Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  With one last glance at the brightly burning zombie, Bill turned and hurried away, intent on finding a way out before he too went up in flames.

  7

  Bibi sat at one of the worn and nicked tables, feet propped on another chair. Nearly every seat was full, and nearly every face was a mask of anger.

  “Why don’t we just give ‘em this girl and be done with it, if that’s all they want?”

  Bibi opened her mouth, her barbed wit ready to sting. Filler caught her eye and glared a wordless warning to let him handle it.

  “Because, Earl Wayne Pritcher,” Filler began, using the man’s full name like a slap across the face, “We ain’t ones to just go handin’ girls off to their deaths. Besides, these boys are gonna be out for revenge on the lot of us, I’m thinkin’.”

  Earl sat back in his chair, effectively chastised.

  From a woman seated at one of the tables near a plastic-sheeted window, “What do we have to fight the bastards with then?”

  “That’s why we’re all here Andi, to figure something out,” Filler told her.

  “You say that there’s only about eleven of them, or around that?”

  Filler looked to Marian.

  “Yes, from the last I knew, there were only eleven, but there could be more now,” Marian told the room.

  “Then what’s the big damn deal?” Mitch Burton asked.

  “Whad’ya mean, Mitch?” Filler said.

  “We got a town full of people, and most of us are pretty handy at stayin’ alive. I just don’t understand why everybody’s getting so bent outta shape over eleven people.”

  Marian spoke up before anyone could reply. “Because, Mitch, these guys won’t just come in here and kill people. They enjoy murdering, raping, that’s how they get their kicks, and how they survive. They’ll do things, nasty things, just for fun.”

  “We’ve all faced some pretty brutal shit, but from what Marian here has told us, these Gypos wrote the book on brutal,” Filler said to the room. “We are gonna have to be ready to meet that with the same kind of violence. You folks think you can handle that?”

  The room filled with mumbling voices, people talking in their own little groups. Heads bobbed in agreement. “It’s Junction, Filler. We’re gonna do what we have to.”

  Filler nodded. “Thought you’d say that, Earl. Everyone needs to keep their weapons handy until this thing is done. Get your guns, if you have any. If you need some ammo, come see me, we can work out something.” Even now, Filler wasn’t about to let something go entirely for free. If nothing else, he’d keep a record, make sure anyone who couldn’t pay, owed.

  “We’re gonna need more men on watch, both day and night,” Mitch said.

  “Was just gonna tell you to handle that, Mitch. Get together as many as you think you’ll need. See if you can’t round up some binoculars; get a few guys posted up all around the wall, not just at the gates. We wanna see what’s coming before it gets here.”

  Mitch nodded in reply, his stomach sinking with the new responsibilities he had been handed since Laidlaw’s death. “I’d rather deal with zombies,” he muttered to himself.

  People began to drift out, some stopping to talk in small groups, working together to prepare for whatever was coming.

  As Bibi passed him, Filler said, “Hey Janet, you think those girls of yours will be able to help out?”

  Bibi eyed Filler with undisguised contempt. “Of course they will. They’re more than just mattress-backs, Filler.”

  Filler nodded, glancing around the room, watching as people left. “Well, you know I got that little basement here, more of a tool storage and sump area, than anything, but it’s solid concrete walls. Got a thick steel plate bolted to the back side of the door. Figured on using it as a hidey-hole if the need ever arose.”

  “That’s nice, Filler, what are you getting at?”

  “You let your girls, anyone with children, know to bring them here, when things start gettin’ hot that is. We can hide ‘em down there. ‘Bout the safest place I can think of for ‘em.”

  Bibi grinned, “Well I’ll be damned, Filler. There is a heart buried in there somewhere beneath that hard ass and flabby gut.”

  Filler cocked a tilted, sardonic smile at Bibi. “Fuck you Janet, you just see it gets done.”

  “That I can do. You may want to get some water, and other supplies down there, if you haven’t already.”

  Filler nodded in reply.

