Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  The three remaining apartments above the coffee shop were of a similar layout, and he went through them quickly, relieved to find each empty of once-human inhabitants.

  The second apartment yielded the biggest surprise. In a cabinet filled with various organic spices and other cooking items, Bill found three cans of green coffee beans, two of which were still sealed.

  “Oh hell yes!” He exclaimed louder than intended. “Oh, come to me you beautiful things,” he said as he lifted a can in each hand, examining the peeling labels. The canned beans, intended for personal roasting and extended shelf life were once hoarded by preppers and coffee-snobs alike.

  The other find was a dresser filled with various sex toys, vibrators, padded handcuffs along with several large boxes of condoms, bottles of lubricant, and batteries. “Damned if it isn’t my lucky day.” Bill chuckled gleefully as he stuffed the condoms, several bottles of lube and the batteries into his pack. “Bet Janet will pay pretty damn nicely for these.”

  Clearing the last apartment, Bill sat on the leather sofa in the living area, resting his head for a moment, thinking aloud. “Tons of good shit in here, like they were never looted at all. The downstairs is trashed, but maybe no one came up here. Wonder if all the apartments along here are like this?”

  Lifting his head from the dusty couch his eyes grew wide, “I might not have to go deep into the city at all. If there’s this much shit in just these four apartments, it could take me months to empty out this one row.”

  Laughing, Bill kicked his feet, pounding clouds of dust up from the leather. “Hell yeah!”

  Getting up from the couch, he looked out a window. “Only a couple hours of daylight left, and I want to check out that gun store before heading back to the car.”

  Looking around the apartment Bill saw several of the scented candles in jars. “Well, I’d have light.” He checked the lock on the door. “Lock’s good too. Might as well hole up in here for the night, check the gun shop tomorrow morning, then head back.” Nodding to himself, Bill prepared to spend the night locked down.

  Speaking to the empty room, Bill said, “Might as well fix up something to eat.” Digging through his bag, he pulled out a small backpacker’s stove, which he placed on the range-top in the kitchen. Catching the faint scent of smoke, Bill crossed over the hall to the apartment looking out across the street.

  The salon was burning brightly inside, flames licking through shattered windows, tasting the dead that had gathered to roast themselves. Runners sprinted into the flames, shamblers shuffled onward, as did the funkers and huskers, which caught fire with a whoosh that Bill could hear through the window.

  “Guess that’s one way to kill a few at a time.” Bill made his way back to the other apartment, unconcerned with the fire raging across the wide street. “It’ll burn out, or it won’t, not much you can do, Billy-boy.”

  Preparing his meal, Bill stared at the cans of coffee beans. “Yeah, I think I deserve some coffee, for damn sure.”

  10

  “Not a chance, Alan. Business is on hold until we get this mess sorted out.”

  “Oh come on Janet, shit. Ain’t nobody knows when something’ll go down, I just want half an hour.”

  “These girls need to be on guard, not on their backs. You come back and talk to me after this shit is settled and well work something out.”

  “Damn it, Janet, just ten minutes then? How about that?”

  Bibi stood up from where she had been resting her elbows on the counter. Narrowing her eyes she glared at the man begging her for some girlie-time. “I’m not gonna say no again, Alan. Next time I’m just gonna smack you across your stupid fuckin’ face. No girls, not right now, and you keep your shit up I’ll ban your ass from here, and I happen to know that you’ve pissed Filler off enough that he won’t even let you near his girls.”

  Alan shoulders slumped, his long, greasy hair dangling in his face. He opened his mouth to smart off, give Janet what for, and thought better of it. Turning away without a word, Alan left through the front door, stepping aside to let Doc Shoup through.

  “That fella sure looks downhearted.”

  “Business is on hold until we get things sorted out and tended to, Doc, and he’s not happy about it. He’ll get over it though. Something I can do for you?”

  Doc shuffled his feet, toeing a spot on the floor. “Well, I was wondering if you happened to have any .357 ammunition.”

