by JJ Zep
In the next instant her feet were gone from under her and she was falling. She twisted, protecting her son, coming down hard on her shoulder and sliding down the embankment.
She heard the trickle of water, heard something far more urgent, the sound of running feet. Frantic, Skye scanned the opposite side of the stream where a clump of scrawny trees had gained a tenuous hold. She started up the bank, slid back in the loose soil, started up again, slid back. She grabbed a hold on some overhanging roots and pulled herself up one handed, almost gaining the bank before she noticed the den hidden behind the overhang. Without even stopping to consider what might be in there, rattlers perhaps, or the coyotes she’d encountered earlier, she slipped into the lair.
From behind her came the thunder of footfalls.
thirty eight
Charlie studied himself in the mirror. He was dressed in desert cammo, his beige beret, with its predominantly blue and green flash, on his head. A 9-millimeter pistol was holstered in his belt, which also held his sheathed trench knife. In his breast pocket, comfortably weighty, sat the MP-3 device that had been the making of the late, great Apple Corporation. On the cot behind him, his rucksack held spare ammo, two canteens, a small medical kit and a couple of reinforced plastic arm guards. He’d also slotted in a canister of fuel restorer. An AR-15 carbine rested across the rucksack.
He’d been up for over an hour. Even before that, his sleep had been fitful, restless. He told himself it was the heat, but it was more than that. For the first time in his life Charlie was nervous about a mission.
Why that was, was difficult to pinpoint. He was, of course, going in without his regular crew. But Feng and Galvin were solid guys, more than capable of what he needed them to do. The thing that bothered him was the intel he’d gotten from Morales. Was Mexicali really the post-apocalyptic supermarket that Morales claimed it to be? Or was that just a ruse to get him away from the camp? There was no way he could know for sure. What he did know was that, without supplies, he was going to have to pull his men out of El Centro, whether Pendleton gave permission or not. Harrow, no doubt, would view that as desertion and Charlie would likely find himself in front of a firing squad.
“No pressure then,” he told his reflection before turning away and crossing to the bed. He hefted the pack, shouldered it, picked up the rifle. Then he left the nurse’s station that served as his quarters, extinguishing the kerosene lamp on his way out.
It was dark as his footfalls echoed off the corridor walls, dark when he exited the building and crossed the parking lot to where the truck – a M-35 deuce-and-a-half – stood. He’d expected that he’d be there first, but Galvin and Feng were already waiting.
“Sleeping in, Loot?” Galvin joked.
“Beauty sleep, Galvin. You could use some yourself.”
Charlie took out his pack of cigarettes offered it around. When the others refused he pocketed the pack without lighting up himself. Almost without noticing, he’d reduced his twenty a day habit to five or less since he’d been in El Centro.
“You boys get something to eat?” Charlie asked. “We’re going to be burning some energy today.” He hadn’t eaten anything himself. What was there to eat?
“Sure thing,” Galvin said. He routed around in his rucksack, produced two candy bars, handed them to Charlie.
“Were did these come from?”
“Where’d you think?”
“Jespersen?”
“The same.”
“That kid’s going to get himself killed one of these days.”
“Not sure what the senorita sees in our Keef,” Galvin said.
“Nothing you’d ever understand, Galvin.” Kiefer Jespersen appeared from out of the darkness, walking his languid walk. An AR-15 was slung over one shoulder. The rucksack he carried in his other hand looked heavy.
“You’re late Jespersen.”
“Sorry Loot.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” Charlie said. He hoisted himself onto the running board of the waiting M-35, grabbed the door handle. “Let’s roll.”
Five minutes later the gate was being swung open and they were turning south, Galvin at the wheel, Charlie riding shotgun, Feng and Jespersen in back.
Charlie had briefed the men last night, hovering over the map while Galvin held the lamp and Feng filled them in on local knowledge.
