Finally, he got the key in the ignition, turned it, slammed his right foot on the brake and dropped the big rig into drive. He then punched the accelerator, mowing down five zombies that had gathered at the truck’s grille. Their fingernails left scratches in the pearlescent paint as they went under, and the big Ford bounced up and down as it powered right over them. Despite everything, Wallace was impressed. The truck was not only big and well protected, it was one powerful piece of machinery.
Gee, I kind of don’t miss my Dodge so much anymore.
He fought with the wheel momentarily as the rear tires spun out and the truck fishtailed across the street, its big bed swinging back and forth and taking out even more zombies. One ghoul grabbed onto the big side-view mirror and held on for a moment before Wallace cranked the wheel to the right and sent it flying across the sidewalk on the other side of the street, where it bounced off the thick metal base of a streetlight.
“Ain’t but one way out, babe,” Wallace muttered, thinking of a favorite Allman Brothers’ song. Then he started laughing, as he remembered the next line. “And Lord, I just can’t go out the door!”
More zombies filled the street, a virtual chorus line from a nightmare—things that were once haggard old women and burly men, tall business suits and teenage goths, and even some child-size creatures that scurried around the legs of the bigger monsters.
“Hold on!” he said more to himself than Darien, plunging the truck right into the heart of the massing dead. In a second, zombies were almost splashing over them like the scrub brushes of an indoor car wash. Several flew right over the brush bars and onto the hood, while others were smacked and thrown off to the sides in both directions by the heavy bumper. The new tires of the truck jerked and bumped over any number of bodies and random limbs as they made their way down the street. Wallace cranked the wheel left and right, trying to spare the front end of the vehicle from as much punishment as he could. Even though it was well fortified by the aftermarket push bars, he didn’t want the radiator to be damaged—he’d been there before. It was a hot day and he very much felt the diesel-guzzling, fire-breathing engine under the Ford’s broad hood needed a lot of cooling. And then there were other vehicles in the street, those that had been abandoned or had been involved in traffic accidents. It was a nightmarish obstacle course from hell, and the truck’s cab was filled with the sounds of multiple impacts, snarling moans, and Darien’s never-ending screams of terror. Not to mention Wallace’s constant stream of terrified cursing.
Ahead, he saw a clearing in the street—they were approaching the end of the mob. Wallace stomped down on the accelerator and the truck leaped forward, the bellow of its huge diesel engine sounding almost like a beast’s roar. More necrotic bodies spun away from the rig’s reinforced front end, tumbling across the street and plowing into abandoned vehicles or other zombies. The big Ford left a wake of spasming corpses behind it, corpses that still tried to pursue the retreating truck despite broken bones and perforated body cavities.
As they cleared the mob, five or six of the creatures still clung to the truck in various places—two on the brush bars at the front of the vehicle, others with greedy arms clutching over the side of the open bed.
“They’re holding onto the truck!” Darien squealed.
“You might want to shut up and put on your seat belt,” Wallace told her as he took his foot off the accelerator and let the truck slow down. Keeping his right hand on the wheel, he reached back with his left, grabbed his own seat belt, and pulled it across his body. Darien did as he told her and Wallace heard her belt click into place.
“Brace yourself and hold on!” he shouted. Darien pushed herself back into the padded leather seat without a word. Wallace glanced over at her, then slammed on the brakes. The big truck’s anti-lock brake system thrummed like a quartet of snare drums as it shuddered to a sudden halt, its big, knobby tires dragging along the pavement in fits and starts.
The stop threw the two zombies off the truck’s grille, along with a couple in the back. Wallace goosed the accelerator and drove right over the corpses flopping around on the street in front. He grimaced a bit when he heard the sounds of skulls and bones being crushed under the heavy tires, like plastic bottles being stomped and popped. There was some frantic scrabbling against the truck’s underside as the big rig rolled over the bodies without even slowing down.
