The sergeant shrugged. “Money was always the reason why I had a gun, but it wasn’t ever my money I was fighting for.”
“I thought you weren’t a thinker.”
John’s lips twisted into an awkward smile that looked more like a grimace. “You get used to shooting at people who’re thinking of ways to kill you. People who’re reacting—but those things out there don’t react. They’re not soldiers, and they’re not civilians. It’s like the walls are closing in. They’re everywhere and they keep closing in… you ready to go back out there?”
Griggs hadn’t thought about going back. His attention was focused on the video feeds, Bob’s final words, and Vega’s tight body. He wanted to wrap her long legs around his head and bury her in bed sheets. All he had to do was find a way to upload the video from his flash drive onto the web, and he could wipe out at least a quarter of the world’s population. The world could use a good dose of Mina—the human race wanted blood; everything he experienced during his career was all the evidence he needed.
He would give it to them.
“The sooner we get used to it, the better,” Griggs said. “There’s no cure for death, and it’s walking around outside. Things haven’t changed all that much.”
“I guess I’ll leave all the thinking up to you,” John said.
Griggs remembered John’s personal rant inside the tank, and it took on a new meaning.
“You’re not actually thinking about crashing that party, are you?” Griggs asked, remembering Jeremy and Stacy from the porn shop.
John didn’t look at him. “The Festival of Flesh? Haven’t been thinking about it. What came over you in the store?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t been thinking about it much.”
The dead woman looked too much like Mina. It was almost as if the zombie wanted to be acknowledged; it was asking him for help with its eyes.
If his plan to kill everybody didn’t work out, he could always find a way to turn the existing zombies into his slaves, especially if there was any hint of a subconscious. There was an opportunity somewhere; he just had to find it and be in the right place at the right time.
Griggs went back to watching cities collapse into piles of dust while the epidemic spread through Ontario and Ohio.
When Vega and Vincent returned, they unloaded a shopping cart in front of the door; bottled water, boxes of granola bars, rain ponchos, energy drinks, and some first-aid supplies.
“Took you long enough,” Griggs commented and looked at Vincent, “hope you used protection, buddy.”
Vincent ignored him.
“Smells good,” Vega said.
“How’s your head feeling?” John Charles asked her.
“It doesn’t make a difference,” she replied and changed the subject. “Mostly goons out there with guns.”
“We seen them things out there grouping up,” Vincent added. “Not too many loners.”
Thunder shook the house.
“A good idea,” John looked at the ponchos.
“An extra layer we could use,” Vega said. “I just wonder how this thing works. Is it a disease? I haven’t seen anyone become one of those things, but everyone seems to think you’ll become one if you’re bitten. That’s what Crater thought.” She looked at the sergeant. “Anyway, we can’t take chances. If they scratch us or get saliva on us, we need to be covered.”
“You get those ponchos because you don’t want to get wet?” Griggs asked Vega. “You’ll get wet. I’ll make sure of that.”
Vega rolled her eyes. “We stick to the plan. Roll out at night.”
“We’re making a lot of assumptions,” John said. “We assume those things can’t see any better in the dark than we can.”
Vega shrugged. “You can back out. You agreed to this. Hell, I got nothing else to do. Sitting around here with Captain Porno isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“Nobody’s coming for us,” Sergeant Charles said, “if there’s a plane on that runway…”
“We can find a plane anywhere,” Vega said. “The damn airport has planes. Cut the shit, John. We’re going out there because we can. Because we’re soldiers. Killers. We’re just as bad as everyone else who’s roaming around out there with a gun and a hard-on.”
“Speak for yourself,” the sergeant said, “I’m going because good servicemen have risked their lives for that base—”
“They’re so good they might be dead,” Griggs cut him off. “Look, I’m all for hanging out with you lovely folks, but we won’t even be able to see this guy in the dark unless he smiles.” He pointed to Vincent.
