Jailbait Zombie

by Mario Acevedo

“What’s the next step?” Nguyen asked.

  “We destroy them as soon as possible,” I said. “Dr. Hennison’s got bad wounds. His priority is survival. The zombies are good at chasing, they’re not so good at being chased. Now that I know the layout of their lair and their capabilities, we should have no problem wiping them out.”

  “Who’s minding the girl?” Jolie asked.

  “Figured you were,” Nguyen said.

  Jolie shook her head. “Guess again, hot stuff. You stay here.”

  “Bullshit to that. I’m no babysitter.”

  “Do what I tell you.”

  Nguyen stood and glared.

  Jolie remained on the bench. “Either sit back down or I’ll kick your ass from here to Denver.”

  Nguyen shot a puzzled, embarrassed look like I was going to come to his rescue. Why did he bother? If a boulder fell on him this instant, I’d cheer for the rock.

  Nguyen didn’t sit. He flicked his hand in a rude wave and turned his back to us. Mr. Bad Ass bloodsucker in his black leathers stood by the door and pouted.

  Jolie asked, “What’s next?”

  “We’ll need weapons. A machine gun. A flamethrower.”

  A tendril lashed from the top of Jolie’s aura. “No problem. I’ll go to the nearest Home Depot and get a dozen of each. Seriously, where do you plan to get them?”

  I pulled my cell phone from a coat pocket. “Not from where, but from who.”

  “From who, then?”

  “From the last guy who wants to hear from me.”

  “That’s a long list,” Jolie replied. “Be more specific.”

  “Sal Cavagnolo.”

  CHAPTER 51

  I gave Jolie the rundown on Cavagnolo. He’d supply me with guns.

  “Even a flamethrower?” Jolie asked.

  “If he has one, I’ll take it. Otherwise, I’ll improvise something.”

  “Let’s go.” On her way out the door, she slapped Nguyen on the arm. “Don’t lose the kid.”

  We trotted down the slope to my Toyota. Two big adventure-touring motorcycles stood beside my 4Runner. Jolie explained that the BMW was hers, the Buell Ulysses was Nguyen’s. She put on a full-face helmet.

  I drove to Cavagnolo’s house. Jolie followed on her bike.

  On the way to Cavagnolo’s I thought about the plan to get Hennison. I was glad Jolie was with me. There wasn’t a better brawler anywhere. Plus, her loyalties were on my side.

  Nguyen? If he had to fight, would he back off at a critical time and let the zombies do his dirty work?

  And providing we did return safely, what about Phaedra?

  I paused at the gravel turnoff to Cavagnolo’s property. Jolie halted. In my rearview mirror all I could see was her riderless BMW motorcycle proceeding upright like an invisible ghost was at the controls.

  Cavagnolo’s house was an older ranch style covered in plain beige stucco. The original structure was a simple rectangle and over the years additions had been grafted to the sides so that the house sprawled across the width of his lot. Lush rosebushes bordered a small, yellowed lawn.

  I followed the gravel road to a driveway on the east side of his home. A white Porsche Cayenne was parked in front of a garage at the end of the driveway.

  Jolie rode her BMW off the road and halted beside a thick stand of shrubs. She dismounted and disappeared into the shadows.

  I hadn’t thought about Cavagnolo’s reception. Jolie was wise in anticipating trouble.

  Two unseen dogs barked.

  A woman appeared in the screen door of the main entrance. As I drove close, the woman opened the door and stepped into a pair of lime green gardening clogs by the front mat.

  She looked mid to late thirties and wore jeans and a loose blouse—typical country working attire. She shared Cavagnolo’s Mediterranean complexion and I couldn’t decide if she was his wife or a sister.

  She came straight to me, her face hostile. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Sal.”

  “What friend? What do you want here?”

  Cavagnolo came out the front door. “How do you know where I live?”

  “Phaedra showed me.”

  “Where is she?”

  Cavagnolo’s wife complicated the situation. With her around, I couldn’t ask him about guns, so I pretended my visit was only about Phaedra.

