I’d nicknamed her Sidetrack with very good reason, and she knew it. Despite well-meaning intentions, she often allowed distractions to derail her focus, which usually made her late for appointments, miss deadlines, or mess up more important issues.
So, given the shifted focus of my one-track mind, I probably shouldn’t have been stunned by what happened next. But I was.
As I stepped between the door jamb and the sliding glass doors, I felt the cold, heart-clenching sensation of a gun barrel pressed against my left temple — an impotent moment that would be forever etched in my memory. What a grim fact about the present-day world: living humans had proven to be more dangerous to me than the goddamn, flesh-eating zombies.
“Drop da fucking shotgun!” Shouting at me from somewhere on my left, the gruff voice no doubt belonged to the asshole holding the pistol to my head.
Figuring I’d end up with a bullet in the brain if I didn’t comply, I let the Mossberg clatter to the tiled floor. But, man, how I wished I could’ve blasted the evil cocksucker with it instead.
“What kinda retard risks his life for a fuckin’ dog?”
Now, I really wanna shoot this asshole.
My unknown assailant lowered his gun, grabbed my left arm, and shoved me face-first against the wall on the other side of the sliding glass doors — not before, however, one of his cohorts flipped on an electric lantern, and I caught a glimpse of three trailer-park rednecks in stereotypical camo outfits. My canine buddy cowered beside a baldheaded joker, who gripped the dog collar in one hand and a semiautomatic handgun in the other. I assumed there were at least four guys in the den, including the mystery man with the gun. As my cheekbone pressed painfully against the wood paneling, I tried to calculate my terrible odds of taking them all down, especially if there were other adversaries waiting in the wings.
Hunger, thirst, sore muscles, irritating injuries, and extreme fatigue would certainly impair me, but I had no intention of dying at the hands of those assholes. Before I could even attempt an ill-advised counterattack, however, I received a pistol whip to the back of my overtaxed head, which immediately drove me to the floor, onto my bruised knees.
Apparently, my heroic deed in the backyard had made a lasting impression on the dog. Despite my blinding headache, I heard him growl and lunge toward the guy who had just whacked me. The man yelped, cursed, and stumbled away from me, and the momentary distraction enabled me to pivot my body and survey all four of my attackers.
Three of them appeared to be in their late teens to early twenties. Given their varied hairstyles, vacant expressions, and beefy frames, they seemed like the overgrown offspring of a well-fed Cajun that had crossbred with the Three Stooges. In my mind, I dubbed the frizzy-haired one holding the lantern Larry, the youngest one Moe, and the baldheaded one Curly. Easier than learning their names before they unceremoniously killed me and stole my shit.
I glanced at the man who had pistol-whipped me and was now swiping at the dog. He definitely seemed older than the other three guys — by at least two decades — and the family resemblance was apparent. No doubt, he was the patriarch of the inbred clan.
Blood splotches and goo splatters covered all four men. Not just their boots and hunting attire, but their faces and hands as well. In a zombie apocalypse, that wouldn’t have seemed all that unusual. I myself had dirtied at least three pairs of duds in one day. Still, based on our brief acquaintance, I guessed that some of the blood had come from non-zombies. Safe to assume those assholes had already killed a bunch of innocent people.
I’d said it many times before: this world was in serious trouble long before the undead infestation had spread across the globe.
Maybe we should just let the zombies have it all. Most humans don’t deserve to live anyway.
Although I’d started life as a fairly optimistic kid, my faith in humanity had long since faded. Jokingly, I’d once told Clare that I assumed 99.98 percent of the people on the planet were assholes. She might’ve thought I was joking at the time, but given that she was a pretty smart cookie and had loved me for almost two decades, I had to believe she knew the truth when she heard it.
Either way, I was certain the four pieces of shit presently threatening me were part of the asshole majority, and I couldn’t help but wonder where they’d been when I’d first entered the house. Due to the swampy nature of southern Louisiana, basements weren’t as common there as in the Midwest, where I’d spent much of my childhood. So, I doubted they’d come from below. Of course, they could’ve hidden in the attic, or one of the bedrooms I hadn’t had a chance to investigate before getting distracted by the dog’s dilemma. Given my typically bad luck, they’d likely just happened by the empty house, no doubt in full-tilt marauding mode, while I was in the backyard, rescuing the damn dog.