Vincent flashed his metal-coated teeth. “Had my mouth kicked into the curb. Stomped like a busted nigga. You know where that shit happened? Iraq. Fucking Baghdad, 2003.” He rubbed his jaw and looked for the memory with his eyes, and it was obvious he’d held it back for a long time. Just like John Charles blowing his cool in the tank.
Vincent was cracking.
“Yeah. Shit’s funny now. It used to be a school. I remember looking around and thinking about how it was all bombed-out, wondering what people were seeing back home. My Mama said to do it for the right reasons, but I was running from the ghetto. Ain’t nothing for niggas to do except join the service or get arrested. I was with my squad in that school because we were looking for some kind of bullshit… Iraqis hiding out under cover, ‘cause they didn’t think we’d roll into a school. Found all these kids huddled up in a room. Not a one of us could speak the language. Not one. You know everyone’s scared, right? Don’t nobody wanna get killed. These kids had been hiding since the bombs were dropping. Maybe their parents were dead. They were starving and shaking. But you know there were supposed to be Iraqi soldiers there. Maybe they were teachers and they had guns.”
Their eyes were on him. His jaw tightened and his hands balled into fists for a moment, and then he released them and took a deep breath.
“I don’t have to finish this story. They all had their excuses, but I wasn’t down for it. I would’ve stepped in front of their guns, but they already had me. All I could think about was letting my Mama down. Doing the right thing. Put my teeth right into the curb and let me live. They let me live with that shit. They could’ve pinned it on me, court-martialed me, whatever, but they decided it didn’t happen. Never. I was disobeying orders from a superior officer. Dishonorable discharge. Here I am. Niggas talk about kids getting killed by my guns, but it ain’t my guns. Ain’t even close.”
When the rain started pelting the roof, Vega said, “Vincent and I are going out, rain or not.”
***
With a shopping cart full of guns and ammo, and with a tarp covered over it, they made their way under the cover of darkness and rain. It felt unreal to be back in the apocalypse again after watching videos of a normal world eating itself alive in the videos; sitting at a table and eating burgers while arguing with a semi-conscious soldier, a thug, and a patriot, felt like being back at the precinct where everybody was a legend in their own mind.
Vega still seemed a bit sleepy, but he talked to her about her future career choices. It turned out she wanted nothing to do with pornography.
They returned to Eloise Fields to pick up one of the stranded Humvees to cut down on some of the walking time. Griggs saw his truck still embedded in the front of the hospital, and felt a twinge of longing; he loved that damn truck, and he remembered the moment, hardly a day ago now, where he realized he was well-suited to this situation. He had blown Nikki’s brains out and dropped her into the street.
They crammed the weapons into one of the Hummers, and the always-helpful sergeant took the wheel. Vega started playing with the radio to try the base again.
“Enough guns to level a city,” Griggs looked at the pile between the seats.
“I gotta sit in the back with you,” Vincent shook his head and stared through the window.
“Loud and clear. Someone is still alive, over,” a familiar, calm voice erupted out of the radio after John inquired over t
he radio.
The sergeant frowned. “What’s your status, over?”
A slow, measured laugh replied. “Some are alive, and some are dead. Over.”
“I think I know who that is,” Griggs said.
“So do I,” Vincent added and looked at the former detective.
“Traverse?” Vega asked.
“We need a more detailed status report, over,” John said into the radio.
“You’re in quite the position to be asking for details. Don’t worry, there’re enough left to keep me occupied for a while, over.”
“State your name and rank, over.”
“Captain James Traverse, retired, and who might I be speaking to? I assume you’re currently inbound to my position. Over.”
Vega ripped the mike out of his hand. “What the hell’re you doing at Selfridge?”
There was a long pause as John drove around barricades of abandoned cars.
“Waiting for my ride, over.”
Vega wasn’t finished with him. “Are you responsible for what’s going on? If you want to get out so badly, why don’t you commandeer an aircraft? Over.”
“So many questions. My friends in Washington have sent someone else for me, and they’re willing to negotiate. Their first attempt to bring me out was a failure. You seem to know a little bit about me, so you know I have something fun in store for a few survivors here at the base. Over.”