  Bibi walked to the door, following the last of the stragglers out. Stopping with the door held open she turned back and letting her guard down just the tiniest bit she looked Filler in the eye and nodded, her voice sincere and unusually free of sarcasm. “Thanks.”

  Wordlessly, Filler returned her gazed for a heartbeat, then turned and strode for the back and the security of his office and apartment.

  8

  Corey finished his second pass-through of the house, the mother-in-law cottage and the shed, leaving no corner or nook unchecked.

  Not finding as much as he’d hoped, but happy with the haul, he packed the tiny trailer, tying a frayed tarp over the top to make sure he lost nothing on bumpy roads.

  Just as he was reaching down to unzip his pants and relieve himself on the ground next to the wagon he heard a soft rustling in the grass behind him. Spinning, pulling his knife at the same time, he was shocked to see the first girl he had come across in the camp coming quickly toward him.

  Her mouth hung open, foamy pink drool spilling over bluish lips. Her gait, though slightly lopsided, was quick. Corey felt certain that in time she would have become one of the sprinter types, able to cover ground rapidly.

  “Well, damn, sweetheart, seems I forgot all about you. I sure am sorry for that.”

  The dead girl was only a few feet away now, and Corey braced himself, letting her come to him. He pushed aside the thought that if he hadn’t heard her footsteps in the grass she would have been chewing on him before he could have reacted.

  Flipping the knife over to hold it blade up in his fist he readied himself for the lunge he knew would come when she got close enough.

  Three steps away the zombie lunged forward, propelling herself toward her first fresh meal. Corey raised an arm, palm out, arresting her movement with one hand on her left breast.

  She continued to press forward, against the hand. Corey’s face seemed to split in two with a huge grin. “Oh, now that’s nice, sweetheart,” he said, flexing his fingers.

  Her arms outstretched, reaching for the face wearing the lecherous grin, the dead girl emitted a weak moan.

  “Yeah, I know it’s good, but I’ve got places to be sweetheart. No time to dance today.”

  Corey swung his fist up, the knife slipping in underneath the girl’s blood-soaked chin, pushing up through her mouth and deep into her brain. Steel glinted between her teeth.

  Yanking the knife free, Corey let the body drop with a heavy thud. He bent over, wiping the blood from his blade on her filthy skins.

  “Better luck next time, babe.” Spitting on the dead face, Corey chuckled, turned and mounted the scooter.

  The Vespa started up roughly, its small engine sounding weak, tired.

  Steering the scooter and trailer slowly down a washed-out path that was once a graveled road, he turned right on the cracked blacktop. He would take some time before going back to Junction, heading first for his nearest fuel stash, then take a roundabout way back to the settlement.

  “With any luck those bastards will be a little more forgiving by then,” he muttered into the wind.

  9

  The fire continued to spread, rapidly engulfing the single-story hair salon. The bright flicker and the roar of the flames drew zombies from every direction. Soon the building would be surrounded by the idiot dead clamoring for their turn in the blaze.

  “Better get a move on, Billy-boy.” Bill watched through the front door for several minutes before making his way to the back door. Bill felt a tightening, sick feeling deep in
his guts when he saw the heavy steel bar threaded through four brackets, two mounted to the back of the door, one on each side of the frame, a long padlock dangled from a hole that passed through the right-side end bracket and bar.

  “Well shit on your security! Damn it!”

  Returning to the front of the store, Bill hitched his pack higher on his shoulders and peered through the filthy glass of a large front window hung with various signs.

  Outside, beyond the glass, zombies began to shuffle and run and limp from every direction, all heading for the burning building Bill now stood trapped in. Even if he dared to attempt it, busting through the door and pushing through the growing horde would be a death sentence.

  Bill wiped at the oily sweat that had begun to bead and drip down his face. The salon was getting hotter by the second. A fluttering terror began to beat feathered wings of dread inside of Bill. He knew if he didn’t push out of here in a hurry that he would end up a gibbering, burning idiot crisping on the floor like a lasagna forgotten in the oven; red, bubbling over, spreading out to a puddle that blackened to a hard crust.

