by SP Durnin
Jake stared at her, feeling like a brain-dead moron instead of someone who used to make his living through his powers of observation.
He turned, took her by the shoulders, and pulled her close. Her body was stiff at first, but slowly the tension drained away and Kat pressed her face against his neck, much as Laurel had done earlier. She had no way of knowing that, but he took note of the odd similarity.
She slowly passed her arms around his ribs, as if she were unsure how the gesture would be received. "Funny huh? I'm so good at taking care of myself, but I can't handle a few bad dreams?"
His arms tightened around her protectively. "I wouldn't let that happen."
She laughed. "I hate to tell you this, but I can still take you three out of five falls. Besides, I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
"I know. It's one of the reasons I like you so much."
Kat considered that for a moment. "But you're going to ignore me on this. Aren't you?"
"Sure am," he admitted.
"I can't let you to do that," Kat said.
"You don't get a say. Oh, and I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. But I still needed you earlier in the alley," he replied. "I won't let somebody do that to you. I promise, Kat. I'll kill anyone who tries."
Jake felt her breath against his jugular as she sighed contently, warming the skin over his throat and sending a thrill up from the base of his spine. She settled closer in his arms and he wondered now why he hadn't asked her out when they'd met that day at the pharmacy.
Because you're a damn coward sometimes, his back-brain informed him. You could've had her, but you were still pining and moaning over…
He didn't let himself finish that thought and concentrated on the woman holding him. Kat was gorgeous, and he was human. It felt like every one of her body's curves found a corresponding niche against him, and he was finding it a struggle to keep his composure again.
"How did you ever stay single before all of this?" she asked, then went silent for a moment. "I can hear you. I can hear your heartbeat."
Of all the things she could've said just then, he found that to be both the most flattering and the most erotic. He looked down and saw her, eyes closed, one ear pressed high on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart speeding up. As he watched her, Jake realized something. He'd seen her scared, ticked off, half-blitzed, he even knew the mischievous look her face took on when she was playing the part of a goofy vixen.
But he'd never seen her content.
"Clean living with a dash of geekdom," he replied. "Come on, you've seen what I do for fun. Play with firearms, kill zombies, use quotes that reference obscure spatial anomalies."
Kat laughed. They stood together on the roof for a while, holding one another, and enjoying the breeze that almost swept the smell of rot from the air.
"So what do we do now?" she asked, snuggling closer as his eyes moved back to the grisly tow truck and what used to be a waste of flesh. Now, just wasted flesh.
"We're gonna take a road trip..."
* * *
The next morning, the small band of survivors left in the Screamin' Mimi.
They'd sorted, loaded, packed, and repacked supplies within the vehicle over the previous weeks, so nearly everything was already secured and stowed away. The group boarded the access ramp at the rear, meager personal belongings in hand. Maggie and the teens helped the aging Gertrude carry her suitcase even though she threatened to whip them silly with her cane. Leo provided himself as a target, taking her arm as she struggled up the incline, carrying only a photo album of her life with her husband until his passing. Jake awarded the teen a truckload of man-points for that.
He and Foster gave the common room a final once over, double checking that they hadn't left behind important items they might need during the trip. The only things George took were a large box of Cubans from beneath his desk in the second floor office and a ledger containing the signatures of all the soldiers who had passed through his safe house over the years.
"Have one with me, kid." George poured a pair of glasses with two-fingers each of Jameson's at the table. He passed one to the writer, took the other in his gnarled fist, and raised the light amber liquid skyward. "To the fallen."
"To a trip free of maggot-heads and psychos," Jake said.
They clinked glasses, downed the whiskey, and headed for the garage level. The old fixer left the bottle capped on the table next to their glasses, and then hit the lights on his way down.
The others were making themselves comfortable in the transport. Jake was impressed that a machine built for war, by the US government no less, would have anything resembling comfortable seats. Usually battle vehicles only offered two positions, a trait shared with most commuter airlines. Merely uncomfortable, and crippling.
