Kevin Crawford has an iPhone in a case wrapped around his massive bicep. His fingers work their way inside until he pulls it free. With one clean rip, he disconnects the headphones that hang from his arm like a spider web. I see him fiddle with the screen for a moment then put the phone up to his ear.
Let me guess —
“No answer. Just keeps ringing and ringing,” he says.
Of course there’s no answer. Yawn.
Abby Cage pulls her phone out of her back pants pocket. It has a pink case with a big blue flower on the back. A few seconds later, she says the same thing: “No answer.”
I clear my throat and walk out from behind the desk. “Looks like another cop is on her way down,” I say, then under my breath: “As if on cue.” I’m smiling. “I guess I’ll wave her down.”
Fiona and Toby both follow my pointing finger. “No, I’ll do it,” he says, his voice curt.
All part of the show.
“Oh thank you, God,” Toby says. He grabs Fiona’s hand and guides it to the dripping-red towels. “Just another minute, Miss Fox, and then it’ll be okay.”
The door squeaks as the hinges open. He’s in the lobby, now, poking his head out of the second set of doors that lead outside. I hear his voice; it’s muffled but clear. The music comes in louder.
“Help us, Becky. Doaks is hurt!” Toby yells.
The cop outside is nothing more than a human-shaped blur through the two layers of glass, but I see her stop. She doesn’t answer with her voice and turns her head slow and deliberate at the sound of Toby.
Toby leaves the lobby completely and goes outside. His pace is frantic, again moving faster than he should be able to.
The female cop picks up her speed.
It’s a beautiful day outside.
The sun shines down on the parking lot, sparsely populated by the few cars that didn’t go up to the square for the festival. Rays catch the windshields and gleam off the polished metal door handles.
But the sun also illuminates the cop’s face.
She might’ve been pretty once, but she’s not pretty anymore. My first thought is they really went all out with the fake blood and prosthetics. There must be a camera crew around here somewhere. More blood stains her pale-blue uniform. She limps like she’s hurt.
A spike of fear hits me. What if this isn’t a prank? What if this is real? I start backing away from the door, unable to pry my eyes from her.
“Easy, buddy,” Kevin Crawford says in his deep voice.
I turn to look at him. He pats me on the shoulder with enough force to break my clavicle. I’m expecting the GOTCHA at any moment, but everyone is too busy watching the scene unfold.
There’s the sweaty dude, whose shirt is so soaked through, I can see his nipples; there’s Fiona Fox leaning up against the glass divider with the bloody Doaks on her lap; Abby Cage holding her pink cell phone; a few other people dressed in their workout gear — the old man, a black guy, a high school-aged janitor dressed in a blue version of the employee uniform.
“What’s all over her face?” Abby asks.
No one answers.
“Blood, right?” I say. “Blood because she’s just took a bite out of Doaks or some other poor, unknowing bastard.” I laugh. Everyone gives me uncomfortable looks. “This is priceless!”
Abby walks closer to the window. Kevin moves forward, too. I catch the scent of his Old Spice deodorant as he goes past me.
Then, Abby screams — almost too real to be fake.
Outside, Toby hits the pavement on his knees. His body turns to face us. The woman cop has raked him across the face, and now he holds the wound. I can see the blood seeping between his tightly-knit fingers and more dripping from hers, but I didn’t see the hit.
The cop lunges again, this time missing.
Toby gets back up on his feet. I hear him say the cop’s name: “Becky?” and it comes out like a question, like he’s stunned this woman just bitch-slapped him and they’re going off script.
A glare of sunlight catches her eyes.
He’s backing away, one arm still on the gash.
Maybe this isn’t right.
I push through the doors and into the lobby. I’m going to put a stop to it, let them know I know it’s a prank and they can stop their stupid act now before I lose my mind.
The sun blazes against my skin. To my right is a flag pole. The wind blows, fabric snaps, and metal cables smack against each other. With the wind, comes a scent. It’s bad enough for me to raise my t-shirt over my nose. It’s a smell of death, of road kill baking in the sun on the side of the highway. It only adds to my doubt.
