He paced Justin, cutting across yards and parking lots. Mini-hordes slept in the streets of every intersection as if staking out the area. They made it to the Forbidden Zone’s border in less than thirty minutes, thanks to Justin’s cool memory quirk. Which bothered him. What was his metaphysical gift? Could be his immunity and his overwhelming desire to survive.
They parked the bikes under the awning of an office building complex and waited in the long shadows of dawn for the first drone. After a lone drone finally buzzed by, he tested the electrified fence with a handful of debris. No sparking. With wire cutters at the ready, he snipped the zip ties they had previously secured in order to conceal their access route.
Once on the other side of the Forbidden Zone’s chintzy border wall, they quickly fastened several zip ties and trimmed the plastic ends, hoping the drones wouldn’t detect the breach.
***
After a three-hour nail-biting drive listening to Justin’s dos and don’ts, and the brief but intense interrogation at the market’s parking lot entrance, Luther’s nerves started twinging. The troops of Enforcers decked out in full-blown riot gear didn’t help either. The good news: his RFID chip had worked without a hitch. But if he were taken in for questioning for any reason, a blood test would reveal his Class-Z status due to last year’s damning Z-bite.
“Chillax,” Justin hummed under his breath.
“Phew.” Luther let out a much-needed exhale. No matter what they called it, this was still Texas. He couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Growing up in Texas, he had endured the implied racism of not being born white until he had saved enough money to start a new life in California.
He had sworn never to return. Yet, there he was, trapped behind enemy lines. Only there was a new enemy. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his deep-rooted hatred for his southern sovereignty had been because he had subconsciously known the future. I’m reading too much into this, he scolded. Scarlett and her future-self talk was making him paranoid.
Standing in the endless line, they finally made it past a fleet of gravel trucks blocking the view. Luther noted the car lot of random vehicles for sale. That must be the bus Dean had mentioned. “Hold our spot. I’m checking out the bus,” Luther said, suddenly curious.
“Why?”
“Call it woman’s intuition,” Luther goaded.
“Huh?”
Luther loved messing with Justin. “Getting in touch with my feminine side.” He took off for the bus, noting the FULLY CONVERTED SKOOLIE sign on the windshield. The heavy-duty bulldozer blade attached to the front grill definitely looked appealing. And those Mad-Max tire-guards made for a bad-ass ride.
Justin caught up to him. “Uber-cool. I saw lots of these hippy buses in Zhetto. So much better than living in a tent.”
“Thought you were holding our place in line—”
A skinny man hurried over to them. Luther wasn’t ready to endure a sales pitch. To his surprise, the young man opened the door and said, “Take a look. Let me know if you’re interested.” He was probably tired of pitching to deaf ears.
Luther stepped into the renovated bus and tried to ignore the bright-colored graffitied walls.
“Awesomeness!” Justin flopped onto a mattress and proceeded to bounce on it as if testing the springs.
Luther quickly scrutinized the full-size bus that had been gutted and turned into a house on wheels. The first thing he noticed, besides the glaring graffiti, was the compact kitchen, toilet, and shower. Although he wouldn’t fit in the micro-unit shower. He flushed the toilet. It worked.
“Are you serious about the bus?” Justin asked.
“Yup.” Something at the back of his mind told him Dean was right: it was crucial to their escape.
“It’s perfect,” Justin chirped. “Two sets of bunk beds. One for Scarlett and Twila, one for Ella and me, one for you, and one for Dean.”
He would be cramped. But it would do for a night or two. “I like the rear emergency exit and the marine hatch on the roof,” Luther noted. More than one escape route was a post-pandemic must-have. “I’ve seen enough.” Luther hopped off the bus, not looking forward to driving the monstrosity.
“So, whatcha think?” The salesman smiled from ear-to-ear, reeking of skunkweed. “Before the world went to shit, it belonged to a rock band. Check out the roof rack.” He pointed. “You can store buttloads of supplies. Great for Tent City.”
“Love it,” Justin blurted out. “But only certified, employed truck drivers can buy diesel.”
“This pup runs on regular gasoline. And the sweet part of this deal, the ninety-eight-gallon tank is topped off. Ready to go.”
