Jailbait Zombie fg-4

by Mario Acevedo

  “Keep me covered. I’m gonna punch through the wall.”

  Jolie fired as I pounded a hole in the drywall and slipped through.

  Out in the hall, still more zombies continued to stumble down the stairs. We weren’t much closer to an escape.

  Jolie scrambled through the hole and stood next to me. Smoke curled from her pistol.

  The wall buckled. Dozens of grimy zombie hands broke through.

  We fired careful head shots to conserve ammo. One zombie per round. Eyeballs, gore, and bone splattered through the air.

  With every spent bullet, a sense of desperation and futility rose within me. I felt like the floor beneath was a plank that kept getting shorter and narrower.

  Jolie shoved the pistol into her fanny pack. “I’m out.”

  Zombies stepped over the bodies of their comrades. Those on the floor wiggled toward us.

  I reached into a pocket. Also empty. I had the flare gun and a couple of shells and that was it.

  The zombies plugged the exit with their bodies.

  I shoved the pistol in its holster. Jolie and I backed up until we hit the end of the hallway.

  Now it was undead versus undead at its most primitive level. Our talons extended to maximum length.

  The stupid thing would be to charge into them. Of course, the more stupid thing was that we had come down here in the first place.

  I reached for my cell phone.

  When the bomb exploded, it would drop the gas tank right-I glanced to the ceiling-on top of us.

  There had to be another way, but I couldn’t see it. What I had, to paraphrase Albert Einstein, was a failure of imagination.

  Jolie shielded me with her body. “Do it, Felix. Do it.”

  I worked the phone’s keypad.

  No time for good-byes.

  The zombies advanced relentlessly in one colossal mass.

  I pressed SEND.

  CHAPTER 56

  Time hovered like the big clock of the universe had stopped working. The zombies, their blank eyes expressing only the cold-blooded determination to destroy us, showed nothing of their-our-impending obliteration.

  My mind’s eye could see the screen on the cell phone outside light up; the calling number displayed. The electrons would whir through the circuits. The signal would trip the logic switch: Ring or Vibrate?

  Vibrate.

  The electrons would pulse through the electric fuse, which in turn would spark the detonator. The resulting compression wave would initiate the combustion of the dynamite and blast apart the metal strut holding up the gas tank. We’d be drenched in hundreds of gallons of gasoline.

  I could feel the nanoseconds pass by, as tangible as the air flowing around me.

  A lot could have gone wrong. Maybe the cell phone didn’t receive the call. Maybe the fuse had worked loose. Maybe the battery had gone dead.

  Maybe, if and when the bomb went off, the gas tower fell the other way…or the tower dropped in place.

  A mighty concussion slapped through the hall. Plaster dust shot from the ceiling. Jolie stumbled against the wall.

  I blanked out all fear and watched the event unfold as if it were the end of someone else.

  Wood splintered and creaked. The ceiling broke open and the cylindrical tank of the gas tower crashed through the joists and ceiling plaster. The tank came to rest upside down. Gasoline splashed from around the lid and saturated the air with its vapor.

  A wave of surprise broke across the zombies. Their eyes understood their doom just as the tank broke through the ceiling, flattening them like a gigantic hammer.

  Pieces of the floor above funneled into the large hole made by the falling tower. Debris skittered through the hole and pinged off the metal tank. The smashed bodies of zombies writhed under the tank, broken plaster, and shattered wood.

  Jolie lunged off the floor. “This way.”

  She jumped on the tank and up through the hole. I scrambled after her and climbed onto the splintered floor of the main level.

  Zombies lumbered toward the stairway, still on autopilot to destroy us and ignorant of the disaster that awaited.

  Jolie and I sprinted for the front door.

  A zombie lurched across the threshold from the porch. Jolie clawed him with her talons, sinking them into his shoulder and snagging bone. I punched him in the head and leaped clear of the house.

  Jolie and I tumbled off the porch and rolled across the sand and dirt. I came to my knees and waited for the house to explode. The twisted legs of the gas tower stuck out from the torn roof. Embers and sparks whirled against the legs.

