by W. J. Lundy
Looking beyond them, he could see Herb quick stepping with the rest of the party. With the zombies focused on Wyatt, they were able to safely sneak past the group of undead, but he still had to dispatch all of the things before he could get back to the gas station and not have them follow him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a fresh group slowly moving up on him from the rear. His heart raced as he felt looming panic build in his chest. Suddenly concerned with becoming surrounded out in the open, he tried to find a way out.
A loud boom nearly jerked him from his feet.
The van and Dodge were now engulfed in flames, a boiling cloud of black smoke climbing into the air. The zombies froze and turned toward it. Seeing the fire, they redirected their attention. Wyatt grimaced and tightened his grip on the shovel. With them looking away, now was the time to stop them. He crouched down and ran a wide circle toward the first of the undead men.
A tan-skinned man in a purple tracksuit was just within range. The zombie’s lurch actually gave it a bit of swagger. Wyatt tried to turn that into a rhyme as he drew close enough to lean in with a two-handed swing to the back of the zombie’s head. The whack of the shovel buckled the creature at the waist. It bent straight over and, with a final kick from Wyatt, the thing tumbled down into the gravel.
He had not anticipated the noise of the encounter would draw two more in his direction. Wyatt planted his rear foot and took up a batter’s stance waiting for the first to move into range. Behind them, he could see that the others had safely reached the gas station and Herb had both hands on the door, prying it open. He caught Susan glancing back at him just as the next zombie approached the plate.
These came at him in a pair. A tall man, looking like a CrossFit super star in a tank top and designer jeans, his well-toned arms covered with bite marks, was his next target. “Well, looks like all them reps and hours in the gym didn’t work out for you,” Wyatt said, causing the zombie’s head to tilt in his direction.
The second man just to the right of CrossFit stood shorter, wearing a single flip-flop and cargo shorts. A bloodstained Where’s Waldo shirt covered his torso, and partially ripped out dreadlocks hung from his torn scalp.
Wyatt stepped back and shook his head. “From the looks of you boys, I can tell you liked to party.”
He attempted to swing the shovel at CrossFit but the zombie’s long powerful arms deflected the shot. The thing took a long lunging step and nearly reached Wyatt. He let out a short yelp, surprised at the things quickness. Changing his strategy, he sidestepped quickly to the right, drawing Waldo between him and CrossFit. Instead of following up with a crushing swing, he instead lunged at Waldo with a fencer’s blow. Hitting the thing directly in the chest with the shovels tip. Causing it to stumble back, tripping up cross fitter.
Wyatt again side stepped as the two zombies became inter-tangled and falling to the ground in a heap. Not allowing them to recover he delivered two quick knockout blows. Thunk, thunk. He lurched back and squatted low, swiveling his head to take a quick survey, while he took in labored breaths. The zombies close to him were all down. A new pack had formed near the burning vehicles. Somehow mesmerized by the flames, they formed a circle around the fire, ignoring him.
Turning back to the gas station and straining his eyes, he saw Herb standing out front signaling for him to move. Wyatt nodded and took off in the old man’s direction.
Chapter Seven
“Bloody hell, it took you long enough, what were you waiting for? To show more of them where we were hiding?” the stranger shouted.
Wyatt shook his head and walked along the wall of the dingy space. It smelt old and musty with a distinct hint of mouse droppings. The walls covered with dark water stains; tiles hung precariously from the ceiling. Empty shelving knocked to the floor, an old counter and cash register near a second entrance. The remaining members of the group gathered at the front of the counter sitting on the floor with their backs rested against the wall. The man’s black bags the only things in front of them.
He looked at the stranger. “I would have settled for a thank you.”
“Thank you? For what? Taking me from my van and leading me to this disgusting place? When can you help me get to my destination?”
“Destination?” Wyatt asked. “We’ve got our own places to get to, but you’re welcome to tag along.”
“Nonsense.” The sick man struggled, patting the pockets of his shirt until removing a scrap of paper. Holding it up he displayed an address. “I must find this place, could you help me? I mean you do owe me after what you did to my transportation.”
