Anything But Zombies

by Gerald Rice

  She knocked into me on her way back to the bar for a refill. She placed her hand on my forearm and smiled. “I’m so sorry.”

  I placed my hand over hers. Her skin felt soft.

  “Do we know each other?” she said. Her eyes widened and mine grew smaller.

  I wondered how it was possible to not remember who you knew.

  I pulled the gun from my purse before I could frame a thought. I gripped her hand tighter and buried it deep into her stomach. I pulled the trigger hard, exhaling audibly as the bullet released into her. I let go of her arm and stepped away as she fell to the floor. I looked behind me in shock and everyone else did too. I slipped my gun back in my purse as they ran around me, assuming the threat had come from some random dank corner of the club. Not from the girl standing amidst them.

  “You did this.” Ben stood slowly, bracing himself on the wall beside him. “You killed that girl?”

  “Katie,” Paul offered.

  “Katie?” Ben’s eyes widened in recognition. “Katie, from . . .”

  “Katie with a heart over the ‘i,’ ” I said, looking at him.

  Ben looked back at me like I was a total stranger. “You killed her.”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Ben,” I started. I could feel the tears squeezing their way out. “I was all scrambled up. You were going to choose her.”

  “Choose her? I never even went out with her.”

  “But you wanted to.” My voice cracked with emotion. I gnawed at the inside of my cheek hard, a chunk of meaty flesh dislodged and the tangy blood stained my mouth. How could he not want to? She was everything I wasn’t. With her gone, we had a chance. “This has been the best year of my life.”

  Our eyes met but his face twisted in disgust. “Do you know how crazy that sounds, Tiffany?”

  The word crazy hit me like a bolt of electricity. I looked at Diem. I felt consumed by anger. “So, is this what you wanted? A confession? What are you—part police dog? You sniff out blood like a good puppy and bring back the bones to bury?”

  “She’s making me upset.” Diem clutched the gun a little tighter in her hand.

  Paul kissed her forehead and took the gun. “We aren’t working with the police, Tiffany,” Paul said. “We’d like to think we are more effective.”

  I thought of the pale detective who barely looked at me when she questioned me. She didn’t even notice my hands were covered in blood.

  “The thing is,” Paul continued, “Diem is in pain. It’s why we moved from the city.” He rubbed her back softly. “She smells it all. The sins. The blood. It oozes from you. Through your filthy, guilty thoughts. You would have been fine if you kept your stench in the city but you brought it to us.”

  His words sent a chill through my body. That night, no one’s eyes met mine. No one pointed in my direction. No one knew. So I thought.

  “She wasn’t innocent,” I said, thinking of Katie dancing seductively in her dress. “And you two, you’re hypocrites. You killed that man.” I pictured the store employee slumped over the counter. “Do you smell that too?” I said, looking at Diem.

  “Make it stop,” Diem cried, pressing her hands against her ears.

  “We didn’t kill him,” Paul said. “He was just a bleeder.”

  I chortled. “So was Katie.”

  Ben looked at me, surprised, and turned to Paul. “So, what now?” Ben asked. “You kill us?”

  Paul smiled. “Just her.”

  His words knocked the wind out of me. I struggled to catch my breath. I looked at Ben and he looked at Paul as if he was considering whether he was okay with that conclusion.

  “It will make her feel better,” Paul said, raising the gun. He pointed it directly at my head. “Besides, it will bring some balance back to the world. An eye for an eye and all that.”

  “She shot her in the stomach,” Diem said.

  “How could you possibly . . .”

  “I hear you.” She tapped at her head and pointed at mine.

  Paul lowered the gun toward my stomach and pressed the barrel into my abdomen. The barrel pointed slightly upward, in the same way I had for Katie.

  I took a breath. This trip had been long overdue.

  “Last words?” Paul said. His finger was itching to pull the trigger.

  I shook my head and closed my eyes.

  “Hey, Paul,” Ben said. I opened my eyes and Ben was standing behind Paul. His hands were free from the restraints.

  Paul looked in his direction and Ben hit him hard in the face.

