Undead L.A. 1

by Sagliani, Devan

  “You're bluffing,” Gary said.

  “You wanna live with that on your conscience? That's my offer,” Javier said. “Take it or leave it.”

  Gary stared at him for a hard minute thinking over how difficult it was going to be to pull this off.

  “Stand up,” he said at last.

  “I'm telling you the truth, man.”

  “I believe you. I need you to turn around so I can cuff you.”

  Javier stood up and turned and stuck his hands out. Gary knew he was going to catch hell for what he was about to do but he figured his lieutenant would back him up, especially when he found out it would mean clearing another case. He took out his cuffs and put them on Javier, taking care not to cinch them too tight. The last thing he needed on top of the holy can of shit he was unleashing was to listen to his confessed murderer whine the whole way back to Hollywood.

  “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

  Gary looked over to see the guard barking at him. He opened his mouth to answer but a loud crash silenced him. The guard turned back to the locked door. There was a bloody handprint on the window.

  “You see what I'm talking about, man? We're screwed!”

  “Shut up.”

  Gary drew his gun. The guard pulled a key ring from his belt and went to unlock the door.

  “Don't open that door, man,” Javier said in a shaky voice. “I'm telling you, man. Don't do it.”

  The guard ignored him and pulled the door open. A swarm of prisoners in bloody clothing came pouring through, knocking him out of the way. The guard let out a loud cry as one of the inmates bit into his forearm, drawing blood. He punched at the man's gray face, but he was locked on like a pit bull.

  The rest of the mob came rushing in. Gary aimed and squeezed off several shots, hitting the lead inmate twice in the chest and once in the head. It wasn't until the bullet blew out the back of the man's skull that he stopped advancing, falling limply to the ground. His fellow prisoners climbed right over him without a second thought. Behind them, Gary could see more pouring in. A cluster had stopped to attack the prison guard. They were tearing pieces of him off with their bare teeth. A sinking feeling came over Gary, like something out of a nightmare. He backed up toward the door he came through and began pounding on it hard. An alarm sounded in the room, but his heavy knocking went unanswered. The prison guard let out a loud shriek of pain as one of the prisoners chewed through his jugular. A bright arc of crimson blood sprayed out over the fiends, coating them like a popped fire hydrant sprays poor kids in the ghetto during summer break. He fell to the ground clutching his neck while soft gurgling sounds came out of him and then his eyes went blank. A moment later the guard rose again to his feet, joining the rest of the prisoners as they turned toward Gary and Javier. His eyes were crying thick tears of bright, red blood.

  Time had slowed down for Gary. He could feel his heart beating. He raised his gun again and fired once more, hitting the next two prisoners that came for him both in the head. Just like the previous aggressors, they collapsed limply to the ground. Looking down he saw that Javier had attempted to hide under the table. He was still handcuffed. He trembled like a scared child. The front of his pants was wet through and a puddle of urine pooled around his feet. He looked up and made eye contact with Gary just seconds before the violent mob of cannibals dragged him out from under his hiding place, kicking and screaming at the top of his lungs like a little girl.

  Gary aimed his gun in between Javier's eyes, but before he could pull the trigger the door behind him opened and he fell through. Prison guards in full riot gear stormed in around him as he fell hard on his ass. Gary turned without getting up and crawled on his hands and knees away from the melee. He still had the gun in his right hand. When he was clear of the guards he stood up and looked back. It looked like someone had turned on a shower of blood over the top of them all. There was panicked screaming and crying coming from behind him like a portal into hell. Gary pushed through the next door, the sickly sweet smell of metallic blood filling up his nose. He shut the door just as something big and heavy crashed into it from the other side. His hands shook uncontrollably, but he wasn't really sure why. He'd faced circumstances far more dire than a prison riot before. He'd stared down killers he'd been hunting and came out on top of gunfights several times over the past decade, but something about this was different.

  It's the look in their eyes, he thought. It's like there’s nothing in them at all but raw hunger.

