Derby City Dead

by D A Madigan

  He shoved the end of the hose up at the snapping zombie-face under the rubber mask, aiming for one of the eye holes.

  It was as sudden and dramatic this time as it had been previously, when Sheila herself had performed the same maneuver on a different zombie. Sheila's growls became a strangled hiss -- she shuddered massively two, maybe three times against his forearm -- and then, dust and dry, crumbled flakes were spilling down around Skip. The helmet thudded onto his shoulder and rolled off. The mostly empty clothes collapsed onto him.

  Skip reached behind him to grab the open door and pull it closed, and a zombie lunged for his arm. Skip pointed the rubber tube at the zombie and it screamed and threw its arms up, like a movie vampire recoiling from a cross.

  Whatever it was that animated these things hated two things -- fire, and concentrated, pure oxygen.

  Skip yanked the van door closed with a bang. A second later, enraged zombies started beating on the outside of the vehicle with their fists.

  For the moment, Skip just lay there in the dark, gasping, waiting for his pounding heart to slow down again.

  He figured he might have as much as a minute before they started breaking out the windows...

  xiii

  "Outside, both of you," Captain Cass whispered tersely, jerking the flashlight to the right, in the direction of the doorway leading from the butcher's work room into the stock room.

  Derrick wanted to laugh, moan (from, simultaneously, pleasure and terror), and shit his pants, all at once. Cass looked pissed as fuck. Cass with a gun in her hand was more dangerous than a rat with rabies; Cass with a gun in her hand and incredibly pissed off... Derrick felt his balls trying to pull up into his lower stomach. This was NOT fuckin cool, man.

  Dorothy jerked her head back out of Derrick's crotch like suddenly his dick had turned into a rattlesnake or something. She started to say something -- then stopped herself. Derrick could almost read her thoughts -- does anyone else know we're in here? Is anyone goin' to wake up my daddy?

  Finally she just got up to her feet and whispered "Cassie I'm sorry he --"

  "Shut up!" Cass hissed back, just as obviously not wanting to wake anyone else up either. "I said, outside."

  Derrick got up slowly and turned his back on her to walk into the stock room. A spot itched on the back of his head. Cass liked head shots; if she decided to kill him, that's where she'd put the bullet. She loved to show off. But that might be good. He probably wouldn't feel it -- and in a minute or so, he'd be back as a zombie, head shot or no head shot.

  He heard Dorothy shufflin' along behind him as he walked out into the large back room that was crowded with big stacks of boxes. The only light came from Cass' flashlight, behind him. It threw his shadow, huge and black and distorted, out onto the piles of cardboard shipping containers (some already broken into) in front of him. Bobbing just to the right of it, he could see the shadow of what had to be Dorothy's head and one arm, bent into an L as she was walking with her hands up too. And keeping quiet, which Derrick figured had to be an effort for her. But she knew how dangerous Cass was. She might be a slut, but she wasn't a dumb slut.

  "Now," Cass' voice whispered, when they were all in the stock room "go over and pull up that loading door. We're gonna step outside and talk this over like gentlemen." She giggled, a high shrill sound that sent chills up Derrick's spine. "'cept Dorothy might not be able to talk with her mouth full."

  The loading dock had a door roughly twice as large as the average one car garage portal, but the door was segmented metal that curved up along the interior ceiling when it was opened. Derrick went over, bent down, gripped the metal handle that was only six inches above the concrete floor, and tugged up. The door came reluctantly at first, but then picked up momentum and went rumbling upwards on its tracks. Derrick let go of it and it groaned to a stop at about six feet above the concrete.

  Outside, wire security fencing had been thrown up a few feet beyond the edge of the dock. Scrambling to their feet at the very lip of the dock, where they'd been sitting next to a 55 gallon drum with a fire built inside it, were two 'enlisted'. Derrick recognized them.

  The first was Benito "Benny" Juarez, a not too bright 30 year old who had been working in a Mexican roofing crew on Z Day and who had still been stuck up on the roof where he had been working three days later when the AHCETSB had rolled by. He was okay. He did what he was told, and he didn't try to steal food or bully weaker enlisted or fuck with anyone. He didn't have any family here, or really any friends, but Derrick had nothin' against him.

