Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  Kevin peered at his friend Scotty in concern. Scotty had once possessed the sharpest wit and the biggest strut of anyone he’d ever met, and he was so boyishly handsome that he’d been propositioned by both male and female porn stars. But ever since the Human Reanimation Virus had turned much of LA into a graveyard, Scotty’s confidence had vanished. He’d become a sweating, trembling drunk, and Kevin wished again that they hadn’t brought him with them today.

  But they were all hungry.

  Two weeks ago, it had seemed like a good idea. “I’ve got this friend, Howard. He’s a rich music producer, has a big house just off Laurel Canyon, says we can come up and crash there until all this blows over,” Scotty had said one night, as they’d been drinking vodka in Kevin’s tiny studio apartment off Gardner in West Hollywood. Kevin hadn’t liked the bars over the windows when he’d moved in, but since the shit had gone down, he’d been damn glad they were there.

  Even so, he knew he couldn’t stay in the apartment much longer; the streets of WeHo were thronged now with the infected. Kevin and Scotty had left the restaurant where they both waited tables three days ago, when one of them had crashed right through the front glass window to dine on a patron, and they hadn’t left Kevin’s apartment since.

  Now there were more of the dead outside every hour, and Kevin knew that, despite the bars, it wouldn’t be long before they’d find a way in. He’d already heard one of his neighbours shrieking as his door had been torn off its hinges.

  So they’d peeked out, and waited until none of the things were around, and then sprinted to Kevin’s old Toyota Camry. They’d barely made it inside and locked the doors before a once-attractive burly man in leather had beat on the front windshield. Kevin had gunned the motor, and they’d endured a frantic drive into the Hollywood hills, swerving to avoid car wrecks and the dead, taking the canyon roads’ sharp turns too fast when a group of five or six zombies had run after the car.

  Howard Karan’s house had at first proved a functional sanctuary. It was isolated, on a steep hillside, and could only be entered by a narrow walkway between heavy cement-block walls that led to a solid front door. Kevin, Scotty, Howard and Howard’s sister, Nancy, had formed a kind of family, taking turns on lookout, cooking and cleaning, and partying. Lots of partying. Howard had a plentiful stash of coke and weed and booze, and he didn’t mind sharing. Scotty and Howard occasionally adjourned to Howard’s bedroom, leaving Kevin and the forty-ish, acerbic Nancy to fend for themselves.

  But then the food had run low, and soon they were down to stale crackers and the last jar of pickle slices. They’d discussed their options and had decided to try the Food Club warehouse in the east end of the Valley. Even if Burbank was as full of the dead as West Hollywood was, the massive Food Club was the likeliest place to still have supplies.

  First they’d decided they needed weapons; Howard didn’t believe in guns, which left a fireplace poker for Nancy, a length of metal chain for Scotty, a piece of 2 x 4 studded with nails for Kevin (who was proud of his homemade mace), and a crowbar for Howard. Then they’d clambered into the SUV, Scotty making sure he was already drunk when they left and had a bottle with him.

  The drive had taken two hours, as they’d frequently backtracked and swerved and reversed, but they’d finally made it. Now they pulled up forty feet from the front entrance to the gigantic, dark building.

  “Doors are open,” said Nancy.

  “Good, ’cause I left my lock picks at home,” Kevin answered.

  Scotty gestured at the lone zombie, now shambling towards them. “What about him?”

  “Well . . .” Howard gunned the engine.

  Nancy looked over at her brother. “You can’t be serious.”

  Howard gave her a grin – more of a grimace – and hit the accelerator.

  The Lexus shot forward, tyres squealing on the asphalt, and was doing probably forty miles an hour when it hit the zombie, a gangly fifty-something man missing his left arm. The impact threw him clean over the car, and Howard braked to a halt, shoved the gearshift into reverse and rolled back over the body. The car thumped twice, and then Howard let it roll back far enough to where they could see the corpse in front of them.

  “Nope, still moving,” Nancy said.

  “Not for long.” Howard slammed the car into DRIVE, and steered over the zombie’s head. The passengers all heard a mushy crunck, then Howard stopped and looked back. “Violà – no more zombie.”

