“Bad daddy,” she scolded, pointing a finger at him.
Nozomi plucked the syringe out of her left eye, and then tossed it to the ground. As Isamu moved around her in an attempt to flee up the street, zombies begin to emerge from every alleyway. Running towards the intersection, he saw a large horde suddenly appear, blocking his escape route.
Looking to the front of the pack he saw a uniformed man. It was Hachioji Police Sergeant Shogo Hamada and he looked very displeased. Isamu pointed his pistol at the sergeant and discharged five shots, but Shogo remained erect and still.
“Kono Zombie yarou!” Isamu shouted.
From behind him, his daughter repeated, “Namakemono wa ine ga. Nakuko wa ine ga”— No lazy people. No crying children.
Isamu turned around and saw his daughter pointing at him.
“Nozomi!” he cried out in dismay and anguish.
“Namakemono wa ine ga. Nakuko wa ine ga,” Nozomi’s refrain continued, as she still directed an accusing finger at him.
Isamu put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked against the empty chamber as the zombies encircled him, Hamada in the fore.
VII. All Tits and No Brains
Isamu had not gone back to see if Matsumoto was alive; he had been preoccupied with plotting his revenge. As Isamu came down on Gaku’s leg, shattering it, from under the three dead strippers in the Nakayasu lobby came grunts and groans. The pile of corpses began to move, first with a quiver of appendages and then with a rising of bodies.
Matsumoto pushed off the three girls he lay under and stood up. His face was pale with dark circles around his eyes. He was perspiring, and not been from the work of getting out from under the rank, smelling bodies.
“Stupid zombie bitches,” he told the lifeless strippers, as he tucked in his shirt.
He straightened his tie and brushed off his suit jacket. He looked down at the bleeding gash across his leg. He knew what Gaku had done to him. He had been purposely infected from the katana that had been used on him. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, but if he could make it back to Nin Jin House, he knew his boss would save him.
After wrapping his leg with his tie, he picked up his wakizashi and hobbled toward the open door.
As he stepped out from under the eave, a katana sword from behind thrust through his pectoralis minor. He looked at the protruding bloody blade as it withdrew.
On the other end of the weapon was the big-breasted, topless stripper, who earlier had nearly run into him as she fled the penthouse suite.
Her face lit up with fear when Matsumoto turned around, realizing she had stabbed a man and not a zombie.
“All tits and no brains,” he told her and then slashed his wakizashi across her torso.
The girl collapsed. Her glossy and panicky eyes remained transfixed on Matsumoto, until she bled out.
Matsumoto dropped to his knees, his wakizashi falling next to him. He collapsed forward and onto the dead girl, his face coming to a rest on her breast.
Hamasaki appeared above them. He looked at Matsumoto and then at the girl. He dropped to his knees, put his head between the girl’s spread legs, and ate into her crotch. Matsumoto lay in a semi-conscious state on the topless girl’s fleshy breast like it was a plumped up pillow, his lips pursed against her nipple. He wasn’t going to die nuzzled to the tit of some low-rental party girl, he told himself. If he was going to die with his face in tits, it was going to be in between the breasts of his favorite high-class prostitute.
He cautiously moved his hand along the walkway searching for the wakizashi he knew had dropped next to him. He grasped it and then plunged it into one of Hamasaki’s eyes. Matsumoto hobbled away with his wakizashi in one hand and the dead girl’s katana in the other, and headed toward the Echo Mansion apartments.
VIII. The Great Escape
“Nozomi!” Isamu cried again. “Please, forgive me?”
The loud rumble of a Triumph T100 motorcycle on a fast approach over powered Nozomi’s repetitive, ominous words of warning. The horde parted as zombie heads flew into the air.
The Triumph slid to a stop in front of Isamu.
“Boss, time to go,” Matsumoto told him, holding out a katana to him.
