Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  “I came here for my daughter—”

  “Oh shit!” I said looking in the truck. “Is she missing? I ca—”

  “Relax, Remy.” He smiled and put his hands on my shoulders. “She is home with my family down the hill about two miles to the east. She wanted her swing,” he said, pointing to the tire and rope in the back of the truck.

  “You came all the way out here for a tire swing? You—”

  “My kids are terrified, Remy. I have a good amount of family at my home, we are in a strategically easy place to protect. My baby wanted this swing. Her name is on it, she painted it last year. It was all she talked about. See that path?” Ron pointed to two long, brown matted-down tracks through an otherwise green pasture.

  I nodded.

  “We used to come out here to picnic all the time. That swing is part of our damn family. My baby wanted it, and her daddy was gonna get it,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “I knew it was a risk, but I am gonna set up that swing on another tree behind the house and my kid is gonna feel better. That’s all I can do right now. I should have just cut the rope, but even rope is valuable right now, so I climbed up the tree to untie it. I guess I spent too much time looking over the valley and got ambushed.”

  I followed his eyes and looked to my left, to the south. It was a beautiful view. Rolling hills, and off in the distance the faint blue of the Pacific Ocean.

  “They can get up this way, I guess. Heh, if those dopes were smart enough they could just go fifty yards to their right and follow my truck path,” Ron said. He had wandered to the edge and was looking over the hill while I was lost in the view.

  I could see how he’d lost his focus, the vista was mesmerizing.

  I snapped out of it. “I get that, man, I mean, I don’t have kids, but I get it.” I shrugged.

  “I don’t think life is gonna be normal for a while, or maybe ever again, and I am just trying to make it better for my family. Look, we got room, you need a place—”

  “No, thank you,” I said walking over and shaking his hand again. “I have somebody I gotta meet. I am glad you are okay, Ron, nice to meet you.” I smiled. “I hate to run but—”

  “Go, Remy, good luck. If you lose your way or need a place to crash, just follow that road down the valley then back up. It’s the gray house. I will look out for the bike. I owe you one, I almost had to jump out of the tree and run my fat ass two miles home without the swing. Maybe next time I’ll bring my gun into the tree,” he said, smiling.

  “How many more swings do you have to pick up?” I joked as I put my helmet on and straddled the KLR.

  He smiled again and clapped his hands together and pointed both fingers at me. Damn, that was a cool move, I had to remember that. For some reason though, I didn’t think I could pull it off like Ron did. He jumped in the truck, and I watched him start it and head down the hill on his self-made path. He waved out the window and honked.

  “Take care,” I yelled. He couldn’t have heard me, he was already too far away. Anyway, if he had, he would have heard the crack in my voice. I waved back and felt an emotion I had not felt in some time. That little girl was gonna see her daddy and get her swing. My eyes welled as I tried to picture it.

  Shit, I needed to go.

  After covering about twenty more miles, and listening to about a dozen MP3’s, I saw two monsters wandering along the dunes. I ignored them and remained steadfast. I was now approaching the sand hills by the California coast. I could hear Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” in my helmet speakers. Of course, it was the Pavarotti version. No, I don’t speak a word of Italian. My father was full-blooded Italian, but my mother was German so we spoke English at home.

  But that doesn’t matter.

  You don’t need to know the words to understand Luciano Pavarotti. In the opera Turandot, he portrays Calaf, an unknown prince who falls in love and sings to the beautiful Princess Turandot. Calaf challenges the princess to one final riddle for her love and hand in marriage at the end of the aria. Then he belts out Vincero! three times, each time louder than before. I got goose bumps from my shoulders all the way to my handgrips as my mind converted the lyric to its true meaning—I shall win! The older I get, the more I realize my dad was right about many things, including the beauty of opera. I hoped Dad was right again, and this randomly selected song was a good omen, not a bad one. I sang the final Vincero! verse so loudly that I could barely hear Luciano.

  Monterey 2 mi.

