“Brett, play nice,” my mother called from inside. “Vicky doesn’t like guns and nor do I.”
The garden gate rattled and we all looked around to the source of the noise. My dad staggered into the garden. He was a tall, skinny man with a mop of thick, black hair. His face was white and cracked and crusted blood surrounded his mouth. His eyes were milky white, like they were covered with cataracts. He opened his mouth and let out a long, monotonous moan.
My sister screamed in terror and dropped her Barbie doll before running to my mother inside the kitchen. I stayed rooted to the spot, watching my father stagger closer. More zombies clattered through the garden gate behind my dad.
I turned to look at my mother. She hugged Vicky and smoothed her hair.
“Why is this happening, Mummy?” My sister looked up to face my mother. “Why did God let this happen?”
My mother smiled weakly. “God is sleeping at the moment, honey.”
I swiveled back to face my father. Now, I was no longer a child and Action Man’s gun was real, firmly held in my grasp. I raised the gun and fired one shot. The bullet moved through the air in slow motion and stopped halfway between me and my dad.
The ground tilted, the sunlight faded. I sat in the passenger seat of the Mustang. The breeze blew in my face from the glassless windshield frame. The stars shone brightly in the night sky as the car traveled speedily through a bleak, sandy desert. The Doors played on the stereo and Jim Morrison was driving, singing along to one of his songs, ‘People Are Strange.’ His long, dark hair hung in slight curls to his shoulders and he stared at me with unblinking, piercing blue eyes. Jim wore his trademark black leather pants with a plain white T-shirt and dusty cowboy boots.
I heard singing from the back seat and twisted my head around. Another version of myself sat in the back seat between Julia and Eazy, two of my traveling companions who had died in Manhattan. All three of them stared at me with accusing, scornful eyes. Eazy was a muscular black guy with a corn-row hairstyle. He’d shot himself in the head after being infected with a zombie bite. Julia was an English girl with long, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and a lovely smile. She’d died when she tried to follow me jumping between building roof tops. My alternative self usually cropped up as a vision at times of extreme danger and regularly liked to gloat. I felt anxious and wanted to get out of the vehicle.
I turned back to Jim. “Where are we heading?”
“Ah, be cool, man. We’re just driving along, we’ve got a six pack of beer in the back and we’re smoking a few joints. We’re headed for the roadhouse, man.” Jim spoke with a nonchalant easiness.
I turned back to the passengers who had stopped singing and were now glaring at me. Julia and Eazy bore the horrific injuries they had suffered during their exit from life. Eazy had a huge, bloody hole in the right side of his head and Julia’s left side was a bloody mess, with a huge split running from under her armpit to the top of her hip. Her broken ribs protruded through the wound and her arm was mangled at an odd angle. Her once pretty face was masked in blood and a horrifying indent at the top left side of her skull oozed straw colored liquid. Julia had been on the verge of becoming my new girlfriend before she tragically died.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I stammered at Julia and Eazy. “I didn’t want you to die.” I felt sad and sick in a sudden wave of emotion.
My alternative self shoved a beer bottle towards me. “Have a beer and shut the fuck up, asshole,” he snapped. “Nobody wants to hear your pathetic excuses.”
I took the bottle but didn’t drink any of it. My alternative self looked like me but he had a mean, almost demonic look in his eyes. A feature I hoped I didn’t project in reality.
“We’re here,” Jim sung in a slow, creepy voice.
I turned to face the front and saw we were pulling off the road into a dusty parking lot with big a wooden shack type structure standing to the right. Jim hit the brakes and the Mustang skidded to a halt amid a haze of dust. The parking lot was empty apart from our vehicle. He turned the engine off and I heard faint music pumping from the roadhouse.
“Come on, man. Let’s go grab a cold one,” Jim said, hopping out of the car.
I turned to the backseat but it was now empty, void of any more ghostly apparitions. I didn’t want to stay in the car alone so I hauled myself out of my seat and tossed the beer bottle into the dusty ground. Jim sauntered across the lot and made his way through a pair of wooden, swinging saloon doors, like in the old Western movies.
