What I know will happen, though, is that either my son or daughter will grow worried and stop by. I’ve already received a few phone calls from them. I’ve let their calls go straight into voice mail. Jessica left one just this morning, her voice tinged with worry as she said, “Dad, it’s Jessie, I called you yesterday and the day before and I’m starting to get a little worried. Um...if I don’t hear back from you I’m coming over, okay? Please call me. Bye.”
One of the calls I let go to voice mail was from a friend of mine still on the force, David Harrison. His voice sounded strained, worried. “Hey José, how’s it going? Listen, I hate to spring bad news and I know you’re probably off visiting your kids or something, but...well...some crazy assholes just vandalized Forest Green Cemetery last week and dug up a bunch of graves and...well...Gloria is missing—“
The smell is getting stronger.
The whiskey is almost gone and I cradle the Colt in my hands lovingly. I can’t do it...I can’t do what she asked me to do.
Gloria’s whispering to me, telling me what to do.
My son’s last phone call to me, just an hour ago: “Dad, Carrie is with me and we have the kids. Are you home? Listen, Jessie’s been worried about you. She just called on her way home from picking her kids up and we’re going to meet at your place. We’re on our way over now.”
I know I can fill the chamber of the Colt with the rest of the .45 caliber shells I have, thus doing what Gloria asked me to do in order for us to be together. On one hand that could be a very easy way out. My kids will not have to live the rest of their lives knowing their father went mad and dug up their mother.
But I can’t do it...I can’t wipe them all out...
I love my grandchildren. I would never hurt them.
Ever.
I hear the sound of car doors slamming shut outside. It’s a warm, sunny day. The house reeks.
In the bedroom, Gloria keeps changing, shimmering from the ageless beauty I’ve always known her to be, to the dripping, rotting thing she really is. Her voice calls to me:. “We can be together, José...”
I can’t do it.
Footsteps, coming up the walk to the front door.
I look at the Colt with that one bullet already in the chamber, my feelings torn.
Please kids, please know this isn’t what you think.
There is a knock on the door. Soon I will hear the rustle of keys as they let themselves in.
I take a quick breath, willing back my tears. Gloria calls to me again. I pick up the gun and make my decision.
Menage a Trois
DOUG RICHARDS SMIRKED as he scanned through messages on the Survivor Bulletin Board.
Most of them were lame. Chatter talk and bored confessions of what most people had done before the epidemic. Doug didn’t give a rat fuck about them. Before the epidemic I was a Senior CEO for Viacom International, Inc. Fuck you. Other soppy ones consisted of snippets such as I was a housewife and I had three wonderful children. Yeah, right. Little fucks were probably out right now chewing through somebody’s asshole to get to their innards. Others were too sick and stupid to even deserve life in the thereafter: My wife died in childbirth six months ago and I can’t bear to put her out of her misery. The baby, too; she’s so beautiful (at this point Doug can just imagine the guy sobbing). Won’t somebody please help me? I don’t know what to do, but I can’t part with them . . . I can’t . . . kill them . . . I keep them chained up so they can’t . . . do any damage . . . but I just can’t stand hearing them . . . What a dimwit. Fucker deserved to have his brains blown out. If Doug knew the guy was within a three hundred mile radius, he would drive over himself and blow away wifey and baby before turning the Luger on the pitiful buttwad.
People were such morons.
He didn’t have to worry about putting up with mankind’s stupidity up here. Nestled in the crags of the high Sierras, Doug Richard’s split level cabin was the only sign of civilization for fifty miles. The last human activity in the area was two months after the epidemic when one of the forest rangers was killed by his partner over a game of gin rummy and the ranger rose from the dead and ate his partner’s brains out through his eyesockets. Doug had used the Zombie for target practice; the Zombie ranger had lasted a tad under a month, even after Doug had blown most of its extremities and torso into mush. Once he closed the game with the headshot, he knew he wouldn’t be in for such delightful amusement for some time. Being over fifty miles away from civilization did have its drawbacks.
