Zombies Don't Forgive

by Rusty Fischer

  His grunt is louder than the first, but the doors now shut him out. I cling to my pen, clicking it on and off twice just to make sure it still works. I get to the ground floor quickly and turn left, though I have no idea where I’m going. I just remember turning right when we walked in and hope to retrace my steps.

  There is a lot of activity on the first floor. A lot. Like, frickin’ the-last-day-of-school-out-on-the-quad a lot. All I see are bobbing black berets. All I hear is the squeak of boots as they pivot left and right to go in and out of so many doors.

  There’s a Sentinel every two damn feet. Since I’m impersonating a Keeper, of all things, they each nod at me. (Who knew Keepers had such pull?) I avoid eye contact, grateful that Vera’s jumpsuit doesn’t bag too much on me. I keep the beret down so low I’m getting distracted by the field of blue fuzz overhead.

  I am lost in a maze of hallways now, desperate to get out and certain that upstairs Vera is coming to in her cell and clanging a metal cup against the bars to get the guard’s attention.

  How long before the Crestview Rehabilitation Center goes on full damn lockdown mode and they toss me under the building and throw away the key?

  I turn around at a dead end and follow the flow of traffic, finally noticing the sounds of engines in the near distance. Engines and slamming doors and boots crunching on gravel. Gravel, not flooring. Car doors, not hallway doors. That must be out front, right?

  But is out front where I really want to go?

  I finally enter the main hallway, which is wider than the rest and better lit. It’s also better trafficked, and I’m starting to pass some of the same Sentinels for the second time. Most don’t notice or care. One does a double take, shrugs, and moves on. But how long before one does a triple take and follows me? Because, if I really am a Keeper, shouldn’t I know more than a Sentinel? As in, how to get around the center?

  I hear a horn honk, a gear grind, and an ignition falter. I head that way. I remember the garage where they shuttled me out of that SUV and into the center. A garage with big wide doors and lots and lots of vehicles.

  And I’m heading that way, right away, when I pause. Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Just before a bend in the hallway, I see several burly Sentinels clustered with a mortal-sized zombie between.

  It’s Dane! He’s wearing the same getup as he was yesterday and relying heavily on his cane to keep up with the ginormous strides of his monster Sentinel handlers. I’m the only powder blue in a sea of black at the moment, and he spots me right away.

  Our eyes lock, and time slows down. His face reacts strongly at first, then softens as the hall full of giant Sentinels grows claustrophobic and dangerous around him. I can see the glint in his eye, the confusion about what I’ve done, the hard edge of blame as the Sentinels haul him off to wherever they’re taking him, but also a gleam of understanding.

  Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part.

  Then I see his eyes get big, and I look ahead to find myself nearly running into a wall of Sentinels walking the opposite direction. I narrowly avoid striking any of them, though it’s too obviously a non-Keeper move to avoid a few grunts and near chuckles as I pass.

  I turn immediately, hoping for a smile from Dane, but all I see are the colossal backs of the Sentinels shuffling him away for who knows how long.

  How like him not to rat me out, even after all I did to him.

  Does he know what I’m up to? Is that why he didn’t nark? Or is he just that much of a stand-up guy?

  I think I know the answer already, but now is not the time to get all mushy and run back to him with open arms and spouting poetry. Now is the time to get away, as quickly and quietly as possible, and do what needs to be done. If I make it, I can always apologize to Dane later. If not, and he doesn’t know the real deal, the real me, then he never knew me at all.

  I turn around and buck up, moving forward, ever forward. Forget it, I tell myself. Forget it. You’re doing the right thing. Dane will understand. He has to.

  If this is a suicide mission, like Vera said, then I’m not going to turn it into a murder-suicide by dragging Dane along with me. And that’s what would have happened, if he’d known what I was doing.

  Well, he probably knows now, but what’s he going to do?

  Oh, crap! Shoot! Is that macho man going to tell the Sentinels, if only to save me from myself? He did it with Stamp and the sharks, sending me into a copper coma and sacrificing his own pinky and half his calf in the process. What’s to make me think now will be any different?