Wallace sped on, heading north on Sepulveda, while Darien took a moment to inventory the scene behind them.
“That was fantastic! You must have—shit! They’re still on us. Wallace, there’s two… no, I think there’s three hanging on. On the back! They’re still on the back!”
Wallace checked the mirrors. Sure enough, there were zombies still clinging to the truck. He swerved the pickup left and right in an attempt to shake them off, but they clung fast. Ahead, he saw another abandoned car. He sliced the truck toward it, bringing the truck’s right fender within six inches of the car’s bumper. The zombie hanging on that side of the truck bed slammed into the car with a sickening crunch and cartwheeled through the air. It had been torn in half. The impact jerked the truck sideways and Wallace lost control for a second, fighting to get the vehicle back under his command as it swerved around on the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the legs and lower torso of the zombie flop to the ground at the roadside. A pile of ravaged meat.
“Got him!” Darien called out. “You—”
She screamed. The upper half of the mutilated zombie had tumbled into the bed of the truck. It raised itself over the lip of the spray-lined bed and started slapping one hand against the tempered glass at the rear of the cab. In the rearview mirror Wallace saw it was staring at Darien with flat, lifeless eyes. It didn’t even seem to be pissed off that it had been torn in half.
“My God! It’s still alive! It’s still moving!” Darien cried. The zombie’s ravaged abdomen left a painting of crap-colored goo all across the black plastic bed liner as it moved.
Meanwhile the two other creatures continued holding on at the other side, struggling to hoist themselves up and over into the back.
“Hold on,” Wallace warned. He hit the brakes as hard as he could, jerking the half-severed creep straight up flat against the window, where it crashed and fell back, leaving a disturbing splash of dark, chunky ichor. Wallace slammed the truck into park, unsnapped his seat belt, and threw open the door. The juvenile zombie was still there, clinging to the running board. It was severely chewed up from being dragged, but it was still moving. Wallace planted his boot right on its head, crushing its skull with two powerful stomps. At long last, the hand clutching his ankle went slack and fell away.
“Jesus, where the hell are you going?” Darien shouted.
“Just taking out the garbage,” Wallace said. “Sit tight.”
He slammed the door closed and stepped toward the rear of the truck. The two ghouls that had been clutching to the side of the truck fell to the street on unsteady legs, their eyes on him, wide and unblinking. The zombie in the bed hissed as it slithered toward him, trailing a streamer of ochre-colored intestines. Wallace appraised the situation for a moment, then reached into the bed, grabbed one of the mangled half-monster’s wrists with both hands, and hurled it right at the two remaining zombies. The impact knocked one of them on its ass, but the other slumped against the truck’s dented fender and slid toward him, reaching for him with gray hands.
Wallace pulled his pistol and shot it right in the face at less than three feet. The effect was dramatic—the back of the corpse’s head exploded outward, pelting the other zombie with gore as it tossed aside its severed compatriot and slogged its way back to its feet. It ignored the bloody gruel that clung to it. Wallace shot it right in the mouth and it fell to the street as if pole axed. That left the half-zombie, which was already crawling toward him as fast as its dead arms could move it. Wallace looked down at it.
Save the ammo for the real threats.
He looked around and saw more zombie
s were stepping out of doorways and crossing the sidewalks to get at him. He pulled open the driver’s door and slipped behind the wheel.
“You all right?” Darien asked.
“Never better,” Wallace said as he threw the truck in gear. “At least not this week.”
He stomped on the accelerator and the big Ford surged down the street.
CHAPTER 8
MATTHEW
Matthew awoke in the silent blackness to find himself hot, clammy, and practically sticking to the dirty vinyl mat. He opened his eyes, but other than that, he did not move a muscle. He lay there and listened, trying to detect any telltale signs that he was no longer alone.
