by Tony Urban
She’d been wrong about the smile. If anything, the look on his face was a grimace. The skin around his eyes was a mosaic of red-purple bruises and his irises were the color of old coffee stains.
“I didn’t do any damage. Just grabbed a couple candy bars. And I’ll give them back if that’s what you want.”
She emptied the contents of her pockets onto the counter. Danny looked from them up to her face.
“Can’t give back that Snickers now, can you?”
He had a point there. “I’ll pay you for it then.” She rummaged through her pockets and came out with a dollar bill and some change which she set on the counter.
Danny sneered and when he did, his lip pulled up to reveal gray gums that leaked pus which filled in the cracks between his teeth like grout. “Pay? With cash. You think money’s worth anything now?”
While she tried to work out an answer, Danny changed the course of the discussion by extracting a shotgun from behind the counter. He held it in his hands, cradling it like a baby.
“Listen, Danny, I’m sorry. I—”
“You listen, bitch.”
He tilted the barrel in her direction, racked the shotgun, and pointed it at her face. “Drop your pants. Now!”
6
The world was quiet when Solomon regained consciousness. He thought he remembered it sounding quite different before, but his memory was only half working. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. He felt restraints holding his arms and that brought part of the last few hours rushing back. He was in a hospital. He’d been taken there by ambulance for some reason. But he couldn’t recall why.
When he attempted to move his head, it met with the same resistance as his arms. Bastards have me trussed up like a Christmas goose, he thought.
“’ello. I’ve come to and would appreciate a hand.”
He waited but received no response. His patience was running thin.
“Are any of you wankers out there? I want loose of this fucking table.” Another 20 seconds of silence passed and Solomon was done waiting.
He jerked his right arm with as much force as he could muster. The strap holding his arm gave way with a tearing sound, but the movement sent a fire-poker of pain searing through his skull. What the holy hell?
He reached up with his free hand and undid the strap holding his head still. That allowed him to sit up but the motion of doing so made his stomach do somersaults and again made his head feel on the verge of implosion. Everything went blindingly white and he squeezed his eyes closed to stop the brightness.
Then it all came rushing back to him. His whoring wife becoming a zombie. Killing the bint. Taking the gun into the neighborhood and seeing his ugly bird of a neighbor eating her tot. Getting ready to shoot her. And--
The gunshot.
He remembered a sudden halt after that. Some bastard shot him. Bollocks.
Solomon unfastened the strap at his left hand and climbed down from the operating table, careful to move his head as little as possible because, every time he moved it, the pain multiplied. He looked around the room. Rust-colored blood covered the floor and his feet stuck to it like he was walking on ticky tape. Mixed in with the spilled blood were a variety of surgical instruments. That brought the rest of it back. The screams, the struggle. Zombies had overtaken the room, but they were gone now, leaving destruction in their wake.
He spied the sleeve of a surgical scrub and, when he looked closer, he realized an arm was still inside it. He kicked it out of his way and it slithered across the floor and into an overturned bin. Goal!
Solomon spotted a mirror mounted on the wall above a small sink and stepped to it. He saw his reflection and his eyes went to a half inch wound in his forehead. He leaned in closer for a better look and realized it wasn’t just a wound, it was an egg-shaped hole. The edges were charred black and a nub of pinkish-gray tissue poked out.
“Is that my fookin’ brain?”
He reached up with his forefinger and pressed on the tissue. It felt dense and malleable like gelatin which was still a few minutes away from being set. He kept pushing until the bit of brain tissue disappeared into the hole in his skull, but as soon as he removed his finger it popped back out again. It reminded him of the Whack-A-Mole game he played at the arcade when he was a lad.
Saw poked it again, this time pushing until his finger was buried to the first knuckle. That made him feel so horny he would have shagged his dead wife if she’d been in the room but he also forgot where he was. His name too for that matter. His finger came out of his head with a popping noise and he quickly recalled what was happening. He noticed another hole above his left temple. That one was larger and the surrounding skin had splayed out in a small x. Marks the spot, he thought. No brains extruded from that hole but clear fluid seeped out.
