Smith and I chinked our glasses.
“Just happy it didn’t turn out that way,” Smith said.
I sipped my bourbon. Wow! I would have been shot dead by Smith if the undead hadn’t taken over the world. Life was always full of surprises.
Another surprise hit us almost immediately.
“Hello?” a voice called from the corridor to the right of the bar.
Smith and I immediately rose from our stools and instinctively drew our handguns from our shoulder holsters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Come out into the open with your hands raised where we can see you,” Smith barked, holding his handgun in a firing position.
I also aimed my firearm at the dark space where the voice had come from. In my recent experience, people who pretended to be friendly often weren’t.
A thick set white guy, probably in his early forties and dressed in a fawn colored work shirt and denim jeans shuffled closer into the bar area. Smith and I instinctively moved either side of him, covering the guy and also the passageway behind him. He emerged from the gloom with his hands raised beside his head.
“You alone?” Smith asked.
The guy nodded. Sweat ran down his creased forehead, matting up his receding, curly brown hair. His brown eyes darted between Smith and I.
“Please, I don’t want to cause any problems,” the guy stammered. His accent was somewhere from Midwest America. “I used to be the caretaker of this place.” He glanced to the floor. “I guess I kind of still am. I keep a check on the place and heard the music playing.”
“Is that your Johnny Thunders CD?” Smith barked, pointing to the player behind the bar.
The guy looked totally perplexed. “No, I swear I don’t even know Johnny Thunders. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Your loss, pal,” Smith snapped and lowered his handgun. He waved for me to do the same.
I lowered my firearm and shoved it back in my holster. The guy was unarmed and didn’t seem to be any kind of threat. He sighed in relief and lowered his hands slightly.
“My name is Dave. Dave Burland.” He dropped his hands and moved closer towards us, proffering a shake of hands.
Smith edged towards him and took the hand shake. I reluctantly followed suit.
“I’m Smith, he’s Wilde,” Smith grunted, nodding at me.
“Can I ask what you guys are doing here?” Dave Burland asked, shrugging like we were intruding on his space.
Smith gazed around the room before he spoke. “It’s a long story but the short version is we were looking for somewhere to hole up for the night and saw this place. Is that going to be a problem, friend?”
I could tell by his negative body language that Burland didn’t want us in his clubhouse but he took a brief glance at our weapons before nodding his head.
“Sure, you can stay as long as it’s just for the one night,” he muttered.
Smith shook his head. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, friend. I was telling you what we’re doing and asked you if you had a problem with that. Now, I’m being polite as I can here.”
Burland raised his hands and stepped backwards in a defensive stance. “No, no. I’ve got no problems with you staying here.”
“Glad to hear it,” Smith snapped.
“It’s just that I’ve worked hard to keep this place free from the dead. I live on the site just around the corner. I used to be the caretaker of the tennis club,” Burland explained, also repeating himself .
“Are there any working vehicles out there?” Smith asked.
Burland shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you do for food?” I asked.
Burland glanced at me, seeming reluctant to tell us anything more. “I have a dry goods store on the site.”
Perhaps he thought we were going to rob him blind then shoot him dead afterwards.
“I can let you have a couple of cans of soup or beans if you want,” Burland said.
“That’s kind of you,” I said, nodding. “We got separated from the rest of our group and the guy holding the supplies. We got bottles of water and that’s about it. We can’t trade you anything.”
Burland shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just a little nervous about guys with guns, you know. And you guys look like you’ve just come out of a war zone.” He pointed at the rifles and the SMAW rocket launcher next to the bar counter.
“We promise we won’t blow the place up,” Smith said, holding up the palm of his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
Smith’s humor seemed lost on Burland. He shuffled around on his feet and wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand. The guy seemed like a nervous wreck but I guessed seeing two guys clad in black combat gear and armed to the teeth would have that impression on most people.
“Okay, I’ll go get those cans of food for you,” Burland said, turning on his heels.
“How about we come with you?” Smith said.
Burland smiled nervously. “There’s no need,” he stammered. “I’ll be right back.”
“With who and what though?” Smith growled, taking a step towards Burland. “You could waltz back in here with an army for all we know. I think we’ll come along with you, friend.”
Burland raised his hands in a surrendering motion. “No, no, it’s just me and one other colleague here, I swear.”
“Who is this colleague of yours?” Smith barked. “You didn’t tell us about them. How many of you guys are there in this place?” He leaned menacingly close to Burland, gritting his teeth and sending a shower of spittle into the guy’s face.
“Just me and my colleague, Ralph. I swear,” Burland stammered, leaning backwards to get out of Smith’s range.
Smith straightened up. “Okay, lead the way, friend.” He pointed to the corridor.
I couldn’t understand why Smith was being so harsh on the guy. Maybe he just didn’t like him and was a little pissed off at breaking up our drinking session.
I pointed at our rifles, backpacks and the SMAW launcher. “You cool with leaving them here?” I asked Smith.
Smith shook his head. “Nah, we take all the gear with us.”
