by Dave Brown
“How many bullets do we have?” Errol asked.
“Not enough,” Renee said, sounding gloomy and worried.
“Could we draw them off? One or two of us make noise, then run, get back to the bikes?”
Jones nodded, “Yeah, not a bad idea,” he glanced over at Renee, his eyebrows raised in a question. She shook her head.
“I'm not leaving Errol.”
The Texan grinned, and out of the corner of his eye, Errol saw Patty shrug, or perhaps shudder.
“Didn't think so. Doc's gonna be needed over there, guess that leaves you and me, Pat.”
“Okay,” the mechanic said. Errol looked squarely at her now. What he saw disturbed him more than anything else he'd seen that day. She looked haunted. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he saw a few of her normally blonde hairs had gotten just a little whiter.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You sure? We can find another way.”
She offered a wan smile that only darkened her features more. “No, it's a good idea. We'll do it.”
Renee glanced around, looking for something. After a moment, she found it. “We'll hide there, around the corner in the alley.” She pointed to a narrow paved lane leading behind the gas station. There was a bend visible where they could wait for the mob to pass.
Jones was nodding slowly. “Okay. When we get to the bikes, we'll head south, try to lose them on the far side of town from you. Hopefully they won't be in the way when we all head west again.” They stood together in silence for a moment, the plan set but none of them quite ready to enact it yet.
“Well, good luck,” Hayes said at last, and that seemed to be all they needed. Errol followed the doctor and Renee back into the alley, then turned and poked one eye around the corner, trying to keep as much of his body hidden as possible. Jones and Patty were gone, but before long he heard the Texan start to shout.
“Hey! Sons a bitches! Come and get it! C'mon!”
A minute later he and Patty reappeared on the street, walking briskly and checking over their shoulders frequently. They stopped at the intersection of Ocean and A, shouting some more. The first of the dead came into view, a woman with most of her hair torn out and nearly all of her clothes rotted away. Something squirmed uncomfortably in Errol's gut. He shut his eyes and counted slowly to himself. When he opened them again, a whole crowd of corpses was visible. Jones and Patty were walking again, heading back down Ocean to where they had stashed the bikes.
It took a long time for the horde to go by. Errol finally thought to check his watch when he lost count of the bodies at around seventy. Ten minutes passed from that point to when the last straggler turned the corner and stumbled west. Errol started to move, ready to rush ahead, but Renee grabbed his arm.
“Give it a minute,” she whispered, and she was right. Four more Z's appeared soon after, dragging themselves along on their hands. If the three of them had run into that rear guard, the mob would have been alerted immediately and probably turned around. Errol glanced back at her and she nodded.
They did their best to hurry and remain quiet, scuttling along in a crouching run. Renee held the rifle at the ready, silencer still attached, but they encountered no other creatures. It took only a few minutes to reach the building Jones had mentioned, a large two-story structure that looked like an apartment complex. There had been a sign affixed to the wall at one point, but it must have fallen away. A utility truck was sitting on the overgrown grass at the south side of the building. It had crashed there, the front end smashed in against the wall. A long ladder lay toppled on the ground next to it, but it was on top of the grass instead of buried in it. It must have been dropped there recently.
“Jimmy?” Hayes called, his voice a harsh whisper. “Lana?”
The little Russian pilot poked her head above the roof line. “Doctor! We saw Mr. Jones draw the ghouls away and hid so we would not be... what is word, temptation?”
“Good idea,” Errol said. “We'll put the ladder up so you can get down.”
He and Hayes raised the skeletal aluminum frame back against the wall. Lana scrambled onto it first, and then waited, assisting her husband. The man was favoring his right foot and a bolt of dread shot through Errol's chest like an icy spike. When the couple reached the ground again, Hayes spoke before he could.
“Were you bitten?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Nah. Just banged up my ankle.”
Errol sighed, relieved. “In the crash?”
“Heh, I wish. It happened when I got out of the plane. Just came down on it wrong. Idiot.”
“Not idiot,” Lana said. “Just Canadian.”
