The Dead (a Lot) Trilogy (Book 1): Wicked Dead

by Odentz, Howard

  Bullseye pulled the gun from his pants and held it in his palms. “Can I shoot them?” he asked.

  I looked through the rear view mirror and stared at his face. “As long as you don’t like it too much,” I said in all seriousness.

  He looked out the window. “I don’t like it at all.” His words sounded a little hollow—like a lie—but I didn’t want to think about that right now.

  Maybe he did like it, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure anymore. Prianka let go of my hand and placed both of hers in her lap. I could see her quietly digging her nails into her knees. It reminded me of those stories you hear about when girls cut themselves with razor blades to relieve stress. Right now, I actually understood why they did it. I know that’s weird, but anything had to be better than the stress of running for our lives through the back end of Massachusetts, being chased by who knows what. Anything could be better—even a little pain. Pain that is self-controlled is infinitely better than pain coming from someone or something else.

  I was quiet as I pulled the minivan around the ambulance and started down the road again. The trees on either side of the tar were thick, but soon they gave way to a stand of pines that were all perfectly tall and straight, like someone had planted them that way.

  “Why are the trees so straight?” murmured Bullseye.

  “They’re hetero,” I said.

  No one laughed, but I could actually hear both Trina and Prianka roll their eyes.

  Twice, we had to pull around cars stuck in the middle of the road, and both times, poxers, with their gaunt faces and gray skin, tracked us with their eyes from the drivers’ seats. I was reminded, once again, how stupid they are. They couldn’t even figure out how to open a car door. Eventually, the Necropoxy parasites would die of starvation, and then the host bodies would kick too, and finally find some peace.

  My father followed behind us in the ambulance. Every time I looked in my side mirror, I caught a glimpse of his face, pale but determined. ‘I’m not cut out for this,’ Eddie had cried when we were standing on the porch as Swifty’s. My dad was a doctor. Dorcas had been a bus driver and Mom was a realtor. I didn’t know what the others were, but I bet none of them were ‘cut out for this’.

  In a weird way, Trina and I, Jimmy, Prianka, Bullseye, and Sanjay were all expertly suited to survive what was going on. We didn’t know any different. One day it was school and video games, the next it was poxers and helicopter people. This life was just another thing to learn. It’s like we weren’t old enough yet for whatever neuroses we were going to have as adults to gel and harden into permanency. Transition was easier for us.

  I sort of felt sorry for everyone in the ambulance—sorry and a little concerned. I wondered who would be the first to snap under the pressure. Nedra was probably the oldest, which by all accounts probably meant that she was the most rigid; but Freaky Big Bird was high-strung. Trudy cried a lot, and my father was tough, but a worrier.

  Didn’t they say it was the tough guys who sometimes cracked first? Weren’t they the ones who went rampaging through playgrounds or offices, shooting everyone who ever looked at them funny?

  Nah, my dad wasn’t like that. At least I hoped he wasn’t.

  About two miles further down the road, we started seeing buildings. The first one was a nursery that had set up big displays of pumpkins, gourds, and bunches of Indian corn. They also advertised fresh fruit and Macintosh apples. My stomach growled. What I would do for a nice crisp apple. Apples always tasted the best this time of year, when the leaves were falling and the orchards were cold at night and warm in the day.

  After that was a car dealership. I made a mental note to go back there once everyone was safely at Walmart. I bet most of the cars were gassed up. Maybe we could even pick out a new set of wheels, or at least have a ready supply of gas for syphoning.

  I saw a soft serve, a couple of office buildings, and then more buildings than I could count. Along with the buildings came the car pileups—first only a couple and then more than that. Some car doors were open and some still had poxers stuck inside, sitting and staring at us as we went past.

  There were poxers on the road, too. They shambled back and forth, stopping to watch us as we slowly drove by. They all turned and followed us, as though they thought they had a chance at a meal.

  Newfie growled as he saw them, his ears up and his eyes alert. Sanjay closed his eyes and held Poopy Puppy up in front of his face.

  “This is awful,” whispered Prianka. “It’s like Greenfield all over again.”

  “But no Stella,” said Jimmy wistfully.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Greenfield didn’t have a Walmart.” I pointed down the road. About a half mile away, a large, square sign rose above everything like a beacon. “We do.”

  48

  “I’M GOING WITH you,” barked Trina stubbornly as I pulled the minivan around the back of the store, with my dad right behind us.

  “No,” said Jimmy.

  “Jimmy, shut up.” she said wearily and shook her head. “Don’t you get it? I’m immune. So’s Tripp. The worst thing that can happen to me is a nasty bite. I already have a nasty burn so what’s the dif?”

  Jimmy looked pissed off.

  “She’s right, dude,” I said.

  “What do you expect to do if you get attacked?” he snapped at her.

  “We won’t,” we both said in unison.

  “Trina will be my eyes and ears,” I said. “She’ll be the lookout. I’ll do the dirty work. Give me the bag.”

  Jimmy hesitated for a moment, then sighed and handed me the fire fixings he religiously carried around with him.

