Death and Biker Gangs

by S. P. Blackmore

  I coughed quietly against my sleeve, earning another Glare O’Death from Fearless Leader. I hung back with my rifle, letting him and Dax muscle open the doors. “You stand watch,” Tony told Dax once they got them separated.

  “Don’t forget the kibble,” Dax said.

  “Fuck kibble, I want some beets.”

  There’s something vaguely peculiar about grocery shopping at the end of the world. For starters, there’s no lines to deal with. I prowled through the store, gun held loosely in my hands, my backpack open and ready to receive whatever I could shove into it. I hit my usual aisles, trying to stock up on things that might come in handy on the road.

  I reached the food aisles last. They had clearly already been raided, but there was still plenty to choose from. I pulled granola bars, soup, and cans of tuna. I had no idea if the stuff was still good, but I could snatch a lot of them, and hell, beggars can’t be choosers.

  I turned the corner and walked right into the dead woman’s arms.

  I screeched and tried to step backward, but her skeletal hands clamped down on my shoulders, and all I could see was her huge, sore-filled mouth coming toward my face. Several of her teeth had cracked, and still others were missing, and the smell, oh God, the smell...

  I dropped the backpack and tried to get a firmer grip on my rifle, but she pressed forward, mashing herself up against me. I kicked at her knees and calves, and my boot bounced off the rigid limbs. It was all I could do to lean away from her as her teeth snapped shut mere inches from my cheek.

  I lifted the rifle up enough to grab the stock with my left hand, then thrust my arms out as hard as I could, shoving the gun against her. Her grip loosened a little bit, and I thrust the stock upward, catching her in the neck. Her head snapped back, the bones in her neck cracking loudly.

  I swung the gun up and around, then shoved the business end into her gaping mouth. Her jaw slammed shut around it, half-rotted teeth splintering and scattering around the metal.

  I pulled the trigger without the benefit of a witty one-liner.

  The shot took off the back of her skull, and I turned my head to the side as gore pelted the aisle behind her. Zombies leave behind a murky mist when you blast their brains out, and I’ve never been enthused about breathing it in. I stepped aside as her body dropped. Son of a bitch. This was as far from the crater as we’d been, but if anything, the number of dead seemed to be increasing.

  It’s in the air...

  I went for my backpack, only to stop when a low growl issued from behind me.

  Shit. Now they could sneak up on us?

  I swung around and put on my best feral grin, which faded when I realized how close the damned thing was. I lifted the gun, fully intending to send the zombie back to whatever torn-up, intestine-dragging hell he had come from—I hoped his guts had been ripped out after he died, for his sake—when his hands closed around the rifle. Before I could say zombies don’t use guns, he wrenched it away from me.

  “Whoa!” My hands went up instinctively, before I realized he was just awkwardly holding the thing, rather than pointing it at me. Good, the brain hadn’t made that connection yet. Bad enough that the undead were happy to bite off chunks of flesh to get their way. We didn’t need to arm them on top of that.

  He grappled with the gun, pointing the muzzle at the ceiling. I waited a half-heartbeat to see if he would do me the professional courtesy of blowing his own head off, only to realize he didn’t have any intention of doing so.

  Hmm. Time for Plan B.

  Wait, did I have a Plan B?

  He barreled toward me. I flailed to the left, and my hand came into contact with something fairly solid.

  I snatched it up and swung it at the ghoul’s head. He lifted his hands at the last instant, and the gallon of vodka smashed his right arm up against his face. The thing staggered, but held onto the gun. I grasped the jug with both hands and pummeled him again.

  He stumbled to the side. I hefted the jug overhead and slammed it against his forehead. “Stupid fucking undead piece of shit...”

  He reeled backward, and I heaved the vodka against his stomach. The thing bent double. I darted in, closed my hands around the rifle, and pried it from the dead man’s hands. By the time he re-oriented himself, I had the barrel pressed to his temple, and then I was down another round.

  Shit. How many shots do I have left? I’d lost count.

