by Weston Ochse
For Yvonne
An Abaddon Books ™ Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
[email protected]
First published in 2010 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.
Editor-in Chief: Jonathan Oliver
Desk Editor: David Moore
Junior Editor: Jenni Hill
Cover: Mark Harrison
Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece
Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson
Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley
Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley
eBook production by Oxford-eBooks
Copyright © 2010 Rebellion. All rights reserved.
Tomes of The Dead ™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-84997-174-4
MOBI ISBN: 978-1-84997-175-1
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
As a reader and a writer I always read the acknowledgements. It takes so much to write a novel, more than any one person can do alone. My first and last thanks go to my wife, Yvonne Navarro. Not only is she an inspiration, but her experience and insight helped me put our heroes in increasingly bloodcurdling predicaments. Thanks to my mom and dad for not buying me that Atari system I so desperately wanted, and for forcing me read everything, and often. Thanks to my children for being the inspiration for two of the main characters. I spent many weary hours trying to keep you alive. And thanks so much to Jonathan Oliver for being there to answer questions, for trusting in me, and for allowing this lone voice in the desert to be heard so far afield. Lastly, thanks to the real people of Bombay Beach and the Salton Sea. This novel is entirely fictional except for those locations. I can't imagine that there is a real zombie factory. I've exaggerated the destitution and devastation of the communities surrounding the Salton Sea. The people who live there are of hardy stock and not easily dislodged from the places they love. This book is meant as homage to them, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, celebrating their ability to survive, even in the face of such desperate odds.
"Sorry, Frank. No more fish."
Frank stared over his empty beer glass at Lazlo Oliver, the bartender and owner of the Space Station Restaurant. Frank's used car salesman expression melted. His eyes narrowed. His grin receded, exposing a mouthful of broken and grimy teeth. "What do you mean, no more fish?"
"No more. Sorry, Frank." Lazlo squared his shoulders. At six foot three, he was a big man and, for all of his seventy years, still in pretty good shape. He hoped there'd be no trouble, but with Frank you never knew. Sometimes the drunk would teeter off into the night, and sometimes he'd go off like a roadside bomb. One just never knew.
"But it's fresh fish. It's real fresh, Laz." Frank reached down and jerked a string of tilapia from a battered Styrofoam cooler and held them over the bar. The years slipped away as he grinned like a teenaged boy, proud of a day's catch. A full head of unruly brown hair atop a creased and creviced deeply-tanned face - somewhere between a hard-drinking thirty and sixty - told this man's tale as someone who'd spent his life in the sun.
Lazlo examined the milk white eyes of the three tilapia, mouths gaping around the waxed yellow stringer. The scales were still a mosaic of bright greens. Sometimes Frank would get red tide fish he found rotting on the beach and try and pass them off as freshly caught. Not this time. These had been caught this afternoon, probably between Frank waking after passing out last night and this evening's dinner and beer. Such was Frank's drunken cycle: drink, sleep, fish, drink, sleep, fish.
"Listen, Frank. I'd love to take your fish, I really would, but I have three freezers full of the damned things and, if I were to bet, half of them would be from you. Honestly, Frank, I have fish coming out my eyeballs."
Frank looked back and forth from his fish to the bartender at this unfathomable turn of events. For a moment he seemed as if he was going to cry. His mouth formed a little circle.
Lazlo stepped away and wiped down the bar. Gertie was in the kitchen. By the looks of it, she had almost finished closing down for the night. Business had been brisk until dark, then had fallen off like usual, leaving only locals and the occasional tourist too stunned by the reality of the Salton Sea to know that they never should have stopped here.
He poured a fresh beer for Andy, their local daft. The man claimed to be a rocket scientist but looked more like a mad scientist. The only thing more guaranteed than Frank trying to trade fish for beer was Andy sitting in his usual spot, mumbling to himself, doodling in his little notebook as he sat with his ever-present tortoiseshell glasses and clothes - a wrinkled conspiracy of a white laboratory coat over an Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip flops.
JosÈ sat by the door. Laz didn't know if the man was illegal or not, but he was the all_around handyman no one could do without. He didn't talk much and had a haunted look in his eyes. Whatever the reason for the expression, the rail-thin Mexican took his own counsel.
The Cain and Abels - real surname Beachy - were sitting at their own table. They'd come in for fish and now sat and talked low amongst themselves. The Space Station was the area bar, restaurant, and general store, which is why the Amish family of five more often than not found themselves in for a night's dinner.
Then there was the tourist from Maine, who'd stopped on his way to Los Angeles and ended up sitting down next to Frank. Laz never caught his name, but it didn't matter. In the morning he'd never see the man again. He could tell by the look in his eyes and the eyes of the other seven tourists who sat at tables interspersed around the restaurant, that none of them would ever return.
