Apocalypse Weird: The Dark Knight

by Nick Cole

  No one said anything as they moved their tools and supplies to the right side of the Western Wall, standing them up near the small wire fence. Now that they’d been talking about what had to be done, about the intensity and the resolve they’d need to kill uncountable legions of piling zombies, though no one spoke about the sheer numbers of the dead imagined, now the flimsy prefab wire gate looked almost laughable in the orange afternoon light.

  Except no one laughed.

  “We could find a pool store,” Dante tried again, breaking the late afternoon silence. The sky above was orange. Haze hung low and visibility didn’t even reach down to the coast, even when they’d stood on the hot clay-tile rooftops trying to look down into the valley and the coastal plain beyond.

  “Why would we do that?” asked Frank.

  “Well, you know those pools, the above ground ones?”

  “Doughboys,” clarified Ritter who drank from a water bottle, shirtless and dirty while absently exploring his belly button with a long finger.

  “Yeah,” replied Dante. “Those. We could fill one of those up with rocks and make a wall I guess, or we could even use prefab hot tubs. I bet there’s a supply warehouse somewhere in those big box buildings between Forest Lake and Bake. Got to be.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea.

  It wasn’t a good one either and it seemed dead when Candace spoke up as they walked back to their houses to clean up before dinner. “It won’t work if we use Doughboys. They’re too flimsy. Put a bunch of rocks in there and they’ll just break through the sides.”

  “You been in a lotta doughboys, Candy?” asked Ritter.

  Candace rolled her eyes at Ritter, then shook her head.

  “No need to be touchy, girl. Just wonderin’. My Moms couldn’t afford no Doughboy so anyone who could was just plain better than us, that’s all,” said Ritter.

  With that they’d parted ways, tired, sore, beat and hungry.

  But Holiday continued to work the problem in his mind even as they barbecued the tasty yellow chicken and onions down in front of Frank’s townhome.

  They could take a forklift from the Home Depot, thought Holiday. They could get one and haul stacks of wood and just drop the stacks, already organized into neat rectangles, into the gaps between the townhome clusters. But that didn’t seem like it would make the sturdiest of walls. In his mind, Holiday saw the stacks of wood shifting under the pressure of a herd... or a horde... or an army... “a massed attack” of zombies was the word his mind found and he had no idea why, but a “massed attack” of zombies against a specific location seemed like the correct term for the tactic. They’d push that kind of wall right over and then those stacks might fall inward, which would be bad, and even worse if they were defending themselves from behind the stacks. Or fighting the zombies off from the top of the stacked wood piles. If they survived being crushed or maimed by the suddenly collapsing wall, it wouldn’t be for long. Those things would be across all that splintered and jutting lumber in seconds, regardless if they impaled themselves along the way toward their next meal.

  Back in his own townhome, Holiday had sat in the big purple chair for a long time as he returned to Dante’s moat idea. It was the quickest solution and all they’d need was a bulldozer from the heavy construction equipment rental yard on the far side of the toll road, less than a mile way. They could probably have a nice trench around the entire complex in a few days.

  But the more he thought about it, the more he realized digging a trench was beyond their abilities. No one had mentioned anything about being able to drive construction equipment, much less grade a trench without it collapsing in on them. He had a vague memory of watching TV one afternoon as a local news helicopter hovered over a construction site while the words “Trench Collapse, Workers Trapped” scrolled across the bottom of the screen. That could happen. And if it did, what could they do to get whoever was buried inside their trench out?

  He was tired but felt good from all the hard work and sweat and trying to solve the problem of the gaps in the wall. But there wasn’t any idea that seemed to offer the perfect solution.

  Later, when it was dark and he heard them all talking down the street, the only sounds in the early evening as he stood on his patio, he wanted to be among them. And if he was truly honest with himself, drinking wine with them.

  Drinking.

  He saw himself sitting next to Ash. Holding her hand.

  It wasn’t impossible. It just wasn’t possible now. If he redeemed himself, then... maybe.

