“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 screaming 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.
“Chocolate,” said Trina.
“Sounds good to me.”
Randy just grimaced.
“So, Randy,” I said rather smugly. “What do you see?” I felt like a detective in a crime show showing a rookie cop the ropes.
“Well,” he began, “it looks like someone wanted to get out of Walmart in a hurry.”
“Do you blame them?” asked Trina. “It’s a Walmart.”
I ignored her. “What else?”
“You tell me. What can’t poxers do?”
He thought for a moment then nodded his head. “Poxers can’t open doors.”
“Give the man a gold star.”
“So,” he said. “Someone wanted all the doors open for a reason.” He knitted his brow and stared hard at the front entrance.
“Why?”
Another moment and he figured it out. “Someone wanted to clear the place out—another survivor?”
“Probably,” I said. “There’s a lot of useful stuff inside, but first you have to get rid of the nasties. Remember, last Friday night, there had to be dozens of people shopping when everything went down—not to mention whoever was working. So they turned into poxers and got trapped. If you’re a survivor and need some supplies, but don’t want to risk being jumped inside, what do you do?”
“You open the doors,” said Randy.
“But what about the blood?” asked Trina as she stared warily at the stained ground.
I grimaced. “Maybe whoever it was didn’t make it,” I said. “Good idea. Bad follow-through.”
The whole scenario didn’t make me feel any better. So what if the poxers who were trapped inside had a way to get out? It didn’t mean they were gone. I still fully expected to find dead things among the shoe racks or in housewares. Maybe some little bit of their former selves made them choose to stay inside.
“It’s dark in there,” said Randy, his voice trembling just a little.
“Yup,” said Trina, sarcasm tainting her words. “Stating the obvious—good for you.”
“Shut up, Trina. He’s trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for his help.”
Randy grimaced. “And I didn’t ask to survive a zombie apocalypse, but I did. So do you want to stow the attitude, girlfriend, or do you want to trade barbs all day long, because I gotta tell you, I’m a lot older and a lot smarter than you. So what’s it going to be?”
Woo hoo! Two points for Randy Stephens and another for making my sister’s mouth drop open.
“Sorry,” she said. Wow, and she even apologized. I had to stop myself from feeling her forehead to see if she had a fever.
Still, Randy was right. It was gloomy inside—gloomy and cavernous, just like any huge department store.
“Look,” I exclaimed excitedly as I saw a double row of candy machines right inside the door. “Fireballs! I love fireballs.” I scooped up the dumbbell, definitely a twenty-five, and lobbed it at the row of machines. The glass on the fireball container smashed open, and little red balls spilled on the floor.
“What are you doing?” he yelped. “They’ll hear you.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Never enter a building without making a lot of noise.” I reached down and scooped up a fireball, squeezed the plastic, and popped it into my mouth. “Never go to them. Let them come to you. Poxers are attracted to noise.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ll buy that.”
“See what I mean?” I said and nodded toward the gloom. We had rung the dinner bell and our first Walmart shopper was heading straight for us.
50
WE STAYED MOSTLY out front, so the burning chunks would be kept away from the building. All we needed was another torch job. There’s nothing like a blazing fire to advertise to Diana’s people where you are. Been there, done that, didn’t want to do it again.
At one point, Trina ran around to the back of the building to tell everyone what was going on. Then they were right there with us, hanging back, except for Prianka, Jimmy, and Bullseye.
The others were scared. I get that. We, meaning us kids, had done most of the killing up until now. Why wouldn’t they be scared?
Newfie attacked a little boy who had a mouth caked with dry gore. He looked to be just about the same age as Krystal. The giant dog basically tore him to pieces. It was nasty and gross, but I was proud of him. Meanwhile, Andrew dived and swooped and tore at dirty, smelly hair. At one point I think he even plucked a cloudy eye from the head of one of the poxers. I tried not to notice. Eyeballs freak me out. Having one scooped out of your head by a crow is like a double-freak—gnarly and nasty.
I noticed Sanjay, unafraid, watching us as we took care of the poxers. He chanted his words each time one burst into flames and exploded, clutching Poopy Puppy tightly to his chest. The stuffed dog was taken once by poxers. Sanjay would never let that happen again.
We lured the remaining poxers out of the store and as far from the entrance as we could, before burning them, their mouths gaping and drooling—the hunger on their faces making them look more obscene than they already were.
When we were through, and the only things left were slick pools of fire, Randy Stephens started to cry in big, gasping, gut-wrenching sobs. He fell to one knee and buried his face in his hands. Eddie with the fake hair walked over to him and gently touched his shoulder.
