by Steven Booth
Things seemed so normal. Miller was surprised how many people were walking along the Promenade, looking in shops and spending their money. They’d assumed people wouldn’t gather in crowds quite as often these days. Rumors of trouble in Nevada and Colorado had reached this far, though few believed in zombies. They were more likely to believe in terrorists than the undead. The government still hadn’t acknowledged any serious problem, probably to protect the economy from collapsing. Miller figured L.A. people generally had money and tended to spend it. She hoped some of that prosperity had trickled down to Terrill Lee’s college roommate, Max Crawford, their only hope for a temporary reprieve from running. Maybe he’d help them plan their next move. He’d immediately offered cash when she’d called. Max was no mastermind—he said he was working as a software developer now—but he had money, a place to sleep, and access to the Internet. Right now that was more than they could pull together on the road.
Of course, Miller hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Max that Terrill Lee was dead, much less that she’d dispatched him because he’d turned zombie. Too much information. Hopefully Max would come through today, and not completely lose it when he learned the truth, assuming he ever did. Would he show up? There was only one way to find out.
Scratch stood behind her as Miller surveyed the scene. She remained where she was standing, frozen in place on the sidewalk. The shoppers seemed to decay right before her eyes, morphing into zombies. She couldn’t help picturing all of those fit, pretty people as new recruits of the walking dead—ambulatory corpses shambling through the pristine mall, still upright but slobbering. Miller closed her eyes to erase the images. Her anxiety rose to a fever pitch.
Scratch said softly, “You can do this.”
Miller jumped at the sound. He was right behind her. She started to reach for her weapon. “Jesus, don’t scare me like that!”
“Penny, we’re safe. We’re out of the war zone.”
Miller darkened. “We’re never out of the war zone, Scratch.”
“We are for now.”
Miller shook her head. She strode forward with a purpose. Scratch followed close behind. Too close. The charm of his protectiveness wore off and his attitude suddenly seemed too much like a guard dog’s for Miller’s taste. Her anger rose. She didn’t need a man to watch her ass every damn minute. She could handle herself just fine, thank you very much.
They emerged onto Third Street Promenade to survey the scene. The crowd of bystanders was huge by any contemporary standards, with hundreds of people lining either side of the mall. Hell, Miller thought, they were standing around in two deep rows, almost like they were waiting for a parade. That thought gave her a strange feeling, but it passed quickly.
Scratch pointed. “There’s the place.” His finger indicated a small storefront café named The Bump and Grind on the corner of Wilshire and Third Street. “Where are all the pole dancers, babe? Do they work this early?”
“You can ask about that when we get there.” Miller surveyed the patrons sitting on the patio. They kept looking back toward the street, again as if expecting something. She had another uneasy feeling. Worst of all, Max wasn’t there waiting. What if he didn’t show?
They walked briskly toward the café. The tall glass-faced entrance was maybe a block away, a structure sitting arrogant and proud smack dab on the corner of Wilshire Blvd. The two of them looked a bit out of place, but Los Angeles was full of oddities, so no one stared. For his part, Scratch seemed to be enjoying the sunshine and the sea breeze and the new normalcy of their surroundings. Meanwhile, Miller had her head on a swivel, looking for security—in particular the National Guard. The undead and the living both posed dangers of their own, but the Guard had access to government records. They certainly knew the zombie plague was real. They’d also be looking for her, their test case who’d escaped from Nevada. The guardsmen had automatic weapons and full legal authority. With their extra-judicial powers post emergency, and likely a warrant for her arrest, she knew they were by far the biggest threat.
Unless the zombies had somehow spread this far…
Miller’s eyes searched the area. She’d almost forgotten about Max and started looking for anyone who looked even remotely infected. The sun rose higher. The crowd remained packed onto both sides of the street, though people did cross over now and then. She was just beginning to wonder about that when she spotted a small unit of National Guard stationed down near a clothing store. Adrenaline flooded her system. One of the soldiers was eyeballing her. Miller kept her own eyes moving and ignored him. If she looked nervous at all, or even made eye contact, the soldiers could decide to approach, look for wants and warrants, even search them both. She was armed without a permit to carry, and being a retired sheriff from Nevada wouldn’t impress, and would probably raise about a hundred red flags. Miller wanted to avoid an arrest that at all costs.
