ZWD: King of an Empty City

by Thomas Kroepfl

  She came up to the ledge of the building and said, “We have to go back to the Parker house.”

  “Get down.”

  She dropped to my side and asked what was going on. I told her something scared the dogs as I pointed to them. One of the dogs was looking up at us. Apparently we didn’t pose a threat because his attention went right back to whatever it was to the south that upset them. The other dog, hair erect, moved forward a few yards, crouching low and growling. We, from our vantage on the roof, couldn’t see anything out there. I still had the binoculars around my neck so I started looking more closely for something, but saw nothing among the buildings and bushes. One of the dogs let out a sharp bark, and then they both turned and ran towards Seventeenth Street and around the building. She backed away from the ledge of the roof; I stayed trying to find out what it was that had scared the dogs so badly.

  It didn’t take long to recognize the sounds of the black truck with red flames rumbling in the distance. It pulled out from a street two blocks south of us and sped down Main Street. Behind it was a body tied at the hands. I don’t know if the body was alive, it was flailing about like it could have been, but then that could have been caused by it hitting lumps or something hidden under the ice as they dragged it down the road. That’s what I told myself. I couldn’t see the face for the snow that the truck was kicking up behind it as they drove past. Without slowing, they turned at the corner of Seventeenth Street and sped off to the east. From the cab of the truck music came thumping in dull drones as they disappeared in the distance. Alive or dead, they didn’t care about the condition of the body they dragged.

  Stepping away from the ledge of the roof, I turned to her. She was standing far enough away where she could watch but still not be seen from the street. Her arms were crossed and she was tugging on her bottom lip with her fingers.

  “It was moving funny,” I offered. “It could have been dead.”

  She stared distantly in the direction they had gone. “Right” was all she offered in reply.

  An hour later found us hot-wiring cars. The first three were easy. After that, we had to move closer to the downtown area on Main. At least it wasn’t Broadway, where all the fast-food joints were. Those were zombie traps. Just to close off the ramps and bridge on Main Street where it crosses I-630 was going to take a lot of cars, and the more cars we used the deeper into downtown we had to go to get them.

  The cars; let me tell you about the cars. Hot-wiring cars is no easy task. Especially in a city where most of them have been sitting for at least two months or have run out of gas. We found a garden hose in back of Besser’s Hardware store and cut it up to make a siphon hose. From a trailer with a bunch of lawnmower equipment cabled up in the back, we took a couple of gas cans and I got really good at siphoning gas. After about the sixth one, I was also kind of high. We had to steal gas for about ten of them and we had to prime carburetors for five of them. Doing all this in the snow and cold isn’t fun, and as I worked she kept watch and helped when she could. I was pissed at Besser’s Hardware Store for being so secure because I knew that in their rental equipment building they had a backhoe, and we could have just torn up the ramps within minutes and made it difficult for anyone to make their way up those ramps, but no, they had to be as secure as goddamned Fort Knox.

  We’d picked out a car that was parked behind Fuller and Son’s Hardware to be the next car to join the blockade. I’d just started checking the gas tanks automatically rather than fuss with it, then have to go siphon more gas. There was barely the scent of fumes, so I took the can and started filling it up when something in the car moved. Under a blanket in the front seat covered up from the cold sat a zombie couple. He didn’t have blood on his chin, so I knew he was the dangerous one. I hoped the cold and snow would slow him down as I tried to get him out of the car. Looking into the window I could see he had dried black blood all over his thigh. He’d been bitten in the leg. The woman sat up slowly and probably on old reflex raised a hand to primp her hair. The driver turned slowly to look out the window and up at me. You could almost see the recognition in driver-boy’s expression as he realized food was standing just on the other side of the glass. He started licking the glass as I thought about how to get him out. I’d first thought about just torching the car, but it was a long car and I needed it on the ramp, so he and the missus had to come out.

