Not intending to stick around, Drake turned and bolted down the other end of the alley. The cops were shouting, but he ignored them and pressed even harder, pumping his legs as fast as they'd go. A glimmer of sunlight burned his eyes and a passing car honked as he stumbled out on Washington Avenue. Gaining his footing, he sprinted across the road and turned down a usually busy Montrose, now for the past several months deserted.
Gunshots reported from the alleyway he's just ran from.
Maybe a night in city lockup wouldn't be so bad. He'd slept in worse places. But his last stay flashed in his mind's eye, back before all this mess stirred up. Images of Pete, a wide shouldered, Swastika tattooed, skin head with a taste of what he'd referred to as fresh meat, played over and over. Of that sordid night and hollow laughter and groping calloused hands and absent guards deaf to the sounds of screams for help. That was then, he scarcely could think how lock up was now.
If they even bothered with lock up.
There were rumors...of a shoot first ask questions later policy from the new Mayor.
Welcome to the new world, right? He thought, half jogging now, taking another bite from the musty partially eaten eggroll.
Another horn blasted followed by angry shouts and middle fingers and pistols aimed at him.
Waiting for them to pass, Drake continued. Far away, he could still hear gun reports, but couldn't see where the police were. If he got to Fannin, there was a chance he could make it to Herrmann Park without being seen. Plenty of trees and bushes and spots for him to hide. As well as a fair amount of drug dealers, those that were left, but where there were drug dealers there would be more of his kind, bums, homeless, vagabonds. And while a comfy bed in lock up sounded tempting, the prospect of another night of forced fellatio, or worse, a bullet in the back of his head, did not.
He stopped at the corner of Washington and Byway, on the edge of a residential neighborhood, soapbox houses crammed tighter than sardines. A few still smoking from a fire that had broken out here a few days ago, leaving behind nothing but charred wood frames and smoldering black burned corpses.
Trying to catch his breath, Drake glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. If any of those shambling, rotting walking things were on to him. Not that they should, who was he in the grand scheme of things? Still a member of the living, right. Not dead, but not exactly welcomed with open arms among those still breathing. Even at the end of the world, he was a pariah.
Drake glanced around again, remembering how dangerous neighborhoods could be, especially ones so closely squeezed together. But beyond the neighborhood was the park, and the park was safe.
No moans, no sounds of cars, police or otherwise.
But that didn't mean he was safe.
A dog started barking somewhere in one of the backyards in the neighborhood. Great, noise, just the thing to attract unwanted attention. Trotting, Drake started off down the street of soapboxes, towards Herrmann Park. If he could get there, he could disappear.
To his left, someone shut their curtains. The fabric swished in his peripheral.
Still alive? In this neighborhood? Surprising things do happen, but this was a dead zone. Nothing living ought to be here. What's protecting them, keeping them alive, he wondered.
Music thudded behind him. The bass rattling nearby windows. The closer the sound got the more it started to sound like rap music, only in Spanish. Angry sounding vocals stabbing sharply through the bass.
Shit. Shit.
Moving away from the road, Drake walked fast between two houses, neither thankfully were fenced in. Behind him, the music slowed, as if the car carrying the vibrating bass slowed with it. He could feel eyes on him. Watching him. From the houses around him. From the car behind him. And did he just hear metal sliding, perhaps the click of a bullet being chambered? Was someone aiming at his back?
Fuck this.
Drake bolted.
Tires squealed behind him.
Doors opened.
Muffled protest in Spanish.
He ran. As fast as he could, pumping his already exhausted legs. Heaving and gulping air, never quite getting enough. His feet hurt in his worn sneakers. His back hurt under his tattered and stained hoodie. But still, he ran, and he ran hard, making his way out of the Byway neighborhood, crossing Cambridge. He dashed across the street. Glancing behind him, he tripped over the curb and rolled over the embankment and into the first layer of bushes and tall grass. He lay there, panting. Voices echoed back the way he came, from Cambridge. Angry. Annoyed they'd lost their prey, no doubt...but why? What was he to them? Another victim? He had nothing of value for them to take. Only his soiled clothes and the spoiled mushed remains of the eggroll he'd fished from the dumpster behind 888 Bistro.
