There’s a high school located at the top of town and I spent some days walking it, listening for a sign. I interviewed some teachers, a guidance counsellor and a couple of church elders. Not in our town. We trust in Jesus. That may be true, but I think the kids trust in getting laid and getting bombed on Energy Pop. You’re lucky, Dingwall; the worst that’ll happen to your kids is they’ll be pregnant and obese before they’re twenty. Starfucks331 is waiting for the brats. The spring break citiots and their BMW’s, designer snowboards, and appetite for hardcore escape. So I walk Main Street. Where would rich kids congregate in a shit kickin’ cow town like this? Antique shops. A chocoletier. Hardware. Feed store. Tractor lot.
I nod to folks as I walk. People from the city think small towns like this one are bastions of brotherly love, community and the easy tip of the hat. These are the places where you say ‘Mornin’ ma’am’. Not even close. Small towners are mostly assholes. So when I nod and smile at the little bald guy sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shabby pitchfork stand, I wanna see him wince. And he does. Gives me a dirty little sneer and turns his flat ass out to me. It’s okay, pal. Your daughter’s fine. She’s drinking cough syrup behind the diner and nodding off on a big dick. Trust in Jesus, prick.
There’s no obvious place for me to start. So, I guess I’ll wait till the bitches start flowing in with their fuck off Saabs and Jaeger cup holders. There’s a coffee shop on the comer. A drive thru. It’s too busy to be much good. This bastard needs to be settled somewhere. But goddamn, I could use a coffee right about now. I decide it’s a waste of time and stroll back to the other end of town, which is a block and a half.
That’s when I notice a Starbucks sitting beside a bank at the edge of a parkette. At least I’ll get my coffee. I reach for the door and hear a familiar sound. A car horn. Not pressed as a warning, more like a mad goose. Here come the kids. I squint, looking up the street to see if I can see what’s coming. The sun is too brilliant and I shudder. Somewhere up there a one hundred million Dead children are spinning in a slipstream. Moaning without breathing. Chewing without eating. There’s madness in that light and timeless order. The Earth, like Saturn, is a ringed planet. Another horn. I slip through the door.
I’m surprised to see that most of the people in here, in this most urban of franchises, are locals. Old folk mostly, retirees with nothing to do but try specialty coffees and predict how the run off will go this spring. It’s not a city Starbucks. Smells different. Metal and concrete have a smell. Here, I smell the shit of livestock thawing up wind. It gets in everything. Everywhere. I order an Americano and blink the cow shit from my eyes. Pleasant enough girl makes my brew. Teenager. Oddly appealing person. I find myself a bit startled by this. I fuckin’ hate teenagers. Maybe she’s older than she looks. I smile and drop a quarter back to the counter.
I spend the morning here at a corner table watching Main Street through a vast panoramic window. Car after car full of white kids in sunglasses. Skinny hairless arms hung out windows slapping candy coloured shit cars. If nobody stops here then I’m in the wrong place. Old men in tractor caps with shit lined shoes don’t get horny and blow their brains out on Spring break. And as the afternoon crawls along I’m wondering where the fuck they are. Time to go online and find the flock. I’m amused that there’s wireless here. I believe mine is the first laptop opened at this particular Starbucks.
Then it hits me. Starbucks. Starbucks. I thought Starfucks331 was making a joke about sending horny kids into the sun. Not the case. Starfucks331 is Starbucks and I bet its address is 331 Main Street. His name is the place. He comes here and this is where he meets his suckers. I am definitely in the right place. I look around again. Who’s coming in and who’s leaving? Six old farm boys. A table of paramedics reading newspapers. An old couple. A Priest with two farm boys. Probably trusting in Jesus. I just have to wait.
