Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  "I think tomorrow we’ll try Santa Muriel. It’s small by Carl's standards, but holds promise. Marco, you have an Uncle there, no?"

  Marco was still stabbing the rod into the dying embers. He didn’t look up, he just nodded. The others stole glances, shifting between Westfield and me. Nunez wore the only sour expression. The rest of them, though…there was an electricity among them that I could sense. Westfield had already won the battle. The others would follow him, no matter what. They had us outnumbered and outgunned. If Westfield had his way, Madelyn would be their Eve, and it was only a matter of time before they started eyeing Heather.

  "Everybody get some rest. Think about tomorrow," Westfield said, dropping the bottle into Franco’s lap. “About all our tomorrows," he added, and was gone.

  I should have shot the sonofabitch then and there.

  Greg and I didn’t get to talk. We didn’t dare pow-wow in the tin can, and two of Westfield’s underlings hung close by when we headed back to our vehicles. I didn’t like it, but I knew better than to try and force the issue. There was no sense in making a move now, not while Westfield was looking for an excuse to flex his muscle.

  Greg rode with Westfield when we moved out. The merc’s excuse was that Franco wasn’t up to riding shotgun, but it was obvious to me that what he really wanted was to keep us separated. Neither of us objected. For now, we were willing to play along. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. Truth was, I didn’t see as we had much of a choice.

  Nunez rode with me to the desolate stretch of scrubland where we made camp. It was far enough from anything that we wouldn’t get surprised, close enough to our next target to get in and out in a hurry. Most of the ride passed in silence. I didn’t know Nunez well enough to broach the subject of what had happened around the campfire, and there was little else to talk about. I wanted to believe that I could trust him. The man could be counted on to guard camp, and he was damned good with a weapon. Still, though he hadn’t looked like he was on board with what Westfield had in mind, I couldn’t know for sure. Had he been disgusted by Westfield’s plan, or by the fact that Westfield had seen fit to clue me in? We shared a canteen of water, but neither of us shared our thoughts.

  In the few minutes we had while prepping to depart, I filled Greg in on the previous night’s lowlights. He didn’t seem terribly startled, and let me know that he’d caught the mercenary staring at Maddy on more than one occasion. Greg wasn't stupid. A dozen men and one woman made for a situation that was destined to get uncomfortable. The only thing that convinced me that making a run for it right then was that aside from Nunez, Madelyn was prepared to plug anyone for so much as looking at her funny. She’d grown up around guns, and was plenty capable of handling herself, either with a long gun or handgun. It was nice to know that she had more on her radar than just walkers.

  We locked and loaded after setting up our perimeter—rows of empty soup, tuna and tomato cans strung on fishing line. It was crude, but effective. If walkers approached the camp, they wouldn’t be able to do it silently.

  We piled into the Suburban, a little more room now that our numbers had been reduced, and Westfield punched the gas. I watched the tin can disappear behind us as we bounced over the scarred terrain. When I turned back, I found Marco staring at me.

  "Too far for any walkers to get to us here," he said with certainty. "There ain't nothing for miles out this way."

  By now, I’d grown accustomed to calling them walkers, the name the Mexicans had given them. Back in the ‘States, the media had referred to them as reanimates. It sounded more PC than zombies. The Mexicans, though, didn’t give a shit about PC. These things were walkers, short for deadwalkers. Our neighbors to the south didn’t particularly care about sugarcoating it. That was something we had in common.

  We’d covered about 15 miles when Santa Muriel came into view. It wasn’t much, but the roads in and out were paved, and there were plenty of buildings. The town was due west of camp, which put the sun at our backs. We checked and double-checked our weapons, then spilled out of the truck.

  "Everybody stay tight,” Westfield reminded us. “Lotta places for surprises. We’ll search the buildings on this street, then go further if we have to. Marco, that market on the corner…anything?"

  Marco shook his head and pointed to a flat-faced stuccoed building across the street.

  "That's Tomasso's storage for the market. We should try there first."

  Westfield left the Suburban idling as we congregated by the door, alert for any sign of movement. The fact that the structure was only one story didn't prevent me from eyeballing the shallow roofline every few seconds. After what happened to Benny, I wasn't about to let my guard down.