  “Where’s the boom?” Jolie yelled.

  “Right here.” I pulled the flare pistol from my pocket and cocked the hammer. I aimed through the open front door and fired. The flare shot into the house, a red streak leaving a smoky tail.

  The flare thumped as it ricocheted inside. A yellow flame flickered.

  Fire whooshed through the windows and doors. A gigantic flame twirled out the torn roof. Explosions loud as artillery boomed from within. The fire licked under the eaves, and within seconds, flames rolled up the siding and gnawed along the outside walls. Debris fell across the windows and doors.

  Zombies crawled from the exits. They emitted ugly gasps, like air venting from rotting tires. Tentacles of fire spiraled around them. The zombies sputtered and crackled and I took the same ghoulish delight as I had in the army when we plucked lice and fried them on a hot tent stove.

  The main floor gave way and the house collapsed upon itself in a roaring cloud of embers and billowing smoke. The smoke cleared and left the burning roof trusses looking like a rib cage inside a roasting pit.

  Zombies staggered out of the gloom toward the burning house. They must’ve been summoned by that collective consciousness, from their immolated undead comrades crying out for help. They halted on the edge of the inferno, confused by what to do next.

  Jolie shot from the darkness on the BMW. She herded the zombies toward me.

  I found one of the steel poles and used it to jab the zombies over the edge of the foundation and into the pit.

  It was burn, baby, burn. I hummed “Disco Inferno.”

  Zombies tumbled in, only realizing their fiery destruction at the last second.

  Jolie and I patrolled the area for evidence of zombies and our fight. We tossed zombie parts and spent ammo shells into the pit. We destroyed all the clues we could find, including parts of the cell phone I’d used to trigger the bomb.

  The fire burned hot as a crematorium. Flesh and wood would be reduced to ash, and metal-especially the psychotronic diviners-into one pool of slag.

  Jolie asked, “What are the authorities going to say about this? Was it mass murder, suicide, an accident, or all the above?”

  “Who cares?” I answered. “Anything as long as it’s not about zombies and could be traced to us.”

  Satisfied that we’d destroyed all trace of zombies, I climbed on the BMW and we rode around Ghoul Mountain.

  The fire bathed the facing hills with a yellow light. A glow illuminated the quilt of smoke hovering over the house.

  Daybreak was another two hours away. Dogs barked at the rumble of the fire and the smell of smoke. Porch lights came on. People silhouetted themselves against windows and doorways.

  The first of the red and blue emergency lights flashed up the road from Morada. Sirens yowled in the night and the dogs barked harder.

  Two police cruisers zoomed by on the dirt road, the second car enveloped in the dust from the first. A minute later, fire trucks trundled by at high speed.

  We joined the confused parade of vehicles barreling up and down the road between the fire and Morada.

  Cops in reflective vests guided those of us coming down the hill to side streets away from the convoys of fire trucks and ambulances.

  Abundance Boulevard was a carnival of red and blue lights and emergency vehicles going east, west, and in circles.

  Minute by minute, we drew farther aw
ay and I relaxed. Jolie dropped me off at my Toyota.

  Her aura bubbled in pleasure. “That was fucking amazing. Who knew killing zombies could be so much fun.”

  “We were almost killed.”

  “Adds to the spice. We get major bragging points for this fight.” Jolie gunned the BMW, popped a wheelie, and circled my Toyota.

  We drove west and onto the forest road toward Phaedra’s hideout. Nguyen’s Buell motorcycle was still parked where he’d left it.

  We hiked up the slope to the morada.

  “Seems quiet,” I said.

  “I’ll bet Nguyen’s sleeping,” Jolie replied. “It’s about what he can handle.”

  My skin tingled, not from picking up clues but from the lack of them. “We should hear something.” A conversation. The rustle of clothing.

  The air smelled of pine, nothing unexpected.

  Too bad I was out of ammo. A full magazine in the pistol would’ve comforted me.

  My talons and fangs sprang out. I put my senses on hypersensitivity. Still nothing.

