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Zombie Road Trip

Page 9

by Miller, T. Alex


  None of that happened. The Slim Jim brought a rush of memories with it — something about childhood, a candy store on the corner, strawberry soda. Although he wasn’t at all hungry, Tim ate it, then peeled another and ate it as well. It pleased him immensely, and he imagined weaning himself off people starting with Slim Jims and other jerky products, then perhaps moving onto raw hamburger meat, steaks and the like before he rounded it out with the full cornucopia of human foods: bread, pastries, cereal and Pop Tarts; oranges, spinach, water chestnuts and Twizzlers.

  Well, one thing at a time, Tim old boy.

  Lost in reverie over the bright future just revealed to him, it took a moment for Tim to notice the boat had slowed and finally stopped, its bow lodged in a mass of trash piled against a curb. The water had faded down to a trickle here, and it appeared to be the end of the line for the boat ride. Waiting at the river’s terminus was a gaggle of Zees who, Tim guessed, had yielded good squealer meals this way more than once in the past.

  They were on top of the boat, looming over Tim, before he even realized it. One of them dove at Tim’s neck, and he shifted just in time to have the ghoul’s teeth rip a chunk from his shoulder instead.

  Marilyn snapped out of her coma immediately, jumping up and pushing at the Zees while gargling her terrible sounds. Tim had jumped out of the boat and onto a patch of dirt, where he stood nursing his wounded shoulder. He glowered at the Zee who’d done it, and watched with disgust as she chewed quickly then swallowed.

  “You stupid fuckers!” he yelled. And it actually came out pretty clear. He stood there with the machete, ready to lop off the arm or head of any Zee approaching him.

  Marilyn echoed him in her own barf-gargle language, stamping her feet and waving her arms.

  The five Zees looked her over and dismissed her – her Zee-ness apparently beyond question. But Tim, they circled, sniffing and making occasional threatening lunges at him. They “consulted” with the Zee who’d sampled his arm, trying to discern, Tim imagined, if he tasted like human or Zee. Once she realized all eyes were on her, the girl — a goth-looking teen who’d had much of her hair and scalp ripped off — made some odd smacking noises, waving her hand near her mouth as if to recall Tim’s relative meatiness in advance of assigning it a grade.

  The standoff was quickly rendered moot when one of them discovered the pillowcases full of fresh meat in the boat and started making a commotion about it. All five of them were on it in a flash, with Marilyn right in the thick of it, angling for her share.

  Tim recognized an exit opportunity when he saw one and, after delivering a sharp kick to Marilyn’s ass, took off in the direction the river had been flowing. She was alongside momentarily, a good-sized hunk of fat lady in her hands. It was nearing dawn, and cold, but at least there wasn’t any of the creepy mist of recent days — and the rain had stopped altogether. Tim reflected on the fact that, when they’d been back at the farmhouse, it had looked like winter was just upon them. But things had swung back around, apparently, giving a lot of stupid Zees an extra lease on the half-lives they had. Walking along next to Marilyn, he felt gratitude for her actions, but could think of no way to express it. He might offer her a Slim Jim, but he’d left them back in the boat. A pity, really, because he’d wanted to see what her reaction would be to people food. Would she even try it? Marilyn struck him as something of a purist, very much down with the fresh human flesh thing. But who knew? Maybe Slim Jims were the way out of the darkness for Zees.

  And what about him? Would she start to sense what the other Zees back there had — that Tim was human enough to be Zee-feed? Was his confederate turning into a potential enemy, and would their time together and odd affection for each other mean a thing if hunger got the better of her? Tim had slipped the smaller of the handguns he found in the boat in his pocket, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it on Marilyn. Of course, that was assuming A) it had any bullets in it, B) he could figure out how to shoot it and C) he hit her in the head. Anywhere else would just piss her off, and the last thing Tim wanted was to be on the receiving end of Marilyn’s flesh-frenzied attack.