  Marco used a crowbar to force the door. He nudged it open with the muzzle of his rifle, and glanced inside. A tarantula scrabbled out onto the sidewalk, got its bearings and slowly went on its way. Marco waited for his eyes to adjust and entered. I counted to five in my head before he whistled. It wasn’t a signal whistle, though. More like one of awe.

  He bounded out a moment later, his excitement impossible to contain. "Full!" he shouted. "It's fucking full!"

  The knot between my shoulders loosened. Some of the guys exchanged high fives.

  "Let's hit it hard and fast,” Westfield said, keeping us focused. “We'll lock it up and come back for the rest tomorrow." He looked right at me. "Not bad for a tiny little burg like this, eh, Carl?"

  Marco, Franco and Santi leaned their long guns against the wall and started hauling out boxes of canned goods. A case of wine met with hearty applause. Even SPAM got grudging approval. A bottle of lighter fluid and two bags of charcoal briquettes were a prize, as were fresh bars of soap. Westfield sent the SPAM back in favor of water in gallon jugs, a decision I didn’t disagree with. The SPAM could indeed wait until we returned, but pure water was a—

  The rifle shot echoed like a thunderclap. I looked skyward, into the blazing fireball that was the sun.

  I winced and turned away, my vision compromised like a flash bulb had just gone off. No walker landed on me. Something to be thankful for.

  Another shot rang out. Hot wind whipped past my cheek. I dropped to one knee and whirled around to see a blurry Westfield, firing over my head.

  "Mother of God!" cried Alex, snatching up his rifle and taking aim. I spun back and saw what the others were looking at. A tight fist clenched around my heart. There was a sea of living corpses bearing down on us—the most I’d seen on any raid. Easily a hundred of them. Probably more. Worse, they were moving at a clip I hadn’t thought possible.

  "Everybody in the truck!” barked Westfield. “Fuck the stuff on the sidewalk, grab the guns and hustle!"

  Ker-rack

  A shotgun blast followed fast on the heels of Westfield’s rifle shot. I took aim, finding the walker that looked least decayed. My vision was fast returning to normal. I pumped a hole into its forehead, and it crumpled to the ground. My next shot was just as true. Several toppled in its wake, the horde too focused on fresh meat to realize their comrades had become stumbling blocks.

  More fell as I retreated, picking out others for target practice, letting my Glock do its business. One of the zombies I’d sighted on turned away at the last second. The slug tore the front half of its face off, exposing its nasal cavity and a shattered, white jawbone.

  "Rock and roll, boys, let's get this show on the road!" Westfield commanded. I gladly obeyed the order. Another walker went down and I felt the grill of the Chevy against my back. Only Westfield was between us and the mob of zombies. He was picking out particular walkers to drop in order to slow the things down. With no more than a thirty foot cushion, he backpedaled to the driver's door and jumped in.

  "Everybody on board?" he checked, gunning the engine. Everyone was accounted for. The dead were practically on top of us. Westfield slammed the truck into reverse.

  "Make sure that window back there’s secured," he yelled, straining to be heard over the revving engine. "This m
ight get ugly..."

  He popped the clutch, sending the back of the truck fishtailing, the smell of burning rubber not enough to overcome the stink of rotting flesh. The rear bumper plowed into the ones closest, hurling them into the crowd. The momentum shot us into the throng, faces splattering against the glass. The Suburban thumped over limbs as we began to pull free, bodies ground to mush beneath the rear transaxle. Mottled hands pawed at the truck, staining it with pus and necrotic ooze.

  Marco gagged. I thought he might toss his cookies, and wondered if the smell of his vomit might be an improvement over the stench of baked decay. But he held on, and so did the Suburban’s meaty tire treads. We got the hell out of there, and didn’t slow down until camp was in sight.

  Westfield didn’t waste the opportunity to solidify his position. He could’ve bashed the radio the way Quint had in Jaws and nobody would have batted an eye.

  "Big towns, eh, Carl? You think we could swagger into Juarez or Tlaxcala and try that?" he challenged.