  Prianka knew better than to argue with me. She still sat in the passenger’s seat, her hands pressed against her thighs.

  “We’ll be right back,” I said to her, but she said nothing back. Oh, great. What did I do this time? Frankly, I’m not sure I cared. There were too many truly bizarre things happening to have to worry about another Prianka puzzle. If she was miffed, she was miffed, and she’d either have to tell me what was bothering her, or suck it up and move on

  I wasn’t in the mood for playing twenty questions. I was in the mood to get someplace safe. Also, not being girly or anything, but my jeans were starting to feel like they could move on their own. It would be great to take a detour through the men’s section and find a nice pair of 30/34s. Nothing stone-washed or anything, because only mega losers wear stone-washed. I just wanted something that didn’t smell, because I had a sinking suspicion that I was beginning to stink. How much longer could I blame Newfie for the stench in the car?

  Dad got out of the ambulance, carefully, as though he thought a horde of poxers was going to descend on us at any moment.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Trina and I are just going to take a quick look.”

  He started to say something but stopped. “Be careful,” he said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “We’re cool,” I told him.

  The back of the ambulance opened and Randy Stephens hopped out, all tall and lanky, like one of those characters in a Disney cartoon. He pushed his glasses up on his face and shoved his hands in his back pockets.

  “Were there a lot of zombies in the parking lot?” he said. “I couldn’t see much through the back window.”

  “Cars mostly,” said my dad. “But a few dead people, too.”

  Randy stared down at the paper bag in my hands. “Where are you two going?” he asked.

  “We’re just checking it out,” I said. “Making sure it’s safe.”

  He took a few strides toward us like a giant crane. “Mind if I come with? There’s just a little too much estrogen in the back of the ambulance.”

  “What about Eddie?” asked Trina with just a little bit of snarkiness in her voice.


  “Like I said,” shrugged Randy, his skin still a little gray from being sick. “There’s just a little bit too much estrogen back there. Besides, my mouth tastes like a sewer. It would be great if I could find some mouthwash.”

  Trina and I glanced at each other. “Fine,” she said. “Just be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Randy smiled. “I’ve got the drill down. Burn first, ask questions later.” He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and rolled it around in his hands. It was old and nice, like he had been carrying it around for a zillion years. He caught me eyeing it. “It was my dad’s,” he said and tossed it over to me. I caught it with my free hand. The casing was tarnished silver. I flicked it and the flame shot to life. In this world, having a lighter was more important than having a gun. “I’ve been carrying that around since I was twenty-five,” said Randy. “Ever since he died.” He looked at the lighter sadly. “He was a great guy. That lighter’s my lucky charm.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said and walked over to an overflowing trashcan. I pulled a wad of paper out of the top, brushing the fat flies away, rolled it up, and handed Randy back his lighter along with the paper. “You’re going to need both of these.”

  He looked at the two things in his hands and gulped. His Adam’s apple was huge, like he had swallowed a tennis ball. It bobbed up and down in his throat.

  “Ready?” I said to him.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  All along the back of the building was a chain-link fence. Behind it was a little hill. We could see the tops of trees beyond that. Okay, there were no poxers coming from that direction, and if there were, my dad and Prianka had the wheels.

  Behind us, right in the middle of the back of the Walmart, was a series of big gas tanks that almost looked like Sanjay’s hyperbaric chamber back in Littleham, but mega-sized.

  “What are those?” asked Trina.

  “Propane,” said Randy. We both just looked at him like he had three heads. “For power,” he explained. “Sort of like oil or electric. Apple’s so far out in the middle of nowhere, the Walmart probably has a back-up propane system.”

  It took me a second to fit the puzzle pieces together. “So there might still be power in there?” I asked him.

  “Maybe. It’s been over a week. It depends on how their system works. I’d have to take a look at their panels. You know, there could be electric with propane back-up, or there could be gas lines in town, although I doubt it. You got to get your power from somewhere.”

  I never really thought about it before. I mean, I got that there was no electricity, but I never really thought about the alternatives. Power always came from a switch or a plug. What kid thinks beyond that?

  We continued along the back of the building, its white-washed walls glowing in the sunlight. I ran my hand against the painted cement as we went, leaving the ambulance and the van farther and farther behind. For every two steps Trina and I took, it seemed like Randy Stephens took one. He was really, really tall. It made me wonder if he played basketball in high school, but then I thought, ‘nah—he’s not the type’. On the heels of that thought a mental smack upside the head told me that I shouldn’t so readily stereotype people anymore. Just because he was a gay guy didn’t mean he didn’t play sports in high school. For that matter, Sanjay wasn’t disabled, he was brilliant. Jimmy wasn’t hobbled in a wheelchair, he was a muscle boss, and Dorcas was . . . Dorcas was old and amazing. Now she was dead. I looked down at my feet and tried to will the image of her death out of my brain, but it lingered. Thankfully, something Randy Stephens said hastily pulled me out of a potential funk.

  It occurred to me that there was something I was supposed to be asking him. It was on the tip of my tongue, but my brain was so addled from the helicopter people, the fire, everyone getting sick, and Dorcas, that it was taking a bit for the words to form themselves.

