Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  The smell of the dead hung in the heavy air like a low-laying cloud and, I coughed the vile shit from my burning lungs. I managed to get my back against the side of a Chevy pick-up. I knew it wasn't the smartest move in the world, but defending what's in front of me is a hell of a lot easier than having to worry about my six.

  A flurry of rotting arms grabbed at me. A wave of snapping teeth bite the cold air, too damn close for my liking. I kicked and punched with whatever energy I had left. This old jarhead wasn't going down easily.

  I fought until my body would respond. The zombies tore, pulled, and yanked me back down. The roar of the engine obliterated the pounding rain and cries of the dead.

  The horde split like a well-place bowling ball. No 9-10 split here. Now, the car made a clean strike out of all those undead bastards. I heard myself laughing again and balled my hands into bloodied fists.

  It was the girl. I smiled. Actually fucking smiled. Hell, it was the first good turn I'd have in the past twenty-four hours. I was going to take it.

  The 'Cuda slid in a half circle and came to a stop. I could smell the brakes mix with the foul air and dead. I had only a small window to act.

  A number of arms and hands latched onto me and dragged me back, spinning me around. Fierce snarls and guttural moans filled my ears. I managed to catch my balance and fend off a short guy in mechanic's overalls. I dislocated his jaw; sending him falling into the crowd.

  The dirt was quickly turning to mud, and my boots began to sink into the muck. Stacy Jo’s shouts were lost in the raging storm and the groaning of the clamoring undead.

  The car wasn't far. I kicked out and caught what looked like a naked dead teenager in the stomach. Her throat was sliced wide open—a fresh wound. It didn't take Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure out what scumbag did that. She fell to the mud and started to get back up.

  “Ranger, come on!” Stacy Jo screamed.

  I looked, and she had opened the passenger side door. It lay wide open, and if I didn't get my sorry ass there quick like, then one or more of the flesh-eating sonuvabitches would be on her like flies on a cow patty.

  I turned and ran toward the car. Stacy Jo was smiling. I could see her look of overwhelming fear, rage . Damn, I knew that look all too well. I was a mere five feet from the 'Cuda's door when I fell.

  Stacy Jo screamed as I rolled over and saw a long, puffy-haired guy wearing a mud covered WASP baseball jersey. Right then I should have been fearing for my life. Worried about my family, even Stacy Jo; but, hell no. The only thing that raced through my mind was, What the hell is a WASP and why does it have a codpiece with a saw blade stuck through it? It's strange what your mind does in times of deep horror.

  My millisecond detour was derailed by a deafening gunshot—just above my head. The metal-head’s right eye disappeared in a red spray of blood, bone, and brain juice. His slack body flopped onto my legs.

  Stacy Jo continued firing as I kicked the dead guy off me, fighting off the hungry hands and bloody maws.

  I finally got free and jumped into the car; more like fell in a sloppy heap into the car.

  “Close the damn door!” Stacy Jo ordered, as she jumped into the seat and slammed her door.

  A cluster-fuck of hands grabbed at me and the door, but those rotting bastards didn't get the chance to dine on this Ranger; hell no. The 'Cuda surged forward as the runaway from New York stomped down, putting the pedal to the metal. The nearly 3,000 pound muscle car fish-tailed sending a spray of mud and bodies flying into the muck of Jimbo's Diner's parking lot. That thought created a catch in my chest. All the death. No time for that, Marine. Adapt and overcome. I kept telling myself that, and someday, maybe today, that shit will run ashore.

  “You okay, old man?” Stacy Jo asked, driving into the storm.

  “Yeah. Right as fuckin' rain, kid,” I said, pulling myself up in the seat. “Of course, you know, you'll be pulling over as soon as we're clear of hell's half acre back there. Nobody drives Alice, but me.”

  She smiled and laughed. “Alice, huh?”

  “Don't,” was all I said.

  I turned and looked out into the blackness of the storm—my heart burned and thoughts raced.

  I was going to play this game out and save my family. The hell with the rest of the insane bullshit. I forced my legs to work and headed down the road. I had miles to go and an asshole to kill. I just hoped I made it there it time.