  The thought gave him chills. He pushed it from his mind, staring down at his weapon as an even harder thud came from behind him, nearly knocking him over. Whatever was on the other side was winning, that much was clear. Gary tried not to imagine what had become of the men who just minutes before had rushed in to restore order. The prisoners had gone through them like a hot knife through warm butter.

  You’ve got to do something, he told himself. You are all that stands between these wild animals and the average citizens out there living their lives blissfully unaware of the danger lurking so near. You can't let them get out of here. Not today. Not ever.

  Gary turned and faced the door. It trembled on its hinges as several more hard blows hit it from the other side. Whatever this thing was, it was Gary's job to put a stop to it. No. It was more than just his job. It was his duty. It was his moral obligation. He raised his gun and pointed it at the door, steeling his resolve.

  “You can do this,” he said, his trembling left hand reaching for the lock on the door. “This is your job, to serve and protect this city from these animals. People are counting on you. You will not let them down today.”

  His fingers touched the metal lock. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow as his breath caught in his throat. An inhuman roar bellowed from the other side like an angry war cry, making him freeze as chunks of cold ice flowed through his veins. He could taste the acidic fear on the tip of his tongue.

  Before he had time to react there was a final loud crashing sound accompanied by the splintering of wood. The door gave way, coming down on top of him and hitting him hard in the face. Gary crumpled to the ground and the door pinned him down. The last thing he was aware of before passing out was the sound of feet scurrying over the top of him, and then the darkness took him under to a place where nothing mattered anymore.

  *** *** ***

  Gary came to with a start, like someone had put jumper cables on the ribs of his chest and connected them to a car battery. He bolted upright in his bed and ran his fingers over his bare skin, just to be sure he wasn't actually hooked up. He'd had trouble falling asleep; his mind haunted by the terrible things he'd seen earlier in the day. He'd tossed and turned before being pulled under into the all-forgiving black space of emptiness. Just before he woke up, he'd been graphically dreaming that he was watching America's Funniest Home Videos on a big screen television at his apartment. Instead of showing funny clips featuring animals and babies and people getting hit in the groin, they'd been running homemade snuff movies to a live audience who laughed and hooted at each tragic death with ever-greater delight. He'd been the only one who found the clips disturbing. His heart raced in his chest as he tried to shake off the feeling inside his dream of impending doom and despair. He didn't even mind the way his heart kicked like a pair of old boots in an industrial-sized dryer, or the sour taste of adrenaline it left in his dry mouth.

  It's good to feel scared, he told himself. It's good to feel your heart racing a million miles an hour like you just took a snort of high voltage crank. Lets you know everything is still in working order.

  He turned toward the dresser and checked for his cigarettes. An open soft pack lay next to a shiny, white Bic lighter. He didn't pick them up. He just wanted to know that they were there.

  Not just yet, he told himself, feeling something inside him kick up at the same time, something dark and needy and hungry for the taste of the burn and the feeling of the nicotine hitting his blood stream once more. Do the checklist
first. Don't just assume everything is okay, not anymore.

  Gary had picked up several cartons of cigarettes from an abandoned liquor store, along with some fine spirits for the ride, shortly after he'd made it out of Twin Towers Correctional Facility in one piece. He'd awoken with his back pressed flat to the floor and a heavy door pushed down on his face. He still had his gun in his hand. He had a throbbing headache and no idea how long he'd been out. In his mind there had been no delay between falling into darkness after being hit between the eyes by a flying door and then waking up.

  Am I still dreaming?

  Gary didn't recall ever having a splitting headache inside a dream before, but he also couldn't imagine that what he'd seen could be anything less than a nightmare. He'd used all his strength to push the door off of him, then lay there panting to catch his breath. It was a miracle he wasn't seriously injured. He pushed himself to his feet and began to examine the aftermath. Blood and guts were strewn across nearly every surface, including the ceiling – like something from a Halloween house of horrors. His stomach churned to look at it. There were severed heads of both guards and prisoners in the carnage. Not a single living soul remained.

