'Til Death Do Us Part zf-6

by Mark Tufo

  BT wanted to tell him ‘And ain’t that a shame.’ But he could tell the elder Talbot was already hurting enough. He wouldn’t swear it on a stack of bibles, but he thought he had seen Deneaux stick her tongue at him as he turned back towards the front. “Bitch,” he mumbled.

  Gary pulled off the highway. BT made sure his rifle was fully loaded as did Deneaux with her pistol. Gas stations, for some reason, tended to be a hot bed of zombie activity.

  “Should we siphon some gas or just find another car?” BT asked as they pulled into the service lot.

  “Find another car?” Gary asked. “Really?”

  “Oh you can’t be serious?” BT asked back. “You like this car. This car was a pile of steaming crap when it left the factory. They should have saved the metal and made waste baskets.”

  “I’m kind of attached to it now,” Gary said as he patted the dash board where it instantly cracked as a result of dry rot and ministrations of the driver.

  “Yeah she’s a beauty,” BT said sarcastically.

  “Well I think she’s a darling little car,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she hunted for an ally.

  Gary pulled up to a pump.

  “What are you doing?” BT asked.

  “Getting gas, what does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Do you think maybe you can have the attendant check the oil, too?”

  “What’s the matter with you, BT, they haven’t done that in years,” Gary told him. “Oh.” The light of recognition coming across Gary’s visage. “The pumps aren’t working, sorry just habit.” Gary was about to start the car up.

  “Don’t worry about it, we’ll just find a can and get some gas, let’s try to find a screwdriver, too, the last time I siphoned gas, I drank about a quart of it,” BT said.

  “What’s the screwdriver for?” Gary asked.

  “Gonna punch a hole in the fuel tank and just let it drain into the can.”

  “Kind of wasteful isn’t it?” Gary asked.

  “You plan on coming back this way again?”

  “Maybe…if not to bury my brother than at least to say goodbye properly.”

  “Sorry, man,” BT said meaning it. “We’ll find a few cans and make sure we get it all.”

  “Probably should have left the car running,” Gary said as they cautiously walked towards the front of the service station.

  Mrs. Deneaux exited the car and was leaning with her back against it. She arched her back, her long aristocratic nose fully turned towards the heavens.

  The store had been completely ransacked; what wasn’t gone off the shelves had been torn into by rats if the droppings were to be believed. Although they were some industrial-sized rats, Gary thought.

  “I hate this part,” Gary said as they made their way over towards the far side of the store. “Okay, I’m going to pull this door open and then get out of the way. You shoot whatever is on the other side.” Gary got ready to open the storeroom door.

  “Ready when you are,” BT said.

  Gary pulled hard, his hand slipping off of the handle, the door didn’t move. “Shit…it’s locked.”

  BT smiled.

  “Should I kick it in?” Gary asked.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” BT said as he twisted the handle and pushed the door open. The door swung effortlessly inwards, BT stepped back, it was too dark inside the small room to see anything.

  “I could have done that,” Gary said trying to salvage some face.

  “I know, it’s alright, I won’t tell anyone,” BT said as he went into the closet after he realized there was nothing in there. He pulled out a mop and bucket. “That’ll work…the bucket is for the gas,” BT explained.

  “I knew that, I just didn’t know what the mop was for.”

  “Steering wheel,” BT said as he pushed the bucket across the floor. “See if you can find something to puncture a tank and either a funnel or something we can make a funnel out of.

  Gary came out a few moments later with a broken windshield wiper fluid bottle and a small knife meant more for display—a tourist’s memento as opposed to something that could withstand use, but it was all he could find in such short notice and he didn’t want to have to stay in there alone any longer than he had to.

  “Here let me see,” BT asked as he put his hand out for the knife. “Kind of flimsy, but it might work. I’ll make the puncture, you just be ready with the bucket. When it’s about half full go use it to fill the Pinto and we’ll keep doing that until we top it off.”

  Gary was nodding as he cut the bottom of the windshield fluid bottle off.