  Finally, the words fell out of my mouth.

  “What do you mean you have to look at the panels?” I asked him. We had reached the side of the building. I put a finger up to my mouth before he could answer, and slowly peeked around the corner to see if it was safe to make our way to the front of the store. Off in the distance was a poxer pushing a shopping cart. She kept walking in circles, like she was looking for the little return island where people are supposed to leave their empty carts, but never do.

  “What is it?” whispered Trina in my ear.

  “I only see one,” I said. “We can handle one.”

  “I want to do it,” said Randy. “It’s about time I made myself useful.” He clutched the paper in one hand and the lighter in the other.

  “Hey, Randy,” I said. “What do you mean you have to look at the panels?”

  He smiled, but there was a sort of sadness to his smile. “Before this,” he said. “Before all the dead people and being caught and held prisoner at the McDuffy Estate, I had a life.”

  “We all did,” said Trina. “I was in high school dating the captain of the football team.”

  “Lucky you,” he smiled with a wistful, far off look in his eyes. “I owned an electrical repair shop.”

  49

  THERE WAS MORE than one poxer roaming the front parking lot, but most of them were in their cars, just sitting there with snarly, evil grimaces on their faces. After a week without eating, I guess they were hungry but didn’t have the energy or brain wattage to figure out how to open the doors.

  Years from now, there would only be bones left sitting in the drivers’ seats with seat belts looped around bony shoulder blades and sunk between rib cages. It would be a parking lot full of tombs.

  Lovely thoughts, huh? I got a million of ‘em.

  As far as the poxers on the hoof, Randy didn’t exactly botch the first torching. It’s more like he didn’t know quite what to expect. He was all thumbs and nervous energy as he lit the paper and waited for the poxer with the shopping cart to get close enough so he could toss it at her.

  It was a her—I could tell because she had curlers matted into her dirty hair and she was wearing some sort of pink house coat that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, even in her own bedroom.

  “Just throw it,” Trina urged him as she kept one eye warily on the other poxers slowly making their way across the parking lot toward us.

  “I can’t,” he said in a trembling voice. “She looks like my Aunt Libby.”

  “Well pretend your Aunt Libby wants to eat your face off,” she hissed at him.

  “But she wouldn’t do that,” he whined. “That’s not something she would do.”

  Are you kidding me? I took a step forward, but Trina held up one bandaged hand and motioned for me to stop. “He has to do this himself,” she whispered to me. “If he doesn’t learn how, then he’s as good as dead.”

  The poxer staggered toward him, still pushing the stupid shopping cart as though her hands were stuck to the handle with super glue. Randy’s spindly legs looked weak. For a second, I thought he actually might faint—but he didn’t. Instead, he took two steps forward and threw the burning paper at her, but the flames fell short and drifted down into the shopping cart.

  “Get back,” I yelled because I knew what was coming next.

  “But I didn’t hit it,” he cried.

  “GET BACK,” we both shouted at him, and that got him moving. He was just in time, too, because the poxer cocked its head sideways, reached down with one hand, and picked up the flaming news like there was something really interesting in the headlines.

  Randy put his hands to his ears when the flames engulfed her and she started to shriek.

  Finally, kablooey—and there were poxer parts everywhere. The other poxers targeted some of the flaming bits and burst into flames themselves, but some of them headed straight for us, instead. This time, Randy knew to stay clear of anything screami
ng and kept his eyes on the ones that were moving. Between me and Randy, with Trina barking commands at us, we were done in all of two minutes. Little fires still lingered, but none of us cared. They would burn themselves out eventually, and if they didn’t, any stray poxer that came our way would make a beeline for the dancing, flickering flames and go boom.

  Randy’s breath came out in ragged gasps. “Is it always like this?” he said breathlessly.

  “Sometimes there are more,” said Trina.

  “And sometimes you have to run instead of staying and fighting,” I said. “But the way I look at it, there are now less poxers in the world. That’s worth a match or two.”

  He looked at the burning chunks. “I can’t believe we just killed people,” he said.

  “Not people,” snapped Trina. “Monsters. You have to remember they’re monsters—nothing more. If you don’t, somehow, someway, they’ll get you in the end.”

  Randy dabbed at sweat on his forehead. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “I’m thirty-eight years old. I’m not used to being a murderer.”

  Ouch. That one hurt, and I thought that Trina was going to explode, but she held her bandaged hands down at her side and said nothing.

  “This isn’t murder,” I said quietly. “It’s survival.”

  Randy sighed. “Survival,” he said. “Okay. It’ll take a little, but I can wrap my head around that if I have to.”

  “Good,” hissed Trina. “You have to.”

  We all turned and looked at the entrance to the Walmart. Two of the front doors were smashed, and most of the glass was gone. Almost all of the inner doors were propped open with televisions. A dumbbell, maybe a twenty or a twenty-five pounder, was on the sidewalk out front, lying in the middle of a pile of broken glass.

  “Is that blood?” I said as I stared at the shards of glass on the ground. They were sprinkled with dried, brown, dots. A bigger, brown smear painted the cement.