“They got pressing business, even if they did,” Idle said. “Delinquents are hardly first on the save list.”
“But our parents,” Cupcake said. “The police.”
“Any dudes left down there are going hand to hand, busting skulls just to survive. What kinda crackhead’s gonna hike over to see how the ol’ abandoned lodge is holding up?”
“They’re right,” Joanjet said. “We’re on our own.”
ZOMBRULE #11: Teenagers. All alone. In an isolated cabin. In the middle of the woods. In the dark. What a fresh and original setup. In any case, immediately find someone to pair off with, a paring knife, a can of pears in heavy syrup, a Pere Ubu boxed set, an autographed Luke Perry 8x10 glossy, a headstone map of Père Lachaise, a pair of nunchuks, and a quart of paregoric.
“Let’s go over what we know,” Nero said. “How did it break off for you guys?”
Cupcake closed her eyes and covered her ears.
“Well, Eeyore went crazy during the night,” Joanjet said. “She attacked Kim Fowley first. I guess she . . . did things to her . . . for a while. Until we woke up. Juicebox went to see, but she never came back. There was . . . you know, screaming. Something tore my tent down and grabbed Abzug Belagosi by the ankles and just . . . pulled her into the dark. Then I heard Raekwon calling out and followed her voice. We met by the fire and all just sort of took off up the trail.”
Nero swallowed, hard. “And Petal was with you?”
The girls all looked at one another.
“No.”
So she got separated. Maybe she headed down to the highway.
Raekwon cleared her throat. “Yeah, so we ran. And, you know how they do — the meat freaks followed us.”
“Picked us off one at a time,” Lush said. “First Hera. Then LadyMac, Buffy, and Macy.”
“So we headed up.”
“Until we couldn’t head anymore.”
“And here we are.”
Scratch.
“What is that?”
Scratch scratch.
“It sounds like fingernails.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“It is fingernails.”
Scratch scratch scratch scratch.
“Tell them to stop!” Cupcake yelled, pulling at her hair.
Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch.
Joanjet walked over and put her arm around Cupcake.
Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch.
Then kissed her on the mouth.
Ooh, snap!
Cupcake kissed her back, and they held each other. When Joanjet finally pulled away, she turned, daring someone to say something.
No one did.
Except Idle.
“Shit, Deep Purple, you a dyke?”
Billy laughed. “Total bull dagger.”
“Not cool,” War Pig said.
Sad Girl stood up, green eyes flashing in anger. “The world’s falling apart but you idiots still need to make fun of people comforting each other? I mean, don’t you hear those fingernails outside? Doesn’t it make you not want to hurt anything? Even with words? Like, ever again?”
Idle and Billy looked at each other, pretending to consider.
Pretending to be swayed.
Pretending to hold headphones to one ear and spin records on a turntable.
Scratch-a scratch. Scratch-a scratch scratch.
“Not really.”
“No, we pretty much still want to hurt stuff.”
Nero stepped in front of Idle so that Joanjet was looking only at him. So she understood that not a single person left alive cared what the twins thought.
“You guys want to know what we should do?”
“Yes,” War Pig said.
“Yes,” Lush said.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s break into pairs and see what we can scavenge. Someone should reinforce the door. We need to find food and weapons. Water. Communications. And we need to set up a bathroom, as far away from the fireplace as possible.”
There was nodding all around. Sad Girl and Estrada held hands and got to work.
Nero turned toward the twins. “You born-agains want to help, or are you going to sit on your asses until our dinner guests break in?”
“I vote asses,” Idle said.
“Help, I need somebody,” Billy said. “Anybody.”
No one laughed.
There was too much to do.
Especially since the scratching had gotten louder again.
A lot louder.
RAEKWON AND WAR PIG PICKED UP EITHER end of a heavy bureau and used it to reinforce the front door. Lush dragged antique chairs and elaborately carved frames back to the hearth to burn. Estrada and Sad Girl took turns breaking them apart. After a while, Sad Girl unzipped the top of her jumpsuit and tied the sleeves around her waist, just a wifebeater underneath. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Estrada stared at his feet.
