But he couldn’t just run. Already, he’d left enough evidence in the house to get him convicted of something. Nevermind the cocaine. He’d left fingerprints all over the place, had been walking around barefoot on the polished wood and tile. Even if he could find everything he’d touched and wipe down all of it, Renee had his skin and blood under her nails, along with plenty of his semen all over her skin and inside her.
“You stupid fucking bitch!” he screamed. Tears ran from his eyes and snot dribbled out of his nose. Some of it dropped to the carpet, just more evidence for the cops to find.
“Fuck!”
He grabbed the nightstand and hurled it to the side, sending it crashing to the floor and puffing the cocaine into the air. Spinning around, he slammed a fist into the wall, punching it through the plaster.
Suddenly he was climbing on top of Renee, straddling her. He twined his fingers together and shoved the heel of his hand against her breastbone. Years of restaurant work had taught him the Heimlich Maneuver, but not CPR. He’d have to make it work though, because he had to save the dumb addict’s life.
“C’mon, baby. You gotta wake up.” He pressed on her breast bone once, twice. Though her body rocked on the bed, she showed no signs of waking. He continued, his compressions coming faster and harder, more urgent. A desperate whine escaped him. He shut it out and concentrated on bringing Renee back to life.
But she didn’t want to go along with the plan. All she did was flop beneath him. She didn’t blink or breathe or even wiggle her fucking fingers. He pressed harder, and something in the woman’s chest snapped with a sound like a gunshot. He screamed and jumped away from her, stared in wide-eyed horror as if he’d hit some secret switch and now she was about to explode.
Backing against the bedroom wall, he tried to look away but couldn’t. She wasn’t going to wake up or have some miraculous recovery. He knew that. Renee was dead, an overdose that probably could have killed a horse, and he was going to jail for it.
He slid down the wall until he sat on the carpet. Then, he began to sob. It felt pathetic and useless, but he couldn’t stop the shudders that ran through his body like electrical current. This shit wasn’t fair! She wanted him to bring the coke. She’d made the first move at him. He wasn’t a bad guy, just made a few mistakes along the way. Did he deserve for his life to end because of them? He sure as hell didn’t think so.
So he ran from the house to his car parked two blocks away. He thanked Renee for always insisting he took this little precaution. Once he climbed behind the wheel, he looked at himself in the mirror and tried to fix his hair. No dice.
Fuck it. He’d shower at his apartment and then grab some things, head back home for Indiana. Maybe he could lie low there, get his shit together.
He started the car and took off like he was drag racing somebody. By the time he passed Renee’s house, the fire he’d set had already claimed the upper story.
————————————
The pounding at the door behind him grabbed his attention. He listened again for any sound that might be the cracking of wood, the twisting of metal. He didn’t hear anything, and he decided that meant he should get a move on and leave the damn hallway.
As the beam from his flashlight played over the stockroom, he saw that John Tandy had rearranged things in the years since his employment. Where there had once been a single aisle cutting between the shelves and leading to the garage door that served as a loading bay, a row of metal shelves now blocked the way. It made sense. After so much time, John’s business had grown. That meant more inventory. Good for him, really.
He wondered where Tandy was now. The man was most likely dead. All that remained to know was if he was still walking around or not.
The thought struck him, and he froze once again. He listened to the stockroom, trying to hear anything that wasn’t the pounding at the door. He needed to know if he was alone. The stockroom stood silent around him. He could almost feel the air slow to a stop against his skin. It set him on edge. If he knew for certain something else was in here with him, he could hide, prepare himself. This silence provided him with nothing but anticipation though, and he didn’t like it.
“Hello?” he said.
No answer came, but suddenly he heard Renee’s voice in his mind, calling him a worthless faggot. He shook his head, willing the voice away from his thoughts. She wasn’t here, wasn’t anywhere near Rundberg or Millwood. The last thing she’d been was a set of ashes her husband had scattered in Lake Superior. Her voice was nothing more than his guilt and memories taunting him.
Get to work, Eric, he told himself, and he decided to follow his own advice. He turned right and started walking, looking for the end of the shelves so he could head toward the door. Sweeping the area with the flashlight’s beam, he hoped it wouldn’t land on milky eyes and decayed skin. He prayed he wouldn’t hear an angry hiss behind him, and he hoped like hell he didn’t hear the splintering of wood in the instant before the doors that led to the main floor crashed open.
Just keep moving. Sooner you’re done, the sooner it won’t matter.
He reached the end of the row and hooked left. His heart hammered as he swung the light to meet the blackness. The beam revealed nothing but open space, though. His breathing came a little easier as he walked. He passed three aisles, each bordered with tall metal shelves. When he shined the light down each aisle, he found them clear of attackers. Most of the shelves were empty. Not a good sign, but he couldn’t worry about that just yet.
He stepped around the last of the shelves and found himself in an open area. A few stacks of boxes created obstacles, but he walked around them easily.
He swung the light forward and found the garage door. It brought a relieved smile to his face. The chipped white paint remained just the same as he remembered it. Amazing. He wondered if John had ever considered slapping a fresh coat of paint on the door. Probably not. If it was out of the customers’ sight, John wouldn’t care. The man never had.