Herb pushed himself up. “Now you listen here Mister, if you blame us for your accident one more time, I’m liable to wreck you myself!”
Sulking, the sick many grumbled just loudly for everyone to hear. “What kind of fool stops a vehicle in the middle of the street anyhow?”
Herb grunted and shuffled toward one of the stranger’s black duffle bags, trying to ignore the taunt. “You said you had food?” he asked, kneeling over a bag, searching for a zipper.
“No, that’s mine.” The man lurched forward, and lunged at Herb. Before he could close the distance, Herb drew his pistol and pointed it in the stranger’s face. “You know, Powder, I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”
The man put up his hands and reeled back. “My name is Nigel,” he whimpered.
Herb let his empty left hand stroke the stubble on his chin. “All the same Powder, you said you had food and water, and now you are saying it’s all yours? Even after we helped you carry it.”
Nigel shook his head furiously. “You destroyed my van, now you’re going to steal from me!”
Herb smiled letting out a small chuckle. “We had supplies of our own till you destroyed my truck! Hell, you owe us, let’s see what you got.” The old man pulled back on the zipper, finding twelve long cylinders wrapped in foam. Herb took one and held it toward Nigel. “What is this?”
“I told you, it’s mine.” He snapped. “It’s no business of yours.”
Herb grabbed the second bag and opened it finding the same. He then pulled a small knife from his pocket and cut away the foam as Nigel protested.
“Huh,” Herb grunted as he pulled back the foam and stared at the cylinder.
Susan leaned in. “What is it?” she asked.
“Guess it could be worse,” Herb said holding up a dark bottle with a red label. The same apple and infinity symbol from the van being the only marking.
“More booze! Is that all you think about?” Susan said.
Herb shook his head and put the bottle back in the bag, watching Nigel sit back with relief as he did so. “Well–no, I asked for food, but booze works too.”
Wyatt moved closer, stepping around the bags and stopping next to the sick man. “So why did you lie about the food?”
“Bugger off, it’s your fault we’re stuck in here.”
Herb laughed again. “We obviously aren’t getting anywhere with this fella. Anybody got a bottle opener?”
“No,” Nigel said reeling forward. “I told you that’s mine.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t. And besides, I’m willing to share it with you if you stop being such a prick.”
Nigel looked down. “Trust me you don’t want it.”
Herb retrieved the bottle from the bag and removed a red foil wrapper from its top. “With or without you Casper, I’m having a nip before this day’s is over.”
Nigel bled out an extended sigh. “Casper, how clever,” he said shaking his head, “Would you like to get anymore pale jokes out of the way first?”
Herb shrugged his shoulders, fished a car key from his pocket, and began to dig at the capped bottle.
Nigel grew frustrated watching the old man destroy the bottle’s cap. “Fine stop,” he wailed, pointing to the black duffel. “There is a bottle opener in the side pocket of the bag—you promise to share it with me?”
Herb grinned as Wyatt reached over the bag and retrieved the bottle opener.<
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Susan pushed up to her feet with a scowl and stepped away from the group. “You all are idiots. We’re surrounded by the undead and you are fighting over cider. I’ve had enough all of you.” She said storming deeper into the building.
Herb ignored her and took the opener from Wyatt, he pried it against the cap, when Nigel cleared his throat loudly. “May I?” he asked.
The old man passed over the bottle and reached into the bag for another, using his knife to again cut away the foam wrapping. “So, Pasty, where was it you said you were headed in such a hurry when you wrecked my Dodge?”
Shaking his head at the insult, Nigel continued to work the bottle opener. “I was nearly there, a place at the end of this road. Perhaps you know of it?”
Herb squinted holding the bottle in his hand. “End of the road you say? All I know out that way is a couple farms, an old fruit orchard.”
Nigel grinned, “So you do know the place? Doctor Winchester’s laboratory.”
Herb laughed, eagerly awaiting the return of the now open bottle. “Laboratory, I don’t know much about that or no Doctor. However, the old Winchester Farm is up that way for sure. So, what would you be wanting with those folks?”
