by Weston Ochse
"Those fucking Disney movies."
"I know. They can be really hard."
"Fucking miserable is what they are."
Metzger laughed. "That would be a great marketing campaign for today's youth. Watch Disney movies. They're fucking miserable."
Natasha smiled and closed her eyes. He held her like that until the sound of the lift descending made them stir.
Derrick, Veronica and Dr. Gudgel returned from his laboratory carrying several boxes. They put them on the table, and the doctor had Veronica and Derrick back away.
"Okay. What we have here is Semtex. It's terribly explosive and I'm afraid a little past its expiration date."
"What does that mean?" Natasha asked.
"It means that it's been sweating," Dr. Gudgel explained, "and when it comes to explosives, sweating is definitely not a good thing. The sweat from TNT is called nitroglycerine. One drop can blow your hand off."
Dr. Gudgel fixed everyone with a firm gaze. "Right. We know there's no turning back, so we need to destroy the plant. Are we in agreement?"
Everyone nodded.
"Good. Because I'm going to volunteer to drive the truck that's going to do it."
"What?" Metzger grabbed the older man by the shoulder. "Like a suicide bomber? You can't do that!"
Dr. Gudgel looked at Metzger's hand, then grinned. "What they are doing is wrong. The project has changed from a scientific ideal into an utter nightmare. We never meant to hurt people. It was never meant to be something evil."
"But you don't have to kill yourself," Derrick said.
Dr. Gudgel chuckled and put his hand on Derrick's head. "You're a smart kid. You're going to grow up and do something special. I'm sure of that. But my time," he paused and licked his lips, "My time has passed. My purpose is gone and there's nothing else I want to do with my life."
"But you shouldn't have to die," Derrick said.
"I'm doing what I want to do."
"For the record, I hate suicide bombers," Metzger said.
"I bet you never had one on your side before," Dr. Gudgel countered.
Derrick, Metzger, Veronica, Auntie Lin and Natasha sat on the couch glued to the screens. They'd helped the Mad Scientist prepare his pickup truck for the assault. The explosives were attached to the front grill, ready to be detonated by remote control; a video camera installed on the back of the seat provided a view of the road from just over the driver's right shoulder. There was no sound, but the image was clear.
The plan had been argued ad nauseum for half an hour until the Mad Scientist let everyone know in no uncertain terms that his mind was set. The plan, such as it was, entailed the Mad Scientist driving his truck through the barrier and ramming into the front of the building. The ensuing explosion should make a decent-sized hole in the plant. Then it was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate, and when they did, Metzger, Derrick, Natasha and Veronica would ascend to ground level to inform the authorities about everything that had happened.
Each of the four sitting on the couch watching the screens now had a 9mm pistol with an extra magazine. Metzger had showed them how to load, chamber and fire the pistol. He'd also shown them where the safety was on the weapon.
Natasha hadn't wanted to touch a weapon, remembering what had happened last time she'd held one. But Metzger had said "Old Yeller" as he'd handed it to her, which helped to put the pistol and its use into perspective.
But for now they sat back and watched the silent movie called The Mad Scientist Blows Up the Zombie Factory.
The rearview mirror was positioned so that they could see his face in the reflection, which made for an interesting visual experience.
Dr. Gudgel got in the truck and started the engine. The vehicle was one of those big Ford pick-ups with extra large tires.
Gudgel put the vehicle in reverse, backed out of the yard onto Second Street and headed toward the short block to Isle of Palms Avenue. The rain had let up somewhat and the windshield wipers kept the view clear.
"Wait a minute. What's that?" Metzger stood and pointed at the screen showing Isle of Palms Avenue itself. A white Suburban had turned onto it about a hundred meters down, heading north. The vehicle would intercept the Mad Scientist in no time.
They all stared at the feed from the pickup. Gudgel slammed the truck into reverse, backed it near the curb, then turned off the engine. But the windshield wipers were still going. Gudgel hadn't turned the key off all the way. If the driver of the Suburban passed by and saw the wipers flipping back and forth he'd know someone was inside.
