Zombie D.O.A. Series Five: The Complete Series Five

by JJ Zep

  “Yet you get in and out. How is that?”

  Morales grinned at him, said nothing.

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “Maybe.” Still grinning.

  “Maybe? Meaning what, exactly?”

  “You give to me, I give to you.”

  Now it was Charlie’s turn to grin. What could he possibly have that Morales wanted? Morales, though, wasn’t joking anymore. A scowl had crept up and usurped his smile. His posture appeared rigid, as though he was a beast of prey, poised to pounce. He looked suddenly like a man capable of murder.

  “You have under your command a man named Jespersen, no?”

  Charlie racked his brain. He’d only met the men briefly. With the exception of Fagan and Brunsden and, of course, poor dead Hedrick, they were pretty much a jumble in his mind. But he remembered now. Jespersen was the skinny guy, the tall drink of water with the mop of unruly hair, the statutory rapist.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a man named Jespersen. What about –”

  “You will give him to me.”

  For a moment Charlie wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  “He dishonored my daughter,” Morales said. “My daughter’s honor must be restored. You will give him to me and in exchange I will replenish your supplies out of my abundant larder.”

  “Tempting though that offer is. I’m sure that you can appreciate why I have to say no.”

  “Then I’m sure you can understand why I must from now on consider you an enemy.”

  twenty five

  On the morning after the massacre on 4th Street, the air was redolent with the stench of burning flesh as the Morales clan cremated the Z’s in the intersection where they’d fallen. Charlie had since learned from Pasquali that everyone inside the National Guard compound was in some way related to Tico Morales. Thirteen of them were his children, others were siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews. That gave Charlie a modicum of comfort. He didn’t think Morales would risk his family in a raid on the school to abduct Jespersen.

  He told neither Jespersen nor Pasquali about his discussion with Morales. Neither did he tell Pasquali about Morales’ well-stocked warehouse. Doing so would only highlight their own lack.

  Despite his declaration of enmity, Morales had the decency to return Hedrick’s body for burial as Charlie had requested. He also returned Charlie’s I-Pod, although the thing was US – unserviceable – its glass smashed, its controls unresponsive. Galvin said that he might be able to fix it, so Charlie handed it over, but more in hope than expectation.

  The supply truck from Pendleton, due on Thursday, arrived only on Friday afternoon, by which time Charlie and his men were indeed reduced to eating pineapple chunks. The resupply hardly alleviated their situation and was barely enough to see them through the week if they maintained half rations. This would become a recurring pattern over the next weeks during which time Charlie thought constantly about the supplies just lying around waiting to be picked up in Mexicali. Whenever he found himself seriously considering the option, he cast his mind back to the night Hedrick had died. To the commitment he’d made to himself and to the men under his command. No more unnecessary risks.

  Besides, even if he had wanted to go to Mexicali, just 60 miles away, he didn’t have enough fuel to carry a truck there and back. Pendleton had, in fact, cut down even further on their supply of diesel, which was now being delivered in jerry cans rather than in barrels. As a result, Charlie banned the use of all vehicles, and ordered that the generator be used only for the comms room. Cooking was done on open fires, lighting by candle and kerosene lamp. As a consequence, they actually began building up a small reserve supply of diesel.

  He complained about the lack of supplies, of course, but his pleas to Pendleton fell on deaf ears. As Jojo explained, the influx of refugees into the base had stretched resources to the max. On a number of occasions Charlie was tempted to alert Pendleton to the possibilities available just across the border. His reasons for holding back were complex, but mainly down to the Corporation’s new inward looking approach. Harrow, according to Jojo, had cut down on all but the most necessary uses of resources. His strategy, it seemed, was to create renewable sources of food through agriculture and animal husbandry. To this extent he’d put the residents of Pendleton’s shantytown to work. It wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but it would take time to bear fruit. Meanwhile, Charlie and his men were being slowly starved to death.

