Zombie Playlist: A Rock Zombie Romance

by Kirsty Dallas

  “Lock it behind me,” I ordered as I watched the street warily, my eyes taking in every movement and shadow. Pausing to listen, I heard nothing but the wind that blew from behind me, bringing the subtle scent of death on its warm embrace. Walking around the car, my boots pounded on the gravelly asphalt, and I tightened the grip on my club as I approached the smashed glass door of the convenience store. At its entrance, I stopped, watching, listening, ready for whatever threat the universe would choose to throw at me. When nothing happened, I stepped through the doorway, the glass crunching under my boots. With slow, deliberate and carefully placed steps, I moved further into the building. Either the lights were off, or the power had gone out, the shadows growing deeper and darker the further into the store I moved. At the counter, I cast my gaze over the strewn mess. The till had been emptied and I snorted. Idiots, whoever raided it wasn’t going to last long in this world where money would quickly lose all value. The shelving around me was empty. The people who’d taken the food were the true survivors. Checking the cigarette cabinet behind the cash register, I found the doors wide open and the shelves inside bare. Thankfully I had several cartons in the car to keep me going, but I knew eventually I was going to be forced to quit. A shudder passed through my body at the thought. Looking around the store, I found birthday cards and brochures, most of which were strewn about the floor. Stepping up to the wall of papered items, I cast my gaze over it. Quickly dismissing leaflets about the town of Blythe and brochures for local restaurants, I almost passed right over the map of New Mexico. With a huge smile, I grabbed it and some of the stifling anxiety left my body. Finding nothing else of use in the store, I headed toward the front door with far less stealth than I entered with. As the sun hit my face, I grinned at Noah, and came to a sharp, grinding halt. She looked utterly terrified, her hands pressed to the glass, and her eyes behind her thick glasses wide. Before I had a chance to search for the threat, cool metal was pressed against the side of my forehead. Somehow, I just knew it was a gun, and my heart sank.

  “Tell her to unlock the door.”

  The words spoken were masculine, and completely unremarkable. Without moving my head, I tried to see who held the gun on me, but they were too far to my right to make out. Beyond whoever was holding the gun on me, toward the back end of our SUV, was a woman. She stood meekly, her shoulders hunched forward, head dipped low. Her hair was cut into a short bob, a plain, mousy brown color. She was dressed in jeans and a creased, button-up cotton shirt, worn sneakers on her feet. Her posture screamed unwilling.

  “You’ve got till the count of three, then I put a bullet in your head, and if I have to shoot my way into that car I will.”

  “Sounds like a waste of bullets,” I replied, my words strong and smooth even though inside I was screaming with fear. “We’re not the enemy.”

  “You’re not, but you have something I need. I just want the car.”

  “There are cars parked around here everywhere, I’m sure an enterprising man such as yourself can get your own.”

  “Bitch, yours is packed and ready to roll. One…”

  My fingers clenched around the handle of the club, but there was no way I could take on a gun so up close and personal.

  “Richard, let’s just go find a car somewhere else.” The woman standing nervously by the SUV looked up, her red-rimmed eyes caught mine, and I saw a heady dose of both fear and guilt in them.

  “Two…” her companion went on, ignoring her.

  “Fine, let me get my sister and our backpacks, and it’s yours.”

  “Tell her to unlock the fucking car!”

  “Boo,” I called out, keeping calm even though I wanted to scream and fight. “Unlock the door, baby girl.”

  With only a moment’s hesitation she did as I asked.

  “Tell her to get out,” the asshole beside me continued.

  “Come on, Boo, jump on out, everything will be fine.”

  “Amanda, get in the driver’s seat.”

  The woman quickly turned, but instead of walking around to the driver’s side of the car, she moved to the back and opened the hatch which swung upwards.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Richard demanded.

  She didn’t say a word, but suddenly both mine and Noah’s packs were tossed to the ground on the concrete pavement. Well hell, a criminal with a conscience.

  “Jesus Christ, woman,” Richard scoffed under his breath.