The salesman continued his spiel, but all Luther could think was they needed this bus. “How much?”
“It’s a steal at ten thousand LSCs.” The salesman’s phony smile flinched. He definitely wasn’t a pro. It was probably the only job the scrawny kid could get.
“Bro, you shittin’ me?” Luther scoffed. “If I had ten thousand LSCs, I wouldn’t need no damn Zhetto bus. Ya think?”
“I feel ya.” The salesman dropped eye contact. “I told the owner he’d never get it. Between me and you, it’s been sitting here for months.”
“You get a commish?” Luther asked.
His grin returned. “Of course. Make me an offer. I’ll see what I can do.”
Luther didn’t respond, letting the kid sweat it out. “I know a guy who might want it,” Luther enticed. “He only pays in”—he paused—“gold,” Luther mouthed.
Justin nudged his arm at the convoy of buses pulling into the parkway on the far end of the parking lot. “We have to get the cheap stuff before it sells out.”
Luther ran his hand under the tranny to check for leaks. Clean. “Catch you on the rebound. If the price is right—” Luther left him hanging.
“A bus? Seriously?” Justin uttered under his breath.
“Keeping our options open,” Luther said, relieved the line was moving faster now that the early birds were inside. “We can’t wait for Zac much longer. Not with those stinking nimrods sniffing us out.”
“I know,” Justin moaned. “Bummer, I wanted a helicopter ride. But, I feel horrible for Scarlett. I’ve never seen her so out of it.”
Despondent was more like it, Luther thought, noting his surroundings. Beyond the chain-link fencing enclosing the market, scores of bulldozers and other heavy equipment lined the graveled lot along with piles of utility poles, lumber, and various construction materials.
“Renovating,” Luther speculated.
“Dude, get this. They’re turning this place into a tourist attraction. Complete with hotels, shops, Z-fighting pits, carnival games, and even a few amusement rides.”
“That’s messed up.” He recalled Justin saying something about that before.
After the quick scan and pat-down at the walk-in entrance, he was glad he had left his duffle in the back of the truck. Once they made it inside the market, the food trucks called out to him. “Oh, the aroma of deep-fried goodies has ol’ Luther excited.”
Luther cut through the foot traffic, straight for the burger truck, ready to devour a double-decker cheeseburger and two super-size orders of fries. Feeling anemic after losing a good fifty pounds since the pandemic, he placed his order.
“You ordering for me too?” Justin ragged his ass.
Luther flashed Justin a big-eyed hell-no glare. “And whatever he wants?” Luther told the teenage boy standing at the food truck’s order window.
“Two chili corn dogs, fries, and a root beer,” Justin ordered without hesitation.
Several bottles of Dr. Pepper sat in a wooden barrel of ice in front of the truck. “Gotta warm one?” Aunt Matilda used to drink warm Dr. Peppers all day long. When she wasn’t drinking Rhum Barbancourt. That woman did love to drink.
“Here you go. Hand . . .” the man said with a scanner in hand.
Luther obliged, curious. The clerk’s automated “thank you,” told him all he needed to
know. The CitChip was loaded. Minutes later, Luther dove into the burger, unable to restrain himself. The special sauce dribbled down his chin, just the way he liked. It wasn’t good if it wasn’t messy.
As he lusted over the burger, his lucid dream faded further into nonexistence with every bite. He felt like a bonehead for making a big deal over it. What the hell had he been thinking? The bus—that must be why he needed to be there today. Screw it. Definitely getting me some Tabasco. Even if he had to sell his Rolex.
“Can you talk yet? I thought you were going orgasmic on me,” Justin zinged.
It was worth a laugh. It wouldn’t take much to set him off these days. “That was a damn good burger. If I have enough digital currency left, I’ll buy us another round on the way out.”
“Chérie, ya done stuffin’ yo face? Get yo hiney here. I got tings to do. Like saving da world.”
“Dude, you look like you just saw the Swamp Thing again,” Justin ribbed.
Damn, just when he thought he had overreacted. “My aunt just summoned me again. We’d better see if she’s here.” Luther stood up and shook off the crumbs.
“They’re already out of shopping carts,” Justin grumbled. “We should have bought the supplies first.”