“Better patch myself up. Don’t need me brains falling out of my noggin.”
He found bandages and a roll of gauze on the floor. Both were stained with the blood of the dead but they would have to do. He covered both wounds, then wrapped the gauze around his head a few times and tied it off in a knot. As he looked at himself again in the mirror, he thought it looked like he was wearing a ninja headband of sorts. For some reason the made him giggle like a schoolboy.
After the laughter stopped, he pushed open the swinging door to the room, expecting to see the hallway full of zombies, but it was as empty as the operating suite. There was plenty of blood and wreckage, but no bodies, living or dead.
His head still throbbed and his priority was to find something for the pain. After some searching, he discovered a medicine cart. The damned thing was locked up tight, so he needed to find a way inside.
He slammed it against the wall several times. That added a few dings but didn’t spring the drawers. He searched the hallway until he saw an ax mounted on the wall. He chuckled as he read the instructions aloud. “In case of emergency, break glass. If this ain't a fookin' emergency, I don't know what is.”
He used his elbow to shatter the glass and pulled out the chunks with his hand, ignoring the multiple cuts he sustained. They were pinpricks compared with the bomb inside his head.
Saw removed the ax and returned to the cart. After five good blows he thought he’d be better off using the rotten thing to cut off his head instead. But, eventually, the locks gave way. He sifted through the bottles, trying to find names that meant something to him. He found and pocketed an antibiotic. That might come in handy considering the holes in his head. But he wanted more and soon enough he found it. Oxycodone.
“Jackpot, mate.”
He grabbed every bottle available and deposited them into his pockets, saving one for the present. He unscrewed the lid, dropped two pills into his palm and dry swallowed them. He was ready to move on when he noticed something else in the cart. He pulled out what looked like a medical swab and read the label.
“Fentynl.” He recalled that drug was sometimes mixed with heroin. He removed the paper packaging and saw it was a lozenge on a stick. “Looks like a lolli…”
Saw inserted it into his mouth and sucked on it. It tasted sweet as candy and within a few moments he felt some of the pain fade. He grabbed a few more then decided it best to be on his way.
He followed the red arrows painted on the walls, above which “Exit” was stenciled, and soon enough he spied daylight ahead. Before he reached the doorway, he heard a crash inside a nearby room. He approached, cautious, and found an employee’s lounge filled with couches, chairs, and vending machines. It was at the snack machine where he saw the zombie.
It knelt on the floor in front of the unit like a man praying to a false idol. When Solomon stepped into the room it heard him and turned in his direction, revealing other zombies had eaten it to the bone in many places. No skin remained on its head. All of its ribs were visible and its belly was just a hollow cavern. Then Solomon realized why it wasn’t coming for him. It was trapped.
The zombie had its right arm inserted all the way into the snack return. A sm
all bag of Cool Ranch Doritos hung precariously, a few inches out of reach. The creature attempted to move toward Saw, but made no progress. Its skeletal jaws clicked together like the wind up teeth they sell in novelty stores. Solomon grinned at the sight.
“Talk about getting your hand caught in the cookie jar. Bad day to be you, mate.”
Solomon strode toward the half-eaten zombie, raised the ax overhead, and brought it down in a swift motion that separated the monster’s head from his neck. The skull rolled across the floor before getting lost under a jumble of chairs. The body sagged to the ground, except for the arm which remained trapped inside the machine.
Satisfied, Solomon left the room, then exited the hospital. Several zombies roamed the streets, but he saw no one who was actually alive. He slithered along the sidewalk, keeping close the buildings and careful to not catch the attention of the undead. He needed a car. A car could take him to his shop and there he could get prepared. Prepared for the fight he knew was coming.