  Slamming the back hatch closed, Amanda quickly moved to get in the car. Noah shifted nervously by the passenger door, her features pale, her fear so heavy I could almost taste it. The gun slipped away from my face as Richard moved toward the SUV, the weapon still pointed my way. He was as unremarkable as the woman who currently sat behind the steering wheel. They were both older, at least in their late thirties, their clothing ordinary. They sure as shit didn’t look like gun totting lawbreakers. It just went to prove how messed up our world had become in such a short amount of time.

  “Real brave Bonny and Clyde, carjacking a vehicle with a kid in it,” I spat out, anger overpowering my fear.

  “Just doing what we’ve got to do to survive. Think yourselves lucky Amanda gave you the backpacks.”

  As he climbed into the passenger seat, Noah stepped up alongside me, keeping her distance from the man with the gun. Grabbing her hand, I held it in a tight grip moving her behind me, so she wasn’t in the line of fire.

  “Give me my fucking guitar,” I growled.

  Richard glanced into the back seat and reached over, grabbing the guitar by the neck and awkwardly dragging it into the front of the car before tossing it out the window. My entire body tensed as it hit the concrete with a hollow thud. Then they were gone, the SUV revving hard as it pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the street.

  “Fuck!” I hissed as our vehicle and healthy stash of supplies disappeared from sight.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I continued.

  Letting go of Noah’s hand, I stepped forward and scooped up Maybelle, inspecting her damage. There was a large scuff on one side, but otherwise she appeared fine. Meanwhile, we were not. Our transportation was gone, along with most of our gear, and we were left standing out in the open in a small town that had not been saved from the horror that was the Red Rage. We were exposed and still hundreds of miles from Elmendorf. Did I take the risk of looking for another car? Or did we just start walking? The map I’d acquired flapped in the breeze on the ground behind me. It felt as if it were mocking me. We’d been jumped because of a goddamn map.

  “Spineless, weak prick. FUCK!” I screamed to the heavens above, my curse long, loud, and furious. Breathing heavily, I pinched the bridge of my nose. A faint sniffle from behind me caught my attention, and I spun around to find Noah standing where I’d left her, her glasses in one hand as she tried to wipe away the tears that sprung from her eyes.

  “No, no, no, Boo, don’t cry. We’re okay.”

  Rushing to her side, I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, pulling her head into my neck. She held on to me as her body trembled, and I pulled her helmet off, so I could run a hand soothingly over her hair.

  “I know that was scary, but we’re okay now. We’ve got our backpacks, and I’ll find us some more food and water, everything will be okay, I promise.”

  Eventually the crying jag she was trying so hard to hold back stopped, and she pulled her head away from mine. Helping her to slide her glasses back into position, I smiled.

  “I told you we might end up doing some walking.”

  “What about the sick people?” she whispered, casting a sideways glance in the direction we’d seen the large group of infected. Grabbing our backpacks, I handed Noah hers.

  “They’re long gone. We keep our heads down and keep moving while staying away from assholes like Richard and Amanda, okay.”

  “Shy,” Noah groaned with little enthusiasm.

  “Sorry, Boo, you know me.”

&nbs
p; That dragged a small smile to her lips.

  “Yeah Shy, I know you.”

  Adjusting the straps of my backpack, I did a slow circle, trying to figure out what to do next.

  “I’m hungry, Shy.”

  That helped make the decision for me. First food and water. If we were going to be doing some hiking, we needed protection from the sun, and just maybe while I was preparing us for the next leg in our journey, I’d get lucky and find another fucking car.

  Track Six: Limp Bizkit, Break Stuff

  CHAPTER 6

  Peeking around the corner of the house, I walked toward the window, my footsteps slow and soundless, the air trapped in my chest. Coming to a stop beside the large, glass bay windows, I dared a quick glance inside. Pressing my back into the brick wall, I exhaled and tried to get my trembling limbs to relax. On that one quick inspection the room inside the home appeared empty, so I chanced another look, longer this time. The living room beyond was filled with shadow, but I could make out a huge sectional leather sofa in front of a large screen TV. My racing heart slowed as I took in the entire space, and I stepped closer to the window, bringing my hands up to cup around my eyes as I pressed my face against the glass.

  Suddenly, a body appeared before me and it took a moment to realize it wasn’t my own reflection. Instead, it was that of a young man. His blood-red eyes and the extensive webbing on his skin told me immediately he was infected. With a roar he ran straight at me, smashing his body against the glass.

