by Tony Urban
When Dash was within 10 yards of them, he started shooting. Despite his supposed SEAL prowess, his ability to connect with head shots was lacking and with the rifle on full automatic, he blew through half his magazine and had dropped only 14. The relative failure only enraged him and he sprinted at the creatures, gripping the gun at his waist and firing as he ran.
Bullets whistled through the air. A few connected, mostly with torsos and limbs but there weren't many lethal hits to the brain. My God, Jorge thought, this guy’s not only a blowhard, he’s insane.
As if to prove the point, Dash screamed. “Die you zombie motherfuckers!”
Within seconds, his rifle was empty. He tossed it to the side and pulled a Bowie knife from his belt. Bolivar watched in a mixture of awe and horror as Dash leapt into the air and pounced on the nearest zombie. He plunged the knife into its face, jerked it free, then stabbed it again. Three more zombies moved toward him and one of them grabbed Dash’s arm.
Bolivar drew his pistol and shot. The bullet hit the zombie in the back of its head and exploded out its eye socket. He shot the second in its mouth and it crumpled to the ground. The third zombie left Dash and came at Bol, but before he could fire, Dash climbed to his feet and jumped onto its back, screaming like a howler monkey. He rammed the blade of the knife into the zombie’s eye then gave the handle an extra twist for good measure. They fell in a heap and a moment later Dash slithered out from underneath the dead zombie.
“Good fuckin shootin, brother!” He wiped zombie blood off his knife and onto the leg of his jeans.
“You’re crazy.”
“As a shit house rat, brother! As a shit house rat!” He grinned a crazy man's grin.
He clapped Jorge on the back hard enough to take his breath away, then gazed toward the White House. “Would ya look at that...”
Jorge did. He saw zombies littering the North Lawn. Women in smart business attire. Secret Service agents in jet black suits. Groundskeepers, police, security guards. All of them were dead. All of them were zombies. Several lumbered across the steps of the White House, undead tourists.
"Hey, you think the President got out before he turned into one of those motherfuckers?" Dash asked, snapping Bolivar out of his daze.
Dash’s eyes were crazed, but gleaming and Bolivar realized the man was crying.
“I don’t know. I’d say the odds are pretty slim.”
Dash nodded. Zombies from further up the path were heading toward them,
“We better scoot.” Dash said.
The men jogged to the car.
“Hey, when I was enlisted, we used to hear about a thing in West Virginia called Project Greek Island. Ever hear of it?”
Bolivar shook his head as he turned the around.
“Yeah. It was some underground bunker big enough to house all the government big wigs in case Khrushchev decided to drop A bombs.”
After Philadelphia, Bolivar thought civilization was over. But now? If what Dash said was true, there might be a chance. “Do you know where it’s supposed to be?”
“Sulfur Spring or something like that. Middle of fucking nowhere.”
“White Sulphur Springs? There’s a huge hotel down there. My C O went one summer with his wife’s family. Ritzy place, from what he said.”
“That’s the one!” Dash was beaming. Some of the crazy had fled his eyes. “That’s the place, brother. The bunker’s under the hotel. Carved right into the motherfucking mountain, from what I heard.”
“You know how to get there?”
“West?”
Dash’s goofy, gap-toothed smile brightened Bolivar’s mood, and made him forget, momentarily, that the man was a lunatic.
20
Solomon discovered an old K car sitting outside a gas station, the hose to the pump still inserted into the gas tank. He pulled the nozzle free and cast it aside where petrol dribbled onto the pavement. The keys weren’t in the ignition but that didn’t matter. One of the many skills he’d picked up over the years was hot-wiring and, less than 20 seconds after plopping into the driver’s seat, the engine was running and he was on the road.
The fentanyl lolly had turned the pain in his head into an annoying, reverberating drumbeat. Between crashed and abandoned cars and the undead bastards, driving to his shop took three times as long as it should have, but he made it. He didn’t bother stopping to kill any zombies along the way. Even with the ax, he didn’t feel comfortable being out in the midst of them. He had other plans for that.
