Mike decided he'd go to the bathroom and when he came out, if the store hadn't suddenly filled with people, he'd pack a bag of food and water (and another beer or three) and pull the Harley around back. No use leaving it out front for some asshole to mess with. Then he'd begin his walk back to civilization, whatever that meant here in Florida.
"Some fucking vacation," he murmured, selecting two NASCAR magazines from the shelf before heading to the bathroom.
* * * * *
Behind the gas station was a beat-to-Hell pickup truck, paint flecking off and a crack in the windshield. Mike set his Harley between the garbage cans and the back wall, confident it wouldn't be seen unless someone came right up on it. He loved his bike, but if he could find the keys to the truck he could fill it up with food and beer and take a ride.
He'd eventually come back, since his Harley was here.
The door was open and Mike found the keys still in the ignition. "Bingo," he said and sat down on the cracked seat. It was hot and stuffy, dust swirling around him. "Moment of truth." Mike turned the key and it hesitated before starting, the engine loud and mean.
He drove around to the front, expecting to see another person at the pump or the owner of the place with a shotgun pointed at his head. It was just as he'd left it.
Not really having a game plan, Mike filled up bags with cookies, bags of chips and pretzels, and stacked cases of beer in the bed of the truck, wedging it in with a case of overpriced motor oil and five cases of bottled water.
The front seat was packed with food items and any candy that hadn't yet melted. Mike put sixteen large bags of Twizzlers on the dashboard for his driving snack.
"Now I'm ready," he said to the empty gas station. With a wave he drove away. He regretted leaving his bike there but needed to be smart. The man on the radio, before he screamed and went off the air, had babbled about the end of the world and the dead coming back to life. Mike had seen enough horror movies in his day to know it was either some fucked up joke, or he was truly fucked.
Either way, he would rather die choking on too many Twizzlers than being eaten alive.
* * * * *
The smoke from the fire could be seen for miles. As Mike drew closer, heading in an eastern direction whenever the dusty side roads would allow, he smelled the burning meat. He knew it wasn't a barbeque place. His wheels kicked rocks onto a paved highway and he gunned the engine and headed north, figuring he'd find a turn-off up ahead and he could keep his easterly pace, all the while heading toward the fire. In the barren landscape that was presently Florida, with a ribbon of road before and behind, and stunted trees to either side, at least he had a destination in sight.
The fire was further than he thought. Fifteen miles north, after passing several exits, he came upon the ground zero spot: a strip-mall had been torched, only a hulking charred mess remaining. Mike went to pull off the exit and investigate further when movement below the overpass he was stopped near caught his eye.
He stopped and got out, running to look over the side. "Holy shit," he murmured. Below him were hundreds of people, all walking slowly east. He went to call down to them, to ask if they were heading for a safe place, when he stopped and kept staring. No one was talking, no one was looking anywhere but straight ahead, and as he looked closer he put a hand to his mouth. He'd noticed a few wounded but now realized they were almost all hurt in some way. A man right below him had no arms, blood like jelly coating his torso and legs. A woman, legless, was pulling herself inch by inch with fingerless stumped hands in the median.
Mike ran to the other side of the bridge and watched as they approached, a horde of sightless eyes and body parts sloughing off the dead. He was about to walk away when he noticed a tall man, one side of his head a burnt mess, look up at him with white-yellow pus eyes and stop. All around the man others stopped and looked up, staring at Mike.
Without waiting around, he ran back to the pickup, started the engine, and drove north. He was a good distance away when he looked back and saw some of them now onto the highway itself. "Fuck," he said and grabbed another Twizzler off the dash.
* * * * *
Mike, tired and with it getting dark knowing it was stupid to continue, pulled over behind another abandoned gas station, parked the pickup as close to the wall and dumpster as he could get, rolled up the windows despite the heat, locked the doors, and scrunched uncomfortably on the passenger side onto the floor. Despite everything, he was asleep in minutes.