  Bibi shook her head. “Sorry Doc, I don’t. I’m sure Filler has some, though.”

  Shrugging, Doc said, “Yeah, I know he does, but I thought I’d buy it from you instead.”

  “You can afford it, Doc.”

  Nodding, he said, “Yep, I can, but well… never mind. Thanks anyway, Janet.”

  Doc Shoup turned away, heading for the door.

  “Hey Doc, let me ask you something.”

  Stopping with his hand on the door-handle, he faced Bibi.

  “I’m curious. What’s your take on all this?”

  “Take? No real take on it, Janet. It’s damn ridiculous that humans fight other humans for life when there’s plenty of bad shit out there just waiting to munch on folks. Always been unsavory types, always will be. Just a damn stupid shame is all.”

  Bibi nodded, fully understanding Doc’s thoughts. “Doc, you’ve always done right by me and my girls. If Filler doesn’t have that ammo, or he wants to put you in the “owe” column, just come on back here, I may have something stashed away you can use instead.”

  Doc Shoup pursed his lips, nodding again. “Thanks, Janet. Sure do appreciate that.” He pulled the door open, ready to step out.

  “You can call me ‘Bibi’ you know.”

  Doc chuckled, “Janet works just fine for me.” Smiling, Doc let the door shut behind him, making his way across the blacktop toward Filler’s.

  Bibi shook her head at the closed door, laughing to herself. “You’re an odd duck, Doc.”

  Returning to her counter, she reached below and took up one of the three pistols sitting there and her cleaning kit, returning to the cleaning she had been doing before Alan the ass had interrupted her.

  Ammo may be limited, but she would make sure each gun was ready if needed.

  11

  Having waited until the following morning for the coffee, Bill stood next to the range-top, where he had set up the tiny backpackers stove. On top of that rested a small non-stick skillet. Salivating at the aromas rising from the roasting coffee beans he shuffled excitedly in place, a child at Christmas in front of a tree stuffed with brightly colored gifts.

  The beans popped loudly in the pan. “Number two,” he said. “A little longer, just a bit, good and dark.” Smoke began to rise, the heavy, bitter aroma of the beans filling the room and bringing back memories of sitting in ridiculously priced coffee shops with directors or fellow actors discussing the next film or an upcoming awards ceremony.

  Bill removed the pan, placing it on an iron trivet that had been on the range-top. Extinguishing the fuel canister, he left the tiny folding stove in place to cool.

  Unsurprisingly he had found both a French coffee press and a stone mortar and pestle in the same apartment where he had found the canned coffee beans.

  The wait for the beans to cool was almost too much to bear, his thoughts circling around that first hot cup.

  Using the mortar and pestle, Bill set to grinding the beans into an oily powder while the water came to a boil.

  Bill’s eyes rolled back into his head at the aroma coming from the press as the coffee steeped for a minute. “Oh, good Lord, yes.”

  Taking a dusty cup from a cabinet, he wiped it clean and poured his first cup of real coffee in years.

  A deep sigh escaped him, almost sounding part sob. The rich, dark brew sent shockwaves of delight bouncing from taste buds to his brain.

  “Yes… just yes.”

  Taking the cup to the couch, he sat and sipped, forgetting for a moment that the world outside these walls, beyond this liqu
id heaven in his cup was a world of the dead and dying, both fighting for every meal.

  By the time the first cup was empty he could feel the caffeine hit his system. Half-remembered drug-fueled parties in Hollywood Hills came to mind. Nothing he had ever taken had felt as divine the drug chasing through his veins at that very moment.

  “Not gonna waste a drop,” he said, filling the cup with the last of the still-steaming coffee, savoring every sip.

  Sighing again, he practically threw himself off the couch. “Time to get busy, Billy-boy. You gotta a lot to do today, and you’ve got the fuel to do it.”

  Stowing his pack inside a closet, planning to return here and spend the night, Bill stuffed his pockets with the things he thought he might need like the tiny flashlight, lighter, some jerky, and a bottle of water.