  There was good news on the I-Pod front at least. Despite Charlie’s reservations, Galvin was able to get it working again, using cannibalized parts. That allowed Charlie and his men to venture safely beyond the base on scrounging expeditions. They found very little of value, although Pasquali’s discovery of a stash of vegetable seeds allowed him to plant a small garden on the school grounds. With their reduced rations, it proved a godsend.

  Charlie also had his men break down parts of the useless outer barrier and drag the wire back to the school, where it was used to reinforce the outer perimeter. In addition, he set up an observation post on the roof of the gymnasium, complete with the M-60 that Galvin had somehow managed to put back together. He had very little ammo for the gun, and no night vision equipment, but it was something, at least.

  He began providing training to the men, instructing them in hand-to-hand combat and the use of melee weapons. Scarcity of ammunition precluded target practice, but he taught them various set-piece infantry attack strategies. Mindful of the men’s low energy levels and the searing heat, these exercises were conducted in the evenings and carried out at walking pace. Nonetheless, the men took to the training with enthusiasm, glad to have something to do. The exceptions were Fagan and his new best friend Brunsden. Fagan remained surly and uncooperative, while Brunsden often opted out, citing exhaustion. He was not above turning on the tears if Charlie insisted.

  So the weeks passed, and despite the deprivation, Charlie found himself adapting to, and even getting to enjoy, his new posting. He missed his family, of course, but on the occasions that he was able to speak to Jojo on the radio he was filled in on all the latest news. Jojo and Ferret had become engaged and his little sis, Samantha, had a steady boyfriend. Charlie who still thought of Sam as a kid in pigtails, found that last bit of information difficult to take on board. Uncle Joe had moved to Big Bear and was living with Hooley and spending much of his time at the lake with a line in the water and a nip of Maker’s Mark in his pocket. Grammy Capshaw had been ill and his mom was worried that it might be something serious. The residents’ committee had tried to get his dad to stand for mayor and his dad had said no. There’d still been no word from Ruby, who no one had seen or heard from in over two years. So it goes. Charlie wondered when he’d see them all again. Before too long, he hoped.

  Then came the Thursday when the supply truck didn’t arrive and a call to Pendleton revealed that it had burst a tire and gone over an overpass on the I-15. You’ll just have to hang tough till next week, was the advice. But the next week brought no relief either. Eventually, even the few remaining tins of pineapple chunks were being rationed, eventually even Lieutenant Pasquali’s garden was depleted.

  On the day after the latest missed delivery, Charlie went with Galvin to the storeroom to take stock of their situation. Eight military green jerry cans sat in the cage rear left, each marked with a large yellow D.

  Enough to get me to Mexicali, Charlie thought. Not enough to get me back, but if I can find fuel down there for the return journey, that won’t matter.

  twenty six

  Skye shuffled across the kitchen on bare feet, trying her utmost not to hobble. The bastard could ogle her naked flesh as much as he wanted, she was damned if she was going to show him her pain. She’d been Messenger’s prisoner for eight weeks. Eight weeks during which she’d suffered every degradation it was possible to suffer and still hold on to your sanity. She fancied that was what Messenger wanted, to make her crack, to make her beg for mercy. That wasn’t going to happen. Before she departed
this earth she planned on killing the fucker.

  “Going into town,” Messenger said, speaking from behind her back as she began scraping the congealed leavings from his breakfast plates. “Why don’t you throw something on, come out with me, make a day of it.”

  He spoke as always with his lazy, semi-amused drawl. Without turning, Skye could picture him at the table, pushed back in his chair, picking at his teeth with a bone from the rabbit stew he’d just woofed down at nine o’clock in the morning. She dipped a spoon into the soapy water, rinsed it and set it aside.

  “Come on,” Messenger said. “Bring the brat along. It’ll be fun.”

  Skye turned to face him, almost forgetting that she was naked until he ran his hateful, bulging eyes over her body. She fought back the near irresistible urge to drop her hands to the place where his attention was focused. Even after eight weeks of near perpetual nakedness, she still couldn’t stand him looking at her. She inclined her head slightly.