  Finally I just took the folding shovel (I’m not calling it Harold anymore, I think that was the concussion talking), and smashed the window in. Quick as a bunny, I reached in and grabbed him by the collar and pulled him through the window. With a quick step away I brought Harold down and lopped off his head. The missus watched with a strange curiosity. It was almost unsettling that she didn’t try to crawl over driver-boy and get to me, but just watched as I moved to the other side of the car, opened her door, and stepped back.

  She stepped out of the car pretty as you please, never taking her eyes off me. Her hands smoothed her clothing as she stood up. I backed up a few steps. Missus came from behind the door and moved towards me. “Been hooking in this neighborhood long?” I asked. From the back of the car, my lady rose up, machete in hand, and with a running start caught the missus in the back of the head, dropping her as ears met shoulders on both sides.

  We moved the car quickly into place; it was the fourth to go on the Eleventh Street ramp to Louisiana Street. Two more to go, then we’d move the beer truck over there if we could get it started.

  We had to go further up Main to find more cars. There was a parking lot between Louisiana and Center Streets, but we’d need those tomorrow when we closed off the ramps on Center Street. There were enough in that parking lot that we could do it easily if we could get them all to start. At one point today, we had to pull a battery from one car we’d already moved and put it into another just to get it started. We still had six ramps to go to close off all that we needed to close.

  For the last two cars, we were forced to go all the way up Main Street to the parking deck on Eighth Street. Plenty of cars in there and who knew what else, so we picked the first car we came across to hot-wire. A Camry, not the biggest car in the world to block an off-ramp, but amazingly, it started up on the first attempt. It drove well in the snow. I was impressed. The satellite radio was on when we got in it, and she hit the scanner button and the dial started searching for a signal. It stopped once and we heard a German woman’s voice say, “Attention, attention, one, nine, one, seven, nine, nine, eight, one.” Then there was a little bit of music and it went on like that for a few minutes, then the signal was gone and the radio started scanning again. I’d heard about this on an NPR radio station. They called it Shortwave Number Mystery Stations. But those were broadcast on shortwave. This was satellite radio, so what was it doing here? At least there was proof that someone was still out there in the world. But god only knows where. It was a hopeful sign, but. . . what good were they doing us?

  It didn’t take long to get the last two cars into place after that. The beer truck started up quickly, but had to sit and idle for a while before I could get it into gear. I’d never driven a big truck like that before and wasn’t used to the wide turns I had to take to keep the trailer from catching streetlamps and signs. Unfortunately, someone had already pried open its bay doors and taken all the beer.

  We were walking back to Main Street tired and hungry. It was about three in the afternoon. Although the snow was still coming down in big flakes and the wind had picked up a little, I wasn’t cold. I guess it was because of all the running around we’d been doing. From the east side of Eleventh Street headed towards us was another zombie. He hadn’t seen us yet. We had a little bit of gas left in the can, so I ran to him. He held up his arms like a father ready to accept a running child. That just pissed me off. I threw the gas on him as I ran by. He turned to face me and a flaming arrow caught him in the back. It took a moment, but he started to burn. I circled around him so he was between the hillock that separated Eleventh Street and I-63
0. While he stood there burning, I drop-kicked him down the hillock. He tumbled backwards down the slope till he’d rolled to the retaining wall, and then he tumbled over the edge.

  From our vantage point, we watched him burn as more zombies from the I-630 canal moved over to him. A few more caught on fire and more came to watch. We didn’t stick around; instead we headed back to the Safeway. We had to crawl over the two layers of barriers we’d put in place to do it and somewhere in there I realized I stank of workday perspiration and gasoline. Gas was all I could taste in my mouth. We decided to go to the base house first so I could shower and hopefully find some mouthwash.

  After a long, hot shower for the both of us, we washed our clothes and rolled up the area rug in the den and headed back to the Safeway. The gargoyle with his red eyes was smiling down at us. I clicked the button and we muscled the rug up the ladder. It made a big difference in the comfort of the tent, but we’d need a few more to really mask that damp cold floor. For dinner we treated ourselves to Poptarts and canned peaches. I told her I wasn’t up for another day of carjacking, so we could get started on the raised flowerbeds in the morning.