That wasn't to say the interior of the Mimi was decked out like a millionaire's RV. Mostly, it was battleship-gray, armor plating over a naked, steel frame, hundreds of yards of wiring, power conduits, metal storage containers, weapons racks, and assorted ammunition boxes. The crew seating in the shorter drive module consisted of six, fully-adjustable, captain-style swiveling chairs, a driver and a navi-guesser, shadowing positions behind both (assumedly for the units commanding officer and subordinate,) and a pair of instrument stations set along the hull on the portside. On the starboard side was the vehicle's heart, the hydrogen cell power core. It gave off a barely audible hum, as its refining process separated H2O into its base elements. The fuel tanks supplying it with water filled the gap to its right, leaving virtually no excess room in the cabin.
The secondary module held six more bucket-style seats just through the foremost hatch and bunks for eight. The stores were beneath each of the crew sleeping chambers, packed full of firearms, ammunition, preserved meals, and other supplies needed to get them to the next hidden cache. The bunks—like the monitoring stations in the front—were recessed into the Mattoc's hull, running two high from front to rear, leaving a central aisle for crew movement. They weren't bunks but resembled Japanese hotel-style sleeping chambers. Or double-size coffins. Each one was equipped with a horizontal entry door which—as opposed to a pull curtain—could be secured by a simple locking mechanism from inside. Two people could sleep within each of the small enclosures, but they'd have to be mighty friendly.
The last module was mostly taken up by secondary storage for yet more ammunition, various tools, and the machine parts Foster insisted on bringing. Most were for maintenance of the hulking transport, but he'd also packed quite a few supplies used in maintaining their weaponry. The only obvious access point was at the rear of this module in the form of an enormous C130 style hatch, allowing easy loading of stores or just a quick retreat if needed. Most of the group's personal possessions, few that they had, were stored in the rear section as well, next to the ammo.
Maggie, Heather and the two teens had taken seats in the secondary unit, leaving the others to occupy the lead module with Foster, Allen and—oddly enough—Gertrude. George and the thin mechanic had already run the start-up sequence, bringing the hydrogen-cell core to life. According to him and the technical manuals, the Mimi could run for just over eighty-eight days before needing additional H2O. Locating replacement fuel should be relatively easy. It was as simple as finding a nearby stream and a bucket.
"So how did they actually get funding for this thing?" Allen asked, as he and Foster activated the last of the transport's systems. The aging fixer had instructed the mechanic on its functions, ensuring that if something happened to him, Allen could keep the Mimi up and running as they continued their journey. "I mean the undercarriage and suspension alone are so far ahead of modern, automotive design it's ridiculous. Let alone its power source and the damn hull."
George flicked a gauge above his head with a thick finger and, satisfied it was registering correctly, glanced at Allen as he lit a cigar. "Think about it, kid. Six grand for a toilet seat? Two grand for a hammer?"
Jake chuckled and took a seat
behind George. He thought Laurel would come up to join him, but she opted to sit with Gertie while the older woman ran through the Mimi's on-board computers. The aged woman accessed the systems easily, like a professional safecracker opening a five dollar combination lock.
"Your database is impressive, George," she said, "but you haven't updated your operating system in quite a while."
"Ya' do know what yer doin' there, don't ya?" Foster asked over his shoulder.
"Please," Gertie scoffed. "I've been selling hand-knit sweaters on eBay for years. Don't you think I know my way around a hard drive?"
"Alright, don't get yer bloomers in a knot," Foster soothed. "All good, boyo?"
"Got green lights across the boards," Allen confirmed.
"We're heading out," Jake called to the rear. "Everybody set back there?"
"Let's roll!" Maggie called, and Leo's hand moved into view giving a thumbs up.
"Start her up, George," he said.
"Already did." Foster grinned at Jake's look of surprise. "My baby's quiet, huh?"