  If I told Cavagnolo she was with me, then he’d make a fuss about bringing her here, which I wasn’t going to do. Instead I said, “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, no.” His eyes softened in worry. “Is she in trouble?”

  “Hope not.” I wanted to reassure Cavagnolo but couldn’t without giving away about what I knew Phaedra. “I’m not sure where she is. Might help if you tell me more about her.”

  “She’s a squirrelly girl.”

  “Squirrelly? She’s fucking bananas,” the woman said. “A crazy, manipulative little witch.”

  “This is my lovely wife, Lorena.”

  Her expression was nowhere near “how do you do,” more like “fuck you and drop dead.”

  “Phaedra’s been missing since last night,” Cavagnolo said.

  Lorena blurted, “That’s three times this month and now you’re worried about the little tramp? You wanna find her? Try the goddamn jail.”

  “Lay off,” Cavagnolo snapped. His tone implied there was much he was keeping from his wife. Like Gino’s and Cleto’s disappearances and the other murders.

  I needed time alone with Cavagnolo to ask him about the guns I needed. “Could we go in Phaedra’s room? Maybe we’ll find something that’ll tell us where she’s gone.”

  Cavagnolo led us around the side of the house. A pair of hounds snarled and barked from behind a chain-link fence surrounding the backyard. He put his hand on the latch of a gate through the fence. He asked Lorena to hold the dogs, but the glance she tossed at us said that she’d rather watch them tear me apart.

  We walked on a brick path through the dried lawn to a cottage at the back of the yard. The place looked homey despite its apparent origins as a toolshed or stable.

  While Lorena held the dogs, Cavagnolo took me to the cottage’s front door. He turned the knob.

  “Was the door locked?” I asked.

  “No. Out here, nobody locks their doors.”

  They better start.

  The room wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closest. The only window was to the left, above a desk with a computer monitor, a wooden chair, and shelves. To our front: bunk beds, a credenza, and more shelves. The furniture was mismatched hand-me-downs. At the right, another door opened to a tiny bathroom.

  Other than the computer, I didn’t see much of a preoccupation with schoolwork. A few books and cups with pens but most of the shelves held stuffed animals and glittery toys. Girly stuff.

  Cavagnolo made room for me to pass.

  A comforter was draped over the top mattress of the bunk bed. A black cloth hung like a curtain from the edge of the top bed to obscure the space above the bottom mattress.

  “What’s in there?”

  “A place for storage. As you can see, there’s no closet. Phaedra used to be a real slob. Clothes everywhere. The damn dust was so thick you could’ve planted onions. I’m surprised the county didn’t condemn her toilet.”

  Outside, the dogs barked like they’d seen a she-bear.

  Cavagnolo ran a finger over a shelf. He held up a clean fingertip for me to inspect. “Then three months ago, click, like a bulb had gone off in her head.” Cavagnolo made a pulling motion beside his ear. “She went into a cleaning fit. At first I was worried it was one of those presuicide rituals, you know where someone tidies up their lives before offing themselves. But it wasn’t, fortunately.”

  “Wasn’t what?” Jolie said.

  Cavagnolo turned, startled by the sudden appearance of the muscular redhead in motorcycle leathers. Her slicked-back hair and sunglasses added to her mysterious and intimidating posture. The dogs barked and snarled behind her, Lorena barely m
anaging to keep them under control.

  “She’s my partner,” I explained.

  “Can I take a look?” Jolie motioned to the black curtain.

  Cavagnolo remained astonished. “Y…yeah, go ahead.”

  “Will Phaedra mind?”

  “I’m sure she will but serves her right for taking off on us.”

  Jolie parted the curtain and peeked inside. “What do you think of this?” She pushed open the curtains.

  Clothes on hangers dangled from a cord tied under the top bunk. Under the clothes lay charcoal drawings like the ones Phaedra had in her hideout.

  The drawings were of the little Iraqi girl, self-portraits of Phaedra, and one of me.

  That drawing was a three-quarter view with my eyes staring at the viewer. I didn’t remember taking a photo of myself this way but the likeness was unmistakable, especially the tips of my fangs poking from under my upper lip.

  I stared, unsettled and uncertain.