  BT walked over to the end of the gas station lot; a white Toyota Camry was parked on the grass awaiting a repair that would never be forthcoming. “This will do,” he said as he slid under the car. He hoped there was enough gas in it to make it worth their while, he hated being stationary; stationary meant exposed and exposed was not what anybody wanted to be these days.

  “That’s a nice car,” Gary said just as BT was about to try to drive the knife home. “Kind of a damn shame to wreck it.”

  BT drove the knife blade into the metal. “Dammit!” BT yelled. “Blade snapped, gimme the bucket.” BT’s right arm was flailing about looking to grab the gas catcher.

  “You said the blade broke, what do you need the bucket for?” Gary asked, even as he began to smell gas.

  “It made a pencil-sized hole and it’s starting to splash around my damn face. Give me the bucket or I’m going to drag you down here with me.”

  Gary pushed the bucket under.

  “This is going to take forever to fill, go see if you can find anything I can use to make this hole bigger.

  From BT’s vantage point, he could only see the bottom of Gary’s legs and when they didn’t move away, BT reiterated his request.

  “He can’t ‘cause he gots a nine on his back.”

  BT started to scoot out from under the car when he heard the unfamiliar voice. “Cuz, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Another voice said off to his left. “Man ain’t chu a big un.” Obviously referring to BT.

  “Listen,” BT said, “we’re just trying to get some gas.

  “See that’s the problem…that’s our car.” The first voice said.

  “See I told you it was a nice car,” Gary said.

  BT didn’t think it mattered which car they had used, any of them would have been a problem with these two men.

  “You and your old lady trying to leave our part of town without paying the proper respects?” the man next to Gary said.

  “Cuz, you said ‘old lady’.” And the other one laughed.

  “What’s so funny? She is an old lady,” Gary said to the one holding him at gunpoint.

  The man with the gun could not have been much more than twenty, but the scar that ran down the side of his face and the haunted look in his eyes gave him the appearance of someone almost double his age. His partner—who appeared older—acted the younger of the two, taking all of his queues from the man with the 9mm.

  BT had a good idea who they were dealing with. He hoped they were wannabe gang bangers as opposed to the real thing, or what remained of their lives wasn’t going to be worth much more than the bucket that was filling with the gas.

  “You’re a funny fuck!” the younger man said, sticking the barrel of the pistol right up against Gary’s cheek.

  “Wait, wait, he didn’t mean anything by it,” BT said, wriggling out enough so that he could at least see the two men.

  “Who the fuck told you to move!” the scarred man said, now thrusting his pistol down towards BT. “And why is your Uncle Tom ass hanging with these two crackers to begin with?”

  “Crackers?” Gary asked. “Is that another term for crazy? Because Mike probably was but I’m not.”

  “Shut the fuck up before I bust a cap in your ass!” the man yelled.

  Gary was about to ask what a cap was, but was headed off at the pass by BT.

  “Relax,” BT sai
d, holding his hands out.

  “Yo, who the fuck you telling to relax?” Scarred said.

  “My…it is so hot here.” Mrs. Deneaux was fanning herself with what looked like a road map. She approached slowly as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Shortie, I might need to hit that,” the man without the gun said.

  “Shit, man, are you serious?” Scarred/Shortie answered. “Wings, that bitch has to be pushing two hundred.”

  “It’s still the first thing I’ve seen with a pussy in two weeks,” Wings said, grabbing his crotch and moving towards Mrs. Deneaux. “Yo, sweet thing, what chu up to?” Wings said getting up close to Mrs. Deneaux.

  “Well aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” she said as she placed the barrel of her revolver up against Wing’s forehead.

  “Yo, you crazy bitch!” Wings yelled.

  “Careful,” Mrs. Deneaux said calmly, “you’re likely to get my heart fluttering and I haven’t taken my pills today. Who knows what could happen at that point, I might just blow your pretty head right from your shoulders.”

  Wings didn’t move except to get his hands up.

  “I’ll kill your little bitch boyfriends,” Shortie said, looking back to Mrs. Deneaux.