And wait I do. This is apparently a public works satellite office. Garbage men. Cops. Parking enforcement. Firemen and the paramedics. The little bible school moves on apace and then I notice this: Father Dopey over there has added four to his flock. Teenagers. Six of ’em. This ain’t Starfuck331, is it? Can’t be. Makes no sense. These are local kids and that old padre ain’t gonna attract kids with the handle Starfucks331. But there it is. That’s the teenagers. And look at them. There’s something too intense going on over there. The kids keep sharing little conspiratorial nods, furtive glances back. One of the girls looks like she’s crying. Holy Fuck. Holy Fuck. This isn’t Starfucks331. This is a faith based crossover. I heard about these. Mostly in the southern states. Not here. But if it was gonna show up anywhere else it kinda makes sense that it’s here. Trust in Jesus isolation. This is just disturbing. This is end of days crap. The padre stands and puts hands on shoulders. He lowers his head and mumbles with his eyes closed. His little crew’s getting ready to leave. They don’t want coffee. They wanna drink the kool-Aid. I stand. I have authority to act here. I pat my weapon, curl my thumb back and pop the snap. Gonna kill a priest this morning. In a Starbucks in front of the entire public utility. Sometimes a kill feels right. I launch the weapon, gangsta style, sideways. I’m showing off. The crew-cut closest to me turns in his chair and there it is. Good fuckin’ Lord. They got an actual bomb on the table. I unload and miss. I’m leaning in too hard and I fall. My elbow slams the floor and the gun pops off under the table sending a slug into the padre’s shin. The leg and foot below tip away and lie down. Hands are pulling me back up. Strong hands. Farm Hands. How the fuck did I fall into this hornets’ nest. I can sense movement all around me. Chairs falling and tables squawking across the floor. A big brick of a fist drops down on my head and I’m dropped. This is a bad place. This isn’t where I wanted to be. It’s one thing to put a hole in some asshole’s forehead at a spin the bottle game from hell. This is just crazy. I feel a boot hit my upper teeth. Another slams into my hip. I try to clutch, but can’t. My hip is broken. Son of a bitch. My pelvis is snapped in half. They keep laying into me and it occurs to me now that this ends with me waking up surrounded by assholes I’ve killed. Floating in space. I can’t die. I’m not kidding. I can not die. I manage to drive my hand out from under a boot and snatch up my gun. If I could die … I mean actually die, like you’re supposed to, then I’d blow my own head off right now. But I can’t die. It’s not an option. I roll over fast and shoot straight up. Blood drops down on me from trusted jaws and barrel necks. The mob is momentarily stunned and I throw myself under their legs toward the door. The door opens and I’m lying on the sidewalk.
And then the bomb detonates.
THE END
DECEMBER IN FLORIDA
By
Asher Wismer
Cal sat motionless, wedged in the space between the soda machine and the wall. It was an unusually deep space, the soda machine being a recent model, with many more brands of soda available in a wide refrigerator. Of course, with no electricity, the machine had been off for over a year, and while the soda inside wouldn't have gone bad, Cal hated warm carbonation.
Outside, one arm reaching through the space and waving up and down an inch or two in front of his nose, was Santa Claus.
He shivered, trying to keep his breathing steady. Even though he had been back from the Dead Zone for more than a month, he still got the shakes when he confronted one. He didn't like them, didn't like the way they pushed and stumbled and killed. Not that anyone else liked them either, but for Cal it was more about the civility of the thing. You shout a warning, or fire a shot over the head. You don't just attack. War has rules.
Had rules.
His bag, with his Kukri and guns, was out in the middle of the corridor. The zombies paid it no mind; it was dead and they only liked living things. His combat vest was hanging on a chair, alongside his pants and shirt, boots and socks folded neatly underneath.
It was getting dark outside. The mall had skylights and large bay windows, so he'd had plenty of looter's light despite the lack of electricity, but he'd been t
rapped here for over three hours now, and the sun was setting.
Outside, the red-clad arm wavered and withdrew. Cal took in a deep breath and waited. He knew better than to run blindly, and sure enough, a different arm pushed into the space and waved around, fingers opening and closing with the mindless need to grab and infect.
This arm was bare, with chunks of skin missing. The figure behind the arm was indistinct, but Cal could see Santa behind, pushing aimlessly at the zombie that had muscled him out of the way.