  And that’s the real reason why you want to be the hero and solve the wall problem. You want her.

  And he didn’t answer himself because it wasn’t a question. It was just the truth. He was hungry, too, and that was when he walked down the street and joined them near the glowing red ashy gray coals of the barbecue.

  Now, walking west in the silent night, down the hill toward the construction equipment rental yard on the other side of the toll road Holiday thought, yes, I want to be with her and nothing more.

  Frank awoke at dawn. He always did. He was a morning person. He slipped on his satin and fur-trimmed bathrobe and went down to the kitchen. Ash was on the couch, holding a mug.

  “I made coffee two hours ago.”

  Frank said nothing. Just poured some, tasted it, made a face he couldn’t stop himself from making, shrugged and then drank again.

  “Why are you up so early?” asked Frank.

  “Kid couldn’t sleep. I’m out of painkillers. I gave him some aspirin you had in the guest bathroom and it didn’t do much, but I told him it was strong stuff and he eventually fell asleep.”

  “Does that trick work?”

  “Sometimes. Depends on the patient. Depends on how badly they want to believe it’s all going to go away. The pain, that is.”

  “Hmmm,” muttered Frank and drank one more time, made the face again then spit the coffee out and started to make a fresh pot once he’d dashed the contents of his mug into the sink. “Sorry,” he grumbled without remorse.

  “No problem. Where I come from we don’t even get coffee.”

  And Frank was going to ask where in the world you can’t get coffee when he heard a light tapping at the door.

  It was Holiday.

  “Yeah?” said Frank. It was neither warm nor polite.

  Holiday expelled a lungful of air and began. “I think I found the solution to our wall problem. If you can meet me by the front gate in a few, I think you’ll like what you see.”

  Frank nodded and closed the door. Then he made another pot of coffee. Later, after he’d showered and not shaved, wondering how long the water and the power were going to last, and thinking the facial hair he’d decided to let grow would make him look like that guy that used to sell beer as a sort of Hemingway slash matador knock off, he dressed and passed Ash down in the living room. She’d already finished the rest of Frank’s new pot of coffee.

  “I saved you one last round.”

  Frank picked up the mug. It was lukewarm. He milked it and then tasted again. He didn’t make a face. But it wasn’t perfect, that was clear.

  “I need to get that aid station up and running today,” said Ash, standing up from the couch with a yawn. “And if I do, we need to make a run to the hospital or a nearby pharmacy. We have to have supplies in place before we actually need them.”

  “Okay. We’ll get you moved in. I found a place up the street, near the middle of the complex that’s empty. We can set up a surgery center downstairs in the living room, use the kitchen to clean up, and there’s a downstairs bedroom for any patients I hope you never have. You can live upstairs, we’ll get a bed and some furniture out of one of the other places, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Ash. “But what about the supply run?”

  “The nearest hospital is down by the Five. I don’t like it. It was bad down there when I tried to run for it. There’s a pharmacy at the Target and another one, a Rite Aid or something, nearby. We can check those out.”


  “Those are all stopgaps. If I ever need to do surgery again, I’m going to need some pretty heavy duty tranqs and antibiotics. A hospital might be the only place.”

  Frank moved to the door, shooting an, “Okay, we’ll make a plan tomorrow,” over his shoulder as he left.

  He met Candace halfway up the street. Her place was near Holiday’s. She was standing by a parked car, her face tilted toward the rising sun.

  “Good night’s rest?” asked Frank.

  “Some, not enough.” She fell in beside Frank as he walked up the street toward the front entrance. When they arrived at the “Gate”, Ritter stepped from his house, pulling on a black t-shirt.

  “Where’s the coffee? My place ain’t got none,” he whined.

  “Then you’ll probably want to grab some next time we make a run up to the Market Faire,” said Frank.

  Ritter moaned.