  Rapid footsteps approached, and Tony appeared at the other end of the aisle, pistol clenched in one hand. “What are you doing?”

  I pointed at the bodies.

  “Don’t use the goddamn rifle, you’ll attract too much attention!”

  “Well, you kept the silencer!”

  Two more of them came staggering over from what had once been the frozen foods section. These two didn’t shuffle as badly as the woman did; they seemed to have decent range of motion in their knee joints, at least. Are they fresher, or has the rigor mortis just worn off? This, and other fascinating questions, rolled through my mind as they came toward us, jaws working mechanically. If they got faster as they aged, that meant more of them might start running—and that was something I wasn’t entirely ready to face.

  Tony sent me yet another Glare o’Death. “They heard you.”

  “This pit stop was your idea.” I lifted up the gun and peered down the barrel, trying to get the one on the left in my sights. My arms shook more than I was willing to admit, and I had to back up a step to aim correctly. “You gonna help, or is this on me?”

  Tony sniffed. “There can’t be that many of them, and you’ve got more bullets than me.”

  At least someone was keeping track of my ammo.

  The one on the left went down without issue, and Tony backed down the aisle, whistling softly. The zombie on the right looked between the two of us, as if trying to figure out who looked tastier. It lifted its hands and knocked several containers of macaroni off their shelves, then let out a low, piteous moan. It almost sounded embarrassed.

  Stop humanizing them, Vibeke. People got killed when they saw the humanity in revenants.

  I sensed movement behind me. “Think there’s one in the kitchen aisle,” I called to Tony. “Hold him.”

  “Dammit, Vibby...” But he came back anyway, effectively catching the macaroni ghoul’s attention.

  I turned around to take out the kitchen ghoul, and the last thing I saw was the butt of a gun zooming toward my head.

  ***

  “I think she’s coming around.”

  I blinked. I could see the ceiling overhead, dimly lit by whatever diffused sunlight was able to filter in from the front doors. A face forced itself into my field of vision, though I couldn’t quite focus on it yet. “Always look around the corners, little lady.”

  “I keep warning her about that,” Tony sounded close. “She never listens.”

  “Blow me,” I croaked. I lifted a hand to my head, then jerked it away. Pain radiated out of my temple, spreading down to my jaw, my teeth, even my neck. “What the hell did you hit me with?”

  “Revolver. Your teeth won’t feel loose after a couple of days. Just don’t chew anything hard.” The figures blurred together, then eventually solidified into three people in black staring down at me. “You killed our guard dogs,” the figure nearest me said.

  I didn’t feel any new hurts around the rest of my body, but I wasn’t about to try sitting up yet. I’d gone my entire life without a concussion, and now I’d wound up with two in the span of a few months. Viva la endtimes.

  “Guard dogs?” I asked. I was pretty sure I hadn’t shot any actual canines.

  “Ethel, Ricky, and Lucy,” another figure said. “Your snarky friend took out poor Harold before we got to him.”

  “Will you have to kill him in retribution?” I couldn’t keep the note of hope out of my voice.

  Tony apparently heard it, too. “You are miss flowers and sunshine when you wake up, aren’t you? I told you not to take them out.”

  “No, you t
old me to do it quietly.”

  The people around us laughed, and I groaned and closed my eyes. Just pretend it’s the hangover from hell...you aren’t sitting in an abandoned store guarded by revenants...

  Wait. A store guarded by the undead?

  My eyes snapped open. “You named your zombies?”

  There was more laughter, and the three people backed away to give me some space. Tony crouched down next to me. “I thought this place was too pristine. Guess they keep some shamblers around to scare the locals off.”

  “Shit, man, it’s cheap labor,” the one who had chided me said. I figured he was the ringleader. “They’re easy enough to control, and you don’t have to pay them.”

  I turned my head carefully in the direction of the speaker. “You can control them?”

  My vision hadn’t exactly restored itself, but I could make out a graying beard and old-school green camouflage on the ringleader. “Nah, not really,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re just slow enough to evade, provided we don’t let them corner us. They tend to stick to the back of the store, and when people come in for food…” He shrugged and mimed a jaw snapping with his fist. “Crunch.” He grinned down at me. “Never saw someone take out a goober with booze. That was inventive. Think you should’ve used rotgut, though, not the good stuff.”