The only sounds, as the Mimi began moving forward, were a slight hum from the hydrogen-cell and the occasional creak of its suspension. The massive, pink transport rolled effortlessly into the three-hundred meter access tunnel and up the long ramp towards the twelve ton security door. Foster brought it to a stop roughly ten feet from the steel barrier and began grumbling while he rooted around in the pack he had looped over the back of the seat.
"Where the hell is it? Thought I put the damn... Ah. Here we go." He pulled out an old, brown, 70s circa, Genie garage door opener.
"Seriously?" Allen looked at him in disbelief.
"What?" George asked.
Allen gazed pointedly at the remote.
Foster snorted in exasperation. "Look, do you have any idea how much paperwork I would've had to file to requisition a replacement?"
"Just tell me this ride wasn't put together the same way..." Jake's friend replied, waving his hand at the vehicle's console. "If that's the case, I think I'd rather stay here and starve."
"As a matter of fact, smart-ass, it wasn't," George growled, sourly. "This baby is two million, moving parts, put together by the lowest paid contractors the US Government could find. Don't you feel safer now?"
The fixer activated his remote and the immense door rose into the ceiling. George pulled the segmented vehicle through the opening and into the old "Ma Bell" complex's rear lot. The warehouse had been mostly vacant for years. A medical supply company had rented out its offices for a while, but after a massive restructuring moved overseas. Jake had a great view of the sprawling factory's remains from the portside window. He absently wondered if anyone had been curious as to why the government purchased the property, then left it to slowly deteriorate. Foster had informed him, when they'd planned their egress from the overrun metropolis, the sole reason for its acquisition was to provide a secure access point for the Mimi.
Six point two million for a garage door and people kept asking why politicians were always bitching for more money. Our tax dollars in action, he thought. Regardless, most could take solace in the fact that many of those same influence-peddling assholes were shuffling around somewhere, slowly rotting.
They rolled west onto Broad Street and began encountering the dead. Foster didn't veer or swerve or even slow down. He just drove right over them. Most of the creatures ignored the vehicle completely, which was very strange. When Jake and the others retrieved Laurel, every damn one of the things decided to stumble after his Jeep.
He mentioned it to George and the old fixer nodded. "Got a couple 'a ideas about that. Let's discuss it later, yeah? We need ta get out of the city right now."
Roughly a quarter of the dead took notice of the Mimi, turning their heads to watch as it rolled almost silently by (or even over) their decomposing forms. Out of those, perhaps a third dropped their gore-encrusted jaws and tottered towards the Pepto-colored transport. Some got close, trying to grasp its frictionless hull, only to have their fingers slip uselessly along its surface. A few were turned into putrid, abstract, road-art, messily squashed by the Mimi's huge wheels. Nearly twenty impacted against its solid plow-shaped nose as they made for the freeway, causing meaty explosions of body parts in varying intensities. George and Al judged each such occurrence, using the IOC (International Olympic Commission) ratings scale.
"Eight point four for that one." Allen watched a ghoul fly apart, after being cut nearly in half by the plow-shaped nose blade.
Another took a hit and tumbled over the roof of a pizza delivery car. Foster smiled. "Eight point seven. Impressive height and distance. Even without the spray."
"Five point two. He went under the wheel."
"Stupid fucker." George laughed. "Can't even get dismembered right."
"Oooo! That one was nice! Nine point three." The mechanic leaned left towards Foster. "Is that an ear on your window?"
"Yup. Here, I'll get it with the wipers..."
"You know you get bonus points for that, right?"
Jake struggled not to laugh.
Kat, Gertie, and Laurel all looked at each other, wearing identical expressions that said, Men!
"Um…George?" Laurel called. "You do know you're getting on the off-ramp. Right?"
"We're good, Red. Wait 'til you get a load 'a this." Foster chuckled. "Saw it from the roof when I watched Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass leave."
They started nosing down the north-bound ramp, on which they were traveling south, and saw that side of the freeway was utterly devoid of vehicles. The southbound lane, however, looked like a parking lot.