  Bill shook the image from his mind and cast frantic eyes around the main shop, the tilting chairs, sinks along the wall, bottles of hair products lined neatly on shelves, coated in dust.

  A loud crash came from the back room, where he had killed and inadvertently lit the husker on fire. “Fuck!”.

  Staring for a moment at the rows of hair gels, shampoos and other products, Bill shrugged his shoulders at the half-formed and ridiculous plan that had taken shape in the fevered part of his mind that thought he might still escape the rapidly closing walls of this nightmare.

  Grabbing a canvas tote-bag printed with the name and logo of the salon hanging from a rack near the front register, Bill rushed to the nearest shelf and grabbed every bottle of product he could stuff into the bag.

  Once the bag was full, Bill set it on the front counter and stacked the bottles neatly, so they stood in tight rows, then he removed all of the caps. Upending one of the bottles over his head, he let the thick, slick goop run down his face. He poured some on his shoulders and arms, then tossed the empty bottle aside.

  Catching movement from the corner of his eye, Bill looked around to see several flaming dead round the corner from the store-room, shuffling their way toward him even as gobbets of melting flesh dripped from their bodies.

  The sight of a walking fire-ball, teeth clacking, mouth opening wide in a silent roar, burning arms out and grasping, was enough to spur Bill into action.

  Snatching up the bag of open hair products, Bill made for the front door, flipped the bolt open, (silently thanking God that it wasn’t an internal keyed lock), flung the door open, and stepped out into the crowd of the dead gathering in front of the store.

  Yanking a bottle from the bag, Bill held it behind him, squeezing the scented soap out onto the ground as he continued moving through the crowd. Bottle after bottle, whipping them back and forth, he created a slippery path in his wake.

  Fingers scrabbled at his clothes as the odors of death and the scent of honeysuckle and kiwi battled for supremacy in his sinuses. Hands squeezed his arms, slipping off easily with a tug. Fingers, some rotting and black, others with flaking skin, tried to get a purchase in his hair, and on his face; they too slipped away.

  Bill tried to draw a deep breath, but the overpowering smells shoved reeking fingers down his throat. He retched as he moved, what little he had in his stomach splashing onto his boots. He continued to push on through the horde.

  Time had stretched its deceitful membrane around the moment, and the hours it took to get to the edge of the horde and past it were in fact only seconds.

  Bill pulled the last bottle from the tote-bag and turned to squeeze the thick fluid on the ground he had just walked over. Lifting his face to the advancing zombies Bill dropped the bottle. Despite the harrowing situation he still found himself in, Bill was unable to contain his laughter.

  In a bizarre St. Vitus’ dance of the dead, zombies shambling along the trail of goopy hair-care product he had spewed on the ground twisted and slid, arms waving uncontrollably, feet slipping and twitching and sliding out from underneath them. Several of the zombies were runners, sprinting into the muck, feet suddenly flying out behind them as they went face first into the ground, sliding into the legs of others that were still upright, bowling them over.

  Blood and other unknowable fluids began to mix with the stuff Bill had laid down, creating disturbingly artistic multi-hued whorls and streaks.

  Several undead began to press in from his sides, avoiding the slippery sludge. Still chuckling, Bill said, “Time to move on. Adios, suckers.”

  Stepping over a pile of trash on the curb, several slower zombies trailing him, Bill made a beeline for the open door of one of the coffee shops, hoping to find refuge, either in or beyond the two-story building. It had not escaped his notice that the buildings along this side of the street were all two-stories, eliciting a twinge of hope.

  Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he swung through the door, moving quickly. The smell of water-rot and stale coffee hit him immediately. “Oh, damn! I want real coffee!”

  Toward the back of the shop, stepping over dry, molding bones and scattered debris, Bill made his way toward a door he hoped led up to the second floor.

  “Need just a bit of a break here,” he told the door as he grasped the handle and pulled.

  The door popped open with a bit of effort, the wood swollen from years of damp and heat. Behind him glass crunched.

