“Oh.” Wallace sighed. He reached out for a tall stool at the breakfast bar beside him, and Darien took a sudden step back. Wallace saw her eyes were rooted to his pistol, clearly visible in the holster at his hip.
“You want to hold this?” he asked, pointing at the pistol with his left index finger.
“Do I need to?”
“I’m not going to shoot you, lady. Honestly. But if it makes you feel any better, I can let you hang onto it for a bit.”
Darien seemed to consider this for a long moment. She had a very pretty face, he thought. Her hair was a choppy, shoulder-length and a chestnut brown, and her big, wide eyes were a kind of hazel-green with that speckled crystal gloss that seemed different, almost otherworldly. She was dressed in office wear, a blouse and slacks, with running shoes on her feet. Her expression was dead serious and intense, but she didn’t look absolutely scared, as Wallace would have imagined she should.
“No. I don’t know anything about guns,” she said. “Personally, I don’t really care for them.”
“Yeah well, you might want to change that.” Wallace pulled out the stool and sat on it heavily.
“Why’s that?”
Wallace looked across the breakfast bar’s marble countertop and snorted. “You have seen the zombies, right?”
“Of course.”
“You know what kills them?” he asked. “Or re-kills them, I guess it would be?”
Darien shook her head. “What?”
“A bullet”—Wallace tapped a finger against his forehead—“right here. Hit them anywhere else and it’s a waste of time and energy.” He sighed and leaned his elbows against the breakfast bar. He nodded toward the baseball bat he’d leaned against the wall. “Though bashing their heads in with something like that works pretty well, too.”
Darien took a few steps closer, her expression still close and guarded. “Yeah. Sounds like you have some experience.”
Wallace thought about relating his experiences going to guns on a horde while fleeing his truck and discovering that only head shots put them down, but decided against it. “A bit.”
“So. Tell me about it.”
Wallace did. Told her everything, about his sickness, about hazing in and out while the world went to hell. He shared the story of finding the house abandoned, the phones dead, his wife’s car gone, and no sign of life anywhere in the neighborhood.
Then he’d found her wrecked BMW just down the street outside. The torn remains, the tattered chunks of flesh. He knew it was Faye by the ripped clothing and the ring he’d given her, which still clung to the remains of her mutilated finger. As he spoke, he felt the sting of hot tears rising in his eyes. He wiped them away, feeling an impotent anger flare inside him.
But Matthew was nowhere to be found.
He’d waited at home for a day, hoping Matthew would show up, or that there would be communication of some kind. There was none. And Wallace was hardly in the best of shape to jump out and start searching—he still needed some time to reconstitute. But a day was all he could manage. Filled by a frantic, swelling kind of fear he’d never experienced before, he decided to finally just head out. He vowed to get up to Malibu anyway possible in the hope of finding him there at his mother’s old house, or die trying. He’d driven to Greg’s house, and found the carnage there. Outside of the fire station, he encountered his first gaggle of zombies. They’d lurched toward his truck in one poisonous wave of necrotic death, arms outstretched, mouths open. Wallace pulled away and circled back long enough to examine the fire station. Not only was it obviously abandoned, it looked like it had been thoroughly sacked, either by looters or locals who had needed whatever they found inside the structure. The police station was in even worse shape, surrounded by a large herd of zombies. The tattered remains of tents and several trailers were in the parking lot, and Wallace surmised the stationhouse had been the site of a temporary evacuation center. Several police cruisers surrounded the area, and expended brass cartridges twinkled in the daylight, rolling underneath the feet of the zombies as they turned to face Wallace’s Dodge Ram. However many people had taken residence in the evacuation site, they’d all been killed when the officers guarding it had been either overwhelmed or retreated.
When Darien heard the tale of Wallace’s dead wife and and the search for his son, her expression softened.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“I’ve gotta find him,” Wallace said, more to himself.
“Yeah, sure. Absolutely.”
“He’s still alive,” he said, looking at her for affirmation.
“Do you… is there any place where he might go?”
“Malibu,” Wallace said. “My mother’s house is still there, and we were holding onto it. It’s old, and I’ve been rehabbing it a bit, here and there. It was always our go-to place if the Big One hit.”
“The big one?”
Wallace sighed. “Wow, you really are from out of town. The Big One, the earthquake that’s supposed to level LA? The house in Malibu was going to be our rally point. I’ve got some supplies up there. It’s kind of remote, so if we could get there, we’d have a better time riding out all the insanity afterwards.”
“Are you one of those survivalist guys?” Darien asked.
“Not really—I’m former law enforcement. Just someone who tries to stay ahead of the curve. My wife thinks—thought—I was crazy for doing that stuff, but...” He finished with a shrug.
“So you were a cop?”
“Not exactly. Border Patrol.”
Darien nodded slowly at that. “And you think your son’s all the way up there?”
Wallace nodded. “It was always the plan. If something happened and we got separated, we were supposed to get to the house in Malibu.”
