by Tony Urban
Aben leaned his back against the car while the dog ate. Bol joined him and both waited for Dash.
“He say anything?” Aben asked with a slight nod toward the back seat.
Bolivar shook his head. “I think he might be gone.”
Aben remained silent for a while, then spoke again. “It surprises you sometimes what people can come back from. Don't write him off just yet.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I don’t know,” Aben said as he stared toward the clouds in the sky. “Hell of a thing to live with. Don’t know if I’d want to.”
He had a point, but being a breathing shell was pretty awful too.
“Your buddy there,” Aben nodded toward the market, “This is gonna be real bad for him.”
“I know.”
Aben looked at him and Bolivar felt he was being examined. Because he was. “No, you don’t.” Aben turned his body so he could look at Bolivar without having to strain his neck. “I know that makes me sound like an asshole and I might be. Hell, almost certainly am. But you don’t know. And I don’t want you to take it like I’m judging you because I’d give my right hand to have been a medic like you and keep my gun in its holster all the time. Unless you’re some fuckwit like Charlie Manson or John Wayne Gacy, killing is almost as hard on you as it is on the person you killed.”
Bolivar thought of poor, tormented Gwen Peduto who went to her grave distraught over a good deed gone horribly wrong.
“I’m just saying, Dash is a kooky son of a bitch and I know he can get on your last nerve because he gets on mine too, but we need to cut him some slack.”
“Okay. I will.”
“Good.” Aben suddenly grinned and the expression completely transformed his face. “You didn’t even crack a smile when I said I’d give my right hand. That’s a pretty big deal considering it’s the only one I got.” He tapped Bolivar’s shoulder with his stump.
Just as Bolivar smiled back, Dash vacated the store, pushing his overloaded shopping cart like it was a racecar. He almost crashed into them before pulling it back under control.
“I stocked us up good, boys!” He started tossing food into the open trunk. Canned goods mostly, but also cereals, various drinks and a box of something in small jars.
“What’s that?” Bol asked.
“Oh.” Dash popped open the box and pulled out a jar. “Baby food.”
Bolivar looked at him like he was crazy and even Aben had trouble masking his confusion.
“It’s for him.” Dash pointed to Grady inside the car. “I know it sounds goofy but I don’t want him to go hungry so I thought this might work. Least until he gets better.”
Dash’s eyes were brighter than they’d been since the shooting and he made Bolivar think of a little boy waiting expectantly for his teacher’s approval.
“Did I do good, boys?”
Bolivar felt a pang of regret for being so short with him, for blaming him. None of this was Dash’s fault.
“Yeah, Dash. You did real good.”
Dash’s crazy grin made a triumphant return. “Hot damn!”
He tossed the remaining groceries into the trunk. They almost filled it to the brim. “Let’s blow this joint, brother!”
They did just that.
32
Mead didn’t believe in love at first sight. He didn’t believe in love at all, truth be told. It was for fools. Nevertheless, as he watched the girl beat in a zombie’s head with a cinder block, he felt his heart swell up just like the Grinch.
His luck with cars was the worst and when the BMW he’d been driving shit the bed a few hours earlier he wasn’t even surprised. The rest of the group had gone a different direction earlier that morning. So far, their scavenger hunts hadn’t bore much fruit. Canned goods and a few old guns was the extent of it.
Mead headed into a valley that’s he’d previously passed by. He had a good feeling about it. But soon something in the wheel well started thudding so hard he could feel the vibrations in the steering column. Eventually the thud turned into a metallic screech as the wheel locked up.
He found he didn’t really care about being stranded there, all alone. He had his blade, and he needed that more than other people. Maybe he’d catch up with them again and maybe not. No great loss.
He had wandered a few miles when he saw the old Indian cruiser motorcycle leaning against a rundown mobile home. The bike’s worth more than the entire house, he thought. As someone who grew up as trailer trash himself, he was confident in his judgement and wondered how they’d afforded such a nice ride. Probably has a seized engine. Not that Mead knew what that even meant.