We moved to the bar counter and slung on the backpacks and weapons. I groaned, my gear seemed heavier than before.
“Really, there is no need to follow me,” Burland said, nervously smiling. “I’ll be right back with your cans of food if you want to stay here. There isn’t anybody going to come at you, I swear.”
“So you keep saying,” Smith grunted. “Now, lead the way to your living quarters, buddy.”
Burland wiped sweat from his face. “Yes, right, err…okay.”
I exchanged concerned glances with Smith. Burland seemed like he was going to piss his pants. What the hell was wrong with the guy?
Smith and I followed Burland along the corridor and outside through the glass double doors. The glowing red sun was dipping and partially masked by a bank of gray clouds. The air smelled fresh as though a rain shower was coming.
“This way,” Burland muttered and headed across the right side of the parking lot.
Smith and I followed a few paces behind the guy. It seemed as though he was contemplating running away from us at any second. I noticed Smith kept his hand on the butt of his handgun inside his holster. Something didn’t seem quite right about this guy in front of us and I knew Smith was determined to find out what it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dave Burland led the way across the parking lot and threaded his way through a winding paved pathway surrounded by small flower beds, overgrown with large purple flowers. He glanced back at us before quickening his pace.
We walked further along the pathway between tall bushes on either side of the concrete paving slabs. A small, one storey, red brick building stood beyond the bushes. A single dim light shone through a pair of drawn curtains inside a wooden framed window, to the right of a red painted front door. Manicured flower beds and a short cut lawn lay either side of the
front garden pathway. A couple of steps led up to a small open porch surrounding the front door.
“Ralph, it’s me,” Burland called out. “I have two other people from outside with me.”
The front door opened a crack and a tall, thin guy with a hooked nose and wearing a pair of black framed glasses peered out for a couple of seconds. He lurched back inside and closed the door as we walked along the garden path.
“What’s he doing?” Smith asked.
“He’s…err…probably just clearing a few things away,” Burland stammered. “It’s not very often we have visitors.” He moved up the steps closer to the front door and knocked gently. “Ralph, it’s me,” he said softly. “These two guys just need a couple of cans of food, that’s all.” He turned back to look at Smith and I with his regular nervous smile.
Smith and I exchanged glances once more and we waited in silence for around a minute before the door opened again. The tall guy with the hooked nose and glasses stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a red t-shirt and fawn colored chinos with a pair of black loafers.
“Jeez, Ralph, what took you so long?” Burland queried, uneasily laughing as he spoke.
“Not used to people turning up here, Dave. You know that,” Ralph replied. His accent was also Mid West American but he spoke with the same kind of nervous undertones as Burland.
Burland introduced us and Smith and I kind of nodded an acknowledgment rather than any handshakes or backslapping welcomes.
“And how long are you staying at the clubhouse for?” Ralph inquired.
“Just tonight, we got other places we need to be,” I said. We stood in awkward silence for a few moments. Ralph and Burland simply glanced at each other nervously, almost like a couple of kids waiting for their parents to leave them alone.
“The cans of food?” Smith said, breaking the discomfort.
“Yes, of course,” Ralph said. “I’ll just nip inside and get them for you.”
“Ralph, where are your manners?” Burland said. “Aren’t you going to invite our guests in and offer them something to drink?”
“Hey, that’s okay,” I started to say. “We’ll just head back…”
“Sounds great,” Smith butted in. “What have you got?” He barged by Ralph standing under the porch in front of the doorway and entered the house.
Ralph turned sharply, following closely behind Smith. Burland rushed into the house after Ralph and I trailed them up the steps and through the front door. A short and semi dark hallway stood beyond the front door and several closed doors stood on each side of the passageway. Cracks of light shone from beyond a door to our right.
“Go on into the kitchen,” Ralph called. His voice cracked slightly as though he was trying to stifle a panicked scream. “It’s the first door on the right.”
Smith nodded and headed into the room he was told. He pushed open the door and dim light flooded the hallway. We followed Smith inside the room, which was a small but neat kitchen with a light brown counter top running at waist height around the walls with a row of brown colored closets below. A chrome hood sat above a large chrome hob on the far wall and several closets hung around the walls. A chrome sink stood in front of the window with the drawn curtains. The kitchen had a faint waft of the same cleaning fluid I’d noticed hanging in the air in the clubhouse.
Burland pushed the door closed behind us. He turned and opened a closet behind him. I saw the shelves were full of soda cans.
“Grape, cherry or orange soda?” he asked, not turning from the closet.
“Grape for me,” I said.
Smith scowled. He wasn’t big on soda and was probably expecting a glass of bourbon. “Is that all you got?” he snorted. “What about a proper drink?”
“We don’t usually have any liquor in the house,” Ralph interrupted, leaning with his back against the cooker. “There’s enough in the clubhouse and extra in the dry goods store behind this house.”
“Whatever, then,” Smith sighed.
Burland took out two cans of grape soda and handed one each to Smith and I. Smith grimaced and set his can down on the countertop behind him. I popped open my can and took a slurp of the sweet, warm soda.