  If this nightmare was real and it was the end of the world, then so be it. Not even the apocalypse could stop me. Before sunrise, I would kill Isandro, hold my wife and baby girl in my arms, and never leave them alone again.

  My girls needed me, and I needed them. And even a parking lot filled with dead walkers wouldn’t stop me. I was going back to Houston.

  I tucked the photo into my blood-covered jacket and headed west.

  I had to take care of one last thing.

  Save my family and...

  Kill me one fucking Mexican.

  37

  Going Back to Houston.

  Route 45 South

  3:45 a.m.

  We switched a few miles down the road, and Stacy Jo gave me an unexpected hug. I thought I'd heard her crying, but she did a damn good job of hiding it. I hugged her tightly and not a word was spoken. I knew we'd get through all this weird shit. Whatever this shit was. We got back in Alice and drove on—staring straight into the blackness.

  The swirling and raging storm was a constant companion as the girl and I drove west. I wasn't sure if the walking dead followed us from the diner. I didn’t give a damn. But there were a shit-ton of them lining the road as we drove.

  My body felt like a flesh tube filled with cement and hand grenades. Moving any part took all the energy I could muster and hurt like hell. Pain oozed from every pore. My mind did jumping jacks trying to figure out what the hell had happened. How the fuck could have things gone so far south of shit that it made being dead look like a nice Sunday picnic in the park?

  The rain was relentless and pounded the car as it separated the night from the shadows.

  My mind flashed with gut-wrenching images of what that sonuvabitch Dinaria was doing to Inez and baby Bellia. I cursed myself again. I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance a long time ago. It was too late now. I might as well wish in one hand and piss in the other for all good it did me. The vile visions played inside my frozen mind as I drove toward home.

  “How close are we?” Stacy Jo asked; for the first time, timidly. The voice sounded uncomfortable on her.

  “Close. But not close enough.”

  “Ya think that asshole is there?”

  I could tell she didn't want to ask the question.

  I let her question float in the thick air. Man, I needed a damn drink.

  She didn't ask again.

  The rain and number of lumbering dead increased in mass the closer we got to Houston. It was a forty-five minute drive from Jimbo’s Diner to my house. I sure as hell hoped that with all this supernatural, Twilight Zone shit that was swirling around, that we could magically warp me home. No such luck.

  The sign read:

  Houston …...10 Miles.

  The furnace rumbled, and I trooped on.

  The dead swelled the road all around us. And the storm of the apocalypse escorted us rest of the way.

  38

  Dust my Broom

  The McCutcheon Home

  5:47 a.m.

  The soft glow of sunrise was just starting to seep into the sky. Rain still punished the earth, while lightning and thunder slowly gave way to an eerie silence. We crested the hill and looked down on the housing complex where my house was.

  The big sign that was usually well lit was bathed in darkness. It read: ‘Azure Heights.’ The memory of fighting with Inez about buying a house in this stuffy, hoity-toity neighborhood wasn’t my idea. She never had a real house and a real family. She wanted this, and I was more than happy to give it to her.

  I stopped the car and
gazed down on the gated community. It looked more like a cold, dark prison than a happy, ‘let’s go play golf with Biff and Buffy,’ white-collar development. There were several bodies walking around the complex.Random, terror-filled screams filled the cold night air. And sirens and alarms wailed off in the distance.

  My gut roiled, and a biting acid filled my mouth. The whole knowing and not knowing thing felt like a punch in the balls. I need to get home.

  I began down the hill and could see my house at the center of the cul-de-sac. The furnace of rage in my gut blasted with dire heat. It got a hell of a lot hotter the closer we drove. I stopped as I saw the Caddy parked at an angle in front of our house. The driver’s side door left open. I could hear the Allman Brothers, “In the Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” blaring from the stereo. The furnace was stoked.

  The cries of the dead or dying filled the cul-de-sac as I stepped stiffly onto the sidewalk in front of my house. The house was covered in darkness. The front door was wide open.

  I parked the car and got out. Stacy Jo started to get out the other side. I motioned for the girl to stay in.