  “See if I care,” Deneaux said coolly.

  “Are you for real?” Shortie asked.

  “Help me, Shortie,” Wings said as his sweat began to come in contact with the barrel of the pistol.

  “Yes, help him, Shortie,” Deneaux said. “This gun is getting dreadfully heavy. Maybe if I just shot a round it would be that much lighter.

  “No, no, no,” Wings stuttered.

  Shortie pulled the hammer back on his 9 mm. “I ain’t fucking around, bitch, get that piece off my boy’s head or I’ll kill this white boy.”

  “I also ain’t fucking around, homeboy.” Mrs. Deneaux smiled, it was difficult to tell if she was making fun of Shortie or truly did not know the appropriate slang; the former seemed more in her character. “Shoot him, he’s the brother of the idiot that’s wanted me dead for the last month. How much do you think I’m going to miss him?”

  “Yo, this bitch is crazy!” Shortie said to the world, Gary nodded in agreement.

  “But before you do shoot him, I just want you to know, I will kill, what was your name? Wings...how quaint. Gary will not have hit the ground by the time I put one in your friends head.”

  “Is this bitch for real?” Shortie asked BT.

  “Unfortunately she is,” BT said. “Let us get our gas and we’ll get out of here.”

  “I can’t now,” Shortie said. “You’ve made me look bad. Blood has to spill here.”

  Shortie was covered in brain matter before he heard the report. Gary pushed up on Shortie’s arm and grabbed the pistol as Mrs. Deneaux leveled her revolver on Shortie.

  “Oops,” she said, bringing her free hand to her mouth. “I told you it was getting heavy.”

  Shortie was shaking with fear and rage. “You don’t know who you just fucked with!”

  BT stood up. “What the fuck did you do that for, woman?” he asked.

  “As much as I think Gary is a twit, I do believe he will play a pivotal role in ensuring my safety. Wings was an impediment.”

  “What now?” BT asked.

  “We kill him,” Mrs. Deneaux said evenly.

  “Yo, I didn’t do nothing. You can’t just kill me.”

  “You did nothing because we did not allow you to do anything,” Mrs. Deneaux said. “Otherwise, I think that you would have done just as you pleased.”

  “We can’t just shoot him,” BT said.

  “Sure we can. What do you think will happen if we let him go? He will just go quietly into the night, thankful for the lesson we taught him? No…either he’ll follow us and we’ll have to deal with him later after maybe he gets a lucky shot off and kills one of us, or this thug has like-minded idiots that will pursue us and finish what they tried.”

  “She’s right,” Gary said.

  “Don’t listen to the crazy bitch,” Shortie said. “We was just trying to bust your balls, see if we could get some food or something.”

  “Self-defense is one thing, but this is cold-blooded murder,” BT said. Although, it could be argued that Wing’s death was cold-blooded also. “I won’t allow you to shoot him.”

  “Allow? It seems that I have the gun and I can do as I please,” Mrs. Deneaux said.

  BT stepped in front of her barrel. “Am I just another impediment?” BT asked, looking down at the woman who appeared to be calculating her risk factors if she just planted him in the ground also. She finally withdrew her gun.

  “You’re almost as big a twit as Gary,” she said. BT relaxed.

  “Gary, keep an eye on him. We’ll let him go when we get our car filled up,” BT said.

  Gary had Shortie sit up against the Camry as BT made a couple of trips with gas.

  “Nice ride,” Shortie said sarcastically. “Me and my boys are going to hunt you down for killing Wings.”

  Gary paled. “You left us no choice.”

  “I’m going to kill you with a knife,” Shortie said looking up at Gary. “One stab to the guts, then I’m going to twist the blade back and forth.”

  Gary subconsciously placed his left hand over his stomach. Shortie smiled sickly.

  “Oh this is ridiculous,” Mrs. Deneaux huffed as her shot broke the silence of the day. The round caught Shortie high in the neck.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” BT said, dropping the gas container and coming back to Shortie who now had both hands pressed up against his spewing wound.