The messages on the bulletin board contained more of the same. Doug sighed. “Stupid fucks.” He clicked out of the general chatter line and locked in on the private talk board. This was where the action was. The topics were heavy in this arena. Organizers of Skin Game events advertised their wares within these lines, along with promoters of underground dance clubs (The Zombie Zoo invites you for an evening of music, drinks, and games). Something had to be happening somewhere. Despite liking solitude just fine, he needed occasional human contact. He was tired of winging his flesh torpedo to the stereophonic sounds of porno actresses getting tit fucked.
Doug had this cabin built in ’83, a year after he got lucky with some wise business investments. Ten years before he had won a large cash settlement from the city of San Francisco and the ACLU after arriving home from ’Nam. A clash of anti-war protestors had attacked Doug and two other veterans as they arrived home from the war. The injuries he suffered in the melee—a concussion, a hundred stitches along various sections of his noggin’, and six broken ribs—were worse than any he’d endured during two tours of duty.
He ended up suing the city of San Francisco and the local chapter of the ACLU, which had organized the demonstration. The out-of-court settlement from both parties was enough to ensure Doug the next decade of peaceful, easy living. He put the money in Swiss Accounts, wise investments that yielded nice returns, and lived off the interest. By the time the eighties dawned, his wheeling and dealing had amassed a fortune of thirty million dollars. He had owned three automotive repair companies, a large retail comic book store, two bars (one of them was a way-cool strip joint on Hollywood Boulevard and Fairfax) four video arcades, and a small cable TV channel. He also held stock in two finance companies, four clothing firms, and a racetrack. Life was good.
But he didn’t really like the people he had to deal with. Frankly, he didn’t like dealing with people at all, unless the deal was to result in some gain for his ownself. And when his purse was lined with enough green to ensure a lifetime of doing absolutely nothing he checked out, sold his companies and his share in stocks, and high-tailed it to the Sierras where he commenced the construction of his dream house.
He equipped it with the latest in modern technology. Why deal with people when you could have the world delivered right to your door? He almost never had to leave the house; the satellite dish he installed outside beamed in two hundred stations world-wide; he subscribed to thirty different magazines, belonged to two different CD Clubs. He had been one of the first to cash in on the computer craze, and was hooked up to bulletin boards at day one. Books were bought via mail order dealers, as were videocassettes and DVDs (better variety with those, too). The only time he really had to leave the house was to take the fifty-mile trip into town for his provisions and to pick up the mail. Anything he didn’t have he could get by phone or mail. And when it came to women, he met many through the computer bulletin board sex clubs. Arranging rendezvous in the city had been a monthly occurrence. It had been his only contact with mankind.
But with the coming of the epidemic, most of this was shut down. Half the Cable Stations and radio stations were now completely off the air. Some were resurrected by survivalist types who ran them as 24-hour news-lines. The mail system ceased to exist, and while the phone lines were down for about three months, it was resurrected successfully in certain parts of the country by some enterprising survivors who had the intellectual candlepower to flip a couple of switches. Granted, he still couldn’t hoo
k up to the places he was able to before, but it beat being totally cut-off.
Big cities had it worse. The widespread panic following the epidemic produced mass hysteria, which resulted in anarchy. After the initial damages, it was deduced that it would take years to get technology back to the degree it had once been before. Most of the big cities Doug had traveled to since the epidemic lacked the basic necessities of running water and electricity. It was almost like living in the Stone Age. He had forecasted something similar transpiring a decade ago, and made preparations. The only difference was that back then he was a hundred percent positive the end would come via nuclear annihilation. Who would have thought that seventy percent of the population would have been stupid and slow enough to allow themselves to be eaten by their dead brethren?