Whatever the case, they’d likely been attracted to my rumbling engine and the subsequent shotgun blasts. I cursed myself for my lack of situational awareness — and the partial hearing loss that had helped them get the drop on me. No matter who or what was to blame for my current predicament, though, I was fucked and so was the poor dog.
Curly stepped forward and raised a gun to the canine’s head. My heart pounded with anger and fright. Abandoned by his family, pursued by zombies, and rescued by a well-meaning fool, the unfortunate fella was about to die like… well, like a dog.
“Don’t waste da ammo, you idiot,” the older man said.
In reluctant response, Curly lowered his gun, kicked the dog square in the chest, and sent him sliding across the tiled floor with a grunt and a whimper. He collided with an overturned armchair and remained still, just a crumpled pile of bones and coarse hair. When his sad eyes met mine, he whimpered again, as if to apologize for his futile act of revenge — or blame me for his current predicament.
No worries, pup. Don’t think I could’ve done much better.
“Check da truck,” the father ordered Moe.
After turning on a flashlight, the dark-haired kid disappeared into the kitchen and stomped through the utility room. His footsteps faded near the garage.
No one made a sound, not even the dog, until he’d returned.
“Damn thing’s all locked up,” Moe reported, then huffed petulantly.
With my eyes on the kid, I didn’t notice his father edge toward me until he clocked me with the gun again.
Rubbing my sore skull, I looked up into his maniacal eyes. He seemed to be enjoying the abuse a bit too much. No wonder his kids were fucktards, too. The bad acorns hadn’t fallen far from the vicious oak tree.
“Give him your keys,” he growled.
I winced from the blinding pain, then noticed an open palm in my face.
For an instant, I considered tackling the son of a bitch to the ground, then remembered how fucking exhausted I was. Not to mention severely outnumbered by his malicious spawn.
“Not gonna ask again,” the man said, aiming his pistol at my forehead. “Don’t give ’em to me, and I’ll just shoot you in da head and git ’em off your corpse.”
As I dug the keys from my jeans pocket and dropped them in the meaty hand hovering in front of my face, a wave of self-loathing crashed over me. Compliance might extend my life long enough to defeat the four idiots surrounding me, but I certainly didn’t enjoy succumbing to their demands. Not with Azazel hiding among the weapons such hillbillies would surely covet — and Clare still waiting for me in Baton Rouge.
The father tossed the keys to Moe, who darted through the kitchen again. Perhaps half a minute passed before I heard the faint but distinctive creaking of my rear doors. Not long afterward, the kid bounded back into the den.
“Holy shit, Paw, it’s loaded with guns,” he said breathlessly.
If he’d discovered my cache of weapons beneath the tarp, then he’d probably spotted Azazel, too — a fact he would’ve mentioned to his father. Since he hadn’t remarked on seeing a cat, I had to believe that, sensing trouble, my little furbaby must’ve hidden herself somewhere else.
Moe’s father grinned, then looked at me. “Well, boys, looks like we hit da jackpot.”
Great, just fucking great. Hee Haw and his fucktard kids are gonna get my guns. What else can go wrong today?
“Listen,” I said, “the rig is busted, but you can take the rest and go.”
Curly stepped forward and kicked me in the ribs, propelling me against the wall. “We’ll go when we fuckin’ wanna go. Now git your ass up.”
With the wind temporarily knocked from my lungs, I had trouble following his command. Exasperated, Curly and the redneck patriarch had to drag me to my feet and pull me across the den, with Moe and Larry leading the way. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the dog, who’d gingerly raised his head to survey the scene. I lost track of him in the gloom as my adversaries yanked me into the kitchen, through the utility room, and down the steps leading into the garage.
I’ve had some pretty close calls today, but how the fuck am I gonna get outta this one?