They strode past row after row of tents like the Bay Area street fairs he used to peruse for interesting Christmas gifts for friends and family back when he raked in the bucks. He made an impulsive sharp left between two tents.
“Where’re you going?” Justin called after him.
“Following my instincts.” Luther didn’t mention the inexplicable gravitational force tugging him toward the far side of the market.
“Dude, I don’t like this. If you see any black boxes on top of the poles, let me know.”
Luther eyed a series of poles with rectangular boxes off in the distance. “You mean like those?” He pointed.
Justin gasped. “They’re prepping for 6G. Which means, super high-tech facial recognition.”
“6G? What happened to 5G?”
“I know. Right?” Justin spouted.
Luther’s mother had ranted about 5G before the zombies had taken over. She had been convinced it triggered illnesses such as cancer, sterilization, autism, and inexplicable autoimmune illnesses. Luther had assumed it had been one of those crazy conspiracy theories.
Then again, the Super Summer flu had started off as a conspiracy theory. It made him wonder how many of those conspiracy theories had been legit. If only he had believed the initial rumors, he would have bought a U-Haul of supplies and moved to the mountains with his homies.
Several tents down, an African woman in a yellow and purple headdress stood in front of a tent draped with purple curtains. He could practically feel her impatience.
Drawn to her as if in a trance, he plodded toward her in resistance while Justin stared up at him in apparent awe. “That has to be her. Hang back.” Luther no longer fought the gravitational pull.
“Ye-ah, right, okay.” Justin glanced warily at the fortune-telling booth. “I’ll be at the dry goods tent.”
“Aunt Matilda—” She didn’t look a day older than the last time he’d seen her more than twenty years ago. She had always seemed ancient to him; now it was more like agelessness.
“Mon chérie,” she greeted in the husky creole-Haitian accent he adored. During their intense embrace, time fast-forwarded in his mind. As if encased inside a crystal ball, the years, the decades, and centuries whirled by until the concept of time disappeared through a black hole.
She parted the curtains. He ducked under the FORTUNES 100 LS CREDITS sign. “Auntie Mattie, is that really you?” Without thinking, he reverted to what he had called her as a kid.
“Sure ain’t Angelina Jolie.” She cackled. Her green eyes flickered with mischief just as he remembered.
How can she possibly still be alive? Luther was stunned. She must be going on ninety if she wasn’t a hundred.
“Ain’t no one can kill me off. Much to da dismay of my husbands.”
How had she survived the pandemic? Even more amazing, was the fact they had stumbled upon each other. “Uncle Richo told me you died years ago.” Luther was dumbfounded.
“Pale kaka!” She waved him off. “I showed him. Went back to Haiti.”
She stared at him for a long uncomfortable moment while he eyed the creepy Voodoo paraphernalia on the shelves. It reminded him of the time she had taken him to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo in New Orleans.
“Ya lookin’ good, boy. But, no time to chat. Time for da Re-membering.” Aunt Matilda gracefully lit the candles on the round table centered with a crystal ball, tarot cards, and a worn-leather bag. Knowing her, it was the same leather bag she’d had when he was a kid.
“Sit.” She handed him a handmade ceramic cup painted with dancing skeletons chipped from decades of use. “Drink.”
That reminded him. He handed her the warm Dr. Pepper from his cargo pants pocket.
She cackled. “Mèsi! See, da Re-membering already be a starting.” She snatched the Dr. Pepper and tucked it under the table. “Now, we drink da tellin’ potion. Gimme.” She took a drink. “Nasty kaka! Ya drink da rest.” She reached under the table and firmly set a bottle of Rhum Barbancourt in front of her.
He gulped it down hard and fast. Whatever it was, it stung his tongue until his mouth went a dryish-numb. It could have been an authentic Voodoo concoction of chicken blood. Knowing her, it was merely rancid tea just to dupe her customers. He wouldn’t put it past her, anything for a cheap gag as long as it wasn’t at her expense. That was the Aunt Mattie he had grown to love and fear. For as quick as she was with her laughter, her anger was far swifter. Her volatile behavior had always kept the family on edge.