The generator that churned away five hundred feet from the rear of his home was powered by a stream that wound its way down the lush, green mountain. Doug had channeled the stream to various degrees, harnessing enough waterpower to run his hilltop adobe. Running water was channeled through a separate system, which funneled into the main water supply system of the house. He enjoyed all the modern comforts of the way things had been before; electricity, running water (hot and cold), and the telephone. He cooked his food with an electric stove, and he heated the house in the winter with a woodfire stove. While most modern comforts had failed in urban areas, Doug prevailed. Life hadn’t really become that primitive for him since the epidemic.
A bulletin came over the private chat line on the computer. Doug zoned in on it, his blood pumping with excitement:
INDUSTRIAL GLOOM
DANCING
GAMES
FOOD AND DRINKS
SENSUAL ENCOUNTERS FOR ALL
CLUB DEAD
DOORS OPEN AT EIGHT P.M.
An address flashed on the screen. Doug jotted it down. It was in Hollywood, near Sunset and Vine, and the festivities started tonight at ten. The digital clock in the computer read two thirty-seven. He had just enough time to shower, hop in the four-wheel drive, and head on down to L.A. Tonight wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Doug turned off the computer and was in the shower a moment later, soaping his body off, his mind dwelling in anticipation of the evening ahead. It had been close to a year since he’d been laid, and the need pulsed in his veins stronger than ever. When the plaque hit he’d remained in his lofty fortress, venturing out only for food and supplies. In the first few months, the walking dead outnumbered the living, but as weeks flew by they fell to natural decay and headshots. Because of the scarce population in the area, it was rare that he came across the Walking Dead. Those that he did come across were blown to raspberry slush. He hadn’t come across any dead folks in close to six months. He’d probably exterminated all those that were in the area.
Less than an hour later, Doug Richard’s was fully equipped and heading south to Los Angeles.
IT LOOKED LIKE the world’s biggest New Year’s Eve party had just gone down on Hollywood Boulevard. The street was littered with debris; chunks of concrete, broken glass, and garbage. Dilapidated cars sat among the boulevard, some tipped over and gutted. Doug had been seeing pretty much the same ever since he hit the San Bernadino County line. Pretty much all of civilization had been reduced to rubble.
The few people he passed were all equipped the same way he was; double thick work boots, provisions belt with a canteen and Bowie knife, a pistol slung in a holster, and a larger automatic weapon slung over their shoulders. Some had rounds of ammunition slung over their shoulders, too. Those that Doug passed by recognized him to be among the living and sane; they nodded as he drove by. Doug nodded back. Those that survived the plaque and its immediate aftermath usually welcomed those that were living. Their kind were now a dying breed.
Doug found Sunset easily and parked the jeep behind an abandoned van. Heavy electronic music boomed out of a narrow doorway set almost indiscreetly among the dilapidated buildings. The faint swell of laughter could be heard as Doug approached the entrance. He grinned. Tonight was going to be fine.
A low moan averted his attention and he whirled toward its source. A puke green dude in a Rolling Stones jersey and tattered jeans hobbled toward him. A thin hypodermic needle stuck out of his inner elbow. His eyes were sunken and dead. He smelled like stale pig shit.
Doug grinned and withdrew a Luger nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol. Green Man was a good twenty feet from him and as slow as a fly stuck in molasses. The dead guy groaned hungrily and flayed his arms out toward him.
Doug raised the Luger casually. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said, and pulled the trigger. The shot was loud. Green Man’s head exploded in gray and red crap and splattered the wall of the building. His body stood rigid for a moment, his arms flailing confusedly as if he’d just stepped off the bus in the wrong neighborhood, and then he went down. Doug chuckled as he stepped over the prone body and made his way to the doorway. Not a glimmer of candlepower in any of them zombie fucks.
Doug stepped through the threshold. A huge guy with a bushy black beard and bulging, tattooed biceps guarded the door. Doug caught a glimpse of a Remington pump shotgun behind the counter. The bouncer nodded as he recognized Doug as one of the living. Doug nodded back and stepped inside the club.
