by JE Gurley
A clog somewhere. I should fix it but duty calls.
3
A powder blue Mustang roared south down I-10 East out of Phoenix dodging wrecked automobiles piled liked low-tide shoals in sea of asphalt. Mini sand dunes and drifts of dirt and debris left by haboobs, local sandstorms, totally obscured stretches of pavement. The Mustang launched from the dunes like ramps, arcing back to the road with a thud as overworked shocks compensated. The driver’s face broke into a feral grin, his eyes hidden by a baseball cap holding his long red hair held in place.
“Jesus Cristos, Nick,” muttered Juan Mendoza, the front seat passenger. He gripped the seat harness with white-knuckle tightness. “You’re going to kill us.”
Nick Harris laughed at his companion’s discomfort and pressed the accelerator harder. “Lighten up, Juan. I want to have a little fun. I’m bored shitless.” He glanced in the rear view mirror at the plume of dust the Mustang was raising. Then his gaze settled on the third occupant of the car, as different from his two companions as day was to night. His dyed-blond spiked hair, dark mascara, numerous rings and piercings, and all black clothing marked him as Goth. His t-shirt bore an image of rock star Billy Idol. “Whadda you think, Billy?”
Billy was not the boy’s real name, but Billy Idol was the one he now chose to go by, taken from his music idol, probably now deceased like most of the world. “Whatever,” he replied.
“I’m hungry,” Harris blurted. “Anybody else hungry?”
Mendoza moaned as Harris swerved to avoid patch of tumbleweed growing in the road, hurling the Mustang off the pavement and onto the sloped dirt median. Dirt exploded around them as the wheels fought for traction. Mendoza grabbed the door handle with both hands and hung on to keep from colliding with Harris.
“Yahoo!” Harris yelled.
Mendoza’s eyes went wide as he noticed a turnaround rapidly approaching, dividing the median. He crossed himself with one hand as the concrete culvert loomed larger and larger. At the last possible moment, Harris jerked the wheel to the right, catapulting the car back onto the road. The tires squealed in protest as he struggled to retain control.
“Okay, okay!” Mendoza blurted. “Let’s stop to eat.”
“Good choice,” Harris said as took an exit ramp at full speed. Sliding to a halt at the stop sign at the end of the ramp, he turned to Mendoza. “You choose – burgers or tacos.”
“T-t-tacos,” Mendoza stuttered, anything to put a stop to Harris’s wild antics. He hated it when Harris developed one of his ‘Don’t give a shit’ moods. Sometimes things got hairy.
Harris slapped the steering wheel. “Tacos. Just like a Mexican. Nah. I feel like a beer instead.”
“I was born in Tejas,” Mendoza objected. “I’m an American like you.”
Harris ignored Mendoza’s protest. He turned right onto Highway 387 at Casa Grande, about forty-five miles south of Phoenix and floored the Mustang. A few zombies peeked out from behind buildings, but made no move to intercept the speeding car. Past gutted gas stations, whose tanks had long since been drained, and fast food franchises, whose customers no longer got their food ‘their way.’ Past realty offices whose business had dropped off sharply at the end of the world and past grocery stores, looted and burned. They saw no signs of life. More ominously, they saw few zombies. At a beverage warehouse in a strip mall, Harris pulled off the road and into the parking lot, sliding to a halt in front of the building, its doors and windows yawning open, revealing only shadows inside.
“Ah, just what I need,” Harris said, looking at the shattered plate glass window, “easy access.”
He slid out of the driver’s seat and stretched his arms. Then he grabbed his rifle sitting propped up beside him between the seats and clipped on the machete in its canvas sheath to his belt. Mendoza climbed out as well with his M16, but Billy remained seated.
“You too, Billy boy,” Harris snapped. “You haven’t moved since we left Flagstaff.”