As they sped off together, Isamu sliced off Hamada’s head in passing. The cranium bounced twice and then rolled to Nozomi’s feet. She picked up Hamada’s decapitated head and looked toward her father as his motorcycle turned a corner.
“Bad daddy,” Nozomi scolded.
The Triumph had not traveled down the highway far before it began to wobble and slow. Matsumoto pulled onto the shoulder and parked. As he dismounted, he turned to his boss and said, “I’m sorry, Boss. I can’t—” He collapsed before he could finish.
Isamu rushed to his comrade’s aid. Matsumoto appeared to be dead, but he wasn’t sure. He shook the man, trying to rouse him.
“Matsumoto! Matsumoto! I order you not to die,” Isamu demanded. “Matsumoto, do you hear me?”
Isamu reached into his lower suit jacket pocket and retrieved the antiviral and a syringe. He held it before the lifeless Matsumoto.
“Matsumoto! I have the cure. I can save you.”
Isamu hurriedly prepared a syringe, hoping it wasn’t too late. As he was about to inject the serum into Matsumoto’s neck, Matsumoto’s eyes popped open. Isamu reeled back in shock. Matsumoto reached out and grabbed Isamu’s suit jacket by the bottom right pocket, tearing it. Isamu never saw the vial and last unused syringe fall out. As his savior attempted to grab him again, he stabbed Matsumoto in the eye injecting the antiviral. Matsumoto collapsed. Momentarily, the clan enforcer violently shook and contorted and then went limp.
Isamu saw that they were no longer alone. Zombies were closing in. He mounted his motorcycle and bade farewell to his most trusted man.
“Matsumoto, you were always loyal and honorable. I’ll never forget your sacrifice.”
Isamu sped away, and a moment later Matsumoto awoke in a half-zombie state. He pulled the syringe from his eye and looked at it. As he threw it to the ground, he saw the vial and the unused syringe. He picked them up and then walked away, the nearby zombies following.
***
Nozomi held onto Matsumoto’s hand with one hand, and Sergeant Hamada’s blank faced, decapitated head by the hair in her other. She looked up to her protector.
“Matsumoto-san, arigato gozaimasu for my new friend,” Nozomi said gratefully, and then looked to the cranium she held and asked it, “Sergeant Hamada, can we play?”
Hamada’s eyes looked to Nozomi.
The sergeant’s emotionless expression turned to glee, as he excitedly replied, “Yes. We could play cops and robbers. I could be the robber!”
Nozomi gave a wicked giggle and then looked back to Matsumoto.
“He’s funny,” she announced and then told her guardian, “I’m hungry.”
Matsumoto looked down at her and replied, “So am I, Nozomi-chan. So we shall go.”
The two departed hand in hand. A horde of zombies followed.
9 The Door by Martin Wilsey
“Dammit, Swan. You said Brunswick was small and quiet.” Briggs pulled her machete out of the zombie’s skull, scanning in every direction. Six bodies now littered the sidewalk in front of the Potomac Street Grill.
Joshua Swan picked the map back up with his left hand from the middle of the street without resheathing his katana.
“The handle is loose on this machete and we are out of duct tape. I wish I had my ax back,” she whispered, out of habit. Gail Briggs lowered her hood so she could see and hear better. They stood in front of the double doors of the Potomac Street Grill. “Get this door open. And be quiet about it this time.”
“Do you have to nag and complain all the time?”
He smiled as he cleaned his blade on a zombie’s hoodie and slid his sword into its sheath. He folded the map perfectly, and with speed that Briggs could never believe.
“I like complaini
ng.” She smiled. “I’m serious about the ax. We should find a hardware store.” She cleaned her blade on another body, sheathed her machete, swung her AR15 to the front, and affixed a bayonet.
The double doors both had windows, unbroken. Swan cupped his eyes and looked inside.
“Looks empty, but be ready.” He pulled out a crowbar and, as quietly as he could, he wedged the door open. He slipped in, followed by Briggs, who was shaking her head.