Idle and Billy found a can of paint thinner and poured some into a rag, mashing it to their noses. They giggled, glaze eyed, making fun of each other’s huffer’s rash.
Joanjet stood next to Nero. “So are you the quarterback of your football team or head of the student council?”
He smiled. “I’m just another delinquent.”
Joanjet raised a plucked eyebrow. With her pink sweatbands and lean frame, she looked like the bass player in an obscure L.A. punk band. “Whatever you say.”
They walked the perimeter of the great room, looking for something to salvage. In the far right corner was a bar, empty of booze but filled with broken glassware and dusty stools. Pitted dining tables covered with sheets ran along the near wall with nothing beneath them. In the lower right was a kitchen with an ancient icebox, empty. Nero walked up the stairs and paused in front of a window. Hundreds of Infects surrounded the lodge, four deep, pushing and pounding. Some stood farther back in the clearing, mouths open like children as snowflakes softy settled on them.
Nero turned away, afraid he’d see Petal. Shuffling in circles. Drooling.
“I’m sorry about in the van,” Joanjet said. “My note.”
“Eat me? Not very original.”
She shrugged. “I have anger issues.”
Nero watched the twins take turns punching each other on the arm. “Join the club.”
“I can’t believe you made it all the way up here with those knuckleheads.”
Nero looked at Raekwon. “Seems like you had your hands full too.”
Joanjet nodded. “The price of leadership is that your raw materials are chosen for you.”
They walked back downstairs as War Pig shoved another table against the front door.
“Okay, check it out,” he said. “You’re an Infect, right? You got a choice of anyone in this room. Who do you eat first?”
“No dangles,” Idle said, leering at Lush.
“Exactly,” Billy said, also leering at Lush.
“Estrada,” Sad Girl said.
Cupcake and Joanjet just held hands.
“I’m on Jenny Craig,” Nero said.
Raekwon laughed. “Forget who. What part do you eat first?”
War Pig gulped.
Idle and Billy looked at each other.
“Kidney and fava beans.”
They went down the rest of the line.
“Ass.”
“Ass.”
“Ass.”
“Ass.”
“Calves.”
Lush sighed. “Uh, I guess that soft stuff around your fingernails?”
“Hey,” Estrada said, walking out of the darkness with an old boom box. “Look what I found under the stairs.”
“Nice!” War Pig said, grabbing it away. “Does it work?”
Estrada stared at him. “Not yet.”
War Pig looked up, blushed, and then handed it back.
Estrada pried open the back compartment with Sad Girl’s knife. He dislodged a rusty sc
rew, and the battery cover popped off.
Six gleaming D cells sat lined up, nose to nose. Except the final one, which was out of alignment.
“I can’t believe there’s actually batteries in here.”
ZOMBRULE #12: There are never any batteries. There’s also never any gas, any flashlights, any shotgun shells, any propane, any directions, any rubbers, any paper, any wireless signal, any fishing line, any socks, any adults, any toothpaste, any zombie-dispatching meat axes, any dimes, any socket sets, any Band-Aids, any forks, or any nose plugs when you really, really need them. Unless, of course, the plot requires one to make some scene plausible, in which case it’ll magically appear. In the meantime, plan on not having what you will probably never have.
Estrada looked up at the ceiling, whispered a novena, and then nudged the last battery back into place.
The radio squalled painfully.
Everyone let out a cheer.
Sad Girl raised the antenna as Estrada licked his fingers, then slowly turned the dial to the right.
There was nothing through the low 90s. Not even static.
“Shit,” War Pig whispered. “Can it really be that bad?”
“Maybe there’s just no signal up here.”
“Even in Antarctica, you can get static.”
At 95.1, there was a station that made tiny blip noises. At 98.9 a faint but steady Emergency Broadcast System signal droned. They waited for an announcement, but it never came.