Billy reluctantly followed Mendoza’s lead, staring at the sun-bleached skeletons and parts of dismembered skeletons lying scattered around the parking lot and on the sidewalk. Several more haunted the front seats of rusting automobiles with shattered windows, including a looted bottled water truck. Harris paused at two skeletons different from the others. The femurs and tibias of each were thicker and longer than normal. The ribs and sternum had fused into an almost solid boney plate, made flexible by bands of thick cartilage. The canine teeth were longer and sharper than a human’s teeth, more animal-like, and the skull bones were thicker, especially toward the back of the skull. Each skull also bore a neat hole the size of a dime in the forehead. Harris kicked the skull across the sidewalk and laughed.
“Looks like someone knows what to do with these zom bastards,” he said.
Mendoza’s eyes furtively scanned the strip mall. “There’ll be plenty more I think.”
Harris scowled at Mendoza. He hated frightened people. “Let’s go find some beer.”
The outside light only penetrated twenty feet into the large, cavernous building, leaving most of the building in deep shadows, shadows that could hide anything, including a pack of zombies. Dirt and debris littered the floor. It looked to Harris as if more liquor bottles had been broken than stolen. He despised deliberate waste, especially of liquor. On a whim, he walked over to the open cash register. The drawer was empty except for a roll of nickels. He flung the nickels against the wall, smiling, as the cardboard tube broke open, scattering the coins across the floor.
“Damn. No cash. I guess I’ll have to use my American Express,” He chuckled. “Let’s do some shopping.”
He pulled a flashlight from pocket and switched it on. The narrow beam revealed little of the interior, but the odor of burned wood and metal told him all he needed to know. Alcohol and cardboard boxes produce a highly combustible combination. The fire, started either deliberately by looters or accidently, must have broken out while the sprinklers were still working or the entire building would have been razed by the liquor-fueled flames. He doubted he would find little of value in the ashes.
“We should go,” Mendoza urged. “I hear strange noises.”
“Rats,” Harris explained, but he gripped his rifle tighter.
“Mighty big rats,” Mendoza commented.
Harris didn’t answer. He, too, had heard noises from the back of the building. On the off chance that Mendoza was right, he swept the flashlight toward the sound of crunching glass. A figure emerged from the darkness. Harris raised his rifle and aimed.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice called. A man, dirty, bleeding, and holding his hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the flashlight, stumbled toward them. “Don’t shoot,” he repeated.
“Madre Dios,” Mendoza exclaimed.
“Are they gone?” the man asked. His right hand twitched nervously as he spoke. His eyes roved the dark room as if searching for something.
“Is who gone?” Harris asked.
“Zombies. They chased me in here yesterday.” The man’s hand gestures were frantic, matching his voice. “I’ve been hiding in a freezer. They pounded and pounded on the door for hours. Finally, they gave. A little later I heard voices and came out.” He shot a wide smile at Harris. “Thank God, you showed up.”
Harris frowned and shook his head. “Zoms never give up.” He glanced at Mendoza. “Keep an eye outside.” He grinned at Billy Idol. “You too, Billy.”
“Where are you from?” Harris asked the man.
“Sierra Vista. I’m headed to Phoenix.”
Harris laughed. “There’s nothing in Phoenix but more zoms.”
The man shook his head. “No, there has to be more people somewhere – the army or the National Guard.”
Harris smiled at the man’s blind confidence. “Been on the road long?”
“Five weeks, mostly on my own. I stayed a couple of days with a group north of Tucson. Nice set up, but they’re working with the plague virus. That’s not for me. I’ll take my
chances on the road.”
Harris cocked his head to one side, uncertain he had heard correctly. “Working with the plague virus, you say?”
“Yeah. They’ve got electricity, running water, labs, gardens – it’s like a commune, but like I said, I don’t trust anybody with the virus. Look where that got us, you know.” He looked around nervously. “Say, you got any water. I’m dying of thirst.”
Harris jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Sure, in the car.” When the man made a move toward the front of the store, Harris stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Where did you say this place was?”