“I’m always ready, asswipe.” She pulled the door closed behind her and was surprised that it latched.
“You have splatter on your face again,” Swan said, knowing she hated that.
“Dammit,” she said. “Clear the place first, clean up after.”
The dining area was dusty but organized. The tables had silverware neatly rolled inside a paper napkin. With the ease of long practice, the two of them moved through the space. They checked behind the bar. Behind the counter was next. They could see into the kitchen through a large arch over a counter.
“Clear,” Swan said quietly. He scanned continuously with his Glock 9mm. The suppressor was affixed.
“Clear,” Briggs replied.
The bathroom doors were both propped open with Caution Wet Floor signs.
“Clear,” she whispered.
Together they moved into the kitchen. One to the left and one to the right. Clear again. Neither of them reached for the walk-in fridge/freezer door handle.
Briggs and Swan had made that mistake in the past. Rotten food was the best result. Zombies were the worse result.
There was a closed door here next to the walk-in.
Swan placed his left hand on the knob and waited.
Briggs turned on a bright tactical light that was attached to her rifle. She was two paces back with the light fixed on the door.
At her nod, Swan opened the door, quietly, but fast. He knelt low in case she shot. Light came from the far end of the storeroom. It was a long, narrow room with metal storage shelves on either side. The shelves were mostly empty. Dishes were scattered and broken on the floor.
“Clear,” he said, after looking both directions and even up. “Someone cleaned it out in a panic a long time ago.”
Briggs turned and scanned the kitchen again before she lowered the rifle and turned off its light.
“I’ll search in here. You take the kitchen.” Swan said. “Don’t forget. Hot sauce. I NEED hot sauce!”
Briggs slung her AR15 around to her back but left the bayonet attached. She systematically went through all the cabinets. She started piling her finds on the counter. There were large containers of salt, pepper, sugar and even two gallons of pancake syrup. She also found six pounds of Chock Full o’Nuts coffee, still sealed in the cans.
Going table to table, she collected eleven bottles of Brenda’s Bootie Burner hot sauce. She hid them behind a gallon of pancake syrup, just in time. Swan came out of the back room with an old cardboard box that was closed, with a dozen rolls of toilet paper stacked on top. There was a box balanced on top that also fell when he set it all on the counter.
He tossed the box to her. It was full of individually wrapped handy wipes. She wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him. It only smeared a little blood onto his nose. She had two packets open in a flash and was scrubbing her face, moaning with pleasure.
“I thought you’d like that.” He moved the TP from the top of the box and flipped it open. There were about thirty cans of Spam inside.
“Oh, my god. I am suddenly so hungry!” she said, smiling wide.
Swan was looking over the rest of the salvage. He was pleased.
Then Briggs slid aside the gallon of syrup revealing the hot sauce. Swan began to smile as wide as she was.
“Cold Spam with hot sauce.” He picked up one of the bottles. “Remember that night in Druid Ridge Cemetery just outside of Pikesville when you got hot sauce in your…”
That’s when the screaming began.
***
It was outside and louder than seemed possible. A woman screaming. Between shrill cries, she was screaming something. Words.
“What the fuck did she just say?” Briggs said, her rifle shouldered as she moved to the window to the left of the door. She unlatched it and slid it open. The screaming got louder.
“…This is a recording.” The screaming began again. She backed away from the window when she saw zombies in the street, moving toward the sound.
The screaming stopped, and the voice yelled like she was calling for help but actually was saying, “This is not real! I am drawing them to the roundhouse. I do not need help! This is a recording.” And more screams.
About fifteen zombies shuffled by before the screaming stopped.
“I think those stairs beyond the bathrooms go to the house above. Let’s see if there’s a window with a view,” Swan said.
They cleared two more levels quickly. It smelled musty, not like the rot of zombies, for once. The east window on the third floor had a view across Potomac Street to the rail yard. With binoculars, they could see that there were lights on by a huge warehouse. These included Christmas lights on the railing of a ramp that went to a single open door on the second level.