  Concerns for later. Now, they were at the time of day when he was looking for some shelter. They appeared to be in another suburb, although a more run-down one with shabby single-family homes and trailers. Again, the place looked abandoned, signs of Zee-squealer battles all around, but by now Tim knew the landscape: They were out there, or in there, but hiding. Waiting for opportunity. To whack or feed, depending on their status with the human race.

  An open door, signs of a Zee-won battle that might suggest an empty house — that’s what Tim was looking for. He soon found one with a wide-open door propped open, as usual, by a dead Zee. It was a simple, two-story house faded yellow with a weather vane up top that creaked in the breeze. Tim looked up at it a moment and tried to figure out what direction the wind was blowing, then decided it didn’t much matter. He was just slightly impressed he was able to remember what the thing was and did, and to assign it its proper name: weather vane.

  He and Marilyn stepped over the body and entered. It reminded him of his grandmother’s house: full of doilies and dried flowers, several cat bowls on the kitchen floor and pictures of grandchildren on the refrigerator. The house had several large windows in the main living area, which he moved to get away from: He didn’t want some stupid squealer squadder popping them from the street. He led Marilyn to a set of stairs leading upstairs, and they slowly ascended. The stairs creaked magnificently, alerting Tim to the possibility that any scared squealer hunkered down with a 12 gauge was listening, waiting.

  But the house was empty. They found just two bedrooms upstairs, and after dismissing the first as too girlishly similar to the last one they’d spent time in, they picked grandma’s room. The old woman who’d lived here was a smear of blood and tattered clothes on the carpet; even her bones had been carried off by the busy Zees. The bed was fresh-made, however, with a lovely granny-square comforter, fancy shams and framed embroideries on the wall containing what Tim was able to identify as folksy writings.

  “Bless this home” read one, and Tim read it, understood it and rejoiced. The other was a longer piece titled “A knitter’s prayer,” but Tim gave up after the first line or two. It was enough to know he was able to read anything.

  He sat on the side of the bed, thought for a moment, then allowed the rest of his body to fall into the ultra-soft bedding. After bumping around a little bit, Marilyn joined him, and they both stared up at the ceiling.

  They were close, Tim thought, close to Meridian. This particular neighborhood didn’t look right to him, but perhaps it was just a little bit further … south. He closed his eyes and let the incomplete images of Janet, Madison, Monroe and Meridian crowd his consciousness, then fell into a deep, dream-riddled sleep.

  In his dreams, Tim discovered it all. His subconscious mind filled in most of the blanks: Where he’d come from, his family, his work, the events that led him to the world of Zees and the path he needed to take to get back. All of it was condensed into one, perfect and tight narrative that would enable him to act quickly, as soon as he woke up. But he had to wake up gradually, naturally, so that the diaphanous mask of his dreams could coalesce into something solid and memorable.

  Instead, Tim was awakened suddenly, frightfully, by Marilyn, who was gnawing on his shoulder. She was trying to be coy, gently working the ragged edges of the wound inflicted by the goth Zee earlier that morning. But even though she’d traded her usual blitzkrieg style of dining for a dainty sampling, there was no doubt about what she was up to.

  Tim lurched upright, then fell sideways onto the floor. He clambered to his feet and regarded his friend, his traveling companion, his protégé, undead paramour … whatever she was. A cat with a canary in its mouth had nothing on Marilyn, who, Tim realized, now had a mind-boggling decision to make about whether to spit out or swallow the piece of Tim she’d just bitten off.

  “Eat it, you stupid bitch! Go ahead!
You know you want it! Might as well not let it go to waste!”

  Almost seeming to understand, Marilyn swallowed, then hung her head. Tim reached for the gun in his pocket and, in the course of pulling it out, shot off his left big toe. She didn’t even look up as he jumped around on one leg, howling guttural obscenities.

  If this were a marriage, this would be the scene where we decide to get divorced.