  I levitated to hide my footfalls in the grass. Jolie followed my lead.

  We halted outside the morada door. Nothing.

  I reached to open the latch and the door swung free.

  I looked in.

  The sleeping bag remained inside the bench. Phaedra’s camping gear and belongings lay across the floor. Empty bags of blood were scattered like candy bar wrappers. Phaedra wouldn’t know about vampire housekeeping-leaving evidence like this of our feeding was bad practice-but Nguyen should’ve told her.

  Where were he and Phaedra? Did they leave in a hurry?

  Where to? How? His motorcycle was still close by.

  I called Phaedra’s number. Her voice mail picked up and I left a message.

  I felt a sinking despair. If Nguyen and Phaedra were in trouble, I had no idea where they were or how to help.

  Sunrise approached. Jolie and I couldn’t do anything but hide.

  CHAPTER 57

  Were Nguyen and Phaedra safe? I knew he would take care of her. Provided he could.

  I shut the door of the morada and retreated to the darkest corner for protection against the sunrise.

  Jolie scooped up the bags of blood in case there was any left. They all had neat punctures and had been sucked dry. “Phaedra must’ve found her appetite.”

  Morning light trickled through the cracks in the door.

  Jolie cursed. “I hate feeling so goddamn vulnerable. A one-legged midget could bust through that door and we’d be helpless because of the morning light.”

  She curled next to me and we tucked close to each other under the sleeping bag.

  At a quarter of eight, long after the sunrise, we got up and tidied the morada. I found the hawthorn stake discarded in the dirt of one corner. I couldn’t believe Nguyen had been so careless or that he’d been so rushed to leave that he had left the stake behind.

  Carefully, so I wouldn’t touch the silver veins, I picked up the stake.

  “Has it been used?” Jolie asked.

  “I can’t tell.” Vampire blood would’ve turned to dust and become lost in the dirt smudging the wood and silver.

  The leather pouch was inside the sleeping bag. I tucked the stake into the pouch and dropped it in my backpack.

  “Seen the knife?”

  “I’m still looking.” Jolie pointed to gold bits of macaroni and costume jewels around a smashed cigar box. “You know what this is about?”

  “Phaedra’s way of saying good riddance to a lot of bad memories.”

  Inside the sleeping bag I discovered bottles of Phaedra’s medications, full of pills and capsules. She wouldn’t need these anymore.

  I asked, “Where’s the toiletry bag?”

  “What for?”

  “Phaedra stashed jewelry and money. Stuff that’s easy to pawn for quick cash.”

  Jolie asked, “She’s been planning her getaway?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “And Nguyen went with her? Not a brownnoser like him. Doesn’t make sense.”

  We went back down the mountain. I hoped to see Nguyen and Phaedra and give myself a laugh for all the grief I’d suffered for nothing.

  But no Phaedra. No Nguyen.

  His motorcycle remained where it had been. The panniers were unlocked and empty save for a few small parts and loose pennies. I’m sure he traveled with some belongings, bags of blood and makeup at least.

  Boot prints had been tracked around the Buell. I recognized mine, Jolie’s, Phaedra’s, and a fourth set, which had to be Nguyen’s. So the two of them had come back to the motorcycle, retrieved his things, and then what?

  Jolie went down the road.

  I lost Phaedra’s and Nguyen’s prints in the rocks and hard dirt. I tried the scout trick of spiraling out from the motorcycle to pick up their trail. The only tracks I found were their prints going from the morada to the motorcycle.

  Jolie returned. Her aura burned in anxious confusion. “Nothing. Either they grew wings or hiked out a different way.”

  I tried Phaedra’s number again. Voice mail.

  The paranoia felt like a cold rain. Wisps of fog snaked through the trees. The silence of the forest sucked hope from me.

  CHAPTER 58

  Jolie zipped the front and the sleeves of her motorcycle jacket. “The cops are going to swarm all over town. We better get.” She stood next to her motorcycle and put on her helmet. “Besides, I’m sick of this place.”

  “What about Nguyen’s motorcycle?” I asked.