  “But how you gonna fit the Lexus in the store, Howie?” said Kevin.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t make it as a screenwriter.”

  Kevin allowed himself the luxury of a bitter smile. “I can’t either. Well, hell – maybe soon there’ll be a market for human-zombie bromances. Or I could invent a whole new genre: zomances.”

  Scotty didn’t seem to have heard. He looked out of the Lexus at the wide-open doors into the warehouse, gaping like a hungry maw, and twisted his hands around the sweat-slick bottle. “This isn’t gonna work. It’s too dark in there – the place could be crawling with them . . .”

  Kevin put his hand on Scotty’s arm, trying to reassure his friend. “This has to work, Scotty. We’ll starve to death otherwise.”

  For an instant, Kevin was glad he and Scotty had never become lovers; at first he’d been attracted to Scotty (who wasn’t?), but now that he’d seen how Scotty reacted to stress, he knew they would never have worked.

  One of the car doors opened, startling them all, and Nancy stepped out. Holding the poker in one hand, she leaned back inside just long enough to say, “Am I the only one here with balls?”

  Howard howled in protest, grabbed the crowbar and got out. Kevin followed suit, wrestling his 2 x 4 club out of the rear compartment as well as a large flashlight.

  Scotty wasn’t moving. He just kept staring at the black opening into the store.

  “There should’ve been more of ’em around here. They’re probably all in there, in the dark, just waiting for us.”

  Kevin glanced at Howard and Nancy, already moving towards the entrance, before turning back to Scotty. “I think you should stay in the car, man . . .”

  With that, Scotty undid his seatbelt and threw his door open. “No fucking way am I sitting out here alone.”

  He got out, chugged the last of the whiskey, pulled his arm back, and threw the empty bottle as hard as he could. He whooped when it shattered on the pavement, then he followed after Howard and Nancy, the metal chain looped between his fists.

  Kevin wasn’t sure he liked this any better than motionless anxiety. Scotty was abruptly reckless, and reckless (combined with drunk) could get them all killed. Or worse.

  “Kevin, bring the flashlight up here.” That was Howard, waving from the doors. Kevin swallowed back his reluctance and joined his friends.

  Scotty and Nancy had grabbed shopping carts, and they waited at the entrance like racers at a starting line. Howard was straining to listen. “You hear that?”

  “What?” Kevin heard small noises from somewhere in the store, but not much more.

  “They’re in here. I heard one moan.”

  Kevin thumbed the flashlight’s power button and swung the beam around the dark interior. The light fell on mostly empty shelves, smashed cardboard cartons, paper wrappers . . . but no zombies.

  And no food.

  Nancy frowned. “Looks picked clean.”

  Kevin shook his head. “Nah – they always put non-food specials up front, shit like plants and towels and crap. The food’s back in that corner.” Kevin pointed with the flashlight. The warehouse fell away into shadow; it was impossible to tell how big it was, or what lay just beyond the light beam.

  “C’mon, let’s get this over with.” That was Scotty, already shoving his cart around piles of refuse and boxes.

  “Scotty, wait—!” Kevin ran after his friend, trying to light the way. Nancy and Howard followed.

  They passed ceiling-high metal racks; the ones that held appliances and glassware still
had a few products left, but for the most part they held little more than dust.

  “This isn’t looking good,” Howard murmured.

  “Yeah, but—” Kevin broke off as a zombie staggered from around the end of an aisle.

  It was a chunky middle-aged woman with blonde hair, although half of her scalp had been torn away, leaving shreds of hair on that side of her head. She was coming towards them silently, and they all froze. After a few seconds, Scotty whispered, “Why isn’t this one moaning?”

  “And more importantly,” Nancy added, “who’s going to do something?”

  Kevin decided now was as good a time as any to try out his weapon. He tossed the flashlight to Scotty, leapt forward, swung the length of wood, buried the nails in the zombie’s skull, and it collapsed almost instantly . . . taking Kevin’s 2 x 4 down with it as it fell, nails embedded firmly. “Shit.”

  Planting a foot on the corpse’s jaw, Kevin struggled to pull the nails free – and was still struggling when he heard Scotty say, “Uh . . . more company, Kev.”