Who was he?
Just a bum, unless...
Did they think he was one of the infected, one of the dead?
But they saw him run, those dead things can't move as fast.
What then?
Protecting their turf, he supposed.
Eventually the entire city would end up like that, he imagined. Blocks carved out on a map with names of the biggest swinging dick with the biggest stick. Territories of up and comers and maybe even a few who desire to restore America the way she'd been before.
Before, though, before is over.
This was the now.
Rolling over, Drake kept low as he got back to his feet and made his way deeper into Herrmann Park. It didn't take long and he could smell the heavy perfume of urine and sweat and rotting fruit and spoiled milk. Lowly voices, grumbling, pleading moans. Dormant yellow wet eyes. Scruffy beards and withered young faces. Toothless women with not a bra between them. Herding together in a mass, some with dirty brown needle, others with chunks of flesh missing, bite marks, or limbs torn completely away. There was even a woman with holes the size of silver dollars gaping from her torso, still walking, stumbling mostly, searching as they all did for that next fix of flesh.
Yeah, this was a safe place for him.
No one never came here.
Not anymore.
Why would they want to?
This was part of the dead zone.
Working through a maze of gnarled pines decorated with discarded paper and plastic bags, some with ancient carvings with initials belonging to lovers of days past, he came to another clearing. At the epicenter, a large worn statue belonging to some Confederate General he'd never taken the time to know. No one looked at him. Only a few registered his arrival. But he was one of them, he smelled like they did, of piss and decomposition, unbathed for at least a month, and soiled in brownish mustardy blood and guts. His last shower at some church in the area who had offered a safe harbor in the apocalypse, a place to wash, a clean shave, and something warm to eat without having to worry about being eaten. But like all charity, it came at the cost of a sermon. And sermons for Drake's kind came in two ways. Either the pastor said that God loved all his children and would provide, happy go lucky kumbaya bullshit; or, with shaking fists, fire and brimstone they would demand repentance, and if repentance wasn't made there would be worse for them to look forward to in hell.
Worse, than here?
Had they even looked outside?
Often, the sermons were like the latter.
Anger and dread and full of paradoxes. Drake had seen men weep during those kinds of sermons. They'd repent. And then what? Booted out the door and back on the streets living the same life, sleeping in the same parks, at the same bus stops, unable to beg, but instead having to dodge and keep from being eaten by the same people they were told to love. And then they'd break down again and weep, they'd weep because they know it's all bullshit and that they'd still do it all over again. Lord knows, what a bum would do for a hot shower, a clean shave, a warm meal, and not become a meal themselves.
Drake noticed a few faces he recognized. Faces absorbed in the unending task of being lost, looking for way to get that fix of flesh, if only momentarily before being drawn t
o the next and the next and the next after that until perhaps the body finishes decomposing and what little remained that carried them would collapse and the brain would fully turn to mush.
Mimicking the horde, Drake wandered beyond the statue and found a lonely spot at the top of a small hill. Sitting, he watched the gathering of undead bums below. He looked at the remains of his eggroll. Images of the Chinese cook flashed behind his eyes. Of the dumpster and the roaches crawling over his arms and hands as he searched for this meal. Of being chased off by what remained of the police and then the thugs. And for what? All that work, all that energy and risk of wellbeing and life...of precious life, for what? A battered half eaten mushed eggroll.
He sneered.
But his stomach growled.
Shit.
Hesitantly, he started in to take a bite of the cold, mushy, sweat soaked prize.
"Man, you're not really going to eat that, are you?" a man snickered nearby.
Jumping, Drake glared over his shoulder. One of his kind, but alive it would seem, was on the other side of the small hill, away from the gathering horde by the statue, as if he was on his way somewhere and spotted Drake sitting by himself. He was tall and his clothes were tattered like his own, but they looked washed, unsoiled somehow, and though he was tall and kinda lanky, he also looked healthy and well fed.
"I was planning on it," Drake whispered, opening his mouth to finish his meager meal.
"Why?" the bum asked.