  Crossing the hall, he checked on the salon. Though it had burned itself out sometime in the night it still smoldered, tendrils of smoke drifting up to be torn away by the breeze. Corpses of burned and partially melted zombies lay scattered around the building.

  He was relieved to see that there were very few shambling around the area.

  “Gun shop first, then make your way back, check every damn place along this side,” he said, heading for the stairs.

  Down in the coffee shop he dispatched a lone shuffler and made his way outside, hoping none of the dead between the gun shop almost three blocks away and where he stood were runners.

  Knife in his left hand, right hand resting on the pistol in its drop-leg holster, Bill stepped out onto the sidewalk. Skirting two still-smoking corpses, he moved with speed toward the far end of the block, spiking the first zombie he came to before it knew he was behind it.

  Several shufflers wandered the wide intersection bisecting the first and second blocks. Just beyond them, nearly at the far end of the second block, a knot of what looked to Bill to be five or six zombies huddled around something in the street.

  Realizing that he was standing in place he muttered, “Don’t stop moving, dumbass.”

  He speed-walked across the intersection, grateful that so far all the dead out on the street were of the slower variety. Avoiding the slower zombies, taking the time to spike only those that were directly in his path, Bill made it to all the way to the next intersection before the milling group of dead spotted him.

  One of them opened its mouth, a low rattle passing through shredded lips. Bill watched, still walking, as two of the group began to move in his direction. “Shit, just keep going.”

  He could see the sign for the gun store jutting from the front of the building at the far end of the next block. Thankfully, that block was clear of any dead.

  Bill tossed a glance over his shoulder, checking on the group he had left behind. All five of the zombies now shuffled in his direction, bumping into each other, intent only on the victim.

  “Screw you,” Bill said quietly, as he crossed the next intersection, moving onto the third block.

  With this section clear of zombies, and those behind him moving slowly, Bill began to run, heading straight for the door below the sign. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the shop’s name, even as he ran. Bunker Bill’s Guns and Ammo.

  Bill drew deep breaths, his booted feet pounding heavily at the sidewalk. “Almost there, almost there,” he muttered.

  Still several yards away from the door, Bill’s heart nearly stopped its quick beat when another crowd of dead rounded the corner, charging directly toward him.

  He processed several facts rapidly. He couldn’t turn back into the group of dead following him and he had no time for hesitation. There was no way he could outpace the sprinting horde.

  Several vehicles were parked along the curb, two cars and a delivery van, which sat directly in front of Bunker Bill’s. Without slowing his stride Bill leapt up onto the trunk of the first car, over the roof, onto the hood, to the next car and over it.

  The runners were now to the second car and surrounding the van. “Twenty of you shits, maybe. Damn it!”

  Still moving, Bill’s foot barely touched the dusty, slick hood of the van as he vaulted to its higher roof.

  “How fuckin’ many of you are there?” Bill muttered as he looked down on the horde now scrabbling at the side of the van, trying to reach the meat that was out of reach. He knew there had to be twenty or more. Getting to the door of the gun store was impossible.

  He could see that all of the glass was broken, but the bars on the door and windows of the shop had not been breached. “Well, that’s something. If the door’s locked I may be in luck.” Looking around he said, “If you assbags don’t eat me first. Fuck! How the hell am I getting…”

  A breeze caused the sign above the door to swing slowly back and forth on rings mounted to a thick steel bar. The sign’s mount was bolted into the wall. “Oh, what the hell.”

  Backing to the edge of the van, gaining an extra step, Bill took two strides and launched himself toward the sign. Hands reaching, fingers circling the cold iron, he swung and slammed into the sign itself, it swung out and back, smacking into his chest.

  Bill grunted, squeezing the bar tightly to keep from losing his grip. Hands grabbed at his ankles, squeezing, trying to pull him down.

  He refused to look.

