The thump, thump of the cycle’s engine mixed with the dull roar kicked up by excited zombies inundating the sports store. Q could only imagine what was happening inside.
Rico probably went all Rambo and met the zombies head on. That stupid sucka must have got his flesh stripped like a hungry man eatin’ a chicken leg. He laughed.
That bitch Sarah probably fainted—didn’t even know it when the time came.
Debra, hell, he had forgotten about the girl. Too bad about her. She never did or said anything bad to him. Well, it was pointless to worry about Debra now.
As for Angie, he hoped that bitch was trapped somewhere, sweating it out. Maybe she got to watch Rico served up for dinner. That would be the shit! He wanted Angie to pay for fucking up his plan.
That’ll teach her. The whole time she’ll be crying, I’ll be laughing.
Q pointed the bike north and never looked back.
Chapter 32
Rico wasn’t sure how long it had been since they locked themselves in the bathroom. They had periodically taken long naps, which made him feel that maybe it was already starting to lead into the next morning of the second day. He was normally starving by the time breakfast rolled around and had felt that way after the last three separate naps.
He leaned against the bathroom wall, the sink to his right. Under his left arm, Angie was asleep, her head against his chest. Debra also appeared to be asleep, her head lying against Angie’s thigh—her thin body stretched out across the cold bathroom floor.
The bathroom door shook on its hinges, more so now than ever before.
The dead outside were persistent bastards. Since the moment, he had entered the bathroom after Angie, the dead outside pounded against the doors. Moaning and groaning.
They did so even now.
Rico tried to think of what he was going to do. What was there that he could do to save them?
Nothing came to mind.
In truth, he didn’t blame himself for not coming up with anything, either. They were cornered. Trapped. There hadn’t been enough time to take Angie and Debra to the roof after Sarah blew the doors open. He could have saved himself, but at the time, he never considered that an option.
Picking up the pistol off the bathroom floor, he held it gently in hand, not wanting to wake the girls. It felt heavy again… like before. He sighed, studying the gun. Its weight. The safety, which he clicked to the off position. The narrow barrel. The hole at the end. He glared down into the barrel as if trying to find some truth inside. Some glimpse into why this had all happened. Why Pop had to die. Why any of them had to die. And, of all things, why he hadn’t been killed yet. He was tired, emotionally and mentally.
Easing his left arm free of Angie’s head without waking her, Rico ejected the clip. He fingered the round hole of the hollow point bullet on top. At least he knew if he decided to end it, he had enough ammunition to do the job on all three of them. Too bad it wasn’t enough to deal with the dead outside. If it had only been two or three of those putrid things out there, he would have already opened the door and let them in, picked them off one by one and been on his merry little way.
He knew there was more out there than that. He had seen it with his own eyes. By now, there had to be over a hundred or more zombies standing outside that bathroom door, waiting, longing to get in.
The more he thought about it, he knew what had to be done.
Now, while the girls were asleep… that was the time to do it. When they didn’t see it coming. Take them out of their misery so that he could hurry up and do the same for himself. He thought of Steven, the cashier, and longed for that kind of freedom.
He shoved the clip back into place.
It clicked once. It was locked in.
Angie shifted. “What’re you doing?”
“Nothing,” Rico said. “Nothing…”
When she looked away, he started to point the gun at her head. He’d shoot her first. Hopefully Debra wouldn’t wake in time to realize what happened before the next bullet reached her brain. But when Angie looked back, Rico still had the gun pointed to the ceiling.
“What are we going to do, Rico?”
“I don’t know,” he said, watching the bathroom door shake against the hinges. “I don’t think the door is going to hold much longer.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “We’re not going to make it, are we?”
“I don’t know,” Rico said again, his voice low. “We still have electricity and water. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe, though, there are people out there able to keep it going. Maybe help isn’t as far away as we fear. I just don’t know. Here, let me up. I’ve got to pee.”
Which was true. He’d had to pee for a long time now but didn’t want to wake the girls. So, instead, he waited. Now that Angie was awake, he was able to relieve himself. She slid off of him while keeping her legs still so as to not wake up Debra.
Rico got to his feet and stepped over the young lady toward the urinals. Once inside, he closed the bathroom stall door and lifted the lid. With his pants unzipped and his Johnson out, it came instantly. The pressure relieved itself as the yellow substance streamed loudly into the water filled bowl. He thought of it waking Debra, but it was too late now. He had been holding it for a while. As he stood there going, his junk in one hand and his gun in the other, Rico looked down and saw a small round shape at the base of his jean pocket. Curiosity peaked; he set his pistol down on the toilet paper rack and dug into his pocket. Once he saw it, he remembered.
After he was done, he zipped up and stepped out into the bathroom, the small round object in his open palm.
“What you got?” Angie asked, now standing and looking at herself in the mirror.
Debra was still asleep. Her notebook carefully placed on the counter by the sink.
“A coin. The dime Q gave me back at the CVS,” Rico said, and smiled.
“So much for good luck.”
“Maybe the dime has nothing to do with luck.”