The movement woke him with a start, his neck twisted and throbbing from his awkward position. He popped his head up and looked over the empty Twizzlers wrappers but quickly ducked down.
"Shit," he cursed. He was surrounded by dead people, wandering aimlessly behind the store. He wanted to get up early and explore the gas station for more food and water, and maybe a weapon. Now there was no time.
Still in a sitting position halfway on the floor, he put the key in the ignition and started the truck. As soon as the engine revved to life he felt a thud against the front of the pickup. No time to lose, he slid up and into the driver's seat, put it in drive, and stomped on the gas.
He flattened two of them as he moved, with no fear or looks of astonishment in their dead eyes. They were simply standing in front of him one second and then they were gone, speed bumps bouncing underneath as he gained speed. Mike had to plow into two more as he shot out of the parking lot, clipping a third as he aimed back for the I-95 on-ramp.
As soon as he saw the throngs of dead pouring down from the main highway, he threw it in reverse, backed up and hit another two or three, and sped east and away from the mob.
Farther away they thinned out, and he was able to navigate around them as he moved. He still had food and some water, but wanted a weapon, something to fight with. Something manly to use, like a sawed-off shotgun or a machete or even a Samurai sword. Instead, he had nothing.
He nicked another dead man standing in front of him and smiled as he watched him slam to the pavement in the rearview mirror.
Another mile up the road, with no dead in sight, he pulled over. Mike grabbed two warm beers from the back, a bag of melting chocolate donuts, and a water, and climbed back in.
As a dead woman suddenly appeared in front of the pickup, a quarter mile down the road, it hit Mike. He wanted a weapon, something to kill these bastards with.
He took a sip of warm beer before putting the pickup truck into drive, and aimed his weapon at the dead woman.
Steve 'The Breeze' Brack
"How long until Daytona?" he mumbled from the comfort of his bed. His head was pounding and he knew why: last night was blonde twins and a bottle of cold gin.
He refused to open his eyes, knowing the sunlight streaming through any crack in the curtains would pierce his skull and fry him like a fucking vampire.
"Diesel, I'm hungry," he yelled. The tour bus was stopped, he was sure it was. That meant Diesel, his driver and part of his pit crew, would be either fixing the bus, getting gasoline, or making food.
Steve 'The Breeze' Brack needed some pancakes and bacon. "Is there a Cracker Barrel up here?" he shouted. Each morning they'd stop at a Cracker Barrel (especially when home in Florida, since it seemed there was one off every exit), and Diesel would order food. Steve would sit at his table and eat while a small racing crowd would gather outside and chant his name. The best way to have breakfast. If he wasn't too hung over he'd open the side door, wearing one of his new black Number 75 T-shirts, and sign autographs. The prettiest woman would literally get the shirt off his back.
Usually he'd hear the massive driver stalking down the hallway and banging a meaty fist on the door. "I guess you're outside. Damn."
Steve pulled himself to a sitting position but his head swam and he saw spots. "Fuck that," he whispered and put his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
It was nighttime. Steve was now fully awake and covered in sweat. The tour bus was still parked and he didn't know if h
e'd slept through the day while they drove or if they'd been in this spot for hours. And the air conditioning was off.
Diesel would get an earful for sure. Steve, feeling better than the last time he'd sat up, found his underwear and shorts, and opened his bedroom door. The rest of the bus was dark. Usually at least the overhead stove light was on.
Steve went to the bathroom before his bladder exploded. Hour after hour of drinking and fucking will do that to a man, even one in such great shape. He stared at himself in the mirror and grinned, his perfect white teeth of movie star quality. Maybe after his racing career was over, he'd get into film.
But first he hoped he was in Daytona. There was a great Hooters as well as a Kerr's WingHouse on this strip of road, and he was in the mood for wings, beer and titties.