“You keep your shit in check, Traverse, because the mission’s not over yet. I’m coming for your ass, so if you want a little fun, just sit tight so I can put a bullet between your eyes. Over.”
“But that’s not the mission. I’m supposed to come back alive, but I promise I’ll wait for you. You sound… exciting. Over and out.”
“You mutherfucker!” Vega slammed the mike against the dashboard.
“You still want him as bad as I do?” John asked.
Vega didn’t answer.
Griggs didn’t think they had a chance against Traverse. He’d seen what the man did to a trained soldier, taking him down in a matter of seconds and giving him the opportunity to experience his last seconds alive in agony. But he wasn’t about to ruin the fantasy for Vega. Better to sit in the tense silence and watch the dead city roll by the window. Watch the smoke and the flame, the city that used to be his beat. Dead bodies drawn in chalk; now they were walking around, and there was nobody left to draw.
John Charles navigated through crowds of the dead until he began going around in circles to get through a maze of blocked streets. A few random bullets pinged off the vehicle’s hull, and Griggs remembered what Vega had said about the hood rats fighting over turf.
“You miss your people?” Griggs asked Vincent. “Sounds like they’re still outside.”
“You wouldn’t last a minute out there,” Vincent said. “Bunch of animals fighting over the meat. Law of the land is survival, and the bullet. Way it’s always been for me.”
“You forget what I did for a living,” Griggs corrected him. “I was the law, not your child-killing hoodlums. These punks out there won’t survive because it’s every man for himself. You need a bigger gun to keep ‘em in line.” He stared at the chrome barrel of his .50 for affect.
The trip to Selfridge didn’t seem right. Vincent fidgeted and the sergeant kept looking in his rearview mirror. The streets were familiar, and even though the carnage could get in the way, they were going southwest instead of northeast. Selfridge was northeast.
“So…” Griggs started.
“What’s the problem, dick?” Vega asked.
“I can’t speak for my friend here, but I’m of the opinion that… well, we’re going the wrong way. Now, I know you might be at a disadvantage and all, seeing as how Vincent and I have lived around these parts for a while, but Selfridge is northeast of here.”
“We’re not going the wrong way,” John said.
“You guys think I’m the asshole,” Griggs said. “Tell them where you’re taking us.”
Vega stared at the sergeant.
“Some people need us,” John muttered. “We can do the right thing. We can make a difference. Instead of chasing a ghost and getting ourselves killed…”
Griggs clapped his hands. “We’re not dressed for the party, Sarge! Come on, man! We’re bringing our own guns! It’s not BYOB…”
“Jesus Christ,” Vega snapped at him. She turned back to John. “You know something we don’t?”
A fiery apartment complex was alight in the chaos. Flames billowed through windows and lifted into the rain. Flesh slapped against the windows of their truck, which wasn’t unusual; the zombies had been following them, a crowd that picked up momentum while the armored vehicle rumbled through the ruins. But the face that screamed against the window was cry for help from someone who was still alive.
“Shit,” John Charles said, “people are running out.”
“You’re not stopping, right?” Griggs asked. “I mean, I trust your judgment and all, but we have somewhere else we need to be…”
The sergeant’s jaw clenched. “Stay in the fucking truck.”
Vega sighed. “This is what I get for trusting someone. So much for Selfridge. We can’t run from this fight,” she looked at the side mirror. “They’re all over us. So we keep driving or we fight.”
“You’ll have to drive it,” John said when the truck stopped.
They were going to get their asses kicked because Captain America wanted to save a mock-up of his daughter. They were going to save that brat, Stacy.
They picked up their guns and kicked open the doors. Vincent followed suit.
“What the hell you wanna do?” Griggs screamed at them. “You can’t fit everybody in here!”
It would’ve been easier to get behind the wheel and say forget about his “friends,” but he found himself opening the door. He swung it wide and pushed someone over. They fell to the pavement; the rain was coming down hard, and he was going to get wet, even with the poncho on.