  Another one was coming around the end of the aisle. And another after that. These two did moan; one was a former executive whose pale crown sported a bad comb-over, and the other was a young Asian woman who wore the store’s T-shirt and apron. The white apron was stained red, and the fact that much of her neck had been torn away caused her head to tilt a full forty-five degrees to the left.

  “Uh . . . Kev . . .”

  Kevin finally gave up on removing the board from the dead zombie’s skull and started back-pedalling. Behind him, he heard somebody – Howard, he guessed – cry out, followed by the sound of the crowbar smashing into tissue and bone. “Fuck you, too!”

  Behind Scotty, Howard was still standing over a zombie he’d just brained with the crowbar; his shirt had been torn away from one shoulder. Nancy turned to help him, but he held up his hands. “I got it, no problem.”

  Nancy looked back at Scotty and Kevin. “This was a bad idea. We’re going. Now.”

  Just then Kevin glanced past her and saw the flashlight’s beam bounce off something wrapped in plastic. “Wait a minute . . .” He took the flashlight back from Scotty and ran to what he’d glimpsed.

  “Kevin, in case you’ve got blood in your ears – we are leaving.”

  Kevin held up what he’d just grabbed – a carton of two-dozen cans, all still in shrink-wrap. “Canned peaches.” He threw the carton into Scotty’s shopping cart.

  Nancy started pushing Howard towards the exit. “Fine. You stay and get killed for peaches.”

  Kevin looked into Scotty’s eyes. “You hungry?”

  Eyes jittering back and forth between Kevin and the two approaching zombies, Scotty answered, “Yeah . . .”

  “Watch this.” Kevin turned and ran right past the shuffling pair. They were slow, impaired, and although they reached out for him and turned, he dodged by them easily. Freed from their attention, Scotty ran with the shopping cart, rushing past them.

  From several aisles farther into the store, Kevin uttered a victory whoop. “Scotty, get that cart back here – we struck gold, bro!”

  As Scotty joined him with the cart, Kevin was hefting more wrapped cartons of food. “What is it?”

  “Tuna fish, I think. And hot damn, mushrooms!” Kevin began piling boxes into the cart.

  Scotty glanced back nervously and saw the two zombies rounding the end of the aisle behind them. “Kevin, man, they’re coming . . .”

  Kevin cast a quick eye at the dead and then ran in the other direction. “Let ’em come. We’ll just outrun ’em.”

  They sped down the next aisle, where they scored coffee, peanut butter and creamed corn. Kevin started to reach for pickles, but stopped when Scotty said, “I’m really fucking sick of pickles, okay?”

  They avoided the produce area – most of the fruit and vegetables had gone bad and the stench was nauseating – but grabbed several cases of bottled water. The cart was piled high, and Scotty was struggling to push it.

  “We got enough. Want me to push it from here on?” Kevin joined Scotty behind the cart – and felt something brush his back. He whirled to see a dead man reaching for him, but the man was missing three of his fingers. “Go!” Kevin kicked out and the man stumbled back.

  He joined Scotty to push the cart and they ran, heading for the block of light that marked the exit. When a zombie lurched into their path they had to stop abruptly, sending a case of soft drinks flying. Scotty started to bend to retrieve it, but Kevin shouted, “Forget it – let’s go around him!”

  They curved past the zombie, and a few seconds later they were outside. They ran the cart to the Lexus, where Nancy was examining Howard as he cradled one arm. “Look what we got!”

  Scotty was already tossing cases into the back of the SUV, but Kevin went to see what was going on with Nancy and Howard. “Fuck . . .” Howard moaned softly.

  “What?”

  Nancy pulled away the edge of Howard’s torn sleeve to reveal a long, bloody line. “He got scratched.”

  “By one of them?”

  She nodded.

  Kevin’s elation vanished instantly. “Oh fuck . . . I’m . . . really sorry, Howard.”

  “Don’t be – this was my idea.”

  What they all knew, what they’d heard repeated endlessly on the news during the early stages of the outbreak, was that a single bite or scratch from one of the living dead caused the virus to be passed on. Kevin had never actually seen anyone turn, and he had no idea how long it would take . . . but he didn’t doubt that it would eventually happen to Howard.

