Mohawk spat out Eduardo’s knucklebones and stood. At the same time, Mendoza flew out of the back door wearing his motorcycle jacket, clutching a meat cleaver in one hand and Deke’s Mac-10 semiautomatic in the other.
As Garrison bent over to paw at Swanson, Mendoza reversed his grip on the assault rifle, swung it once around his head, and caught Garrison across the bridge of his nose.
Crrrraack.
Momentum lifted Garrison off his feet. He hit the cement and lay still.
Mendoza spun as Mohawk and Butcher-knife reached for him, swung the meat cleaver, and buried it in Butcher-knife’s chest. The black corpse staggered backward five steps and sat down on its rump. Meanwhile, Mohawk grabbed Mendoza by the hair net.
“Help me, you assholes!” Mendoza snarled.
He leaned forward and flipped Mohawk over his shoulder. The stroker hit the asphalt, twisted, grabbed Mendoza by the collar, and dragged him down on top of him.
Mendoza dropped the shotgun.
Hadley moved without thinking.
She ran for the cleaver.
As the black corpse stood, Hadley grasped the handle of the meat cleaver and pulled. At the same time, she kicked out with her right foot and shoved Butcher-knife backward.
The stroker stumbled and tripped over its own feet.
Mohawk was busy trying to bite Mendoza’s arm, but having difficulty chewing through the thick leather of his motorcycle jacket. Hadley swung the meat cleaver over her head and split Mohawk’s skull clean down the middle. The meat cleaver sank in up to the hilt. The skinny corpse shuddered and fell.
Hadley was vaguely aware that Ruby Ling was screaming her name, but the music pounding through her veins muffled any other sound.
Ain’t no mountain high enough, she thought.
A million miles away, something exploded. Ruby Ling screamed again. Then Hadley was grabbed from behind. She whirled and looked into the face of Pete Garrison.
As Garrison clutched at her, the left side of his bathrobe fell away. Hadley stared at the foot-long trench of gnawed meat that gaped up at her from Garrison’s torso. His penis had been chewed to a raw nub of veins and skin.
Garrison opened his mouth.
“Eat this, shit bag.”
A second later, there was another explosion and Garrison’s face blew off. It flew over Hadley’s right shoulder, sailed across the parking lot like one of those floppy Frisbees you could get for your Golden retriever, and stuck to the front window of the Payless Shoe Store.
Garrison dropped.
Clovis was standing there, her brown hands clutching the dual pistol grips of the smoking shotgun. She spat on the asphalt. Then she kicked Garrison in the nuts. “I’m a Krispy Kreme girl m’self.”
“I love two things in this world,” Hadley said, later.
“One of them is singing American R-and-B classics, preferably from the Motown catalogue, circa 1964 to 1979.”
Hadley spoke slowly. She wanted to make sure they all understood what she was going to tell them next.
“The other thing I love—is zombie movies.”
“Zombies?” Emmet said.
Hadley nodded. “Romero was the first, the prophet of the postmodern Living Dead genre. But there’ve been many others. I’ve seen them all. Trust me, people, we have a very bad situation on our hands.”
They’d nailed up everything they could find over the front and side windows: three doors, two of the old wooden tables left over from before the last renovation, and the polished wood sides of the jukebox.
Mendoza was busily breaking down some wooden milk crates he’d scrounged out of the Dumpster where they’d stashed Eduardo’s body.
“It’s not going to be enough,” Hadley said.
Mendoza looked at the front windows and nodded. “I’m gonna find some more wood.”
Swanson sat alone in one of the booths with his face to the wall, a cold compress pressed to his torn right cheek. Seeing Pete Garrison shot had taken something out of the normally rambunctious used car salesman.
But Hadley was worried about that bite.
She’d seen enough to know what happened to the victims of a zombie bite. So far, the phenomenon had behaved exactly as Romero had predicted, save for one critical point: Garrison was the only corpse from the parking lot attack who’d shuffled along in classic movie zombie fashion. Hadley was pretty sure she could outrun any stroker that moved like the ones from the Romero films.