They left the street. Miller entered the small, gated patio, followed closely by Scratch. She selected a four-seat table and sat down in the chair, underneath the shade of an umbrella. She looked around carefully, but there was still no sign of her ex-husband’s old friend Max. The place was crowded with Eurotrash and people who seemed to ooze money.
The pretty young waitress spotted them. She circled twice and approached like a blonde buzzard homing in on some fresh road kill. The waitress sagged with disappointment when she got close enough to take in their dirty clothes and tired faces. She even looked like she was fixing to ask them to leave, but before she could say what was on her mind, she met Miller’s stare and wilted. Miller felt her insides coiled tighter than a rattler’s ass. She almost hissed. She needed a target, someone to take her anxiety out on. The waitress evidently thought better of challenging these dangerous-looking newcomers. She politely handed Scratch a pair of menus.
The girl avoided Miller’s glare. She looked right at Scratch. “First time here?”
“Why?”
With a lowered voice. “I’m sorry sir, but… it’s just that we’re kind of expensive.”
“We’ve got money,” Miller said, answering much more kindly than she’d intended.
The waitress ignored her and smiled at Scratch. “No offense intended, sir.”
“None taken,” said Scratch.
The waitress left in a hurry. She turned her attention to another table. Scratch surveyed the crowded room and brought his attention back to Miller. “So, any sign of him yet?”
“Not hide, nor hair. Give him time,” said Miller. “He’ll show up.”
“Well, if we sit here too long, we’re going to have to actually order something. I vote against forking over our last six bucks on one little pink poodle sandwich or an overpriced cup of coffee. We ain’t pretentious enough for this joint.”
“Just keep your eyes open, okay?”
Scratch grunted.
Miller scanned the crowds. She hadn’t seen Max for about four years, and on the phone he’d said that he was even balder now and had taken to wearing a short beard. She wondered if she just wasn’t able to recognize him. But then, considering how she looked these days, she wondered if he would fail to recognize her. Eventually, Miller decided, her flaming red hair would do the job. This was blonde country. He’d find her. They’d just have to be patient.
Time passed. The nervous young waitress had a hushed conversation with someone in the shadows near the kitchen. She came back to their table. “Are you ready to order?”
“Just water,” said Miller. “We’re waiting for someone.”
The waitress’s smile slipped a pubic hair. Her cheeks reddened. “I don’t mean to be rude…”
“You already are,” said Scratch, losing his patience. “Embrace your personality.”
“Sir, there are some people waiting for tables. If you’re not planning on ordering soon, you’ll need to give the table up to someone who will.”
“Is that a fact?” Scratch leaned forward. He sipped some ice water. “Well, then how about you let the manag
er tell us to leave?”
“Fine, I’ll go get her,” the girl said.
“You do that, sweet cakes.”
The waitress stomped away, face pink with embarrassment and anger.
“What was the point of that?” demanded Miller.
“I’m just getting bored.” Scratch leaned back in his chair. It groaned from his weight. “Besides, she was being disrespectful. I got enough of that during my Blood Rider days. You’re my woman. You deserve better. Give me a reason not to tell them off.”
“I thought the plan was to fly under the radar,” Miller said. “Pissing off the management isn’t going to help us stay anonymous. And what if she up and calls the cops or those guardsmen down the way? The government is already looking for us. We don’t need any undue attention.”
“Okay.” Scratch deflated a bit. He nodded. “Point made.”
“When the manager comes, let me handle it. Keep your eyes peeled for a balding guy with a beard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Scratch turned to stare out at the crowd. Miller watched him immediately make eye contact with a college-aged girl with a nose ring and copious upper body tats. She kicked him under the table. He had the good grace—and the common sense—to look away.