"Turn off the wipers!" Veronica shouted at the screen.
Natasha couldn't take the stress. She almost closed her eyes.
Just as the Suburban was about to turn the corner, Gudgel's hand came into the lower part of the picture and turned the key off the rest of the way. Now the wipers had stopped, but the window was clean and dry, rain drops coming too slowly.
The Suburban turned the corner, headlights off, illuminated only by street lights. The tinted windows hid everything but the dim shadow of a man sitting in the driver's seat. Would he see the truck and know it hadn't been there a moment ago? Would he notice the window didn't have a sheen of rainwater like all the other vehicles?
Finally the Suburban rolled past and was lost from view. A minute later, the truck started up again.
Everyone let out a sigh of relief.
Gudgel eased towards the intersection, turned and rolled slowly down Isle of Palms Avenue, doing no more than 15 miles an hour. As he approached Fourth Street, they saw lights blazing from Lot's Church of Redemption.
The front door of the Church slammed open and Kim Johnson ran out into the road. She stood in the middle of the avenue, blocking the truck. She waved her arms, the minister's robe she was wearing fluttering and revealing her nakedness beneath.
The Mad Scientist pulled to within a few feet of her before stopping, providing all of those watching a full-frontal view of Kim Johnson. She came around the front of the truck and began to speak with the Mad Scientist.
Suddenly Metzger stood. "Shit!" he said, pointing at a smear of white behind the church, a Suburban parked in the alley that the Mad Scientist hadn't seen. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He ran to the platform and leaped onto it.
Natasha shouted, "Where are you going?"
"This is an ambush - I've got to go help him."
As the platform began to rise, Natasha's attention was drawn back to the screen by Veronica's words, "Oh no she doesn't -"
Kim Johnson had pulled a small pistol from the pocket of her robe and pointed it at the Mad Scientist. She said something that was lost to the camera and pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed, the windscreen shattered and red splotches sprayed out over the hood.
Veronica, Derrick and Natasha stared at each other for a stunned, speechless moment, before returning to observe the scene being played out before them.
Metzger was hell bent for leather, running down Avenue G as if he had Saddam Hussein's crocodile mask-wearing Fedayeen Saddam after him, ready to turn him into a red, white and blue target dummy. He held his pistol low against his leg as he ran. His training had kicked in.
He shot past Third Street, only barely registering a zombie trapped beneath a trailer, wedged tight while it had been trying to get at something beneath. He zigzagged between homes and leaped over piles of trash, old engines, and weed-enshrouded pieces of machinery, and soon had the pickup in sight. There was no sign of Kim Johnson. The truck's engine rumbled gently.
Metzger rounded the rear of the vehicle, passing to the driver's side, and aimed his pistol along the side of the truck. He ducked as he spotted the nose of the white Suburban still parked behind the church. He paused to peek into the cab of the truck, just to be sure that Dr. Gudgel was dead. The scientist's eyes stared over Metzger's shoulder, towards the sea and beyond.
Metzger kept moving, veering towards the side of the church that paralleled Isle of Palms Avenue. He sprinted to it and planted his
back against it. He held the gun in his left hand, pointing the barrel towards the corner as he crept forward slowly.
When he was halfway there, a weaponless black-clad figure stepped from the alley, completely oblivious to Metzger. Metzger pulled the trigger three times, hitting the man in the face, side and back, as the man spun and fell to the ground.
He went quickly into the alley and was ready to fire at anything that moved. The rear door of the suburban was open and laid flat. A rifle had been field stripped on the carpet of the cargo area, and was ready to be wiped down and re-oiled. The poor sap had picked a poor time for it.
Metzger heard the crunch of gravel from behind him. Without thinking, he rolled forward and caught a glimpse of a second black-clad figure, knife poised to strike. Had Metzger not moved when he had, the knife would have been in his back.
He tried to roll to a sitting position, but over-corrected and fell on his side.