Nigel sat the first bottle by his leg as he worked on opening the second. “I need to go there, could you take me?”
Herb shook his head. “Afraid not. I reckon first thing in the morning we’ll be headed out for the open desert and the mountains after that.”
Wyatt moved closer and dropped to the floor beside them. “You didn’t say what business you had with them?”
Shooting them both a sadistic grin, Nigel took both bottles in his hands and held them up. When the men reached for them, he drew them back. “I have a proposition for you gentlemen. Get me to the farm, and I will share with you my cider?”
The old man held out his hand. “Or we just take it from you?”
Nigel nodded, holding his smile. “I wish I had a glass to offer you.” The pale man placed a bottle to his lips and took a long swallow, some of the deep golden cider dripping down his chin. The liquid had such sharp contrast to his ghostly white complexion that it cast an appearance of blood. When he pulled the bottle away, his eyes lit up with pleasure and he put back his head fixing his eyes on the ceiling. “Each time it is better than the last. But never as good as the first.”
Wyatt reached out and snatched the bottle away. “Yeah whatever, I prefer a beer but this’ll do.” He waited as Herb retrieved the other bottle. After tapping the bottles together, they drank.
Nigel lay back with wide opened eyes. “They tell me the peppery notes come from the apples roots in Central America. The sweetness from the dragon fruit native to the region.”
“So you say, but it’s all headache juice to me.” Herb grunted taking another long pull.
Wyatt watched as Nigel sat up, his skin suddenly not so pale, the color returning to his fleshy cheeks, his eyes losing the jaundice look, slowly changing to a vibrant green. “Is that so? So you notice none of these fine qualities?” he said, his voice becoming more firm and youthful. “Heathens,” he laughed, reaching for a third bottle.
Taking another drink, Wyatt felt the warmth come over his body. He could sense the liquid fill every cell of his being. His muscles expanded with blood, his mind focused and his vision tightened. His head swiveled to Herb and he could tell the old man was feeling the same thing. He rolled his neck and flexed his back. Herb held out the bottle and looked at it again before taking another long pull. “What the hell did you say was in this?”
Chapter Eight
Wyatt stood outside the gas station, unsure how he’d gotten there. The moon was shining brightly in the sky, illuminating everything around him. Helicopters no longer circled in the distance. Far to the west, he could see the city of Forest Park was in flames. Looking down at the bottle in his right hand, he smiled then tipped it back, taking in the last of the cider. His eyes dialed in; he could see everything, from stones right down to every grain of sand. The undead walked past him, unconcerned with his presence.
He shook his head, searching for clarity. He must be drunk or in a dream. He closed his eyes tightly and slowly opened them. He found a zombie standing directly in front of him. The creature stared at him with gooey, yellowish eyes. Mouth open, its curled back lips exposed white gums and broken teeth. Wyatt froze, unsure of what to do, but the zombie made no move to attack.
Swinging out with the bottle, he caught the zombie under the jaw. Its head snapped back with an audible crack as the neck broke. The zombie crumbled to the ground. Its eyes, still wobbling in the head, stared back at Wyatt. He looked at his hand and found the bottle still intact. A blur of movement in his peripheral vision spun him on the balls of his feet. He crouched and then leapt to a nearby wall out of pure instinct, impressed with his own agility. A man ran in front of him then skidded to a stop across the pavement on the soles of well-worn boots.
Blinking rapidly, he turned his head in amazement. It was Herb, looking back at him with a toothy smile. “I must really be dreaming,” Wyatt said. “Since when can you run like that?”
The old man looked up at him; he was squatting and stretching his legs like an Olympic sprinter. “No wonder that Limey didn’t want to share this stuff. I just ran the fastest mile of my life. In the dark even! And I can see as good as if it were daylight.”
Wyatt shook his head, feeling the tingling in his limbs and every pulse of blood moving in his heart. He held up the bottle, the bits of blood and gore still clinging to the bottom. “What the hell is it?” he said in a voice he hardly recognized.