Without his bike, though? he asked himself. He already knew Matthew’s bicycle was still in the garage, because he’d checked to discover it’s status. That it was still there presented him with potential answers he didn’t want to know. How will Matty get all the way up there without his bike?
“Well, then… I guess you should head to Malibu,” Darien said with a shrug of her own. “If you think that’s where he went, or where he’s headed.”
“I know. I’m going.” Wallace hesitated for a moment. “You should come with me.”
Darien leaned back and shook her head quickly. “No. Thanks, no… I’ve…”
“What, are you going to stay here?”
“No, I’m… I’ve got to get back east.”
“Back east?”
“My family. My parents are in New Jersey. I’m… I’m gonna go home.”
Wallace looked at her for a long moment. “How, exactly?”
“The airport. We can go together up to LAX, I guess, right? We’ll go right up the coast and I can catch a plane and you can go straight up to Malibu. Right? That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Let me ask you something. Have you heard any planes over the last few days? Seen any helicopters? Anything like that at all?” he asked.
Darien looked at him, and shook her head after a brief moment.
“There are no flights leaving LAX,” Wallace said. “Or coming in, for that matter.” He waved toward the rest of the world outside the house. “No cops out there. No firemen, no emergency services. Not even the military, it looks like. I have to tell you, Darien, whatever’s happened has happened. And you’re not going to be catching a plane to New Jersey.”
Before she could respond, the scream of a cat and the clatter of a garbage pail were almost simultaneous, grabbing at Wallace’s guts like ice cold hands. He pulled his pistol from its holster in one fluid movement and gripped it with both hands, just as he’d been trained.
Take it easy, man. It might just be a cat fucking around in the trash.
There was a slow, lurching movement outside, and a shadow fell across the curtain covering the kitchen window. Wallace slowly rose to his feet, pistol in both hands, staring at the shadow for a long moment.
<
br /> Yeah... that ain’t no cat.
Darien looked up at the shadow with terrified eyes, then slowly rose to her feet. Wallace took his left hand away from the pistol and held it up, beckoning her to remain silent as the shadow lurched on. She ignored him and quietly walked to where the bat leaned against the wall and picked it up as another figure bumped into the house. Wallace firmed up his grip on the pistol, keeping it oriented on the window. He had the image in his mind of a zombie shambling along outside the house, rubbing its shoulder against the structure as it moved. Darien and Wallace kept their silence and waited. Another figure moved by the windows in the same direction as the first pair, its gait slow and unsteady.
More sounds came from the side of the house as the zombies walked around the dwelling. Wallace heard a soft, dry moan. Soon, the sounds drifted away, leaving behind a pristine, unbroken silence. Wallace slowly unwound and holstered the pistol. He silently walked toward the curtained window and reached toward the covering. Darien made a small sound in her throat, and he looked over his shoulder to see her furiously shaking her head. Wallace held up his hand again, indicating she should keep her cool. Darien retreated to a far corner of the room, her eyes wide with fear as she clutched the baseball bat in both hands.
Wallace gently lifted the curtain until he had a couple inches’ worth of space through which to look. Outside, he saw only a small section of the house next door and the leafy expanse of the large, broad rose bush.
And then a zombie appeared, looking right into the window.
It had a colossal tear across one cheek, where flesh fluttered open above a red and brown gash. Another chunk was missing from the forehead, where the smooth surface of its skull gleamed in the light. The grotesquerie’s eyes were covered by a film of dry, fine dust, as if it hadn’t blinked in days. Wallace was certain it was almost sightless from the covering. There was no sign of intelligence in those eyes, only a vague, bottomless need that projected its vast hunger. The ghoul gave no indication it saw Wallace, yet at the same time, it must have sensed something; otherwise, what had motivated it to push into a rose bush?
After a few tense moments, the creature eased away from the window and tottered out of sight. Wallace released his breath and let the curtain slide back into place across the window. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt suddenly lightheaded, so he slumped against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. He looked over at Darien and gave her a tired smile. Without a word, she walked quickly into the next room. Wallace frowned, clambered to his feet, and followed her. He found her crouching in an even more secluded spot in a dark corner. This room had no window and, looking about, he found it was actually a well-stocked pantry.
“Well, this is nice,” he said. When Darien didn’t answer, he slowly sank down into a squat before her. “Hey. You all right?”
“That was really stupid,” she snapped in a vehement whisper.
“What?”
“Looking out the window!”
“I had to put eyes on them, to see what they were up to,” Wallace said calmly. “If they were massing to attack, I’d want to know about that before they start crashing in through the windows.”
“What you did was absolutely stupid,” she snapped again. “They could have seen you!”
Wallace realized there was no point in trying to explain. What was happening was well outside of his wheelhouse; for her, it must’ve been a thousand times worse. Logic wasn’t something she was interested in at the moment.
“Yeah, okay. I won’t do it again,” he said after a few moments of silence, all the while knowing the statement was a lie. It would never make any sense not to check the area from the windows, so long as he could do it and remain undetected.