When he pulled in front of the large warehouse which the sign atop declared "Baldwin Residential & Commercial Construction" it annoyed him to see the bay door to the garage stood half open. He hadn’t visited the shop in nearly a week. He’d been too busy worrying about his whore of a wife (God rest her soul) to stay atop of the business. Now it seemed the canaries had decided to play while the cat was away.
He exited the car and moved to the open door where he saw nothing amiss. The colossal, Kenworth W900 tri-axel dump truck that had set him back over $200,000 filled most of the cavity but an assortment of other machines and equipment was scattered about. There were no obvious signs of looting, but the open garage door meant someone had been here. He raised the ax, poised to attack.
Saw found no one in the garage. He let his guard down slightly as he moved into the customer service area. It too appeared undisturbed and unoccupied. He’d almost given up on finding anyone in the building when he heard a thudding noise coming from behind a door labeled ‘Private’. Behind that door was Solomon’s office, and, apparently, it was occupied.
The thought enraged him. “You’d be wise to get your thievin' ass out here right now!”
His voice drew another thud, but the door remained closed.
“Sneaky bastard!”
Saw, by nature, was an angry man, but he could usually hold it at bay, at least for a while. His patience seemed to have vanished. He stomped across the room, giving no thought to the possibility that whoever was inside might be armed and waiting to punch another hole in his noggin. He was hungry to kill and nothing else mattered.
As soon as he threw open the door and stepped inside, his feet flew out from under him and he crashed backward onto the floor. The ax skidded across the room and ended up under an industrial couch but Solomon didn’t notice. His head cracked against the linoleum and fresh waves of nauseating pain assailed him. He pushed it aside, at least as much as possible, and crawled to his knees. He felt slippery wetness under him. It was all over the floor and he slowed his movement to keep his balance as he climbed to his feet.
Saw half walked, half scooted further into the room. His eyes darted to and fro as he scanned the office and soon enough he saw the man behind his desk. He was face down on the floor and ahead of him was an overturned mop bucket. That’s when it all made sense.
“Hector?” The fucking janitor. Still coming to work in the midst of this mess. I really should bump up his pay. Hector was older than Solomon and spoke almost no English. He was also as illegal as butt-fucking in Iran, but Solomon didn’t mind. Half his crew was paid under the table and had questionable backgrounds. Considering his own past, he felt it his duty to give the boys a second chance.
Saw moved closer to the man who tried to rise to his knees, but his hands slipped in the spilled, soapy liquid and he face-planted onto the floor.
“Hold up, mate.”
Solomon grabbed him by the back of his chambray work shirt and lifted. When Hector’s face came into view, Solomon saw it was broken and bloody. The eyes were closed at first, but they snapped open and Solomon saw the dead eyes of a zombie.
At the same time Hector opened his eyes, his arm lashed out, catching Solomon’s jaw. His cool, clumsy fingers scratched at Saw's tongue and fished around inside his mouth. He thought it felt almost obscene, like he had a mouthful of small, writhing cocks. Saw bit down and felt Hector's skin tear. His teeth met phalanges. He kept biting.
Hector tried to pull his hand free and that rep
ositioned his middle finger so the joint sat between Solomon’s teeth. He chomped harder and felt it give way. He allowed Hector to fall and the man took another nosedive. Saw spit the janitor’s finger to the floor where it seemed to point at him accusingly. “Fuck you too, pal.”
Solomon slid backward, soaking the seat of his pants. The cold water helped clear his head. When he saw Hector crawling toward him, he knew it was time to finish him once and for all. Saw scanned the room for the ax but didn’t see it anywhere. He considered smashing the janitor’s head in with his foot, but didn’t trust that on the water-slick linoleum. He needed a weapon and he found one.
Saw grabbed the mop and put the wood handle to his knee. When he pressed his weight against it, it responded with a satisfying crack. He tossed the mop head aside.
Hector was only a few feet away now and Saw aimed the broken, jagged end in his direction. He let the janitor get another foot closer. As Hector growled at him, Solomon thrust the mop handle at his face. The wood sunk deep into Hector’s nasal cavity.