  But he smiled, right? Didn’t I see him smile there, just before being swallowed up by the mammoth backs of his Sentinel guards? I can’t afford to wait around and find out.

  I hustle and finally hear the truck engines loud and close. There is a motor pool beyond a half-raised garage door at the end of a side hall. It’s kind of the same setup as Family Value Mart, where you’re going along, looking at basketballs and jar candles and paperbacks and DVDs and, boom: auto shop aisle—what the hell?

  I pause, turn around slowly so as not to look too spazzy, see no one looking, and duck under the half-open garage door. The scent of motor oil and spark plugs on the other side of the garage door hits me right away, an almost welcome smell after the linoleum and floor polish odor of the center.

  There are four Sentinels in the motor bay, all working under a hood or two. Their sleeves are rolled up, their berets askew, their cement-gray cheeks splattered with motor oil—and they definitely don’t want a Keeper in their midst.

  “Did you miss your ride?” one asks, wiping his hands on a greasy red rag. “We just sent three of you packing not 20 minutes ago.”

  “You did?” I say innocently, trying not to look over my shoulder too often. “I had some follow-up questions for the detainee.” I look around, as if the other Keepers might still be there. Please, God, don’t let them be there! “I asked them to wait.”

  I’m tapping a foot, pen in my hand, hand behind my back. These guys are big. Maybe not as big as Dane’s captors, but big. And I’ve been lucky so far. Out the door, down the elevator, through the halls without so much as a stubbed toe. No way am I getting out of here without some kind of tussle.

  Another one pokes his head out from under the open hood of the car he’s working on. More dirty hands, another greasy red rag, black eyes sizing me up and down. “Well, we’ve only got one civilian vehicle left, little lady.”

  He juts his chin toward a small black car, an import, that looks like a mouse compared to the sleek black SUVs lined up next to it.

  “Fine, great, whatever,” I say, so eager am I to bolt out of here before Vera can come to and sound the alarm. “Just hand me the keys, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  The first one with clean hands looks at the others and says, “Well, you know that’s not protocol. We need a work order, a point of destination, and of course you’ll need an escort.” He inches forward.

  Of course there would be protocol. These are Sentinels we’re talking about. Why didn’t I know that? How am I going to get around all this?

  He keeps coming, Mr. Bad News Sentinel. I have the pen behind my back and am about to click it right up his big, fat nostril when another Sentinel steps from a nearby car to my left and says, “Hey, what’s that behind—?”

  I turn, duck, and bury the pen in the soft flesh of his waist, just above his webbed weapon belt and below his rib cage. He pauses, giant arms a centimeter above me and ready to slam me to the floor when I click the pen once and he shivers once, twice, three times before circuiting out and tumbling to the garage floor.

  He falls on me and I struggle, panicking, to hoist him off me. I don’t have much time, and I have even less room for error. If just one grease monkey Sentinel walks through that half-opened door and alerts the rest, I’m done. That’s it. And all that separates me from that grim reality is the garage door at my back. I slide out from under him, elbow banging against something harder as I do: his T
aser.

  I grab it, stand, and find the other three Sentinels circling me warily. I can’t tell if they’ve alerted anybody else yet, but I don’t have the time to find out. As they see me flickering the Taser in my hand, they fumble for their own.

  Before the nearest one can aim his, I jam the flickering volt of white-hot blue lighting into the meat of his calf, just above his tightly laced military boot. He gargles and goes down, a chunk of dead, gray tongue bouncing on the floor at his feet.

  God, I hate when that happens!

  The other two rush in for the kill, but they’re so big and slow I duck under their swinging arms. Their Tasers send blue-white arcs tickling past my hair without a trace. They get wise fast enough, though. Just like that, my size advantage becomes a disadvantage as the two giants circle, eager to go in for the kill.

  I juke toward the one in front.

  He flinches.

  I turn and slam the Taser into the thigh of the one behind me.

  He jerks into a frozen position and literally launches into the air before crashing on the nearest hood, denting it so badly I figure it’s probably trashed for good.

  Unfortunately, he takes my Taser with him, and now they’re both out of range. I’m stuck, defenseless against one looming Sentinel who’s smiling like he’s already won.