  The second 'enlisted' on the loading dock was Arlen "Rich Bitch" McKenzie, who had been a wealthy stock broker and who was one of the AHCETSB's newest 'recruits'... he'd been in a small group that had been holed up in the CVS across the parking lot when the Battalion had arrived; he'd been found hiding behind a display of cosmetics by a search team Derrick had led himself. Fuck only knew what the dumbass thought he was gonna do if they HADN'T found him. Stay in the CVS until he ran out of Oreos and graham crackers, maybe. Then come out and raise some zombie's blood sugar through the roof -- briefly.

  Derrick had considered suggesting using Rich Bitch for zombie bait... but his instincts had warned him against it. The General didn't like Rich Bitch much... nobody did... but Derrick was black; it just wouldn't have been safe for him to suggest lightin' up a white dude. Some things never changed.

  The sight of Derrick and Dorothy being marched at gunpoint onto the loading dock by Captain Cass obviously commanded both enlisted men's attention fully. They braced to something an experienced drill sergeant would have winced to hear described as 'attention', but they were obviously making an effort, anyway. You only needed to have a gun laid upside your head once or twice by an armed officer to learn that shit.

  Cass glanced at them, then said to Derrick, "Shut the door."

  Derrick didn't like that shit at all; the only reason she could want him to pull that door down again was so that noises wouldn't carry inside the Kroger's... noises like gunshots. And if Cass started shootin' people out here, she was gonna have to shoot everyone, except maybe Dorothy. She might not have thought it through that far... she probably wasn't thinkin' straight at all... but if she killed the two recruits to keep them quiet, she'd have to kill Derrick, too.

  But he didn't have much choice; if he didn't do what she said, she'd just say fuck it and shoot him right now. No fuckin' doubt of that, baby.

  Apparently, Rich Bitch had no doubt of it, either, and he wanted not a fuckin' thing to do with it. As soon as Cassie told Derrick to pull the door down, Rich Bitch jumped down off the loading dock into the three feet or so of space between it and the security fencing. Derrick guessed the shithead fool was plannin' on haulin' ass, and he supposed he could see where you might think that was a good idea, if you'd never seen Cass in action with a gun.

  Cass barely even looked at the dumb fuck. The gun in her hand twitched a little bit, there was a sharp crack that seemed to echo oddly out there on the dock, and Rich Bitch fell sideways into the security fencing, most of his head blown off.

  Which was bad enough, because Derrick had seen this shit way too many times in the last four weeks -- in a minute or so, ol' Bitchy would be gettin' back up, a lot stronger and a lot madder and a lot hungrier -- and then it wasn't gonna matter how good Cass was with a gun. Not one little fuckin' bit.

  Derrick had just finished thinking that when he realized that Cass had a weird look on her face. Like she was... surprised, or somethin'.

  And she had a big dark splotch on the front of her camos, right where her boobs were. And it was spreading.

  It wasn't until she went to her knees, with a goofy, kind of confused look on her face, though, that Derrick realized the dumb crazy bitch had been shot.

  He looked around... and there she was. Standin' just inside the partially rolled up door in the classic two handed shooter's stance that Gramps The Beat Cop had taught her way back before Derrick or his older brother or older sister had been
born ---

  Nana. With Gramp's .38 Special in her hands.

  The barrel smoking.

  Motherfucker. He'd never even thought to check her purse for it when he carried her out of the apartment building. She'd yelled "You get mah handbag, Derrick!" and he'd snatched that fucker up on the way through the livin' room, but he'd never once looked inside it. SonofaBITCH.

  "Don't just stand there, Derrick," Nana said, her voice quavering but calm. "They dead now and they gonna get up again right quick. You better get some kind o' torch out o' that fire can a'fore that happens."

  Derrick shook his head in wonder as he moved towards the barrel...

  xiv.

  Your whole life did not flash before your eyes when you were about to die. Vivian wasn't surprised by this, she'd never really expected it to.