Jimmy laughed. “Socialist harpy,” he said jovially. She grinned and kissed him.
Renee touched Errol's shoulder and he thought he might be getting a kiss of his own, but then he looked at her and saw the concern in her face. “We need to get moving,” she said.
Hayes had busied himself at Jimmy's feet, checking over the right foot and ankle. “It's not bad. You should be okay to walk.” He dug a pill bottle out of his bag and handed it to Jimmy along with a canteen. “Take two of those, should cut the pain a bit.”
They set off again, south toward Ocean with the intention of turning right at the corner, getting back to the bikes. They would figure out the riding situation when they got there. Jimmy limped along, one hand on his wife's shoulder to steady himself. They were moving a little slower than they had been on the way to the building with the truck crashed into it, but not much. Errol was just starting to think they would get out of this with no trouble when a single gunshot rang out somewhere to the west, shattering his optimism.
Chapter 37
Things seemed to be going pretty smooth, or at least as smooth as they could be considering they were acting as live bait. The dead were trundling along after Patty and Jones as fast as they could. Luckily it wasn't that fast. Rather than try to maintain a constant pace, she and the Texan settled for jogging half a block or so and then walking slowly backwards to keep an eye on the advancing mob. Patty had tried to look past them to see if Errol and the others got away safely, but couldn't see beyond the pack.
By the time they got to the bikes, the shambling mass of corpses was so dense that it was impossible to tell how far back it trailed. “Best head west a pace before we go south,” Jones said. “Make sure Errol's had enough time to get clear before we give these things a different view.”
Patty nodded but didn't say anything, mounting up instead and beginning to pedal slowly back the way they had first come into town, straight down Ocean Avenue. The two of them rode all the way to H Street, stopping frequently to make sure the horde still had a good look at them.
“Let's wait a little longer here,” said Patty, “then we can ride south hard.”
Jones looked around. The leading edge of the pack was just over a block away, and would take at least five minutes to cover that distance. “Yeah,” he said. “They'll keep followin' as long as they think we're down that way. We turn around at the south end of town, head back to A or thereabouts. They'll never find us again, long as we're quiet.”
They stood astride their mounts, watching the horde get closer by the second. Patty felt strange, like something was missing. She closed her eyes and listened to her body for a moment. Her legs were sore from the biking and the stop-and-go jogging. She was a bit hungry, feeling a small pang, not entirely unpleasant, that seemed to pull her gut inward. But where was the fear? She realized that was what she was expecting to feel and didn't. No knots in her stomach or bolts of lightning in her chest. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hungry corpses were grinding their way down the street to her with one unified purpose, and she wasn't scared at all.
The distance between them narrowed to half a block, then a quarter. She and Jones positioned themselves on their bikes, ready to move. When the Z's were just twenty feet away, Jones gave her a nod. She pushed off with her left foot, raising up her body and shifting her weight to the right. The pe
dal swung down toward the pavement and the bike surged forward. Jones was just to her right as they started to cut around the corner. She turned her head and saw a building there, large for the town, with big window walls running along its length. They were a bit dingy, but mostly intact. She saw the approaching mob reflected in them, and was just realizing that she couldn't see her own reflection when a single gunshot clapped out from somewhere behind her. One of the window walls shattered, and dozens of the dead came pouring out from the interior of the building. She hadn't seen a reflection at all. She squeezed the brakes mounted on the handle bars, too hard, and the back end of her bike fishtailed out and to the right. Jones crashed into her and went down. He didn't stay that way, leaping back to his feet and picking up the bike. The new arrivals to their grotesque block party were closing in, and the mob behind them was suddenly very close indeed.
“Shit!” Jones yelled. Patty was still on her bike, steadying herself. She looked around and saw his problem. The rim of his back wheel had been wrenched out of true. It wasn't going anywhere.
“Let's run!” she yelled, dropping her own mount. She yanked her tool bag free of the rack and then started down Ocean again.