The man pointed out the empty window toward a billboard across the street. “There.”
Harris squinted to read the wording on the leaning, tattered billboard – Biosphere2, Oracle, Arizona.
“That’s it?” Harris demanded. “A glass dome.” He vaguely recalled hearing of Biosphere2 – some old project where a team of scientists had hoped to live in an enclosed environment for a couple of years back in the early 90s. He remembered that it had failed.
“That’s it,” the man replied. “You got any food?”
Harris grinned. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got something for you.” He raised his rifle.
Outside, Mendoza paced nervously waiting on Harris. He did not like the area. It was too quiet for his taste. He knew zombies were around. They always were. He could smell them. He jumped at the sound of a shot from within the building. Harris emerged a moment later, alone.
“Did you have to shoot him?” Mendoza growled. “Every zombie in town heard that.”
Harris held out his hand and arched his eyebrows in a plaintive gesture. “What? He might have been infected. You saw the blood, right?”
Mendoza looked away and nodded. “Yeah, I saw him.”
Harris glared at Billy Idol. “You got anything to say, Billy?”
The youth remained mute. He turned and headed toward the car, but stopped short as a loud howl rent the air, followed closely by several more. He pulled a .45 from his belt and looked back at the others.
“Zombies,” Mendoza cried. “I told you we should leave.”
Harris cast one last lingering glance inside the building, regretting that he found no beer or liquor. He really had wanted that drink. “All right, time to move.”
Before they had moved five steps, three zombies leaped from the metal awning above the sidewalk, landing in the parking lot between the humans and the Mustang. One of them, a woman, was naked, her filthy pendulous breasts swinging obscenely with each step. She had turned only recently. Decaying skin hung in tattered strips from her arms and face. Dark, shiny tissue showed through in patches indicating what she would become. The other two zombies wore the shredded and soiled remains of military uniforms. These two had fully morphed, chest muscles bulging and canines dripping saliva as they growled hungrily.
Almost simultaneously, a dozen more zombies appeared at each end of the building. Harris acted quickly, bringing up his rifle and shooting one of the creatures in front of them in the head. Mendoza took out the second one, the woman, as she lunged forward. Billy Idol hesitated as the third zombie rushed them, getting within five feet of Billy before Harris dropped it with two quick shots.
“Damn you, Billy,” he yelled. “Hesitate like that again and I’ll shoot you myself.”
Harris brushed past his young companion toward the Mustang. The sound of more zombies on the roof brought him up short. They were waiting for the three to step from beneath the overhang. The zombies at each end of the building turned at the sound of a long, drawn-out wail. Harris noted with idle curiosity that they had halted just outside effective gun range. Zombies usually rushed any prey without hesitation, using numbers and strength to bring it down. He had never heard of Zombies with this degree of cunning. As he watched, the Alpha male appeared across the parking lot near the street with more zombies. Now more than fifty zombies surrounded them. They had two choices – retreat into the building to stand them off, or make a dash for the Mustang. He didn’t feel like spending the night in a cooler of a burned out liquor store. He fished in his pocket for the car keys.
“Okay, we go on three.”
He stopped and turned, just as three zombies appeared from the shadows inside the building. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his rifle against a brick column supporting the awning and slowly removed the machete from its sheath. He knew this might call for some up close work where the rifle was just too cumbersome.
To Mendoza, he said, “Keep the others off my back. You too, Billy, unless you want to walk home.”
If he let the three zombies get outside, they would quickly surround him. He stepped just inside the door where a cinder block wall and a heavy metal display rack defined a short corridor less than five feet wide. This would effectively funnel his attackers and even the odds slightly. The Alpha male emitted a long, haunting cry, and the zombies inside and those outside attacked simultaneously. He heard Mendoza’s M16 and Billy’s .45 exploding as they repelled the zombies. He knew both were good shots. He wouldn’t have brought them along it they hadn’t been. Everyone pulled his weight, even Billy.