Briggs opened the window.
“You hear that?” She said. “It’s music. The Doobie Brothers, I think.”
“I hear a diesel generator. A big one. And something else,” Swan said.
The last zombie went through the door, and it eventually slammed closed, and the light went out. After a few more minutes the sound of one machine then another was silenced.
The world was quiet again. The unnerving hush descended that forced them to whisper all the time.
“It will be dark in an hour. Might as well sleep here tonight,” Briggs said.
“Let’s give the place one more search and then pile supplies in the kitchen up here,” Swan said.
Briggs nodded her head.
The linen closet had a supply of sheets. They covered the windows on the front door and stacked tables in front of the doors. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but it would make a racket if they pushed their way in. They pulled metal shelves across the back door outside the storeroom. The candles were collected from the tables before they barricaded the door at the top of the stairs.
They surveyed the place and came up with a way to exit in an emergency. “Nice of them to have real fire escapes,” Swan whispered.
They even found ten gallons of vinegar that they could use to fill the flush tank a couple times on one of the toilets.
“Don’t say it. Please.” Briggs said, as she was closing the bathroom door.
“If it’s yellow, let it mellow…” Swan couldn’t stop himself.
When she got out of the bathroom, Swan didn’t hear it flush. When she walked into the kitchen, she saw that Swan had a small gas grill there. He had pulled it in from the covered porch off the living room.
“Miss Briggs. I am declaring three days of R&R.” Swan flung open three cabinet doors and then the pantry door. They were nearly full. Swan had found them while sweeping the house.. The supplies were way more than they could carry.
“I say we take a week. The hot water tank is the glass-lined type and has about seventy gallons of water,” Briggs said.
***
They made grilled Spam steaks, with canned corn and canned peas. They ate at the dining room table by candlelight with real plates and silverware. If it weren’t for the blankets that covered the windows at night and handy guns on the table, it would have felt normal.
They talked about lighting a fire in the fireplace, but the autumn was not cold enough to risk it. Briggs said, “We had this same conversation on the day I first met you. Remember that apartment above the funeral home in Baltimore?”
“Yes,” Swan chuckled. “We almost killed each other.”
“We stayed up all night whispering. And fell asleep together at daylight.”
“Dumb asses,” Briggs said. “How did we survive that first week?”
“We ran. We ran a lot.” Swan was making light of it. They both knew the horrors of that first month held memories and topics they’d never revisit.
***
After dinner was cleaned up. Briggs and Swan felt safe enough and had a good bath. They had the extra water. They always called it a “bucket wash.” They stood in the shower with a bucket of soapy water and a bucket of clean. They scrubbed each other with wash cloths and real soap that had not been available for weeks on the road.
They found clean underwear, socks, and t-shirts, as well as very fashionable, over-large tracksuits. They still wore their boots, always. They would never make that mistake again either. “Be ready to run” was a mantra that had served them well.
Their weapons were never far from reach. Their packs were packed with water, food and all the supplies they could carry easily, first thing. Ready to grab and run at any moment. Briggs found a leather jacket that fit well enough and would allow her to keep her AR15 on her single-point harness handy and out of the rain.
They would stay here and rest and eat the food they could not carry away. Briggs and Swan would put some of the weight back on that they had lost. They would repair their gear, mend their clothes, and try to sleep. They would rest and be quiet and read the books they found in the house.
They had learned from past mistakes. They were always ready to run, and they knew there would be a time to move again.
Two nights passed quietly. They even considered briefly sleeping together instead of taking watches. They stood their usual watches.
They still slept fully clothed.
They made love for the first time since the hot sauce incident in the cemetery long ago. They were clean, after all. And human.
“I heard something last night.” Briggs said. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t see anything until I went out on the balcony at first light, before dawn. They’re gone.”
Silence of the Apoc_Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse Page 33