by Urban, Tony
He stepped toward the biker as it stumbled around blindly. He reached out and touched the helmet which was painted to look like Pac Man. At the touch, the biker lurched toward him.
“I’ll help you. Just stay still.” Dear, God, how is this man alive, he wondered.
Emory reached out and lifted the smoked glass face shield, careful to not twist or turn what must be a broken neck. What he discovered was the face of a dead man. The biker’s lifeless eyes rolled in their sockets to see Emory. A muffled growl escaped its mouth and Emory could hear the teeth clicking together.
The biker reached toward Emory in a wide, uncoordinated swing. Emory shoved it backwards and the zombie tripped over a piece of a bumper and fell onto the road.
When it hit, its head snapped up into a somewhat normal position. Then it climbed back to its feet and the zombie’s detached cranium wobbled on the neck in a way that reminded Emory of the way the old magicians would spin bowls and plates on sticks on the Ed Sullivan show.
Emory ran from the biker and into the putrid, green smoke that had filled the tunnel like a heavy fog.
“Christopher!” he called out, dashing around the fog in a fruitless search. “Christopher, where are you?”
He paused, listened for a vocal response. Instead, what he heard were the soles of shoes scraping against the pavement. That, and a cacophony of low groans.
Emory looked into the smoke, straining to see more than a few feet beyond his nose. He moved forward. Stopped. Then took a step backward.
Through the green haze he could see movement. Human shapes walking, no, lurching toward him. Their awkward locomotion not unlike that of the bobble-headed biker he’d just encountered. As they pushed through the smoke, Emory saw them in more detail.
Leading the way was a woman in a blue pantsuit with a jagged shard of metal sticking out of her left breast. A young boy who was missing an arm followed. Next, came a beefy man in a trucker hat whose intestines sagged from a gash in his gut. Other zombies joined the parade.
Amongst then, he saw Christopher. The teen dragged himself along the road with his hands. His spine was twisted horribly askew and his legs turned one hundred eighty degrees in the opposite direction.
“Oh, Christopher. I’m so sorry.”
Emory wasn’t even aware he’d said the words aloud, but the zombies heard him and turned almost in unison toward him and shuffled forward in their slow, but unrelenting gait.
He took one more look into Christopher’s dead eyes. The boy opened his mouth in a raspy growl and swatted at the air between them. Then he continued his soldier-styled belly crawl as fast as his dead arms could drag him.
Emory turned and ran and didn’t stop. He hadn’t run in years, but adrenaline carried him through the one plus mile of darkness until he could see the pinprick of light at the other end.
The brightness increased as he neared the exit and Emory risked a glance behind him. He’d gained ground on the zombies, but they were still coming. He recalled the fable of the tortoise and the hare and realized they might never stop. That he’d have to keep running for the rest of his life.
As he closed in on the exit, the brilliant white light of day pained his eyes, which had become accustomed to the dark, but he didn’t slow down. Another fifty feet and he burst into the daylight and into the city.
A labyrinth of highways and bridges stretched out ahead of him and it took him a moment to understand why it seemed so foreign. Pittsburgh was almost empty. A handful of cars and trucks drove about, and a few dozen people walked to and fro, but it was a far cry from the bustling city he’d expect on a normal weekday afternoon.
“What the hell happened to you, Mister?”
Emory turned to look at a young man, maybe twenty, sucking on one of those electronic cigarettes that everyone seemed to use now. His curly blond hair blew into his eyes and he pushed it away as he stared at Emory.
Emory looked down at himself and saw a bloody and bruised body. The young man tapped his own temple and Emory examined his. He discovered a four-inch gash and felt sticky, gritty blood on the side of his face.
“There was… a wreck.”
The young man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, then opened his bottle of water and wetted the cloth. He handed it to Emory and looked toward the tunnel.
“A wreck? Anyone else hurt?”
Emory nodded as he used the handkerchief to wipe his face clean, then his forearms and hands.