  As Paul stumbled backward, the gun flew across the room. Paul and Ben dove for it simultaneously. They clawed at the ground and each other as they both struggled to reach the gun.

  Diem screamed over and over like a nut job and I struggled to break free of the restraints.

  I finally broke my arms free and threw myself to the ground. My legs were still bound but I slithered myself over to Ben and Paul. I grabbed hold of Paul’s leg and yanked it with all my might, hoping to give Ben a chance to grab the gun. Paul turned over on his back and kicked hard in my direction. I fell on my side, narrowly dodging his forceful kick. When I looked up, Ben was holding the gun. He was shaking, but he pointed it in our direction. For a moment, I couldn’t tell which one of us was in the crosshairs. I held my hands up slowly and so did Paul. Diem was cowering in the corner.

  “Come on, man,” Paul said. “This isn’t you. I can tell from the way you are holding that gun.”

  “Get up, Tiffany,” Ben said. Now the gun was more decisively pointed at Paul.

  I felt a jolt of glee as I leaned down to free my legs. He understood why I did it. He understood why Katie had to die. I rose to stand beside him.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said.

  Ben looked at me and nodded. He began to back toward the door.

  “Wait,” I said. We had no clue where we were. Leaving them there meant they could follow us. They could have more guns. “Give me the gun, Ben.”

  “Don’t do it,” Paul said. His voice shook with panic.

  “Shut up,” I said to Paul.

  “Don’t do it, Ben. You don’t know her.”

  I turned to Ben. “You know me,” I said to Ben softly. “I know how to use the gun. If they try anything, I know how to use it.” I remembered pulling back the safety that night at the club. I remembered shooting Katie.

  Ben held the gun for a moment in his trembling hands and looked at Paul.

  “She’ll kill me,” he said. “Eventually she’ll kill you too.”

  “I would never hurt you, Ben,” I said.

  Ben looked at me with pain in his eyes. He wasn’t made for this. It was what I loved about him.

  “Give it to me,” I coaxed.

  He handed me the gun. I smiled at him and turned to Paul. Without hesitation, I shot him twice in the head, blowing him backward.

  “Tiffany, no!” Ben yelled.

  Diem screamed and I turned to her. I shot her once, the bullet landing squarely in her cheek. She slumped to the side, her eyes still open.

  “You killed them,” Ben muttered. “You killed them.”

  I let the gun fall to my side and looked at him. “I had to. They would have killed us, Ben. They would have gotten in the way.”

  I walked over to Diem and reached down to feel in her pockets.

  Ben was standing in the middle of the room with his hands over his head. He looked from Diem to Paul and then back to Diem. Tears streamed down his face.

  I moved over to Paul and began digging in his pockets.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asked.

  “Keys,” I said, pulling them from his pocket.

  I started to head toward the door but Ben stood still. “Ben, come on.”

  He looked at me, disoriented, and reluctantly started to follow. I took his hand, squeezed it, and placed my hand on the door.

  I glanced back at the bodies and looked at Ben and smiled. The fear in his eyes was palpable, but I was sure it wou
ld wear off. He saved me. Even knowing what I’d done.

  He chose me.

  Our reclusive Western New York oasis seemed perfect right now. When we walked through the door, it would all be behind us. All of it. The blood. The bullets. The secrets. Diem. Paul. Katie. That stupid heart over the “i.”

  I stopped and turned to Ben before opening the door. “Do you think we can still make check-in?”

  The Takers

  * * *

  * * *

  Gerald Dean Rice

  Toby sat before his typewriter. He had to get something down on this page. He hadn’t had an original thought in over three years, and his agent was going nuts, haranguing him to turn in something.

  His fans were clamoring for the next installment in his Death Harrier series; he was honestly just burned-out. Durand just didn’t interest him anymore. The publisher wouldn’t allow him to kill Durand—too much of a cash cow for that to happen.

  Toby had actually plotted the first dozen books after signing his deal and had so far written only five. So here he was with the outline of book six in front of him with no clue where to go.