  Beyond the Front Gate, Holiday stood next to a modified flatbed truck carrying a medium sized cargo container. STAX was written on the side of the cargo container and below that, the motto, “Your secure total relocation system”. Behind the flatbed was a heavy duty and very odd-shaped forklift with two overly long loading arms and a tall elevator which traversed skyward making the forklift seem stoop-shouldered.

  Frank, Ritter, and Candace stood in front of Holiday.

  “We can build a wall out of these,” exclaimed Holiday. “I found a rental yard where there are hundreds of them.”

  Silence.

  Ritter and Candace walked forward toward the truck and forklift.

  “And just when did you find this... this stuff?” growled Frank suddenly.

  Everyone turned.

  “Last night,” said Holiday.

  “After we went to sleep you just let yourself out and went traipsing around.”

  “I locked the gate behind me... and I can do whatever I want. We’re not prisoners.”

  “Well, I’m glad about that. This time you locked the gate. Good job, kid. But what if you’d gotten into trouble out there?”

  No one said anything.

  Frank continued. “What if you’d gotten into trouble out there and none of us knew about it?”

  “Then, worst case scenario, I’d be dead. End of problem,” replied Holiday evenly.

  “No, that isn’t the worst case scenario, kid. The worst case is, wounded, you might have dragged a bunch of them back here and surprised us all. Maybe even died trying to get through the gate and then we wake up and they’re inside again because of your selfishness! Or maybe you could have even gotten bit and decided not to tell anyone about it ‘cause you’re that kinda guy.”

  “Selfishness,” Holiday said flatly. “I did this for you. For all of you!”

  Frank snorted. “You don’t do anything for anyone but yourself.”

  Holiday thought of Ash. Thought of holding her hand again and their moment at the pool. The angry look Frank shot at Holiday told him Frank knew exactly what he was thinking. Knew why Holiday really did it, even if Holiday didn’t know himself. Or didn’t want to admit it.

  “C’mon, Frank,” said Candace. “It’s actually a pretty good idea.”

  Frank glared at them all. Then, “It is. I wish I’d thought of it. Because if I had... I’d have waited and worked as a team to get it done rather than trying to grandstand and play the hero, jeopardizing all of our lives in the process.”

  Holiday walked forward.

  “Frank, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it like that, I...”

  “You didn’t think, kid. That’s your number one problem!” said Frank, landing a thick finger right in the center of Holiday’s chest.

  Holiday swallowed. Lowered his head and tried again.

  “You’re right about that.” He took a breath. “But can you let go of that, Frank, and see that this might actually work for us?”

  When he looked up, Frank was staring into his eyes. The warmth, the teamwork, the friendship that had been there during those first few days when it had just been the two of them, fighting off that fire, all that was gone now.

  And Holiday missed it. He’d really liked Frank.

  “Alright, kid,” growled Frank. “Tell us how you figured this one out.”

  Chapter Five

  Holiday had gone to the construction equipment rental yard in the night. He’d crossed quiet streets where another car might never again drive. He’d steered clear of the two neighborhoods he passed. The one where he’d first seen Ash running for her life and the other they’d fled into and barely escaped from the dead end cul-de-sac. At the entrances to each neighborhood, he watched the quiet streets within and the tall, dark houses that lay along them. There was no one, no living thing or zombie there.

  There might never be again.

  And yet it did not feel empty in its seeming lack of life. Holiday knew unthinking eyes could be watching him from inside those houses. Forever trapped, forever watching. He knew that kind of horror was possible now.

  He continued down the little side street to the bottom of the road that ran smack into the three story multi-building apartment complex. “Vista Del Sol” its floodlit entrance proclaimed in the stillness of the night. Through an arch with a high bell tower rising above, he could see a courtyard beyond and the remains of bodies lying on the cobblestones there.

  It reminded him of some lost desert city in the ancient Middle East after a battle. An empty city that refused to yield to siege and now, as the invaders plundered its further reaches, here along its quiet initial porticos and first streets, one found only the dead.

  Why? He asked himself. Why would I think of such an image? I’ve never been to war, much less the Middle East.

  But the knowledge of such images remained in him and he could not let them go.