Someone with some smarts must have gotten the power running in this part of town. The strobe lights in the club were on, basking the black interior in a steel gray, gloomy look. Ministry howled over the club’s sound system. Doug stood near the entrance for a moment as his vision adjusted to the gloomy interior. He grinned. He liked what he was seeing.
The building itself looked like the interior of an old warehouse. The ceiling was high, with huge industrial-like fans whirling. The floor was concrete, with tables and chairs grouped around in a semi circle along the right side. A good fifty feet of floor space in the middle of the room was devoted to the dance floor. Two dozen couples were dancing. A large bar flanked the right side of the room; bartenders were filling drink orders. Cocktail waitresses didn’t seem to exist in this place. Doug stepped further into the club and surveyed the folks mingling. Most of them appeared college-aged, dressed in hip, upbeat, tight clothing; the guys wore baggy slacks and shirts; the women short skirts or tight pants and tops that showed lots of cleavage. Despite the fact that civilization had gone into post-apocalyptic times, you wouldn’t know by stepping in this place. In here, it still felt like a pick-up joint from times forgotten.
Doug moved to the bar and sidled up casually. A tall geeky-looking guy with a crew cut approached the bar and took his order. Doug ordered a shot of Black Jack and a Miller. The bartender set him up and Doug felt the first shot fire through his veins. He turned around on his stool, watching the crowd as he nursed his beer. Marilyn Manson moaned that we’re all stars in the dope show.
Two swigs into his beer and he was being hit on left and right. Doug laughed and went with the flow. He ordered drinks for his new female companions, talking aimlessly, cracking jokes. There were as many as six women within a twenty foot radius that conveyed heavy interest signals. It was obvious that they were hitting on him, yet catfights seemed to be far from the making. Most of them seemed to be hitting on other guys as well; the demand for folks who wanted to spend the evening with another able-bodied soul was higher than days bygone when AIDS, egos, head games, and emotions had to be wafted through to get down to the nitty-gritty. Doug knew that those he passed on tonight would wind up with someone else. No hard feelings.
Five beers later he was in deep conversation with a drop-dead gorgeous blonde. She stood no taller than five foot two and had wonderful breasts. The minute she blinked those big baby blues at him he was hooked. His head swam from adrenaline and the buzz from the alcohol and music.
Three beers later they were in Doug’s jeep heading toward Tiffany’s condo in West Hollywood. They were accompanied by her friend Andrea, who was tall, willowy, with big brown eyes and great breasts (face it, Doug thought. Every female is going to
have great breasts since you haven’t seen any in over a year since all this zombie shit started). As Doug drove, Tiffany related how her complex was one of the only buildings in L.A. that still had workable electricity and running water. Their apartment was on the top floor, via the elevators. The Walking Dead were too stupid to man the elevators, and both women carried nine millimeters and extra clips with them. They were both getting to be pretty good shots. Doug grinned, hardly paying attention to their banter. All he could think about was what lay ahead.
Moments later it came. And Doug came with it, along with Tiffany and Andrea, all over each other, in the comfiness and elegance of the girls’ penthouse apartment on the tenth floor.
“WHY DON'T YOU come with me to my place?” It was one of the few complete sentences Doug had spoken to them since arriving at their apartment. All of last night and most of this morning had been spent frolicking in their king-size waterbed. It was now high noon, and Doug had popped the suggestion after another seemingly endless round of sex. Andrea looked at him quizzically from his right, her long lashes masking the confusion in her eyes. Only Tiffany, grinning ferally at him from his groin, responded. Doug grinned down at her. “Whattaya say?”
Tiffany slithered up over him. Andrea ran her finger lightly over his right earlobe. “And why should we go to your place, lover?” Tiffany grinned.
Doug nodded toward the expansive entertainment center opposite the bed. It was equipped with a twenty-four inch color TV, a VCR, a DVD Player, and a high-tech stereo system. None of them worked due to the faulty electrical system in the building. The elevators and lights were about the only thing that worked in the building. “I’ve got stuff like this back at my place, and my stuff works.”
When the Darkness Falls Page 3