"Diesel?" he called as he stumbled down the dark hallway. In the kitchen he turned on the light. The place was empty. He opened the side door and shook his head.
The good news: there was a Cracker Barrel on the other side of the parking lot. Bad news? It was currently aflame. "What the fuck?"
Steve stepped down onto the hot pavement and looked around. At this distance and with the only light the fire itself, he couldn't tell if there were people inside.
He needed his shoes, so he went back in, put on socks, his old pair of Nike runners he always stashed in the closet, and one of his Steve 'The Breeze' Brack Number 75 T-shirts with his catchphrase 'Don't You Know Who I Am?' on the back. Most of the time, before night's end, he'd be trading shorts with some barrel-chested bimbo, signing this one, and burying his face in her ample cleavage. He loved being a star. Most of those other racing car drivers were ruined by fancy advertising budgets, corporate sponsors and people who knew nothing about the thrill of hitting two hundred-thirty on a straight-away.
Steve was born to do this, and his good looks, daredevil attitude and inherited money assured him he'd always do it his way. Let the idiots worry about where the next paycheck was coming from. Steve was worried about where the next race was and how many women he could fuck between here and there.
Right now he was wondering where his driver was, so he could get the hell out of here. "Diesel?" he yelled as he stepped back outside.
Steve wondered what his driver's real name was. Everyone called him Diesel, and he just assumed it had something to do with driving trucks or tour buses. The guy had worked for the Earnhardt and Petty teams over the years and was a great worker.
It was the little things he did without question. Steve remembered asking him on his first day of work if he had a problem getting him cocaine.
Diesel had shrugged his big shoulders. "Never have before. I guess I can figure that out."
And he'd done well over the three years he'd worked for the Breeze Crew, joining the team in the pit as an alternate. He also had an instinct for grade A pussy, and never dipped in, despite Steve telling him he could. The man was all business, even though he looked like a pro wrestler and a biker gang had birthed him.
The Cracker Barrel wasn't completely gone. The left side, which was the dining area, had collapsed, but now the flames were smaller.
Steve walked toward it, through the parking lot and past empty cars, and stood on the wooden porch as far away from the collapsed area as possible. He peeked inside but didn't see anyone moving, although there was so much smoke he couldn't see more than ten feet.
No one would ever accuse him of being a hero. "Fuck it," he said. Steve decided to go back to the tour bus, make himself a drink and a sandwich, and watch through the window until the cops and fire trucks showed up. Or Diesel did and they could drive out of here.
As he walked back he noticed I-95, which ran behind and above the tour bus, was empty. He stopped and stared, but no cars were moving. Even at this late hour the main road through Florida should have some traffic. Where the fuck was everyone?
Steve climbed back on the bus, locked the door behind him, and sat down at the table. He didn't know what to do. Driving the tour bus away from here was not an option. Even though he was a world class driver on the track, the truth was in the real world he was a mess, with a suspended license after his second DUI. Hell, except on the track every weekend, he never drove anywhere.
Even in the off-season he had a slew of handlers. His entourage drove him wherever he needed to go, his accountants and money-people took care of that part of his life, bodyguards shadowed him in the Miami clubs, and his agent was busy signing him to commercials, product endorsements, and better sponsorships.
Steve 'The Breeze' Brack, the money juggernaut who was the winner in the number 75 car, poured himself a healthy shot of Jack Daniels and peeked back out the window.
The Cracker Barrel fire had burned itself out. There were no hordes of fire fighters battling the blaze. It was as if it just got bored and petered out.
Steve went into his bedroom, found his cell phone, and tried to call Karl, his agent. The phone wouldn't connect to the number so he tried another. And another, but it wouldn't connect. "Worthless," he said and tossed the phone on the bed.
He was hungry, so he tried to settle down, stop wondering what was going on, and made himself a huge sandwich.
Steve poured another shot of whiskey and grabbed a cold beer chaser. He decided to wait this out, safe in the tour bus. It was getting hot, so as soon as he was done with his food, the air conditioning would be on.
