by Urban, Tony
"Whoa!" Wim called out. "It's okay."
Peggy lowered the gun. "Scared the shit out of me!"
Mead ran toward her. No, he ran past her. To the two bodies on the ground. A zombie, missing its head from the jaw up, was on top of a woman. Wim watched as Mead grabbed the dead creature's shirt and ripped the corpse away from her.
The woman coughed, her breath hitching. She was covered in gore and Wim couldn’t make out any of her features.
"Jesus! Jesus, I thought you were dead." Mead wiped some of the remnants of the zombie's head off her, his hands clumsily rubbing across her chest. She swatted him away.
"I'm fine. Thanks to Peggy."
That voice. Wim was certain he knew whose voice that was. He told himself it was his imagination playing tricks again. Not to get his hopes up.
Mead grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed her midsection, cringing.
"I think that bastard broke a couple ribs when he landed on me."
Wim swallowed hard. He couldn't believe it. He half wondered if he was asleep and this was a dream. Then Ramey saw him.
"Well, looky there, it's Wim Wagner. Of all the people to find in West Virginia."
There was still a heavy spatter of blood on her forehead and her top lip was split, but she looked good. Better than good. She ran to Wim and threw her arms around him, hitting him so hard he stumbled backward a step.
"I feel like my damn chest is gonna split in two, but I don't even care," she said.
Wim remembered her comment about the ribs and quickly let go, but she held on to him. "I owe you a box of bullets."
"Aw, don't worry about that."
She squeezed his hands as she looked into his eyes. "I never thought I'd see you again, Wim. I'm so glad I was wrong."
Wim couldn't hold back a grin and felt his cheeks heat up as a blush spread across them. "I'm glad you were wrong, too."
They'd both forgotten Mead existed and neither of them noticed him watching with a look on his face like his world had just imploded.
Chapter 38
Juli stood in front of a floor to ceiling mirror and looked at her reflection. The outfit she modeled, khaki trousers and an emerald-colored button-down blouse, looked good on her. She no longer cared that her figure had changed dramatically over the last decade. She was blissful to finally be free of the blood-soaked nightgown.
She'd come upon the little town by accident. A big truck had rolled on its side on the freeway and she took a detour of random back roads. As her Audi rolled into town, she was surprised to see the streets lined with upscale boutiques. Everything from clothing to jewelry stores to craft shops.
It was the kind of town she used to visit with Mark on the weekends when he was off work and the kids were off doing whatever they did with their friends. And now, she didn't even need her gold card.
Juli window shopped until she saw the lovely clothing store. The entry door featured teal paint that had a perfect patina. She walked back to the Audi, took the tire iron, and returned to the shop. She felt rather guilty as she pried open the door, but it was easier than expected.
You did it now, Juli Villarreal. Breaking and entering to add to your laundry list of recent crimes. You're quite the master criminal.
She smiled a little and smiling felt nice. She felt even better when she stepped inside and saw rack after rack of women's clothing.
Over the next hour, she shoplifted a new wardrobe. She had six outfits picked out when the alarm went off. It startled her so bad she felt a hot squirt of pee come out before she could stop it. Now I'll have to find another pair of pants, she thought.
But she was scared. Had she set off the alarm? Why was it only coming on now? She wanted to hide and wait for it to stop, but a part of her expected the police to arrive and arrest her.
They'd tell her everything she thought she'd experienced the last few days was a mental breakdown or a fugue state; that zombies weren't real, and she was an insane woman on a murder spree. The jig was up. To the slammer she would go.
Juli grabbed the tire iron and held it tight as she stepped to the door. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until it all came out in a gush when she saw the postcard pretty town square, which had been empty an hour ago, was full of zombies.
She stood in the open doorway, white-knuckling the tire iron and praying she didn't have to use it. Then she saw the car. She was sure it hadn't been there when she arrived. And zombies don't drive, so that must mean there was a person - or maybe persons, plural - in town, too. Gosh, how she wanted to see another living person. The thought of it forced her from the shop and onto the sidewalk.
