“Shit.”
I picked up the guns and loaded them into the truck. I looked over at the creature, and it lay in the same position like a submissive dog.
“Dammit, stop!” I yelled at it.
I took off my helmet and put it on the seat of the truck. I looked over again and caught the thing looking at me. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw it notice me looking, and it ducked its head, cowering.
“Hell no,” I said. “You’re not going to do this. You’re not a person. You’re not even an animal. You’re nothing. You’re a monster.”
It just lay there.
“Act like a monster, dammit!”
It didn’t move.
“Fucking act like it!” I pulled my 9mm and shot it. Then I shot it four more times.
I stared at it a moment then climbed in my truck. When I pulled out onto the road, I got out and shut the gate. There were a few out on the road, but I had enough time to do what I needed to do before they shambled up to me.
When I got back into the truck, I turned on the air conditioning then opened the center console. I dug around in the CDs until I saw something that interested me in that moment. Leon Russell looked good right then. I slid the CD into the slot and tapped the buttons for the track I wanted. Hummingbird started. I cranked up the volume and stomped the gas. The tires squealed and smoked.
CHAPTER 24
As I approached the bypass on Braggusberg Road and entered the Clayfield city limits, Leon Russell was a Stranger in a Strange Land, just like Robert Heinlein’s Mr. Smith, just like me. No…correction…I was not a stranger. I was a citizen of a strange land.
I stopped in the middle of the intersection and let the song finish. I was still unsettled by the not-quite-mindless display I’d seen from the crawler. A few zombies were in view nearby. They watched me enjoy the song. I felt a little sad that they’d never enjoy music again. I suppose after a while, I wouldn’t be able to play these songs anymore, either. Eventually, the bulk of human artistic achievement would disappear.
I rolled the windows down and turned up the volume.
“Can you grok it, y’all?!” I yelled.
I watched the things for any sign of reaction to the music. They did get excited, but only because there was a chance to feed. I felt somewhat relieved. The crawler’s actions were either a fluke or just my imagination. I needed to count on these things to act “normal” even if their normal was disgusting and horrifying. I frowned then I turned off the stereo. They didn’t appreciate the music. The only thing worse than the disappearance of centuries of art and music was there would be no one around that cared.
Braggusberg Road was flanked on either side by high grass. There were five of the creatures in the street, but more emerged from the overgrown lawns as I passed by. Only one actually came near the truck and tried to pursue me. The rest stopped in the street and watched me.
Again, my mind played tricks. Their posture and overall physical appearance gave them an air of malevolence that chilled me. I felt as if I were lost in a bad neighborhood. It was silly, because all of that would imply intelligence on their part, and I knew that wasn’t possible. Maybe my conscience was trying to rein me in.
I turned onto South 6th Street and headed north toward the court square. I wanted to take a closer look at those yellow cars and trucks on East Broadway. If Sara had gone out to look for Bruce Lee, I suspected she would have visited that spot first. I was correct.
When I pulled up in front of the line of yellow vehicles, I saw a piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper of the first car. Also, one of the vehicles was gone, leaving only four. I looked around to make sure it was safe to get out then I cautiously went to retrieve the paper. It was a note:
My Big Bruce Bear,
I am so happy you are alive, and I am happy to see that you are in Clayfield. Thank you for the yellow cars. I know they are a special message just for me. I am sorry for leaving you, but I thought you were dead. It was all an accident and misunderstanding. I want to make it up to you. I think about you all the time. I have looked for you since I found the cars, but I haven’t been able to find you. If you want me as bad as I want you, meet me at the movie theater on Burger Road on Tuesday at 10 in the morning. I’ll be in one of your yellow cars.
Love,
Sara
What the hell was she doing? She was obviously lying to somebody. Why would she want him to meet her at the same time and place as the scheduled meeting with Pastor Andrew?
I heard the sound of an engine. It was close and getting closer. I put the note in my pocket and my hand on the grip of my pistol and waited. A bright yellow car roared through the intersection on the cross street. It was a blur as it disappeared behind city hall. Then tires screeched when the driver slammed on the brakes. There was a very brief moment of silence. The engine rumbled. The tires squealed. Then the car backed into the intersection and came to a stop.
It was an old muscle car from the late 1960s–a Pontiac Firebird. At one time it had been a showpiece, but it wasn’t anymore. It had been modified. There were hooks or bolts welded to the top and front. On the hooks hung chains on which were strung human heads–zombie heads–much like the way a fisherman might string a day’s catch. The chain entered the neck cavity and exited the mouth then entered the neck of the next head and so on. Welded to the very top of the car was a metal spike about three feet long on which were driven more heads. Some of the heads on the chains still “lived.” One of the chains that hung from the roof swung like a pendulum due to the inertia of the quick stop and left an arced smear of putrid juices on the passenger window.