  I pulled up to the intersection of the trail and the fire road Buell marked on the map. I was about seventy-five feet above sea level on a small sand dune, and from where I was perched, I could see Monterey Bay, Highway 1, and in the distance, the strip mall. I untied the hunting rifle and peered through the scope.

  “Aw, fuck.” I sighed.

  Having ridden through the mountains and backwoods, I had encountered only sporadic clusters of monsters. I had almost forgotten how numerous they were, what it looked like when they roamed in packs. Now I saw hundreds shuffling on the freeway and roads on the edge of town. Some of the monsters just stood there motionless, waiting for a reason to strike, or move. I could see Riley’s supply store but the parking lot was swarming with the creatures, at least one hundred monsters wandering among the abandoned cars. There were also numerous dead and mangled bodies lying in the parking lot but I had no way of knowing if they were twice dead or just the once. Some of the car doors were open, and there was blood everywhere. Each car must have a terrifying story to tell, I thought. Then I remembered cars don’t talk and I felt momentarily relieved. But undead zombies don’t exist either, right? I shook my head to clear it. Monterey must have been hit hard. The city was situated along the coast, so with wet, windy weather it must be a flu hotbed. Made sense, I guess. My internal dialog was in full swing as I took in the sights from the esplanade atop the sand dunes.

  I panned the rifle scope along the parking lot, again examining the cars in front of the store. There was one car in particular that stood out, parked right in front of the store window on the sidewalk. It was a shiny black sedan with tinted windows. I focused in on the plates. Yep, government plates.

  I lowered the rifle to get a wider view of the area and caught movement on the roof above Riley’s storefront. Again lifting the rifle I scoped a man with a pistol taking shots at the monsters in the parking lot. The glare off what looked like solar panels made it difficult to see him clearly. There were a dozen of the shiny panels on the roof, and the sun reflected off them, creating a blind spot over half of the rooftop. I pushed my visor back over my helmet and looked again through the scope.

  Just as I did, I saw the man throw a bottle over the side of the building at the monsters below. The bottle didn’t break when it struck the cement, and instead bounced at least five feet high before bouncing itself out and coming to rest against a parking berm. It was a plastic Jack Daniel’s bottle. Yuck, I thought with disgust. Cheap whiskey from a plastic bottle. What was this world coming to? I looked back to the drunken thrower on the shiny roof. I watched the man give the finger to the monsters below, spit on them, and turn around. When he started walking back away from the edge, I clearly saw his face in the scope. Senator Michael Riley.

  Thanks, Em.

  Figures that prick would drink that lizard spit, pompous, strutting asshole. He proceeded to go around the solar panels, and exit through a raised door in the middle section of the roof.

  I’d met Riley once but I doubted he’d remember. It was at a Chevy for the Children charity benefit in Cupertino. We’d sat in the rear beds of a line of pickups and handed out toys one Christmas Eve. Even if we’d been better acquainted, I wasn’t sure I would have walked right up to a wanted man holding a handgun and drunk on cheap bourbon. We may have spoken two words that time I saw him. I had two more for him now.

  Appraising him as a foe, I decided we were pretty evenly matched. However, I am well versed in the expression, It is not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight
in the dog, and I had that whole size of the fight in the dog thing in my favor. Still I decided this was going to be a surprise attack if at all possible.

  Looking at the storefront, I couldn’t see a way inside that didn’t involve encountering at least a hundred undead. However, as luck would have it, the rooftops along the top of the strip mall appeared to be connected. I panned to the left end of the mall which was closest to me. The wall perpendicular to the facade of the mall had a metal ladder bolted to the outside of the building. That was my ticket in. But how to get there safely? The best bet for me was to get to the far left side of the building, scale the ladder, and enter through the door Riley had just used. The elevation changes on the roof appeared minimal, so traversing the rooftop looked doable—assuming I made it to the ladder alive.