  Several of the dead, including a funker and two huskers, pushed through the doorway, unwilling to give up on the meal that was attempting to get away.

  “Sorry, dead-heads, ol’ Bill isn’t on the menu today.”

  Bill stepped through the door into semi-darkness, slamming it behind him.

  Reaching back and unzipping a small side-pouch on his pack, Bill felt around for a moment, until he located the thin, flat shape he was looking for. Zipping the pocket closed, he ran his thumb over the surface, flipped it over in his hand, and felt for the tiny round button.

  The tiny key-chain light glowed in the dark, creating a halo and narrow beam for Bill to follow. Bill shrugged. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

  To his left a set of stairs went up into darkness, which he began to climb. He was unwilling to explore the downstairs storerooms with just the little light to guide him.

  Another door stood open at the top of the stairs, and Bill went through it as fast as possible, leading with the light in one hand and a knife in the other. Standing in an empty hallway, Bill swiveled his head, watching both directions.

  He stood in that spot for several minutes, watching, listening, hearing and seeing nothing. Following the tiny light to the left, Bill came to the first of four doors, two on each side.

  Opening the first, light from windows that looked out onto the street filled the room. Pocketing the flashlight, Bill stepped carefully into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

  The odor of human decay hit him like a fist. Sneezing and gagging simultaneously, he dug a handkerchief from a pocket and pressed it to his face, blocking both his nose and mouth.

  Taking shallow breaths through the material helped, and he continued on into the apartment. The large, open-floor plan of the main portion of the residence allowed Bill to see most of the kitchen, living and dining areas all at once. He saw nothing that could be giving off the nauseating smell.

  To the right was an open door, leading to what he assumed would be a bedroom and bathroom. The bathroom was to the left, and it too was empty.

  “Just leaves the bedroom.” Bill turned to face the next open door, the corner of a bed visible. “Damn, I don’t wanna go in there.”

  Drawing a breath, Bill stepped into the bedroom. The handkerchief was unable to block much of the odor, it being strongest in here. Watering eyes quickly scanning his surroundings, Bill saw nothing until he stepped around the corner of the
bed.

  “Oh, fuck me,” he gasped, backpedaling.

  In all the years since the zombie apocalypse had begun, Bill had never seen anything like what lay on the floor before him now.

  The woman, her dress rotted to tatters and shreds, lay on the thick carpet. Her eyes rolled loosely in their sockets, and Bill could see the glistening muscles working. One of the thin strands of muscle connected to her left eye popped free as he watched.

  The zombie’s body twitched, and jittered as it tried to sit up, to reach out for him. The mouth opened, facial muscles glistening blackly as they constricted. No sound came from the woman.

  Shock locked his knees. Bill stood there staring, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Holy shit,” he whispered without realizing he was doing so. “How long you been here?”

  The zombie’s body had to have lain in its position for years, though it was impossible to tell for how long. Most of the skin, as well as some muscle tissue had rotted away, puddling around the body, acting like a putrid glue, sealing the living corpse to the carpeting.

  As he stood watching, the thing tried to tear its left arm up from the thick ooze. A squelching sound somewhere between sweaty sex and violent death filled his ears. It was a sound Bill hoped to never hear again.

  Slipping his knife free, Bill took two steps forward, knelt down above the zombie’s head and punched the blade into the top of the skull. The body stilled, the wet noises silenced. Bill breathed a gagging sigh of relief. The corpse had disturbed him far more than he realized.

  Thinking back to the early years of the apocalypse, Bill recalled rumors that the virus was created in a lab, and that the dead could potentially stay reanimated for decades, the virus keeping the corpse alive far beyond all reason. “Kinda proved that, didn’t ya?” he asked the decomposing woman.

  With the zombie dead, and the rest of the apartment clear, Bill took his time looting the rooms. Bottle of pills and feminine articles in the bathroom, several cans of food, a case of bottled water, and other various items he found useful went into pillowcases and cloth grocery bags. These he piled next to the door before leaving.