The same silence that had pushed him into sleep still permeated the building. The distorted memories of yesterday—ones Matthew had somehow been able to suppress long enough to find some vital rest—at once returned in gruesome detail. Once again he saw his friend and his friend’s mother being murdered by the strange monsters, only to witness the same fate befall his own mother. The memories were made even more stark and unbearable by the stress he’d been under since then, running his own exhausting race to stay alive.
It wasn’t his intention, but Matthew had to allow himself another long moment to weep. The pain flooded up in an uncontrollable fit of hysteria, which he fought to keep as silent as possible. He cried and cried, then finally composed himself again after the pressure valve that managed his grief closed once again.
He didn’t know what time it was as he crept softly out of the storage room. The light in the great room seemed changed, vastly different from when he’d last been outside the room. It was possible he’d slept for hours. He wiped at his tears, and found he was somewhat more clear-headed after expiating a small dose of guilt and remorse. He also found he was now very hungry again. He ventured back toward the teachers’ lounge through a hallway that was still very dark.
Despite the empty silence of the building, nothing seemed different from any time he’d been here before, save the absence of students and staff. Yet as he drew near to the lounge, some part of him forced him to stop. He listened. Like a wild animal, he slowly turned his head and held his breath, hoping to catch some clue as to what had disturbed his sense of safety.
The silence persisted, but Matthew only became more convinced that something was amiss.
Gradually he started moving on down the hall again, but very slowly. His senses were alive with anticipation and fear.
But still no sound…
That’s when he realized it wasn’t anything he heard, but something he smelled. It was a slight but no less pungent stink, that zombie smell which he’d caught an awful whiff of climbing onto the roof. He suddenly realized it was all around him. Adrenaline poured into his blood, fueled by the terror that gripped his heart. His muscles jerked, commanding him to run, but he couldn’t decide which direction to run in. His anxiety and the urge for action shivered out of his body in sharp, cold sweat, which quickly had him feeling drenched.
He kept listening, but nothing was there. He couldn’t discern a movement of any kind…
Or could he?
Delicately, he crept forward, hoping to discover the source of the danger he perceived. If he knew where it was coming from, he could at least make a run in the other direction.
He inched along the hall until he reached the main office. The smell seemed worse. He paused there, leaning his shoulder against the wall. He held his breath, listening, tensing every muscle in anticipation until they began to ache.
He heard something now. It was just a faint bumping sound, like a cat’s tail tapping a pillow. It was almost rhythmic. He listened for several minutes, trying to identify exactly what it was.
Yet the smell told a clear story of danger.
The front of the office had several large glass windows separating the space from the hallway. One of the secretaries sat there most of the time at what looked like an old-fashioned bank teller’s window, with a circular opening in the center of glass that was also open for a half a foot of space at the bottom. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, she’d been sick. That memory made him recall his father, and his mouth felt suddenly dry.
Dad, please be alive...
Matthew inched his way over to the glass. The sound remained, while the smell grew worse. Certain that the danger was inside, he crouched and duck-walked across the rest of the floor. Then, with excruciating care, Matthew raised his head up to the bottom of that window.
Yes, the smell was rankest right here. The sound, too, was more noticeable—a soft, monotonous flapping that persisted mechanically, but with very slight variations that made it more confusing as to what it was.
It was still very dark, though the light of early day had begun to bring pastel color into the offices. Familiar with the general layout—and not for any bad reason, but from having attended the school since kindergarten—Matthew recognized the location of the desks and copy machine, as well as the intimidating door that led into the principal’s office toward the back.
He studied the scene before him, but saw nothing untoward. He cocked his ear toward the glass and listened closely to the sound. A little voice told him that it might be safer to simply head out the door. But he was emotionally exhausted from running. He’d already had, for all intents and purposes, his very home torn out from under him with the brutal death of his mother and the experience of being chased down his own street by a mob of hungry, reanimated corpses. He couldn’t run forever, and the truth of the matter was the familiar surroundings of his school gave him a type of courage. He wasn’t about to be chased away so easily now.
