by JJ Zep
forty two
Even as Galvin backed the truck towards the glass, Charlie was jumping from the cab. As the vehicle came to a stop, he dropped the tailgate and waited while Feng and Jespersen scrambled out. He needed the I-Pod portable now, so he’d switched from external speakers to earphones. That allowed the Z’s to shuffle in, but they maintained their distance at about twenty feet. Those who let their hunger get the better of them and tried to get closer were thrown back as if they’d come into contact with an electric fence.
Charlie scanned their grotesque, corpse-like faces. Many were missing eyes, ears, lips, noses. Some had skin stretched as tight as snare drum vellum across their scalps. From others, the skin fell away in decaying chunks that exposed marzipan-colored skulls beneath. The smell of these Z’s wasn’t as bad as some he’d encountered, more desiccated than putrid. But their horrendous buzzing still set his teeth on edge.
If it wasn’t for that buzz, the I-Pod frequencies wouldn’t work, he told himself, so suck it up and thank God for small mercies.
A slamming car door drew his attention to the front of the truck. As he turned in that direction, he saw the gunslinger striding across the tarmac, talking in rapid Spanish. Charlie didn’t understand a word of it. He turned to Feng, gave him a quizzical look.
Feng rattled off a few words, which the man returned with interest.
“What’s he say?” Charlie asked.
“He says this place is no good.”
“Why’s that?”
Feng spoke to the gunslinger, then turned back to Charlie. “He says, the store’s played out. It was the first place they targeted.”
Charlie felt a surge of disappointment, coupled with alarm. He’d placed so much faith in finding supplies here that he hadn’t even considered that Morales might have already cleared the place out. He realized now that he’d chosen this store mainly because if was within reach, given their fuel constraints. Stupid move. Stupid, stupid move.
On the other hand, Morales’ man may just be full of shit and trying to scare them away from his stockpile.
“Ask him what his name is,” Charlie instructed.
Feng did, then turned back to Charlie after the man had responded. “He says people call him Cowboy.”
“Well Cowboy,” Charlie said, now addressing the man directly. “Seen as you’re such an authority on Mexicali hotspots, how about you tell us where we should go instead?”
Feng translated. Cowboy listened, then shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
“I say he’s full of shit,” Charlie said. “We’re going in. On me.”
He turned towards the entrance. Behind him, Cowboy unleashed another volley of rapid fire Spanish.
“He says this place is home to many Quicks,” Feng translated.
“Tell him Quicks are a fairy tale,” Charlie said and turned away.
Cowboy launched into another tirade. Charlie ignored him and kept walking, veering right to where a blue and white entrance sign hung over a pair of double glass doors. He stopped outside the doors, did a weapons check and instructed his men to do the same.
“Single shots in there,” he said. “And then only if you’re sure of a hit. We don’t have ammo to piss away. Oh, and if there really are Quicks, aim for the pelvis. You’re likely going to miss with headshots against such a fast-moving target.”
“Don’t we need to hit them in the head to kill them?” Jespersen asked.
“We don’t need to kill them, only stop them. A zombie needs legs to walk on just like an ordinary man.”
“You reckon there are Quicks?” This was Galvin.
“Nah,” Charlie said after a moment. “Like I told Cowboy over there, Quicks are a fairy tale.”
Yet despite Charlie’s bravado, Cowboy’s words bothered him. Quicks were no fairy tale. He’d seen them himself, once in L.A., another time near Palm Desert. Other Corporation patrols had also encountered them, losing men in the process. They were fast and sly and aggressive and they showed no reaction to any of the I-Pod frequencies. Worse still, they seemed to give off some kind of jamming frequency, so that when there were Quicks around, the I-Pods stopped working on ordinary Z’s as well.
