concert. Only instead of coming back up again with their fingers twisted up in a heavy metal salute to their favorite bands rock guitarist solo, they collided hard with the hood – the force of the blow cracking the landscapers skull. Edgar didn't stop to see if he was dead.
Instinctively he pressed down on the pedal, causing the wheels to pull the men’s legs under the tires and spin them away from the speeding vehicle, their ragged clothes making them look like flags whipping around violently in a gale wind. Edgar could feel the woman beneath the car hitting the undercarriage as he bore down on her. He felt only relief that it had worked. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the expressionless face of the Latino man just as his gray brains slid through the gash in his forehead and down the front of his tattered uniform. It was all over in seconds and Edgar was out on the street at last.
Cars jammed up the short distance between him and the airport departures entrance, but he wasn't worried about that now. He piloted the Escalade up onto the center divider, covering the short distance of stalled and abandoned vehicles before turning back to the right and using the cars weight to push a Toyota Corolla and a Mazda Miata easily out of his path. He saw a few mangled people out there, moving in between the cars, searching for living things to eat. He didn't see any normal-looking people. He passed the Police Checkpoint station that had been set up after 9/11 and was never taken back down. Whoever had been left in charge had done him a favor by setting up the wooden RESTRICED ACCESS signs and blocking off incoming traffic. Edgar barreled through them like they were made out of matchsticks, leaving a trail of scattered plywood in his wake.
“Maybe that was the worst of it,” he said, trying to give himself some kind of encouragement. “Maybe it will get easier from here.”
He sped up as he took the corner, veering sharply right toward Terminal 1. He'd have to take the short cut across the bridge and past the Terminal 7 parking lot, then drive the wrong way back up toward Terminal 5 to get back to his plane. He came flying around the corner and had to jam on the brakes hard to avoid plowing into the back of a line of empty cars. The tires screeched loudly and the seat belt cut into his shoulder and chest, restraining him. He furiously slammed his fist against the wheel a few times in frustration.
“Great,” he bellowed. “That's just fucking great, man! Just what I needed.”
He noticed that his sudden stop had caused a shiny metal revolver to slide out from underneath his seat.
“Who the fuck keeps a gun under the front seat? It's like everyone in this city is fucking crazy!”
He didn't have time to work it out. A loud growl sounded from somewhere behind him. He whipped his head around just in time to see a small child with blood pouring from his torn open mouth come hurling in his direction, teeth first. Without thinking, he leaned forward and chucked a hard elbow back at the demonic brat's forehead, colliding dead on and causing him to tumble back. He could hear the pintsized nightmare scrambling on the seat, pushing himself back up to attack once more. Edgar looked in the rear view mirror and saw the terrifying child monster preparing for a fresh lunge.
“Hold on, fucker,” he said, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal and turning the wheel to the right toward the loading and unloading zone.
An unearthly roar erupted from the back seat as the SUV lurched forward again, but it wasn't going to be enough. Instead of being pinned to the creamy beige leather upholstery, the kid had collapsed into a crouch and was now inching forward. Edgar considered his options for a split second. He could reach down for the gun and hope it was loaded and working, but it was a huge risk.
It sure didn't help whoever used to own it, he thought.
One bite was all it would take to ruin his plans of escaping this disaster. The little savage was bound to be climbing all over him like a playground jungle gym the second he stopped, chomping at anything that looked like flesh and blood. He'd come too far to give up so easily, too far to leave things to chance.
Instead, he aimed the Escalade toward the wide concrete pylon closest to him and closed his eyes, pushing down so hard on the pedal that his foot hurt. It was over in seconds. Edgar felt the car lurch forward as it collided, his seat belt locking up and digging hard into his guts until the wind was forced out of him, a spray of glass misting over his arms and face. At the same time, he heard the child scream as he flew past him out the window, kicking him in the back of the head and neck with his faddish light-up sneakers. Edgar opened his eyes and inhaled like a man drowning. The windshield was busted and the front of the SUV was smashed up with steam coming out the front grill. On the top, like a hood ornament, were the mangled remains of the kid, who'd gone head first into the pylon as well. A greasy looking stain of dark red blood was splattered where the impact had been. The body shook; the child's now shoeless foot twitched, then went still.