The other man was drawing a pistol from a holster on his thigh. Metzger didn't give him time; he fired five times into the man's chest.
The soldier hit the ground, and Metzger got to his feet. His uniform was covered in mud, and he was soaked to his skin. He looked contemplatively at the man he'd shot. He was about his size...
He approached the fallen figure and reached down.
The soldier came to life and screamed, bringing the knife around and up in a vicious arc. Metzger leaned back, narrowly missing being disemboweled by the wickedly-serrated knife. The man leaped to his feet before Metzger knew what was happening, and delivered a mean left punch to the side of Metzger's chest. Metzger tried to bring the pistol to bear, but the soldier's knife smacked him on the wrist with the flat of the blade, sending the pistol flying.
For a brief moment, Metzger couldn't understand why the man was still alive. Was this a new kind of zombie? Then he saw the tell-tale bulges of the man's body armor, and understood what had happened.
They were now face to face, the man holding a knife, Metzger empty-handed.
"Come on, fucker," he said.
The man slashed, feinted, then slashed again. On the second slash, Metzger grabbed the blade, pinning the weapon between them as they fell to the ground, Metzger on top.
The two men locked gazes; acne dimples marred the soldier's cheeks, and a scar hung beneath his right eye. He twisted his head to the right to get away from Metzger's elbow but Metzger leaned in hard, pressing his forearm against the carotid artery. His assailant's eyes shot wide. His legs bucked as he tried to dislodge him, but Metzger held on, aware that he needed to maintain the superior position.
It took about fifteen seconds, but finally the fight in the man's eyes dimmed as the blood flow to his brain ceased.
But Metzger wasn't done yet. He brought his head back, then slammed it forward as hard as he could, shattering his opponent's nose. Metzger released his hold as he took the knife away from the other's unconscious grip, and then slammed it through an eye socket until he felt the tip scrap against the back of the man's skull.
Metzger climbed to his feet, using the side of the Suburban to help. His muscles flagged as the adrenaline settled. It had been a long time since he'd stared a man in the eyes as he killed him. He felt his own eyes water and pushed the feelings away. He had hoped never to feel this way again.
It seemed as if a full minute had passed since Natasha had last seen Metzger. She'd watched as the black-clad soldier with the knife had snuck behind where Metzger had gone and feared the worst. Now, staring through the red film of blood on the camera, well aware that Dr. Gudgel was very dead, she thought the worst of what could happen.
Metzger could be shot dead in the alley.
Metzger could have been stabbed in the head.
Metzger could have been attacked and killed by a zombie.
Then a figure stepped from the alley.
She gasped. It wore the black-clad uniform of Hopkins's men. She screamed at the screen.
"No!"
The man turned back towards the alley, then walked along the wall towards the front door of the church.
"Wait!" Derrick shouted. "That's Metzger. Look!"
He pointed to the screen as the man waved at them, knowing where the camera was.
Natasha sighed with relief.
Metzger entered the church, shut the door behind him, and immediately began coughing. His eyes watered and stung. He tried to open them, but the smoke made them tear even worse.
Fucking incense.
He hated incense.
Long, thin tapers burned in the foyer of the church, replacing the ever-pervasive sea rot with a sweet, noxious odor that threatened to turn his insides out. It was like a barrier to the evil outside. The smell wove its way into him, making him reel as he fought for balance.
Beyond the foyer was a wide open space. Cheap black and white tile covered the floor, and fifty metal chairs faced an altar occupying much of the front of the room. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean someone wasn't there. He stumbled into the main part of the church and away from the noxious odors in the vestibule, pulling his 9mm pistol and surveying the room. On the left wall was a mural of Sodom and Gomorrah. A red velvet curtain covered most of the right wall except for a doorway nearly hidden in the shadows. The altar was made from pressboard, nailed together, painted red, and covered with a white tablecloth. The ceiling was painted to depict the night sky. Here and there glow-in-the-dark stars had been glued to the ceiling to represent specific constellations.
