by SP Durnin
Basically, while not overburdened with an extreme amount of bulk, O’Connor was what most would aptly term, ripped. Ripped like a light-heavyweight MMA fighter kind of ripped. Or maybe even that Goku guy from Dragonball Z, whom Cho referred to sometimes. That image was reinforced by the seemingly permanent dark bruising around his eyes and a shock of perpetually messy hair. Combine those with the fact he’d been an introverted ghost writer for science fiction novels, a couple of civilian survival manuals, along with more than a dozen cookbooks, and Jake could almost believe Kat’s continuous claims that he was “drool-worthy.”
Almost, but not quite.
Sitting there waiting for her to arrive, Jake was inexplicably nervous. He could actually feel a healthy case of the anticipation jitters coming on. He was having a hard time keeping a grip on his glass too, and didn’t understand why. They’d been intimate for weeks, ever since her brush with death when they’d fallen from the Pensacola Dam during Hess’s attack on Langley. Why the hell was he nervous, now?
“Anyone seen our resident ninja” He asked.
“Jeez, would you relax? It’s like you’re ready to fly apart. What are you fifteen?” Bee took a sip of her drink and shook her head at him from across the table with clear disbelief, and a little pity, as Allan and Maggie laughed to his right. Foster’s rumbling chuckle could be heard over the crowd noise from his left where he sat beside Gertrude, which prompted the ex-journalist to give George the stink-eye. It affected the older man almost as much as a passing sprinkle would a duck.
Jake took a quick swig of Texas home-brew and willed his hands to stop their shaking. “We’ve been here for over an hour now.”
George quaffed his down all in one go and plunked the empty pint glass back on the well-abused table. “Ah, she’ll be along. She just likes ta’ make an entrance. You do remember her climbin’ up the outside a’ that granary back in Ohio, don’t ya’? All right then. Slow yer roll, kid. And while we’re on the subject: stop nursin’ yer damn drink. It’s not yer mama’s titty, you know.”
“Nice to have such understanding and compassionate friends. Really. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” Jake grumbled as he finished his own pint.
Gertie sipped at her glass. She wasn’t much for drinking, but did enjoy listening to music, even if it was rather new-fangled for her tastes. “We’re here to help, dear.”
Waving a box of .9mm over his head, Foster motioned for more alcohol-based refreshment. Once the Stetson and well-used riding chaps sporting waitress brought over four more pitchers, and had taken half his box of rounds as payment, he passed one over for Allen and Maggie, pushed another over for Bee and Jake to share, then glommed the remaining pair to slake his own substantial thirst.
Such an exchange might have seemed bizarre in pre-zombie times, but bullets had again—as in the days of the Wild West—become a form of currency. Barter was commonplace in Pecos, now that money was little more than toilet paper with some fancy writing and portraits of long-dead guys with funny looking haircuts on it. People traded ammunition, food, clothing, equipment, sometimes even themselves (in methods that could be either upright by way of labor, or previously frowned upon alternatives) for what they needed. That practice spawned a number of vendor stands throughout the town, along with what some considered by some to be very appealing options when it came to a bit of “evening companionship.” As far as Jake knew, none of his friends—not even George—had taken advantage of the latter, but he’d overheard about it when a few of Close’s men were speaking while along on a salvage run.
From what he’d gleaned from the soldiers’ conversation, some of the women had banded together in town to form their own little group of working girls called the Nighten-gals, much like that of the Nichol’s Ranchers, and they watched out for each other ferociously. Not a difficult task, since virtually everyone within the walls remained armed at all times. There were zombies roaming around outside, after all. There were also no “managers” per se. The Nightin-gals had zero tolerance for any foolishness in that respect. A few men who’d entertained unscrupulous notions about riding herd on them to leech a cushy existence off the women’s activities came to swift (and quite messy) ends early on, which allowed their Hands Off, Unless You’re Buying policy to penetrate into even the densest of skulls.
“She might have gotten distracted by something shiny on the way.” Allan raised both hands in pacification. “Don’t get me wrong: I like Kat, but I also know her.”