Miller felt her senses tingle. Something strange was going on. All around her people were staring out towards the street. The crowd outside grew hushed, a quiet buzz of conversation going on in the background.
“What’s the story on the crowds?” Scratch asked. “They look like they’re waiting for the President to come down the middle of the street with his dick out.”
The pierced girl laughed. She hooked her arm over her chair and said, “It isn’t the Prez. The flyer I saw said there was going to be a Zombie Walk. They’re doing it to raise money for Las Vegas folks who had to run from that nuclear accident.”
“A what?” Miller said it before she could stop herself. Her gorge rose.
“A zombie walk. You never heard of one?”
Scratch kept his face blank. He reached across the table and took Miller’s hand. He squeezed it. “Hell, there ain’t no such thing as zombies. Everyone knows that.”
The pierced girl smiled. “Tell that to those folks.”
She pointed east on Wilshire.
Miller and Scratch turned in unison.
The crowds lining the street stepped back as one, with a flash mob effect, like some dance group performing the parting of the Red Sea. The air grew thick with anticipation. The people went quiet. Miller got up and walked briskly toward the curb. Scratch followed her, concern on his face.
Outside, Miller and Scratch pushed through the crowd to check things out. What the hell is going on? Confused, they stood up on tiptoe to see over the people in front, and what they saw next scared the hell out of Miller.
Zombies.
Hundreds and hundreds of zombies.
A horde of the undead, bloody and snarling in defiance, was headed directly down the middle of the street. Scratch and Penny exchanged shocked glances. They looked back at the mob. They saw men, women and even some children, all moaning and grunting. Broken, bloody bodies shambled forward, some oozing, leaving a trail of blood all along Wilshire Boulevard. Along the sidewalks, a few young children screamed and hid behind their parents, but the rest of the crowd cheered. Miller was stunned. They were cheering! The old world had been invaded by the new without a shot being fired. The mob stumbled closer. Closer still.
She had her hand on the grip of her weapon, but she knew it would be wiser to run than try to stand and fight. They were completely outnumbered. By then Miller could hear the zombies as they approached.
“Aaargh! Brains!” the zombies cried.
Miller looked over at Scratch, puzzled. Brains? What?
Some of the zombies lunged at the members of the crowd, and the people giggled and shrieked. This was an uncanny sight, it made no sense, the people were not scared. The zombies did not feed. Something wasn’t right. Still, Miller began to sweat from the painful assault of bad memories. She wondered if the leftover zombie virus in her system was acting up again. Her fists clenched tight and she felt lightheaded.
“Scratch, please tell me you see what I’m seeing.”
She looked up. Scratch appeared to be as freaked out as Miller felt. “It’s a whole fucking herd, but they haven’t attacked.”
“They’re not real,” said Miller, mostly to herself. “They’re not real, they’re not real. They’re not, they’re not.”
Scratch seemed to relax. He said, “No, they’re not.”
Miller felt like throwing up. They weren’t real, but they were closing fast. Her mind spun in dizzy circles. Her hands began to shake.
“Penny, I’m getting you the hell out of here.” Scratch began to steer her off the street. “No arguments.”
Miller shook off his hand. “I’m okay,” she said, but even she didn’t believe that herself. She tried to make sense of the situation. A bloody woman in an evening gown and pearls started toward a National Guard soldier. He did not shoot her, he just laughed. The woman did not attack. She stumbled back and rejoined the main group. Miller blinked rapidly. Her heart was pounding. No one was running away. This was real, yet not real. The zombies were people in makeup. This was some kind of an event. What had the girl said, to raise money? She was determined to remain sane, to wait and figure things out. Besides, a part of Miller knew that if she ran, she might just keep on running forever. What the hell was going on around here?
The front line of undead veered their way, hands up like claws, teeth bared.
Instinct almost took over. It took all of Miller’s strength not to take out the Springfield in her waistband and open up on the horde of creatures. But she had only one spare magazine with her, giving her twenty-seven shots at most, and there were hundreds of the creatures roaming freely through the Promenade. And strangely enough, no one else had fired, not even the National Guard. It had to be makeup. A parade.