He'd heard that the minister had come from Montana, where she used to preach to a nudist colony. Looking around, the room looked nothing like what he'd expect a church to look like. There were no crosses, no images of Christ, no statues of saints, none of the usual trappings he'd expect in a church.
"You look a little lost."
Metzger whirled and drew down on Kim Johnson. She was completely naked except for a tattoo of a vine weaving up from her ankles and along her legs, past her pubis, around her torso, and stopping at her neck. The vine bore flowers and the occasional red and orange fruit.
"Don't move," he commanded.
She didn't. She only smiled.
He mentally kicked himself for letting her get the jump on him.
"Not feeling as sharp as you're used to," she said.
Her voice had a pleasant, mesmerizing quality.
"Shut up. Is there anyone else here?"
She smiled in response.
"I asked you a question. Is there anyone else here?"
"You told me to shut up."
"Answer this one."
"No." She looked around. "It's just me and you."
He stared at her. She seemed a little fuzzy around the edges. He noticed how she stood with her legs spread slightly apart. He stared at the petals of her womanhood and felt himself stir. He lowered the pistol an inch or two before he realized it.
He shook his head to clear his mind. It was then that he noticed her hands were behind her back.
"Show me your hands," he ordered. He aimed his pistol at her forehead.
She brought her hands slowly around. Both of her fists were closed, but he could tell there was something in them.
"Open them. First the right one."
She obeyed, revealing a glass pipe of the sort made to smoke crack or meth. He'd seen them more often than he cared to. He used to own a dozen of them. Metzger had a sinking feeling. "Now the left hand."
It was filled with a small bag of whitish crystals.
Metzger knew an ounce when he saw it. An echo of the acrid taste of the methamphetamine found a home in his mouth. He began to salivate at the same time his jaw began to work back and forth. His heart beat faster. His body, he knew, wanted him to cut it and snort it, lick it and taste it, bowl it and smoke it.
"Here," she said. "Maybe these will help. Just a little something to keep your edge."
His gaze went from the pipe to her breasts, from the bag to her pubis, from the bag, to her lips, from her eyes to the pipe,
then back to the bag again. He wanted all of it. He wanted her. He wanted the drug. He wanted to feel that laser edge once more.
But Metzger knew better. He slapped the stuff out of her palms, shattering the pipe on the hard floor and sending the bag skittering beneath a seat somewhere. He didn't look. Wherever it went, it was away from him now.
"Aw, why'd you do that?" she pouted, slouching and swaying, the motion making it seem as if the vine was tightening around her body.
"I don't want it!"
"Do you really know what you want? Come on. Pick it up. Let's have fun."
His brain felt fuzzy. He wanted to do what she said. "Jesus! What kind of church is this?"
"You mean us?" She laughed huskily. "Not much Jesus in here. Just Lot's Church of Redemption. What does that mean to you?"
"Lot? Wasn't he the one the angels told to leave Sodom and Gomorrah?"
"He was... sort of. So you're a good church-going boy, aren't you?" Kim shifted so her hip thrust to the left, her right leg taking her weight. His eyes were drawn to the tattooed leaves that tickled her privates. "But you have to be very careful with the bible. The old white men who wrote it insist that it's the word of God, but don't you wonder how much of it was influenced by other, more selfish thoughts? For instance, did you know that the destruction had little to do with the quote-sins-end-quote occurring inside Sodom and Gomorrah? Would it surprise you that the whole event was territorial? I doubt it was an angel who told Lot to leave. After all, he'd been taken prisoner."
Metzger tried to follow her words, but his thoughts were having trouble connecting. He shook his head, dazed.
"You see," she continued, "the Cities of the Plain battled the Vale of Siddim, and it was the Vale who had captured Lot. And Lot, the unlucky kid, was Abraham's nephew. No way were the kings of the cities going to let that happen. No way was Abraham going to let one of his blood be captured." Kim winked and nodded. "So they attacked and burned the Vale's twin cities to the ground. Historians said it was God who made it happen. Most rational people think it was Abraham. But there's one thing that can't be argued."