Jake poured himself another glass of hops n’ barley and grinned. “Yeah. She actually goes all wide-eyed and speed walks towards what grabs her attention. You’d better not stand between her and whatever that might be too, because she’ll move you right out of the way to get a better look at it. Sometimes forcibly.”
Gertie sighed. “Some things never change.”
“I will admit, I sort of think it’s adorable.” O’Connor looked pained.
“You’re so whipped. Turn your Man Card in before you leave, because you’re banned from the lodge.” Allan pointed at him with mock anger.
“Baby, your testosterone is showing again.” Maggie leaned her left elbow on the table and flexed the attached muscular arm, causing her boob on the same side to rise impressively. “We’ve talked about that. Just sit there and look pretty, okay?”
“Yes, dear.” Allan’s smile was gigantic.
“I’d give ya’ some crap there too, boy, but yer girlfriend might pop my brain-holder off with them pythons of hers.” Foster belched loudly and waved it away. “When’s the damn show startin’ anyway? Though you said there was gonna be music, Shorty.”
Ryker laughed, then did a fair impression of the gruff older man’s East Jersey accent. “Keep yer pants on, ya’ goomba. They’ll be tunin’ up soon enough. Make sure ta’ drain yer lizard beforehand, because you won’t wanna miss nothin’.”
“Hah! Pretty good, boy! Can ya’ do one of Hot-Rod?” That was Foster’s pet name for Rae.
Al put on his loftiest expression of distain and sat up straight on his stool. “You’re nothing but a uneducated curmudgeon with no couth and an outdated worldview, who had no aptitude for dealing with confrontation. I honestly can’t believe no one of authority has as of yet taken the time to see you incarcerated, if not for the protection of politically correct individuals in general, then for impressionable youths in particular, you foul-mouthed knuckle-dragger, you. Now get your crusty old tail over here so I can put a hurt on you, and beat you senseless with the twins.”
George pounded one heavy fist on their table as he howled, and Gertie laughed openly.
“You know about Kat saying that very thing to her, right? That if she were into women, that she would—and I quote—‘Motor-boat Rae like it was career’?” Jake asked.
Riker nodded like a curly-haired bobble-head. “Yep! I’m betting Rae’s face displayed five different shades of What The Fuck? when she heard it too! For such a total babe, she’s the most uptight person I’ve ever known.”
“She does need a good session of getting her ashes hauled, sure enough.” Maggie glared at George. “What the hell have you been waiting for? Christmas?”
Foster couldn’t stop laughing. Tears were actually rolling down his cheeks.
It would’ve gone on like that for a while, but the house lights dropped to half strength and the house band—Pecos’s own: Dead Sexy—came in through the back door onto the raised stage.
That was why Gita’s was so popular, and not just because: One-some enterprising members of the Ranchers not worked up a way to brew the beer served within with some of the livestock feed and Two-it was the only bar left in town.
The place had been a small watering hole butted up against the vacant car dealership next door. After Pecos cleared out the dead, and built its defensive barriers at flank speed, there had been an air of depression amongst the survivors. After not a few suicides, the council realized people needed something to look forward to. Especially when they believed they
were witnessing the end of the world. So they’d broken out the dividing walls, then—after re-running a whole lot of electrical wiring, upgrading the structure’s primary fuse boxes, installing a bit of new track lighting, and building a 30’x30’ four-foot high stage at the far end—opened Señorita Gita’s for business, two nights a week. A few individuals with instrumental talent got together and formed Dead Sexy shortly thereafter, and suddenly everyone was excited that there was a band playing Gita’s. Not everyone could attend at once, therefore the council had arranged it so people alternated both nights (either Friday or Saturday, but not both) and only every other weekend. To keep folks honest, anyone caught abusing the privilege—like say attending on more than their allotted nights, or fighting while inside—spent a week guarding the town walls with the marines, and doing so was hot, sweaty work. That way (with the fire code being a thing of the past) just over three hundred attendees, not counting staff, could enjoy themselves some good ol’ Texas rock-and-roll, and every two weeks the entire survivor populating had a chance to rotate through.