Juli saw the dog first. It reminded her of a terrier/lab mix she'd had growing up. Cinnamon. That dog was her best friend and she desperately missed having a four-legged companion.
Mark was allergic, an ailment he passed on to their kids. He wouldn't even allow a hypoallergenic dog. Pets were out of the question, and she obeyed. Maybe she could have a dog now that her family was dead. As far as silver linings went, that was rather poor, but she clung to it nonetheless.
Juli watched as the dog snarled and snapped at zombies that reached into the partially open windows. It chomped on the hand of a dead man in a baseball cap who pulled back three fingers instead of five. Good for you, pup. I always enjoyed finger sandwiches, too.
As she moved closer to the car, and the dog, she saw the man in the backseat. From behind, he appeared motionless, maybe even dead. He reacted not at all as the zombies clawed and grabbed at him.
Juli saw one of the zombie's grab the dog's ear and it let loose a short, pained yip as the monster pulled on it. The man didn't try to help, but she did. Juli ran to the vehicle, swung the tire iron back like a tennis racket, and treated the zombie's head like she was serving. The sound as the metal connected with the zombie's skull both sickened and excited her.
It fell against the car, then slithered down the side until it hit the ground and remained motionless. She rammed the pry end of the iron through the eye socket of another zombie and it too dropped.
The next one in line was a teenage boy, and as soon as she saw him, she thought he looked like a less handsome version of her Matt. That made her wonder if Matt had ever escaped the house and, if he did, whether someone had killed him.
She couldn't fight this Matt-lite zombie. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she opened the car door and dove inside. The dog jumped into her lap and licked her face and Juli didn't even care that its muzzle was covered in black zombie blood.
The man didn't react. She thought he might be dead, but his chest rose and fell in steady, peaceful breaths.
"Is someone else here with you?"
Nothing. It was a stupid question anyway. Of course, someone else was with him. He didn't drive here while sitting in the backseat. He still hadn't acknowledged her presence in any way.
"Hey, are you okay?" She sat her hand atop his. It was like touching a mannequin.
Her mind reeled with questions about this shell of a human being, but she became preoccupied with the zombies that surrounded the car, pressing against it, clawing at the windows. As far as hiding places go, this one sucks, she thought.
Dash ran out of ammo with nine zombies still surrounding the gazebo. There was a gap wide enough he thought he could fit through it if he timed it right.
"Now or never," he muttered, mostly to himself.
He hopped over the wooden railing. The eight foot drop knocked some of the wind out of him and he landed with an "Oof" and stumbled to one knee.
He got back up and ran, passing by a zombie he'd shot earlier. As he stepped over it, the zombie reached up and caught hold of his pant leg. Dash stumbled and fell on top of it. His now useless rifle went flying.
A small hole dotted the zombie's left cheek. A much larger hole opened up on the right side of its face where the cheekbone and eye socket were gone. The wound was grotesque, but the brain was unharmed.
The z
ombie clawed at Dash. One hand caught his shirt collar. The other his ear. It dragged him downward, toward its destroyed face. Its jaws snapped and bit air.
Bolivar realized the shots from the gazebo had ceased. When he looked, he saw Dash was missing from his sniper's perch. He found him a few yards away, just in time to see the zombie underneath pulling their faces together.
"No. Damn it, no," Bol said. He raised his pistol and tried to aim, but they were so close, their heads only inches apart, that he didn't trust himself to take a shot.
Dash used his left arm to try to hold the zombie at bay, and with his right, he fished for a knife in his belt. His hand brushed the hilt. His fingers fumbled with the snap as he tried to free it. Still, the zombie dragged him nearer. He could smell the rancid breath spilling from its mouth.
Dash unsnapped the strap and his hand closed over the handle. He pulled it loose, but before he could use it, the zombie got his face close enough to bite. It locked lips with Dash in an undead French kiss, its jaws chomping, biting. Blood gushed from between their two mouths.