  Goober? I liked that nickname. It made them seem less like flesh-eating monsters and more like unfortunate bodily excretions.

  I sat up gingerly, trying to ignore what felt like a hot brick in my head. I’m sure people have taken worse hits in the long history of violence, but there’s really nothing like your first pistol-whipping. “You couldn’t just tell me you liked how I handled them?” I asked.

  “You took out our guards,” one of his companions said. They all had some form of spiderweb tattoo along their hands or necks; some kind of gang sign, maybe? Holy crap, had we found an actual biker gang?

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn't know.”

  And now I was apologizing for killing some zombies. What the hell?

  The youngest of the three scowled at me. “Now we’ll have to get new ones. They clump together, y’know. Hard to just find them wandering alone.”

  “They’re social creatures,” Tony said. “It’s very charming. Now are you going to boil us alive or what?”

  “Tony, don’t be a dick.”

  “Hey!” Dax’s voice sounded muffled. “Can I come in? Or are you still working out your differences?”

  Tony scratched the back of his neck. “Can the Boy Scout come in?”

  Graybeard nodded, and his companions hauled the doors open. Dax and Evie strolled in, the former hauling his backpack, the latter licking her chops.

  Dax stopped and gaped at me. “What the hell’d you do to her? You said she just needed to use the bathroom!”

  I figured that meant I looked pretty bad. Even Evie seemed concerned, straining at her leash to reach me.

  “I lied,” Tony said. “I thought they were going to roast us over a spit. Figured you shouldn’t see it.”

  Graybeard pulled a face. “Not sure I’d roast you up. Y’all look kind of diseased, no offense intended.”

  What the hell, dude? I started to take offense, only to realize that Tony and Dax were still covered in their hive-like marks. I glanced at my hands and knew I hadn’t escaped it, either. “We splashed through something the other day,” I said, feeling an instinctual need to inform them I was not carrying some freakish superbug. “We don’t have smallpox or anything. Well, I don’t. Tony might.”

  “Hey!”

  Graybeard looked between us. “I’m relieved to hear it, miss, but we’re still not going to eat you.”

  “Vibeke,” Tony said, “next time potential cannibals think we’re diseased…please let them continue to entertain that fantasy.”

  It hurt to nod, so I gave him the finger.

  Graybeard chuckled. “You guys are funny…you could start your own comedy troupe.”

  “I hear most of Hollywood is gone,” Tony said. “We could probably corner the market.”

  Dax scowled at him, but had his hands full controlling the prancing Evie.

  A low, menacing rumble split the air, and all of us looked at the doors in alarm. Graybeard seized Tony’s upper arm and gave him a harsh shove toward the back of the store. “You guys better split. Blair’s gang has been fighting with Rattler’s, and God help us all if they’ve decided to pick on us.”

  Blair? Rattler? The bikers yesterday had been afraid of someone named Root Canal. How many biker gangs were we dealing with?

  I managed to get to my knees. Dax extended a hand and helped me wobble to my feet. My rifle found its way back over my shoulder, and Dax pressed my backpack into my hands. “Who are Blair and Rattler?” he asked.

  “They’re sort of local warlords,” the younger one said, taking my other arm and hauling me firmly toward the back of the store.

  Local warlords? “I didn’t know we had those in the Midlands Cluster,” I said.

  Graybeard quickened his pace. “Yeah, well, Blair’s been trying to induct us into his little gang. Wants our store. He and Rattler both want Plum Street, and of the two…I’d rather deal with Rattler. Seems like people Blair is displeased with get reduced to component parts, if you catch my drift.”

  “More biker gangs,” I groaned.

  Graybeard turned to narrow his eyes at me. “We were a biker gang,” he said, gesturing to his companions. “Those bastards out there are just assholes with bikes.”

  Well, I was glad we could make that distinction.