The man looked into the tunnel. As he did, Emory noticed a silver bicycle laying on the sidewalk.
“Is that your bike?” Emory asked.
The man kept his eyes on the tunnel and strolled toward it. “Nope. Was here when I got here.” He paused. “Hey, is anyone else hurt?”
Emory moved to the bike and stood it up. “They’re dead,” he said as he swung his leg over the bike and sat down.
His bony knees barely cleared the space between the pedals and handlebars, but it would have to do. He hadn’t ridden a bicycle since, well, he couldn’t even recall. He hoped it was true that you never forgot how to do it.
The young man turned back at Emory. “Who’s dead?”
Emory pointed the bicycle toward the city and glanced over his shoulder at the man.
“Everyone.”
He pushed on the pedals. The bike wobbled at first and he thought he might crash into the railing, but soon enough, it steadied out. He peddled faster and didn’t look back.
Chapter 23
Mina stayed in the hallway while the nurses and doctor rushed into the room and conversed in their alien medical jargon. The commotion lasted about five minutes and when they fell silent, Mina knew what was up. She’d had plenty of experience with bad news in her life and it got to be that you could see it coming.
The doctor, a Middle-Eastern man with shoe-leather brown skin, stepped out of the room first. He rested his palm on Mina’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry. We did all we could,” he said.
Mina nodded. “It’s all right.”
He moved on with a brief, consoling smile. The nurses shuffled out in a row after him and reminded Mina of ants. The last nurse in line paused.
“You can go in with him now,” the nurse said.
“Do I have to?”
“Excuse me?”
Mina shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry.”
The nurse looked at her quizzically before following her co-workers down the hospital hallway.
Mina hesitated, then re-entered the room. Sprawled on the bed was the body of her dead father, a blue sheet pulled up to just under his chin.
She reclaimed her seat beside the bed and wondered what happened next. Were there papers that needed signing? Was she supposed to call a funeral home? She needed an instructional pamphlet or maybe a book. What to Do After Your Daddy Dies for Dummies.
Mina thought Google might provide some answers and took her cell phone from her pocket. Upon turning it on, she saw there was no signal, so she moved to the window to try there. She stared out onto the soulless, industrial city as she waited to see if the phone might decide to work.
With her back turned, she didn’t see Vernon sit up in the bed. The sheet slid off him to reveal the wiry white hair that dotted his bony torso in random patches. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet fell to the floor.
Vernon stood up, his tighty whities, which had long ago stopped being tight or white, stood out in stark contrast against his dark exposed skin. He meandered toward his daughter, who still stared down at her phone.
Reflected movement in the glass caught her attention. She assumed — hoped — it was someone coming to tell her they needed to take the body to the morgue and she could go home. When she turned and saw her dead father looking straight at her, surprise was an understatement.
Vernon’s gray eyes had lost the rage that filled them in life. A vacant, yet desperate stare had replaced his hate. He took a step toward Mina, then reached for her. Mina stepped back and hit the window, her bon
y elbow made a tiny tinking noise against the glass.
“Daddy?”
Vernon’s mouth fell open, but instead of words, he exhaled a ragged gasp and drool spilled out of his mouth in thick opaque strings.
He reached again for Mina, and this time, his clumsy hands caught the neckline of her blouse. His fingers clawed at the fabric and the top button popped off. Mina swatted at his hand and he growled at her and tried to drag her to him.
The other buttons gave way and her shirt fell open to reveal her practical, and largely unnecessary, white bra. Mina’s initial surprised faded and she pushed him away. Vernon stumbled back two steps, but recovered and moved toward her again. He fell against her this time, his flesh pressed against hers, and he tried to bite her face, but Mina tilted her head back as far as possible and avoided his snapping jaws.
Mina kicked out and her knee connected with his groin. He didn’t go down like she’d hoped he would, but the momentary distraction allowed her to spin away and dash past him. Vernon turned, his movements slow and jerky, and came for her again.