With these thoughts occupying his mind, Charlie placed a hand on the door handle and pushed inward.
forty three
Charlie stepped across the threshold into the store. He stood aside, allowing Feng, Jespersen and Galvin to file past him. Then he allowed the door to swing back, dropped into a crouch and called them to him by tapping two fingers to the top of his head. As they huddled in, he drew their attention to the direction boards suspended from the high ceiling. Some of these had fallen down, but the one he was interested in – GROCERY – was still there, white on blue, pointing them to the right, into the depths. Charlie was also interested in finding the pharmacy, but that would wait. Food was their number one priority. He pressed his palms together, indicating for them to keep a close grouping, pointed his forked fingers at his eyes, reminding them to stay alert. Then he set off towards the tills and slipped between two checkout lanes.
The front of the store was lit by sunlight coming in through the glass. Further back it was dark, not quite black, but an advanced twilight at least. It smelled too, mustiness and mold and stagnant water.
Pressing the AR-15 to his shoulder, he scanned the darkness. He spotted a cluster of figures, swung his rifle towards them and realized that they were just mannequins. The fashion department stood before him. If we’d been shopping for clothes, Charlie thought, we’d have been well served. Heart pounding he stepped into the dark and veered right.
He moved quickly, going for speed rather than stealth. Movement at the end of the aisle caught his attention. Dropping into a crouch, he saw that it was his own reflection coming off a glass-fronted counter. Jespersen bumped into the back of him, breathing heavily. Charlie would have bet his pay for the next three years that Jespersen was right this moment wishing that he hadn’t volunteered for this mission.
He set off again, moving more carefully now, counting out paces. On ten, his foot struck something and sent it scuttling into the darkness. A tin. That was a good sign. Where there was one, there might be more.
Wishing that he had night vision glasses, Charlie peered into the gloom. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a row of shelves dead ahead. He edged forward, combat walking, carbine pressed into his shoulder.
He hadn’t yet reached the shelves when he saw that Cowboy hadn’t been bullshitting after all. Nothing sat upon those shelves but darkness and dust.
Still, there were other shelves. This was a big store.
Charlie turned right, then left, picking up the next row. Something crunched underfoot. He reached out a hand and tracked it along a shelf. His hand found burst packaging and something sticky.
Something clanked in the dark. Charlie froze, crouched, brought up the carbine. Now another sound, a clucking noise that sent gooseflesh racing up his arms. Now it came again, the sound of a tongue being played against the palate of someone’s mouth.
“What the fuck is that?” Jespersen said, his voice quaking.
“Shh,” Charlie stilled him. He waited for the sound to be repeated, heard nothing but the scuttling of claws on tile. He blew out a relieved breath between his teeth. Only rats, thank God.
Beside him, the steel shelving rocked slightly. He suddenly had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Gooseflesh again speckled his arms. Icy fingers tiptoed up his spine.
Crrrreeeee!
The sound of stressed metal, coming from above his head, from the topmost shelf. Charlie angled his head upwards on muscles that felt like rusty hinges. A man-shaped thing crouched there, black backlit by charcoal, eyes glowing like dull embers, holding him in its gaze.
Charlie was crouched in the aisle, his carbine angled up at the creature. He allowed himself to rock back, and simultaneously fired three closely spaced shots, missing with each one as the creature flung itself from one shelf to the next, taking f
light like a winged demon.
In the next moment, the darkness was split by a piercing screech. A carbine opened up with a rattle of automatic fire, and then Jespersen was screaming. “Meegs! They got Meegs!”
“Calm down,” Charlie hissed at him. He scanned his eye quickly to both ends of the row, along the top of the shelves. He saw nothing.
“We’re going to die,” Jespersen howled.
“Get it together for chrissakes. You keep up the noise I’ll kill you myself.”
He reached across Jespersen, shifted the selector on his carbine from automatic to semi-automatic. “And quit wasting ammo.”
“Galvin,” Charlie called, keeping his voice low and even.
“Loot?” Galvin sounded shaky.
“Meegs?”
“Something took him,” Galvin said. “Something moving so fucking fast I couldn’t get a bead on it.”
Charlie looked into the half-light at the end of the row, back in the direction from which they’d come. Something appeared there, a gaunt creature naked and grey skinned.