Dash tried to scream through their locked lips. He brought the knife up and plunged it into the zombie's ear. The blade sunk in until the guard collided with the creature's skull.
Another zombie grabbed onto Dash's head and pulled. That broke the bottom zombie's bite and, when their faces came apart, Dash was missing both his lips. When he opened his mouth to scream again, a ragged bit of tongue extruded and gushed dark, almost purple, blood.
Bolivar shot at the zombie who was holding on to Dash's head. Missed. He fired again and the bullet caught the creature in the sternum.
It was too late anyway as the other zombies fell onto Dash like linebackers piling on a QB. Soon enough, he stopped struggling. Bol couldn't watch anymore and turned away.
"Damn it."
Aben stepped out of the store and followed his gaze. Dash wasn't visible under the mass.
"Dash?"
Bolivar nodded.
They surveyed the scene. Aside from the creatures eating Dash, there were now twenty or so zombies left standing, and most of them flocked near the car. It was only then that Bolivar remembered Grady. "We need to finish this and get to the car."
"And my dog," Aben added.
Bolivar holstered his pistol and took a rifle that Aben had extended to him. One by one, he killed the zombies that were eating Dash.
Aben had a pistol of his own. They marched toward the remaining zombies, shooting as they walked.
They shot again and again until only four zombies were left standing, all near the back end of the car. The creatures scratched and clawed, fighting to pry their way inside.
Aben heard the dog bark. "Get away from him, you assholes."
He ran straight into the group of them. He pressed the barrel against the head of a middle-aged man in a WVU t-shirt. When he squeezed the trigger the man's skull exploded across the side window. Aben spun, shot another zombie in the face. It dropped. Next he shot and killed a woman in a floral print blouse.
The last of them, a teenage boy in a McDonald's uniform, had his arm extended into the car. It tried to pull away, but something inside was holding it. Is it the dog? It sure as hell can't be Grady, can it? Bol thought.
"Kill it!" a woman's voice inside the car shouted.
Bolivar and Aben exchanged a confused glance, then Aben shot the teen in the back of the head. Bol peered inside and spotted the new arrival. She waved.
Before the men could react to her presence, Aben noticed Dash approaching from the diamond.
"Aw, Christ," Aben said.
Bolivar followed his gaze and saw Dash. Most of his lower face had been eaten away. Bites had been taken from his neck, arms, and torso. His clothing was torn and bloody. And his eyes, of course, were dead.
Aben moved toward him, pistol in hand, but Bol grabbed his shoulder.
"No. I'll do it." His voice wavered.
Aben looked to Bol. "You don't have to."
"I do."
Bolivar took a few steps toward the approaching zombie. This was worse than Peduto. She was dead. Or still dead, anyway. Not up and moving. But the raspy growls coming from what was left of Dash's mouth were proof enough that whatever had made him human was gone for good.
He thought about saying he was sorry, but that would have only been for his benefit. It wouldn’t make a difference to Dash.
Bolivar aimed and fired and Dash was dead.
Chapter 39
After surviving the debacle at the farm, Wim and the others returned to the warehouse. Everyone had gone their separate ways except for Wim, Ramey, and Emory, who sat alone in an office and talked about everything except zombies.
Wim was happier than he'd been since his animals died. This felt right. These people felt right. He was optimistic that maybe the worst was over and they could start their lives anew.
Emory had been regaling them with more stories of his travels. "And that's how I ended up stark naked in the Seine!"
They all laughed, especially Ramey. She'd been giggling a lot this evening and Wim loved the sound. A wide yawn cut short Emory's own chuckle.
"My, the hours are catching up to me. I should retire for the evening. I trust you two young people will get along fine without a chaperon?" He raised an eyebrow and looked from Wim to Ramey.
"I'm sure we'll be just fine." She crossed her heart.