  “Is that a yes?” Messenger said. “You’ll come out with me?” He sounded as excited as a kid who’d just had his invitation to the prom accepted by the prettiest girl in school.

  “I’ll go,” she said. As though she’d ever had a choice in the matter.

  “Well, hustle on up then girl. And put on something nice, you hear. I want my best girl looking womanly when I promenade her.”

  Skye started across the kitchen towards where Daniel was kicking and gurgling in his high chair.

  “Ah, leave the sprog,” Messenger said, as she started working Daniel free of the chair. “Little feller needs to spend some quality time with his daddy. Don’t ya boy?”

  As if in reply, Daniel stiffened his legs and offered a stream of babyish babble, terminating in a squeal. Skye stopped with her hands under the baby’s armpits. You’re not his father, she wanted to scream. You may wear his clothes, sleep in his bed and fondle his wife. But you’re not fit to even speak his name. Instead she said nothing. It wasn’t worth earning any of Messenger’s punishment points. (‘That’s ten points you owe me girl. How many fingers do you think you can take?’)

  She walked away from the high chair, entered the hall, turned left and climbed the stairs to her parents’ bedroom, what Messenger liked to refer to as ‘the master suite.’ There she fished around and found a dress that Brian had always liked on her. ‘The green brings out your eyes,’ he used to say.

  Standing in front of the mirror in her dead parents bedroom, holding up the dress that her dead husband had liked her to wear, she felt an immense and crushing emptiness push down on her shoulders. She realized that she hadn’t even had the chance to mourn their passing. She’d been too busy trying to stay alive, trying to keep her son alive. She’d been too busy catering to Messenger’s every depraved need.

  That ended today.

  twenty seven

  When Skye re-entered the kitchen, Messenger was sitting at the table, digging under his dirty fingernails with a fork. He looked up from his work as she rounded Daniel’s high chair and his mouth gaped open in a way that was so comical that Skye actually gave an involuntary giggle.

  “Shee-it girl, you clean up good,” Messenger said, his bug eyes more bulging than usual.

  “You like,” Skye said. She resisted giving a little twirl. She didn’t want to over play this. He’d know.

  “Fuck yeah, I like,” Messenger said. “Wasn’t for the blue shit, I’d be wearing a boner about the size of a marrow.”

  Thank God for the blue shit then, Skye thought. Out loud she said, “I… ahem … couldn’t wear the matching shoes. Just in case we have to move fast. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Messenger looked down at her feet, at the Reebok’s she was wearing. A frown crossed his features and for a moment Skye was sure that he was going to tell her to change, to wear a pair of pumps and to leave the Z’s to him. But as he ran his glance slowly from the athletic shoes to the deep green evening dress with the slit down the side, to the blush, lipstick and eyeliner on her face, his smile gradually widened.

  “Nah,” he said. “I kinda like the contrast.” He whistled softly, shook his head. “Geez girl, you’ve got it going on!”

  ***

  The road from the farm ran for eight miles on dirt, then for half a mile on rutted tar before joining up with a feeder to the I-10. A while later it reached a T-junction where a rusted and partially collapsed sign pointed right to Buckeye, left to Glendale and Phoenix. Skye had been certain they were going to Buckeye (on the previous two occasions he’d taken her along, that was where they’d ended up) but Messenger made a left at the intersection. Soon after, they climbed the on ramp and joined the I-10, heading east.

  It was hot in the cab, but she dared not ask him to crack a window. That would only get him angry. More importantly, it might draw his attention to the one accessory that he hadn’t had the opportunity to admire.

  The weapon lay uncomfortably against her inner thigh, held there by a few strips of Band-Aid. It was a nine-inch nail, pulled from a barn wall while Messenger was away on one of his excursions. He never tied her up on such occasions, seemed to take perverse pleasure in the fact that although she was free and without him there to watch over her, she remained his prisoner. After all, where was she going to run, in the middle of nowhere, in searing heat, with a one-year-old baby?