  “So what do we do?”

  Nancy answered, “We take him home and care for him, of course.”

  Kevin stared at her, dumbfounded. “Nancy, we can’t take him home. He’s been infected—”

  “We don’t know that. We don’t really know much about how this works, except what we’ve heard on the news, and who knows how accurate any of that was?”

  “He’ll turn—”

  “Maybe not. Besides, even if he does . . . we have to take care of him. He’s my brother.”

  Kevin looked into Howard’s eyes. “Howard . . . you know what’ll happen . . .”

  “I just want to go home, Kevin. Okay?”

  Kevin spun, angry, irritated with himself for hating Nancy’s compassion, wishing he was far away from here, and his gaze fell on the store’s automotive wing, where tyres were changed and new batteries installed.

  A black Hummer sat in one of the repair bays; it was an older model, big and boxy. They’d had a drunken discussion one night when they’d talked about the best car to have in a bad situation, and they’d all agreed on the solid, militaristic Hummer H2s.

  Kevin started walking towards the repair bays. Behind him, Scotty called out, “Where you goin’?”

  “To get that Hummer.”

  “What are you doing, Kevin?” That was Nancy, but he didn’t stop to look back. “We don’t need another car.”

  “You don’t, but I do.”

  “Why?”

  Kevin didn’t answer. Instead he looked into the bay, cautiously. It seemed empty. There was a small sedan to the left of the Hummer; to the right of it sat an empty slot.

  He heard footfsteps behind him, then Scotty’s voice. “They probably didn’t even fix the tyres yet . . .”

  Kevin bent down and examined the Hummer’s tyres – they were obviously new, even still had stickers. “No, it’s done.” He moved up the side of the car, looking in the windows. It was empty. And the keys were in the ignition.

  “Kevin . . .”

  “Give me a minute.” He walked around to the driver’s side, reached for the door handle – and jumped at the sound of flesh slapping on glass. The sound, though, came from behind him, and when he turned he saw a dead child’s face pressed up against the window inside the sedan. The child’s mouth worked on instinct, gnawing, and its eyes seemed desperate. Kevin felt for it, even as he was repulsed by it. He knew without hesitation the
n that he had to leave this place.

  The Hummer started up when he turned the ignition. He backed it out of the bay and was pleased with the way it handled. Pulling it around in a circle, he drove up and parked next to Howard’s SUV. Nancy had just finished securing Howard in the front passenger seat and was moving around to the driver’s side; she stopped halfway when Kevin got out of the Hummer, its engine idling.

  “I’m going,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “To Virginia. I’ve got a friend there.”

  Nancy eyed him with pity. “You won’t make it, you know.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Kevin nodded towards Howard, “. . . you’re not gonna make it here, either. I’m going to take a couple of the cases of food and water with me.”

  Nancy just nodded.

  Kevin loaded the Hummer. When he finished, he saw Scotty watching him, torn. “You can come with me.”

  Scotty considered for a moment, and then shook his head. “You go on. Sorry, but I’ll take my chances here.”

  Kevin nodded. He realized that in one of his screenplays, his protagonist would have hugged his friend goodbye here, but he just wanted to be gone. Without another word he climbed behind the wheel, put the gear into DRIVE, and headed off.

  The Hummer had nearly a full tank. He had no idea how far it would get him, but at least it would get him away from here.

  He found the on-ramp to the 5 freeway, drove up, and headed out of town. For the first time in weeks, the heaviness that had settled on him lifted.

  He felt free.

  Chapter Three

  THE DESERT AT night . . . a mission to investigate an abandoned village . . . gunfire, and the man on the right goes down . . . more men shout, it’s hard to hear over the deafening sound of assault weapons, something thuds into my back, I go down, there’s blood on my hands, my blood . . . but there – fifty feet away, the pops of light where the gunman is firing, and my rifle comes up, aims, the trigger is pulled, a body falls, the gunfire stops. I crawl forward to check the dead man, but something’s wrong – the body’s too small. I reach it, nudge it with the barrel of my M16A2, flip it over and see it’s a kid, can’t be more than eight or nine, his weapon – the one he shot me with – is almost bigger than he is, and Oh dear God, I killed a little boy—