  I focused on the ladder and noted a metal plate covering the lower half of the rungs. The metal plate was hung with hinges on one side and a lock on the other, presumably to prevent trespassers from climbing the ladder from the ground level and gaining access to the roof. Which was just what I planned to do. Jesus, sometimes I think Darwinism should win the day over a nanny state. I would have to remove the padlock so the metal plate could swing open on the hinges and allow access to the lower rungs. More work for me, just ’cause idiots can’t keep from breaking laws and injuring themselves. I felt my cynicism creeping back but I blamed it on my proximity to Senator Douchebag.

  I set down the rifle, then pulled the tire iron off the bike, slid it through my backpack straps, and checked my pack again to make sure the handgun and a box of extra ammo were easily accessible. I wanted to be ready for any situation I possibly could think of.

  Yet I had no idea what I was going to do when I confronted him. Oddly enough, the whole ride down here I never specifically thought about what I would do when we came face-to-face. My first thought was to incapacitate him somehow, then tie him to the roof so he could enjoy the sunshine till I figured it out. I pondered my options as I took a knee and looked through the rifle scope for a path to the ladder.

  Shit! Too late I smelled trouble.

  The grip on my ankle felt like a vise. I tried to pull my leg back toward me, but it was strong as hell and not letting go. I flipped over onto my back, crossing my legs as the monster refused to let go. Its head followed the length of its arm as it went for my shin. I gathered the rifle from my side and aimed the butt directly for the forehead of the monster.

  Too late.

  Its final lunge avoided my blow and I felt the pressure of its already bloody jaw on my leg as it clamped down on my shin. I screamed more out of fear than pain. Seeing the monster’s jaws on my leg sent a sickening chill down my spine. Bile rose from my throat and my teeth clenched in unison with the monster and his bite. My whole body tensed, and then suddenly I felt nothing; I felt no pain and no emotion.

  Then I experienced a moment of exquisite clarity; it was at this moment, pure survival instinct took over. I again pulled back the rifle using all of my leverage as I carefully aimed. The second blow struck the monster in the right eye. However, this time I used the opposite end of the weapon and the narrow barrel pierced the eye socket of my assailant with a sickening sound then pushed through the back of his skull with a loud crack. In my rage I had utterly skewered the smelly bastard. The monster, relieved of a functioning temporal lobe, collapsed immediately.

  I frantically kicked him off me and skittered back away from his bloody remains. Unfortunately, in my haste to get clear, I struck the KLR, which was parked right behind me. My head collided with the crash bar which protects the engine block and is hard as fuck. I immediately grabbed the stinging back of my head with both hands and fell into a fetal position. My ears rang, and I saw bright flashes of light before the pain really hit. As the surge of pain overwhelmed my senses, I struggled to retain focus. I could feel the moisture from the blood building under my palm as I tried to get my wits about me. The pain was debilitating; for what seemed an eternity, I could do nothing but lie there and wait.

  Then the pain became secondary. I strained to focus my vision although I did not really want to see the damage caused by the fucking-motherfucking-cocksucking-ass—

  I took a deep breath. I needed to calm down or I would never be able to remove the leather suit and assess my mortality. Not being able to immediately focus was agonizing in more ways than one, the damage was done but I had no idea what it was.

  Finally, I regained my vision and I forced myself to focus on my now bare shin. There was no evidence that the monster had bitten me, only a little red spot where the built-in shin guard from Buell’s leathers had rubbed against me as that fucker gnawed on my leg. The bite hadn’t penetrated the leather.

  “Thank you, Buell!” I yelled in jubilation. If I had not switched riding gear with him, my usual denim would not have saved me. I glanced at the rifle and blew out a relieved breath. I needed to be more careful, but at least I had learned that sneaking up on someone in the sand is not too difficult.

  For anybody...or anything.

  No excuses. I needed to stay focused, I reminded myself, though my throbbing head was doing an admirable job of this already.

  I opened my tank bag and pulled out the towel usually reserved for wiping helmet-induced sweat from my brow. I placed it on my head wound with pressure, and winced as the pain shot through my head down my spine.

  As I sat there, holding the rag on my bleeding head and trying to adjust to the ache and shock, I again thought of Emily. “It’s okay, Em, I am fine, I got this,” I said out loud, my voice was barely audible to my own ringing ears.