Numerous dents marked the metal door, all of them bending in toward the stockroom. The dead. They’d tried to pound their way inside. Maybe John and some others had holed up here in the days when the plague first began. They’d either hightailed it or been dragged out through the store, though. They sure as hell weren’t around now.
He inspected the door, making sure John hadn’t added any padlocks or other security measures. Nothing. The electric opener and a single thumb lock remained the door’s only security. Thank God the zombies were too dumb to figure out something like that.
He pressed his ear to the metal and listened. Nothing on the other side. If any zombies had worked their way around to the store’s rear, they were quiet bastards.
Okay. He’d done everything he could, made it this far through equal parts luck and terror-inspired speed. Now he had to make a call.
He pulled the walkie-talkie from his pocket and turned it on, thumbed the talk button.
“Hey, Morris,” he said. “You guys still out there?”
EIGHTEEN
Morris tore down the road, glancing at the mirrors now and then to see how much of a lead he’d gained on the zombies. By the time he was half a mile from the grocery, he felt somewhat safe. He eased up on the gas, content to travel down the two-lane without being suicidal.
“Why you slowing down?” Stevenson asked. “We still got a fucking stampede of killbillies back there.”
“So we can turn around without rolling the truck.”
“Turn around?”
“We’re not leaving, Chris.”
“I fucking know that! But already?”
He looked over his shoulder at Stevenson. “Can you-”
Something chirped, and he jumped in his seat before remembering the walkie-talkie in his shirt pocket. He heard a metallic version of Eric’s voice as he dug the electronic device free, the simple motion sending a fresh ache through his shoulder.
“Come again, Eric. I missed all that.”
&n
bsp; Another chirp. Jesus, these things were annoying. Almost worse than Stevenson.
“I’m at the door. You can come back now.”
His head dipped forward. Emotions sprang up and battled within him. On one hand, it was damn good to hear Eric was still alive, that they still had a prayer of pulling off this caper. On the other hand, Stevenson had hit the nail pretty square. He didn’t want to charge back into a stampede of zombies. Dammit, he had just escaped them. He wasn’t ready to go back. Couldn’t he have a few more seconds?
“Morris, you still there?”
He sighed before pressing the talk button. “Yeah. We’re on our way. Call ya back when it’s time for the door.”
“Right. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He slapped the talkie into the passenger seat and gave the mirrors another look. The zombies were at least a hundred yards back, probably more.
“Sorry as hell, but it looks like we’re going back already.”
He caught Stevenson shrugging, the exaggerated movement of a born and bred asshole.
“Whatever. I’m just the fucking passenger, I guess.”
“Amount of work you’re doing, yeah that’s about the long and short of it.”
“What? Fuck you, Morris! Who found this truck, huh? Who pulled you into it? Shit, I’ve saved Blake’s ass so many times today I’ve lost count!”
“Bullshit, you’ve lost count. I know you, you little prick. You’ll keep track. You’ll keep a tally so you can hold it over our heads as long as you possibly can.”
“Like hell.”
“Really?”
“Like I said, fuck you.”
“What I thought.” He checked the sideview mirror. “Dammit.”
He dropped the Ford into drive and hit the gas. The vehicle lurched forward before evening out.
“Noticed you didn’t turn around,” Stevenson said. He could almost hear the guy’s smile.
“Not sure if you noticed, but they caught up to us.”
“Oh, I saw. Killbillies don’t exactly tire out, do they?”
“No, they don’t.” He tossed the walkie-talkie into the backseat. “Try getting hold of Blake, see if he’s still with us.”
He continued down the road, looking for some place to safely swing the truck back toward Tandy’s. The road had narrowed out, though. Forest crowded the stretch of old blacktop. At least he’d left the zombies behind again.
“Blake,” Stevenson said. “Yo, Ellis. Sound off, man. You still out there?”
There was a pause, only the engine’s thrum providing any sound.
“Ellis! Your girl’s sucking me off! Tell me if she wants me to finish or not.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Just drive.”
“Right.”
“Ellis! Fucking sound off!”
He heard the walkie bounce off the back seat.
“Fuck!” It sounded like Stevenson might actually care. “No answer, Morris. He’s either gone or he’s busy running.”
“Fine. Nothing we can do right now.” He spotted a burned out apartment complex and pulled into its lot, a grid of pitted concrete stretched out before a black skeleton. The remaining cars had also gone up in flames, leaving behind a collection of charred husks. He eyed the scene for a second, wondering what might have happened, and then he pulled back onto the road and charged toward the grocery store, whispering a prayer to nobody in particular.
————————————
Blake took his time climbing the stairs. He didn’t want to-he hated the idea that he might miss Morris and Chris returning-but he needed to be careful. If a zombie was hiding on the second floor like the one with the sheet around its neck, he didn’t want it getting the drop on him. He didn’t want to make any loud noises that might bring the rest of the dead bastards running, either. If he’d really managed to evade them, he wanted to keep it that way.