A voice from above echoed over them. “Doctor Winchester calls it the fountain of youth.”
The men twisted and dropped back reflexively, searching, then finding a healthy, no longer pasty white Nigel perched on the roof of the gas station. A bottle of his own in his hand, a full moon centered over his head. He took another gulp from the bottle and smiled down at them. “He was wrong though; it’s nothing more than borrowed time.”
The old man moved closer, the gravel crunching under his boots’ tread. “I don’t know what you all call it, but I’m sold. I want every bottle of it you got,” he said excitedly.
Nigel put back his head, laughing hysterically. Wyatt joined them even though he did not really know why. The cider made him feel euphoric and apathetic at the same time, like nothing mattered. He no longer had any worries. It was all about the moment, and in that moment, he wanted to laugh. Another zombie wandered close and Wyatt lashed out and swatted it in the back of the head. The creature’s skull nearly exploding with the impact from the bottle, its already dead form dropping to the ground in a thud. Herb pointed at it and chuckled, rebounding the fit of laughter from before.
He smiled again, looking at the bottle and still surprised it had not broken. “I love this feeling, but I’m starving. I mean, like really hungry. Like I could eat a cow, and I ain’t kidding.”
“It’s the protein. Your body is in overdrive devouring itself, doing what it can to keep up with your increased metabolism. You have to feed or you’ll fade,” Nigel said, leaping to the ground in a single bound, landing on springy knees. “We need to eat if we want to maintain this feeling, but even food won’t be enough eventually...”
The old man strutted toward him. “Well, all our food burnt up in the Dodge, and it’s not like we can go hit a steak house.”
The moonlight reflected off the glass as Nigel tipped back and drained the rest of the bottle. He looked off into the distance and tossed it. Watching it sail and impact with the distant street, he said, “What about the woman?”
Herb shot the man a confused stare. “What? To like, make us a sandwich or something? Good luck with that! I just told you we ain’t got no food.”
The man broke into another spat of ruckus laughter. This time Wyatt didn’t join in, suddenly lost with the conversation and distracted by the hunger building deep in his chest. The man’s jaw stiffened and he look
ed Herb directly in the eye. “You cannot be that daft. To feed on! Where do you think all of these came from?” he said, waving his hands over the dead.
Herb’s hand drifted back to his belt and rested on his holstered handgun. Nigel caught the movement and smiled. “I wouldn’t if I were you, not if you ever want a way out.”
Stepping toward the pair, Wyatt put up his hands. “I’m not following any of this. I think you need to tell us every–” He stopped mid word and held his stomach, the pain becoming debilitating.
“Ahh, you are one of them.” Nigel smiled. “Only one in a thousand carry the gene. Doctor Winchester had not anticipated it. A simple genetic mutation, so small none of the simulations picked it up, but still enough that it was able to destroy all of his plans. Hell, enough to destroy an entire city,” Nigel said, pointing to the distant skyline glowing orange from burning buildings.
Drawing the pistol and cocking the hammer, Herb pointed it directly at Nigel’s face. “You need to explain yourself... now.”
Nigel chuckled. “Please lower your weapon. We are allies now. No need for that. I told you not to drink my cider.”
Wyatt dropped to his knees, his hands still wrapped around his stomach. “How can I make it stop?”
The strange man grinned and looked down at him. “The hunger will fade if you do not eat. But it comes with a price.”
“A price?” Herb asked.
“You saw the condition I was in when you found me. Yes, refusing to eat comes with a price, and your body will begin to consume itself to get whatever it takes to feed the Infinitum.”
“Infina-wanna-what?” Herb said, stumbling over the pronunciation. The old man lowered his pistol and stepped away, still keeping his eyes focused on Nigel.
“It is what the doctor used in the cider. He thought he’d discovered a new wonder drug, a cure for everything, a significant life enhancer. As I said, he called it a fountain of youth, but in reality, all he did was activate a part of our body—a little known process—which allows us to borrow time.