The plan was simple. They were going to pick up the 111 where it joined with the I-8, and follow it to Calexico. The border crossing between Calexico and Mexicali was likely going to be traffic jammed, so they’d already decided to leave the main road and break through the fence about half a mile east of the border park. That, according to Feng who bring them to Calz de los Presidentes, which intersected with Lazaro Cardenas less than a mile from their destination. All things being equal, they might even have enough diesel to carry them both ways, without having to use up valuable time converting sludge to useable fuel.
A zombie wearing a tattered sundress stumbled into the road in front of them. Galvin powered ahead, crushing the thing under the M-35’s massive wheels. Up ahead lay the slip road onto the I-8. Galvin took it and a short while later turned right on to the one eleven.
Charlie removed the I-Pod from his pocket and turned it on. He spun the dial, selecting the track “MIGRAINE.”
No chances today. Today he was going to implode the fuckers.
thirty nine
It was just short of Calexico that Galvin said, “We’ve got a tail.”
Charlie looked into the side wing mirror and saw it, a beige Toyota pickup, two men in the cab, another on back, standing up behind a twenty-mil.
“Shit,” he said.
“Morales men?”
“Who else.”
“Want me to try and lose them, Loot?”
“In this crate? Fat chance.”
They rolled for another half mile, the Toyota hanging back, keeping a constant distance. What the hell was this about? Was Morales planning on ambushing them? If so, why not just get it over with. They’d stand little chance against the twenty. Was he planning on kidnapping Jespersen? The same question applied. He had them outgunned, so why not just make the move? Maybe he just wanted to spy on them, seeing if they tapped any of his Mexicali supply sources? But that didn’t make sense either. There was only one way to find out what they wanted.
“Stop the truck.”
“Loot?”
“Pull over.”
Galvin stood on the brake, bringing the M-35 to a skidding, shuddering halt. Charlie saw the Toyota do likewise, turning broadside as it came to a stop in the road. The gunner instantly swung the twenty-mil towards them.
“Stay put,” Charlie said to Galvin. He levered the door open, bounced off the running board and hit the pavement. He started immediately towards the Toyota, keeping a brisk pace, unarmed except for the 9-mil and trench knife holstered on his belt. A couple of Z’s stumbled from the shade of a house and lurched towards him. Without breaking stride, Charlie hit play on the I-Pod. Seconds later, the zombies’ heads disappeared in a splat of black gunk.
He was about twenty yards from the Toyota when the doors swung open and the two men in the cab stepped out onto the tarmac. On either side of the street, Z’s were emerging from ramshackle houses, like nosy neighbors drawn by the sound of some commotion. They stumbled across desiccated patches of garbage-strewn grass, intent on the tasty morsels they saw gathered in the road. None of them made it to the sidewalk before their heads exploded. Charlie saw them only in his peripheral vision, his eyes focused firmly to the fore.
The passenger in the Toyota was a large man, dressed in faded jeans and a denim cut-off, unbuttoned to reveal his chiseled torso. He wore a straw Stetson, the sides of the brim curled over. A chrome-plated six-shooter was strapped to his thigh, in the fashion of a western gunslinger. He made no attempt to draw it. Neither did he have to. Not with the twenty-mil poised to blow Charlie into the next life at the first sign of trouble. Charlie could see now that the 20-mil gun
ner was protected from the Z’s by a steel mesh cage.
“Qué pasa, amigo” the gunslinger said.
Charlie came to a stop ten feet from him. “Qué pasa,” he returned. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
The gunslinger said nothing. Charlie was about to repeat his question, when the man angled his chin in a pointing gesture. “We are here for heem,” he said.
Charlie looked back over his shoulder, saw Feng and Jespersen crouched in the back of the truck, their rifle barrels poking over the tailgate, trained on the Toyota. He looked back to the gunslinger.
“Please give my best regards to Senor Morales,” he said. “Tell him I could no sooner hand over one of my men to him than he could hand over one of his children to me. Tell him –”
“Senor Morales has instructed us to accompany you into Mexicali.”