  Biceps flexed, and Bill lifted himself upward, fighting the pulling hands. He pushed up, resting his chest across the bar. Unable to take a full breath, he knew he had to move.

  The brick of the building was less than a foot away, and the edge of the roof was four feet up from the sign.

  Bill slid sideways along the bar, getting as close to the wall as possible. Then the sign jerked and he could see the bolts pulling out of the wall. He was about to be dumped directly into the middle of the horde.

  Terror reared its head full of gnashing teeth, spurring Bill to move with speed. He lifted a leg, getting a knee up on top of the narrow bar. Pushing up, one hand balancing, reaching for the roofline with the other, Bill felt the sign jerk again. “Shit shit shit…”

  “No time, dumbass, get up there or fucking die,” he chided himself.

  Sliding his knee along the bar, closer to the mounting bolts he pushed, rising up and placing the toe of his other boot against the wall.

  Less than a foot remained between his fingers and the roof.

  Bill hunched his body tightly, wished he could take a breath, and threw himself upward. The mounting bolts crunched as they pulled out, the sign dropping out from underneath him just as his fingers caught the edge.

  Bill threw his other hand up, latching on, hanging by fingers alone. Below him the sign crashed into the bars on the door and bounced off, plowing into the crowd of dead, bowling several over, crushing one of them.

  Pulling himself up by inches, Bill got an arm over the edge of the flat roof and pushed. One long minute later, exhausted and soaked in sweat, Bill rolled over the edge of the roof and lay still, sucking air and waiting for the finger cramps and the burning sensation in his arms to subside.

  Raising only his head, he could see the roof was clear, except for the air-conditioning unit. “Better be a service hatch.”

  Standing on legs that were still shaky from the adrenaline rush, Bill made his way to the large roof-mounted air-conditioner. Walking around it he found a raised stainless-steel service hatch on the back side of the unit.

  “Now for the fun part.” Bill new the hatch would be locked from the inside. Crossing mental fingers, he grasped the edge of the hatch with aching hands and pulled.

  The hatch lifted a half an inch before catching. Bill continued to pull, grunting with the effort. He could feel the hatch cover flex in his fingers, just enough to give him hope. He released it with a clang and crouched, resting, his already sore fingers stinging from the effort.

  After several minutes he stood up, muttering, “Ok you bitch, let’s try this again.”

  It took him three more back-wrenching, finger splitting tries before the hatch finally popped open, throwing him to the rooftop with a
thump.

  Up, on his knees, Bill stared down a slanted ladder into a dimly illuminated room, directly into the face of one plain-old zombie and one funker, its face drawn and hanging and wobbling like a turkey’s wattle.

  12

  Trina caught Thomas with one of her last glue sticks, using it to paint long tacky smears on the wall.

  “Oh good grief, Thomas! Give me that!” She snatched the stick from his hand and he started crying like she had kicked him.

  “You hush, Thomas, or I’ll have a talk with your momma and Miss Janet about how you’ve been behaving.” The boy instantly went quiet and hung his head, staring at the tiled floor.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  With half her normal class size she only had seven kids, from infant to eleven years old. The break from a full group was nice, though the circumstances sucked. Many of their parents simply didn’t want their kids too far away should Junction be attacked.

  Trina went back to packing up a box of items to take down into Filler’s safe room, so that the children would have something to occupy them, keep their mind from whatever horrors may be raging above if they had to hole up in there.

  Today she was spending more time baby-sitting and packing up than she was trying to teach anything. The children could feel the tension that had settled over Junction like a wet wool blanket and they were responding with inattentiveness, anger and crying jags for no reason. Teaching was the last thing she could do.

  Days like today were the ones that made her question ever making the deal with Janet to take over the day-care and education of Junction’s youth, especially those children born of Janet’s “employees”.

  She received little in compensation from the parents, but Janet made sure she had food and water, and she was allowed to live in the building she used as her school. The other plus was that she didn’t have to work on her back, unless she wanted something extra, then she just had to let Janet know that she was on the market for a night or two.