There was no key in the motorcycle’s ignition and he thought about continuing down the road for an easier ride to grab, but he liked the look of the bike and it was all too easy to picture himself riding down the highway, the wind whipping through his long hair. Maybe he’d become skilled enough that he could swing and decapitate zombies without even slowing down. The fact that he’d never ridden more than a dirt bike, and that was over 10 years ago, didn’t deter him in the slightest.
The rickety steps groaned underneath him as he climbed to the trailer door. Before opening it, he grabbed his stick and held it ready at his side. When he pulled the thin, metal screen door open the hinges squealed and shattered his attempt at stealth.
The mobile home was old and rundown but relatively neat. The only items out of place were a smattering of baby toys scattered across the floor. It felt empty, but Mead stayed alert as he sifted through the kitchen drawers hoping to find the keys to the Indian.
After digging through silverware, screwdrivers, and miscellaneous junk he came up empty handed. On to Plan B. When he stepped into what passed for the master bedroom, his attention drifted to a poorly posed family photo hanging askew on the wall. In it, a man and woman, both in their early 20’s (younger than me, he thought) sat in front of a fake flower backdrop. In the woman’s arms was a baby.
They might have made it, he thought, even though he knew it wasn’t true. Mead hadn’t seen his own kid in years and rarely gave the boy any thought, but looking at that crappy picture made him wonder what might have happened. He pushed the thought aside, not because it was too hard, but because it was pointless, and continued his search.
He hit pay dirt in the underwear drawer where a skull key chain holding two keys rested underneath some worn out boxers. After dropping the keys into his pocket, he moved into the hall where he paused outside a closed door.
When he pushed the door open, he found what he expected - a nursery. The daffodil yellow walls were cut in half by a clown border which was glued to form a makeshift chair rail. Tucked into the back corner, just below the window, was a wooden crib. Mead considered turning back several times, but his curiosity got the best of him. It was a bad idea.
When Mead reached the crib and looked down at the white satin lined bedding, he saw a scrawny, gray and very zombified baby staring up with dead eyes. When the baby saw Mead, it let loose something between a growl and a goo goo. Thick, yellow drool drained from its toothless mouth and it waved its tiny limbs at him in awkward, circular swipes.
He stared at it for a long moment before trying to raise the hockey stick. The blade hit the low ceiling and he realized he didn't have enough room to maneuver it. Instead, he set the stick aside and pulled a Bowie knife from his belt.
The dead baby kept swinging its hands at Mead’s descending arms and the blade of the knife nicked its tiny pinky finger. Black blood oozed from the wound like tar. Mead pushed its little arm aside, and the baby hissed as it raised its head off the bedding and tried to bite him.
Mead pushed its head back against a blanket which was covered with ducks and chicks, and held it firm. Its jaws kept biting as Mead touched the tip of the knife against the center of the baby’s forehead. He pressed down and was surprised when its thin, still malleable skull popped like an egg shell and the blade sunk into the baby’s head up to the hilt.
The baby stopped moving and Mead pulled the knife free. He used the bedding to wipe the black gore clean from the blade, then returned it to his belt.
Movement outside the narrow bedroom window caught his attention just before he could leave the room. A woman lumbered across the lawn in that awkward, staggering gate of the undead. He grabbed the hockey stick.
As Mead hit the front door, the zombie reached the steps. She looked up at him and he recognized her from the family photo on the trailer wall. Vacant, hopeless death had replaced the glow of motherhood and her over-sized maternity shirt still pouched outward with baby weight she’d never lose.
He swung the stick, and it arced through the air in line to take off her head but before the blade could connect; the woman stumbled forward and smashed face first into the metal steps. Mead had been expecting his blade to meet resistance and when it caught nothing but air, it became embedded in the metal siding of the trailer. He tried to jerk it free but the damned thing was stuck.