  How long was I out?

  Gary walked back out to the front of the building to find it strangely empty, like a movie set left fully dressed for the next scene while all the actors and crew were at lunch. Gary remembered they called that a 'hot set' from his childhood visits to Universal Studios. He'd loved seeing behind the scenes, loved the mechanical shark and the car you could push over on its side – but this was no movie magic. This was some form of fresh hell Gary couldn't begin to imagine.

  Maybe I'm dead and this is my afterlife. I'm being punished for not helping more people.

  He walked to his car to find it sitting where he'd left it out on the street. There was a man walking slowly away from him, the first sign of any person he'd seen since waking up. Gary called out to him but as he did a helicopter flew by overhead, drowning his cry. The man froze in place like a statue. Gary called out again as the loud chopper moved toward the center of downtown Los Angeles, where fresh plumes of inky black smoke rose like victory flags to some dark God of chaos.

  “Hey, man,” Gary shouted through cupped hands. “You okay?”

  The man slowly turned toward Gary. The first thing he noticed was his eyes. They were immobile and lifeless, the eyes of a corpse completely devoid of life. As the man turned back to face him, Gary noticed that he was missing part of his cheek and lower lip. His teeth were clearly visible as well as his tongue. There was a greyish-looking tinge to the remaining skin of his face, but his gums were a vibrant shade of purple and crimson. His teeth were splintered from gnashing. Cold dread washed over Gary as the man fixed his dead stare on him. Panic-sweat formed in his palms. Gary raised the barrel of his gun and pointed it at the man's head, aiming between the eyes.

  “What happened to you?”

  It was more of a statement than a question. The man unhinged his jaw in reply, letting out a deep growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a person. He charged forward toward Gary with alarming speed, his stiff joints causing him to amble at an awkward gait while his eyes stayed locked onto his target. Gary didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger three times. The man fell to the street and lay still like a crumpled heap of bloody rags, skin, and hair. Gary's heart beat fast. He turned in wide circles with his gun still up looking for more. In the distance he found what he was searching for as groups of similar creatures began to hobble slowly out from the inside of buildings and behind parked cars, drawn by the sound.

  There are too many of them. I'll never be able to kill them all.

  Gary fumbled with his keys, nervously dropping them. He cursed under his breath as he tried to grab them out of the gutter. An orange tabby cat shot past him from under his car and tore down the street. A few of the people advancing his way broke ranks and tried to follow it, but the feline was too fast and agile for them. Gary retrieved the keys – his heart pounding so hard now in his chest that it hurt – and got into his car, locking the doors. It started up on the first try, same as always.

  “Thank God for small miracles,” he said to himself.

  He drove away from the small mob, watching them as he went. Several blocks later he stopped at the liquor store. The streets were in total chaos with cars and buildings on fire and no sign of emergency services in sight. It didn't take long for Gary to realize that whatever he'd encountered back at the prison had now spread out into the rest of the world, making it just as crazy. He felt his senses on high alert as he maneuvered his way through the anarchy and back onto the freeway.

  Over the years Gary had come to be on a first name basis with his fear. He'd walked with death so many times now it was getting harder and harder to believe his time was still coming, that one day his number would be up, too. Put simply, he'd lost some of his edge because he'd lost his relationship with his fear…and that had left him with a piss poor perspective on death itself – the final darkness.

  He was halfway back toward Hollywood by the time he realized he'd never make it across the city to his apartment. Entire sections of the freeway were shut down with abandoned vehicles that had been pushed to the side by something big, like a tractor or a bus. Capitol Records, a symbol synonymous with all things Hollywood, was burning from the street to the top floor. The iconic building was visible from the 101 Overpass. It had been designed to look like a stack of vinyl records reaching toward the sky. Bright orange flames licked the sides of the building, making the stack of records look like they were melting. Looking past it down into the city, Gary saw evidence of the spreading madness in every direction. He swerved to miss a stray dog left on the middle of the highway, then punched it up the hill leading toward the Valley. In the back of his mind he knew he was heading back toward the house on Mulholland, the one owned by Leo Gold up until that morning.