His image shimmered in the doorway and I swore he evaporated as he crossed the threshold. I hesitantly followed Jim Morrison’s ghostly image through the saloon doors. The song playing inside the roadhouse was ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ by The Rolling Stones, who happened to be my all time favorite band.
I stood motionless in the doorway surveying my surroundings, like a gunslinger when he walked into the saloon. I wasn’t Brett Wilde the soft pussy any more. I was Brett Wilde, the mean motherfucking zombie killer. To quote Smith – “Take no shit off anybody, no matter who they are.”
The roadhouse was decorated in yellowish wood paneling across the walls and ceiling. The long running bar to my right was lit by various beer taps and a huge Confederate flag was pinned between the liquor bottles behind the counter. Jim Morrison sat at the bar drinking a bottle of beer. He turned slightly and raised his drink at me then patted the bar stool next to him as an encouragement for me to join him.
The Rolling Stones song was replaced by ‘Muddy Waters’ singing ‘Mannish Boy’ on the old fashioned, multi-colored juke box standing in the left corner of the room.
I wandered apprehensively to the bar and sat on the stool next to Jim, who nodded along to ‘Muddy’s’ classic Blues track.
“Barman…hey, mister barman, can we have a beer for my friend?” Jim called out, leaning over the counter.
The barman slowly strolled from a backroom from behind the counter. As he approached us the light from the beer pumps shone upwards over his face, illuminating his features as a ghoulish mask. I immediately recognized the guy and recoiled, hurriedly sliding off the bar stool, sending it clattering to the wooden floor.
The guy stared at me from behind the counter, his beady eyes narrowed in scorn behind a pair of twisted spectacles with shattered lenses.
“Soames!” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”
The tall slender, bald headed man standing in front of me was the doctor, who along with a bunch of renegade soldiers had incarcerated me and my companions at Newark Airport, on our way to Manhattan. I’d called him Doctor Doom and he’d administered me a large shot of mescaline before attempting to inject me with zombie blood, as part of some bizarre experiment to find a cure for the disease. Smith had saved the day on that occasion, which involved a gun-toting stand-off. That mescaline shot had caused me to suffer weird side-effects, including horrific hallucinations, depression and suicidal contemplations. He had reluctantly joined our group at one stage of our journey but had succumbed to a fatal zombie attack on a small boat when crossing the Hudson River.
“I never liked you, Wilde, you little shit!” Soames barked at me. His voice sounded hoarse and gurgled, as though he spoke with a mouthful of water.
“Hey, man, be cool. There’s no need for name calling,” Jim interrupted.
Soames turned his head swiftly to the former Doors lead singer. “You don’t know what this prick did,” he yelled. “He led us all to our deaths in some half assed plan to get to a boat in Battery Park Harbor. The whole place was crawling with undead. We never stood a chance.”
Jim shrugged. “Battery Park Harbor is a nice place. It’s New York City, man, good a spot as any.”
Soames ignored Jim’s nonchalant comments and turned back to me.
“It’s not just me who feels the same way.” Soames pointed directly over my right shoulder.
The jukebox cut out, stopping ‘Muddy’ in full swing and the bar became eerily silent. I stayed still, facing Soames,
aware that something awful was about to happen. Jim swiveled around on his stool to face the main floor space of the roadhouse.
“Wow! That’s trippy,” I heard him mutter.
I spun around on my heels and was immediately confronted by a pack of zombies, lurching and shuffling their way across the floor towards me. I instinctively picked up the fallen bar stool and held the legs out in front of me, as though it was some kind of magic, protective shield. The sea of greenish white, half rotting faces were still recognizable despite the onset of decay. I knew or had known every one of them in the past. My Dad was leading the zombie crowd, behind him Eazy, Julia, Donna and Tippy formed an almost horizontal line. Headlong, a scruffy guy we’d known in New Orleans flanked my right side, preventing me from escaping through the exit door. My old friends, Pete Cousins and Marlon Keen stumbled around to my left with my ex-girlfriend, Samantha following close behind. Aggressive snarls and wails pierced the silence and the noise grew louder the closer they came.