Angie turned around. “You know, I’ve wanted to ask you about something you said to me—back at the trailer while I was jonesing for a hit. You said I was, ‘just like Jennifer.’ Who’s Jennifer?”
Rico held on to the coin between his thumb and forefinger. “Jennifer was my older sister. She, too had a problem with drugs—with heroin. I was young. Around eight years old. I didn’t understand her problem, mainly because my parents never explained it to me. They told me she was sick. I didn’t find out until later—after she died—that she had been in and out of treatment to get off the stuff. She supported her habit by hooking, too. She never could break clean. My father loved her more than his own life. He blamed me for her death.”
“You? What could you have possibly done for him to do that?”
“Jennifer was at home recovering from an ass beating her pimp put on her. She was bed ridden, and I stayed with her while Mom and Dad went to work. Jennifer had me go to a friend’s house to get her some medicine.” The words hung in Rico’s throat. He sighed, and continued. “I was a kid. I didn’t know. She was so happy when I gave her the bag. Of course, I didn’t look in the bag, didn’t know what was in it. Later I . . . I heard her scream out and went into the room. She thrashed around a bit. A belt was tied around her arm and the syringe was still in. I didn’t know what to do to help her, but I did call 911. They were too late to help.” Rico closed his eyes.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Angie said in a soft voice. “Your father blamed you for her death because you brought Jennifer the stuff?”
“Yep, he sure did. He’s treated me like crap ever since then, too—never failing to remind me I brought the dope home that killed his daughter. I blamed myself for her death, too—for years, I blamed myself. It wasn’t until after I left home and joined the Coast Guard that I had time to sort things out and realize it wasn’t all my fault. Still, I have memories that haunt me from that day. How if I had stayed home, or called my parents first, Jennifer would still be ali
ve.”
“So that’s why I reminded you of your sister. She was hooked on drugs and used you to get them for her. When I needed drugs, you didn’t want to be any part of that—because you were afraid I might OD and you’d be partially responsible again.”
Rico thought a moment. “Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s pretty much it.”
“And that’s also the reason why you took such a special interest in a junkie whore to begin with? You thought of me as your older sister that you might be able to save.”
“Yes and no. I mean, yes I did feel responsible for keeping you away from drugs. That maybe I could help right a wrong of the past in some way. But at some point, I wasn’t sure if I had other feelings for you or not.”
Angie leaned against the counter. “I know what you mean. The way you were concerned about me, how you protected me, no other man has ever acted that way. It touched me. It really made me feel special. You are special, Rico.”
“Well, not so much. I’m just doing what any decent person should do.”
“No, you really are special. You made me believe that I could be someone that I’m not. Gave me hope that I could be something better. At least I lived the fairytale for a little while.”
Rico reached out and gently grabbed her shoulders. “It wasn’t a fairytale. You could have been that person. You could have become whatever you put your mind to.”
She moved his hands away. “No, that was all just some pie in the sky bullshit. When Q showed up at the CVS, what did I do? I went back to being the same person I was. Repeating the same mistakes. A dog returning to its own vomit. I know better than to act that way, but it feels comfortable. It’s who I am. I’m destined to be a worthless piece of trash and there’s no getting around it. I can tell you right now, if I ever get a chance to shoot up again, then I’m going to do it.”
He held out the dime and looked at it. “They say life can turn on a dime. One day, we think we know where the world’s heading, the next it becomes something we never expected. One day, we don’t want to live, then the next day we do, and then the next day we don’t.” Rico shook his head. “It’s a fucked up world we live in, isn’t it?” The dime went back in his pocket.
“It is, and I’m tired of it.”
At least Rico now understood his feelings for Angie had been misplaced. The image of whom and what she could become was just a fantasy he created in his own mind. Saving Angie wouldn’t have made up for the past with Jennifer anyway.
“I’m tired too, Angie.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that door isn’t going to hold out forever. It’s sooner rather than later before it gives. I can bring the end quicker.” Rico stiffened his back, praying he had the resolve to keep the commitment.
Angie turned her gaze toward Debra. “I don’t want to die by your hand. That would be wrong—and I’m too chicken-shit to kill myself. As stupid as it may sound, I want to die fighting. I want to take as many zombies with me out there as I can. But Debra . . . Rico, she’s still asleep. Save her from what’s on the other side of the door.”
He reached in the pocket with the small .22 caliber revolver and pulled it out. The gun fit in the palm of his hand.
“Is that thing real?” Angie asked.
“Yes, it’ll do the job without making a huge mess.” He squatted next to Debra. She slumbered on. Perhaps it was from exhaustion, perhaps her body shut down because of the hopelessness of the situation, or maybe there was a God up there, mercifully keeping her asleep until he could complete the task.
Rico gazed up at Angie. She nodded and closed her eyes, turning her back to them.
Bam!
Debra’s body jerked, and then remained still. Blood trickled to the floor by her head.
He rose and pulled out the Beretta. Instantly, his pistol felt lighter. He wasn’t going to use the gun to take Angie’s life or his. The burden of despair lifted from its cold steel.