  It had been a desperate fight getting off the freeway and crossing Ventura Boulevard. There were people looting stores, people shooting off guns and setting fires, and people like the man Gary had encountered earlier – just like the prisoners – afflicted with a sickness that left them hungry for flesh.

  Zombies, Gary thought. They are called zombies in the movies.

  He couldn't bring himself to believe it, but he didn't know what else to call them. Whatever they were it was obvious that they were winning.

  Gary drove through a crowd of them as he passed a gas station on Coldwater Canyon and headed up the hill toward Leo's mansion. The lifeless looking people came in all shapes and sizes. The sickness affected all races equally – both young and old, male and female. They all had those dead eyes too, Gary noticed, as they swarmed over his car and beat it with their angry fists. He gunned his Lincoln through them, knocking a few out of the way and leaving big dents in his car. By the time he'd gotten to Leo's, the Town Car was limping along. He punched in the gate code Miriam had given them earlier and the gates swung open. He searched the main house and to his relief found he was alone. Miriam was off getting ready for her big anniversary date, or more likely she was dead now. He turned on the television and radio but there were no signals. Whatever was happening had now spread to the whole city, and maybe beyond.

  He'd settled into the back of the guesthouse on the Mulholland property he'd now taken over. The little voice in the back of his head let him know that it was still breaking and entering, but he also knew no one would mind. He knew that if looters made their way up the hill, he'd at least have a fighting chance back there.

  Gary stretched and got up, taking his gun in his hand. He listened at the door for signs of life but didn't hear any. He slowly pushed the door open with his gun. The only noises he heard were birds singing in the trees. They seemed so loud, so aggressive, that it took him completely by surprise. He hadn't heard anything like that before but now that the cars and planes were gone, the winged creatures triumphant song could be heard echoing off the mountains.
>
  Gary walked out cautiously onto the driveway and scanned the front gate. It was still locked tight from when he had come in. His battered car was still there as well, parked next to Leo's exotic sports cars. Gary hadn't really given them a look over yet, but he knew he would in good time. He checked the front door of the main residence and saw that it was still shut. He turned and looked up the hill toward the neighbor’s property, but saw no movement there either. Jack Nicholson's house was up there somewhere, or what had been his house up until he recently sold it. The famous address had seen a string of high-class call girls and low-rent porn stars in its notorious history…and much worse. It had been the site where director Roman Polanski had allegedly drugged and raped a 13-year-old girl back in the late 90s, before pleading down the charges and ultimately fleeing the country. Gary wondered if the current owners were aware of the piece of Hollywood infamy they'd acquired, or if they even cared. Most people were far more concerned with having their homes ravaged by fires than they were with what had happened in them. They spent thousands in insurance every year, just in case.

  Hope they had end-of-the-world zombie insurance, Gary chuckled.

  Satisfied that he was still alone, he went back to the guesthouse and lit his first cigarette of the day. It gave him a small rush. He savored the taste as well as the feeling of smoke burning in his lungs. He'd missed them more than he’d realized since he'd quit. Gary had pieced together some junk food the night before in the main house, which he now picked through. He settled at last on a pack of chocolate-covered donuts and hungrily tore into them. He'd need his strength for what he had planned today. He felt good inside. He flipped through his murder book, feeling glad that he kept it in the trunk of his car. He'd told himself at first that it was because he might want to make a quick note in it, in case he remembered something new about Randy, but he knew that was a lie. He'd wanted it close by so he could access it at a moment's notice. It was his obsession, and now that the world had ended he had all the time he needed to devote to it. He ran his finger over the last known address for Randy. It was a small rental house on Longridge just off of Moorpark Street, which ran parallel to Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. It was a quiet street with friendly neighbors who had no idea a monster was living among them. Gary had driven by on several occasions just to get the lay of the land, in case there was ever a reason to return there. Yesterday he had discovered that reason.