Many other faces I knew were amongst the rest of the pack, including a grinning, undead caricature of myself in the center of the horde. They reached out for me with clawing hands, with the intention of ripping me to pieces.
“I’m sorry you’re all dead,” I bleated. “I tried my best but it wasn’t my entire fault.”
“Hey, I’m dead and I’m cool with that,” Jim chipped in then took a swig of his beer.
The zombies ignored my pleas, encircling me and closing in. I slumped down to a sitting position with my back leaning against the counter. I held out the stool in front of me, closed my eyes and hoped I’d wake up real soon.
Chapter Sixteen
Smith felt tired, dirty and groggy. It had been one hell of a time during the last forty-eight hours. His back, his arms and his old wounds, where he’d been shot ached like a bitch. He turned to Wilde Man on his left and watched him sleep for a few seconds. The goofy kid’s closed eyelids flickered rapidly, probably locked in some torturous nightmare inside his unconscious mind. Smith smiled and sniggered to himself. He was fond of the crazy kid he’d teamed up with back in some shitty, backwater Pennsylvanian town he couldn’t even remember the name of.
Smith wasn’t big on relationships of any kind since his life had crumbled after serving as a U.S. Marine and then a New York City cop. He’d tolerated colleagues and endured short lived flings with various girlfriends. But something about Brett Wilde tugged a little at his heart strings. The kid was too old to be his son and a little too young to be his brother. Maybe it was Wilde Man’s vulnerability and naivety that he found so appealing. Smith thought Brett looked like ‘Sid Vicious,’ the deceased bass player in the 1970’s punk band, The Sex Pistols. Sid and Wilde Man both shared the same pale complexion, skinny, slightly hunched frame and spiky black hair. The way Brett pronounced certain words with a trace of a London accent was a constant source of amusement for Smith.
Batfish ruffled Spot’s head and the two of them settled down for some sleep. The small dog lay across Batfish’s lap and lowered his head on his front paws. She shuffled her shoulders, got comfortable, tilted her head back against the head rest and closed her eyes.
Smith was glad they were all safe, albeit temporarily. He could relax for the time being. He breathed out an exhausted sigh and moved his head back onto the cushioned head rest. Smith allowed his eyes to close and let his body relax. He thought about their destination and travel route. He thought about Canada and his mind relayed the last time he was there, two years ago. Things hadn’t gone well.
Smith felt his body go tense again as his memory replayed the scenario like a Noire movie. His eyes remained firmly shut due to overwhelming fatigue and he reluctantly allowed the Canada situation to show the full, gory movie in his subconscious mind.
Half asleep, half fighting exhaustion, Smith heard a noise like an old 8mm movie camera whirr through his mind. Like the old Bogart and Cagney movies, Smith was the narrator. The first scenes were jumbled, and focused between color and black and white. Eventually, he stood in Larry Puzino’s wood paneled office, above a Chinese laundry on Bowery Street in Manhattan, New York City.
The Canadian Operation
Larry was a big fat sack of shit. He’d murder his own grandmother for the price of a dime but he happened to be my boss. I can’t speak all bad about Larry. The fat, old gray haired guy took me in when nobody else wanted to know.
For those of you who ‘aint in the know, I used to be Franco Dematteo. I used to be plenty of things, husband, U.S. Marine, New York cop, semi pro boxer and unofficial Brooklyn street lamp climbing champion when I was a kid. Now, I was none of those things. Now, I was Larry’s fucking lapdog.
Larry sat in his chair opposite me, a big wooden desk stood between us. Two guys sat either side of me, and I didn’t like or trust them as far as I could piss. Jimmy “The Lips” McLennan sat on my right and Toni “The Tool” Vicenza sat to my left. Both these guys were a couple of low paid scumbags and criminals in the minor league.