“All right, guys, I get it. You got me. Really funny. Ha-ha,” I say through the cotton.
There’s a lot of fake blood.
Toby hesitates at first, then shuffles toward me like he’s running for his life. The cop is left behind for the moment, but she’s determined. “What?” Toby says. “What is going on? Help me!”
Nope, no GOTCHA. Not yet. How much longer will they drag this out?
I keep the door open, seeing him in the sunlight. Really seeing him. The greatest makeup artist in the world couldn’t do what’s happened to Toby’s face. I try to piece it together. Maybe he’s wearing two layers of prosthetics, one with the gash covered by one that looks normal, but that seems like a lot of work to prank someone like me. It just looks so real, too. Fresh blood sputters from the claw-like gashes across his eye, even the eyebrow has been raked off. This can’t be a prank, it just can’t. I’m witnessing mutilation.
Despite having grown up a bit since my last stint in Woodhaven, I almost shit my pants as the realization of this situation hits me.
Toby reaches the flag pole. I lean forward and try to grab his hand. Even the hand that’s not over the ripped flesh on his face is splattered with blood.
He’s looking over his shoulder at the shuffling cop when I make a connection. I pull him into the lobby.
The door doesn’t slam shut. It’s one of those hydraulic doors that are heavy as hell to open and take forever to close.
We head for the second set of doors where Kevin stands, propping it open.
Toby trips and falls. He’s so heavy, he takes me down with him. I hear hinges squeak. Everyone’s gasps and screams are amplified.
There’s a faint gurgling noise behind me. It’s what I’d call a death rattle, and I know it’s coming from Becky. I know she’s made her way into the lobby, but I can’t help but look.
Her eyes are sunken in, not normal eyes at all. In fact, I’d say they’re dead eyes. Skin, too. It’s the color of Swiss cheese. The blood around her mouth is fresh and wet, not even close to drying, and now, I realize, not even close to being fake. She moans again, opens her eyes wider. They’re yellow, almost glowing.
“Oh fuck,” I say as she lunges forward.
Kevin grabs my right arm.
I’m still holding onto Toby’s slick, bloody hand.
He’s screaming.
The hand’s too wet. I slip off.
Kevin drags me over the lobby’s carpet. My ass burns through my shorts. Despite all his strength, I hear Kevin grunting.
“Lock the doors!” he screams.
Now I’m sliding across the tile.
“Toby,” I say.
But it’s too late.
He’s in the lobby. One of his shoes flies up to meet the cop’s face. It doesn’t even phase her.
She raises her hands, hands that look more like gnarled tree branches. She doesn’t have a carving knife, she’s not a bodybuilder or particularly strong-looking, she’s just determined.
She digs into the soft flesh of Toby’s stomach.
He doesn’t stand a chance.
10
I’ve never seen anything like this. This is worse than anything my writer brain could cook up.
Yet, here I am on the floor, a group of mewling, frightened people behind me as we watch Toby getting his stomach ripped apart.
All not
ions of this being a prank have completely gone out the window along with my breakfast.
Becky, this once officer of the law, is too distracted with her meal to look up at us. We watch her feast like she’s a zoo animal.
I want to crawl away, I want to stop looking, but I can’t.
Becky is a zombie. It’s that simple. It’s that complicated. She has a hankering for human flesh and organs, and seeing her do this is almost hypnotic. My third published novel was a zombie story. It was called The Deadslayer. I had a blast writing it, but it was not well-received by the critics. They said it was too “genre-bending” and “all over the place,” whatever the hell that means — it was a zombie novel, cut me some slack. I never got to write a sequel, but I’ve always wanted to. Maybe someday I’ll revisit Johnny Dunbar and the gang.
Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I recognize this, perhaps more so than a normal person would. In a sense, I’ve lived it before with Johnny Deadslayer, my novel’s macho, reserved, blood-covered main character. I know the signs, the mannerisms, the weaknesses of the dead. For a second, this gives me hope. Watch any zombie movie and you know you have to take our their brains. Sharp objects. Bullet to the head. Decapitation.
Easy. Simple.
But Toby’s still alive and he’s yelling worse than any dying man I’ve brought forth from my imagination to the page ever could, and all my confidence deflates.
“Someone help him!” Fiona Fox says. “She’s killing him!”
Worse than that — she’s eating him…alive.
Toby’s insides are now outside.
The cop’s face is mostly blood. She brings up some kind of organ out of Toby’s open stomach. The tissue stretches as she pulls it up to her mouth, finally snapping free with a red mist.
Toby’s screams are dying with him. His head lolls. For a second, I think our eyes meet, but they just roll to the back of his head, exposing the whites.
I look away.
Abby Cage has a key in her hand attached to a string which is attached to her belt loop. She slides the key into each handle, turns it with a heavy click. Her other hand hovers over her eyes, so she’s not tempted to see her boss get devoured. Then she hops over the glass divider, lands right in front of me and locks the last two doors. She lingers for a second, closes her eyes, shakes her head.
“Here,” she says, offering me a hand.
I take it and it’s about as sweaty as the middle-aged guy’s t-shirt.
“It’s not going to be enough,” I say to her, then raise my hands. “There’s more coming. We’re trapped. There’s too many. When they group up, they’re stronger and more deadly than any military.” I’m babbling now.
“What?” Fiona Fox says, then sets her head in her hands, rocks back and forth. “Zombies?”
I ignore her. “The festival. Something had to have happened at the festival.”
The wall of the undead makes their way down the small hill of the rec center’s entrance. They move just like the cop did. Like I said, there’s too many, or else I could run. They may be slow, but what they lack in speed, they make up for in numbers.
“See that?” I say, pointing to them.
“Fuck,” Kevin says.
“How do you know they’re…they’re like that?” Abby asks.
“Look at them! Just look!” I say.
I step over Doaks. “Kevin, help Miss Fox move this guy out of the way. We need to start barricading the doors.”
“Barricade them? They’re locked!” the sweaty-guy says standing next to Kevin. “Besides, it’s just one person. I can get past her.”
He moves forward, but Kevin puts a big, meaty arm in his way, then shakes his head. “You walk out there, you’re dead, Pat,” he says.
“Locked, yeah,” I say. “But they’re all glass. It’s not gonna take much for them to break through once they pile up.”
“He’s right,” Abby says.
“For your own good,” Kevin says. He bends down to pick Doaks up. Miss Fox has the towels wrapped around his wound like a scarf. The bleeding has mostly stopped, yet Kevin’s face is like a man’s who stepped in dog shit. “Oh screw that,” the sweaty guy named Pat says. “You can’t hold me here against my will.”
I point out the window toward the growing crowd of shambling festival-goers. “They can,” I say.
“Where do I put him?” Kevin asks. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking. My mind races with fear, with confusion.
“We can’t keep him here,” I say. “A bite is fatal. Look at his neck, someone took a chunk out of it.”
“How do you know it’s fatal?” Abby asks.
“I don’t know for sure, but why take a chance?” I say.
“Because it’s a human life,” Kevin says. “Because it’s Doaks for crying out loud!”
“What do you suggest?” Abby says. “We throw him outside?”
They are as confused and scared as I am, and Kevin is right. It is a human life. What if I’m wrong? What if the bite doesn’t turn him? I can’t live with that on my conscious.
“Do you have a room that locks, preferably one with a window so we can look in on him?” I ask.
Abby ponders the question. “The athletic room locks, but I don’t think there’s a window.”
“That’ll do for now,” I say.
“Here, follow me,” Abby says, looking to Kevin. They go back behind the desk, then disappear into the shadowy corridors.