  Skye had used his absences to search for a weapon. At first she’d considered taking a knife or sharpening a kitchen spoon, but she’d been afraid that he might notice the missing cutlery, and her fear had been well placed. Messenger, as it turned out, was somewhat compulsive. He enjoyed taking stock of household items, counting them out on the kitchen table while eyeing her suspiciously.

  Then Skye had found the loose nail and had wiggled it from its board. Over the weeks that followed she’d sharpened it to a keen point, then hidden it, taped under a drawer in her bureau.

  But having the weapon, and using it, were two different things. Messenger tied her up at night, justifiably afraid that she might slit his throat while he slept. And he was vigilant around the farm, sneaking around with a stealth that would have done a cat proud.

  Skye had begun to think that her chance would never come. Then he’d asked her to come out with him and ‘wear something nice’. I want my best girl looking womanly when I promenade her, he’d said and that had given her an idea. Wearing jeans would have made it difficult to hide the weapon, even more difficult to access it. The dress solved both of those problems. Provided, of course, an opportunity presented itself.

  She prayed that it would. Over the last week, she had begun to sense a change in Messenger, a restlessness. He was getting ready to move on and she doubted he had plans to take her and Daniel with him. The plans he did have were likely going to make the last eight weeks look like a vacation in Maui.

  So it had to be today. She’d never get a better chance.

  twenty eight

  By the time they hit the outskirts of Glendale, Skye was marinating in her own sweat and praying that the perspiration didn’t loosen the plasters on her thigh and send her weapon clattering to the floor of the truck. If that happened, they were dead. Messenger would hand Daniel over to some ‘zombie mama’ in Phoenix as he’d often threatened to do. Then he’d get to work on her with his hands. “They called me the Handyman. Want to know why? ‘Cause I tore them apart like Thanksgiving turkeys. I tore them apart and I never needed a weapon. ‘Cept these.” He’d held up his hands when he told her, big hands with long, thick fingers. Thinking about it now sent a shudder running through her.

  She shifted Daniel’s weight in her arms, adjusted the sun visor, tried her best to shield him from the heat. She placed her hand against his brow and found that it was hot and feverish. The canteen was lying on the floor near her feet. She leaned forward, ducking her head below the dashboard, trying to reach the water bottle while holding onto Daniel and being restrained by the seatbelt.

  “Well now,” she heard Messenger say. “Ain’t that a sight?”
>
  For a moment, Skye was sure that her movement had caused her dress to part along the slit and reveal the weapon strapped to her thigh. But as she rapidly brought herself upright she saw that Messenger wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was directed along the stretch of freeway. On the opposite side of the road, about a quarter-mile up, a vehicle stood stranded, a small group of people clustered around it.

  “Basting in the sun,” Messenger chuckled as they closed the distance.

  Skye could make out the car now. It was an ancient station wagon with faux wood paneling on the side, a heavy load on its roof and a jack under its front wheel. A man was crouched down, working at the wheel lugs. Beside him stood a woman, her arm around a boy of about ten. Towards the back of the car a teenaged girl, maybe 15, stood with a baseball bat held loosely in her hand. As they passed, the woman released her grip on the boy and waved both hands in the air. Then she brought her hands together in a praying gesture. Skye turned and looked through the rear window, catching the look of utter desperation on the woman’s face. The man stood up from his labors and looked after them, his hand shading his eyes.

  “Mmm, should I or shouldn’t I?” Messenger muttered, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t,” Skye said. Even at the risk of earning punishment points, she had to speak out. “Leave them alone.”

  “Out here?” Messenger said in exaggerated disbelief. “In the middle of nowhere with a flat and nowhere to run if Z’s attack? What kind of a Samaritan would I be if I did something like that?”

  A turnaround was coming up. Messenger eased his foot on the brake and put the truck into a fairly sedate u-turn, facing it back the way they’d come.