CHAPTER
7
“People say you should always do the right thing, but sometimes, there is no right thing, and then... well, then you just have to pick the sin you can live with.” - Ig Perrish, Horns (2013)
Larry’s electric lantern illuminated the interior of the garage just enough that, as soon as Curly and his father pushed me against the van, I noticed a narrow gap between the side outer door and the jamb.
“Damn it, Kevin,” the father said to the kid I’d mentally dubbed Moe. “Thought I told ya to close da damn door?”
Kevin. Such a normal name for such a waste of human flesh.
The side door beside the large retractable one was ajar, but not so much that a zombie could’ve stumbled through the opening without pushing the door and widening the gap even farther. From the father’s comment, I assumed the family of marauders had entered the house via the garage. Since the smaller door had been closed when I’d parked my van, I figured they’d arrived after I’d ventured into the backyard.
Strangely, such a notion relieved me. Even though I’d been stupid enough to leave the side door unlocked, at least my situational awareness wasn’t so awful that I’d missed the telltale signs of footsteps, murmurs, and breathing when I’d walked through the seemingly empty house.
The young man peered curiously at the doorway. “I did close it, Paw… just like ya told me to.”
A new concern popped into my head. Azazel. With at least one (if not both) of the back doors of my van still gaping open, and the outer entrance of the garage ajar, the spry little feline could’ve easily escaped into the neighborhood. A neighborhood populated by zombies and evil men.
I could only hope the bizarre noises and odd voices outside the van had frightened her enough to persuade her to stay in her new hiding place. As I’d already mused several times since the morning, losing Azazel to death, zombies, or both wouldn’t please Clare. If something irreversibly awful happened to our beloved furbaby, my wife would likely leave me, divorce me, murder me, or all of the above.
Kevin’s father edged cautiously toward the door and secured it. As soon as he returned to his huddle of sons, I noticed a set of quick flashes from the rear of my van, accompanied by the deafening sound of .45-caliber ammunition exploding from an unseen gun — directly into Larry and Curly’s foreheads. As the two older brothers crumpled to the cement, the lantern fell from Larry’s loosened grip and rolled under my van.
Even in the low light, I saw Kevin whirl toward me, his gun aimed at my head. No doubt he suspected the mysterious assassin was a friend of mine, but I was as clueless about the person’s identity as he was. Not so dimwitted, though, that I hesitated for long. Before Kevin had a chance to pull the trigger, I slammed my shoulder into his sternum, which sent him gasping to his knees and his gun skidding across the cement.
“What da fuck?” I heard the father shout as he hurdled over the corpses of his two oldest sons and bolted toward the inner doorway.
Apparently, the big bully was more concerned with his own self-preservation than sparing his youngest son from an untimely demise. Since he surely had no desire to approach the outer door, which stood not far from the concealed shooter at the rear of my van, the utility room was his only viable escape route.
His cowardly move certainly didn’t surprise me; he’d likely raised his boys as less of a trio of beloved sons and more as a band of subordinate miscreants. What did surprise me, however, was seeing the familiar face of the next-door neighbor as he emerged from the shadows. Without making eye contact, he hastened between me and the still-kneeling Kevin, leapt up the steps, and fired off two rounds into the darkness. Based on the grunts and thuds coming from the kitchen, I assumed he’d successfully hit “Paw” — and another round seemed to finish the job.
Meanwhile, a sturdy teenager stepped from the shadows behind my van, pointed his 9mm Glock at the back of Kevin’s head, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered on my clothes as the kid fell forward, but I was too paralyzed to move. For some reason, the only notion that kept circling through my mind was that, except for Kevin, I’d never learned my attackers’ real names. How ironic that the four of them had died first, when I’d considered the real possibility that my end would come long before theirs.
Clearly, I was in shock, rattled by the sudden reversal of fortune, fixated on mundane thoughts, and awaiting my own potential head shot. No guarantee, after all, that the enemies of my enemies were indeed my friends.
I was so focused on Kevin’s crumpled body at my feet that it took me more than a moment to realize the teenager was standing in front of me, holding the retrieved lantern and staring at me with visible concern. The man, meanwhile, had stepped beside me and squeezed my left shoulder.
“Y’alright, son?”