  Stacy Jo leaned to see. “Ranger, I don't think you sh—”

  “I have to, kid.” I heard my words, and the coldness even scared me.

  She grabbed my arm. I stopped and looked back at her. I could see her tears mix with the drying blood on her young face—creating a sick, clown-like make-up that made my stomach churn. I should never have picked her up. She might have actually have lived through this shit-pool. Her chances now were close to goddamn null.

  I knelt down and took a breath. The smell and moans of the dead growing closer.

  “You stay here. It's safer inside the car.” I forced a smile. We both knew it was for shit. “Check the glove box, there should be more shells for the pistol.” I stood up, and leaned back in. “Don't worry, if I need your help, you'll know right quick.” I shot her a wink. “If all goes to shit, you climb your ass in the driver's seat, and you best get hell bent for leather out of here. Got me?”

  She started to slide over into the driver's seat, nodding.

  I nodded and slowly headed for the front door of my house.

  The girl didn't want me to go. Hell, I didn't want to either—that would mean I had an answer to the darkest fears I'd had since I left Jimbo's. Some questions just aren't worth knowing the answers to. I felt a weak smile slip from my bloody face.

  The air was thick with the smell of burning wood and rotting meat. The odd colored steam rolled off the blacktop. My well-worn, gore-caked cowboy boots sloshed through the puddles as I stopped and looked at my, our home.

  I crossed the sidewalk, calling out Inez's name. As I crossed the blood-soaked threshold, I felt razor-sharp shivers cut at my bones. I sounded frail and thin.

  'Now's not the time to go tits-up boy,' my father's gruff voice grated in my head like a chainsaw to my balls. I tucked it all away and checked my pistol—loaded and ready.

  I stared into the darkness of the living room and waited. Not a fucking sound came back, except mocking silence.

  Our house was swallowed in darkness. My feet slapped on the wet carpet. With the door open, the rain must have soaked it through. I looked down and saw that it wasn’t rainwater on the beige carpet. It was red. Blood.

  I turned and looked at the door. A big bloody smear covered the numbers. One hand print was clear on the white door. It was a small hand.

  Inez, I cried out, or at least tried to. Fear had stolen my voice. I felt hot tears pour down my face and the furnace in my gut rage.

  I stared down at the swirling mixture and caught the blood trail leading into the darkness, toward the hallway. I followed.

  I heard the sound of sloshing behind me and I freeze. I swung with my pistol raised.

  It was Stacy Jo. Her thin hands held up in a shaky surrender. I let out a deep breath and offered my hands up in return. I got it. She didn't want to be alone. I got that. I motioned for her to stay. She held my backup piece in her hand and leaned against the door jam. She didn’t move—just watched me.

  “Be careful,” Stacy Jo whispered.

  If I was a scared as she sounded, I was fucked.

  I nodded at her and continued on, following the blood trail. A machine gun of thunder and its cruel sister lightning washed through the windows, casting the hallway in a sickly yellow haze.

  Down the hallway, the bathroom door stood open. Next, the guest bedroom, and at the end, my den.

  The trail led off in two directions. One went deeper forward into the house, toward the dining room. The other, left, toward the den. I could make out a faint glow coming from den, so I headed that way.

  The once sweet smell of a cigar wafted into the hallway. My stomach to roll. The glow lit up the wall opposite the den, illuminating photos of Inez, Bellia, and me in happier times. My tears continued while the furnace blazed.

  I rounded the doorway and looked inside. What I saw proved to me that no God existed, and if he or she fucking did, they were a soulless, spiteful bitch.

  Inez lay on the leather couch, covered in blood. My Ranger badge buried deep into her forehead. Her skin, white as wax, and her beautiful, mahogany brown eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Her chest was slit wide open. Her chest an empty cavity as flaps of roughly hewn skin and muscle laid loosely against her ribcage. Her heart lay on the carpet, like an empty fucking beer can.

  I stared. Paralyzed. The tears came in torrents, and the furnace was about to blow. Every inch of my body and soul were set ablaze with a rage. A deep, prehistoric, violent rage I'd never felt before.

  A shrill cry shook me from my hate-filled trance.