  Then I heard a thumping that was outside of my head. I looked out over the water and witnessed a series of military planes and helicopters flying overhead, heading north along the coast. Just seeing the United States military in action made me feel better.

  After ten minutes, I removed the cloth and uttered my obligatory It’s merely a flesh wound movie reference. That is my go-to line when I self-induce trauma, which happens more than I care to admit; just saying the line brought me back to myself. Back to the task at hand. I picked up the rifle and wiped the blood and brain matter off the shaft with the bloody rag I just used to stop my own bleeding. The thought of my blood and the monster’s mixing together on the rag repulsed me so much I threw the rag over the edge of the sand hill. Then I did my best impersonation of Hank Aaron and took two or three practice swings with the rifle, paying close attention to the tip of the gun as I swung. I witnessed blood and gray matter shoot out of the barrel at the end of each swing. I pulled back on the bolt, removed the round, and blew into the chamber, hopefully clearing as much of the viscous matter as possible. I am not sure if cracked bone in the barrel of a rifle would cause a backfire, but better safe than sorry. If forced to use this weapon, I doubted I would get a do-over.

  Satisfied the rifle was clean enough to fire safely, I looked back through the scope at the ladder on the left side of the strip mall. It was about four hundred yards from where I perched, and there were numerous scattered monsters in the parking lot, though thankfully less on the left side of the building.

  Thank God for small favors...I guess.

  I secured the rifle on my back, using the strap, instead of tying it back on the bike. I took the pistol out, checked the magazine, opened the safety, and placed it in the side pocket of the tank bag. I decided to leave the pocket zipper slightly open to allow quick access. I was not going to be left without the use of the handgun again. “Phase One,” I said to myself and flipped down my visor.

  Phase One? What the hell does that mean, Rem? Isn’t this like Phase Fifty, if anything? I shook my head, cleared the webs, and turned the key to the on position.

  Dork.

  After starting her up, I dropped the KLR in first and headed down the hill toward the side of the strip mall with the ladder. As I reached the bottom of the hill, I made a sharp right hand turn onto Broadway Street, which intersects with Del Monte, the street where the strip mall is l
ocated.

  As I sped down the street I developed a following, so this was going to be quite the parade by the time I reached my destination. After getting as close to Del Monte Avenue as possible, I made a sharp left and cut across the gas station lot, right between the pumps, and onto Del Monte. I cruised down Del Monte on the wrong side of the road figuring I was okay, but again I miscalculated. A utility vehicle suddenly appeared from my left, pulling out of a supermarket shopping center and heading straight for me. I cut hard to the left, pulled in the clutch, revved the motor, and dumped the clutch back out. This chain of events caused the front of the motorcycle to lift off the ground in a wheelie-like fashion, and I jumped the curb to my left, narrowly avoiding the front end of the oncoming truck as I hopped onto the sidewalk. The horn blared as I passed the truck. I wondered if the driver was scared, angry, or wanted me to turn around. No matter, I was on a mission and for once had no desire to act neighborly.

  I spent the next few moments playing slalom with the monsters on the sidewalk about a hundred yards from the parking lot. The nimble attitude of the KLR came in handy here, it was almost fun. I pulled into the farthest left driveway of the mall parking lot, intent on finding the ladder. There was a huge sign proclaiming Riley’s Office Supplies and Distribution. It was a pretty large office space, though judging from the Distribution part of the name, it was as much a warehouse as a retail store. That made sense, as this wasn’t exactly a prime location for office supplies. Thankfully, I was not in direct sight of the front of the store, but I still glanced up on the roof. There was no sign of Senator Asshole, so I still had hope for a covert entrance. I also hoped to make it there alive.

  First things first.

  I grabbed the front brake of my bike but my slippery blood-soaked glove nearly lost its grip. Leather does not absorb blood readily. I stopped about two hundred feet from the side of the building and idled the bike. As the monsters closed I just sat on my motorcycle, sweat pouring from every pore on my body, as I waited for the right time. I held the clutch in, revving the motor, drawing as much attention as I could from the undead marching band.