Mina knew there was enough space that she could run past him and briefly considered it. But she was sick of running. Instead, she grabbed the metal bed pan from the small, particle board nightstand beside the bed and waited until he was close enough.
Vernon took three more lumbering steps in Mina’s direction, and when he was within arm’s length, she swung the bedpan with every bit of force her tiny body could summon.
The metal slammed into the side of Vernon’s head with a hollow thud. She reared back and swung again. That blow sent him to his knees and split the top of his head open. Blood ran down his face in red rivulets. His mouth gaped open and shut, open and shut, and he reminded Mina of a fish gasping for air.
Mina stood before him and raised the bedpan over her head. She swung it one last time, heard a crunch as it hit, and Vernon collapsed to the floor motionless.
Mina dropped the bedpan and the sound as it banged against the tile made her jump. She realized she was shaking all over and sat on the edge of the bed to steady herself. She looked down at her twice dead father.
I should have done that a long time ago, she thought.
Chapter 24
It was over ninety degrees in the bus and Bundy had worked up a bad case of swamp ass. He sat near the back, taking up one of the green vinyl seats all by himself. Allebach had the seat across the aisle from him.
Bundy had grown fond of Allebach during his short stay at the prison. He reminded him a lot of the fellows Bundy would meet at the shooting range or butcher shops. Allebach was what Bundy’s father would have called ‘a good egg,’ and the two men were in the middle of a deep conversation about nothing at all.
Bundy noticed Errickson glaring at them from the front of the bus. He kept his eyes on Allebach, but tilted his head toward the younger guard.
“I don’t believe he approves of you treating me like a genuine human being.”
Allebach wasted no energy looking toward his colleague. “Kids come into the system thinking it’s their job to punish people. That isn’t what we’re here for. You’re already doing your time. We’re supposed to make that go as smooth as possible. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Bundy grinned. “Might want to tell him that.”
“Some of them wise up. Ones that don’t, well, they end up as bitter and angry as the men they spent their whole careers hating.”
The bus had been moving in slow motion for the last half hour, but Bundy noticed that it picked up pace as it rolled into a tunnel. The warm light of day disappeared in an instant, plunging the bus into darkness.
“What’s going on?” One of the sick prisoners asked. “Where are we?” His voice was slow and delirious.
Bundy heard the sound of shackles clanging against metal. That was followed by coughing, then more movement.
“Back in your fucking seats!” Errickson yelled and Bundy could hear the fear he was trying to cover with rage.
The putrid green light of dim fluorescents chased away most of the darkness and revealed two of the sick prisoners up and moving. It also showed Errickson was holding a small pistol.
“Sit down, now!”
Bundy watched the reckless little asshole sweep the gun back and forth, his finger on the trigger and one panicked moment away from pulling it and shooting God knows what or who.
“Put that away, Errickson!” Allebach ordered, but the kid kept waving it around like he was ready to waste the entire bus.
The bus driver also watched the chaos unfolding behind him, ignoring the road ahead. Bundy, much to his dismay, did catch what was happening through the windshield.
“Boss, you better tell that driver to stop.”
“What?” Allebach asked, but it was already too late.
Bundy never lost consciousness, but his bell was ringing by the time the momentum of the crash had ceased. He ended up wedged between two vinyl seats.
The bus itself had toppled onto the passenger side. Noxious smoke rolled in through the broken windows. Bundy gagged and coughed as it burned his nasal passages. Then he realized, for the first time since they left the prison, no one else was coughing.
Bundy grabbed the edges of the seats that had him pinned and pulled himself up. It took all his strength and the exertion, coupled with the effects of the crash, made his head spin. Fortunately, the copious amount of sweat that covered his body acted as a lubricant and he managed to squeeze free.
None of his fellow passengers were moving. Two of the prisoners laid limp over seats, but everyone else was unseen. With the bus on its side, Bundy had to crawl over the windows to move. He felt the broken glass dig into his knees and shins, but pushed aside the pain. He needed to find Allebach.