“Galvin!” Charlie screamed, already firing as the creature launched. He punched a couple of rounds at it, hitting it in the midriff, buckling it to the floor as Galvin scrambled away. A shelving unit at the other end of the row collapsed. Charlie saw more of the things appear through the gap. He fired, aiming low.
Behind Charlie, Galvin’s AR-15 barked out evenly spaced reports that sounded like a hammer pounding nails. One of the things was hit and reeled away in a pirouette. Glass smashed. Charlie realized suddenly that Jespersen wasn’t firing. He scanned the dark and spotted the man lying face down on the ground, his hands pressed to his ears.
forty four
Charlie shucked his spent magazine, replaced it with one of the three spares he was carrying. He picked a couple of targets as they launched themselves out of the shadows, missing as many as he hit. He was also acutely aware that most of the Z’s he’d hit were not dead. Some of them were clawing their way along the aisle, dragging their shattered limbs behind them. The rifle clicked empty again. He reached down to grab another magazine and it was then that he noticed that Jespersen was no longer there.
In the next moment came a massive collision from the front of the store. Charlie looked up in time to see the plate glass explode inward. Then the deafening clatter of the 20-mil filled the space and he realized that the Toyota had just smashed through the display window.
“Great!” Charlie shouted. “Just fucking great!” Now the Z’s could get into the store, and with Quicks in the vicinity, the I-Pod was going to be about as much use as an umbrella in a hurricane. It was time to fall back.
The Toyota’s engine revved up, booming thunderously across the store. It clattered into the shelves, pushing them aside in a screech of tortured metal. Meanwhile, the 20-mil continued its conversation. Charlie didn’t even know what they were firing at.
“Galvin!” he shouted. “Let’s move!”
“Jespersen?”
“I think they got him.”
“Fuck!”
“Let’s hustle.”
He pushed past Galvin, heading for the shattered window, where the Z’s were now pouring through from the lot. The Toyota continued its demolition derby in the store as they made there way through the till points.
Charlie veered left, avoiding the window, going instead for the exit door. A zombie came towards him and he took it down with a headshot.
He swung the door open and stepped through with Galvin close behind. Then he ran along the flank of the truck, hopped onto the running board and flipped the door open.
“Get in!” he shouted and Galvin scrambled past him and into the cab. A zombie broke away from the pack and lurched towards him. Charlie closed the door in its face.
“Jesus!” Galvin said. “Jesus, that was close.”
From inside the store the twenty-mil kept firing while the Toyota laid waste to Wal-Mart’s flagship Mexicali store.
Charlie looked through the windshield at the Z’s streaming across the parking lot, drawn by the commotion. If Jespersen was still in there, he was done for.
Despair fell over Charlie like a shroud. He’d messed up. Let his men down. Not only had he failed to secure the rations they so desperately needed, he’d lost two more men to yet another fool’s errand.
“They volunteered, Loot,” Galvin said, reading his thoughts. “They knew the stakes.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier, Stan.”
“Guess not.”
The guns had fallen silent now. From behind came the roar of the Toyota’s engine, the squeal of tires, the crunch of broken glass.
Galvin turned his head to pick them up in his side mirror.
“Fucking hell!” he shouted.
“What’s happening?” Charlie said as the Toyota raced past them. The vehicle crossed the lot at speed, carving through the Z’s like a blunt edged scythe. It performed a little shimmy as the driver threw it into the turn, straightened and then raced east on Lazaro Cardenas.
Before it disappeared, Charlie saw what Galvin had seen – Jespersen, sitting in the cab between Cowboy and his sidekick.
forty five
Galvin kept his foot heavy on the gas all the way back to the border post, but there was no way they were going to catch the Toyota. At the furthest extent of his vision Charlie could see it, a beige blur racing through the customs area, angling across the lanes through the border post.
“Want me to head for the gap we made earlier?” Galvin asked.
“No,” Charlie said. “Keep going.” They weren’t going to catch the Toyota, but he was damned if he was going to let the vehicle out of his sight.