  The rumbling sound grew louder. I would’ve assumed my poor, damaged brain was creating auditory hallucinations, had Graybeard’s eyes not gotten wider. “Look, you can take what you found. I ain’t about to come between a lady and her sanitary napkins, but you gotta scram.”

  Tony and Dax both looked at me the way a woman looks at a cockroach. “What?” I snapped, trying to follow the younger biker without tripping. “It’s just in case. And you’re grown men. You’ve probably bought them for girlfriends.”

  “I’m going with the South Park gospel on this one,” Tony said. “Bleeding for five days and not dying is just unnatural.”

  “Do you think the revenants can smell it?” Dax asked.

  This is what happens when you spend the apocalypse with two guys.

  “They aren’t bloodhounds,” I said.

  Tony peered at me suspiciously. “How do you know? Did the good doctors test that theory?”

  The rumbling reverberated throughout the entire store, rattling the shelves and bouncing off my already-fragile eardrums. I almost doubled over, but Graybeard’s buddy kept me moving. “They’re still a ways off,” he said, “but they’re coming.”

  We followed them through the vitamin aisle. On impulse, I reached out and grabbed a couple bottles of vitamin D, something we were all sorely lacking in this sunless void. The approaching vehicle backfired again, sharp as a gunshot, and underneath it I could hear even more vehicles—motorcycles, maybe, or smaller cars.

  Is this how it’s always going to be? Running away from loud noises? What are we, mice?

  “So the biker gangs…fight?” I asked the younger guy escorting me. He was probably in his mid-thirties, and he shook his head as we hurried. His spiderweb tattoo climbed up past his ear, and I couldn’t help staring at it; getting it drawn on must have hurt like hell.

  “Everyone’s been fighting over territory since the military retreated to Elderwood.”

  “Why the hell did you stay?” I asked.

  “A lot of us stayed behind,” Graybeard had to shout over the engines. “Didn’t feel like living under a tyrant.”

  “And this is better…how?” Tony asked.

  Graybeard shrugged. “I love a little irony in the morning.”

  “It’s afternoon,” Tony said.

  “How can you even tell?”

  “Circadian rhythms.”

  Graybeard pushed open two door
s, leading us into a vast stockroom. I actually stopped to take it all in, which should probably go on the list of things to not do after the zombie apocalypse.

  Something moaned quietly from the left, and the three Elderwood refugees spun around, guns at the ready.

  Well, I had my backpack at the ready. The rifle was still over my shoulder, dangling uselessly behind me. Dax tightened his grip on Evie's leash, keeping her from rushing the thing in the corner.

  A lone revenant clawed at the collar around its neck and stretched for us, sounding a hell of a lot like the dog. “That’s Fredrick,” Graybeard said. “He’s the loudest. He’s a pretty good alarm if someone breaks in the back way.”

  Frederick whined again, jerking at the makeshift harness they’d fitted him with. Several lengths of rope held him to one of the giant shelving units bolted to the wall. It seemed secure enough, although it wasn’t the most eye-catching restraint in the world.

  Dax had to hold Evie’s leash with both hands as she snarled and snapped. “So…do you feed him?”

  “He doesn’t really need to eat,” the youngest companion said.

  Graybeard snapped his fingers, pushing us further into the stockroom. One set of the overhead lights still worked—without them, navigating this place would be a nightmare—and we passed giant units of toilet paper, bottled water, and what looked like basic cooking equipment.

  “Please let us stay,” I said. “I promise I won’t brain Frederick.”

  “We’ve got enough trouble to deal with now that Blair’s dicking around.” Graybeard glanced back long enough to meet my perplexed stare. “Do yourself a favor, kiddo. When a dude on a bike shows up claiming he can make your life better if you’ll keep his gang stocked, just run.”

  I added that to my growing list of mental notes.

  “And don’t ever let his sidekick draw your blood in some creepy binding ritual,” the companion nearest me added.

  I’m sorry to say I barely even blinked at that comment. Once the dead started walking, creepy blood rituals just didn’t pack the punch they used to.