“No, not that way!” Jones said, grabbing at her arm. “Errol will run right into the back of the pack.” He pulled her to the north and she followed. They hadn't gone far when she noticed he was limping, a nasty gash running up the back of his right calf. The pack behind them was still not fast enough to shorten the distance, or even keep up, but the race had gotten tighter.
“Your leg!”
“It's fine, keep goin',” he said through gritted teeth. “We take 'em all the way to Vandenberg if we have to.”
They had stumbled north half a block, the moan from behind them seeming to get louder even though they were slowly widening the gap between themselves and the dead. Then a man-made sound buzzed to life somewhere ahead, something Patty instantly recognized as an engine of some sort but couldn't tell more than that. It was a high whine, and seconds later she saw what was making it. A green motorcycle darted out of an unseen alley, one of those brightly colored racing jobs from Japan. It was already leaning into a turn that would take it north. She had barely registered the sight before gunfire erupted next to her. Jones was holding out his pistol, rapidly squeezing off shots and still walking forward. Patty saw the rider's leg take several hits, and the bike went over. Sparks flew as the machine scraped across pavement.
Jones was reloading his gun, still striding ahead. She jogged to catch up with him. The moans had increased in volume from behind, as though the activity was spurring them on. Patty moved faster, nearly overtaking Jones, but he put his hand out to keep her back. They arrived at the fallen rider, blood seeping from holes in his leg. Patty tried to find something else to look at, and saw a large rifle was strapped to the man's back, now pinned beneath him.
Jones wasted no time taking control of the situation. He walked boldly up to the wreck and pointed his pistol at the man's head. “Tell me your exit strategy and you die now. Otherwise I kneecap you and you get to be awake when they start the buffet.” He jerked his head once in the direction of the rising moan.
The man's eyes widened. He began to shove at the bike, trying to free the leg stuck beneath it. “Come on, man! You can't do that!”
Jones shifted his aim, squeezed the trigger once, and then swung the barrel of his gun back to the man's head. Patty looked at the man's exposed knee, now a bleeding mess. He screamed in pain.
“Ten seconds, then we're leavin',” Jones said.
“Take me with you!” the man cried.
“Dead or dinner? Eight seconds.”
“All right!” Tears were streaming down the man's face, mingling with blood on one side where he had scraped his cheek against the pavement. “There's a truck in a fenced lot on Walnut and I streets. I fixed it up when I got here!”
“Keys?”
“They're still in it! Please! Take me with you!”
Jones squeezed the trigger again and the man went silent. Patty quickly turned her head from the grisly mess on the ground, her stomach twisting up and threatening to blow. She made the mistake of looking back at the approaching horde. The sight of them rotting, walking, and starving was like a swift kick in the gut. What little contents were in her stomach came forth in a thick spray.
“Later,” Jones said, grabbing her arm pulling her along. “Gotta keep movin'.”
Walnut was the next main street. When they reached it, Patty looked back the way they had come. A small knot of the dead were clustered where the motorcycle had been. Thankfully there were too many of them for her to see anything they were doing. The rest were still coming, the promise of fresh meat ahead more enticing than fighting over scraps left in the road.
“Damn it, Errol!” Jones shouted, and Patty turned around. The rest of her friends were coming west down Walnut, a hundred feet from where the two of them were standing. “You're s'posed to be headin' back down Ocean!” Patty saw Jimmy and Lana with them, though it looked like Jimmy was limping worse than Jones, leaning on his wife for support.
“We heard shots,” Errol called. “I thought this way might be safer.”
“Well, it ain't!” Jones shook his head. “Hurry up, I think we got a way out over here.”
Patty jogged over and positioned herself on Jimmy's other side, allowing the group to move a little faster. Jones stayed in the back. The mob was no longer visible since they had turned the corner, but they all knew it wouldn't be long before the whole putrescent procession came swarming along after them.
The lot was right where the man on the bike had said it would be, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The first of the dead appeared at the corner just as they reached the gate. Renee swung her rifle off her back and took a crouched position on the curb. One shot and the Z was on the ground, but three more had already come around the corner. Patty thought the effort would be as effective as bailing out a boat with an eyedropper.