  Then a realization came on the heels of those images. A stark truth. He knew the shapeless, once-living humans now corpses, would in time, turn to bones and bleach in the thousand suns that followed. He heard himself whisper, “Why?”

  And there was no answer in the silence of the night.

  He turned due west and followed the street under an overpass. The wide and spreading toll road above. Approaching the overpass made him feel that any moment they, the zombies, would come after him out of the shadows. Up from the weeds and unkempt nature preserve along the sides of the road, out of the shadows under the bridge where the abutment met the toll road above. As though they had been waiting for him all along. Keeping some promise only they understood from the last time he’d escaped them.

  I need to bring weapons every time I leave, he thought. But he’d been so angry when he left Frank’s garage that he’d been blinded by his determination to prove himself. He’d left the Guy Fieri flame-handled knife in the kitchen at home.

  He crossed the shadowy darkness underneath the overpass and emerged into moonlight on the other side. He turned right at a small street and found the equipment rental yard along its length. The place consisted of a medium-sized concrete warehouse painted Navajo white, now resembling a large tombstone in the faint moonlight, fronted by dark tinted windows and a small entryway.

  Most likely the rental office, thought Holiday as he surveyed the place from the road. Up the driveway, beyond the warehouse, lay a gate and a darkened guard shack.

  He tried the entryway door. It was locked. Waiting, he listened for any sounds coming from within the warehouse. He listened for the sandy scrape of dragging footsteps. Or a low, husky groan. A thump, even. He heard nothing and moved on to the gate.

  Beyond its diamond-shaped mesh he could see yellow tractors and backhoes, bulbous cement mixers and gawky cranes. Cargo vans and bucket lifts were parked over in another section. There were other pieces of equipment but he was unsure what purpose they might serve. He heard a loud thump and then a brief groan. Turning back to the guard shack, he saw a man wearing a uniform slapping weakly at the glass from inside.

  It was one of them.

  The guard bumped himself into the glass
again as he mindlessly beckoned to Holiday. And again. Blood and grease and drool left ghostly ink blot images on the smudgy plastic window.

  Holiday climbed the gate-fence as it shifted under his weight. At the top, he hauled himself over and dropped to the other side. Crouching, he waited.

  “Why didn’t you take out the guard?” he asked himself. He had no answer and that was when the voice, the grizzled hectoring bark he’d heard inside his head back in the alleyway when he’d rescued Ritter, Candace, Dante and Skully, spoke up.

  “Never leave an enemy behind you, maggot.”

  He waited.

  If they come, if they’ve been watching me, if those things can somehow communicate with each other, they’ll come now and I’ll get back over this fence before I’m surrounded.

  If you blow this...

  “Be quiet,” he told himself.

  He thought instead of how Frank might treat him if he could figure out a way to keep everyone safe. On the other hand, his relationship with everyone... Ash included... would be beyond repair if he somehow failed tonight.

  Better to do this or die trying, he thought.

  But Holiday still didn’t have any idea, any firm idea, what he was doing out here in the dark and the quiet of night. He knew a piece of construction equipment would help matters, but he couldn’t think of anything other than Dante’s idea to “dig a trench”. He had no idea how any of the machines or vehicles here could make the walls more secure. Or even create walls.

  He walked toward the backhoes, selected the biggest one and climbed in. There weren’t that many controls and most were labeled. Trial and error wouldn’t take too long to figure it out. There was an ignition keyhole but no key. He climbed down onto the bone white concrete apron. The moon was high in the night sky now, turning everything around it a powder shade of blue.

  Just after midnight, guessed Holiday.

  He wandered the enclosed yard. There weren’t any of them here, he noted regarding the zombies. Every so often he could hear the security guard bumping into the see-through plastic of his booth back on the other side of the gate-fence. But the bumps were sporadic and becoming less vigorous. Occasionally, when Holiday happened to come into view of the booth as he searched back and forth across the rental yard, then, the plastic window in the guard booth would again begin to shudder violently.