I could hear the car’s stereo rattling the speakers. The driver opened his door. Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana blasted out of the car then it was quickly silenced. The driver got out. He was tall–well over six feet–and he had a large head. His dark hair was slicked straight back, and he wore dark sunglasses. He didn’t wear a mask over his nose and mouth to protect him against the virus. He was clean-shaven and freshly so; he had razor burn on his throat.
He stared at me, stone-faced. It was all very dramatic.
“We finally meet,” he said. His voice was deep and gravelly and sounded fake, like a movie tough guy.
“Hey,” I replied.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said, still stone-faced.
“What? You mean now?”
“For a while,” he said. “Days” [dramatic pause] “maybe weeks.”
“Yeah, well…”
He bent down into the car. When he came out again he put a leather strap over his head and down over his shoulder. It was the strap to a scabbard he was slinging onto his back. The handle of a sword stuck up over his right shoulder.
“Well what?” he said, adjusting the strap.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Get your hand off your weapon, my brother,” he said. “I’m a friend.”
“Okay,” I said.
He walked around the car toward me, which allowed me to get a good look at him. He had a gut that made him look like he was seven months pregnant. He was wearing a Punisher t-shirt tucked into black cargo pants, which were tucked into black combat boots. He had two pistols holstered on his belt, and both were positioned in such a way that he would have to cross his arms to draw them. I wondered how he would be able to do that without his belly getting in the way. He swaggered toward me and never broke character. He even bobbed his head from side to side like he was popping his neck–body language he’d probably learned from watching pro wrestling or bad action movies.
Sara actually had sex with this dork?
“Is that a ninja sword?” I said, trying to keep from laughing at his display of tough guy-ness.
“Katana,” he said. “It’s the real deal. I smashed a display case in a museum down in Atlanta. The card said it was more than five hundred years old.”
“Nice,” I said.
“Did you move my car?” he asked, hooking his thumb
s into his belt.
“What? No.”
“I had five cars parked here, and now there are only four.”
“No,” I said. “It was…It must have been someone else.”
“Someone else,” he repeated. His expression didn’t betray his thoughts, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was dubious. He sniffed and offered his hand. “As I said, I’ve seen you around town. I’ve been watching you. I wanted to make sure I could trust you.”
I shook his hand and nodded.
“The name is Bruce Lee,” he said, then waited for me to react to that. When I didn’t, he continued. “I’m looking for a young woman.”
“Aren’t we all,” I said.
I saw the faintest of grins cross his lips then disappear.
“A specific young woman,” he said. “She was from here in Clayfield.”
I looked around then over my shoulder. The undead were slowly coming in.
“Do you mind if we go in someplace and talk so the infected won’t bother us?”
“Fine with me,” he said.
I nodded across the street to Clayfield Water and Electric. “How about there?”
We crossed the street. It was stuffy inside, and there were the skeletal remains of a person seated behind the counter.
“So you think there is a young woman in Clayfield?” I said once we were inside.
“Yeah,” he said. “Her name was Sara. Have you seen her?”
“All I do all day every day is look for women,” I said and pulled my mask down off my nose and mouth. “I haven’t seen any women anywhere. For all I know, they’ve all turned.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Where did you see her last?” I asked.
“Tennessee,” he said.
“Tennessee? Hell, man, she could be anywhere. What makes you think she’s here?”
He leaned on the counter. “I followed her and watched her for a long time. She stayed in Biloxi a while. Then, a couple of weeks ago, she and her friends headed north. I followed them until I was sure they were coming here then I came on ahead of them. The last time I saw them they were in a little town in Tennessee. I’ve been hoping to get her alone so I could talk with her.”
“She didn’t know you were following her?” I said.
He took his sunglasses off dramatically. “Let’s just say I know certain…stealth techniques.”
“And you have a sword. You’re a ninja.”
He stared at me blankly. “You wouldn’t be fucking with me, would you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He continued to stare as if trying to read me.
I shrugged, “Maybe she went someplace else. Trust me, if I had found a woman, you’d know it, because I’d have a silly grin on my face.”
He snorted but never cracked a smile. “You’re a funny guy,” he said. “I like you.”
CHAPTER 25
Now that I had met Bruce, I was curious where I ranked with Sara’s line of boyfriends. Sara’s pre-apocalypse boyfriend had played basketball in high school and was away at college at the time Canton B struck. I’d never met him or even seen a picture, but I could make reasonable suppositions about him. Grant had some growing up to do, but he’d be a solid catch for most women. Bruce Lee was more like a caricature than a real person.
I suppose the only thing all the others had in common was that they were tall. I was average everything. I was “normal” by my judgment. In some ways, I would put Grant higher on the scale than me–he would have had a good future ahead of him if not for Canton B. He was handsome, strong…whatever. Maybe the old boyfriend was like Grant. Bruce, on the other hand…Bruce was a joke. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t even think he belonged. I would have felt more comfortable in the company of Dr. Travis Barr than Bruce Lee. Travis had been an evil son of a bitch in the end, but at least he fit in every other way with Grant and the old boyfriend.