  It was clear pain sensation was coming back, along with his ability read things like “The Knitter’s Prayer.” A week ago, you could’ve shot off all of Tim’s toes and he would just have looked annoyed before lunging for your arteries. Now, it was real pain, and it shot up from his toe to permeate his whole body, making stops at all of his older wounds to remind him that they, too, should hurt like fuck.

  Falling back on an ancient love seat in the corner, Tim held his foot in one hand while he contemplated Marilyn. How much of a threat had she become – or had the proximity to his nice, fresh wound just been too much for her to resist? After all, you might understand and forgive a dog who’d jumped on a steak that had fallen to the floor. Now, Marilyn looked like she was going to cry or something; she certainly didn’t look dangerous. Just her usual pathetic fucked-upedness: the brilliantly blank staring eyes below the receding but still visible Dodge Ram symbol. Most of her body’s wounds and infirmities were hidden beneath the bloody smock of her Snuggie, and Tim wondered, once again, how long she had — even if someone didn’t find her noggin with a .470 slug.

  When his screaming body settled down to a slightly quieter agony, he approached Marilyn, put his hand on her shoulder and nodded his head as if to say “It’s OK.” Then, what the hell, he pulled her to him in an outright hug, nearly recoiling as the multiple foul odors of her zombie body wafted into his newly awakening smell receptors.

  And then she bit him. Again. In the same spot. When he pushed her away, she had only about half the sheepish look on her face, and Tim knew it was over.

  “Owwww! Fuck!” He grabbed a lamp and bashed her on the head hard enough to get her to fall, then lurched out of the room, falling down the stairs and coming to rest against an umbrella stand. One of these he grabbed as a potential weapon, and he stood and backed out of the house, half expecting blitzkrieg Marilyn to come tearing after him.

  But she didn’t. As he walked slowly away from the little house, Tim kept turning back for signs of movement and saw nothing. Which, in a way, broke his heart. Somewhere in her dead zombie heart, he knew, Marilyn was feeling bad about what she’d done.

  But there was no doubt it was beyond the point where Tim could hang out with zombies. He was getting tasty. It was almost rather flattering to consider – and terrifying. He still looked, smelled and walked like a Zee, making him an obvious target for any armed squealer. And if he was starting to smell and act more like a human, any hungry Zee wasn’t going to scruple over his Zee-like appearance.

  The world, dangerous as it was already, had just gotten even more perilous. There was only one thing for it: Meridian. There, Tim felt sure, he would find safety, the rest of the cure, and a gaggle of people who cared about him. He just had to get there without being shot or eaten. But how far was it?

  Chapter 16. The Wild Man

  The day had dawned cold, with a loud sun making its way up over the dead winter trees. Tim didn’t like walking around in daylight, but he was also sick of creepy houses where weird shit happened. Still headed in the direction he was pretty sure represented south, he found himself in a pine forest that, he hoped, was simply a buffer between this old residential neighborhood and some kind of technology park on the other side — home of Meridian. It was some kind of lab, he believed, judging from his memories of himself and others — with clipboards, in white coats, acting all smart.

  Being in the trees was a lot more comfortable than walking up the middle of endless Washingtons, Mains and Broadways. The place was unnaturally quiet – not even any birds making noises – which suggested either a great deal of death or a whole lot of hiding. Tim suspected the latter, and cleared out of rifle shot of the houses as soon as he could. Once in the trees, he relaxed somewhat but kept an eye out as he quickened his pace to a rapid, jerky shamble. His shoulder was killing him almost as much as his toe now, and he longed to sit. He kept going as long as he could through the trees. It was a well-worn forest, with plenty of paths and evidence of use by humans. There was trash, initials carved in bark, the occasional sign with an arrow pointing in one direction or another. Tim didn’t think he’d find Meridian at “The Pond” or “The Overlook,” so he kept in a more or less straight direction, doing his best not to moan too much, step on noisy leaves and twigs or otherwise betray his presence.