Hector's body went limp, his head suspended by the stick. Solomon almost dropped the handle, but then decided to bounce it back and forth, laughing as the dead man moved like a puppet in a Punch and Judy show. That lasted for a full minute before he lost interest.
Afterward, Solomon returned to the garage where he closed and locked the bay door. He had a plan, but it would take time to do it up right. He gathered together several long poles of rebar and a welding torch. Time to go to work.
21
The van ran out of gas soon after they crossed into West Virginia. Mead and Bundy had been heading south with intentions of venturing into the mountains which Bundy assured Mead were sparsely populated. Bundy also assured him they had another 30 miles worth of gas in the tank when the engine sputtered, then stopped in the middle of a generic small town.
“It’s nothing to get your panties bunched up over,” Bundy said with the sort of casual indifference that got Mead’s heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears. The big man was a crack shot, that was for sure, but he was so… relaxed. Mead couldn’t help but get pissed off. This is the end of the fucking world, start acting like it.
Bundy fished a garden hose out of the back of the van and held it up like he’d just won 1st place in the Pinewood Derby. Mead knew the look because he watched the other kids get their trophies while he sat on the sidelines with his shitty 8th place car in his lap.
Bundy added a five-gallon gas can. “Problem solved.”
Mead looked up and down the street. Two zombies, both 20 yards away, seemed to ignore them. Bundy handed Mead the hose and the red plastic container.
"Why do I have to get the gas?"
“It’s my van. You’ve been freeloading thus far. Time to earn your keep.”
He looked dead serious which pissed Mead off even more. Then Bundy laughed and clapped him on the shoulder so hard Mead thought he might topple over like a Weeble.
“I’m just joshing ya. You get the gas and I’ll cover your ass. Sound fair?” He took out a rifle to demonstrate his end of the deal. Mead had no idea what kind of gun it was but the barrel was long and it had a scope big enough you could probably see alien turds on the moon through it.
“Okay,” Mead said as he headed up the road to the nearest car — a bright yellow Pontiac Sunfire. He flipped open the gas cover, then unscrewed the cap which he dropped to the pavement. He kicked it down the street, past Bundy. The plastic bounced and hopped before coming to a stop outside a flower kiosk that was too far away for the men to hear the groan that followed.
Gas fumes assaulted his nostrils as Mead inserted the hose into the gas tank. He held the hose to his lips and sucked cautiously. Nothing happened. He tried again with the same result.
“Must be empty!” he called out to Bundy who had rested the rifle across the hood of the van, in a sniper's position.
“You ain’t sipping soda. You gotta suck on it. Pretend you’re back at summer camp playing doctor with your boyfriend!”
Bundy laughed. Mead did not. Fuck you, jerk. You’re the one that was probably gobbling cock in prison a week ago, not me.
Mead sucked like he was trying to drink the thickest milkshake of all time and was rewarded with a mouthful of gasoline. He coughed and sucked it down his throat and into his nasal passages where it burned like liquid fire. He puked it onto the pavement, his eyes watering, and all he could hear was Bundy chortling so hard that Mead thought the fat bastard might have the big one right there. He almost hoped he would.
“Hurry up,” Bundy said between guffaws. “You’re losing it!”
Mead looked down to find gas gushing from the hose and all over his shoes. He quickly stuck the hose in the gas can and waited for it to fill.
Inside the clapboard flower booth, a zombie crawled out from under a pile of dead roses and lilies. She had been pushing retirement age and wore a green apron and visor cap with “MeeMaw’s Meadow” embroidered in white thread. Her glasses sat askew on her face, but she was past needing them any more.
Gas bubbled from the can and Mead pulled the hose free from the Pontiac. Bundy moved to the van’s gas tank and inserted a funnel. Neither of them saw six zombies stumble out of a diner on the side of the street opposite their position at the van.
“May as well fill it up while we’re here,” Bundy said.
Mead didn’t relish the thought of another drink of fuel but he knew Bundy was right. Five gallons would take them another 100 or 150 miles and then they’d have to do this all over again.