  “Shit!” I cursed, stumbling away from the window. My ass hit the ground, and my fist stayed wrapped around the leather grip of my driver.

  With another smash of his head against the window, a fine crack split the glass. It was then I noticed the infected man was completely naked, and the hemorrhaged veins covered everything. Crab crawling further away, I managed to scramble to my feet and ran back around the side of the house where Noah waited for me. Swinging my backpack over my shoulder, I reached for Noah and tugged her away from the house.

  “Was there someone sick inside?” Noah asked, panting as she was forced to run alongside me.

  I took Maybelle from her hands and nodded. Finally, I slowed us to a walk as I kept searching the street in front of us for danger. Reaching another single level, red-brick home, I paused. This house, like all the others, appeared empty. The only difference was there was no car parked in the short driveway or in the street, and the garage had been converted into a room with a sliding glass door, so there was no car in the garage. This could mean the house was empty. It could also be a load of bullshit, and there was another crazy zombie fucker beyond the front door.

  “Let’s take a look at this one,” I suggested, pulling Noah by the elbow closer to the brick home.

  At the front window, I pressed on the top of her helmet, and Noah sank to her haunches. She then pulled her bandana up without me having to remind her. I lowered my guitar into her waiting hands and edged closer to the window, pulling my own bandana over the lower part of my face. Fuck knows I didn’t want to look inside, but we needed food and water. Shaking off my trembling hands, I got a better grip on my club and took a quick glance through the window. The room beyond looked empty, but so had the last house I checked before some naked screaming freak tried to headbutt his way through the glass window. The furniture inside the house was older, magazines littered a coffee table in front of a small, two-seater sofa. A sad, little plant sat in a black pot looking limp and dry, indicating it hadn’t been watered in a while. After a few minutes inspecting the living room and what I could see beyond, I reached for the window and tried to slide it open. As expected it didn’t move. It was times like this I wished I’d paid more attention to my high school friend, Heath Meyer, the resident thief of Malvern High. There wasn’t a house or car that boy couldn’t get inside. Even though Heath had been one of my best friends during high school, I’d distanced myself from his breaking and entering habits. It might sound hypocritical of someone who was a compulsive thief, but I was more of a shoplifting kind of gal. Breaking into homes after dark and hotwiring cars wasn’t really my style. I was deeply regretting not learning a few tricks of the trade now though. Tip toeing my way up to the front door, I pulled open the screen which announced my presence with a long screech. I flinched, then stilled, and waited for something to happen, anything. When nothing did, I reached for the door handle and tried to turn it only to find it locked. It didn’t surprise me, I mean, duh… It was the twenty-first century, people locked their doors. I just wished like hell they didn’t. Looking around the front yard, I tried to find something I might be able to break the window with.

  “Check under the door mat.”

  Rolling my eyes, I turned to face Noah.

  “We’re not going to find a key under the door mat, Noah. That doesn’t even happen in movies anymore.”

  Noah stood and walked towards me. Bending down, she began to lift the mat until it was stopped by my stubborn boots. Ready and willing to prove her wrong, I moved aside. Peeling back the rubber mat, we both stared at the silver key that sat innocuously beneath it. Noah picked it up and held it out between us, a smug grin on her face.

  “What an idiot,” I scoffed, taking the key from her hand. “Who hides their key under a mat? They’re just asking to be robbed.”

  Sliding the key into the lock, I told Noah to move back a few steps before pushing the door open. Grabbing my golf club between two hands, I held it over my shoulder, ready to tee off on the first zombie fuckers head to appear before me. When no zombies emerged, I called out.

  “Anyone home?”

  A blood curdling scream sounded from somewhere over the road, and Noah was quick to step into my back, pushing me forward. We stumbled through the front door, and somehow I managed to keep my club raised. Both of us stood frozen within the living room that held the strong odor of…motor oil?

  “Hey, what kind of dickhead leaves their key under the welcome mat?” I finally yelled.

  Nobody answered, and the house remained quiet. As the seconds ticked by, my muscles began to lose their tension. Deciding I wouldn’t be able to fully relax until I checked the entire house, I peeked around the short wall that separated the living room and kitchen. It was people and zombie free. Then I checked the hallway and the three bedrooms and bathroom that split off it. I found nothing but tidy, modest furniture. Definitely no rotting undead or crazy survivors. Eventually I found my way back into the living room where I retrieved my backpack and guitar from outside the front door and shut and locked it.