As he continued studying the emptiness inside, he grew gradually bolder. There was no change in the rhythm of the sound. The longer he crouched at the bottom of the window, the more comfortable he grew with that foul scent of death.
As the light grew stronger and the picture clearer, Matthew realized it might be more advantageous to have the shadows on his side. He found the courage to move carefully toward the door while he could still hide in the shroud of semidarkness that blanketed the office. He grabbed the door’s metal handle and turned. The click was loud enough to startle him in the near-silence that dominated the school. He scuttled away from the door, returning to his previous crouching position behind the glass. The heavy door, freed from the latch, eased open with a metallic sigh. It gaped open like a dead man’s mouth, but nothing emerged from it.
The regular beat of the strange sound continued uninterrupted, a little louder now with the door ajar. Matthew slid into the office buoyed by adrenaline. He stayed close to the ground while the stench of the dead floated above him like the smoke left behind by an imaginary artillery barrage.
The principal’s door was open and he quickly realized that the sound emanated from there. He paused, wondering if he really needed to investigate any further. He could simply retreat and close the main office door behind him.
Instead, he crept closer.
When he was within an arm’s length of the door, the sound was quite clear. The stench was also extraordinary. He knew he was unlikely to be pleased to see whatever it was he’d find, but he was pretty sure of what it would be.
On the floor of the principal’s office was a mutilated corpse, the likes of which were more horrific than the worst scary movie he’d ever seen. One leg was completely gone, while what remained of the other was eaten away to the bone. The trunk of the body also was devoured and now consisted of a disgusting mess of visible bone, shredded red and brown organs and slivers of yellow muscle that dangled off like shaved chicken meat. The arms were both gone, though one still had a short protrusion of bone that waved helplessly out from the ravage stump of a shoulder. This bony outcropping periodically tapped against the floor.
Worst of all, the head and face were mostly eaten away but still managed to have a living quality, with one remaining eye and a skeleton jaw that ineffectively chomped at the air with the softest of clicking sounds.
The thing was pinned down under a portion of the principal’s chair and a large filing cabinet that had been overturned in some kind of scuffle. The thumping noise which Matthew had heard, he now saw, was this thing weakly, hopelessly trying to free itself from its predicament.
Matthew was repulsed by the sight, yet could hardly turn away at first. As he studied the remaining hair still clinging to part of the ravaged skull—those wispy clumps of orange-red—he recognized it as the principal himself. It was Mister Renner.
Matthew nearly vomited in that instant. And then the struggling, ghoulish remains of the former principal—the man he remembered from his patriarchal presence in the hallway, standing tall at bus dismissal and assemblies—turned its remaining eye upon Matthew.
Seeing the boy, it began struggling more fiercely. For the first time, the thumping it made, twisted and flapping its body in that trapped position, grew loud. It tried to speak, to call or cry. Instead, as its mutilated jaws chomped and snapped, its ruined vocal cords and billowy air pipes made a soft, high-pitched gurgling cry that Matthew found most disturbing of all.
It began repeating the sound again and again. It was soft but distinct, and as Matthew stood there listening to it, it began to almost sound as if it were calling his name. “Matthew… Matthew…”
It grew more and more fevered trying to work its way out from under the clutter that held it trapped. The chair banged against the desk, and the table lamp suddenly toppled over. Its glass shade exploded into a hundred fragments.
A dark shape appeared outside the office window, hurtling toward the glass. It barely registered with Matthew before the window detonated inward and a zombie came flying into the office. Matthew screamed and threw his hands up before his face as the ghoul tumbled and rolled across the floor, ripping the chair off the remains of Mr. Renner as it flailed to its feet with a dry, gasping hiss. Outside the destroyed window, more shapes loomed. Matthew grabbed the office door and slammed it closed just as the first zombie got to its feet and charged him, arms outstretched. It slammed into the door with a sullen grunt.
Dead in L.A. (A Gathering Dead Novel) Page 10