  “How did she manage this?” Cavagnolo asked, surprised as I was. “I never saw her draw and she got your face on the money.” He pointed to the fangs. “Except for these. What’s with that?”

  “I dunno.”

  Jolie flipped the drawings and lingered on one depicting a box receding to an infinite distance. There was a figure of a girl in the foreground with her back to the viewer. Smaller rectangles were arranged inside the box. Stars filled the background. After a moment, I realized that the figure was Phaedra and she was looking into the void, what she had called the astral plane. The rectangles represented doors or passages to the void.

  “She was keeping a lot to herself,” Cavagnolo said. “I figured she was on the computer, not making these.”

  “Can we keep them?”

  He took the drawings and slipped them behind the curtain. “No. They belong to Phaedra. If she finds out we’ve been going through them, she’ll throw one of her tantrums.” He shepherded Jolie and me from the bed.

  “I don’t know if this is related”—I closed the door—“but I’ve got a handle on those who took Gino and Cleto.”

  Cavagnolo straightened. “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  His voice got an edge. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Some of both. I have to take care of them but I’ll need some special hardware.”

  “Like what?”

  “You got a machine gun?” I asked.

  “You crazy? The feds hear a whisper about any kind of automatic weapon and the ATF will swim up my butt faster than piranhas.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Let me sweeten the pot. I’ll take care of this problem and your nose stays clean.” In case he didn’t understand, I added, “Of the government.”

  Cavagnolo turned introspective. He nodded to himself. “All right.” He looked at me. “What kind you want?”

  “A Browning. An M249. I’ll even take an M60.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Any dynamite?” I asked.

  “For what?”

  “Clearing stumps.”

  “None of that stuff is here. I have to make a few calls.”

  “Then do it,” I said. “Arrange for a place to meet. Tell them you got a buyer. Keep in short. Keep it simple.”

  Cavagnolo used his cell phone and mentioned something about horses. We left Phaedra’s room. As soon as we cleared the gate, Lorena let go of the hounds and they threw themselves against the fence, snarling and snapping.

  I took Cavagnolo in my 4Runner. Phaedra followed on her BMW. He gave directions to a county road north of the highway and east of Morada. We pulled onto a long straight private drive to a farmhouse and barn surrounded by mowed fields with square bales of hay. Cavagnolo made another call and said it was us arriving.

  Jolie rode up to the door of my Toyota. I halted and rolled down the window.

  She leaned from her bike and shouted. “Can you take care of this yourself?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to stay behind and watch your back. And another thing. Pick me up an accessory.”

  “Any size or style?”

  “Something ladylike.”

  CHAPTER 52

  I laughed, said okay, and continued. Jolie turned around and went the other way.

  A man and a woman left the house through a side door and stood beside the barn. They both wore plaid flannel shirts, and jeans over work boots. As we approached, the man went to the front door of the barn and pulled it open. The woman passed through and disappeared. The man waved that we follow.

  I halted the Toyota and warned Cavagnolo. “Make it easy on yourself and cooperate. If there’s a double cross, you won’t live to brag about it. My friend is out there, waiting.”

  “Felix, you’ve made your goddamn point. All this guy wants is money.”

  “Which comes out of your pocket.”

  “That wasn’t part of any deal.”

  “It is now.”

  I drove into the barn and the man walked alongside us. The air became humid with the smells of fertilizer, hay, and horseshit. The woman led a horse from the last stable in a row along the far wall.

  The man thumped my fender. “Yo, hold it here.”

  I halted. Cavagnolo and I got out.

  “Eric,” Cavagnolo said. They shook hands.

  I was introduced but kept my distance.

  We followed Eric into the stall the woman had taken the horse from. He pulled at a plank along the side wall, reached inside, and tripped a latch. The bottom half of the wall swung open and scraped aside the matted hay and fresh horse dumplings. The opening revealed a stairway inside the wall.

  Eric made a follow-me nod and crouched to enter the opening. Cavagnolo went next. The woman returned and shut the door behind me. I heard her rake along the door, probably to hide the entryway.

  The basement smelled of horse piss and moldy hay.