A lipless corpse reached out for him from the cement, half of its face seared by flame, its legs chewed away, trailing bones and veins. Griggs figured he’d oblige him and blasted the zombie’s face wide open with a trigger pull.
A little violence felt good.
People were screaming with their hands over their heads, running between the cars without a second thought to what was happening around them. Vega, Vincent, and John were already charging toward the building, dropping corpses with well-aimed head shots.
The marijuana smell was thick, and he reminded himself to resort to shallow breaths to preserve his lungs.
Shirtless girls ran past, their ribcages pushed against anorexic flesh, belly-button rings jangling as they fled in their short-shorts and flip-flops. As some of them passed, he couldn’t help but wonder how many of them would have been destined for appearances in one of his movies.
Griggs was spun around; he looked straight into a black mouth. Lusty hands were on his shoulders. An entire body’s dead weight pressed into him.
His gun entered the creature’s jaw and the blast was accompanied by a flash of lightning.
He jogged to catch up to the others, pushing several nubile girls out of his way. One of them fell, and he surprised himself by reaching down to pick her up. She was still fully clothed, but her left arm was covered in blood. She looked up at him with big eyes, strands of black hair clinging to her forehead, tears and rain melting the purple mascara and eyeliner, her fake eyelashes fluttering. She grabbed his fingers; as her arm turned, he saw that her wound was still bleeding onto the pavement, blood running into a puddle.
She’d been bitten.
“Let me help you,” Griggs said. She was halfway up, her forehead level with the Desert Eagle; the top of her head sprayed like watermelon crushed by a sledgehammer when he pulled the trigger.
“Right down the middle.” Griggs whistled. “Jesus Christ, I can’t get over how much fun that is.”
He looked up to see John Charles rush into the b
urning building.
“Idiot,” Griggs wiped blood from his mouth and trotted over to Vincent and Vega, who were taking shots at corpses from behind cover.
“How can you tell who’s who?” he asked Vega.
“Lucky guess.”
A new barrage of gunfire; they’d been stupid enough to leave all the Hummer doors wide open. Teenagers hollered and pointed their newly-discovered guns at the crowd of zombies that were behind the vehicle, trailed through the wreckage by the sound of the truck’s engine. The rain misted over them, a crowd of shapes that were visible only in the glowing flames of the party’s death, lightning flashes, and thunder; shapes distorted by intent, approaching unhurriedly.
“Hell yeah!” A punk wearing a Tigers jersey with Verlander etched on the back shouted with an AK-47 in his arms. The kid tried to sweep the weapon over the dead, but he ended up on his ass from the gun’s recoil.
“This is what you risked our asses for!” Griggs said.
Vega was half-dazed, her hand planted against her forearm while she rested against the sedan’s door. Her head wound was catching up with her. Any minute now, and she would be useless.
Hundreds of soggy undead collapsed onto the teens near the Hummer, tearing away flesh and ripping organs out of stomachs; screams were cut short as teeth ripped open jugulars. Limbs disconnected as if a buzz saw had ripped through rotator cuffs and elbows, knee joints and knuckles. Shirts worn by the undead became bibs soaked in gore.
Vincent lifted Vega to her feet, “That’s our buffer,” he said to the solider, ignoring Griggs. She moaned and tried to prop herself up with her assault rifle. Vincent brought his AR-15 up and dropped two approaching zombies.
He followed after John.
Blood and broken beer bottles on the stairs. Needles. Syringes. Not much has changed in Detroit.
People crashed over the banister and pushed each other over to get out. Some of them slipped on the stairs, and Griggs shot his hand out more than once to get a pinch of flesh. The orgy might not have been a bad idea; maybe he should’ve shown up sooner—it would’ve been better than eating burgers and listening to Vega bitch. He wasn’t much into the young ones, but beggars can’t be choosers, and firm and tight is better than slippery and wide any day.
The Queen of the Dead Page 14