I turned my head to survey him in the lantern light. Calling me “son” would’ve seemed odd coming from a man who couldn’t have been more than fifty-five, perhaps a decade older than I was, but he looked like the type that would use his “father voice” with anyone he believed needed protection and comfort. Tall and as solid as a brick shithouse, he had the close-cut hair, no-nonsense air, and practical apparel of a military man. Likely a Marine. And a Cajun, to boot.
Equally well-built, neatly groomed, and sensibly dressed, the teenager looked like a mini-version of the man. No doubt his son.
“Guess so,” I said, gazing back at the father. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added, “Thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”
“No problem.” He grinned. “Name’s Ray.” He nodded toward the teenager. “Dat’s my boy, Travis.”
“I’m Joe Daniels.”
“Nice to meet ya, Joe,” Ray said, shaking my hand with a predictably strong grip.
“Hey, mister,” Travis said, drawing my attention back to him. He was scanning my van with wide eyes. “Cool rig.” Spoken in a dreamy tone, as if he’d forgotten he’d just shot someone in the head.
Instead, he resembled his age again, like a boy who’d seen his first treehouse.
“Would be even cooler if it didn’t have a leaky radiator,” I conceded. “And a busted side mirror.”
Blood, brains, bone, and zombie goo covered much of my trusty van, and frankly, it had begun to reek. My shotgun needed a bit of scouring, too, but first, I had to retrieve it from where I’d reluctantly surrendered it in the den.
A glint drew my focus to the ground, where I spotted my keys beside Kevin’s motionless hand. I crouched down and picked them up.
“Hate to seem ungrateful, but I need to check the van,” I said, straightening up. “Make sure my cat, Azazel, is still inside. I’m afraid all the gunshots might’ve made her bolt, and with the garage door open…”
Travis swallowed, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. That was my fault. Forgot to shut it when we slipped inside.”
I smiled. “You and your dad saved my life. I can hardly complain. But my wife’ll kill me i
f something happens to Azazel.”
Just then, I heard padded feet on the steps behind me, followed by a plaintive whine. Turning, I noted the dog I’d rescued standing inside the garage.
“Nice of you to show up,” I said. “See you waited ’til the coast was clear.”
Ignoring me, the dog trotted past Ray and paused beside Travis. He nudged the boy’s denim-clad knee with his nose, until, with an unabashed grin, Travis knelt on the floor and gave the eager pup a vigorous petting.
“Looks like he knows you,” I said.
“He does,” Travis admitted. “He’s Frankie. Da Hamiltons’ dog.”
“Dis was actually da Hamiltons’ house,” Ray explained. “Dog ran away right before dey packed up an’ left. Tried to find him, but dey were too scared to stay.”
As I’d suspected, the dog belonged there. No wonder he’d tried to dig his way into the backyard instead of fleeing the zombies. He probably figured he’d find safety with his family, but sadly, they’d already left him behind.
“Can’t blame them, I guess.” My eyes drifted to the rear of the van, and I silently prayed Azazel was alright. “But I could’ve never left my cat behind.” I glanced at Ray.
He nodded, plucked the lantern from the floor beside his son, and walked toward the front of my van. “Mind if I take a look at your radiator?”
“Be my guest.”
He seemed like a resourceful guy. Maybe he’d have more luck repairing it than I’d had so far.
Leaving Travis to comfort Frankie, and Ray to peek under my hood, I stepped toward the rear of my van. My chest tightened, as I feared the worst. Most of the time, Azazel was feisty and brave, but as with most dogs and cats, loud noises scared the crap out of her. Fireworks, thunderstorms, rumbling trucks, falling trees, and gunshots usually drove her under the nearest chair or table. But with van doors and a garage entrance open, all bets were off. Even for a lifelong indoor cat.
Although bustling French Quarter streets and the wildlife-filled woods of northern Michigan had always fascinated her, they’d terrified her as well, enough to keep her furry little ass inside. In fact, except for one time as a brash, three-month-old kitten, she’d never bolted through an open outer door. This time, however, she might’ve found the outside world less threatening than usual.
Zombie Chaos Book 2: Highway to Hell Page 4