Then, without warning, the steel door crashed into Cheryl’s head.
She was knocked backwards into the pipe behind her. The door bounced closed as she tried to right herself on the toilet. Stunned by the exploding pain on the top of her head, it took a second for her to notice Roach’s black leather boots underneath the door. She reached up and tried to lock the latch. When it wouldn’t catch, she fumbled to pull up her pants.
Roach’s hand came through the door and grabbed a fistful of her short hair. He shoved her back against the graffiti-covered sheetrock and wedged himself inside. Half naked and seeing a constellation of stars in front of her, she knew she was in trouble. Even if she managed to scream, no one in the bar would hear her.
Roach, his eyes narrow slits, moved his hand down to her throat, squeezing hard enough to prevent her from making a plea for her release, and started to undo his belt.
His tractor-sized jeans were half unzipped when her knee connected with his groin. His chokehold loosened a little as he bent forward and grunted. She screamed like a pterodactyl and kneed him again…and again. She didn’t stop until his body compacted, filling up the small stall in a hunched, deflated stance.
“Bitch!” he gasped. He fell forward and went limp, pinning her against the wall. She tried to shove him off, but the stall door had somehow decided to latch, so there was nowhere to move him. She took a deep breath and hoped that someone would come in the restroom to help her. A full minute went by, and no one came in.
She shoved his head towards the toilet and tried to push his shoulder to get his body to go in the same direction. On the third futile nudge, she noticed that his flesh was cool. The bar was hot, and like everyone else, he’d been perspiring heavily just minutes ago. Now, he felt like a slab of raw meat just out of the icebox.
She lifted his head and saw that his eyes were closed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Then, she yelled out loud, “Doesn’t anyone else in this joint have to pee?”
After placing two fingers on Roach’s jugular vein and feeling nothing, a new surge of adrenaline pushed all of her blood down to her toes and she felt faint.
Maybe Aidan would notice that she had been gone a while and come looking for her.
A growl rumbled out of Roach’s bluish lips.
Cheryl had no gun, no lamp base, nothing but her bare hands. She tried another hard knee to the groin, but it had no effect on him now. He lifted his head, slowly, like he was hoisting it on a crane, and revealed milky white eyes that had replaced the soulless brown eyes of a predator that had been there before. He lunged towards her face with a foul open mouth. She locked her elbows and pushed him back with all her might, knowing that he could snap her arms like twigs if he twisted them.
In a moment of inspiration she withdrew and flung herself deeper into the corner. He fell face forward towards the toilet. She shoved his head down and pushed it into the water. Then, she slammed the toilet lid onto it. He gurgled and growled, trying to force his way out. The lid tore off. She grabbed it and smashed it over his head. When the impact didn’t seem to have any effect, she wondered if she could climb over the stall door. It was possible, but he’d take a chunk of her leg before she got out.
Keep the teeth away.
She swatted the voice in her head away like it was a gnat, ignoring it at first.
Oh hi, Mark. You finally showed up. Better late than never.
If you can’t kill the head, stop the mouth.
What? How do you…?
Stop the mouth. Right. That was it. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of toilet paper and shoved it in through the gnashing teeth. He spat it out, but some of it stuck on the pale tongue. She grabbed some more, wadded it up, and pushed it in. After repeating a few more times, his cheeks bulged like the Godfather, and he was unable to close his mouth.
She knew she had to move fast; it was cheap toilet paper and would start to dissolve in seconds.
Over or under?
She held him at bay with her hands, but he was still grabbing for her and trying to masticate the paper. Deciding that there wasn’t enough room on the floor to move around him and squeeze under the stall, she decided to go up.
She was at the top, trying to hoist herself up over the edge, when he pulled her back down.
“Godamnit!” she yelled as the anger and frustration exploded out of her. She was done with being trapped in this box with a monster. She shoved his head back into the toilet and stomped it with her boot. Using every fiber of muscle in her thigh and calf, she crashed into his head over and over again, slamming it into the porcelain. The water turned pink then a deep crimson.
Seconds later, his head looked like a deflated basketball, oozing out a mash of strawberry jam and gray matter.
She escaped over the top of the stall. Stopping at the mirror above the sink, she saw fresh blood splatters all over her shirt, blending in with the camouflage pattern like bright flowers. She washed the muck off of her face and walked towards the door.
A pretty woman with a button nose and a rose tattoo on her forearm came in.
“Third one’s pretty gross…” Cheryl advised, and walked out of the restroom.
* * *
Cheryl crossed her arms over her chest to hide the blood as she rushed back into the bar. Aidan was still talking to the same man when she tugged on his sleeve.
“We have to go.”
“What?”
“I killed that guy.”
“You did what?”
“I killed him. He was sick.”
Aidan looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
She started to explain what had happened in the bathroom when a loud siren sounded. It was followed by Earl’s voice screeching into a bullhorn with an ear-splitting wail. “Incoming!”
The patrons scrambled, bouncing off one another, and they were suddenly alone at the bar as chaos swirled around them.