It wasn't really fair, Cal thought. If anyone deserved to get a present on Christmas, it was Santa. He spent the whole year planning for the holiday, and then while everyone else had a day off he was hard at work, giving stuff away for free to screaming kids who didn't appreciate the work he put in.
Not that it was too much of an issue these days. The mall had been open to the elements, most of the windows broken, but he needed to resupply and the area had seemed to be reasonably clear. Cal had found a few things – an untouched pair of socks was very nice – and had let his guard down.
The mall had a fountain, and in the year since the infection struck, it had long since ceased pumping. The water remaining in the basin, though, was clean enough, sediments and pollutants having settled in the interim. Cal was used to going days without washing, but the urge was too strong, and he had stripped down and started to wash and … well, here he was.
Santa wasn't the only one out there. Zombies tended to stop moving and wait without visual or auditory stimulation, and these must have gone into their personal stasis after the mall cleared out. Cal had made just enough noise, and they wandered in from their various hiding places, and he had barely made it to the hiding space in time.
It was a bad mistake, Cal thought. He wouldn't let his guard down like that again, if he made it out. He had nothing on but a pair of boxers, and he couldn't risk trying to bull his way through; too much skin exposed, too much risk of infection.
At least it was warm.
The arm waved.
The sun peeked over the first skylight, sending a gleam of light down into Cal's face. He hadn't slept, hadn't dared to take the risk, and the waving arms – two now, Santa and the other, side by side – hadn't faltered.
Cal had been awake longer than this before, and he wasn't too tired yet. At some point, fatigue would take over his mind and even if he could get out, he wouldn't be able to react fast enough to keep the zombies off. That would be the tipping point, where he had to sleep or risk passing out. As it was, his body was aching with the strain of stillness. He tensed and relaxed, trying to allow his body relief, but it wasn't enough.
With the light, he tried to evaluate his status anew. The space between the top of the soda machine and the ceiling was far too narrow to climb into, and the machine itself was set into a space between the wall and a partition, meant to allow patrons some privacy as they pondered how to best spend their buck seventy-five. The partition, on the other side, meant that he couldn't push the machine sideways, which would allow him room to move but also let the zombies in. He barely fit himself as it was, so it was nothing but luck and Santa's girth that kept them out.
A gunshot. The arms, which had grabbed and grabbed all night long, froze, and then withdrew. Cal remained utterly still. Out of his sight, he heard the distinctive moan, and then two more gunshots in quick succession. Footsteps. An airhorn, from outside the mall. Clattering movement and then someone ran past the soda machine, fast, not a zombie but human and Cal jerked towards the opening and stopped, torn between his desire to escape and the danger of mistaken identity.
Santa and a few more zombies followed the running figure, more slowly, and Cal waited for them to get past. He breathed as quietly as possible. The fourth gunshot preceded a volley, and then silence.
Footsteps again, slow and measured, not halting and dragging, and therefore human. Cal closed his eyes. He knew what would happen if they saw him, and if he couldn't make them understand fast enough …
"Someone's been here." A female voice. Good; women weren't as likely to kill on sight.
"How long ago?" Male.
"Can't say. They were clustered over there, not by this stuff …" Clanking. "Hey, put that down."
"This is a very nice knife," said the man. "Look how thick the blade is. If he got ganked, he won't miss it."
Cal took a deep breath and allowed his body to slump as far down as possible. He let his face relax, let his body go limp, and knocked gently on the soda machine.
Outside, the sounds changed from curious to wary. "Did you hear that?"
"Someone alive?"
"Some thing, anyway."
He knocked again, making it a pattern. Three short, three long, three short. S O S.
"It's coming from over there."
"Be careful."
"It sounded human."
Cal tapped again, and again, and a shadow appeared at the opening, blocking out the increasing light.
"There's someone here," the woman said.
"Alive?"
The woman had a hunting rifle – lever action carbine – pointing vaguely in his direction. Cal knocked again. "Are you OK?" the woman said.