“It's chained!” Errol yelled. She spun around and examined the lock. It looked sturdy, probably too difficult to break in the time they had.
“Just climb over it,” Hayes said. He and Errol helped Jimmy get onto the fence, then started to scramble up themselves. Hong got to the top, swung his leg over and then lost his balance, crashing to the asphalt below. He let out a scream of pain and held his ankle. Lana leaped up, nearly reaching the top of the fence, and quickly joined her husband. Soon only Renee was left on the other side of the fence, still firing at the oncoming pack.
“Renee! Come on!” Errol shouted. With that she finally stopped, swung the rifle in place on her back, and darted nimbly up and over the fence.
The lot was roughly square, perhaps fifty feet on each edge. Three of the sides were enclosed by the fence and the fourth was the rear wall of a single-story brick building. Patty spotted the truck they had been told about parked near the only visible door inside. A large green dumpster, spotted here and there with browning patches of rust, had been left there as well. The only other thing in the lot was a sizable propane tank in one of the fenced corners.
Jones was already in the truck, and Patty heard the sound of the engine attempting to start. It sputtered and whined but refused to catch. “Pat!” the Texan yelled out the window. She ran to the vehicle and lifted the hood when he popped it, but car engines were never her strong point. It would take her time to diagnose the problem, and as she heard the chorus of moaning getting louder, she knew it was time they didn't have.
“Lemme try,” Jimmy said behind her. She turned and saw his face contorted with pain, but there was determination in his eyes as well. She stepped aside. “Did quite a bit of tinkering in my college years,” he said through gritted teeth.
Jones had gotten out of the truck and, along with Errol, was examining the door that led inside the building. Lana was bent over the truck's engine compartment with her husband, trying to find the problem. Hayes and Patty just looked around, both of them co
ming to the same realization. They were trapped. She looked around the lot. The dead were crowding around the fence, pushing against it. She could hear the metal beginning to groan under the strain. It wouldn't be long before they managed to smash it in and swarm them.
She walked slowly, aimlessly, looking at the place where they were all going to die. The green dumpster, left cocked at an angle away from the wall. The pickup truck, silver, its bed empty except for a road flare. The propane tank, tucked away into a fenced corner, on the opposite side of the lot from the building. She stared at it. It was opposite the wall of the building. It was there, far from the structure, in case something bad happened. In case of an explosion. She looked at the truck, at the flare dropped casually in the open bed. She picked it up and looked back at the propane tank. It almost certainly had safety features to prevent the gas from getting out without a solid connection to another valve. She slid the pack from her shoulders, the pack where she kept her tools, and rummaged in it. It didn't take long to find what she wanted: an awl, a big one, with a nice solid wooden bulb on the end for gripping or hammering. The fence groaned near the tank. It wouldn't be long now.
“Everybody get behind the dumpster,” she said.
“What?” Errol yelled, turning toward her. “What the hell are you-” but then he stopped. The flare and the awl were in her hand. His head jerked toward the tank and back to her face. She turned away. “Patty, no!”
“I'm coming, Pablo,” she said, so quietly she wasn't sure she'd done more than mouth the words.
“NO!” Errol yelled. She ignored him and yanked the cord on the flare. It blossomed into brilliant red life and she felt her own life burning white hot along with it. These things, these monsters, had destroyed her world. They'd killed her love. It was time to make them pay. She started walking toward the tank, but had only taken a couple of steps before it turned into a run, then a flat-out sprint. It took only seconds to reach the giant white canister in the corner of the fence, the hand holding the awl already raised high over her head. Just before she brought it down she realized somebody was howling, screaming, bellowing with rage. As the point of the awl met the smooth metal of the tank, she understood that the primal cry of war was coming from her. It felt good. It felt righteous. The spike sank deep into the hollow interior. Her momentum pushed her forward and sideways as the rest of her mass crashed into the tank, widening the hole before the tool was wrenched from her grip.