It looks like someone threw a huge tomato as hard as they could at the pole, he thought absentmindedly. His head felt like it was still ringing. It hurt to think. He rubbed the back of his stinging head and neck and then checked it for blood, but he was unscathed. As he looked down at his trembling hands he saw a drop of bright red fluid fall and land on them. He felt a trickle from his nose. Looking up in the rear view mirror he was relieved to see that he had a nosebleed. He smiled at himself and saw that his mouth was bleeding as well. He'd bitten his tongue during the impact, but it was nothing serious. Once more he'd survived, even if he felt like he'd be better off dead.
“That's what you get for not wearing your seat belt, you little asshole,” he yelled to his former passenger. “Don't you know you're not supposed to mess with the driver? Ever?”
He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. The vehicle was totaled. He'd have to find another way to his destination. He winced in pain as he stepped out. He was bruised and beaten, but still in good shape overall. He told himself to ignore the pain in his legs and arms, in his chest, and his throbbing head. There would be time to feel pain and be weak later. Now there was only time to survive.
He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands. It was the real deal, a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum, just like the kind Clint Eastwood used in the Dirty Harry movies. It was made out of stainless steel and gleamed in the harsh Los Angeles sunlight. He snapped open the revolver to see there were five working bullets in it and only one spent shell casing.
“The original owner probably ate that bullet. The next guy who found it didn't have the brains or balls to use it. Instead he hid it under the seat.”
Gently he reinserted the cartridge back into place, loading it up so he could continuously fire the available five bullets he had at his disposal.
“Last thing I need today is to be playing Russian roulette out here,” he said.
A sudden thumping from behind the car at the Alaska Airlines terminal caught his attention. He looked over to see a man with sandy blonde hair and glasses wearing a tan sweater with olive green cargo shorts and black, leather sandals. He was in his mid-thirties. He had a backpack on, the kind often used by Europeans traveling around the States on short trips. It buckled under his waist. He was the picture of normality, a stranger who'd come to explore the wonders of Southern California and ended up trapped in a nightmare, except for the missing chunk torn from his right arm. Blood stained the sides of his torn sweater. Edgar slowed as he reached him, realizing it was already too late for the man.
“Thank God,” the man shouted, his voice slightly muffled through the glass. “I thought I'd never see another living soul again. You've got to help me. My wife is up in the food court. She's pregnant. She was attacked, but I fought them off for now. Please. We need help!”
Edgar slowly lifted the gun to the man's head, pointing it at the glass window. Instantly the man's face went white with fear. He babbled incoherently, raising his arms as he backed away slowly trying to wave Edgar off.
“It's for your own good,” Edgar said. “Trust me.”
He hesitated for a moment. He knew the man was
a goner, knew he was doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery, but he still wasn't used to killing living people. It was part of why he'd chosen to be a pilot when he entered the service, instead of a foot soldier. He preferred that if he had to kill somebody he did it as far away from the target as possible. The look on the man’s face was like a dagger in Edgar's heart. He lowered the gun and the man stopped and panted, clutching his chest.
“Jesus, man,” he shouted. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
Just then a group of mutilated-looking TSA personal came from behind the ticketing counter. There were three of them, all in uniform, their faces contorted with sickness and hunger. Blood poured from their eyes and their skin looked bubbled from some kind of radiation poisoning. The man turned around and let out a high-pitched scream as they lunged for him with unnatural speed. The first TSA agent tore into his jugular while the second agent bit at his face. Soon they were all covered in the man's free flowing blood, slipping and falling down into a pile of screams and snarls. Edgar felt sick as he watched, powerless to do anything to help. The man's screams fell to a low whistle as they feasted on his steaming hot guts. They were on him like hunters on prey, devouring
Undead L.A. 1: LAX Page 7