  She'd shot that crazy man Franklin when she'd caught him trying to mix bleach and vinegar together. The bottles he'd been holding had flown out of his hands as he'd spun in place from the force of the bullets; she could smell the pungent bleach and the astringent, half-sour vinegar odors as she stood there. She didn't know if he was just tryin' to kill everyone in the store, includin' himself, or if he had some kind of completely insane plan that he thought would let him somehow only kill her and the three babies. But either way, she'd had to shoot him, so she had damn well shot him.

  It hadn't occurred to her -- and she was hardly the first living person in the world of the sprinting, screaming dead to make such a mistake -- that as soon as he died, he'd be getting back up, as a zombie.

  Meaning, stronger and faster and immune to pretty much anything except fire.

  Franklin had just reached his feet again and was in the process of turning towards Vivian as she started to look around her, frantically, for anything on the shelves she might use as a weapon -- something that would create a flame. Hairspray, or any kind of aerosol. Franklin had been standing at the end of the housewares aisle; on one side of Vivian, at this end, were cans of pesticides. They'd make a flame, she was pretty sure --

  Franklin screamed, eyes bugging out in his head. Nearly a quarter of that head, starting just above his right eyebrow, was gone, blown away by the soft nosed .357 Magnum loads in the King Cobra pistol Vivian had fired at him. A huge hole had also been punched through his neck by her first shot. Franklin was beyond feeling the effects of those wounds now, or anything else, except fire.

  He planted his shoe clad feet to run at her, took one step forward -- and slid on the pool of his own blood he was standing in. Off balance, he went crashing into the display at that end of the aisle, sending somewhat dusty boxes of cheap Chinese Barbie doll knock offs tumbling to the ground.

  Vivian grabbed up a can of Raid in her left hand while jamming her right into her jeans' pocket to find a lighter. She felt clumsy and slow, like she was moving underwater.

  Franklin had scrambled back to his feet, hissing now like nothing that had ever been human. Vivian's probing fingers had found the lighter but couldn't get it out of her pocket. She was going to die, trying to get a lighter out of her pocket --

  Something went THWANG behind her, and a by God fire arrow arced over Vivian's shoulder, crackling and flaming, and flew down the aisle and struck Franklin in the right thigh.

  It did not stick in -- Vivian would have been shocked if it had, as she knew the 'fire arrow' was actually a toy arrow with a suction cup tip that had been wrapped over and over again with paper towels and then set on fire and shot from a toy bow. There were four sets of these kid's archery sets that they had found on the toy aisle and adapted into anti-zombie weapons. They were kept over in the cosmetics area, where everybody but Franklin had made their sleeping pallets (Franklin, neither liking nor trusting any of the 'looters' who had invaded his store, preferred to sleep in his office).

  The fire arrow did not need to stick in, though. Whatever it was that caused the dead to get up and move around again turned ordinary flesh and bone into something as flammable as magician's flash paper. The instant the arrow struck him, Franklin burst almost explosively into flames. He tried to take a step and was already too far gone to complete it; it was as little more than cinders and ashes that he fell forward and collapsed, a pile of smoking embers, on the floor.

  Vivian turned and saw Sheila and Dan's little 9 year old girl, Vicki, standing there with one of the toy bows. "Got the motherfucker," the little girl said, a slight edge of hysteria in her voice.

  "Yeah you did, honey," Vivian said, more than a hint of a quaver in her own voice, "and for a wonder you didn't set the whole store on fire doin' it." Vivian walked quickly down to the end of the aisle, looking around for anything she might use to smother a fire. Anything even remotely blanket like had been found and used for bedding; there hadn't been a whole lot... mostly some remaindered beach towels and about a dozen Snuggies were all the store had held, plus maybe half a dozen tarps in the back room. She ended up stamping the guttering flames out with her sneakers.

  Then turned, and saw Vicki staring at her, all big eyed. "Oh, baby, you did real good," Vivian said, going to the girl and giving her a hug. "That crazy man was trying to kill us and he would have, too, if you hadn't burned him up."

  "I'm sorry I swore," Vicki mumbled. "Don't tell mama?"