This was the end. They could give up or fight to the death. They at least had each other and wouldn’t die alone. That was worth something.
Just as Rico handed Angie the 22 revolver, the bathroom door fell open, the hinges busting loose. The horde of undead waiting to get in groaned with pleasure. From where Rico stood, he could see nothing but corpse after undead corpse. The store was packed with bodies.
Reflexes kicked in.
Euphoria flooded his entire being.
When life begins at birth, it’s a violent event. Why should death be any different? If he came into the world screaming and crying, then it seemed fit to go out the same way. If life was glorious, then death would be glorious, too.
Rico pulled the trigger—firing into the crowd. He wanted to die fighting, leaving one last mark on the Earth.
You never know when, but life can turn on a dime.
Chapter 33
The ride down the old rural highway made Quin think of the few times he got to visit his grandpa before he passed away. The old man lived down a farm-to-market road on a few acres next to a pond.
Paw Paw T, the T short for Terrance, was a retired widower who kept busy by living off the land. Corn, peas, and a variety of other vegetables grew in the garden. The chicken coop housed a number of hens, and there was always at least one rooster around, strutting his stuff.
Q liked to feed the chickens and was amazed they would eat practically anything you threw to them. He also liked to go by the bank of the pond and catfish with a cane pole. Paw Paw T would keep the bait fresh on the hook while smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and occasionally taking a pull from a flask filled with homemade shine.
He was probably near the age of five when Paw Paw T had a stroke and died less than a week later. Q remembered the funeral. Everyone dressed in their Sunday best. The men all in flashy suits. The woman with bright makeup and wearing black dresses, large, flowery hats on their beauty shop hair.
When Q built up enough nerve to view the body, he was shocked to see Paw Paw T wearing his overalls and red checkered shirt. Of course, he had never seen the man wear any other clothing on the times he visited him. Q asked his mother why Paw Paw T wasn’t buried in a suit. His mother said her father made his mind known he wanted to wear his overalls and work shirt to the grave—and he’d come back and haunt ‘whoever’ put him in a suit.
That’s the kind of place Q wanted to find. Someplace where he could fish, have some chickens, grow some food, and lots and lots of weed.
He was surprised he had a want to live off the land. All the years living the urban life style was a direct clash from his grandpa’s time. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe it was in his blood to be a farmer.
A school bus lay on its side just up ahead. It partially blocked his lane. He downshifted and slowed as he passed.
The bike traveled a mere 30 miles an hour when a zombie lurched out from behind the bus right into Q’s path.
The undead was no match for the mighty machine. The living corpse took full impact and was knocked several feet backward—twisting and tumbling along the road.
Unfortunately for Q, the handlebars wrestled from his control, flipping him headfirst over the bike. Man and machine skidded along the rough asphalt highway, sometimes connecting in a brutal dance.
When Q’s mangled body came to a rest, the Harley’s engine coughed out its last breath. He was injured, but he didn’t think he was too bad off. Some road rash on his left arm, but nothing else seemed to hurt right then.
The sunlight filtered through the trees that lined both sides of the road, and a breeze ruffled the leaves. Q took a deep breath and pushed himself up on his elbows. He had to blink twice to believe his eyes.
His left leg was broken at the knee and twisted to where he could look directly at the sole of his shoe. The other leg was a shredded, bloody mess. This was bad. Real bad.
The shock slowly started to wear off and searing pain from the injuries began to grow.
Something scraped across the pavement nearby.
Q s
lowly turned his head and focused through the pain to see what it was.
The zombie that took him down crawled toward him on hands and knees.
He reached to his side for his gun, but it was gone. The backpack was still attached to the bike, but between him and the zombie. Q had nothing to fight back with.
The zombie edged closer—lifting its chest from the ground as the move of each hand brought it closer. A gold chain around its neck connected to large gold letters that spelled MARCUS.
Q screamed as he rolled on his stomach. He had to get away. Had to pull himself to freedom so he could live out in the country like his grandpa. He wanted to live. He wanted to grow weed and stay high every day of his life. He wanted—
Marcus’s reanimated corpse reached out and grabbed Q by the dreads. It pulled the tall man’s head around until the two looked eye to eye.
Quin rolled back over and with flailing arms tried to keep the zombie at bay, but Marcus was too hungry and strong for a dying man.
The first bite tore off a few fingers from the right hand. Blood gushed down Q’s arm and splattered his face. The next bite took off a thumb and a good chunk of the palm.
The world spun in Q’s mind, and he threw up.
Marcus ate on.
Quin had felt pain before, but this time it was unique. He wished he could have had one last smoke before it ended like this. But no amount of pot could ever extinguish the agonizing pain of being eaten alive.
He saw bits of his own flesh between the teeth of the ravenous zombie. Blood dripped from its chin on to the large gold letters on the chain.
A soft voice in his mind’s eye called Quin’s name. Darkness faded in.
Epilogue
Three months later
The blades of the Black Hawk helicopter cut through the air above Academy Sports in Bryan, Texas. Four soldiers were strapped to their seats inside, waiting for the pilot to bring them in.
The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel Page 27