Dia of the Dead

by Brinson, Brit

  She saw me.

  Fumbling for the gun, it slid away from me, stopping in the puddle of puke.

  “Ugh. Gross.”

  I lunged for the gun and grabbed it, holding the vomit-covered grip. The little girl snarled as she charged, her eyes locked on me. I aimed and fired a shot. It ripped through her arm. She didn’t even flinch. I fired again. She hit the ground with a heavy thump. I didn’t wait to see if she was going to move again or not. I grabbed the bag and skirted past her on my way out of the bathroom. I ran down the hall, the heavy bag—with Frank— bouncing at my side, the gun still in my hand, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. I hoped the gun wouldn’t go off as I ran.

  Another body joined the older couple outside of the closet.

  “Where the hell were you?” Brendan yelled, his face red. “You nearly gave me a—whoa, what’s that?” He took a step back, holding golf clubs in both of his hands.

  “Long story.” I breathed and lowered the gun. I looked around the room. “Where’s Reagan?”

  “She’s down there waiting for us. She has the food. I thought you might’ve been in trouble and was on my way to check on you. Really, where did you get that thing?” He pointed a club at the gun. “I don’t think you should be holding it like that.”

  I had it at my side, my finger still on the trigger.

  “The safety’s not on,” he said. “Here, hand it to me.” He sat the golf clubs down, carefully took the gun out of my hand and examined it. He removed the bottom of it. “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “This thing would be great to have…if there were any bullets left.” He pushed the bottom of the gun back into place and handed it back to me. I slipped it inside the bag.

  “Do you think there’s more bullets in the there?” He motioned at the duffle that seemed like it weighed a ton now.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I moved the bag to make it a little more comfortable to carry.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Some stuff my mom packed.”

  Frank popped his head up.

  “Oh and Frank.”

  “Your mom’s here?”

  “She was,” I said solemnly.

  “Where is she? Is she coming with us?”

  “No. She was bitten.” I blinked away tears, not wanting to let him see me cry.

  Brendan moved closer and tried to hug me but I pushed him away.

  “We better get going,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

  “Let me get that for you.”

  He reached for the bag.

  “I got it,” I said, taking a step away from him. Frank poked his head out of the bag again. Brendan shrugged, putting the gun back into the bag and picking up the clubs again. We headed through the trapdoor closing it on our way down.

  “What took so long?” Reagan said, tapping her foot impatiently. Her eyes narrowed. “Where the hell were you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said quietly.

  Brendan handed Reagan one of the golf clubs. “You’ll probably need this.”

  She accepted it and handed him two of the bags of food. “We need to head back to the office building. The entrance to my dad’s garage is in his secret exit.”

  We followed her out and into the corridor. We ran as fast as we could to the other door and outside. The three of us walked close together, Brendan in the lead, Reagan and I flanking both sides. I held my breath as we moved through the crowd. It was much more difficult with the weight of the duffle bag. Not to mention the fear that Frank would bark or whimper as we walked and alert everyone to our presence. He remained quiet. Seeing Kaci in the crowd made my chest tighten and my eyes well with tears. She looked nothing like the Kaci I remembered. Pieces of her flesh were missing, exposing the rotting meat underneath. Her long strawberry blonde hair was tangled and matted. Her clothes tattered and caked with more black goo than we’d encountered the day before and her eyes were no longer green. I had to look away before what was left of my heart shattered further. She didn’t even seem to notice us as we moved past her. We were almost to the door to Mr. Bixby’s office when Frank shifted in the bag causing me to bump into what used to be one of the studio tour guides.

  “Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap,” I mumbled to myself as I backed away from her.

  She growled wildly which caused some of the zombies surrounding her to turn in our direction, all growling and snarling.

  “Dammit,” Brendan said, craning his head from side to side, surveying the increasingly agitated crowd around us. I looked at the black-eyed bodies as they began to reach out for us as they circled.

  “Run!” I shouted and took off in the direction of the office building. Reagan and Brendan weren’t too far behind, along with a few zombies who seemed to have gotten a whiff of our still beating hearts. We made it to the door. Brendan tried to keep the crowd away from Reagan as she hurried to enter the passcode into the door’s keypad.

  “Hurry up!” Brendan yelled, swinging at the crowd.

  Reagan’s fingers trembled as she punched the buttons. The door unlocked. Reagan opened it quickly and headed inside, waving us in.

  “Brendan! Come on!” I yelled. He turned around and ran toward us, making it inside just before the crowd that followed him. Their growls and snarls could be heard through the metal door. Reagan headed across the landing to another door. We followed her inside and into yet another short corridor. The run to an unmarked door was short. Reagan reached the door first and opened it. Her screams flooded the hall as she was lifted into the air, dropping the bags of food, and pulled inside the garage. Brendan and I rushed toward the open door to see what grabbed her.

  Mr. Bixby’s private garage didn’t just house six cars; it also seemed to be a hang out for a couple of zombies, including Mr. Bixby himself. Guess he didn’t make it to that business meeting he had after all. He was disheveled, gray-skinned with a rash of blue bruises, and black eyes but he was still in his excellently tailored suit. Reagan screamed for our help as her father tried to clamp down on her with his teeth.

  “Look for some ammo, and I’ll go help Reagan.” I untangled myself from the bag, handing it off to Brendan with my good arm. He nodded and began to search frantically for extra bullets.