“Scratch, the fuck?”
“Penny?” It was Scratch, stroking her arm. “No one is dying. Relax. Try to relax.”
The horde broke up as it reached the entrance to the department store, and individual zombies began wandering through the crowd. Some of them posed for the humans to take their pictures. A few pretended to bite the humans, and the humans just laughed as if they thought the whole idea was marvelous. Yes, it was a festival, a Halloween-style show. A macabre parade, probably based on the outlandish zombie rumors people had been hearing.
A male zombie in a bathrobe came towards Miller and Scratch. He had a pipe in his teeth. One of his eyes was missing. Against her own will, Miller tensed. She now knew intellectually that these were just hobbyists pretending to be the living dead. They were close enough for her to see the makeup. They didn’t smell like decomp, not one of them, and now she realized that some had contact lenses in to create clouded irises. The zombie that approached them grabbed at Miller. He smiled as he wailed, “Brains!”
“Get the fuck away from her before I rearrange your face,” Scratch said, hugging Miller close with his good arm.
“What’s your problem, pal?” the zombie growled.
Scratch glared. “Hang around one more minute, and I’ll show you brains. Your own.”
“All right, all right.” The zombie gave them a disgusted look and wandered off. “Damn tourists got no sense of humor.”
Scratch gave her a squeeze, but it only made her feel more claustrophobic than before. “Easy, Penny. This is just a dumb-ass parade.”
“I know,” Miller said. But her voice trembled, not with fear, but with the urge to scream at all these stupid people to run for their lives. If only she could make them see what she saw…
They were safe. It was nothing to worry about. They could return to waiting for Max to arrive, and then get out of town. In fact, Miller had just resigned herself to the benign presence of all these zombie wannabes when she caught a whiff of that horrible, all too familiar stench: the s
ickly-sweet smell of decomposition.
Miller’s protective instincts kicked into gear. Her head snapped around. She searched carefully—systematically—for the zombies. The real zombies. There was a triad here, she could sense it. She knew there were three of them working in concert, hiding in the mob of fraudulent creatures, waiting for a chance to attack. The enemy was present, Miller knew it in her bones.
“Scratch?” Miller feeling right for the first time since Albuquerque. She knew what she had to do. “Heads up. I can smell them.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“They’re here somewhere,” Miller said. Her hand went back to her waistband, but conscious of the troops nearby, she didn’t raise her jacket hem, not just yet. “I can almost hear them too, you know?”
“Penny, I’m begging you. Let’s go. Let the National Guard deal with this.”
“Those wieners couldn’t find their own asses with both hands, let alone a zombie in a stack of zombies.”
“Penny…”
“These people don’t know shit from shoe polish, Scratch. Someone is going to die if we don’t act.”
Miller moved through the crowd. Scratch swore under his breath but followed her lead. Miller moved forward, one hand behind her on the weapon at her belt, and scanned the edges of the crowd, which by now was a huge jumble of those in makeup and civilians. Despite the last hint of fear, for the first time in weeks, Miller felt like she was back in control of her life. She listened intently. She heard laughter and some profanity and a child crying for ice cream. And then…
From a few yards away: “Uhh-hunnhh!”
“I’ve got you,” Miller said, mostly to herself. She moved forward. She pushed a Hollywood housewife out of the way.
The crowd let her move through, though a few citizens shot her dirty looks. The sunshine sparkled off the fender of a car and momentarily blinded her. Miller rubbed her eyes and when they cleared could see the zombie as well as smell him. A brown-haired high school kid in a baseball jersey and sweatpants. He was a fresh one, less than an hour old by her guess, though the fact that he hadn’t started biting yet likely meant that he’d been turned recently, probably in the last few moments. That also meant more of them were around, maybe not just a single triad. Were they working together in dark alleys and garages to build their numbers before attacking? Were they already that damn smart?