Using that process, Gita’s kept over a thousand survivors from trying to swarm the bar, and increased overall town morale immensely.
Ted Jackson, electric guitar in hand, came forward on stage and struck a power-chord. The crowd hooted and cheered loudly in response, but remained surprisingly docile. To be fair, that might have had something to do with pair of armed marines on either side of the stage. And about an even dozen of Jackson’s security force there along the rear wall to back them up. And more of the same who were off duty, scattered throughout the crowd. Nobody wanted their evening ruined. People were there to enjoy the precious rarity of live music—along with an even more rare cold beer or two—and anyone being overly aggressive trying to stir up some shit, or “talking the piss,” would earn themselves an establishment-sanctioned ass-kicking. Then spend the night locked up. Then pull duty for a week on the wall. Then, even worse, forfeit the privilege of attending their next night at Gita’s.
Needless to say, few needed encouragement not to be assholes a second time.
“All right folks! Y’ all ready?” Ted put one hand to his ear.
The crowd cheered again and the guy behind him on drums did a quick solo, then took up a familiar beat. Jackson ran his fingers along the strings of his Gibson Byrdland, lingering on them almost as if he were caressing a lover’s thigh. Then with a toothy smile, he fell to playing a three-toned minor keyed melody that was unmistakable and the crowd went wild.
“Holy shit!” Jake yelled, noting that Allan wore what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “Holy shit! I knew I recognized him! Szimanski even told me he thought Ted looked familiar, but I didn’t make the connection! I thought he lived near Waco! How did he end up here?”
“What’s the big deal? Okay, the old guy can play a guitar! So?” Bee could barely hear Bee over the dual Fender amplifiers blasting out the music.
While Maggie leaned to yell something to Foster’s niece, Ryker broke into a full blown smile. “He was ready for it! I guess he purchased half-a-dozen snowplows year before last, and—”
“In Texas? Who does that?” O’Connor demanded.
Al pointed up at Jackson and Jake motioned for him to continue. “He also had a trio of huge custom-outfitted tour buses! You saw them out back at my place, remember? I guess he shoved his family—and the neighbors he actually liked—into them when his ranch was overrun, then went wagons west! One of the plows broke down on the way, but the other three were absolutely packed with weaponry and ammunition!”
“Ryan said something about him providing firearms to people?” O’Connor was trying to accept Al’s story.
“Hell yes he did! Not everyone, but a lot! Still has an absolute shit-ton of them squirreled away at the school too!”
As Allan bobbed in time to the beat with Maggie, Jake heard Foster laughing. “I can’t believe ya’ didn’t recognize him, boy! Fine journalist you are! Jackson, my ass! Come on: Who else in the whole state of Texas did you think would be able to survive a goddamn zombie apocalypse, and play guitar like that? Yer first clue should’a been the name Sweaty Teddy!”
“It’s surprisingly catchy!” They almost couldn’t hear Gertie who was clapping along with the beat.
Still in disbelief, O’Connor couldn’t deny facts. Ted was the Man. So, keeping one eye out for their overdue ninja-girl—who was definitely missing one hell of a performance—he sat back and watched the show.
Jake always liked Cat Scratch Fever, anyway.
Wrapping up the song, Ted looked out over those below. “You folks want more?”
The crowd responded with even louder applause.
“How about something special, just for you?”
The cheering came with more force this time.
Ted looked back to the drum kit, and his percussionist laid down a measured beat on his bass.
Thoom…! Toom…! Thoom…! Thoom…!
Stomping his boot in time with the beat, Jackson played the trademark Asian Riff and the drummer brought the beat once more.
Thoom…! Toom…! Thoom…! Thoom…!
Again Ted played the riff.
Thoom…! Toom…! Thoom…! Thoom…!
The bar patrons raised their hands to clap in sync. They began singing along with the notes, shaking the floor and adding their voices to the notes.
Evidently that’s what Jackson was waiting for and he began pumping his fist, encouraging the crowd to keep the melody. The people responded in kind and he stepped to the microphone again.