Drake stopped, holding the soggy eggroll at the precipice of his mouth. He turned and looked at the intruder. "Because I'm hungry, that's why? What's it too you?"
The bum shrugged. "If you're hungry, why don't you eat something else."
Drake wanted to throw the eggroll at him. "Cause I don't got nothing else, asshole. Jesus, what's with you, man?" he hissed.
The bum smiled, warmly. "Nothing's with me. Just thought..." he trailed off.
"Thought what?" Drake asked.
The bum shrugged again. "Nothing. Never mind, you wouldn't be interested." He turned and started off.
Drake licked his lips. What did this guy want? Was he offering something? People who offer things typically wanted something else in return. Could he risk finding out?
"Hey, man. Tell me, I want to know," Drake called out, quickly standing and stumbling down the hill after the strange bum.
He talked over his shoulder. "I don't think you'd be interested."
Drake followed. "What, you know a place that's got food? A safe place? A church? Man, I'd sit through a sermon for a meal. I'm really hungry."
"No church," the bum said, still walking, moving through the brush and littered pines.
Drake trotted to keep up. "What then? It is food, right?" he wheezed, struggling to keep his breath.
Still the bum continued through the park. "Oh yes, the best damn food you'll ever have. And do you know what the best part is?" he asked.
"What?"
"It's free."
"Free?"
"Yup."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Nothing of monetary value, anyway."
Drake scratched his head and felt something skitter across his hand. He flicked away the bug, almost skipping, trying to keep in pace with this strange bum. "Listen, man. In my experience, there's always a catch. So, what is it?"
The tall bum ducked under a low hanging fern. They were now at the heart of Herrmann Park, a part Drake himself had hardly ventured. Even in the bum world, in the dead zone, there were forbidden places. Areas lavished upon with stories and rumor and wild speculation that over time evolved into myth and camp fire stories told in huddle circles of dirty needles and empty 40-ounce beer cans and the smell of layers of grime and sour tangy sweat that over time become more and more scarce. At the heart of Herrmann Park, it was said people would never return. Stories of nonbelieving Bob's and Mary's and Chris's who dared to go and vanished forever.
Drake never believed.
Yet he'd never dared.
Until now.
"Come on, man," he pressed. "What's this meal gonna cost me?"
The tall man stopped. Turned and glared down at Drake. His warm smile gone. His expression was not that of anger though, but of seriousness. The most somber look he'd ever seen on the face of a bum, and Drake had seen plenty of signs of woe and contempt and desperation so thick you could taste the salt in the air. The bum's eyes seemed to glow in the shade of the trees.
"As I said, there's no payment. But there is a physical cost, you might say," the tall bum said, his expression unchanged.
Drake swallowed. "Physical? Thanks, but I don't think I'm that hungry."
The serious expression dissolved as the tall bum began to laugh. Tears welled at the corner of his eyes. He wiped them away, looking at Drake, shaking his head. "Nothing of that sort, trust me. Though we do have our members who indulge in certain carnal lusts, it's not a requirement."
Drake frowned, he didn't like the feeling of being made fun of. "Then what is it? You said, membership. Membership into what, some kind of clubhouse?"
Folding his arms across his chest, the tall bum stopped laughing, but retained that playful smile. "All we ask is a commitment, an oath you'll make. Greater than family. Thicker than blood. This clubhouse isn't some gym membership you can ignore. There are no term limits. No expiration date. Once you're in, it is a lifetime commitment."
A rumbling grew and knotted in Drake's stomach. He was hungry, but was he hungry enough for whatever this man was selling? It was starting to sound like just another sermon, another church offering of momentary respite from the hot pang of starvation that typically consumed his every waking moment.
"All this for a meal?" Drake whined, glancing over his shoulder, wondering if he ought to just go and search for another prize in some other dumpster.
The tall man reached out and touched Drake's shoulder. His hand was heavy, yet warm. "More than just some temporary meal. We offer nourishment, of not just the body, but of the mind and soul. And best of all, we offer safety."
Drake shrugged the man off. "Sounds too good to be true."