She said nothing, but the scowl on her face transformed into an almost soft expression of terror. Wallace wondered if she was going to get hysterical on him, but if she did, she’d picked a good place for it to happen. The pantry was pretty much dead-center in the house, and it was fully enclosed.
“It’s the zombies,” she continued, trying to stifle a laugh as she shook her head. “I always thought it would be the politicians that fucked everything up, but no. It turned out to be the zombies.”
Wallace smiled. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” he said.
“I won’t lie. That last one looked a lot like my congressman from New Jersey.”
Wallace snorted. It was an absurd moment for levity amidst the violent terror of their situation, but it dulled the edge of his fear, his grief, and his worry. Even if just for a moment.
“So when will you leave?” Darien finally asked, a sober tone in her voice.
Wallace grimaced and checked his watch. It was getting late.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “The day’s more than half over, and once I leave here, there’s not a great chance of making it back. It’s not going to be any safer at night, and I’m no good to my kid if I’m dead.”
Darien nodded.
“You coming with me?” Wallace asked.
She took a long time in answering. “Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll come with you.”
The rest of the day in the house gave the two a chance to plan. Luck was on their side for having alighted in this particular dwelling, for they found the previous owners had left behind some supplies that might be invaluable over the course of their upcoming journey.
For starters they found another strong, nearly new backpack, which they prepared for Darien’s use. Basic survival goods were available in copious amounts—food, bottled water… even a couple of flashlights. More importantly for their purposes, the departed homeowner had been old-fashioned enough to still have a hard copy of the Yellow Pages.
Wallace’s first priority was locating the nearest gun store north of their location, which they found over on Artesia Boulevard. He had no idea if it was still there, but they would need more than his pistol and the meager ammunition he had. Near that he also picked out an auto dealership that sold Hummers and big trucks—some sturdy transportation might be of value, especially if they could get their hands on something that could be used to plow through any roadblocks they might find.
As well as groups of the dead.
It was dark now and neither dared to light a candle for chance it could draw attention. Yet the sky was clear enough that the waxing crescent moon that hung in the west gave ample light through the front window, so they were able to keep up their planning for a while after dark.
”So, you don’t know how to shoot, huh?” Wallace asked her.
“No, but this can be just as effective,” she said, touching the baseball bat she now kept near her. The bat was old and worn, but some of the red and dark brown blotches that speckled it had only been acquired in the past two days. Wallace made a note to try and scare up another one.
“We should probably take turns sleeping,” he suggested.
“That makes sense,” she said simply, but that guarded tone was back in her voice.
Wallace sighed heavily. “I’m not going to try anything, Darien. I swear on my son’s life. That’s the last thing I’m interested in right now. I understand you don’t know me, but that’s just not what I’m about.”
“I know. Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just... well, things are more than a little bit weird right now, you know?”
Wallace nodded. “Yeah. I’d caught onto that.”
“Okay. So I’ll go upstairs and try and get some sleep,” she said. “Why don’t you wake me around midnight if I don’t come down.” She handed him the baseball bat in the darkness, then got to her feet and headed for the stairs.
“Wait,” he said.
She stopped and turned back to him in the deep gloom. “What?”
“You have nightmares? Like, the screaming kind?” he asked. “We don’t want to attract any attention, and these things are just as active at night as they are in the day. Maybe even more so.”
“I don’t scream in my sleep, Wallace.”
>
“Okay.”
Time had passed slowly for Wallace, who found the handicap of darkness made his thoughts more drawn out than ever. He studied the things he could see in the darkened living room—the vague silhouettes of trees and structures outside the window, the ghostly outlines of his hands, the furnishings and shelves full of knickknacks. Even the luminescent dial of his watch provided many minutes of very boring distraction, both when he studied it and when he turned it away and let his eyes again adjust to the blackness of the room.
He was tired, worn out both from his recent illness and from regaining consciousness only to discover the world had apparently ground to a halt. Despite his exhaustion, he stayed awake, nibbling on some crackers and sipping lukewarm water from a plastic bottle. He was fortunate that he’d been able to obtain food, water, and shelter. The providence allowed him to regain his strength, though his endurance was still quite a bit less than what he felt it should be. And the weariness… he rubbed his burning eyes and leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling he sensed but could not quite see in the deep darkness that enveloped the living room. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford just yet.
Yet, despite his vigilance, it descended upon him with the slow, gentle push of a breath. Like he was slipping into a bath of warm water, his body drifted down until he was weightless and thoughtless and the void of sleep let him escape this world.
And then, he snapped awake.
Something was rooting around the back door, near where the alley turned, where the creatures had been earlier that day. Wallace bolted upright, fully alert now as the exhaustion that had plagued him earlier died a sudden death. The noise abated for a long moment, then came again. A quick check of his watch told him it was just past four a.m. The earliest light of the coming day seeped in through the window, allowing him to see his way around the house. For an instant he was torn between whether he should wake Darien or do something to reinforce that door. He heard movement from above—quick footsteps moving from one room to another.
Well, no need to wake her, he thought.
Dead in L.A. (A Gathering Dead Novel) Page 6