The M-35 plowed through the border post. Where the Toyota had weaved between the traffic, the truck used brute force. A black Trans-Am that had probably been someone’s pride and joy was swatted aside, a Prius was sent tumbling, an ancient Ford pickup was carried before the 35 in a shower of sparks and screeching metal.
They passed through the post and entered Calexico. The Toyota had disappeared by now, lost in the urban sprawl of houses. Charlie knew, though, where they were headed.
“One eleven to I-8,” he shouted to Galvin.
“Not sure we’re going to get that far, boss. Been nudging empty since before the border.”
Shit! Charlie had gotten so involved in the chase, in wanting to run them to ground, that he’d forgotten about their precarious fuel situation.
“Get us as close as you can,” he said. He would run the last miles if he had to.
They picked up the onramp from the 111, raced along the highway for a couple of miles. As the signboard for El Centro appeared, Galvin veered right, crossed the center island and cut across the lane that would have been reserved for oncoming traffic, if there’d been any.
“Don’t try this at home folks,” he yelled as he punched through a gap between two old junkers, sending both vehicles spinning. The Imperial Avenue onramp appeared before them and Galvin took it at speed. For a moment they were actually airborne before the 35’s front wheels collided with the ground, throwing Charlie forward in his seat. Galvin stood on the brakes, leaving rubber on tarmac as he tried to slow them down enough to make the turn. The truck leaned dangerously towards the passenger side. For a moment Charlie was sure that they were going to flip, but Galvin expertly manhandled the vehicle back onto its wheels.
Three blocks ahead, Charlie spotted the Toyota, closer now than it had been at any time during the chase. They’d actually made up time on Cowboy. They might actually catch up with him before it was too late.
A series of bangs cut short his elation. The truck suddenly rocked and shuddered as though it were crossing an open field. A loose, flapping sound could be heard from outside, augmented now by the acrid scent of burning rubber. The truck veered dangerously across the road as Galvin fought to keep it under control. It crunched into a row of cars parked at the curb, pushing them up onto the sidewalk in a scream of tortured metal. A
VW bug was sent rolling through a plate glass window. Eventually, the truck shuddered to a halt.
“Fuuuuccckkk!” Galvin screamed, slapping at the steering wheel in frustration. “Sons of bitches dropped a spike chain in the road.”
Charlie barely heard him. He’d already vaulted from the cab and was sprinting up Imperial Avenue.
forty six
He’d covered half a block when the report of a rifle slapped back off the empty buildings on the opposite side of the street. Charlie dropped instinctively for cover, crawled in behind a white delivery van decorated with a cartoon picture of a smiling poodle frolicking in a bubble bath under the words, ‘Pedro’s Pooch Parlor.’ He looked back along the road and saw Galvin running towards him. A zombie lurched into Galvin’s path from between two parked cars and Galvin raised his carbine and put a bullet in its brain at point blank range. There were others though, some creeping from shattered storefronts, others from the shadows under the overpass.
Charlie reached into his breast pocket for the I-Pod. He’d powered it -down during the drive back, in order to conserve battery life. Now, he pressed his thumb to the 6 o’clock position on the dial and held it there. Nothing. The display screen remained dark.
He tried again. Still nothing.
Galvin came skidding in beside him, breathing hard.
“You okay?” Charlie said.
“Right as rain,” Galvin came back, through labored breaths. He spotted the dead I-Pod in Charlie’s hands. “Not working?”
“Looks that way.”
“Gimme.”
He took the player, held his finger down at various spots on the dial. The I-Pod remained as dead as a doorstop.
“Guess the fucking thing’s broken,” Galvin said, handing it back.
“Looks like were going to have to do this the old fashioned way,” Charlie said. “Come on.”
He broke cover, headed for the middle of the road and sprinted north. As he passed the Baptist church, a dozen of the things shambled from the building. One of them veered into his path, trying to cut him off. Charlie barely broke stride as he smashed its face in with the butt of his rifle. He figured he had half a mag left, ten rounds. He couldn’t afford to waste any.