While they waited for the gas to empty into the tank, they both missed a preteen zombie exit the broken glass doors of a red brick middle school further up the street. The young girl wore a Frozen t-shirt and most of the skin from her eyes up was missing. More zombies followed her out of the building, single file like an undead fire drill.
Bundy was almost finished transferring the gas when the florist zombie moved into view. She grabbed Bundy’s arm and he dropped the can. The remaining gasoline splashed over his feet.
“Why you old hag,” he said in the same matter-of-fact tone that frustrated Mead to no end.
Bundy pulled his arm free and grabbed a handful of her gray hair. He slammed her face into the side of the van and the men could hear bones breaking. He smashed her another time for good measure and she went limp.
He dropped her to the ground where she fell on top of the gas can. Bundy bent down and rolled her off, then grabbed the container. When he stood up, he stared past Mead and realized the two zombies that had been roaming harmlessly upon their arrival were now within a few yards. He shoved the can at Mead and moved toward the front of the van where the rifle was still propped on the hood.
Mead turned to follow the action and saw the zombies. He grabbed one of his sticks from the van. "I got thi--" He stopped when he saw the two zombies closing in from the front were now flanked by six zombies from the diner. “Fuck.”
Bundy waved at him to circle around. “I’ll get the two up front. You take the ones coming from the side.”
Mead raised his stick, ready to dish out death but before that happened, he saw the zombies from the school ambling up the street. There were too many to count. Over 70. Maybe more than 100.
“Fuck,” he said again. It was the only word that came to mind. It was all that needed said.
Bundy followed his gaze and saw the dozens of zombies marching toward them. Most looked to be young teens, many already sporting braces or marred by garish, purple pimples decorating their faces. Several adults who had likely been teachers or administrators mixed into the crowd. Some had obviously been attacked, with gaping, bloody wounds that had long since stopped bleeding.
Bundy fired a bullet through the head of one of the zombies approaching from the front. Mead used his stick to impale one of his group through the ear, then swung around and chopped off the head of another. The school of zombies was within 10 yards.
”We have to go! Get in the van!” Mead
yelled.
Bundy saw more zombies coming in from the front. Three dozen, maybe four. “There’s too many to drive through. We need to wait it out somewhere.”
Mead dropped three more zombies with the stick then searched around for an escape route. Zombies surrounded them and they moved closer with every second that passed. I’m not going to die this soon, he thought. No way. It’s not fair.
When he’d expressed that sentiment growing up, Mead’s dad had always told him (usually along with a slap upside his head) that life wasn’t fair and it certainly wasn’t. If it was, he wouldn’t have been fathered by an illiterate, alcoholic dipshit who couldn’t even hold onto his job burning up trash at the local dump. And his mother wouldn’t have been a 15-year-old bimbo whose number one goal in life was getting social security disability. Life wasn’t fair but Mead wasn’t ready for his to end yet.
He spotted a narrow fire escape staircase leading to the roof of a building across from the van.
“Over there!” Mead said as he ran for the stairs. He sliced open the stomach of a zombie he passed along the way and its rotten guts fell out in one big clump.
“They’ll follow us!” Bundy yelled, but he chased Mead anyway. Running was not one of his regular pastimes and he was out of breath within five thundering steps.
“Zombies can’t climb steps.”
Bundy struggled to keep up. He could hear the creatures closing in. “Are you sure?”
“Ninety-nine percent.”
Mead hit the first step and looked back to see Bundy trailing by several yards. A dozen zombies were on his heels and his inner monologue told Mead to leave the fat man behind and climb. Instead he ran back to Bundy. “Hustle, you fucker!”
Mead dropped the three zombies that were closest the big man, then grabbed Bundy’s arm and dragged him toward the staircase. When they got there, Mead pushed him forward and the fat giant trudged up the steps as fast as possible, which was not fast at all.
Mead went up backwards. He killed five more zombies who crowded the base of the steps. More were coming, but they were several yards away so he turned forward. Bundy had only ascended eight steps. Mead shoved his hands into the man’s ample, soft ass and pushed him forward.