He faced the three zombies, shifting his weight lightly from one foot to the other. Each zombie was big enough to be an Alpha, but had subordinated themselves to the Alpha outside. That spoke volumes about the Alpha male. He knew he faced a daunting challenge–zombies were difficult to kill. They didn’t feel pain as humans did and they ignored minor wounds. Injuries sufficient to kill a human healed over time, but even a zombie could not recover from a severed cerebral vertebrae. He gripped the machete tightly in his right hand and waited.
The first two zombies rushed him, hoping to use their mass to knock him down. He slashed the first one across the side of its neck and used its body to fend off the second one’s groping hands. As the first one began to stagger, Harris planted his back against the wall and shoved it toward the second with all his might. As the first zombie fell to its knees, its companion leaped over its body. Harris was ready for it. He swung a backhanded blow that severed the zombie’s left hand. A spray of dark, foul smelling blood splattered him. The creature ignored the wound, turned its body to, and reached for him with its right hand, exposing its right side. Harris drove the point of the machete into the creature just behind the boney plate in its chest and pushed hard, forcing the blade through dense, mutated muscle. The zombie continued to struggle until the blade struck its heart.
It howled in rage as Harris twisted the blade. He held onto the slippery, blood-soaked handle of the machete as the creature clawed at him. It did not attempt to escape even as its lifeblood pumped from its heart around the blade. With its last breath, it slammed a fist into the side of Harris’ head, stunning him. Slowly, the creature’s dead red eyes lost focus and tumbled dead at Harris’ feet. He withdrew the machete just in time to face the third zombie. To his surprise, the creature ignored him. It raced past him and lunged for Mendoza’s exposed back. A warning shout would be too late. He threw the machete. The blade planted itself deep in the zombie’s back, its most vulnerable side, severing its spine. It did not die. It momentum carried it into Mendoza, knocking him down. Its legs useless, it pulled itself atop Mendoza with its hands. Mendoza hammered the zombie’s head with the butt of his rifle. Billy noticed Mendoza’s predicament. He placed his .45 against the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. Brains and dark blood spewed from the side of its skull and splattered the sidewalk. A chunk of scalp and its right ear dangled from its head by a thin piece of flesh. He reached out a hand to help Mendoza to his feet.
Harris rushed out, picked up his rifle, and shot two zombies before they could reach Billy. A dozen zombie corpses lay scattered across the parking lot. Billy knelt beside him on one knee methodically placing his shots in the head of each zombie that got too close. Suddenly, the creatures retreated.
Mendoza looked at Harris in confusion. “Why aren’t they attacking? They could smash us down easily.”
Harris pointed to the Alpha male still out of range across the parking lot. The creature stood over six feet tall with shoulder-length black hair, the remains of a pair of jokey briefs as its only clothing. Harris had often wondered why some of the creatures did not simply shed the tattered, rotten dregs of civilization and go naked as many did. Their thick hide protected them from the elements better than any thickness of hair or material could. Was it some last mental spark inside them clinging to the last remnant of their lost humanity?
“That big boy is smart,” he told Mendoza.
“Si, a generale, that one.”
Harris turned and stared at Mendoza, who had stumbled upon the thought that had been nagging at him. Zombie packs acted like wolf packs, herding and surrounding their prey before bringing it down with sheer numbers. Sometimes they toyed with their prey to teach newer or younger members of the pack. These zombies were certainly not toying with them. In fact, most were deliberately staying out of effective rifle range. If he was a better shot, he might have been able to pick off the Alpha with his 7 mm Remington deer rifle, but the creature was over 200 yards away challenging Harris to try the shot. This Alpha had learned from experience what a rifle could do, and while respecting it, he seemed to know its limitations.
“This son of a bitch is smart,” he said with a touch of admiration in his voice.
“They’re leaving,” Billy called out.