Jimmy was an Irish son of a bitch who mostly held up liquor stores and stole high end cars, while Toni was a fucking psycho. I didn’t relish the thought of working with that motherfucker at all. They called him “The Tool” because he used to be a construction worker but mainly used the tools of his trade to inflict pain and suffering on guys that owed him money.
Jimmy was referred to as “The Lips” for his way of sweet talking his ass in and out of highly secure premises – also for hitting on the ladies. He was a tall, lean guy with longish, blonde parted hair, clear complexion and pale blue eyes. You could say he was good looking, if you where that way inclined. Toni was the exact opposite; he was an ugly son of a bitch. He was big and bulky and sat awkwardly in the chair. He had huge hands, like bunches of bananas, which ran repeatedly across his bulging stomach as he sat. His face looked as though it had been chiseled out of rock, with a big protruding jaw, covered in graying stubble and a hooked nose that a witch would have been proud of. Prematurely graying hair hung in big curly lumps around the sides and top of his head and his beady black eyes darted in quick circles around the room. I wasn’t sure, but I’d guess Jimmy was around thirty years old and I’d place Toni roughly a decade older.
Jimmy was immaculately dressed in a cotton, fawn colored suit, crisp white shirt and tan brogues. Toni looked like he’d just rolled off a construction site, wearing a paint spattered blue T-shirt, threaded denims and a pair of tatty sneakers that I could smell from where I sat.
I always liked to look good on these occasions when Larry was putting out tenders for work. I dressed in a dark blue summer suit, white shirt and black tie. If anyone asked, I was going to a funeral.
The way things worked was this – Larry’s guy Mario, would put together a few suitable guys for a job and then the modus operandi would be discussed at a meet and greet session, like we were at now. Mario was a big Italian/American guy who prowled the office with the hand grip of a Remington 1911 R1 sticking out of the waistband of his pants. He wore his black hair sleeked back in a ponytail and had a penchant for loud, brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. He was wearing a blue, purple and red number with a pair of white cotton slacks. Mario had frisked us all in the hallway before we’d entered the office, confiscating my Desert Eagle, Toni’s hunting knife and Jimmy’s small, snub nosed Colt Python.
Larry bullshitted for a few minutes, making small talk. Then he got down to business – the reason we were all sat in his sweaty office, enduring the reek of Toni “The Tool’s” rancid sneakers.
“Well, boys…here’s the deal,” Larry sighed. He always began a speech like that. “We have a problem with a certain person who has reneged on a deal with us, despite continual requests from us to come to some kind of arrangement.”
Jesus! Larry sounded like some bona fide IRS guy.
“The guy took a down payment on some particular merchandise we were going to purchase at cost and in bulk,” Larry continued. “The bastard took our money and ran out on us, boys. I can’t
have that. I won’t allow that. I’m getting heat on me from my guys upstairs.” Larry started ranting, waving his arms around by his head.
“What was the merchandise, Larry?” I interrupted.
“Hey, who fucking cares?” Toni butted in, a sour grimace on his face. “The asshole stole from Larry. He deserves all he gets.”
I could see Toni was eager to inflict some pain on our intended victim.
“Okay, if you must know.” Larry held up his hand like he was submitting us the truth he’d rather not tell. But to be honest, Larry was always going to spill the beans on this asshole who I assumed he wanted dead. “The guy in question is called Fernando Marquez. He grows batches of some kind of super weed that gets these kids all fucked up real quick. He’s found a way of growing these compressed crops real quick and he moves around a lot to avoid any heat from the cops.”
“So let me get this straight, Larry.” I wanted some clarity. I ignored Toni’s scornful glare and continued. “This Marquez guy took a down payment from you for a batch of this dope and he didn’t deliver?”
Larry nodded with a melancholy expression, as though the guy had robbed him of his last cent.
“How much are we talking here?”
“50-K,” Larry snapped. “It was all set up to be a regular little earner. Now, the guys upstairs are busting my balls to get their money back.”
The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Page 9
