger as he made his point. “Valerie Poseidon was in there and Noodles was up under her like she was a mother hen and he was an egg..”
“Maybe he’s just curious.”
“That bitch’ll give you crabs just looking at him.”
“You’re right, baby. We don’t need to talk about this any more, ‘cause you’re talking like someone with a wooden head.”
“I gotta wooden head for your ass.”
After several seconds, Forrest and Darlene broke into laughter. Darlene squeezed his hand and Forrest was reminded how good she was to him, so good her touch was enough to put his mind at ease.
“Sorry about yelling at you on the way home,” Forrest whispered.
“In three more days I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me. Now when the boys come back, I want you to leave them alone.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
T W E N T Y – O N E
5:13 a.m.
Crossfield’s heart skipped several beats as the ringing of his telephone jarred him from a round of much-needed sleep. He could swear that he’d shut his eyes only seconds earlier as he rose with a headache that made him feel like his skull was breaking apart. He pushed himself upright using muscles that felt as flimsy as cooked noodles.
The phone rang a third time…a fourth….
He fumbled for the receiver and picked up. “Crossfield. This better be important.”
“This is Benton. I’m calling you because Greenbaum fucked up.”
“Take it up with her,” Crossfield said, his voice raspy with phlegm.
“I ordered her arrested.”
“Arrested?” Crossfield was now wide awake.
“Yes. Should she resist, Miss Greenbaum will get her pretty little head blown off.”
Crossfield threw back his blankets and swung his feet onto the cold, wooden floor. “Have you gone mad?”
“Seems like the people Miss Greenbaum sent to California came behind my people and found higher concentrations of SR-Seven in Lafayette Reservoir.”
“It’s not like you lied or anything,” Crossfield said. “You said there were traces found there.”
“But it didn’t rain in Lafayette, at least not until later.”
“So the numbers your people reported were made up?”
“Yes.” Benton sounded like a weary suspect on the verge of a breakdown and was ready to confess to a crime he didn’t commit. “Thing is, rain did fall in Grass Valley, California, where police gunned down two zombies in front of a news crew. Worse, after those zombies became reanimated they ripped apart the cops.”
Crossfield was slipping into his clothes. The weariness of a minute earlier long gone. “What about the news crew?”
“We were unable to confiscate the tape. CNN is airing it as we speak.”
“What about damage control?”
“Damage control? CNN traced similar stories to Pittsburg and soon they’ll be able to link all these zombie sightings to the chemical spill.” Benton blew out a long sigh and was silent for so long Benton needed to call his name twi
ce. “Crossfield, you still there?”
“I am,” he said in a tone more befitting of one admitting his complicity in a heinous crime. “We better hope that the fallout’s limited to California.”
“Rain samples were taken in Mountain Home and Pocatello, Idaho. Winnemucca and Elko, Nevada. Jackson, Thermopolis and Great Falls. Montana and Belle Fourche and Mobridge, South Dakota.”
“Why so far out?”
“The storm is moving fast, somewhere around one hundred miles an hour.”
Crossfield held his head as if he had a headache. “I’m not sure I even want to know the results.”
“All areas tested thus far had traces of SR-Seven.”
“We have National Guard and CDC workers at these sites, correct?”
“At most of them. We have agents in the air heading to those spots in South Dakota.”
“The storm is sweeping through Canada, so we need to get in touch with the Canadian Weather Service.”
“No, we don’t.” Benton never changed inflection, when he added, “They’ll find out what’s happening soon enough.”
“What about the batch of SR-Seven sent to Pueblo?”
“We have scientists re-examining the formula.”
“Are you serious?”
“What would you do?”
“Scrap the project!” Crossfield shouted.
“Not an option. No only has too much money has been invested, but why risk giving up such a strategic advantage? We’re that close to success.”
“When it comes to military spending there’s no such thing as ‘too much spending.’” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand, took out a vial of nitroglycerin pills and placed one under his tongue. “So how is this going to be explained to not only our people, but other governments?”
“We use the ‘Milli Vanilli defense’ and blame it on the rain.”
“What?” It was hard for Crossfield to contain his irritability over Benton’s choice of firing off a bad pun rather than giving a straightforward answer.
“The Russians launched a weather satellite little more than a week ago. We say that we suspect they experimented with a chemical weapon that contaminated the atmosphere above North America. We contend that they notified us of it and that both governments are working hard to fix the mess.”
Zombie Factor Page 14