As he worked to extract the stick, the zombie grabbed hold of his ass and caught her hand in his back pocket. Her weight pulled him down and he did a back flip over her before crashing onto the hard ground.
While Mead rolled onto his belly and scrambled to his knees, the zombie came for him. He brandished the same knife he’d just used to exterminate her baby and lunged at her.
The blade of the knife entered her face just to the right of her nose and the handle stuck out like a pin in a voodoo doll. It hadn’t penetrated deep enough to destroy her brain, and she flailed with her arms, smacking him in the face and digging at his head.
“Damn it, bitch!” he said with a grunt as he tried to catch the knife’s handle. “Hold still!”
She thrashed beneath him and he was running out of energy to hold her at bay. Multiple days with nothing to eat but gas station junk food and energy drinks had kept him awake but left him ill prepared for prolonged physical altercations.
He lucked out when the dead woman also ran out of steam. Her thrashing head slowed enough for him to catch the handle of the knife and, with his remaining strength, he pulled it loose.
Mead took his time and slid the blade into her eye. He kept pushing even after the eyeball popped and sent a warm spray of fluid the color and consistency of curdled milk back into his face. He pushed until the handle disappeared into the socket and only stopped when the blade met resistance at the back of her skull. Mead wasn’t sure when she’d stopped moving, but the woman was dead. Again.
He laid on top of her and tried to catch his breath, but just seconds later a long shadow fell over him and he heard a raspy groan.
“Motherfucker.”
He rolled off the dead woman, catching his cheek on the ragged edge of a metal step and slicing his face open in the process. When he looked up, he saw the hayseed father from the family picture coming at him.
Dad hadn’t fared as well as his family and he had two big bites taken out of his neck. Hickey’s from hell. His wounds didn’t slow him down though and in seconds he was at Mead’s feet.
Mead pushed himself backward until he hit the skirting of the trailer. His stick was buried in the wall. His knife in the woman’s face. He was helpless.
He pushed against the skirting, hoping to get it loose enough to crawl under the mobile home, but it was tight and held firm. With the zombie in striking distance, he kicked out with his right foot and connected with its knee which buckled backward with a crunch. It teetered for a moment, then lost its balance and started falling right at Mead.
Mead didn’t have time to think of his never-ending shitty luck before the zombie landed on top of him. Pinned between the metal skirting and the zombie, Mead was spent. There was no strength remaining with which to free himself from this latest jam.
The zombie snarled and when it opened its mouth, Mead could smell rot and death spilling from deep inside it. The smell sent his stomach into spasms and he felt puke rushing up his throat. He didn’t bother turning away and the hot vomit burst from his mouth and sprayed the zombie in the face projectile-style.
The monster growled and hissed as Mead’s stomach acid and chunks of half dissolved Twinkies and Ho-Hos slid down its face. The sight was enough to make Mead smile. He never imagined death would look so horrible and amusing at once.
The creature leaned in toward him, their faces just inches apart and Mead was finished. He had no energy to fight. He waited to get eaten.
That changed when the zombie’s lower jaw disappeared in an explosion of black blood and shattered teeth.
Mead and the zombie looked sideways in unison like synchronized swimmers. They saw a girl who looked no more than 20 holding a pistol. She shot again and the bullet hit the zombie in the ribs and sent it careening sideways, off of Mead.
“Damn it!” She sprinted toward Mead and the monster. When she reached them, she aimed the gun at the back of the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger. And nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing.
Mead was so shocked by these developments he didn’t even have time to think a derisive thought about why guns made such poor weapons. Instead, he watched as the girl grabbed a broken cinder block from beside the trailer, raised it above her head, and brought it down on the zombie’s skull. It crumpled inward with a crunch that sounded like 100 eggs being cracked at once.
She wasn’t done though. She raised the concrete block again and swung it for round two. Most of the zombie’s head was in pieces on the ground and when Mead looked from the destroyed zombie to the girl’s beautiful, pixie face, he realized he was in love.