  He paged through the outline. The idea was strong; he just couldn’t take off with it though. Toby slapped it back onto the desk and groaned in frustration.

  Phyllis was holding down the fort with the girls at home while he spent two weeks up in Red Deer Rapids. Toby had always begun each installment of the Death Harrier series here and once he had gotten a good head start, he could come back home and hammer out the rest.

  Not this time, though. Toby had been in town three days already and hadn’t managed a word. He picked up his iPhone and unlocked it. Plants vs. Zombies awaited him. Normally, when he was in writing mode the allure of anything not writing held no sway over him.

  Toby noted the time on his phone. A little early for lunch, but he could eat. Maybe something in his stomach would help get his creative juices flowing. He grabbed his jacket and made his way downstairs, slipping on his Crocs at the door.

  It was midfall and the air was already cool this far up in Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. The remaining leaves on the trees were bright reds and oranges, and he crunched underfoot the ones that had fallen onto the walkway. Sandy’s Southern Kitchen was about a fifteen-minute walk from here, a little too much on the brisk side to go it on foot.

  As Toby climbed into his SUV, he glanced over at the little garden area, a four-by-four section on his postage-stamp–sized lot and thought something was missing. He couldn’t think of what it could have been before starting his vehicle and pulling out.

  He bought this house because he’d always liked it here. It didn’t have everything Phyllis wanted; she was more of a big-city girl, but it was a great place to get away from everything else he knew. Everyone in town knew each other, so of course they all knew him. It bothered him until he realized it was the complete opposite of his early life in the city, where he’d grown up virtually invisible. They were neighborly here in Red Deer Rapids and that had taken some getting used to. When it was finally time to get away from the hustle and bustle of a major city, he could easily see himself spending the rest of his life here.

  He could go no faster than ten miles an hour without giving himself whiplash along the lumpy, narrow dirt path that fronted his property. It turned onto a two-laner that had just been repaved and striped last year.

  His house was not actually in town. He could smell the freshwater scent coming off Spencer Bay, a stone’s throw off Meguzee Point, in an unincorporated area adjacent to Red Deer Rapids that the city council hadn’t gotten around to adopting. Meguzee Point Road turned onto East 3rd Street. Toby didn’t know exactly at what point he was actually in town, but when he hit Ames Street, he was in the downtown area. The Village Market was to the left, but he had a taste for Sandy’s shrimp and grits. Phyllis had made him promise not to throw his diet entirely out the window, but the food was too good to deny. He’d have plenty of time to eat healthy later.

  The general store was the first building on his right. There was a post office, a resale shop, a dry cleaner, and a few other stores and Sandy’s Southern Kitchen on the corner at Maplewood. The original proprietor had passed some thirty years back and her children had sold it to some real-estate gazillionaire.

  Toby tucked into a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant. It took him a little longer to parallel park before he climbed out of his SUV, crossed the narrow strip of sidewalk, and went into Sandy’s.

  “Mr. D! Just have a seat and I’ll be right with ya,” Wanda said in her thick southern accent as he entered. Toby had presumed this was a yuppie tourist attraction when he’d first passed by, but Wanda had lent an air of authenticity the first time he’d come in. She was in the middle of taking someone’s order and he gave her a smile and a wave, heading to the counter. The waitress went back to taking the order of the nigh-elderly couple sitting in the booth.

  Mel already had a steaming cup of coffee in front of him by the time Toby sat. The cook had lost a lot of weight since the last time Toby’d seen him, though he would always be a big guy. He gnawed at the piece of gum at the side of his mouth like a piece of tripe, smiling the whole time.

  “How you doing, Mel?” Toby asked.

  “Mr. Writer,” Mel addressed him in thick East European–accented English as he’d done ever since finding out Toby was an author. He hadn’t told him or anyone else, but Toby had found it true that secrets traveled fastest in small towns. “Quicker’n the clap in a whorehouse,” Sheriff Karlo had told him the year before last, warning Toby to guard his closely. Mel nodded and scooched the little bowl filled with tiny, individual cups of half-and-half closer before heading back into the kitchen.