7
After three solid days of killing zombies, some of the fun had started to wear off. Meade had lost count at 57. He’d come upon a scattered group of the monsters outside a Walmart and dispatched them with his hockey stick. In the melee he couldn’t remember whether there were 14 or 15. That was day two and he didn’t bother keeping track afterward.
His mind was a fog where everything seemed to move in fast forward and slow motion at the same time. Existing on nothing but pre-packaged convenience store junk food wasn’t helping.
Mead had raided a Sheetz and filled the trunk of his Cavalier with chips, powdered mini donuts, candy bars, and caffeine loaded liquids. He felt high, even more than the few times he’d tried cocaine years earlier, but the crash was terrible. To stave it off, he chugged even more energy drinks (the berry flavored five-hour energy shots were his favorite) and went back to work. His heart felt as if it might beat out of his chest, but the diet also gave him insatiable fortitude for slicing and dicing the undead bastards.
Even through the excitement and rush he knew the battle was one he couldn’t win. For every zombie he killed, three more showed up. Unless he stumbled upon a tank or an A bomb, he had no chance of killing all of them.
As he strolled back to his car, he heard a metallic thud in an alleyway to his right. His sugar high was fading and he almost ignored it. Instead, he wiped remnants of some intestines off his hockey stick and moved between the buildings.
Mead made it five yards into the alley when a small man skittered out from between a row of trash cans. Mead reared back with the stick, but stopped when he saw the man hunker down and hold his hands over his head.
“No hurt! No hurt!” the man shouted.
Mead lowered the stick. “What the hell are you doing in the garbage? Do you think you’re Oscar the grouch?”
The man peeked up, tentative, but remained silent.
“Stand up.”
The man stood, keeping his hands skyward.
“Put your hands down. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He was barely five feet tall and so thin Mead could see his bones under his parchment paper-colored skin. He reminded Mead of a much older, thinner version of Pan, the busboy whose ear he’d seen eaten away a few days ago.
“Thanks you.”
“Yeah,” Mead said. “You’re welcome. Better watch your back out here.”
Mead spun and exited the alley. As he reached for the door handle, he heard the footsteps behind him. He looked back and saw the Asian man waiting a few feet away.
“What?” Mead asked.
“Me go you.”
“What?”
“Me go you.” The man lifted his hand and mimed holding a steering wheel.
“You want me to take you?”
The man nodded.
“Why?”
The man paused and considered that. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have an answer. Mead looked from him to the car and tilted his head toward it.
“Well, get in.”
The man clapped his hands together three times in rapid succession, then skipped to the Cavalier. He climbed in without giving Mead a chance to change his mind. Mead noticed a few zombies had been drawn to the scene, but they were far enough away to not be a bother. He took a seat behind the wheel, started the engine, then looked over at the little man beside him.
“What’s your name?”
“Wang Jie.”
Mead grinned. “Wang? Like…” He grabbed his crotch.
Wang nodded. “Wang Jie.”
“I can’t, man. I just can’t.” Mead shifted the car into first and eased down the street. A slow moving zombie in a paramedic’s uniform stumbled toward them, dragging its right leg which was doused with dried blood. Mead aimed the Cavalier in the zombie’s general direction and, when he got up beside it, swung the bladed end of one of his homemade hockey stick weapons and sliced the monster’s head clean off.
Mead tossed the stick into the back seat and glanced a his passenger.
“I’m calling you Jie.”
They spent the afternoon driving around Johnstown and killing zombies. Around the time it got dark, Mead told Wang Jie they should find a place to sleep. He had no desire to drive all night long, especially with no streetlights to illuminate the way.
As they passed a squat, vinyl sided building with a sign out front reading, “Pit Stop Beverages”, Wang Jie pointed and gesticulated so frantically that Mead thought the old dude might be stroking out.
“Stop here. Stop here!”
“Here?”
Wang Jie nodded and Mead eased the Cavalier into the empty lot. He parked in front of a hand painted sign reading "Beer Is Good!" and as soon as the car stopped, the man exited stage right and bounced toward the door. Mead watched as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one into the lock and swung the steel door open. Then, Wang Jie looked back to Mead and waved for him to come as he disappeared inside.