Through to the hundreds. Nothing.
At 104.3 there was a man’s voice, deep and scratchy, like he was inside a well. Talking about a small town called Linda Rosa. Where aliens had landed. And were killing citizens.
“No way,” Idle said. “Aliens? That’s what the fuckers are?”
“I knew it,” Billy said. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Mars mad attacks.”
“Where’s Linda Rosa?” Sad Girl asked. “Near Oakland?”
“They’re not aliens,” Nero said. “And that’s not a real place.”
“Guy on the radio just told you they were.”
“It’s Orson Welles.”
“Like I give a crap what his name is?”
“You should. He’s been dead for years, for one thing.”
“Wait, aliens and ghosts?”
“Who is he?” Estrada asked.
“Used to be a famous actor. It’s an old recording. He’s reading from The War of the Worlds.”
“I saw that shit movie,” War Pig said. “Five-foot-tall Tommy Cruise muscles up and saves humanity with, like, a gallon of water.”
“Exactly,” Nero said. “This is the radio play the movie was based on. A long time ago, like in the 1930s. It freaked out half the country, but it was just a hoax.”
“So maybe the shamblers are just a hoax,” Billy said.
“Yeah, maybe we’re being Punk’d,” Idle said. “Where’s the cameras? Bruce Leroy is probably in the trailer watching the feed and laughing his ass off.”
Estrada kept dialing.
Nothing up through 105.3.
And then, at 107.7, music.
Riffs.
Feedback.
The raw, manic voice of Diamond Dave.
The finger-tap mastery of Eddie V.
The chubby, stubbled void of Michael Anthony.
“It’s Van Halen!”
“‘Running with the Devil’. This song is practically all about us!”
“It means someone’s still out there, broadcasting,” Nero said.
“And they have good taste.”
“Whatever it takes to drown that freaking scratching out,” Lush said.
Estrada put the radio on the table. They sat through two songs, “Mob Rules” by Black Sabbath and “Kill ’Em All” by Metallica.
“Dude’s got a sense of humor at least.”
“Who says it’s a dude?”
And then two more.
“I Ran” by Flock of Seagulls and “The Final Countdown” by Europe.
Cupcake curled up on the floor, her head on Joanjet’s lap. Estrada and Sad Girl got up without a word and danced, slow, like at the prom, their foreheads resting on each other’s shoulders.
As the last synthesizer note droned, there was a squall of feedback, and then a voice came on.
“Shasta County Community Radio . . . had the gate downstairs chained, but they got through somehow. The booth has a soundproof door, nice and heavy, but it’s not gonna last. . . . They’re right outside, pressed against the glass, and more just keep coming. . . . It’s like . . . It’s like all teeth and bloody handprints. . . . My station manager, he’s . . . he’s right there, staring at me. Man, I walk in and first thing he’s eating the drive-time guys in the lobby. Franklin and Spazzer from The Morning Zoo. Chowed on Spazzer like nobody’s business. I’m . . . I’m just an intern. I barely know how half this equipment works. Hey, is anyone listening? Am I just talking to myself? The phone’s so totally dead. My cell has, like, no bars. No bars! Can you hear me now, motherfucker? Seriously, I don’t want to get eaten! If I had a gun, I’d shoot three of them and then off myself, but I’m too much of a wuss to do it with the stapler. . . . I mean, I know we all have to die sometime. But like this? Oh, man, the glass is cracking! A hand is coming in. Hold on. . . . Okay, I shoved a rolled-up piece of carpet in there. That should hold for a minute. . . . Well, if anyone’s listening, I think we got time for one more tune. I’m not going to turn the mic on in here. When they get in, it’s gonna get . . . ugly. No one needs to hear that — you know what I’m saying? I don’t even want to hear myself scream, let alone broadcast it over twenty thousand watts. But, hey, check it out, my name’s Alec. Alec Schwartz. You got that out there? If this isn’t, like, the end of the world or whatever, could someone please tell my mom what happened? Let her know? Oh, shit, the glass . . . it’s crumbling. They’re making the hole bigger. . . . One of them’s got its head in. God, he’s all teeth. Anyway, you be cool, rockers! If there’s any of you even left . . . I’ll see you . . . I’ll see you on the other side. . . .”