Bundy found him four rows up. The man was head down, ass up, and motionless. Bundy gave his legs a shove, and he somersaulted backwards. His head slumped sideways atop a swollen, purple neck. Bundy knew that was game over. He grabbed the chain around Allebach’s waist and retrieved the keys for his cuffs.
As Bundy freed himself from the manacles, he looked down at the man and felt his chest tighten. Allebach was indeed a good egg, one who reminded Bundy of his own dad who’d died of heart failure a decade ago. They even had the same wispy, gray comb over.
“Shitty way to go out, Boss. You deserved better.”
Bundy didn’t realize he was crying until he felt a tear run down his nose and tickle his nostril. He rolled the old guard into a laying down position and folded his hands over his belly. Next, he wiped the glass off the man’s face. He then set to fixing Allebach’s hair, but as he tried to get it right, the dead man opened his eyes.
Bundy fell backwards and cracked his already foggy head against the metal interior.
“Boss?”
Allebach sat up, and when Bundy leaned toward him, the guard swatted at him and caught the upper part of his ear.
Bundy felt the cartilage bend and flesh tear. How could the old guy be so damned strong? Bundy swung out with his meaty right arm and connected with Allebach’s face. He tumbled backwards again and Bundy got on his knees.
He saw the old guard get up again, unfazed by the blow, and then he noticed more movement out of the corner of his eye.
The two prisoners he’d seen strewn over the seats were now up and moving. Past them, another prisoner was chewing on a severed head that Bundy recognized as belonging to Cob. No more corn for you, Amigo.
Zombies. They’re zombies. He never believed in that kind of thing, but unless he’d hit his head hard enough to scatter all his marbles, there was no other way around it.
As the realization settled in, he felt Allebach grab his leg. Bundy kicked back with his size fourteen foot and smashed it into his mouth. He heard teeth snap like dry wood.
With most of the zombies ahead, fleeing via the front was a no go. Bundy turned back and crawled toward the emergency exit. Along the way he found Errickson’s pistol. It was a tiny .22 Magnum pocket revolver, which
was woefully inaccurate unless you wanted to shoot someone in the gut from two feet away.
It looked and felt like a cap gun in Bundy’s monstrous hand. Little prick probably thought it was an Al Capone gangster gun. Bet he paid twice what it was worth, too. He must have kept it in an ankle holster so he could smuggle it into the prison even though doing so was a felony. Talk about the inmates running the asylum.
Still, it was better than nothing, so Bundy took it as he crawled toward the door at the rear of the bus. When he got there, he half expected it to be jammed, but when he pulled the latch release it flopped out and open where it hit the exterior of the bus with a bang that echoed through the confines of the tunnel.
Bundy threw one leg through the door, then the other as he managed his girth through the opening. He barely fit when it was right side up, let alone sideways. He dropped down to the pavement and felt the impact of his five hundred pounds in all his joints when he landed.
All he could see ahead of the bus was smoke, crashed vehicles, and zombies. Behind it, the smoke was less dense, the totaled cars fewer. Only a few zombies, all of them preoccupied with eating the victims of the crash, were behind him. He went with that option.
A hundred yards away, a vintage Firebird sat pinned nose to nose with a Lincoln Navigator, and together they blocked his escape route. As Bundy hauled himself onto the hood of the Pontiac, a hand grabbed the waistband of his standard-issue orange jumpsuit.
He turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw Errickson. His glasses sat askew on his face. One lens had shattered and a large sliver punctured his eyeball. The remaining eye was lifeless and blank but somehow still seeing, and when Bundy’s face fell into view, the short man gasped and screwed up his face like a fellow who’d just smelled a particularly sour fart.
“Still an asshole, even when you’re dead,” Bundy said.
Bundy reached back and tried to grab the man’s hair, but it was slick with blood and too short for him to get a grip. Errickson’s head darted forward and Bundy pulled back his hand just in time to avoid losing a finger or two.