Laz had seen it a thousand times. A tourist family, tired of the long trip through Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, riding along Interstate 10 or 8 towards the Pacific Coast, too blitzed to drive any farther, sees the old signs pointing to the Salton Sea promising resorts and fun in the sun. They didn't realize that it wasn't really a sea, nothing more than a large inland lake choked with salt and no outlet. Instead of driving another four or five hours to their destination, they'd convince themselves that staying the night in an "Ultra-Cheap" Seaside Resort would be a reward for long hours in the car. Their intent would be to wake the next morning and, maybe after a morning swim at the resort, drive the rest of the way at a leisurely pace. But when they finally witnessed the dark, beer_colored Salton Sea and rolled down the windows to inhale the ever-present bouquet of rotting fish, they probably hadn't known what hit them. Most of the time they pulled out as fast as they could, continuing on their way, eager to be free of the awful stench and horrific sight, but there were always a few who decided to tough it out.
How bad could it be? they thought.
The smell will go away, they told themselves.
But it never did. The smell of dead and rotting fish worked its way into everything - their clothes, the fabric of the seats, the carpet, their hair, their skin, even into the depths of their luggage.
"Get away from me!"
Lazlo grabbed his bat from beneath the bar and rushed over to where Frank was manhandling the man from Maine.
"Come on, one beer," Frank begged. "Three fish for one beer. My God, man. Can't you people
do math in Maine?"
"Let him go, Frank!" Laz commanded in his characteristic deep voice.
Frank had one hand on the man's collar, his other holding the fish up for the tourist to see, brushing them against his nose and leaving a wet mark on his T-shirt.
"But Laz, he wants to trade."
"Frank, if I have to tell you again, I'm going to knock that head of yours right out the door." Laz brandished the bat. "Do the math, Frank. One bat! One head!"
Frank glared at Laz like a cornered rat that knew there was cheese to be had and wouldn't be deterred until it had its fill.
"Go sleep it off, Frank."
Frank hesitated another moment, then let the tourist go and backed away. Tears rose in his eyes and, with a sob, he grabbed his Styrofoam cooler, cradled it like a child, and ran out the door. Everyone was silent for a few moments, then resumed their conversations.
Laz hated when Frank got this way. The drunk never remembered when he got carried away and wouldn't remember what he'd done the next day. More often than not, Laz would forgive the man, his sorrowful puppy eyes working on the soft side of him that wanted everyone to be happy. But he'd be damned if he was going to let Frank come back in as if nothing happened. Not this time. No way.
He replaced the bat and hollered at Maude.
"Watch the register, sugar. I'll be back in a few."
His fifty-five year old ex-girlfriend who still worked as a waitress and de facto front-of-house manager for the Space Station glared at him. He grinned in return. His relationship with her, as with Gertie - his other ex-girlfriend who was the cook and de facto back-of-house manager - was founded on stoked anger.
Laz walked past the walk-in reefer and continued out the back into the warm night air. The smell of the sea struck him like a wet washcloth and clung to him. He grabbed the trash Gertie had bagged by the door and hauled it around the side of the building to the collection of cans. He'd have to pay someone who owned a truck from Brawly to come and take them to the dump. It was a long time since the city of Bombay Beach had enough money for trash pick-up, and he'd be damned if he was going to be like some of his neighbors, and turn his property or the land around it into a privately owned garbage dump. He tossed the bags into the cans, returned to the back door, reached inside and grabbed his cigarettes and a notebook.
Laz walked around to the front of the restaurant, crossed the street and sat on a retaining wall. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the welcome smoke; one thing that could be said about the smell of cigarettes was that it hid the stench of rotting fish. From his vantage point on the wall, it was ten meters to the edge of the water. In the moonlight, he could make out a dozen small shadows along the foaming edge of the water. Most likely fish. More dead fish. Would it never end?
In the light of the bar's neon sign, he opened his notebook and turned to the first unused page. He pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote today's date, and after checking his watch, added the time beneath. Next he wrote a few sentences in what to anyone else would be a nonsensical code, then sat back and began to watch the sea.
He'd been keeping track since he first noticed the lights. It hadn't taken long for him to find a pattern to them, so on nights when he knew they were going to occur, he made sure to bear witness and record the events as he saw them. He wasn't a scientist, nor was he very smart in a bookish sort of way, but he knew that if he watched and listened long enough, he might understand what was going on.
He didn't have long to wait.
First it came as a gentle lightening of the water. From black to gray, the water brightening as if powered by an invisible source. He inhaled the last of the smoke, held his breath and tossed the cigarette into the sand. The pressure began to build in his chest for him to exhale, but he kept the smoke trapped. He knew it wouldn't be long. As the pressure built and built, he hoped it wouldn't be long.
Then it happened.
The water flashed a brilliant green, then returned to gray.
He exhaled slowly, relishing the acrid bite of the menthol cigarette. He grinned as the water flashed again. Lasting less than a second, it happened so fast that if he'd blinked at the wrong time, he'd miss it.
Then a third time, it flashed.
Then darkness.
Then nothing.
Whatever it was, it was over.
Laz looked at the time and began to scribble down his observations and thoughts. It took longer than plain writing, because of the code he used. But then one never knew who might read your book.