“We’ve got a treat for you tonight! A new singer, not long from of the stinking, zombie-filled, crap-tastic armpit outside our walls!”
Jake leaned towards Allan. “Did you hear about new survivors coming in?”
“News to me!” Ryker told him.
Jackson stoked the crowd to a fever pitch. “So here she is, straight from the overrun Land of the Rising Sun to perform for us! The Reaper of the ghoulish garrisons from Hirosaki to Hot Springs! Slayer of the dammed from Kyoto to Kansas City! Put your hands together, Pecos, for the most bad-ass babe this zombie apocalypse has ever seen; the Ninja of the Necropolis herself! The one! The only!”
The bass drum cut off suddenly.
“Katherine!”
“Brightfeather!”
“Cho-o-o!”
George, Bee, Gertrude, Allan, and Maggie all stopped clapping. They looked at each other in surprise and yelled, “Wha-a-a-a-at?”
As his friends gaped, Jake’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor, because Kat walked on-stage.
The moment her foot hit the raised platform, Dead Sexy broke into a gritty, all-around awesome rendition of the rock anthem Warrior and O’Connor realized immediately “walked” was completely the wrong term for what she was doing.
Cho moved over the stage like a being composed of desire and attitude made flesh. Like a flesh-gorged predator you’d inadvertently run across sunning itself in the way-back, when you’ve strayed too far from the concrete and neon-lit jungles of man. Wild, frighteningly beautiful, and as deadly as the day is long. This was how Jake saw her all the time through admittedly biased eyes, but now everyone present could see her, too. He’d told her, more than once, that the way she moved was criminal. That archangels would be lining up by the legion to fall, if only for the chance to witness the sway of her leather-clad hips. The slow metronomic extensions of her legs as she strutted forward, biker-booted feet soundlessly carrying her closer to the cheering crowd. The way her short, black, kimono robe—the same Fredrick’s of Hollywood silk number she’d managed to stuff into her meager bag of belongings months ago, only minutes before finding Laurel to flee her Columbus apartment forever with Jake and Allan—stretched tightly over her form. Kat had tied the kimono’s slim belt loosely about her waist and, while it covered the important bits, it gaped widely from top to bottom over her leather pants. If not for her belt, she would’ve experienced what politically correct culture termed a “
wardrobe malfunction” and violated all rules of modesty.
She also sported a homemade headband, that was tied a bit slap-dash in a square knot, with a Kamikaze flag on the front in drawn with red Sharpie marker.
And Jake couldn’t have cared less. His senses had narrowed down to a single point of contact to reality: the dangerous and beautiful Japanese woman dancing behind the mic stand.
The first notes of the verse came around and Kat belted them out with such passion the crowd went nearly silent. She separated mic from holder and—for lack of a better phrase—stalked across the stage, pulling the onlookers into the song with her smoky voice and sheer force of her personality. With the exception of O’Connor, who couldn’t have torn his eyes away if he’d wanted to, looking around, her friends realized she owned the whole damn room and everyone in it. The crowd was in awe of her.
By the second verse they were hooked. People began returning to their senses in twos and threes, flinging up hands and, in many cases, dancing as only the rhythmically challenged could. No one noticed. Cho’s voice reverberated at the bases of their spines and, by doing so, awakened something primal.
Another chorus and Kat began looking through the crowd intently until she located her friends. Her eyes locked on Jake and the others turned in their seats to see him wearing an unbelievably intense expression. Meld shock, admiration, and desire with lust, throw in nothing shy of starvation-fueled appetite, and then an onlooker might have the faintest glimmer of what Jake’s friends witnessed on his face.
Cho moved to the very edge of the stage until only the heels of her boots remained upon its surface. She spread her feet wide and, throwing up a fist, let fly with the vocal bridge into the song’s final chorus. As her voice dropped in key, she lowered her arm until she was pointing on finger at O’Connor. If he could have generated any spit, he would’ve swallowed against a suddenly desert-dry throat upon seeing the look on her face