  "If Tlaxcala or Juarez are full of troops, we wouldn't have to," I shot back, defiant even though I could sense that no one besides Greg felt the same. Westfield and I exchanged some more barbs, but it was clear who had the upper hand. As if to prove it, he cracked open a bottle of wine and handed it around.

  Greg shot me a glance when I took a pass on the hooch, but I ignored it. I knew he wanted to calm me down, but instead I sat there sulking, waiting for a chance to try and fire back at Westfield.

  It never came. The remainder of the ride was filled with debate over whether we should go back the following day, or let a little time pass to allow more walkers to decompose. That was one good thing about the walkers, they could only hold out for so long. The dead that hadn't been embalmed couldn't last indefinitely. Nature would take them out, usually within a couple of days. The embalmed ones? Those posed a challenge, but the rest of them had a very limited shelf life.

  Two more bottles of wine had been emptied by the time we settled down to eat, leaving everyone but Greg and I feeling triumphant and macho and indestructible. Even Franco had a little spring in his step, unsteady as it was.

  "You finally got those big city thoughts out of your head now?" Westfield said, staring across the fire at me.

  "What is it that bugs you so much about trying to find other survivors, huh? This how you like it? Living like dogs hunting for scraps? Tell me, what happens in six months? How many villages are there where we'll find enough SPAM and booze to hold us over until the next shithole? What is it you’re so scared of?"

  Westfield hurled the bottle into the pit. It shattered, kicking up flames.

  "You listen to me you punk ass little shit!" he growled, jabbing a finger at me. "You think you have the right to question my--"

  The screams cut us off, preventing us from throwing down. Everyone, even the wobbly Franco, was on their feet, racing for the trailer. They had been a woman’s screams. Madelyn...

  We came around the side of the tin can and found Madelyn beating Nunez, clawing at his face from behind. Nunez was standing with his back to us, hunched over, trying to lift something he couldn’t quite manage. His left arm hung at his side, limp and useless.

  A ripping sound. Wet, like an old dish towel being torn for rags. Then more screams. Only this time, there were two sets—one of them tiny, and very shrill.

  Nunez lost his grip on Heather and dropped her to the ground, gnawing on a chunk of flesh he’d taken out of her upper arm. Blood sprayed from the wound.

  I got a clear look at Nunez' injured arm. Swollen and purple, lumpy with puckered black puncture wounds.

  Scorpions. Nunez had been attacked by scorpions. How long had he lain there, I wondered, before he’d risen? Had anybody checked on him after we’d returned from the raid? Or had everyone been too busy getting drunk and patting themselves on the back over a couple of cartons of canned goods and some barbeque supplies?

  Westfield beat Greg to the punch, putting three bullets into the back of Nunez' head. I didn't even hear the shots, just saw his head blossom into pink mist against the tin can. Madelyn and Heather continued to scream.

  I came around, hopped into the trailer and grabbed my medical bag. There were general items for human care among the animal tranquilizers and antibiotics I dispensed in my old life, but right now all I was concerned with was gauze and dressings and some sterile ointment. I was operating on sheer instinct, nothing more. No manner of surgery or antibiotics or fancy stitch work was going to save Heather. She was dead, just as surely as Benny was the minute he’d been bitten. But any doctor, even a veterinarian, is going to try anything when it comes to a child. That’s what I did for Heather.

  The others backed away, watching cautiously. Marco dragged Nunez' body out of sight. Moments later, I heard a fwoosh! and assumed that he’d found a worthwhile use for the lighter fluid.

  Heather was in deep shock, a large amount of blood already sucked into the gummy desert sand. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and nothing I did could staunch the flow of blood. The tourniquet I fashioned couldn't be made tight enough around her shoulder to keep the severed blood vessels from leaking, and I had no tools with which to try a radical amputation. I was drenched in sweat, trying to fill a syringe with a horse sedative when Heather shuddered, then fell motionless.