But the black corpse with the butcher knife neck-ware had displayed only slightly less coordination than a normal human. And Hadley remembered the eerie speed with which the skinny corpse had attacked Mendoza.
It was so fast, she thought. Faster than Mendoza.
She’d heard the busboys telling stories about Mendoza’s boxing days back in Mexico. He’d even fought professionally before his right lung collapsed during an exhibition bout.
What if all the others are like them? Hadley thought.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said.
“Bullshit,” Emmet drawled. “I got one good leg, girl. You expect me to run all over creation from those freaks?”
“He’s right,” Swanson said. He stood and stepped out of the booth. “Why not wait here until the police show up?”
“Phone lines are down, man,” Clovis said. “My sat-phone’s clogged with so much traffic I can’t copy what anybody’s sayin’.”
“Riiight,” Swanson said. “Bet you’d like to keep us locked up in here, right, Butch? That way, you can paw all over the Tragic Mulatto whenever you want.”
“What the hell are you babblin’ about?” Clovis said.
Swanson stalked around the counter toward Clovis.
“Oh, I’ve seen you,” he said. “Checking her out when you think no one’s looking. You’re hot for her box. Aren’t ya?”
Hadley sensed something ugly crackling through the air. A crazy fire was burning in Swanson’s eyes. His face bristled with reddish purple splotches and his eyes bulged from their sockets like soft-boiled eggs being squeezed out of a hen’s backside. Hadley gripped the cleaver even tighter.
“Hey—” she began.
“Swanson,” Clovis interrupted. “That freak must have bitten you up your ass, ’cause that’s obviously where you keep your brains.”
Swanson’s eyes bulged even more. A thick purple vein popped out in his right temple as he spoke through clenched teeth. “You dirty—black—dyke.”
Clovis stood up.
“Bring it on, Condoleeza,” Swanson crowed. “I’ll show you what a real man’s good for!”
“Listen,” Friedrich cried, pointing at the television. “Everybody, listen!”
“—confirmed reports that the bodies of the recently dead are returning to life only to attack the living. This phenomenon is being reported in cities all over the world, and where the dead walk, murder and cannibalism soon follow. CBN News is warning everyone able to hear this broadcast—stay inside.”
“Ahhh,” Swanson said.
“—secure all doors and windows, find a safe place to hide with your loved ones. Do not answer the door for any reason. Some of the recently dead are masquerading as policemen, door-to-door salesmen, even Jehovah’s Witnesses. Some of these assassins are even able to pass as ordinary human beings. They are extremely dangerous. We have some disturbing footage to show you now. Parents, we warn you. If children are present these images may prove distasteful.”
“See?” Swanson said. “We’re s’posed to stay where we are.”
“I have to agree, Had,” Friedrich said. “I think we’re—”
Hadley reached up and turned off the television.
“Hey!” Emmet squawked.
“Has everyone forgotten where we are?” Hadley said. “We’re right in the middle of Valhalla, Illinois.”
“So?” Swanson said.
Hadley bit back the urge to stab him in the neck.
“Mr. Swanson, there are seventeen cemeteries within a two-mile radius of
where we’re standing.”
Emmet stood up as if someone had just goosed him with a cattle prod.
“ ‘Where the Midwest Comes to Say Good-bye’,” he murmured.
“Everyone in Valhalla either works at a cemetery or knows someone who does,” Hadley said. “Route 45 runs past six funeral parlors, three hospitals, five retirement communities, and nine different cemeteries.”
“Industry town,” Emmet moaned. “Two thousand families clustered around seventeen boneyards—”
“I see your point,” Friedrich said.
Just then, the front window exploded and Deke Simmons staggered into the Stop-n-Drop.
Back when he was “Deacon Simmons,” beloved linebacker for the Chicago Bears, Deke had always called himself “one big black son of a bitch,” but he also had a heart of gold.
Six weeks earlier, Hadley had wandered into the Stop-n-Drop, needing to make a demo for American Icon but hard-up for extra cash. Deke had recognized her: a week earlier she’d sung the National Anthem at Deke Jr.’s Little League baseball game.
“Talent like yours might brighten up this dump, Songbird,” Deke had said. And he offered her the cashier’s job on the spot.