  We circle each other. He’s flickering the Taser; I’m clenching my fists. He jabs; I back up. I back up; he jabs. The Taser gets closer and closer, and I’m running out of room to back up to. I panic, looking around for a spare lug nut bar or crescent wrench or some horror movie tool-like device, but there’s nothing. This must be the cleanest Sentinel garage in all of zombiedom.

  Then I remember. The key. Vera’s key.

  I reach for it in my pocket as he jabs one last time, the stinger of his Taser piercing a fold in these too-generous sleeves and singeing the baby-blue material of my—of Vera’s—Keeper uniform.

  The Sentinel grunts and I kick the side of his knee with all my might. He goes down to the other knee, like Stamp used to when I’d watch him and the rest of the team huddle around the coach after football practice. I kick the Sentinel again, in the chest this time, and he grabs my leg before I can pull it back. But to do so, he has to use both hands. In the confusion, his Taser clatters to the ground.

  I kick some more, three times, four, until he lets me go. Before he can get up, I grab the large cell door key and jab it straight, and deep, into his ear. There is the slight crush of eardrum and cartilage and then the vague pop of his brain being punctured.

  He lashes out, wildly punching me with his giant fists, but the damage has been done: the key sticks tight. I roll away, favoring what I hope isn’t a cracked rib, and scramble for his Taser, where it’s landed next to a spare tire.

  As his eyelids flutter, as his upper body wavers, I shove the twin fangs deep in his chest and pull the trigger. His jaw slams shut, so hard a tooth flies across the garage, careening off a hubcap and clattering to parts unknown.

  I’m actually glad it does because after deciding not to find out where it comes to rest, I look up and away and spot a wall full of keys! I grab one and race from truck to truck, car to car, seeing which one it might open. I’m sure any minute an army of Sentinels, Tasers blaring, will burst through the garage door and pound me straight into the concrete. No escape, no rescue, no future.

  What’s more, the Sentinels in here could come to at any minute. That is, if Dane hasn’t snitched already! The key hasn’t fit in any cars yet, and I’m running out of doors when, at last, it slides into the lock of an SUV.

  It’s an SUV but still as big as a Greyhound bus. I slide behind the wheel and waste 90 seconds trying to find the move-the-seat-up button so I can reach the steering wheel thingy. I never do, so I’ll just have to sit on the edge of my seat for the next five hours.

  I turn the key in the ignition, and it fires right up, sounding like a jet plane. One of the Sentinels rises, shaking his head, with both colossal hands on his ears. He’s just to my left, and slightly ahead, and so help me I gun the car in drive, crunching his left leg in the process. He’ll be able to tell somebody sometime but not anytime soon. Not with that leg.

  But at least he’s alive. Or re-alive. Or dead again. Or whatever we zombies are calling it these days.

  And as I head for the hills, that’s more than I can say for Stamp.

  24

  Cat Food to Go

  I pull off the highway the first chance I get. It’s dark. I hadn’t expected it to be dark. I thought it was daytime. It felt like daytime, back in the garage, with the bright lights and surrounded by Sentinels. It’s not. Not even a little.

  The clock on the SUV’s dashboard says it’s 4:39, and that must be a.m. unless there’s a solar eclipse or nuclear winter or something. I’m at some backwoods exit with nothing but gas stations and souvenir stands, both specializing in something known as a pecan log. (Don’t. Just don’t.)

  I was hoping for a used car lot with really bad security or, you know, a running car just sitting there at some fast-food restaurant, but no such luck. At four in the afternoon? Maybe. Four in the morning? Nothing doing.

  But I have to get out of this SUV. I don’t know if the Sentinels have tracking beacons or little electronic beeping chips in each tire, but in every movie I’ve ever seen where someone’s on the lam, they ditch the car the first chance they get.

  So, car? Prepare to be ditched.

  Only one of the gas stations at my exit is still open, and two are service stations where they move the cars they haven’t finished yet into the garage and shut the grimy glass doors until the next morning. So that’ll work.

