Undead L.A. 1

by Sagliani, Devan

  “You mean you're going back out there?”

  Travis look flabbergasted at the idea.

  “Someone has to,” Bronan shrugged. “This is my city and I'm not gonna sit on my ass and wait for someone else to tell me everything is safe again. Besides, the sooner I get to busting heads the sooner I can get back to surfing.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Just stay here for now,” he said. I could see the look of relief on Travis's face out of the corner of my eye. “Sit tight and keep the doors locked. I'll come back when I know more about what's happening and I've located more survivors.”

  “Have you seen my brother?”

  “No li’l man,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. “I have not. That's good news. If he was one of them, I'd probably have seen him by now.”

  He went back to the fridge and grabbed another beer before heading back down the stairs. I followed him like a lost puppy.

  “Like I said, keep the doors shut and locked and don't let strangers in. If anyone gives you a hard time tell 'em they'll have to deal with me.”

  And then he was gone. I shut and locked the door behind him as he left, praying he wouldn't get torn to shreds before my eyes. Hours went by with nothing but our imaginations to keep us busy. I took a shower, but the water went cold half way through and then the power went out. We spent the rest of the daylight hours grabbing supplies from around the apartment and piling them up in the living room. Travis’s mom was a nurse, so the place was pretty well stocked. He even had extra flashlights and batteries. Plus, there was an earthquake kit with water purifying tabs and all sorts of shit. We tuned in the old radio she had as well, but the broadcasts were all either silent or just music and commercials on loop. We laughed to hear Snoop Dogg selling cars for Cal Worthington in Long Beach, thinking of who might show up during this mess to purchase a Ford Focus with no money down. Snoop kept telling us to “come on down and tell 'em your big homie Snoop sent ya.”

  We made a pact not to write off our loved ones for dead until we had confirmation. That meant we had to talk about Travis's mom and my brother Caesar like they were still alive, just out there somewhere and unable to get back to us. I felt a ball of nervous energy just sitting in my stomach at the idea that Caesar might be gone for good. I'd gotten so used to relying on him always being there that I couldn't imagine life without him. We jabbered about how we thought things might end and how far this chaos had spread and what had started it and, most of all, when Bronan would be back. Night came and went and nothing changed at all. That’s when I knew we were pretty well fucked. I started thinking that we'd starve to death up in that apartment, that no one was going to come for us and if they did it would be those disgusting creatures roaming the streets.

  I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I knew there was a loud thumping on the door. I scrambled to my feet, but froze in place. Sunlight was pouring in through the windows. It must have been around 6 a.m. or so. I could still hear moaning, but also the sound of seagulls fighting over food. Travis got up off the sofa and waved his hands at me. He held his finger up to his lips, telling me not to make a fucking peep. The knocking came again and I nearly pissed myself. My heart was jumping all around in my chest.

  “You groms still alive up there?”

  I let out a big breath and practically ran to the front door at the muffled sound of Caesar's voice. I threw open the door to find him standing there with Bronan, both of them covered in dried blood.

  “Ya see,” Bronan smirked. “I toldja I had him tucked away safe, bro.”

  Caesar pulled me into a bear hug that crushed the wind right out of me, then shoved me back and punched me hard on the arm.

  “What the fuck was that for?”

  “You scared the shit out of me, bro,” he growled. “I came home to find all hell had broken loose and you were nowhere to be found.”

  “Hey,” Travis called out from behind me. I turned to see he looked kinda sick. He was pale and his complexion was waxy. He fidgeted nervously and kept running his hands through his greasy unwashed hair.

  “S’up Travis,” Caesar said.

  “You've been out there the whole time?”

  “Not all of it. We had to hide in a building at one point until reinforcements arrived. That's when I ran across this fucker right here. Bravest man I've ever met in my life. He was just drinking a beer and taking down Zedheads like he was bored or something. He told me you two rats were barricaded in over here. We came as soon as daylight broke.”