“You were great,” Eddie whispered to him, which was the truth.
“Yeah,” he gasped. “I’m a great killer.”
“You’re not a killer,” said Eddie. “You’re a hero.”
I guess that was kind of true, except I wondered why adults who kill for the right reasons are heroes, but kids who do the same thing are freaks. That’s just how adults think, I guess. I caught myself staring at Bullseye. He was flushed and dirty. A couple of bullets had flown through the air, finding their marks in the legs of some of the poxers. They had dropped to the ground and we had burned them where they fell. Bullseye was a hero, too. When he caught my eye, I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. He nodded his head and tucked his gun back in his pants.
All very touching, very Disney, but it only lasted a minute.
“We need to get inside,” said Aunt Ella, “And we need to put those fires out. If we’re being followed or if there’s another helicopter, we don’t want any sign that we’re here.”
Practical Aunt Ella—I guess she had to focus on something other than Uncle Don.
Right inside the Walmart doors, Trudy Aiken found a fire extinguisher. My real guess is that she was actually looking for Twinkies, but stumbled upon the big, red canister first. She lugged it outside triumphantly, if not a little winded. Jimmy rolled up to her, plucked it out of her hands like it weighed about two ounces, and quickly zipped around the parking lot putting out any black pools of smoldering goo still burning.
Finally, we all went inside and shut the inner doors behind us.
We were in one of those mega Walmarts. The kind that carried everything you could possibly want, from televisions to clothing to chicken pot pies. I suppose if you lived in a place like Apple, there was no such thing as a mall. This was it. I bet the store had some sort of curfew for gangs of teenagers who came here to hang out on Friday nights. If I lived in Apple, this is where I would be.
Without any lights, the Walmart was gloomy inside, but we could still see. There were enough windows in front for that. To our right was the grocery section. There was row after row of anything you could imagine. Also, there were banks of refrigerators and freezers with everything from milk to frozen pizza.
Prianka had a puzzled look on her face.
“What?” I said as I reached for her hand.
“There’s no smell,” she said. “We’ve got a whole super market right in front of us but there’s no smell.”
She was right. After a week without power, the place should’ve been ripe.
“The freezers are still on,” said Randy. “Hear that?”
“Hear what?” said Trina.
“That hum,” he said. We all strained to listen. In the quiet of the store we could all hear a faint buzzing. “It’s the freezer motors. Probably the fridge section, too.”
“How can that be?” said Aunt Ella. “There’s no electricity.”
“Propane,” Trina and I said in unison, remembering the huge, white tanks out
back. Randy said that big places in the country used propane as back-up if the electricity went out. I’m sure it couldn’t run the whole store, but it could run some things—important things, like the refrigerators and the freezers.
“You mean there’s real food in there?” said Trudy, the saliva already glistening on her lips. “Like tater tots and french fries and those little bagel pizzas?”
“Pizza,” squawked Andrew, and Prianka let out a nervous chuckle.
“If we can find a hot pot I would love a cup of tea,” said Nedra Stein, but she didn’t make any effort to move. I think she was one of those ladies who expected things done for her. Maybe she was used to having a maid.
Another sound accompanied the low humming of the refrigerators and the freezers. It was the painfully familiar, steady thrum of helicopter blades.
“Move away from the doors,” I shouted at everyone. “Move back into the store.”
The chopper passed by slowly, flying low to the ground as it followed the road. It was one of the big ones again—like the one that found me and Dorcas near the covered bridge, not a little one like what Cheryl The It was in or what dive-bombed us in the woods. The copter was followed by three jeeps and a truck, all the color of military fatigues. My eyes burned. Someone in one of those jeeps shot Dorcas. Someone shot her dead and probably didn’t think anything of it.
“Murderers,” I seethed under my breath. Only Trina heard me. She stared at them as they slowly passed by the Walmart parking lot.
“Murderers,” she agreed.
We watched them go. I was positive they didn’t know they were looking for an ambulance and a van, and even if they were, both vehicles were parked around back. We were safe for the time being, and the knot that I didn’t even know was twisted inside my stomach let loose just a little.
“We can lay low here for a while,” I said to everyone. “But not for too long. They aren’t going to stop looking for us.”
Jimmy rolled up and put his hand on my back, but it was another’s voice who spoke. The words felt like a knife.
The Dead (a Lot) Trilogy (Book 2): Wicked Dead Page 21