  “He’s the Araneum’s boy. They can take care of it.”

  She mounted her BMW. I got into my Toyota and followed her down the road to the highway.

  Back in Denver, we spent the next several days tracking Nguyen’s whereabouts. There wasn’t much to go on. His last address was in Sacramento, California, and none of the vampires in that nidus had recently heard from him. Phaedra was another snipe hunt.

  Another week passed, and about ten one morning, I got an unexpected phone call.

  Sal Cavagnolo asked, “You heard from Phaedra?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “I see.” He sounded disappointed. “I’m in town. Let’s meet and chat.”

  “I don’t have much to say.”

  “That’s all right,” he replied. “Maybe I want to talk and need somebody to listen. Do it as a favor to me.”

  Cavagnolo’s voice reminded me too much of all the trouble I had in Morada. “Sorry, I’m all out of favors.”

  “Remember, I bought you all those fucking guns. You owe me.”

  True. “Okay. Where? When?”

  We met at Gaetano’s. Mid-afternoon. I figured Cavagnolo chose the place out of nostalgia because back when, the bistro was Denver’s mob central.

  I watched from across the street. Cavagnolo arrived alone. The last of the lunchtime clientele wandered out. No one’s aura betrayed any signs of trouble.

  I let him wait for ten minutes, replaced my contacts, and went in.

  Cavagnolo sat at a back table. He didn’t smile when he saw me, nor did he offer to shake my hand. Fine, I didn’t want to shake his, either.

  After I sat, he turned a copy of the Pueblo Chieftain for me to read.

  The headline for an article below the fold was: “Investigation into Gruesome Murder Site Continues.” Here in Denver, the story no longer ranked the front page.

  The situation at Dr. Hennison’s played out like this: he was a disgraced physician who ran a meth lab and surrounded himself with a cult of drug peddlers. There was a turf war with other meth dealers and a confrontation erupted with disastrous consequences. The fire so consumed the remains that medical examiners had identified only sixteen people.

  Thirty-two others remained missing, including some locals, and the passengers and driver of a Greyhound bus found abandoned outside of Morada. The police said most of the passengers had criminal records. Rumor was that they were part of the meth ring and had hijacked the bus. />
  County records showed the property was deeded to Dr. Hennison. DNA testing identified some of the partial remains as belonging to him.

  “Unfortunately,” remarked the chief investigator, “the response by firefighters had so contaminated the crime scene that most of our conclusions may remain speculative.”

  Complete destruction. Gruesome remains. A macabre mystery. For me, good news.

  Cavagnolo asked, “What was that shit with the mutilations?”

  I told him what he expected to hear. “Intimidation. Maybe voodoo. Santeria. Some of these druggies get pretty paranoid and start believing in the occult to protect them.”

  He replied, “I thought so.”

  I pushed the newspaper back to him.

  His droopy eyes and expression begged at me.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  He put a finger on the newspaper. “Gino?” As in, was he there?

  “Yeah.”

  If Cavagnolo’s expression fell any lower, his face would be on the table.

  “I couldn’t do anything for him,” I said. “He was dead.” Actually undead but why quibble?

  “Phaedra?”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  “You sure?”

  “I saw her the day after all this happened.”

  “Where?” Cavagnolo withdrew his finger from the newspaper and his voice rang with hope.

  “In the mountain park. Close to town. She had a hideaway.”

  “Yeah. That place.” Apparently he knew more about Phaedra than she suspected. “The sheriff didn’t find much there.”

  I waited for Cavagnolo to mention Nguyen’s motorcycle, and when he didn’t, I was sure the Araneum had scrubbed the area of vampiric presence.

  The waitress brought a basket of bread, a saucer of olive oil, and a small bowl with marinara sauce. Cavagnolo ordered a Diet Coke and the veal parmesan special. I asked for a cup of coffee.

  “That’s it?” Cavagnolo asked. “The food here is delicious.”

  I knew that. But the only meals I’ve gotten from Gaetano’s were takeout, which I ordered without garlic and once home, drowned in blood.