  “Crazy man,” Travis nervously muttered. “You haven't seen my mom, have you? I mean, I'm not even sure if she was in Venice when the shit went down you know, but she might have been.”

  “Nah man,” Bronan replied. “We didn't run into her. Only other dudes.”

  “Sorry,” Caesar offered.

  “No, that's cool,” Travis said, shifting back and forth and rubbing his arms. “She's probably at a friends house, just waiting it out like we did. I just thought maybe since you were outside, you know, you might have bumped into her, or what used to be her.”

  “That's tough man,” Bronan said, “but don't you worry about your mom. I'm sure she'll be okay and in one piece.”

  “Come on, Yermo,” Caesar said at last, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Wait. Where are we going?”

  “Home, man.”

  “But those fucking things are still out there!”

  “Not for long,” Caesar said, turning with a smile to Bronan. “We're clearing 'em out block by block, alley by alley.”

  “The hard way!” Bronan swung his homemade weapon over his head in a demonstration.

  “What about Travis?”

  “You can come back and see him after we've cleaned up our place and secured it again.”

  “It's cool, man,” Travis said, looking down at his feet. “I could use a little time alone to think anyway.”

  “I'll be back, man. I'll use the knock.”

  “You better or else I might shoot you for real this time.”

  “Quit wasting time,” Bronan said anxiously. “We're missing all the good head smashing!”

  *** *** ***

  I like to start my day out by brushing my teeth. It's funny. At the start of summer I didn't give a shit about proper hygiene. But it's the little routines that help keep you sane, keep you moving forward. You grow to need them. When there is no other way to measure just how fucked up things are, it's good to know you can count on something – and those ‘somethings’ are generally self-appointed, in my experience.

  I looked at the ink scribbled onto my arm. It had hurt like a bitch when they did it, and I hated having to stay out of the water until it healed, but seeing the familiar lines come together to form the symbol filled me with courage now. It was a bond with something real, something bigger than me, bigger than all of this – at least that’s what we hoped. From the moment I first saw it, I knew it would always fill me with courage. It would never let me down. It couldn't. It was a symbol, and unlike everything else, symbols can't die.

  I ran my finger over the raised skin, feeling the letters like Braille. The guy who put it on used to work at Ink Monkey on Lincoln and Venice. He'd boosted half the studio the morning after the shit went down, snatching up enough needles and ink to keep him busy until Christ decides to grace us with his presence. I could read each letter with the slightest touch.

  D. L. U.

  It started off as a joke between those of us that survived.

  “We're not a gang,” we said to each other whenever one posse would roam into another during daylight patrols. “We're just Dogtown Locals.”

  “We're used to living in the midst of chaos.”

  “That's right, man. That's where we thrive.”

  “We're more like a club.”

  “Or a union.”

  That was it! Just like that it was off and running. You couldn't go half a block without hearing someone shout it o
ut.

  “Dogtown Locals Union, reporting in!”

  Caesar told me that he saw a wave of them coming for Venice as he was heading home from Inglewood over by LAX. Little did he know they were already smashing up our apartment by that time, for sure. He said he saw people turning so fast it was like watching hell rise up from the grave and stare at him with those evil, lifeless eyes. Why'd we survive when so many other people were almost instantly consumed in the flames? Because we're survivors, man. Not just now. Our whole lives. Get it?

  We weren't the only survivors, though. In addition to small groups of people who happened to be in the right place at the right time when the shit hit the fan, there were those who had planned for a hostile take-over. Government types. Military dudes. New World Order stuff. They don't tell me much about that kind of stuff so all I know I got from Bronan, and who knows how reliable that guy is. Don't get me wrong. Bronan is still a cool guy, for sure. If it wasn't for guys like him taking on the Zedheads in hand-to-hand, we'd still be neck deep in the shit right now. No one else was gonna do it. It's just that once you hang around Bronan a while you start to see why he's a loner. He's not like other people at all. One minute he's this philosopher poet and the next he's like a dark messiah, prophesying about how aliens are gonna come down and take over the planet.