  We passed through a curtain. Eric yanked on the cord of a pull switch. A line of overhead bulbs flashed on. We were on a concrete floor of a cramped hallway that turned left. Good planning. I wouldn’t advise building a basement under horse stables.

  The hall opened into a room of about twenty by thirty feet. The air had the greasy odor of Cosmoline. Shelves crammed with crates and boxes lined three of the walls. Battered metal cabinets stood against the other wall. Guns lay in pieces on a workbench in the center of the room.

  “What do you have in a .45?”

  Eric ran his hand along aluminum suitcases on a shelf. He selected one suitcase and set it on the workbench. He opened the suitcase to display an assortment of pistols.

  I picked a Dan Wesson Bobtail, extra magazines, and a box of cartridges.

  Eric looked pleased by my choice.

  “Plus explosives.” I said. “Hand grenades. Dynamite.”

  Eric’s expression lost its enthusiasm. “What exactly are you planning?”

  “I’ve got a big score to settle.”

  “I’ll bet.” Eric turned to Cavagnolo. “This is more than a big favor. Your friend blabs, I’ll stick a machine gun up your ass and fire until the barrel glows red.”

  “He’s not my friend. And don’t threaten me. We’re in this business together.”

  Eric opened one of the cabinets and brought out a cardboard box filled with spare gun parts, loose cartridges of various calibers, electric fuses, and blasting caps. “I once had a whole carton of M67 hand grenades but the state patrol bought them all. They used them in a sting operation to get some white supremacists.”

  “Why buy the grenades from you?”

  “Less paperwork.”

  “What happened to the grenades?”

  Eric shrugged. “This is a cash-and-carry operation. What the customer does with the merchandise after the fact is none of my concern.”

  “The cops don’t mind?”

  “You kidding? Course they mind, but we got this agreement. I pretend I don’t have them, and the state patrol keeps the ATF out of the loop. The deal is I keep
this stuff from the hands of unstable elements.” Eric squinted. “You unstable?”

  “Not today.” I gave him a three-fingered salute. “Scout’s honor.”

  “What about the sunglasses? You doing drugs?”

  “Naw, nothing like that. I got an eye condition, that’s all.”

  “In both eyes?”

  “Yeah, and it’s contagious.” I stepped toward Eric.

  He put his hands up for me to keep away.

  Cavagnolo said, “The fucker thinks he’s a vampire.”

  They both chuckled.

  “That true?” Eric asked. “You a vampire?”

  “What do you think? Want to see my union card?” I took electric fuses and blasting caps and put them in my pocket. “Get me two sticks of dynamite.”

  Eric looked from me to Cavagnolo and back again. “Who’s got the bucks?”

  I pointed to Cavagnolo. “Put it on his tab.”

  He gave me the stink eye but shouldn’t have been surprised.

  I picked up a rumpled garment from the workbench. It was a bird hunting jacket made of oilskin, now cracked and ripped. “How much?”

  “For that rag? Take it.”

  I opened my scout knife and cut off the jacket’s sleeves; all I needed was a vest with lots of pockets.

  “What about a machine gun?”

  Eric went to the bottom shelf on the northern wall and grasped a rope handle on one end of a long wooden crate.

  Eric talked as he eased the crate to floor. “These are worth plenty on the black market but they’re hell to get rid of. I gotta be real careful who I sell to. Goddamn gangbangers would get a hard-on this big”—Eric spread his hands a foot apart—“for any of these. But they can barely handle pistols, so these would be like giving chainsaws to monkeys.”

  The crate was longer than my leg and eighteen inches deep. The stenciled lettering on the top read: Water Pump Bearing Rod. Eric undid the four brass latches on the long sides and removed the top.

  A machine gun lay inside the wooden support cutouts. The gun had a long perforated jacket over the barrel. It looked like the weapons the Imperial Stormtroopers carried in Star Wars.

  “It’s surplus from the former Yugoslavia. The weapon is the modern version of the German MG42.” Eric gushed with the enthusiasm of a collector who finally had an audience. He mentioned something about the best machine gun ever made, the American army almost adopted it but fucked up the design, yada, yada.