She glanced towards the windows. They were large panes of glass, and there were no boards on them. Since the bar was out in the middle of nowhere, it was possible that they hadn’t yet had a large scale attack, so they hadn’t felt the need to reinforce the building. She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she saw a dust cloud building on the horizon. From the wall of dust, figures began to emerge.
Walking, stumbling, lumbering skeletons.
It didn’t look real. It looked like some sort of CGI animation from the movie The Mummy.
But it was real, and they were in the middle of the desert with nowhere to run.
Guns replaced beer bottles as people started turning over tables to use as shields. No one was laughing now; they were all scared shitless. Someone pulled the plug on the jukebox, axing Blondie. Cheryl could almost hear the collective heartbeats in the room, thumping like the pitter-patter of panicked rabbits.
Instead of moans, the Eaters made screeching sounds like banshees as they approached. It wasn’t long before they heard fingernails scratching on glass and the click-clack of toes and metatarsals on the roof. Skulls pressed against the windows. There was nothing left of the rest of them but hair, bones, nails…and teeth. It made them as versatile as Swiss Army knives with tools made to claw, rip, and tear.
A man stretched as thin as a taught rubber band, wearing a sweat-soaked bandana, jumped up from behind the bar. His entire body oscillated like someone was shaking him from below. “They’re tearing apart the fucking building!” A blast from his shotgun blew out a window.
“Oh shit,” Cheryl exclaimed as the first skeletal torso started to clamber through. She and Aidan hightailed it back behind the bar.
All hell broke loose as open season was declared on the emaciated forms that began to scramble over the top of each other to get in. The room exploded into a helter-skelter of flying bullets and shards of glass.
Ducking down in a fetal position, Cheryl gagged at the horrible smell. Unlike the skunk-like, rotten scent of the infected who had decomposing necrotic tissue that was still juicy, the
se dried things smelled like the soot of ancient graves, and it was just as nasty.
After a few minutes, the room was filled with acrid smoke, but some of the frenzy seemed to subside. Aidan chanced a peek over the bar and reported that the battle seemed to be turning in their favor. Cheryl rose to her feet and saw that casualties were minimal though blood and brain matter were splattered from wall to wall and piles of broken bones littered the dance floor. There were whoops of victory from the crowd as if they’d just scored major points in a video game.
Cheryl wasn’t celebrating with them. She rose to her feet and looked out the broken windows, and caught sight of something unnerving in the distance. The sand was boiling up again, churning up a cauldron of dust even higher than what she’d seen before.
There were more coming.
Lots more.
The room suddenly became quiet. Many of the patrons dropped to their knees as a whoosh of air seemed to come out of all of them, from the perkiest little barfly in a mini skirt to the burliest tattooed biker in sweaty leather.
Someone whispered, “God have mercy…”
Cheryl hadn’t seen Jade since the attack started, but he suddenly popped up from the center of the room. “Get your bikes. Get out of here!”
Cheryl and Aidan managed to pry a couple of rifles from the fingers of people that seemed to have been downed by friendly fire before the stampede began. Then they found themselves pinned against a wall by jostling elbows, gun barrels, and the sheer mass of panicked bodies trying to get out the back door.
They followed the rear of the group outside and saw a few stragglers from the first wave of Eaters, but they didn’t seem to be an imminent threat. A few rooted around in the trash bin, while another ghoulish figure made of gray skin and bones was on his knees, trying to stick his black tongue in a beer bottle to get at some unidentifiable lump inside.
Engines revved as the people scrambled to find their bikes in a strange and frantic game of musical chairs. Cheryl expected that a fight was going to be the only way they’d be able to wrestle one away from someone or convince a couple of riders to allow them as passengers. Before they could decide on a plan of action, the caravan of motorcycles sped away, leaving them behind in the dust.
There were horrible sounds from the advancing horde now. Time was running out to make a break for it. There were five motorcycles left. Three of them didn’t have keys in the ignition. The fourth was Aidan’s wounded steed. He glanced back, saying a silent farewell to it, then led Cheryl to an Electra Glide Classic with a feathery roach clip attached to a key chain dangling from the ignition.
The Eaters were just yards away when they peeled out—a delay of one more second would have been their doom. They skidded towards the road and the battalion of corpses screamed as one as it saw its dinner getting away.
Holding on to Aidan’s waist and sinking in to the back seat cushion, Cheryl exhaled all of the foul air from her lungs. When they were a mile down the road, she noticed something flipping in the wind like a silver fish by her thigh. She looked down at the name on the dog tag that was wrapped around the back handle and felt a moment of satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty Three
The motorcycle was a more comfortable ride than Aidan’s Sportster, but it wasn’t as fast, a fact that could have serious consequences if they found themselves in trouble again. Luckily, no trouble presented itself immediately. They rode south for several miles without seeing any of the other evacuees from Black Todd’s or any more infected hordes. The road was so empty that it seemed like the desert had just swallowed them up.
They were in the middle of nowhere when Aidan stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m so fucking thirsty.”
He took his knife out of the pocket of his jeans and walked over to a statuesque cactus with upraised arms.
Cheryl yelled after him. “You know it’s illegal to mess with one of those.”