  That's when I saw him. That sorry, sick son-of-a-bitch!

  Isandro Dianira stood shirtless with his back to me. The glow came from a cigar held tightly in his mouth.

  “Hola, puta.” He was covered in blood from the greasy top of his head to the mud and gore covered soles of his prison-issued sneakers. The bag of shit slowly turned, and his smiled.The furnace in my aching gut ,was about bursting at its seams.

  “You're fuckin' dead. You know that, don't ya.” It wasn't a question, and he knew it. I started to bring the gun up, stepping forward, and froze.

  I almost collapsed when I saw what the fucking monster held in his hands.

  “Say hola, papa'.” He squeezed Baby Bellia to his chest. His cold eyes never leaving me. He stroked my baby’s cheek with the knife.

  “I'll fucking gut you.” I growled and stepped forward.

  “Nah, uh. I am fuckin’ impressed, Ranger. You don’t look so good, esé. I thought bullets in your chest would have killed your punk ass.” Isandro continued to trace Bellia’s shrieking face.

  “See, I told you, pendejo. With every long night I spent in that hellhole. With every bite I took of the shit they called food, I thought of you. I swore that I'd make you suffer. I am nothing if not a man of my word.” His wide eyes turned from a dark brown to a blazing red, as if from the fiery pits of Hell itself. The fucking gang banger's grin snapped to a foul grimace, and he made a quick motion with the blade.

  It all came down to this one horrific, nightmare second.

  That sick fuck's insane laughter and wide bestial smile tore at my soul.

  The furnace was a blast of fury, and all was lost.

  I lunged forward, causing Dianira's blade to miss my baby girl. She fell out of his arms onto the blood-drenched carpet. I tried to catch her. Other hands suddenly reached out and caught my girl in midair.

  A blur flashed into the room and too fast for me to see details..

  It took a few seconds for my racing brain to put the images to some kind of reasonable thought. It was Stacy Jo. The girl pulled Bellia to her chest and raced toward the doorway.

  No time to question anything. I grappled the gang-banger, and we crashed into my gun cabinet—shattering glass and splintering wood.

  I landed on top of him. He swung the knife, but this time, I chopped down with a knife hand strike,
sending the blade spinning across the room. I smiled and spit in his face. Now, the asshole was scared.

  The furnace was finally free. I felt as though I left my battered body and rose above the horror flick below me. I watched me move in a savage ecstasy. My hands tore at his tattooed throat. The furnace demanded more and more blood. The rage consumed me. Ate me alive. I choked the shit-bag. The hunger filled me like the fire in my gut. As I heard the terrified cries of baby Bellia, I knew that while God may be a spiteful asshole, sometimes, just sometimes, Karma was a bigger bitch.

  I let the furnace rule and the hunger take me. I fed it. My hands and arms ached and burned, but I didn't let go. He frantically bashed at my face and arms, but I was numb. His dark eyes bulged, his light brown skin turned a sickly shade of red, and then purple, as blood poured out his nose. I heard cold, animalistic laughter.

  It was mine.

  Dinaria let out a sickly gurgle as I squeezed harder. No death was good enough for this piece of shit. If I'd killed him a million times and it would never be good enough.

  I stared into his unmoving—dead eyes.

  I didn't let go of his throat.

  Sitting there, I could hear the rain battering the house—our house.

  I would have to be satisfied knowing that, in the end, the gutless, so-called bad-ass thug, screamed like the punk bitch I knew he always was.

  The drumming of rain and pounding thunder surrounded me. I was lost.

  Lost in the empty satisfaction of killing Dinaria.

  Lost, knowing that Inez was gone.

  Lost.

  “Ranger...”

  I heard Stacy Jo's voice.

  Then I heard the sound of a baby crying.

  I slowly got to my feet. Every bone, every inch of my flesh burned as if on fire. I didn't care.

  38

  Softly to the Sun

  The yellowish-red glow of sunrise filled the living room as we sat on the couch, watching it out of the bay window of our home. I held Inez tightly in my arms. Her limp, cold body weighed heavy as we sat and witnessed the day after the apocalypse begin.