Someone had smashed Deke’s face back into the cavity once occupied by his skull. Now he looked like an ebony Cabbage Patch Doll, his head shaking back and forth, one eye bulging, like a man trying to pass the world’s biggest kidney stone.
Deke turned as Mandy McCafferty shuffled in through the broken window. Mandy usually waited tables on the early shift. Now a big black frying pan dangled loosely in her right hand. Hadley saw several glittering yellow objects clinging to the gore clotted along the edge of the pan.
Those are Deke’s gold teeth, Hadley thought.
She’d heard the gossip about Deke and Mandy, had caught them loitering around Deke’s Winnebago, parked out back, more than once.
Someone had torn big hunks out of Mandy’s throat and the sides of her neck. The top half of her yellow “I Tumble For Timberlake” T-shirt was stiff with blood.
From the waist down, Mandy was naked.
Emmet turned and clunked toward the front door. Mandy spun and hurled the frying pan across the counter. The flying skillet struck the back of Emmet’s skull and sent him sprawling. Mandy whined and lurched toward Emmet’s body.
Deke headed straight for Hadley.
“Deke?” Hadley said. “Deke?”
Mendoza jumped on Deke’s back.
Deke spun, his coal-black arms beating at Mendoza’s face. Mendoza snarled and jammed a screwdriver into Deke’s ear. Deke howled, lifted the fry cook over his head, and hurled him at the side window. Mendoza crashed through the glass. He struck the ground with a loud crack, and lay, unmoving, on the sidewalk.
Deke turned, Mendoza’s screwdriver dangling from his right ear. Its yellow handle flopped against his cheek.
“Holy jumping shit,” Friedrich said.
Deke swiped at the screwdriver and howled like a dying rottweiler forced to listen to Britney Spears’s cover of “Doctor Feelgood.”
Over in the corner, Swanson and Ruby Ling were making out against the jukebox. At least, it looked like they were making out. Swanson’s face was buried in the crook between Ruby Ling’s neck and shoulder, while Ruby Ling’s hands were entwined in Swanson’s hair. Then Swanson pulled away, blood streaming down his chin, and Ruby Ling fell, spurting red violets across the floor.
“Son of a bitch went over and never told anybody!” Hadley screamed.
“Finger—lickin’—goooood,” Swanson groaned.
Clovis shot Mandy in the face, blasted her back through the broken window. Then Swanson tackled Friedrich.
“Help me!” Friedrich screamed.
Deke lunged at Hadley, forced her to retreat. Hadley aimed a halfhearted swipe at the ex–NFL star’s hand and dodged around him.
Swanson was dragging the struggling Friedrich toward the restroom. Hadley ran toward them, knowing she was too late: Swanson was one of them.
One of the quick ones.
“Clovis!” she screamed.
Clovis was behind the counter rifling through the drawers and shelves. “Where the hell did Deke keep the goddamned ammo?”
Swanson punched his hand through Friedrich’s chest, ripped out something red, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Hadley swung the meat cleaver up, intending to sever Swanson’s head from his shoulders. But Swanson whirled and backhanded her across the face. Hadley flew across a nearby table, bounced off the vinyl seat of a nearby booth, and slid out of sight. The meat cleaver landed a few feet away.
Two more zombies staggered in through the front window. At the same time, the kitchen door banged open and Eduardo stumbled, noseless and extinct, into the truck stop.
Clovis jumped onto the counter. Eduardo climbed up after her.
“Shit,” Clovis hissed.
At the last moment, she spun, ran toward the edge of the counter, and leapt into space, then reached out and grasped the blade of the big overhead ceiling fan. Eduardo grabbed Clovis’s leg and bit down on one of her engineer’s boots. Clovis kicked him in the face with the other foot and freed herself, using the momentum to swing up and hook her legs over the fan blades.
Clovis hugged the ceiling fan, spinning lazy circles above outstretched zombie hands. Eduardo fell off the end of the counter and hit the floor. Hadley heard bones snap.
“We gotta get to my truck!” Clovis screamed.
Swanson finished whatever he’d snatched out of Friedrich’s chest. He turned and glared at Hadley.
“Low—low—prices,” he moaned.