  Finally, he could move no longer and sat heavily on a decomposing log just off the trail. Once he stopped moving, he felt the river of pain throughout his body, emanating primarily from his shoulder and toe but also, once again, finding and highlighting all those places he’d been shot: the slug in the shoulder from the farmhouse; the pistol shots from his first kill, also at the farmhouse; his right ear and left arm from when he and Marilyn finally left the farmhouse … not to mention his face, cut up from having My Little Pony plates hurled at him. He reflected upon the fact that having decorative plates hurled at one’s head represented a fairly benign act compared to being shot at. But it still rather sucked.

  Tim felt the urge to tip his head back and bray something to the sky — a wolf-like lament to tell the universe how he felt. And he was just on the verge of doing it when he heard behind him the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped.

  “Say something,” said a drawling voice. Authoritative, but not unkind.

  “This … fucking … hurts,” Tim said, in his best English.

  The man stepped in front of him, gun lowered. Upon seeing Tim’s face, though, he quickly pushed the barrel into the side of Tim’s head.

  “What the fuck are you? I ain’t never seen a stinker what can talk, but you don’t look like no freshie.”

  Tim sluggishly processed the lingo: “Stinkers” were Zees; “Freshies” were squealers.

  “I’m a stinker … who’s turning back into a freshie,” he said, being careful not to move his head, or any other part of his body. Tim was also relieved to note another step in his evolution: The kind of fear that comes from having a shotgun barrel against one’s head was doing a major Rosetta Stone job on his English.

  “Bullshit. You’re a lyin’ stinker who learned to talk. Don’t ask me how.”

  The man made a terrible face.

  “An’ you sure as fuck smell like a stinker. Goddamn, boy! You smell like …” — the man thought a moment — “Like a landfill, a septic tank and a 5-day-old deer carcass all wrapped in one — with fresh piss on top.”

  “Thank you,” was all Tim could think to say. He was aware of his olfactory deficiencies. What could he do?

  Since it seemed clear he wasn’t immediately going to get his head blown off, Tim allowed his eyes to roll slowly upward at the man. He was a hairy thing, a matted beard, mostly gray behind the particle mask he wore, and bright, blue eyes behind a pair of clear safety goggles. His many layers of clothing and overall appearance suggested he was a homeless man, or maybe just a lone forest dweller who figured he was safer out here than anywhere else. A survivalist. He did not, Tim thought, appear to be of the nastier caste of squealer squad — the types who whacked Zees for fun and compared notes at the end of the day over beers. He decided to take a chance, focusing intently on his burgeoning ability to speak English:

  “I’m an experiment. Infected, something happened, I got lost. Have to get back … place called Meridian. They need my blood … find cure.”

  It was the contents of his forgotten dream, rushing back to him with the shotgun adrenaline aid.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Tim added.

  The man was quiet for a moment, but Tim did feel the pressure from the gun barrel come off just a bit.

  “No fucking shit
,” the man said at last. He said it thoughtfully, like a man who’d just discovered his PBR can had a prize inside.

  “Yeah,” Tim said. “Meridian. Heard of it?”

  “What, Meridian? Nope. However …” He pulled his mask down around his neck. “I did hear there’s some science folks over at Caswell. Heard it from a guy who was stinker-bit and come from that direction. Sat with him till he died and come back, then shot him in the head like he asked me to. Not like I would’t’ve anyway.”

  “What’s Caswell?”

  “Caswell? It’s the fucking state pen 20, 30 miles from here. Spent the better part of my 30s there. I can tell you one thing, Mr. Talking Stinker, there’s a whole lotta bad food being served there, a lot of bored motherfuckers drillin’ each other in the ass and a lotta asshole guards tellin’ you what to do. All that shit you heard goes on in prisons, pretty much. But it’s a long way through stinker-infested territory — at least for a guy in your shape. An’ it’s a long shot, just a rumor, really.”

  Tim didn’t know what to say to that. His memory of Meridian was growing to where he could picture some of the labs and rooms they worked in. Some of the stuff could have been moved to another location, like a prison. But why would they have left Meridian?

 

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