Or maybe a scrap yard.
Every foot of pavement was covered by useless, petroleum-fueled, art-deco sculptures, packed bumper to bumper. Some had been partially crushed or pushed up on other cars in the press as people attempted to flee the city. Some were still occupied by those who had been trapped during the initial outbreak. The expired drivers and passengers still sat behind fluid-smeared glass, slowly dehydrating. Here and there, stray zombies moved between the cars, seeking prey and making their way through the mess of tangled metal.
"Now that's interesting." Jake gazed intently out the starboard side window. "They didn't turn."
"What?" Laurel came to stand beside him.
"The ones in the cars. They didn't turn."
"No, look. Those two are moving." She pointed at a pair of creatures, still strapped in an overturned Prius.
Jake shook his head. "That's because zombies got to them. Its windows are busted out. See? The others, the ones that died in their cars, didn't come back again. Or reanimate. Or whatever the hell it is these things do."
Kat came forward to look too, so he took his seat again. That provided him with a truly uplifting view of two appealing rear ends as the pair of women shifted with the transport's movement.
"They weren't bitten," the lovely Asian said, looking away from the packed cars after seeing a Baby on Board sign in the window of a minivan. "I guess you can still die and not come back, unless one of them takes a chunk out of you."
"Thought that was how it worked," George said, as he drove them past the I-70 interchange. The fixer saw that creatures were more numerous on the highway below. "Huh. The eastbound lanes down there are all jammed and there's nothin' on the westbound. What? Nobody thought of drivin' on the other side of the damn road?"
"I doubt many of them had your sense of irreverence, George. Even during the Apocalypse. Face it. Not everyone's a super-spy with a warehouse full of goodies and a deep love of things that go bang," Kat said, returning to her seat.
"True," he agreed happily.
"How far do you think we can get in a day?" Laurel asked.
George considered that for a minute.
"Once we make it out of the city? Fifty, maybe sixty miles. Even with my baby here," he patted the console above his head as he steered around a lone, Chevy Blazer, "we're gonna have to search out routes through or around some pretty big messes."
"That's why we'll stick to the secondary roads," Allen said, while Laurel moved to lean against the back of Jake's seat, putting her hands on his shoulders. "There should be way less congestion away from major motorways. Fewer of them, too. If we're lucky."
"What if we can find an SUV or something to scout with? That would save a lot of time and effort, right?" Jake looked thoughtfully at the road ahead.
"Sure. Have to have some protection though. The maggot heads aren't really any stronger than you or me; they just don't seem to feel pain or care about takin' damage." George sped up a bit and stuck his Cuban back in his mouth. "Either that or somthin' fast and maneuverable. Like maybe a Harley or…"
"Let's not talk about motorcycles, okay?" Jake got the shakes whenever he thought about his last ride. Fleeing from the dead on a bike, while being shot at, was not an experience he was eager to repeat. "Maybe we'll find a military convoy. Or a dealership."
"Along with our other stop." Foster glanced over his shoulder. "Right?"
Jake nodded. "I haven't forgotten."
"What's this?" Laurel asked, still kneading Jake's shoulders.
"You didn't say anything about stopping somewhere," Allen said, frowning.
Jake motioned to George.
The fixer looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Uh. Yeah... See it's like this…"
* * *
"Hot Rod, this is Dead-eye. Over..."
Hot Rod turned to the shortwave on the worktable and grabbed the mic. "Go ahead Dead-eye."
"Check yer oil after the rally? Over..."
With a rush of excitement, Hot Rod checked the exterior cameras. "Yup. Have to change the plugs soon though. Two of them are bad and need replacements. Over."
"Not surprising. Our crew here did the same on almost a dozen haulers earlier this week. The boss pitched a fit today when they told him about it. Out."
Hot Rod dropped the microphone to the worktable and hurried to tell the others they'd soon have company.