If she had come completely clean with me, then I was her true choice. That was what really mattered. It felt good that she would choose me over Grant, but I couldn’t get it out of my head that she’d shared a bed with Bruce. The only comfort I had was that she’d left him for dead, and that was only to smooth my ego. Dork or not, what did he do to make her decide to kill him?
Bruce asked me to join him for dinner, and I agreed. I wanted to get to know him, I wanted to find out more about his relationship with Sara, and I wanted to know where he lived. I followed him to the north end of town to a little house just past the Clayfield Mobile Home Court. Because of all the damage done to that end of town by Wheeler’s men, we had to take a few secondary streets to avoid the impassible main road. The whole way there one of the heads on his car blinked at me. Bruce pulled up into the short driveway in front of the house, then motioned me to pull around him and park behind the house in front of the detached garage.
When I got out, he was walking up to me.
“Want to see something cool?” he said.
“Sure.”
“You might not appreciate it the way I do. When I found this house, I knew I had to stay.”
He walked over to the garage and opened the side door.
“Come on in.”
I followed him inside and had to stifle a gasp of awe. It was a science fiction collector’s wet dream. There were toys and comic books and–
“Holy shit,” I said. “Look at that Romulan Warbird!”
He grinned for the first time. “Hell yeah. I knew I liked you.”
The model was around two feet wide and was displayed inside of a plexiglass cube in the center of the room. I went close to examine it.
“Is this a prop?” I said, getting excited. “Is this an original prop?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I found the paperwork on it. There was an auction at Christie’s a few years ago, and they sold off all the old Trek models. This one went for more than twenty-five thousand.”
“Holy shit,” I said again. “Can I touch it?”
“Be my guest,” he said. “Just be careful. Don’t break it or get too many fingerprints on it. It’s one of my favorite things by far. When you’re done, I have a phaser to show you.”
“A real phaser?” I smiled. “From the show?”
“From Deep Space Nine…the most underappreciated Trek, in my opinion.”
“No argument there,” I said.
We had a moment there. Nothing was said, but there was some bonding (or semblance of bonding) going on. He was loosening up, and he was starting to lose his tough guy voice.
Bruce pointed past me to the far wall. “On the shelf by the window there’s a mint condition blue Snaggletooth. They’re not really as rare as people used to think, but I’ve never seen one that pristine.”
“I had one of those when I was a kid,” I said. “I played the hell out of it.” I looked around, not sure what to go to next. “It’s so cool that this stuff is here in Clayfield. How did I not know about this?”
“Some people are private like that,” he said. “They want to be alone with their things. Do you like comic books?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I used to read them.”
“Are you a DC or Marvel man?”
“Marvel.”
He made a face. “Nobody’s perfect, I guess. Star Wars or Star Trek?”
“Trek, of course.”
He grinned again. “Kirk or Picard?”
“Picard.”
He frowned.
“I thought Kate Mulgrew did a respectable job as Captain Janeway too,” I added.
“You disgust me,” he said, then laughed for the first time, “but kudos for knowing her name. Come on; let’s go eat.”
Ten minutes later, Bruce and I were in the house having MREs and mixed drinks. He had a variety of alcoholic beverages and other ingredients along with measuring cups and spoons. A bartender’s guidebook was open on the dining room table, and he followed the recipes exactly.
The house was modest and had been decorated by someone
with bad taste. There were a lot of frilly and flowery pillows and curtains and lots of pink and yellow. I didn’t see any evidence of collectables in the house, so I presumed the house was a woman’s domain.
“This food isn’t too bad,” I said. “I haven’t had much experience with the MREs.”
“I found a whole tractor trailer full of them,” he said. “I moved it and hid it so nobody would find it. I plan to go back for it later. There’s enough food in there to last me a few years at least. It can’t compete with home cooking, though.”
“Did you have somebody?” I asked with hesitation. “I mean…somebody to make you home cooked meals? You know…before?”
He downed the rest of his drink and started mixing another, “Grams. She was the best cook. She stayed with me. I took care of her.”
“In Atlanta?” I asked.
“I’m from central Florida.”
“I’m from here in Clayfield,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “You were the museum director.”
“How’d you know?”
“I went in there,” he said. “Your picture is in that framed newspaper story hanging on the wall in your office. You look a little different now, but I could pick you out in a lineup.”
He finished mixing his drink and had a sip.
“How are you handling the alcohol?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“We have to drink it so often,” I replied.
He shrugged. “I don’t mind it. There’s enough variety to make it interesting.”
“Are you concerned about addiction or health problems?”
He grinned, “No. I’m not a wuss. Why? Are you?”
I shrugged. His grin turned smug. My pride almost pushed me into saying something about my ability to handle my liquor, but I let it slide. I thought it might be wise for me to let him think I was weak.
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