He scooped the whiskey bottle from the counter, turned the air on full-blast, and turned the widescreen television mounted in the corner on with the remote control. There was static on ESPN, where it was always tuned. Confused, he switched the channel but most other stations had breaking news about some riots somewhere. He didn't care about fighting overseas or stupid people burning their own cities. He turned it off, the start of a headache coming on.
"Hair of the dog," he said and tipped the whiskey again, filling his glass. He took both to his bedroom, set them on the end table, and did another check of the doors and windows to make sure everything was locked. Diesel had keys so he could get back in.
"Fuck. Keys." Steve went to the front of the tour bus and checked but the keys weren't in the ignition. "Fuck." Without the keys he couldn't drive the tour bus anyway.
Steve remembered Diesel had placed an extra set somewhere under the bus or on top of the bus… he wasn't listening and now wished for once he had. There were keys somewhere, but he wasn't about to go out there tonight and rummage around underneath looking for them.
Tomorrow was another day. Steve found a box of wheat crackers in the cabinet, a block of sharp cheddar in the fridge, and took the biggest knife he could find to cut it. He retired to his bedroom.
* * * * *
The Jack Daniels bottle slipped off the bed and bounced on the floor, sounding like a gunshot to Steve. He slid out of bed and sat up. "How long until Daytona?" he shouted to Diesel.
His legs felt like rubber and his head was pounding as he stumbled to the bedroom door and opened it, sunlight streaming in from up front. "Diesel, I had a fucked up dream last night. And you were nowhere to be found! I should dock your pay for that, even though it was a dream."
Steve went to the bathroom, ignoring himself in the mirror as he did his business. He knew he'd look like shit. He was hungry and hoped the Cracker Barrel in his nightmare was outside but not burned to the ground.
He went to the kitchen area. Diesel wasn't around. Steve went back into the bedroom, put on some underwear and shorts, and went back and opened the side door.
The lingering smoke hit him first. The Cracker Barrel was destroyed, a pile of rubble and small fires still burning.
Steve stepped down onto the warm pavement and glanced back at I-95, which now had some fast-moving traffic on it but not nearly as much as normal. He saw clouds of smoke in all directions and thought he heard a gunshot in the distance.
"What the fuck is going on?"
He thought about going back in and getting his sneakers but, with his head pounding, it felt like
too much work. Instead, he started walking slowly across the parking lot.
When he hit the first row of cars he stopped. There had been only a few customers last night but it didn't look like any of the cars had left. He wondered where the people were but decided he probably didn't want to know.
A shuffling sound to his right turned him around.
"Holy shit," he swore as a burn victim came slowly toward him, the man's face burnt, his clothes gone and his body red and black with sores and running flesh.
Steve turned and threw up his late night snack of crackers, cheese and Jack.
"Are you alright, buddy?"
The man kept moving and when Steve, uncomfortable, shifted to his left, the man changed direction and still kept up his slow pace.
"Can you speak?" Steve didn't know how to help this guy or first aid or any such shit. He had people do things for other people. He cursed Diesel again. Diesel would be able to figure out what the guy needed and leave Steve to make breakfast.
The man got to within ten feet and Steve got a chill. He had no eyes left, only ruined holes where his eyes and nose used to be, the skin dripping off his face.
Steve took three steps back and to the right.
The man slowly changed direction, not stopping his stride.
"Can you see me?"
No answer, although it looked like his charred vocal chords were sticking out of the side of his neck.
Steve ran back to the tour bus, intending to lock himself in and try to raise help. He thought there was a CB radio in the bus. He'd figure out how to use it.
The sound of screeching tires halted him. Steve turned and saw an old pickup truck on the far side of the lot, just visible through the smoke.
"Hey, hey!" Steve called.
The man kept coming, right at Steve in his plodding pace.
Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1 Page 4