  Nobody moved to stop him when Greg picked up his little girl and started carrying her into the desert. He jammed his pistol into his pants and said something unintelligible to Madelyn, who disappeared into the trailer. She returned after a few seconds, carrying a fresh dress and a Barbie doll. The rest of us stood and watched as they stalked off into the distance, seeking out privacy for what was to come.

  Nobody spoke. My confrontation with Westfield was all but forgotten. Marco meandered back towards the fire pit. I stared down at my medical equipment, trying to think of what I could have done differently.

  A single shot echoed across the barren landscape.

  I started to cry.

  Two weeks passed before I started thinking about bolting again. In the days after Greg and Madelyn buried Heather, I’d fallen into line, and hadn’t brought the subject up. Westfield, to some degree, backed off his hard-ass attitude, and we went on, falling back into our established patterns.

  Greg rarely ate fireside any more, preferring to bring food back to the tin can. On most nights, we could hear the crying. Madelyn had been crushed by Heather’s death, and Greg remained at her side, day and night, unless we went on a raid.

  But as one week dragged on into another, then another, I began to notice a change. Not only in Westfield, but Franco and Wilfredo as well. The day Heather died, I started sleeping in the Ford, no longer interested in setting up my tent. Just about a week later, I began seeing Westfield and some of the others staying up late, drinking more, and occasionally gesturing towards the tin can. One night, I spotted Westfield trying to look into the Airstream’s curtained windows. That settled it. Westfield clearly believed Greg and Maddy’s mourning period was at an end. He was anxious to get his repopulation plan going.

  It was three weeks to the day since Heather and Nunez were killed when things went bad. Really, really bad. Greg came out to get Madelyn's food, but didn’t take it back with him. Instead, he copped a squat beside me and began eating with us.

  Westfield, who’d been guzzling rotgut firewater we’d scored in a little village named Nochepinto, leered at us, clearly drunk. Franco practically had to pry the bottle out of his hands.

  "What? The little lady don't want to eat tonight?" the mercenary asked, his voice thick with the alcohol.

  "Doesn’t have much of an appetite," Greg said sullenly, not picking up on Westfield's aggressive tone.

  "That's no good," declared Westfield, clearly bothered by the news. "That woman gotta keep her strength up."

  Greg didn't respond. I don't think he was really hearing Westfield at all. He was going through the motions, scooping spoonfuls of beans and crackers into his mouth. I was betting M
adelyn had forced him to come eat. He needed to. He'd lost a lot of weight in the weeks since his daughter’s death. Too much weight. His skin hung loose on his face, and his eyes had sunk into deep hollows above his cheeks. They looked like they belonged to someone else.

  "You know," Westfield continued, eyeing me. "That woman’s gonna have a whole lot of responsibilities around here pretty soon..."

  "C’mon," I said, grabbing Greg by the shoulder and lifting him to his feet. "Let's get you back to the trailer."

  "Good idea, Carl. That bed ain't going to be his alone much longer!"

  The words burned my ears. By then, Greg was crying. I could see the tears dripping off his chin.

  Though he hadn’t been paying attention to Westfield, something must have gotten through. Perhaps it was Westfield's final salvo. I didn’t know, and didn’t much care. I got him to the Airstream.

  "I'm okay," he said, trying to reassure me. He wasn’t having much success.

  “Greg, listen man,” I started, but he cut me off.

  "I don't wanna disturb her, you know? She...she's taking this real hard. You go. Go on and get some sleep. I'm fine, really."

  He wasn’t, and both of us knew it. But there was nothing I could do that would change things. I wanted to go inside and hug them both and cry with them, but I understood. Even if I didn't, at least I tried. I squeezed my best friend’s shoulder and let him go. Madelyn’s whimpers tore at my heart before the door slowly eased shut.

  It would be okay, I lied to myself. The Ford was only ten feet away, and each night I left the window cracked enough to hear anything going on.

  I curled up beneath the thin blanket in the back seat and tried to come up with a plan, some way to extricate ourselves from this mess. I hadn't hated Westfield early on, but now I did. I hated him with a raw passion, and wanted to get as far away from the bastard as possible. The sooner, the better.

  I drifted off, trying to conceive of a way Greg, Madelyn and I could manage it...