  It was probably five or six in the evening, although the sky was already dark. The wind picked up and the flakes stung my face a little as I sat there on an ice chest looking out over my kingdom, such as it was. Not wanting to be seen by anyone, I moved away from the edge and lit up the cigar. It wasn’t as bad this time as it was last night. I still only managed a few puffs before I started getting dizzy.

  ZWD: King of an Empty City Chapter 17

  ZWD: Dec. 15.

  Saw three armed men walking this morn; thirty minutes later we heard the guns. Ten minutes later saw them again. They were well-armed zombies.

  “What are you worried about?” Dylan’s voice comes from behind me as I look around the high trees and down to the valley that stretches for miles directly in front of me.

  “Nothing, everything,” I say over my shoulder. I look out across the valley below me.

  Stager walks up and asks Dylan, “What’s he bitchin’ about?”

  Sitting on a rock tying his shoe, Dylan tells Stager he was just asking if I was worried about anything and my saying everything.

  “It’s real simple.” Stager offers me a strip of beef jerky. “All you gotta do is run. Just keep running and you’ll be alright. You get across that valley to your goal and you keep going, don’t stop. Don’t stop for nothing.”

  “There’s going to be some bad motherfuckers in your way, bad like us. Mow them bastards down and keep running. Don’t stop!”

  I take the jerky and that’s when I notice the deer rifle across his arms. Dylan picks up his rifle with its high-powered scope. “He’s right, you know, just keep running.” And he points across the valley. “Don’t stop there,” he continues. “You have to keep running.”

  “What am I running from, then?”

  With a chuckle Stager says, “Everything, us. You got to run like a rabbit.”

  “Best get started,” Dylan says. “Run.” He raises the rifle to his shoulder and points it at me.

  “Run, rabbit, run,” Stager chimes in as he does the same. Both barrels pointing at me, I drop the remainder of my jerky and start running blindly down the hill, looking for cover between the trees and boulders. There isn’t a cloud in the deep blue Colorado sky as I leap over fallen trees and scramble around million-year-old rocks. I run till my lungs are about to explode and I stop for air. I’m bending over with my hands on my knees gasping for breath, my butt resting against a tree. A tree limb explodes into a thousand splinters just in front of me. I can feel them digging into my skin.

  “Goddammit, guys!” I scream to the sky above. “Do we have to do this?”

  On my left, Dylan and Stager are standing there with their high-powered rifles on their hips. Dylan pops a fistful of sunflower seeds into his mouth and mutters around the seeds, “We didn’t make the rules, we’re just the hunters; it’s the role we have.”

  “Hey, man,” Stager offers me his canteen. “I don’t want to blow your brains out,” he says apologetically. “But if you don’t run, I will. It’s that simple. Now run.” He pulls a pistol from his belt and levels it against my temple. “Run!”

  I’m running through the forest. From somewhere in the distance, I can hear Stager’s voice singing the choirs to that old sweet song, “Fox on the Run.” Over and over again he sings that. Sometimes I hear Dylan singing, “Fox say I don’t run.” A chunk of rock explodes next to my head and I stumble to the ground.

  A shadow looms over me and Stager with a pistol in his hand pointed at me says, “Dammit, Rabbit, don’t you listen to anything?” Dylan is kneeling beside me and he’s still humming “Fox on the Run.” He mouths out the words again; “Fox say I don’t run.” With a heavy sigh Stager cocks the hammer back with his thumb and steadies his aim at my head. There’s a large bang as I throw my arms over my face.

  I jerked in my sleeping bag, wide awake. I couldn’t breathe. I sat up. A hand reached up and touched my back, giving me a slight start, and then I heard the gentle shushing of her voice.

  “It was thunder, that’s all.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” she asked, trying to stay awake enough to hear me.

  “Yes.” She rubbed my back more and shifted to one elbow.

  “What was it about?” The glow of the rope lights around the tent door gave her face a bluish tint. I told her I didn’t remember, that I forgot as soon as I woke up.

  I lied.