Emory stood and gave a dramatic little bow. "Then I bid you both adieu." He reached out, took Ramey's hand, and gave it a light kiss. "I'm so very happy I had the opportunity to meet the young lady Wim has been going on about. Now that I have, I can understand why."
Ramey laughed again and Emory left the room. When it was just the two of them, Wim suddenly found himself struggling for words. He tried to think of something to say, but came up empty-handed. When he looked at Ramey, she was grinning.
"Do I make you nervous?"
"What? No. Of course not. I don't know why you'd think that."
She watched him, still grinning, and silent.
He attempted to lick his lips and found his mouth dry as powder. "Yeah. A little."
She cast off another lilting titter and he couldn't hold back a smile of his own.
"You shouldn't be nervous. I'm just a girl. I'm not scary."
Ramey slid across the tile floor until she was sitting next to him. She leaned back, resting against his broad chest, grabbed his hand, and pulled his arm around her shoulders.
Wim felt as if his entire body was on fire and his stomach twisted into hard knots, but he surprised himself by enjoying it. He liked the way Ramey's chocolate-colored hair felt against his neck and how her soft hand fit into his calloused palm like a piece of a puzzle. The only thing that worried him was whether she could feel his heart pounding. If she did, she didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry I ran off like I did. I never thought you'd leave the farm. And I was afraid that, if I stayed too long in that quiet safety, I wouldn't be able to leave, either."
"I understand. I know you need to find out what happened to your dad. And I'll get you there and keep you safe. I promise."
"I believe you. I don't think you could tell a lie if your life depended on it."
"I..." He lost his words again.
"You don't have to say anything, Wim." She gave his hand a squeeze. "Just don't let go of me, okay?"
They fell asleep like that.
Mead liked to wander, always had. He could never sit still in class. Couldn't stay at a particular job or apartment too long. He needed to be moving all the time, like a shark. He spent most of the night haunting the hallways and using a flashlight to explore the various rooms of the warehouse.
He eventually worked his way toward an employee break area where he planned to use some road flares he'd found to heat up a can of ravioli.
He couldn't believe his shitty luck. What were the odds that the girl he fell for was the same chick Wim had been hunting all over Timbuktu and back? Shit like that only happe
ned to him.
He kept telling himself that maybe they were just good friends. Hell, maybe Ramey viewed Wim as a father figure. The dude was no spring chicken. Sure, Mead was only a couple years younger, but at least he hadn't hit the big 3-0 just yet. Don't freak yourself out. Just keep showing Ramey how awesome you are and she'll come around.
As he headed toward the break room, he saw them. Wim with his stupid flannel shirted arm wrapped around Ramey's shoulders. Her head laying against his chest as they slept. She still had her hand in his.
He lost his appetite. The tower of lies he'd been telling himself crumbled. What does that hayseed bastard have that I don't? He was plain and boring. Probably spent his life screwing sheep or maybe, if he was lucky, his inbred cousins. And she falls for him? It didn't make sense. Life didn't make sense.
Since Mead was a boy, he'd always felt like the stranger in the crowd. The person looking in from the outside. It started in kindergarten when, on the first day of class, he walked up to another boy and asked, "Will you be my friend?" The boy said no.
It stayed that way his entire life. He was the kid the bullies singled out. He was the kid who never got chosen for class projects until the teacher made the others take him in. He was the kid who ate his lunch alone every day while the others pointed and laughed. It didn't make sense because he was never cruel. He was a nice person.
Mead was tired of being nice. He was finished giving people the benefit of the doubt. They always let him down. And he was sick of being treated like shit all the time.
This was a new world, and he wasn't going to be a doormat anymore. And he sure as hell wasn't going to save the lives of people who didn't appreciate him. Fuck 'em all.
Chapter 40
Mitch had spent days trying to ignore the bodies he'd tucked away in a corner of the control room. He couldn't ignore the smell, though. It reminded him of the summer he'd bussed tables at a high end restaurant. His father's idea. "Get the boy a job and teach him responsibility."