  Not sure of what I could do to help Reagan, I picked up one of the golf clubs Brendan had abandoned and ran inside swinging the club and screaming at the top of my lungs. My antics didn’t work in getting Mr. Bixby to free Reagan but I did gain the attention of the two security zombies who were chowing down on a third member of the security team. They left their half-eaten former coworker behind and started toward me. I ran toward the two of them, squeezing between them and swung the club as best I could, knocking away one of their hands just as they tried to grab me. They turned around with a snarl and began chasing me.

  “Brendan, did you find anything?!” I yelled back to him as I ran down the center of the garage with two Runners on my tail.

  “There are no bullets! None! Just clothes and other junk! Dammit!” He shouted.

  I reached the end of the garage and since I couldn’t go through the door, I made a quick right and looped behind one of Mr. Bixby’s sports cars and headed back toward the entrance.

  Brendan had given up the search for more ammo, grabbed the other golf club and launched an attack on Mr. Bixby. The whacks of the club bounced off the concrete walls. Every blow to Mr. Bixby’s head sounded deadly and yet his growls could be heard above Reagan’s screams and Brendan’s strikes. Mr. Bixby’s nails were still digging into Reagan’s skin, causing a stream of bright red blood to trail down her arms and drip onto the floor.

  I pushed myself to run faster. Brendan must’ve summoned the strength of Thor with his last blow. The metal club bent as he hit Mr. Bixby, creating a softball-sized hole in his head. Mr. Bixby let go of Reagan.

  “Reagan, catch!” I yelled as I passed her on my way around the garage again. I tossed the club in her direction and took a different approach this time around. I dar
ted though the garage, snaking between the cars in hopes of losing the zombies following me.

  “How are you guys coming along?” I called as I ran. “I don’t think I’m going to be able keep this up much longer.”

  “We’re…about...done…here,” Brendan called.

  I caught a look at them as I rounded Mr. Bixby’s black SUV. Brendan and Reagan had finally gotten him down. He was on the floor, a puddle of black liquid pooling around his head. They took off in different directions. I kept running. I heard yelling and more growls from somewhere in the room. I looked over my shoulder at the zombies behind me and noticed there was only one of them left. Reagan ran behind it with a mangled golf club raised high in the air. She brought it down on the zombie’s head with a loud crack. She hit her again with another crack and again.

  “You can stop running now!” she shouted.

  I stopped and turned to look around the room. The zombies were taken care of. I doubled over, trying to breathe with burning lungs and a pounding heart. I felt a bit dizzy but I kept moving. If I stopped now, I was afraid I wouldn’t start again. Reagan made her way toward the SUV and threw the door open.

  “Yes. The keys are in here. For once, Helen’s forgetfulness came in handy.”

  I hustled toward her and the car. “You know how to drive?” I asked.

  “No. But I figured one of you two might.”

  Brendan jogged toward us. “What’s the hold up?”

  “We don’t know how to drive,” I said.

  “I do. Get in so we can get the hell out of here.” He reached for the keys. Reagan handed them over to him and ran around to the driver’s side of the car while I climbed into the back seat. He opened the door and put my duffle bag on the seat with me. Frank whimpered, shaking inside the bag.

  “It’s okay,” I said softly, patting the leather seat. Frank cautiously left his hiding spot and curled up by my thigh.

  Brendan closed the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Reagan snapped. “Anywhere’s better than here.”

  He started the engine and pulled out of the space.

  Reagan touched the screen on the center console and the garage door lifted. Brendan’s eyes read nervous in the rearview mirror. He nodded and looked to Reagan. The color had drained from her face as she looked at the sight before us. She turned to me, wiping away a few tears. I tried giving her a confident smile but I was sure my expression was as grave as hers. I checked Dia Muerto’s belt on my waist and said a silent prayer as the car began to roll forward. The crowd outside began to filter into the garage, coming down the sloping drive toward us. All of them with bloodstained clothes and black eyes. We were heading out into the unknown with more questions than answers. Things looked grim. There was no getting around it. But we had to keep going. I heard Reagan’s breath hitch in the silent car as Brendan mumbled something to himself.

  This could be the end.

  It was a thought I couldn’t escape. We had no idea what life was like beyond Burbank. I gripped Dia’s belt, the knot in my stomach twisting so tightly that I thought I was going to puke. I choked back the feeling and patted Frank to soothe his whimpering. He quieted down.

  “This is it,” Brendan announced, his voice cracking.

  “This is it,” I repeated quietly to myself.

  Brendan put his foot on the gas, heading straight toward the crowd, and we sped off toward a sunny morning in southern California.

  *

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank everyone who made this possible.

  DAD—Thank you for listening to my ideas—no matter how off the wall—and providing feedback.

  MOM—Thank you for believing in me even when I didn’t.

  JEANNE—You experienced the horror that was the first draft ofDia of the Dead. You deserve some kind of medal.

  ASHLEY & MARY— You guys kept me motivated to finish this thing. I really couldn’t have done this without you. You all are the best.

  Ticara, Cat, & Mari Rose— The best beta-readers ever! You guys helped me in ways you can’t imagine. Thank you for taking the time to read every version ofDia of the Dead and telling me what worked and what didn’t. And thank you again for holding my hand and talking me off the ledge when I had to scrap things and start all over.

  France & Davalyn—My cheerleaders!

  Your encouragement kept me writing when I thought all the words were gone.

  Beth Hicks—Thank you for providing your excellent editing services.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brit Brinson was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. After time away to attend college and graduate school, she returned home. When she’s not writing, she enjoys doing nerdy stuff with her friends. She lives for all things horror, paranormal, and sci-fi.

  Dia of the Dead is her first novel.

  For more about Brit, please visit her website, britbrinson.com.