The bum's smile seemed to widen, as if Drake had stumbled upon some unknown joke. "I'm sure it does, hell I felt the same way when I stood where you are now. Trust me, you will find what we offer to be very satisfying. Maybe some getting used to." He held out his hand. "Are you willing to take that chance?"
Drake looked at the tall bum's hand. Unsure. Hesitating. Trying to ignore the painful twists in his stomach.
"Take my hand and you'll never go hungry again," the tall bum prodded. His hand still out, waiting.
Drake looked, biting his lip. How bad could it really be? At worst, another sermon of fire and brimstone. At least he'd be fed, for tonight. Maybe even be offered a bath. Or washed clothes. Swallowing again, he reached out and took the tall bums out stretched hand.
"I'm Monk, by the way." The tall bum shook his hand hard.
Drake suppressed a wince. "Drake."
Monk grinned again, warmly, still holding on to Drake's hand. "Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be." Drake smiled uncomfortable, thinking how incredibly long this hand shake was. He tried pulling back his hand.
Monk wouldn't give.
"Hey man, I'm going to need that back," Drake laughed awkwardly.
Monk nodded and then snatched Drake's hand up to his face. He smelled him, like some feral beast.
"Come on, what is this?" Drake protested.
Monk bit down, sinking his large teeth into Drake's flesh, piercing, drawing blood.
"Shit!" Drake wailed, struggling to free his hand. White stars flashed behind his eyes. Sounds evaporated into muffled slow deep drones.
Still, Monk clamped down on his hand, gnarling down with crimson painted teeth.
God, Drake had never felt so much pain. His legs wobbled and he bucked to his knees. Thrusting, begging, struggling to free his bloodied hand from this maniac.
Thrashing, Mon
k jerked his head side to side, like some dog with a chew toy.
The world began to fall. His sight fogged. His chin dropped to his chest. Blood seemed to pour from the incision of the man's teeth, penetrating his flesh, pinching nerves and muscle. "Please," he begged, but his voice didn't sound like his own. He felt like he was underwater, drifting away into the dark.
Finally, Monk released his grip on Drake's hand. His teeth shined red in the patches of sunlight that broke through the canopy above. Drool fell from his chin like crimson syrup. His eyes laughed with a kind of pleasure Drake had never tasted before.
Drake fell to the ground, panting, cradling his wounded hand. "Why?" he cried. "Why did you--"
"Welcome, brother. Welcome!" Again, Monk held out his hand for Drake to take, making as if to help him off the ground, beaming.
Drake stared at him, wanting nothing but to kick and run away. And then he glanced at the offered hand. A strong looking hand, large with trimmed nails and only the slightest hint of dirt. And something else, along the space between his thumb and index finger, a gnarled and pasty colored scar in the shape of incisors.
"Welcome?" Drake hissed, still cradling his wounded hand, pressing the folds of his oversized hoodie on the bite marks, stopping the flow of blood.
Monk kept his hand out. "It's a mark we all wear, part of the price of admission, you might say."
Drake shook his head. This was insane, but he'd come this far, hadn't he? He took Monk's hand and was guided back to his feet. Cradling his injured hand, he wiped away the sweat and tears from his soiled and greasy face. "Part of the price?"
Monk nodded.
"What else do I have to do?"
"Come with me." Monk bowed slightly, a strange gesture coming from a man who just maimed his flesh. Farther through the trees and overgrown bushes, following a narrow dirt path into the part of Herrmann Park where myths are born. Despite his height, the bum calling himself Monk moved gracefully into the thicket.
Keeping his throbbing hand close to his chest, Drake followed. Dipping and dogging low hanging branches and patches of thorny vines. One thing he did notice, besides the absence of wildlife, of squirrels or the rustle of possums or armadillos and the chirping of birds, and the cool breeze that seemed to breathe from this dark and dismal place, and the absence of litter or trash, the refuse of urban life that surrounded the park, was the smell. He'd expected some sort of musky odor, something familiar among herds of undead, but there was none of that here. What he smelled was a savory, mouthwatering aroma. Sweet and salty, causing his stomach to ripple with pangs and growls. Aged memories of backyard cookouts came to mind, of hamburgers and hotdogs and fireworks, only better somehow.
Planet of the Dead Page 16