A faraway scream made him look down the beach into the darkness. He waited to see if the sound would come again, but he didn't hear anything except the gentle lapping of the almost dead sea. It had sounded like Frank. Laz shook his head. There but by the grace of God... Laz knew that it could have just as easily been him trying to weasel fish for beer had he not been able to conquer his own demons. He amended his thought - had he not found Gertie and Maude to help him conquer his own demons. He could have never done it without them.
Laz heard the sound of feet on sand and pavement coming from the street behind him, probably Maude or Gertie seeing where he'd gone, wanting to rehash some old slight or beer-soaked memory. He'd let them have at him once he finished. The sound of feet shuffling was accompanied by the horrible stench of rot.
Not one of the girls.
"Frank, is that you? I told you to go sleep it off."
The sound and smell came closer.
"Frank, you really need to get -"
Something jerked him from his perch.
"What the fuck?"
He was hurled to the ground so hard his ribs cracked. He gasped, winded. Framed by the neon image of a space station that served as the restaurant's logo stood something man-sized, green skin a match to the sign.
"Who - ?"
Instead of answering, the strange man fell upon him. Lazlo fought to keep him away, but the other's strength was unbelievable. Laz gagged at the miasma of decay. His attacker's staring eyes glowed yellow; dimly, he wondered how they could do that.
But Laz wasn't going to let whatever it was get him. He kneed the thing in the side, sending it onto the sand, then struggled to his feet and began to run. The thing blocked the way to the restaurant, and was even now rising to its feet. Laz turned and headed off down the beach as fast as his old legs would carry him.
After a dozen meters, he turned to look, hoping the thing had been a figment of his imagination, or perhaps the opening salvo of dementia. But he wasn't to be so lucky. It was after him. And it was fast.
Laz kept running, but his strength was already waning. He was seventy years old and could take care of himself with the likes of Frank, but against... against... what was he against? A black and white image came to his mind of dark water and a creature rising to the surface to carry away a vivacious blonde. The Creature from the Black Lagoon?
He was breathing heavily now and his legs were on fire. He felt himself slowing down against his will. Try as he might, he couldn't keep going. With a cry of desperation, he stopped, turned and brought his hands up like a boxer.
And still the thing came on. Laz couldn't make out its features in the darkness, but the eyes still glowed an unearthly yellow.
When it came near, Laz swung and hit it in the side of the head. But the blow did nothing to the creature. It was like hitting rotting fish. He swung and hit again, with the same result. He tried to dance out of the creature's way, but tripped on the sand and fell sprawling.
The creature landed on top of him. Like before, Laz held it at arm's reach. Now he could hear teeth gnashing, but curiously no breathing. In fact, he couldn't feel the chest move at all. It radiated a deep sea cold.
Jesus-Mary-Christ in a basket! It's not alive!
Laz felt his arms weaken.
The creature took advantage, pushing through Lazlo's defenses until it was within his embrace. Rotting lips kissed his cheek, then pain exploded as the thing's broken teeth came away with flesh. It swallowed and fell u
pon Laz again. The speed and ferocity of the attack increased until its head and hands were a blur. It began to wheeze and hiss, the sounds coming from deep within its chest.
Lazlo tried to scream, but the pain kept him from taking a breath.
He was being eaten.
Eaten!
And then death claimed him.
The Rolling Avocado roared past a pile of road kill on the side of Highway 10, just north of Buckeye, Arizona. The heat waves made it seem as if the world was one immense stove in which the road was a griddle, cooking dead animal, well done. Natasha didn't know if it had been a zebra or a pig or a herd of wild geese. She didn't know anything about wildlife, other than what she saw on the television when her parents felt it was time for her to watch something educational. She didn't know what it was, but as they passed it, she opened her mouth and wrinkled her nose in the universal sign of teenage disgust.
Her brother Derrick happened to look up from the game of Death Fantasy III he was playing on his personal player deck just in time to see it. He sneered and asked, "What was it?"
"Another zoo animal," Natasha said, flipping her hand back toward where the creature lay dead and mutilated.
"Cool," Derrick said, his mind once more diving into the realm of hand-held video game land. "Tell me when you see another one. I want to see it too."
"When I puke on you, you'll know," she said.
Derrick grinned wickedly, then slew a roomful of tiny elf creatures with his Broadsword of Magnificent Doom.
As much as the idea of more road kill sickened her, Natasha returned her gaze to the window, where the desert rolled by. She and Derrick sat in the reverse facing seats in the back of the Rolling Avocado, their endearment for the 1970s Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser with unearthly green paint that was their sole family vehicle.
The middle and top of the car were packed with all of their worldly possessions. A bad economy, the shutdown of a Chevrolet parts plant near Philadelphia, and a year of hospital bills that the insurance company wouldn't pay had conspired to send them into bankruptcy and a three room apartment more than a year ago. That her grandfather had passed away and left them his home and restaurant had been what Auntie Lin had called a godsend.