Each creaking step sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. He checked the shotgun. Two shells remained in the weapon. Dammit, he should have grabbed the backpack before jumping out of the truck like some idiot. At least he knew the gun’s stock could crack open a skull without too much effort. Still, he’d kill for a pocketful of shells.
He ground his teeth and forced the thoughts from his mind. Wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, so why spend time worrying?
He reached the top of the stairway. A series of windows stood open in the upstairs hallway. Almost a year’s worth of rain and snow had left the carpet spongy and rotting, the wallpaper peeling to show the moldy drywall beneath. The wet stink crept up his nose and made him wince. He thought about mold entering his lungs and then almost chuckled. If he lived long enough to die from such a thing he’d consider himself blessed.
He approached the row of windows. Through some small miracle, all their glass remained intact, leaving nothing to crunch under his feet. He placed his hands on the warped wood of the sill and looked out, careful to keep as much of his body hidden as possible. Maybe the zombies weren’t smart enough to look up and find him, but he didn’t plan to take the risk.
He found the grocery store up the street. The remains of a broken sign still displayed the word “Tandy’s” in a flowing script. Most of the dead had abandoned the parking lot, but maybe two dozen remained, milling around like attendees of some horrible convention. They stayed clear of each other as they roamed the concrete, no longer a pack but a collection of hungry individuals.
Dozens more of the creatures shuffled along the road that separated him from the store. He knew Morris had taken the truck in that direction. The dead folks on the road must have chased and then lost sight of the truck. Without instinct urging them on, they might have forgotten what they were doing and stumbled into this strange holding pattern. Some of them had even wandered into the woods that bordered that section of blacktop.
The zombies in the fenced yards had done the same thing. While a few of them scratched at the privacy boards, most simply stood still or wandered in small circles. They looked pathetic.
The line of his thoughts brought him back to the house. He looked up and down the hall and spotted three doorways. Each one stood open, so he figured any zombies up here would have already come for him. He needed to make sure, though. Every chance he took was something else that might keep him from returning to Holly.
He eased away from the window, careful not to make any sound. His boots squelched into the carpet, and he hoped the dead couldn’t hear him. He doubted that was the case. If anything caught their attention, it would be the dull churn of the pickup’s engine. He had no idea how far away Morris was now, but he could still hear the truck through the silence of Rundberg. It sounded like a jungle cat growling in the distance.
He turned to the left and started toward the first door. The truck’s growl became a roar before he reached it. He returned to the windows, crouching low so he could just see over the sill. The sound of the truck’s angry engine grew, and he knew Morris was making his return trip. Eric must have made it through to the stockroom.
He grinned. At least his idiot idea had helped the man pull off his run. Beat that, Chris.
So he had to start thinking about getting across the road. His body throbbed at the idea. His mind reeled. Wasn’t anybody going to even give him a second to catch his breath?
A look at the street told him the zombies could piece together what the growing noise meant. They moved down the road, away from the store and toward the coming sounds. Those in the Tandy’s parking lot followed. Their shuffles became walks and then jogs. Those in the street broke into a collective run, a mass of rotten flesh in a mad sprint for food. The dead that had trapped themselves in the yards below started scrambling at the fences, desperate for escape.
Blake craned his neck and saw Morris come barreling down the two lanes of blacktop doing more than forty, plenty of speed. The truck hit the first group of dead folks like a battering ram, sending their limp bodies flying in every direction. The
corpses tumbled through the air like macabre acrobats, and then Morris plowed into the next group. More zombies flew into the air. One of them burst like a tick. The sight sickened and awed him at the same time. He bit his lip to keep himself from cheering.
More zombies ran for the truck, and every last one of them met a terrible fate. This pickup wasn’t the smaller bastard they’d driven into town. It would take much more to bog down this steel behemoth. He wished he had one he could drive across to the store. Why hadn’t plowing their way to the store been their original plan?
He almost cried out when the idea hit him. Maybe there was still a vehicle in the garage. It might even be another pickup. Plenty of folks out this way had them. He could drive it around to Tandy’s no problem, maybe even use it to load up more food. He smiled as a charge hit his muscles.
The grin stretching his face so much it hurt, he turned from the window. He wondered what vehicle might be waiting for him in the garage, what he’d need to do in order to get it running. It was a problem he could fix.
He was so lost considering the possibilities that he didn’t hear the zombies’ hissing until he reached the stairs. His eyes jerked toward the sound as the world rushed back in, but the hissing had already been replaced by the rasping screeches of three dead adults.
Thunder filled the cramped space as their feet pounded up the stairs. Blake screamed and staggered backward, raising the shotgun in an attempt to defend himself. Too late, he thought. Far too late.
The zombies crashed into him with the force of a runaway train.
————————————
Another trio of zombies scattered like broken twigs, and Morris gave the gas a little more pressure. Bodies rolled beneath the pickup’s tires, bucking the truck like a wild horse. The top of his skull collided with the roof. He winced, but the pain wasn’t too bad, not compared to the jolts of agony that punished his shoulder.
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