  He's a bit of a whack job. That's all I'm saying.

  In fact the only reason he's with us today is because he was sleeping on top of his RV, passed out cold, when the end of the world as we know it happened. Fucker slept through it and woke up to amazing sets firing in Breakwater. He'd been surfing and watching the people on the beach for over an hour before he figured out it wasn't another Brad Pitt movie.

  And another thing, I swear he's on permatrip at this point. It's like he’d done acid one too many times and never came back down. He can be pretty scary at times, but he's cool if you know him. He's never hurt my friends or me at least. That's gotta count for something.

  There were also the new arrivals. Guys who'd spent plenty of time visiting Venice and selling everything on the boardwalk from mushrooms to lousy rap CD's, told other guys back home in the hood how the beach was up for grabs. They brought bangers with them, all falling under a new banner of leadership brought together by a single group, One Blood Gang. Bigger and more brutal, this new tribe walked the streets straight down toward the water taking everything they saw of value along the way and killing anyone who didn't join them. They were acting without any hesitation or remorse, as if they didn't have a conscience. Bronan said they walked directly here from their inner city streets. They came from Slauson, from Western, from Normandy, out far past 54th street, walking and looting and burning as they went. They moved up toward Culver City and Venice like a firestorm of chaos and destruction with their loud engines roaring and their fierce war chants. By the time they ran through Marina Del Ray we knew they were on their way, but we still didn't take it all that seriously. You see, it wasn't anything new to us.

  “A lot of gangs have come through Venice over the years,” Bronan explained one day while we were chilling at Abbot's Habit over on Abbot Kinney.

  He spoke in between hungrily scarfing down some week-old pastry. Venice had turned into a bicycle paradise by then, like something out of Burning Man. The weirdest part was not hearing the helicopters pulling their low buzz fly-bys anymore, the kind that used to shake the apartment windows day and night without warning. Enforcers from DLU worked in shifts to keep the streets clean of zombies, a thankless task to be sure but one that required constant vigilance. It was like a fresh start in a lot of ways – no laws, no rules, but still love and respect. It was simple. You either had it or your union membership was revoked. That means those who didn't play along got taken out by the backside of the breakwater and had their brains painted across the dark rocks. It didn't matter much because that section of the break didn't pop off during the winter sessions. It'd be long cleaned out by the time a new summer rolled around.

  “None of them stayed around long,” Bronan continued, licking the sticky sugar crumbs off the deep grooves in his dirty hands. “There's a reason for that. Venice belongs to its residents, even though outsiders own it. Slumlords own all the properties around here, all the rentals. Or they used to anyway. That's why so much shit goes down out there on the boardwalk. They were sitting up in their beach mansions on the water in Malibu looking down their noses at us. You think this kind of shit happens in their neighborhood?”

  “Hell no,” I quickly responded. It wasn't good to disagree with Bronan in an argument, or to take too long to answer back for that matter. You didn't want to give the guy the impression you were ignoring him. You didn't want him to think he needed to get your attention is all I am saying.

  My mind darted briefly to the winter before the madness had started. A homeless man had fallen through my neighbor Jen's screen door one night. Her screams were louder than a siren. I took a bat with me for protection, but I didn't need it. The guy was incoherent and unresponsive, but it turned out he was just playing possum. We sat trying to get him to respond to us for almost a half hour, but all he did was moan and cry. When the paramedics arrived, he sat straight up and begged for morphine.