“Thank Senor Morales on my behalf, but tell him I don’t need a babysitter.” Charlie started to turn away.
“Senor Morales instructs that nothing must happen to Jespersen.”
Charlie turned back to face the man, who was now wearing a sheepish grin. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Senor Morales has sent you out here to protect Jespersen?”
“Si.”
“Why? So that he can kidnap him later, string him up for dishonoring his daughter?”
The man shrugged.
Charlie considered for a moment. Having Morales’ men along, especially with that 20-mil might not be the worst idea in the world.
He shrugged. “It’s a free country. You want to tag along, who am I to stop you? But I tell you this, amigo. You try any shit with Jespersen and you die today. Maybe your two compadres walk away, maybe not. But I’ll make it my personal business to see that your day trip to Mexicali ends up being a permanent vacation.”
forty
When Skye woke it was hot in the den and diffused light was spilling in between the vegetation that concealed the entrance. She heard the trickle of water, the gentle rustle of dry leaves being agitated by the breeze. How long had she slept? Longer than intended, that was for sure. It was hot enough, where she lay, to broil a chicken. A sudden panic hit her. Where was Danny? She’d fallen asleep with her back to the entrance forming a protective cocoon around her son. Now the space where she’d cradled him against her stomach was empty.
She flipped over, reached into the dark, patted the ground and didn’t find him. Panic growing, she pulled herself along on her elbows, heading deeper into shadow. This time all she found was a pile of long picked bones.
“Danny!” she called and heard nothing in reply.
She scanned the space before her, spotted a flash of white and pulled herself along the upward sloping floor, oblivious to the damage she was doing to her elbows.
“Oh Danny, thank God,” she cried as she reached her son’s sleeping form. It was obvious what had happened now, she’d rolled over in her sleep, slid a short distance down the sloping floor.
Danny’s skin felt cooler than it had yesterday. That was a good thing. His fever had obviously broken. She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, slid her forearms under his body and lifted him. Then she began backing out of the space.
Stopping at the entrance to peer out, Skye crept from the den, got a foothold and stood. She adjusted her grip on Danny, noticing for the first time how limp his body was. His head and arms lolled like those of a ragdoll.
“Oh Jesus!” Skye said, already falling to her knees in the sand, already laying him down. She maneuvered his head into position, pinched his nose, blew into his lungs, repeating the operation again and again.
This time there was no dramatic revival, no sputter or cough. Still, when Skye placed her cheek close to his mouth, she was certain that she detected a breath. When she placed her fingers to his throat she was sure that she felt a pulse, weak but there.
Eventually, she stood up from the sand and with tears brimming in her eyes, lifted his flaccid body. She clutched him to her, sure that she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her chest.
“We’re going to make it Danny,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Mama’s not going to let anything happen to you.”
***
By the time she made it to the road, the sun was blazing down out of a faded denim sky. She turned right, following her path from last night, keeping to a steady pace. Soon though, the furnace heat had worked itself into her body, into her brain. She began to see things, at one point scurrying for cover when she thought she spied Messenger driving towards her in her father’s truck.
She continued walking, trudging, one foot in front of the other, eventually oblivious to the heat, to the pain of the blisters that formed and burst on her toes and ankles. At some point she left the road and blundered off into the brush, not even aware that she was doing so. Cacti tore at her arms and clothes without her taking any evasive action other than to protect the precious bundle she was carrying.
After a time, brush gave way to streets and houses. She crossed some railroad lines, stumbled on the tracks but managed to hold her balance. A lone zombie staggered out from behind a boxcar, followed her progress with dead eyes and then shuffled back into the shadows. She reached an intersection where black dust and bone fragments lay thick on the ground. Some unseen force turned her right here and she trudged onward, her last drop of energy, her very life force, almost expended.