“I’ll be damned,” Mead said and followed.
When he got inside, Wang Jie was grabbing liquor bottles off the shelves. The room was on the small side, maybe 20 by 20, but every inch of it was filled with alcohol of various types. Mead had never been a big drinker, but knew how most American’s behaved and was surprised there hadn’t been a run on booze in the last days. Or that the store hadn’t been looted.
“Take you like,” Wang Jie said as he sat his bottles on the counter.
“Is this your store?”
Wang Jie swung the keys back and forth on his finger. “Wang work here. Two year now. Pay bad. Could no afford good stuff.” He unscrewed the top to a bottle of vodka then took a swig straight from it. Then he tilted the bottle to Mead. “You try.”
Mead shook his head. “You go ahead. I’m fine.”
Wang shrugged his shoulders and took another long drink. “You loss.”
“Is there anything to eat here?”
Wang pointed across the room. “Peanuts. Crackers. That about all.”
Mead sighed. “You know what I could really eat? Oranges. Or grapes. Anything but junk food. Hell, I could eat a head of lettuce right about now.”
Wang seemed to consider this. “No here. Sorry.”
“No worries, buddy.”
Two hours later Wang Jie was singing an off-key version of "Highway to Hell" while Mead played air guitar.
“Hey Satan, I pay dues. Praying in a rock roll band. Hey ma, rook at me. Driving on to promised rand. Woohoo! On the Highway to Herr!”
Mead had downed two strawberry flavored wine coolers and was feeling fine, but he still knew the little Asian man was getting most of the words wrong and he didn’t care. Wang Jie had proved to be quite the lively drunk and hadn’t shut his mouth since he’d passed the halfway point on the bottle of Grey Goose.
Eventually Jie finished his serenade and attempted to take a seat on a folding chair he’d procured from the storage room. He missed and ended up with his ass on the floor.
“Ass hurt!”
he said and giggled uncontrollably.
Mead smiled but felt a yawn coming on. He tried to fight it off but only half succeeded.
“Mead seepy?” Wang asked.
“Very. The last few days have been…”
He didn’t finish and Wang Jie nodded.
“There cot in backroom. You seep there.”
“You take the cot, Jie. I can sleep on the floor. After all, this is your place. Kinda.”
Wang Jie shook his head almost violently. “You guest. You offend me you no take cot.”
“Are you sure?”
“You seep good. Rest well so you drive tomorrow.”
Mead did need a good night’s sleep. He hadn’t had one since this mess started. “Okay then. You sleep too, Jie. Maybe I’ll let you drive a while tomorrow too.”
Wang Jie giggled again and mimicked holding a steering wheel for the second time in the few hours Mead had known him. He added "Vroom vroom" sounds for effect.
“And maybe not,” Mead said mostly to himself.
He trudged into the backroom, fell onto the cot, and was asleep in seconds.
The sound of smashing glass woke Mead and the sudden interruption of his sleep left him startled and disoriented. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but once he did, the sounds made a little more sense. Wang Jie must have knocked over a display case. Maybe even an entire row of shelves. Mead jumped up, worried his new friend might shred himself on broken glass. He rushed to the main room.
Sunlight flooded in through the door which hung ajar. Mead couldn’t believe it was daytime already. He looked around the room, but saw no one.
“Jie?”
More glass broke. The sound came from a far corner, an area Mead couldn’t see due to the numerous rows of beer and liquor. He started toward the noise, then stopped himself long enough to grab one of his hockey sticks from the counter. Can never be too careful.
He approached. Slow. Cautious. There were eight aisles between him and the wall. Number one was empty. So were two, three, and four. In five he saw a few cases of beer knocked to the floor. In six a display rack of various spiced peanuts was toppled over. As he neared row seven, he heard glass crunching underfoot. And then a moan.