I lend a hand to help Miss Fox up. She’s an older woman. Fifty, maybe pushing sixty with a homely face; the kind of face that would welcome a total stranger into her home for a glass of water and freshly-baked cookies. She won’t be much help in barricading the door, but she’ll be even less help if she’s just sitting here in the way.
She takes my hand, tears in her eyes, no smile on her face. A blank slate. A woman who’s seen too much in too short a time. “This is God’s wrath. This is His fury,” she says. Her voice is chilling.
Still, I shake my head, do my best to ignore her. We walk past the front desk, under the walkway that leads to the second floor weight lifting room, across the track and into the cafeteria area. There’s three Coca-Cola vending machines, a snack machine, and an coffee machine. The lights are bright, like hospital bright. Floors are spotless and shining.
I pull out her chair for her, which slides easily along the tile, and she sits down.
No one else is in the cafeteria area.
“Just stay right there, and I’ll go get you some water and fresh rags,” I say.
She nods.
I walk back to the doors. The festival-goers hit the outside doors. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Heads and faces smeared with blood. Others totter back and forth, bumping into each other like aimless cattle.
On the floor in the lobby, Becky has her face in Toby’s stomach, almost buried completely. I think of a pie eating contest in hell and what it would be like, and the only image that pops into my head is what I’m seeing right now.
I pause at the front door, not looking at the monstrosity occurring in front of me, but looking past it.
There’s more than I thought.
A lot more.
They move with the mentality of a hungry pack of wolves.
I just want to survive. I want to go back to Chicago.
It’s in this lull I remember Darlene’s not here. She could be back at the motel. She could be dead. Or she could be a zombie. God, the thought is enough to make me double over. I feel tears stinging my eyes. To think of her dead or as a zombie, it’s just too much.
She’s the reason I am the man I am today, the reason I’m no longer scared, the reason I’m moderately successful. Not Woodhaven. Not my mother or my long-lost father.
Darlene.
She’s also the reason why I can’t lie down and curl up into a little ball.
My fiction has become a reality, that’s true. Johnny Deadslayer wouldn’t quit, and neither will Jack Jupiter.
I straighten up
and wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. Two men carry over a cracked-leather couch near the stairs to the second floor. They set it longways against the four doors that comprise the exit. One of them, a black man with a basketball player’s physique, drops his end with a clatter. The other — the young janitor kid — does the same.
“Aw, what the fuck?” the black guy says. “She’s eating his throat, man. Oh hell, no.”
Another man, old, but in decent shape, wearing a basketball jersey with the number 19 hanging off the back in frays, says, “Don’t look, Cal.”
It’s too late not to look. You see it once, it burns into your brain. They both know it because they’re quiet now, and they’re still staring. It’s at this moment that I notice the silence in the building. Like everything clicked off at once. The air conditioner isn’t humming.
The lights flicker. My eyes go up to the ceiling. From the ceiling, hangs large lights in rows of ten or maybe fifteen. They’re like spotlights hung upside down. Each light clicks off one after the other until the only light in the place comes from the sun outside.
Then the air kicks back on, though not as strongly. From where I stand I can see the red glow of the Coca-Cola vending machine. A few lights stuck on the walls around the building turn on with a faint glow.
Back up lights. An emergency generator.
This is even worse — it means the power went out. Maybe around the whole block, or the whole town…hell, maybe the whole world. Darlene huddled up in a ball in the pitch-black crosses my mind, her hands over her ears to block out the moaning of the dead.
I grind my teeth. Can’t let this get me down anymore.
Looking outside, I mentally prepare my escape route. There’s maybe a hundred people jammed together in the rec’s small parking lot. It’s only a fraction of what the festival usually gets.
Miss Fox will have to wait. I turn and run to grab the other couch. Resting on the brick wall is the sweaty middle-aged guy. He’s scrolling through his iPhone with a twisted look on his face, mashing his fingers against the touchscreen and muttering, “C’mon, you goddamned piece of shit. C’mon!”
“If the phone lines are down, I think the cell towers would be, too,” I say.
Jack Zombie (Book 1): Dead Haven Page 5