In front of her stood a compound of some sort, a cluster of buildings behind chain link fencing. A young, dark-haired girl was in the yard hanging out washing. She turned towards Skye, her mouth gaping open. In the next moment she was running for one of the buildings.
“Don’t go!” Skye tried to call through lips that were cracked and swollen. The cry produced nothing more than a wisp of air and sent a rasp across her parched throat.
She raised her foot in exaggerated fashion, trying to mount the curb. Her toe caught the concrete and she was falling, twisting at the last moment to protect the baby, coming down on her upper arm, her head slamming to the concrete.
From a million miles away she heard footfalls, the rattle of a gate. An army of giants suddenly had her surrounded.
One of them asked: “Está muerta?”
forty one
Día de Muertos had come early to Mexicali this year. Charlie hadn’t seen this many Z’s since his early missions to L.A. and San Diego, back in the days when the Corporation still had hopes of clearing those cities. They shuffled from the buildings to either side of the road, hands outstretched as though trying to hitch a ride. Looking in the side mirror, Charlie could see them staggering along behind the vehicle, hundreds upon hundreds of the things clogging the road with their numbers swelling all the time.
The M-35 powered on, Galvin keeping her floored so that those Z’s that appeared in front of them were simply swatted aside or crushed under the vehicle’s six wheels. Now eventually they left the residential neighborhood they’d been traversing and entered an area where construction work had been in progress. Half built apartment blocks stood back from the road on one side, to the other some kind of shantytown was excreting yet more of the creatures. They swarmed towards the road like a rioting mob intent on mayhem.
Charlie jacked the player into the extension speakers Galvin had rigged to the wing mirrors and pressed play. The result was near instantaneous. A series of detonations ran through the Z’s like a string of fireworks, one igniting the other. Heads exploded and they collapsed like deflating hot air balloons.
“Take that suckers!” Galvin shouted as he viewed the carnage at the side of the road. The truck suddenly bucked and shimmied, veered left.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Charlie shouted as Galvin corrected course.
They hadn’t seen the Toyota since leaving the one eleven, just shy of the border. Now Charlie heard the familiar clatter of a heavy gun. Up ahead lay the junction with Lazaro Cardenas Boulevard. The Toyota drifted past, the gunner unleashing the twenty on the massed Z’s.
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br /> “Turn right!” Charlie shouted. Galvin spun the wheel and made a broad turn into a road of six lanes, separated by an overgrown center island. To his right Charlie saw a collapsed, giant M – the corporate insignia of the long gone McDonald’s restaurant chain.
Still the Z’s came, emerging from the buildings on either side of the road, clogging their path. They were thinner on the ground here, but not by much. Charlie saw a PEMEX gas station to his left. His plan had been to haul up a few bucket loads of diesel sludge for refueling. He saw now that that was never an option. They were going to have to go with what they had and hope that it carried them most of the way back to El Centro.
Just ahead, the road veered left and Charlie saw their destination, a low-rise complex of buildings arranged around a parking lot that was clogged with Z’s. The mall was huge, covering at least three city blocks, but he spotted the Wal-Mart insignia almost immediately, white on a dark blue background, the word ‘Supercenter’ in gold.
“There,” he said, pointing it out to Galvin. The truck made a wide turn into the lot and Charlie switched the I-Pod to ‘REPULSE.’ Instantly, the Z’s shuffled away, forming a cordon forty feet from the truck on either side.
Galvin geared down, slowed to a crawl and rolled the truck across the lot. Charlie looked into his side mirror and saw the Toyota drifting along in their wake. He shook his head and couldn’t prevent a smile from creeping onto his lips. Say what you want about Morales’ guys, they were stayers.
“Swing her around,” Charlie said. “Back up to the glass.”
“Want me to punch through,” Galvin asked. “Back right into the store?”
“Hell no,” Charlie said. “We need to keep them out. How are we going to get any shopping done with Z’s clogging up the aisles?”