“Really? Then, I guess I shouldn’t do this.” He stabbed into it with his knife, took it out, licked the sticky bitter goo off the blade and spat it out. “Let me know if you see a sheriff coming around to arrest me. Maybe he’ll take me to a nice air-conditioned jail cell where I can have a burger for lunch and watch a little TV. Sounds like a vacation right now.”
He continued to rant as he took another stab, licked the knife, and spat again with a grimace. “I don’t see how they make tequila from this crap. Tastes like shit.”
They make tequila from agave, not saguaro. She didn’t correct him.
“Why don’t you try one of those?” she suggested, pointing to a prickly pear with fat red fruits on top of their pads. “I think they’re more edible.”
He took a third bite from the saguaro before he gagged and gave up. Minutes later, they were together, sitting on a rock, savoring the succulent flesh and fruit of the prickly pear, red juices dribbling down their chins.
They sat in silence, until Aidan asked, “What if we get to Tucson, and your dad and your aunt are dead?”
She thought about the very likely prospect. If that worst case scenario played out, there were only two options: she’d either implode from the burden of the grief or thicken her skin, get over it, and adapt to whatever challenges lay ahead. What was the saying? Whatever didn’t kill you made you stronger? It still surprised her that she’d made it through Mark’s demise. Maybe she didn’t know the limitations of her resilience yet. She looked Aidan hard in the eyes, “We’ll play it by ear.”
“Fair enough,” he said, biting into another tart desert strawberry.
It seemed completely stupid to ask him this far along in the game, but she couldn’t prevent her mouth from forming the words. “Why are you here? Why have you come this far with me?”
He took his time before answering, and he didn’t look at her as he said the words. His eyes were trained at the blood red clouds in the west. “Maybe I think you’re alright. Maybe I’ve just fucked up a lot of things in my life, and I wanted to do someone right for once. Last chance and all.”
After Mark’s sacrifice, it was fortuitous that this stranger came along, rescued her, and adopted her mission as his own. It smacked too much of martyrdom and seemed to go against his loner creed. Yet she was grateful, and if something happened to him, she wasn’t sure how she’d cope. She didn’t feel deserving of what he’d done for her. It made less sense when she thought about the tragedy of his own loss—his girlfriend and her kid.
The emotions got the best of her as she threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”
* * *
They were off the main road, somewhere between Hayden and San Manuel when the sky turned from periwinkle to midnight blue and a frosting of stars appeared above them. They decided to stop for what would be their final night before reaching Tucson and whatever surprises it had in store for them.
It was windy, so, using a tarp and a rope, they made a makeshift bivouac like a tent off the side of the motorcycle. It was just a small area, so they found themselves hip to hip once they laid out the sleeping bags.
Cheryl resisted sleep, not wanting to dream about Mark or have another nightmare. She was also anxious about what the next day would hold. Would she find Aunt Donna together with her dad in the basement of his little brick house, trembling with fear and grateful for their arrival, since their food and water were almost gone? Would she find their homes empty and have no idea what happened to them? Or would she walk into the aftermath of a bloodbath?
When she felt a hand on her thigh, it was a welcome distraction.
Aidan didn’t say a word as his hand slid up underneath the back of her filthy shirt. The caress of his fingers against her skin was just a tickle at first then it became soft strokes that caused goose bumps. By the time his hand found her breast, she felt ripples of pleasure mixed with pangs of guilt. She was half-expecting Mark’s voice to pop into her head with the sound of his throat clearing in protest.
Stop it. Let it go. You can’t
cheat on a dead man.
She turned to face Aidan, and their mouths met in a passionate wet kiss. It wasn’t long after that they were both shirtless and slippery with sweat as they started to devour each other’s body.
During a pause to untie the tangle of laces on her combat boots, Aidan’s head jerked up.
“What?”
“I heard something.”
No. Not now.
Cheryl hoped it was just the wind or a coyote.
Aidan leaned over her and peered out of the tarp then let out a barely audible gasp.
“What is it?” she whispered. But as she asked the question, she heard what he’d heard—a chorus of sorrowful moans that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but what it was.
“There’s a line of them coming over the next dune, heading this way.”
He quickly fumbled over her side and grabbed the gun.
She peeked out, and what she saw caused another rash of goose bumps, the kind made by fear, not the pleasurable touch of fingers. “There’s not much ammo left,” she said as she quickly pulled on her shirt. “Should we try to outrun them?”
He remained fixated on the scene. “It’s weird. They’re moving in a straight line, heading south. I don’t think they’ve spotted us.”
She looked again, holding her breath in case something as simple as a sigh might give them away. In the dim light of the moon and the sprinkle of stars, they looked like waddling Bobbleheads. There were about twenty of them, and she wondered if the skeletal figures were following the one in the lead who was a few feet ahead of the rest. A second later, the formation looked a little more ragtag. One broke ranks, picked up a snake, and put it in his mouth. Another took a bite out of the shoulder of the ghoul in front of him, causing a momentary scuffle.
“Where are they going?” she asked, still mesmerized by what she was seeing.
Eaters Page 28