33
Solomon flipped up the smoked glass shield of the welder’s mask. He’d worked up quite a sweat underneath it and the drops had painted pinstripes on his blood covered face so that it alternated back and forth. Blood, flesh. Blood, flesh.
His headache had mostly gone away. He’d always found work to be a calming force. Focusing on a singular task made his other problems go away. Apparently that worked even when you had two holes in your noggin.
Saw looked at his creation, proud as a new papa. The Kenworth dump truck, the pride of his operation, had been transformed into a killing machine. He’d welded 12 feet lengths of rebar to the front, where they jutted out to form long spears. On the sides, he welded fast row upon row of razor wire left over from an old construction job in a high crime area. He filled the sleeper cab with sledgehammers, demo bars, and various shears and cutting tools. He’d even added a few chainsaws for good measure. It was 10 tons of rolling death and he couldn’t wait to put it to use.
He watched his reflection in a shop mirror as he unwrapped the bandage from his head. The holes in his skull had stopped leaking blood but he knew they still had the potential to become infected. He lit a road flare and watched his face turn candy apple red in the glow. Saw held the flare against the bullet wound in his forehead and counted to five. When it pulled it away, he revealed a charred hole. He repeated this with the wound near his temple. He thought it looked like he had a third eye, a pitch black Cyclops.
“Let’s see now. I spy with my little eye… destruction.” He grinned, revealing nearly all of his rotten teeth.
Solomon Baldwin felt like he’d been waiting his whole life for a scenario such as this. A time when he could let his true self show. Fuck all of society’s niceties and rules. Man was meant to fight. Laws, morals those only stopped the strong from reaching their true potential and protected the weak. The sheep. Now there was no one to hide behind. Now, the world would belonged to those were willing to fight for it. Now, he could fully become Saw.
Saw wanted to test his dump truck turned weapon. He headed toward a shopping mall parking lot where zombies staggered across the acres of asphalt. He cackled as he drove toward them, hitting the first few at 20 miles an hour. The zombies that didn’t end up skewered on rebar spears fell under the dump truck’s heavy wheels where their bodies broke and burst. The creatures which collided with the sides of the truck became swept up into the coi
ls of razor wire where they were dragged along.
He kept it up for 15 minutes, never losing his horrible smile. He noticed that the zombies at the front of the truck were piled in deep, packed onto the rebar like beef and peppers on shish kabobs. He grabbed a sledge hammer from the passenger seat and hopped out of the cab.
Eight zombies were caught up in the wire on the driver’s side. When they saw Solomon they growled and stretched in an attempt to grab him. The razor wire cut deep into their flesh and black blood oozed out.
“Hold tight, mates. I’ve got plans for you but I want to take care of the chaps up front first.”
He strolled to the cab where around 30 zombies had been impaled through their chests and torsos. They hung off the metal rods like ventriloquists dummies, their arms and legs flailing.
“Looks like you folks got yourselves in a sticky wicket.”
He moved within a yard of them. The creatures desperately tried to snatch him, grabbing at the air, clawing at the other zombies trapped with them. To Saw, their guttural gasps and hisses sounded better than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Solomon removed the hammer end of the sledge from his shoulder, looked at the nearest zombie and swung. It’s head imploded, splashing out clods of brains. Some ricocheted into Saw’s face. That made the whole ordeal even more exciting.
One by one he beat in the heads of the creatures stuck to his dump truck and, when he was done, they hung there like slabs of meat. He took his time removing them and, when finished, he’d produced a sizeable pile of destroyed zombies. It had all worked just as planned. The apocalypse was proving to be buckets of fun.
34
The town had no stoplights, just two streets that intersected in a roundabout with a picturesque, white gazebo in the center. It seemed empty save for two zombies that wandered about and a third which sprawled across the steps of the library. He looked like a wino missing his paper bag cloaked bottle. As the rumble of an engine approached, the zombies turned in the direction of the sound and waited.