  “Bad shot. I should get my eyes checked. You’ll die soon enough,” She said to Shortie. “Bleeding out is a relatively easy way to go. Don’t worry the panic flows away with the blood.” She smiled.

  BT physically removed her from her spot. “Why?” he screamed.

  “Because it was the right thing to do,” she replied as he set her down.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” BT said looking around.

  “They’re dead. What’s the rush?” Mrs. Deneaux asked as she opened her cylinder to drop the two expended cartridges and replace them.

  “They were gang bangers,” BT said. “And either they’ll eventually come looking for these two, or zombies will smell the meat.”

  “Fair enough,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she headed over to the Pinto.

  “Do you want to get more gas?” Gary asked, still looking as if he was trying to process all that had just transpired in the last few moments.

  “No…well, yes…but not here. We need to get gone. Last time I checked, we had a good solid half a tank that should get us far away from this place,” BT said, heading over to the car.

  “She’s a stone cold killer, BT,” Gary said, looking straight into BT’s eyes. “She showed absolutely no emotion when she killed Shortie. I mean, not that he wasn’t an asshole and probably deserved it for something he had done, but shit…she might as well have been pulling lint from her belly button.”

  “To have a belly button would mean she was human. I’m not quite convinced of that. Let’s get out of here, but we need to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t lying when she said she would kill whatever threatened her existence…and that includes you and me.”

  “And probably, Brian and Paul,” Gary added.

  “Probably, the devil we know...” BT said.

  “I’d rather deal with the one we don’t know.”

  After a sluggish churning of the starter, the car caught and purred like a one-lunged kitty. The smoke hadn’t cleared from the group’s departure when a gang of men came upon the bodies of their two fallen comrades.

  “Get the bikes,” the leader said as his long, black leather jacket flapped in the light breeze.

  “Cyrus, you know the noise from the bikes draws the zombies.”

  Cyrus merely looked over at his second in command.

  “I’ll be right back,” he answered.

  CHAPTER
EIGHT

  Mike Journal Entry 3

  “Why would you do that?” I asked in alarm. There were times to take acid, most of them revolved around good friends, about twenty-five backwards revolutions of the earth around the sun and some great tunes. None of those things were in attendance right now. “John.”

  “Who? Whoa I’m seeing trails.”

  “John the Tripper, we’re about to face zombies, man, and you gave me acid. I don’t even know how to deal with this right now.”

  “Relax, man,” John the Tripper said, putting his hand on my arm. “It’ll happen on its own.”

  I’d had a few ‘bad trips’ over the years, one involved a girl and the other was just a low point in my life, felt like the world was crashing down. The key word in my last statement was ‘felt’ like it was crashing down. How the hell was I going to react now that it really was? I think the years had wizened me enough that I would be able to handle the onslaught of the chemicals to a certain extent, but we were still talking about tripping on acid during the destruction of a city on fire during a zombie invasion, this oughtta be a blast. (Can you see the sarcasm dripping off of the page?)

  “We gotta get out of here, man, before this kicks in.”

  “Before what kicks in, man?” John the Tripper asked as he was staring intently at the webbing between his fingers. “I’m a fucking dolphin,” he told me.

  “Let’s go, Flipper.” Then I laughed, my time was running short.

  I almost stepped down into the garage when John pulled me back in. I noted apprehensively how easily I almost lost my balance. His face looked drawn out, but his eyes burned bright. “Wait!” he shouted loudly as if we were at a Black Sabbath concert. I’d seen them three times but never with Ozzy, twice with the great one Ronnie James Dio at the helm, and once with Ian Gillian of Deep Purple fame, not that any of this is conducive to the story it’s just to show that my thoughts were beginning to stray even more so than usual.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, thinking that maybe the cooler was out of beer. For the briefest of seconds I did not even acknowledge the fact that quite possibly he was talking about zombies. I’m not sure if my life had been in greater danger at any one point more so than now just because I was not aware of my surroundings.