Cal waved his hand, but didn't get up. He had a feeling, and wanted to seem less capable in case his feeling was right.
"He's alive, but I think he's hurt," the woman said.
"Infected?"
"I don't see any bites, and he's not acting like he's turned."
"Why isn't he speaking?"
"I don't know. Why aren't you speaking?"
Cal motioned to his mouth and neck, and then shook his head. He moved his hands, in case she knew sign.
"I think he's mute," the woman said. "Can you get up?"
Cal pushed against the walls, making each movement seem painful, and started to move out of the tight space.
"Wait," the woman said. She backed away. "Vin, come here and cover me."
With the space open, Cal crawled out, looking up. The man was short, hairy, and wore a hunting vest covered and filled with things. He had Cal's Kukri in one hand and a pair of revolvers holstered on each side. The woman was taller, but very thin; she held her rifle like a professional, not pointing directly at him but easily aimed if the occasion rose.
"He looks terrible," the man – Vin – said. "Stand up, if you can, and turn around. Let us see."
Cal complied, still moving as if he was weak. He made a complete rotation and Vin said, "Take off the shorts."
"Vin, he's fine."
"We can't be sure unless we're sure, Candy. Stranger, take off the shorts and turn again. Slowly."
Cal understood; he would have done the same. At least he was clean; he dropped the shorts, raised his arms, and made a second, slower, circle.
"Fine," Vin said. "Put your things back on. You know, we saved your ass here. The least you could do is say thank you."
"Vin–"
Cal pulled his boxers back up and repeated his earlier motions at his mouth and throat. He finished by shaking his head and signing, "I can't speak."
Candy said, "Vin, he's mute. He can't talk."
"Well, I don't read sign. How's he gonna talk to us?"
"I never learned," Candy said. "Maybe he can write."
Cal nodded. He was used to people assuming the inability to speak vocally meant mental retardation, so he took no offense. He walked to the fountain, slowly, keeping his arms out from his sides. Vin and Candy watched as he pulled his pants and shirt on, socks and boots, and finally the combat vest. His pack was behind the chair.
"You got anything to write with?" Vin said.
Cal shook his head.
"There'll be something here in the mall," Candy said. "Vin, give him his knife back."
"Not yet," Vin said. "We don't know if he's safe or not. He might be one of those baiters, gets travellers to drop their guards and then kill them for their gear."
"He was trapped in there, maybe for days," Candy said. "Look at him. He can barely
walk."
Cal didn't smile.
"Don't trust anyone, not these days." Vin pointed to one of the shops, windows shattered and rotting merchandise strewn across the tiles. "Stranger, get something to write with and tell us who you are and how you got here. We'll decide what to do after that."
"Vin," Candy said. "Give him his knife. You're not sending him into a dark shop without defence."
Vin hesitated, and Candy took a step forward. "Fine," he said. "Stranger, turn around. Don't move unless I say."
Cal turned. He felt the movement as Vin approached, placed the Kukri on the floor behind at his feet, and backed away.
"Now you can move," he said.
It was like a bizarre game of Red Light Green Light. Cal turned, picked up the Kukri, and held it loosely in his left hand. Vin pulled one of his revolvers and thumbed the hammer back.
"Go on," he said.
Cal turned and scanned the shops. Most of them would be empty, or close to it. Looters had long since ravaged through; perishable items had perished, and anything else would be useless or hard to carry. He chose the closest shop, a florist, with big open (and broken) windows letting in the light from the corridor.
He walked to the shop and peered inside. This, he knew, was where most people made their mistakes. Zombies were brainless, but accidentally cunning; one could be stuck behind a counter, throat cut so it couldn't moan and alert himself to its presence. That, he decided, was why the two travellers had blown the airhorn. It excited the zombies and brought them out where they could be dealt with. It was a good idea. He would have to find one somewhere.
Without that option, Cal settled for kicking in a chunk of unbroken glass. It shattered across the tile floor of the shop, making an enormous racket that no zombie could possibly miss. He waited.
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