  Outside another clap of thunder rumbled and the wind shook the tent a little harder. I kissed her face and told her to go back to sleep, that I’d probably be awake for a while and she shouldn’t suffer because of me. It didn’t take much convincing before she rolled over on her other side and was out again. I slipped on my coveralls and slipped outside the tent.

  It wasn’t raining. The wind had picked up a little; I couldn’t really see clouds because the entire sky was one big cloud, dark gray and oppressive. The rain coming down almost looked like it was running away from the sky.

  There was still a little ember burning in the hibachi so I threw a few more sticks on top and stoked it till I had a little flame, then I added two more charcoal bricks to it so we’d have something for morning. Hovering over the little fire, I thought about my dream. About Dylan and Stager. They were high school friends I hadn’t thought about in years.

  In school, they were inseparable adrenaline junkies. On weekends they’d go caving with little more than a canteen and a flashlight. Sometimes they’d go hiking with just a knife, Rambo style. Or they’d go to one of the Indian reservation casinos dressed in suits and gamble all weekend. How I got to be the guy who tagged along I’ll never know, but I was and they’d “pussy it down” for me and bring supplies when I went. Half the time I didn’t know if they were kidding or if they meant it. We used to do some of the craziest things together.

  They took me camping, hunting, rafting, gambling, you name it, and if they were going to do it eventually I was invited to come along. I loved those two like brothers, but they scared me to death sometimes with their antics.

  So why was I dreaming of them? What did Stager mean by “Run, rabbit, run”? And what was Dylan doing singing “Fox on the Run” to me? What was I trying to tell myself? I’d gotten another peach cigar and stuffed it in my mouth. I didn’t light it, just chewed on the plastic tip as I thought of what all this might mean. I really didn’t have any answers. I sat there till dawn thinking. Dawn was simply the dark gray sky turning into a light gray sky. Later in the day, there’d be breaks in the clouds and rays of sunlight would stream down like God was revealing something glorious, like a star we should follow to be shown a wonderful secret. Shortly after this mess all started, I did that once and it lead me to a garbage can. Oh, great mystery.

  Since there really wasn’t a lot to think about concerning Dylan and Stager, I started working on th
e song. I couldn’t remember the words that well. This got me to thinking about other songs. I love music and I had tons of it. When you work on web sites all day you get to listen to a lot of music. I couldn’t remember any of it, not one word. No Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Genesis, Rush.

  I actually remembered a Spice Girls song better than I did some of my favorite songs. “Tell me what you want, what you really, really want.” I could go on with that song, really I knew all the words. And sitting there trying to think of these things, I felt like I was losing my humanity, like I was losing me.

  By the time I heard her stirring in the tent, I’d chewed the plastic tip of the peach cigar to a garbled plastic mess. The cigar itself had fallen to the ground. I stood up tired and stiff, so I stretched and pulled a can of mixed fruit out of the storage bins and threw the last two frozen burritos on the grill.

  As I was gathering the tools and letting it gnaw at me about the singers I heard the crunching of fresh snow below. Creeping to the edge of the roof, I looked out and saw three armed men. They were strolling along more like three guys who were going hunting than three guys on the hunt. One had his rifle slung over his shoulder with his Elmer Fudd hat on, flaps down to cover his ears. The other was wearing a hunter’s vest and his rifle was draped over his arm with the stock tucked under his armpit. He wore waders that came up to his chest like a duck hunter. The last guy carried a shotgun across folded arms and a pistol on his hip. They were talking quietly and laughing at something one of them said. Nothing about them said they were dangerous. Still I kept down and out of sight as I watched them move down Seventeenth Street headed east, the same direction the black truck with the red flames went the day before. One of them punched the other in the arm and he staggered away from the line laughing. I heard him say, “Now you know it’s true.” And he started laughing again as he fell back in step with his friends. Just before their faces went out of my line of sight, they became stern and lowered their guns, checking the safety catches and readying them for shooting. They kept looking straight ahead and from my vantage on the roof I couldn’t see what they were looking at. They moved on out of sight.