  "Well, I b'lieve I'll give you that one for free," Vivian said. "Now, come on, the little ones are fussing." Jameel and Shymala were more than fussing; they were bawling their heads off. Vivian and Vicki both hurried back to the cosmetics area, where the two younger children had been taught to stay unless a grown-up was with them.

  Vivian looked longingly at the walkie talkie laying on the cashier's counter ten feet away as she comforted Jameel. She badly wanted to pick it up and try to get some kind of update from Skip, but the person inside the store was never supposed to try to initiate contact with anyone outside the store, for fear that a sudden human voice speaking up at an unexpected time might draw zombie attention.

  At which point, she could clearly hear someone banging loudly on the loading dock doors, and hear muffled shouting from that direction, as well.

  Now, who could that be?

  xv.

  The back room had held at least a dozen different mops and brooms; some of the dryer, unused one, when held in the flames from the fire-can, became adequate torches. As long as they were carrying open flames, the zombies wouldn't come near them -- of that much, Derrick was sure.

  He wasn't sure where they were going. Sure as fuck Nana couldn't walk very far. But just as sho', they couldn't stay here.

  They'd been lucky so far... apparently, nobody in the store had heard the shots, and none of the other guard posts seemed inclined to check 'em out. Derrick didn't blame 'em a fuckin' bit. It was probably all 'enlisted' standing watch anyway, with all the armed officers bedded down, asleep or otherwise. No slave was gonna risk his or her ass checkin' out a weird noise in the zombie apocalypse.

  Ol' Bennie had been perfectly willing to take a stroll with 'em, especially when Derrick offered him one of Cass' pistols. Bennie might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was smart enough to see that the life expectancy for non-honkeys in the Ad Hoc White Ass Redneck Christian Motherfuckers Battalion was pretty fuckin' short.

  Which just left the problem of Dorothy. Derrick hadn't wanted to bring Dorothy with 'em -- she'd have started screamin' about bein' kidnapped or some shit, and then even an enlisted would run and wake up an armed officer. That shit they did not need. He should have just shot the little twat... although then he'd have had to burn her as soon as she got back up, like they had with Cass and Rich Bitch.

  Mostly, though, Derrick had no more stomach for killin' when he didn't have to.

  So, in the end, he'd just walked up to her with Cass' other pistol in his hand, holding it out to her by the barrel. "You better take this," he'd said. The greedy little bitch had reached out for it and Derrick had pulled it back, then whacked her over her stupid ass head with it.

  "Psych," he'd said, although
it really wasn't funny at all.

  So then they'd got all the mops and brooms, lit up a torch for each of them (they'd carry the others as spares, but even so, Derrick didn't figure they had more than a half hour at most to find some kind of shelter before they ran out of that shit and got nommed on) and waving them around to send the zombies stampeding, they'd pushed down the security fencing just outside the loading dock and set off across the back parking lots. Derrick had decided to go that way for no particularly good reason; vehicles were generally not good shelters from the zombies and the General's snow plows could smash their way down a paved street or through a parking lot just as easily. But somehow it felt better to him to head through the parking lot instead of down Bardstown Road.

  And they hadn't gone fifty feet when Derrick could see some kind of flaming bags being thrown off a roof maybe another fifty feet away. Somebody was holed up in that building... whatever it was, he didn't know this neighborhood and couldn't see it at all at night -- and trying to burn zombies from up high. Well, maybe they'd take in some refugees. Couldn't hurt to ask, right?

  He got right up to a line of bushes at the edge of the parking lots and realized, there was like a ten foot motherfuckin drop off on the other side. Sheeee it. Good thing he'd looked before just tryin' to force his way through the hedge.

  The flaming bags tossed off the roof had cleared the lower level parking lot out pretty good, and the deadheads up where Derrick was had all run like hell from their torches. So Derrick yelled out "Hey, who's over there? I got an old lady here needs to get in out of the cold."

  Nobody answered, at first.

  Then, after maybe twenty seconds: "How many of you are there?"

  Derrick yelled back "Man, count our torches! They be three of us!"

  Another few seconds went by. Then: "You from that group up at the Kroger's?"

  Derrick said "We getting the hell outta that crazy shit. The General that runs it up there is one crazy sonofabitch."