“Oh, crap,” Hadley yelped.
Swanson got to his feet.
“Move your ass, girl!” Clovis said.
But Hadley was wedged between the booth and the table post. Her right leg was bent backward at an awkward angle, her foot pinned beneath her in a kind of hurdler’s stretch. “I’m stuck!”
Having decided to abandon his pursuit of the spinning Clovis, Eduardo dragged himself toward Hadley, his broken leg trailing dejectedly behind him.
Hadley’s every move wedged her more tightly between the seat and the post. The other zombies, sensing easier prey, shuffled toward her. Swanson grabbed Hadley’s right foot and pulled. Hadley cried out as her legs were pulled apart.
Then Swanson was grabbed from behind and hauled to his feet. Hadley was pulled forward even more, her foot gripped in Swanson’s fist, until her back leg straightened out and she slid out from beneath the table.
Deke had Swanson in a choke hold. The salesman fought with a maniac’s intensity, biting Deke’s forearm, dragging long red runnels into the skin of Deke’s neck and face with his fingernails. Deke grabbed Swanson by the scruff of the neck, reared back, and slammed his face into the table—
Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!
—until Swanson stopped fighting.
Over near the jukebox, Ruby Ling sat up and giggled.
Hadley stood.
Deke turned and glared at the other zombies. They stopped and regarded him with the air of conscientious objectors. In a flash, Hadley understood: Somehow, Deke had become one of the quick ones.
Hadley edged forward, her fingers reaching for the screwdriver sticking out of Deke’s ear. Deke backed away.
“Nnooo,” he moaned. “Helllpssss meee.”
Hadley nodded, gratitude filling her eyes.
Clovis climbed down off the ceiling fan.
“Songbird,” she said. “I hear more of ’em comin’!”
“Moooorrree,” Deke hissed. “Lotsss—more.”
“We have to go, Deke,” Hadley said.
Deke nodded slowly. Then he opened his mouth. Hadley tensed, ready to bolt.
“Siinnng.”
Over by the front door, Emmet got to his feet, the back of his head leaking, and turned toward Clovis. Deke lifted a hand. Emmet whined, and stood still.
“Sinng,” Deke said.
Hadley nodded. At first he
r voice was barely audible over the moaning of the walking corpses. But slowly, the song gathered strength. Hadley sensed that hers was the last song these dead would ever hear, and the knowledge lent her a kind of strength she’d never consciously possessed.
More and more strokers were stumbling into the truck stop. Hadley lifted her voice and sent the song out over the heads of her audience until it echoed up and down Route 45.
When she was done, Deke nodded. “Sonnng-birrrrd.”
There were nearly fifty dead people milling behind him.
“Hadley,” Clovis said.
Deke faced the strokers who blocked the front window. The corpses shuffled and parted. Hadley and Clovis walked quickly through a gantlet of the whining dead.
Hadley climbed up into the cab of Clovis’s eighteen-wheeler. Behind her, Deke stood in the window shaking his head like a man trying to dislodge a trapped mosquito. The yellow screwdriver bounced against his shoulder.
In the northern distance, black towers of smoke rose into the afternoon sky: Chicago was burning.
“Three million dreams,” Hadley whispered.
“What?” Clovis said.
“Nothing,” Hadley replied. “Better head south.”
Clovis nodded. “Long as you keep singin’.”
They thundered out onto the highway.
As they passed, the dead paused. But a terrible hunger tugged most of them toward the burning in the north, and they walked on.
But some of them cocked their heads to mark the passing of a newborn star.
Nurse’s Requiem
Maurice Broaddus
“Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?”
—Job 12:12
Daniel nearly vomited the first time he rolled the old lady from her sloshy pool of excrement. His arm buckled, almost dropping her, but Jake supported her with his free arm. With a few tugs on the incontinence pad, Jake pulled the stained one free while rolling a fresh pad under her. Daniel became all too aware of the odor that assaulted his nostrils. Feces still covered her matted, gray pubic hair. He tried to be gentle when he wiped her clean, but she still groaned at his efforts.
“Can you hand me a new gown?” Jake asked.
Whispers in the Night Page 19