“I’ll get you those cans of food now,” Burland said, smiling as he moved across the kitchen to another closet to the right of the cooker. “I expect you want to get some sleep after your long day. We mustn’t keep them, must we, Ralph. I’ll let you have those cans with the pull off tops so you won’t have to use a can opener.” He opened the closet and stared at the shelves. “Now, beans or soup, guys? Not a great deal of choice I’m afraid.”
“Beans will do fine,” I said, when Smith offered no reply.
Burland turned smiling and handed me two cans of Ranch Style baked beans.
“Much appreciated,” I muttered, putting down my soda on the worktop and taking the cans of beans, which I slipped into the side pockets of my jacket.
“There is a microwave to heat up the beans behind the bar if you want to,” Burland said. He drew closer as if he was trying to hustle me out of the door. “I guess you guys must be tired and hungry. Ralph and I shouldn’t keep you up all night.”
“No, we really shouldn’t,” Ralph chipped in, moving forward and opening the kitchen door. “It was really nice to meet you both though.” He gestured towards the doorway with an extended arm.
Smith rumbled, turned and headed out of the kitchen to the front door. I followed with Burland close behind. He dived for the front door and opened it for us. The sky was almost completely dark with only a slight red glow on the horizon.
“Well, have a pleasant evening,” Burland said, forcing an obviously false smile. “I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way back to the clubhouse.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can manage just fine,” Smith said.
We were almost at the bottom of the two steps when the front door slammed behind us. I heard raised voices from behind the door although I didn’t catch the words. One of them said ‘Shhh!’ before the voices receded.
I glanced at Smith as we walked away from the house. He remained silent until we were out of earshot from the grounds.
“I don’t know what those two schmucks are up to but I don’t trust them a goddamn inch,” he said.
I turned back to take a look at the house, silhouetted in the near darkness. “Funny that,” I muttered. “I was just thinking the same dang thing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The moans of the undead drifted from the forest on the far side of the tennis club complex. Smith and I turned on the lights in the clubhouse when we entered through the glass double doors at the front entrance. We dumped our gear back beside the bar and I heated up the cans of beans, pouring the contents into two separate bowls and heating them in the microwave cooker that sat in a small recessed area behind the bar counter.
Smith poured himself another bourbon and poised the bottle over my empty glass, looking quizzically at me. I shook my head as I set down the hot bowls on the counter.
“Shit, I think I overcooked these damn beans,” I said, blowing on my scolded fingers.
“Any eating irons back there, Wilde Man?” Smith asked.
“Oh, yeah.” I said. The last thing we needed was to have to eat scorching hot beans with our fingers. I turned back to the recess and found a couple of small spoons that were probably meant for stirring coffee. No matter, they’d do. I handed one to Smith who looked at it like it was an alien artifact.
“Is this all there is?” he asked, holding up the spoon.
“Yup,” I said, before blowing steam across my bowl of beans.
Smith shrugged and took a sip of his bourbon.
We each sat on a bar stool in front of the counter and waited a couple of minutes for our beans to cool before tucking in.
“So, what do you figure those two goons up there in the house are up to?” I asked.
Smith shrugged again. “Damned if I know. Maybe they want our weapons. I wouldn’t put it p
ast them to try and sneak in here tonight and try and rob us. Once they’ve gotten their hands on our firearms, we’re fucked.”
“You think that’s what they want?” I asked. “I’m not so sure. They seemed like they were trying to hide something to me.”
“Maybe we’re overreacting,” Smith sighed. “Maybe they’re just a couple of fags and want to be left alone by the likes of you and me, kid.”
“How very homophobic of you, Smith,” I said.
Smith wiped sauce from his mouth with his sleeve. “I ‘aint got nothing against fags, Wilde. Jesus, New York was full of them. They virtually ran the goddamn city.”
I wanted to move the conversation on. I was a little uncomfortable with Smith’s outdated terminology. “So don’t you think Dave and fucking Ralph were a little creepy?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Smith said. “I’m saying maybe we’ve got paranoid in our old age and don’t trust nobody no more. I still don’t trust the bastards though but maybe that’s just us after all the shit we’ve been through.”
“Fair point,” I said, finishing up my beans.
Smith jabbed his bean covered spoon at me. “But my cop’s gut tells me something ‘aint right. They asked us inside the house just for a show and they blew it by trying to throw us out almost immediately. It was kind of a reverse psychology that backfired on them.” He dumped his spoon back in the bowl. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to finish these goddamn beans and we’re going to go spy on those two fuckers and see if they’re hiding something.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable trying to sleep here if I thought they were going to come creeping around in the middle of the night and slit our throats. There are no locks on the doors inside so we wouldn’t even know if they came inside. At least, if we spy on them before they spy on us, we’ll know if they have anything to hide.”
Smith took a gulp of his bourbon. “Man, that’s some fucked up logic but I kind of know where you’re coming from, kid.”
The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses Page 14