  “Shrimp and grits. Shrimp and grits,” he said as the double half doors swung shut behind him.

  Toby dumped two little cups of creamer into his coffee, followed by a shovelful of sugar. By then he’d noticed the two strangers one stool over. Toby rarely ran into anyone he hadn’t signed something for when he was in town, and he would’ve been willing to bet he’d been the last stranger who’d come into town to stay beyond a fill-er-up at Hank’s Hi-Octane.

  “Did I hear the old man right?” the closer stranger asked. Toby noted his red-rimmed eyes and assumed the man was drunk. “You a writer?” Toby smirked and turned in his seat to face the two. Either they had heard of him or they hadn’t, but almost everyone who found out he was a writer was immediately impressed and wanted an autograph even if they didn’t read him.

  He held his hand out for a shake. “Why, yes. I’m Tob—”

  The man launched himself at Toby, fist-first, swiping the dishes in front of him off the counter in the process. Toby managed to put his extended hand up to block the oncoming blow despite his surprise. The punch grazed his fingers as the man crashed to the floor. Toby stood from his stool. He got a good look and saw the man was in no shape to fight. The fire quickly went out of him, though his heart still raced.

  “Who is this guy?” Toby asked, and then looked up at his partner. The second man looked slightly less ill, and just to be on the safe side Toby put one foot behind him and put his hands up. He’d taken six weeks of a boxing class at the Y, though he had trouble remembering which punch he should throw first if it came to it.

  “Hey, no más, pal,” the second man said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. He had dirty blond hair and a horseshoe mustache.

  Mel must not have heard, otherwise he would have charged out of the kitchen and thrown both men out by the scruff of their necks.

  “What in Sam Hill is all the kerfuffle for?” Wanda asked, with a ‘Cut it the hell out this instant’ kind of tone.

  “My friend,” Horseshoe said, kneeling and looking at her and Toby. “He’s sick.” He twirled a finger around his ear. “Flu’s got him seein’ and hearin’ things. Sorry. Really, we got nothin’ against writers. Hell, one of my fav’rite people’s a writer.”

  Toby lowered his shaking hands. He nodde
d, not trusting his voice wouldn’t quiver.

  “Look, the food was real good, but I think we should go now.”

  “Agreed,” Wanda said, hand firmly on narrow hip as Horseshoe collected his friend. He dug a ball of cash out of his pocket, shucked off five bills and placed them on the counter, thought a moment, then added two more to the pile.

  “For the dishes.”

  Wanda fixed him with her blue-eyed, laser-sharp stare. Toby had only seen that look once before when a couple of teens who’d been fighting outside dragged their battle through the vestibule and right beside two occupied booths. She hadn’t laid a hand on either boy, but they sobered up quick and were as contrite as a reverend late for church. Horseshoe averted his eyes as if she would convert him to stone, his friend draped over him as they turned and staggered to the door. Toby had no idea how they managed to schlepp their way out as awful as they looked.

  “Wanna know what Ah think?” she said. “Ah think you need a slice of my pie.” She marched around the counter and lifted the heavy glass lid off the pumpkin pie. They didn’t sell too much of it, though whenever Toby was in town Wanda baked it special for him. It was his one celebrity perk. Toby watched as Horseshoe just about rolled the other man into the passenger seat of an old, powder-green Lincoln and shut the door. Horseshoe yelped, then yanked the door open, bent and scooped something off the ground, and tossed it into the unconscious man’s lap.

  Toby was sure he hadn’t seen that right. It had looked like a hand.

  “What is goink on?” Mel said, sliding Toby’s bowl in front of the stool where he’d been sitting. He wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to eat anymore. “Is problem?”

  “Nothin’, Mel.” Wanda tore off the ticket with the old couple’s order on it and handed it to him. “Just cook this up, m’kay?” Mel’s loose-skinned face curtained into an expression of confusion, then his head bobbed up and down and he trudged back into the kitchen with her order. She had an equally mildly apologetic expression, watching him go, though she didn’t call him back.