She lolled her head around and mumbled a chant. Meanwhile, his senses went berserk. He swore he detected the distinct aromas of people walking outside. As if each person had their distinct aroma-print. Whisperings weaved in and out of his mind, and his lifespan blurred under the lids of his closed eyes like an old movie reel.
“Humanity. It be out of time, boy. Aw, but ya be one of da chosen ones. To right der wrongs.”
It was not what he wanted to hear.
“Hush you! Dey gave ya a blessed life. Ya ain’t had to hide from dem all dose decades like me. And now, Spirit be a callin’ in yo debt. With a shitload of interest.” She cackled.
He had assumed Aunt Matilda was merely an alcoholic, not the legit Mamba Voodoo Priestess she claimed had been passed down her bloodline. The possibility had been too outlandish for him to accept. And yet, he remained superstitious to this day. He glanced at the juju beads on his wrist, the ones he had purchased from a good luck charm peddler in Boom Town.
“Ha!” She eyed his bracelet with distaste. “Dey got ya good.” She snapped the elastic so tight the beads flew onto the table, bouncing onto the floor. “Ya already got a powerful charm. I took care of dat after da last zombification outbreak. Bet ya ain’t never been sick, chérie.”
Luther thought hard. True. He didn’t recall ever being sick. Although, he was allergic to antibiotics. And his knee had given out on him near the end of his first pro ball contract, but it had healed after his early retirement. What about the Z-bite? It should have turned him. He should be shambling the planet as a skin-and-bones zombie, starving to death. Although, a numbers person would argue that a certain percentage of the population had a natural immunity.
“Hush, you. My spell worked real good. ’Til now. Spirit says da Black Magic doers be a winnin’. And I see”—her wise old eyes grew wide with fear—“see someting dark a comin’ for ya. Ya betta run, boy.” Her urgency seemed to pulse through his body. “Run! Like it be da devil chasin’ ya.”
Aunt Matilda adjusted her exotic headpiece. It could have been the same glitzy turban with the spectacular purple crystal that she used to wear during tourist season in New Orleans, never shy about scamming inquisitive tourists.
She mumbled a chant and then clutched his hands. Time w
hirled around him once again, bringing him back to his childhood—to that day he had sworn to forget. Instantaneously, he was in his ten-year-old body that summer he had lived with her in New Orleans. He remembered every detail down to his favorite Star Trek shirt. What had started as the best summer of his life had turned into the worst summer a kid could dream up.
“Hush yo mind. Re-member!”
The potion must be hallucinogenic. He lost control of his thoughts. Gruesome billboards plugging a George Romero movie took over his mind.
“Tell me, chérie.” Her hands clasped tighter. “What ya see?”
Macabre faces, some black, some brown, some white, with bulging red-rimmed eyes stuck open in a perpetual surprised state kaleidoscoped in and out of focus. But these weren’t the undead faces of the pandemic. They were the faces of the real-life zombies he had seen as a boy!
“Dat’s right. Da Zombification of N’Orleans. Dey was a messin’ with da black magic dat dark day. Hehehe. Dey didn’t count on an old mambo priestess from Haiti a seein’ der evil. Ooh, I took care of dem real good. Now I be marked for life.”
Spellbound by the truth shouting in his mind, Luther was speechless. Had it really happened? He had assumed he had sleep-walked into the middle of one of her over-the-top Voodoo rituals. Aunt Mattie loved the shock and awe of her religion. It would have made for an awesome vaudevillian-horror act, sucking the blood from a chicken or whatever it had been as zombie-like people encircled her in cultish reverence.
Scared shitless, he had spent the rest of the night in a magnolia tree. Uncle Richo had finally found him and told him he must have stumbled upon Aunt Mattie during one of her weekend drunks.
“Mon chérie, we done beat dem dat day. Yep, we sho did.” She slapped her wrinkled hand on the table, flickering the candle’s flame. “Ah, dey be back. And dey want it—all. Da soul of every heartbeat dey cain’t control, dey will destroy! See, ain’t enough good spirits to win dis time.”
It was the first time he detected sadness from her. Her sadness leaped from her throat into his. Choking him. “Mattie, it’s a virus—the Super Summer flu. Not a curse,” Luther insisted.
Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Page 13