  That same week I caught this old pusher with a salty gray beard trading crack for sex with two underage teen girls in my driveway. They were rocking up and getting off right there between the parked cars and my living room window. When I threw open my front door and ordered them to leave under penalty of getting their heads bashed in, the old pimp quickly put away his junk and zipped up. He was all apologies, hands raised, head hung low in shame as he slunk out of my driveway with the agility of a wispy shadow, his words fading like a serpent's hiss before they even reached my ears. The girls, on the other hand, were in the throes of a wild crack high. They transformed into screeching banshees, outraged by my interruption. Their frail, young, exposed bodies trembled with chemical rage as shrill cries of hatred and frustration rang out from their open mouths. Their eyes looked solid black, like demon spawn. I didn't back down an inch. You can't in Venice! That's how people get hurt. I pointed my bat right at the closest girl’s head and let her know I would pop her melon open like a fucking piñata if she didn't take her freak show on the road. The intensity of their ear splitting screams could be heard echoing down the small drug alleys just off the boardwalk as they retreated into the darkness, a cacophony of witch's curses mixed with cocaine fever dreams.

  A week later, a homeless man raped that chick from Missouri in the park across from my bedroom window and killed her. It was in all the papers for a while, probably because she was a white girl. The cops didn't show up for over an hour. They never caught the guy. It was just another typical Venice off-season, the same as it had been all my life really. You get used to it after a while, the helicopters and the blood and dog shit and trash and broken glass on the streets.

  “This land is cursed land,” Shiloh would say to me. “For a lot of people. They'd have been better off not coming here at all. Over by where that Indian store plays music on the boardwalk. Between that and the drum circle. Cursed. All the stabbings happen there. The sand thirsts for blood. An innocent trip to the Sunday drum circle out there could lead to you being arrested and found guilty of a crime you never committed, or to you getting stabbed in the chest with a broken beer bottle. You remember when that guy drove his car onto the boardwalk and killed that couple on their honeymoon from Italy? Guess where that happened? All I'm saying is that you just never know.”

  The tourists would stop coming around and the homeless would have less people to beg from. That's where the trouble usually started. During the warmer months they'd have all the food and drug money they needed, not to mention balmy and accommodating weather. They could pass out right in the sand or on a patch of grass in one of houses sporting white picket fences along the narrow walk streets that separated Speedway and Pacific Boulevard. Violent crime went down during these periods. Car break-ins went up. If someone
got shot or stabbed, it was gang related – rivals fighting over turf. Sometimes it was as simple as two different crews visiting for a day of sun and fun at the beach, and then getting into it at the basketball courts. Signs were thrown, no one would back down, and gunshots would ring out. It happened once every summer, usually right at the start. I shit you not. Venice Beach local enforcers didn't like it when people got out of line at their house party, so to speak. That's when they'd talk to the current gang controlling the area, aka the leaseholder. If the leaseholder wasn't up to handling it the area might be put up to bid, with word going up the grapevine through the prison system where the shot callers resided. Enforcers would then hand out retaliation as best they could.

  “You're goddamn right it didn't happen up in Malibu,” Bronan roared, slamming his flat palm on the table to more dramatically make his point. My heart skipped in my chest and I flinched slightly, but tried not to let on that he'd gotten me. He was always playing pranks like that on me. “So what do you think the locals did when it was their turn to call some shots? They did what they saw being done to them. It's a vicious circle because it's all we know. We treated our streets like they were the slums, and we were renting them out, too. We made deals with the drug lords to push product in our alleys to the down and out. We had to, man. It was either that or let the violence eat us up. Shit's not going to be like that again. We won't let it now. We can't. This is our only chance to take it back and get things right – and it took hell on earth for it to happen.”

  But soon, despite Bronan's protests, One Blood members were walking the streets right along with us. We'd been expecting them to come in guns blazing and take us head on, but instead they'd slipped into us like water mixed with water. A few turned into several and then several turned into the vast majority. Soon things started to get heated. They were pushing to see what happened. The fight was over almost before it started.

  Their leader, Taylor Jackson, was a three-time felon at age twenty-eight and one of the most ruthless and organized killers the West Coast had ever seen. He had the charisma of Ted Bundy and the cold eyes of Richard Ramirez. He didn't just have regular gang members – but like a celebrity serial killer made famous by tabloids and TMZ, the guy had a whole fucking fan club!