  “There’s food!” Noah’s excited shout from the kitchen made me smile.

  Peeking around the doorway that led into what was once a garage, I paused, my eyes growing wide at what I found. A beautiful, gleaming Harley sat in the center of the tiled room. It was black, with lines of chrome and a beautiful airbrushed skull on the fuel tank. Its handle bars were the type to swing upwards in an elegant arch that somehow reminded me of angel’s wings. Around the room were tools and cupboards, everything in its place, everything clean and obviously cared for. My eyes rolled heavenward at the poster tacked to one wall, a gorgeous buxom blonde in a barely-there black bikini, straddling a bike with her ass lifted to show us all her barely covered vagina. How stereotypically sexist. Call me a hypocrite, but I was already stereotyping the owner of this house and that poster. A big, bearded, tattooed, biker with an ego the size of Texas. Thank fuck he wasn’t home, I’d likely beat him with my club just for the poster.

  Wandering around the large room, I peeked inside cupboards and drawers. I didn’t even feel guilty sneaking a look at some stranger’s belongings, all I felt was overwhelming curiosity and the need to find things to help make our journey easier. Finding an elasticized bungee strap I began thinking about a way to fasten Maybelle to my backpack, to help keep my hands free. Sliding open another drawer I found what appeared to be military paraphernalia. The fancy khaki compass and pocket knife immediately went in my pockets
; a pair of small binoculars hanging from a sturdy chord went around my neck. Pushing aside a Red Cross badge and some uninteresting pieces of paper, I found a large velvet box. Inside was a medal. It was gold and in the shape of a cross, with an eagle in the center, hanging from a red, blue, and white ribbon. I’d never had a medal of my own. Rifts of Destruction had won artist of the year and favorite rock band just a few short years ago. Both trophies were at Cullen’s mom’s house. She had them because it was her turn. Yep, she wanted in on the trophy rotation schedule so for two and a half months they sat on her mantel, proudly positioned between two gold frames, one holding our first Billboard cover, and the other our first album cover. I’d never personally won my very own medal though, something shiny to hang around my neck or decorate a wall. The gleaming medal I currently held looked important, but the fact it was stashed away in a drawer told me the recipient didn’t find it significant. It felt like such a waste, and my impulsive need to take what wasn’t mine saw me close the lid and slide the narrow box into my back pocket. I’d stow it away in my bag later. Something shiny caught my eye and thinking maybe there was another medal stashed away in here, I pushed some envelopes aside and dragged out a soldier’s dog tags. My thumb traced the imprinted name, Lawson C. Bishop. Did they belong to the person who owned this house? A friend? A relative? These I hung around my neck because they looked cool, and I pushed the drawer closed with my hip, happy with my pilfered collection.

  “Shy!” Noah called out, and I left the man cave to go find my sister.

  She was sitting at the dining table, a plate of baked beans before her. A few other cans littered the kitchen counter. Using the can opener Noah had already found, I opened the chili con carne and grabbed a fork before joining her at the small, weathered table. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen and dining room were older, but clean and everything neatly tucked away inside cupboards and drawers. Even the utensils were all gleaming silver, four of everything laid in their allotted places. The owner of this house was a neat freak. On the wall beside the dining table was a picture. There were four men in the photo, all dressed in military fatigues. One of the men was tall, lanky, with ears so large they would blow him away in a slight draft. The man beside him had skin the color of mocha chocolate, with sharp, high cheekbones, mischievous eyes, and straight white teeth. Beside him was your typical bad boy, with what was no doubt a permanent smirk on a far too handsome face, his confident posture and grin promising all sorts of naughty things. The last man in the photo was striking. His eyes were a pale blue and fringed with long lashes, his smile easy and honest, his body tall and leanly muscled. He was the good boy of the troop. If one of those men was the owner of this house, I’d bet my last cigarette Mr. Bad Boy was the one. Suddenly my hands were dragged to the middle of the small table, Noah’s fingers linked with mine, her head bowed, her eyes squeezed shut.