A song started. “All Along the Watchtower” by Jimi Hendrix.
Halfway through, the song stopped.
And then the signal went dead.
I regret that I have but one DJ to give for my country.
Cupcake moaned and hid her face.
Estrada snapped it off. “Save the batteries,” he whispered. “Try again later.”
Lush and Sad Girl hugged.
Raekwon wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
And then the scratching got louder.
Scratch-a scratch. Scratch-a scratch scratch.
“How can their fingernails not have worn away yet?” Idle whined.
It sounded like they were digging into the walls.
Through the walls.
Through all of their skulls.
And then there was a howl.
That came from inside the lodge.
Cupcake screamed.
The boys jumped up.
The girls grabbed their weapons.
Shadows danced madly in the firelight.
And then the howl came again.
JOANJET STOOD IN FRONT OF WAR PIG, WHO was in a crouch, ready to tear something apart. “Before you all lose your minds, don’t. There’s something we haven’t shown you yet.”
“What?” Idle said.
“What?” Billy said.
“What?” War Pig said.
“What?” Estrada said.
“What?” Nero said.
Like Grandpa Rock always used to say, you can’t trust a woman as far as you could drag a dude in drag.
“It’s downstairs,” Lush said nervously. “They’re —”
“Wait, there’s a downstairs?”
“Why the eff didn’t you say so?”
Joanjet picked a knife up off the hearth and started cleaning her fingernails, skin was so pale it looked almost ceramic in the firelight. Her tattoo fluttered as she swallowed. “We didn’t
know if we could trust you yet.”
“Doesn’t look like you trust us now,” Nero said.
Infect moans revved up, overpowering the silence. The howls came again. Joanjet reached for an iron candelabra stashed behind the fireplace, lit it with a twig, and walked through the dark hall. In the corner, near the bar area, was a door none of the boys had noticed, set back behind a tapestry of entwined vipers where the firelight didn’t reach.
“Well, are you coming, or do you want to stand around all night with your feelings hurt?”
When they walked over, Joanjet slid the bolt and flung the door open.
The stairway was blue-black and steep.
A fetid smell wafted up into the room.
Like tar and copper.
Shit and blood.
Fear.
There was moaning and scratching.
Hissing and spitting.
Close and personal.
“Please don’t make me go down there again,” Cupcake said.
“So stay up here.”
“Please don’t make me stay up here again.”
Nero did not want to walk into the dank maw either. Every part of him, every molecule, screamed not to.
“What, then you slam it behind us?” War Pig said. “Lock us in? No, thanks.”
The howls rang out in volleys.
“What’s down there?” Estrada whispered. “For real.”
“You coming?” Joanjet asked. “If not, I’ll close the door.”
“Close it.” Cupcake said. “Forever.”
“Oh, God,” Lush said, holding her hands over her eyes.
Go and see.
“Last chance.”
Do it.
Nero stepped into darkness.
Darker darkness.
It smelled like retch. Like decomposing wretches. The rest followed single file, candlelight bouncing off the cement walls, a quivering halo. Raekwon and Pacino came last. The final stair, broken in half, led to a smallish room filled with cardboard boxes and folded chairs and broken lamps. The floor was earthen and maroon colored.
Charnel house. Abattoir. Coffin. Cage.
In the corner was a pile of bones. Horns and hoofs. Antlers. Femurs. Ulnas. Long dried, yellow-white. Next to that was a pile of skins, never tanned, rotting. Nero gagged. It set off a chain reaction, the others covering their mouths.
Joanjet held the candle up. Heavy chains hung from the ceiling along one wall, sharp hooks dangling at the ends.
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