  I drive the SUV behind one and leave the key in the ignition. I pop the back hatch and scout for anything of value. Nothing. Nothing but tire-changing tools and a roadside emergency kit. I take the kit because if I’m stealing a car that hasn’t been fixed yet, it could break down anytime.

  But as far as some huge Taser stash or giant Zerker-killing ray gun that might come in handy when I finally catch up with Val? Yeah, no dice.

  I stop for a minute to listen for cars speeding along the nearby freeway, the one I just exited, but there’s not much traffic this time of night. Or morning. Or whatever.

  I creep toward the front of the gas station, keeping an eye out for Sentinels on patrol or locals with banjos or inbred serial killers with hockey masks and machetes, but I don’t see any.

  Instead I walk to the front of the convenience store part of the gas station and crack the glass with my thumb. A big section falls out and lands with a smash, but no alarm sounds and nobody comes running out of the bushes sparking Tasers at me either.

  So that’s good, right?

  I dunno. It sucks being on the run without Dane. I’m trying not to be all damsel in distress about this, but he was always so much better at this stuff than I was. Being on my own is harder than I thought, and now that I’m free of the center, I’m feeling major guilt about leaving Dane behind.

  What if they take all their Sentinel rage out on him? What if they blame him for my escape? Or even think he helped me? I cringe to think what he might be going through right now, but deep down I know I would have never made it if I tried to break Dane out with me. He was too well guarded, and I wasn’t. Those are the facts, and here I am. I got what I wanted.

  But at what cost?

  I can’t.

  Really.

  I can’t go there right now.

  Concentrate. Guilt trip later.

  I find the dead bolt and click it open and creep inside, locking it back, just in case. Yes, there is glass all over the floor, but my dad always taught me to lock a door, even a screen door. And four months on the run with Dane’s many house rules has me even more hypersensitive about door locking than ever.

  Come to think of it, with those house rules, Dad and Dane have a lot more in common than they think. Remind me to tell Dad that, if Val hasn’t yanked off my jaw by the time I find him.

 
I pause inside, wondering if maybe the fat, smelly gas station owner (don’t judge: you know it’s what you’re thinking) may be asleep on a greasy cot in the back, an empty jug of moonshine tipped over on the floor. But nothing stirs. Not even a mouse.

  I stand in front of the row of beer and soda coolers, suddenly parched. I reach for a cold soda, something sugary to perk me up, and chug a bottle of Gargantuan Grape in 10 seconds flat before returning it, empty, to the case. I spot myself in the reflection of the glass door and see a galloping blue nightmare. I’m still wearing Vera’s castoffs, right down to the baby-blue beret. I can only imagine what I’ll look like to the Normals in a few minutes, tearing off in a stolen car.

  “No, Officer, nothing wrong here. Just tooling around in my blue beret and pocket pants at 5:00 a.m., grape soda all over my lips. Why? Am I speeding? Tail-light out? What gives?”

  I check out the rack of souvenir T-shirts. I brush the dust off the shoulders of one and read the front: My Other Car Is a Double-Wide. Perfect. There are no shorts, but the shirt is pink with blue writing, so presumably (you know, if this was 1987), it would, could, should match my baggy blue pocket pants.

  I slip out of Vera’s top and into the shirt. It’s big, so I tie it around my waist Baywatch style. I grab some white sunglasses to accessorize and a pink fanny pack for the electric pen. I look around the aisles to see if I’m missing something. You know, like maybe this is the type of redneck joint that sells hunting knives and crossbows and cold-seeking bazookas next to the suntan lotion and pickled eggs. But, of course, no luck.

  Although there is a stack of pet food cans, and I squint in the dim emergency exit lighting to read the list of ingredients on a can of Zippy Cat Chow. Sweet! There, just after liver and before tongue, is the ingredient I’ve been longing to find: brain. I grab the four cans off the shelf and shove them in the fanny pack. They barely fit.

  I hate stealing things, especially as I slip behind the sales counter, yank out the cash drawer, and pocket all $84.59 from the till. But then I figure I’m leaving them an SUV worth at least 10 or 15 grand behind the garage. If they’re any kind of savvy gas station owners at all, they’ll be way ahead of the game by sundown tomorrow.