Highway To Hell (Dying Days Book 1)

by Armand Rosamilia

  VII

  The chain-link fence had been unclamped, with the clamps missing. Becca knew she’d secured it before they left. “A zombie didn’t do this.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that a zombie doesn’t have the brains – pun intended – to undo them and keep them.”

  Randy frowned. “I was joking. You’re getting a bit mean today.”

  Becca ignored him and put the rifle before her. “You need to pull this cart inside the fence and block the hole up while I cover us. It might be someone raiding our place right now.”

  With the cart wedged against the fence and no zombies in the immediate area, they moved quickly across the yard and got to the front door of the building. It stood open.

  “Fuck.” Becca closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall.

  “We could wait here for them to come out,” Randy said. He wasn’t too keen on getting into a fight inside the building, especially with only a machete. It wasn’t the ideal close-quarters weapon, especially if you were going against a foe with a gun. “The windows on this floor and the back door are blocked up. There’s only one way out.”

  “If we stay out here too long we attract attention from the zombies.”

  ‘They could be inside waiting in the first apartment for us to enter and then shoot us.”

  “Or they could be long gone. We’ve been out for most of the day.”

  “I think that they are still here. If you were on the run in this world and found a safe haven like this, stocked with neat rows of food, wouldn’t you stay?”

  “Definitely. But they didn’t.” Becca took a step forward and glanced inside before pulling back.

  “How do you know? Is there a note pinned to the door?”

  Becca smiled. “If they had planned on staying they would have secured the perimeter as soon as they found all of the stuff.”

  “But they could’ve just gotten here and even now they are realizing what a great place this is and they’ll be heading back downstairs to lock up.”

  “I never realized what a pussy you were.” Becca kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s move.”

  Rifle leading the way, Becca entered the dark foyer. The four apartments on the bottom floor were quiet, with none of the doors opened. She pointed up and began climbing the stairs slowly.

  Every loose board squeaked and moaned. Randy’s heart was pounding in his chest. You think you’d be used to this kind of bullshit excitement already? It’s been months, dude. You are a pussy. He held the machete in his sweaty hands and followed his protector.

  On the second landing Becca stopped. “Shit.”

  “What is it?” Randy whispered.

  “Stay here.” Becca walked slowly to an open apartment door and leveled the rifle inside. She glanced back at Randy. “Stay here,” she repeated.

  “That makes no sense. If they’re in there –“

  The look from Becca stopped him in his tracks. Argument over.

  “Should I go up?” he finally whispered, but she had already entered the room. Feeling silly for not acting like man, he took some practice swings with the machete, imagining cutting up a tall, formerly good looking, and built zombie while Becca cooed.

  He could count the number of hours they’d known one another but already he felt like they’d been together for a long time. He didn’t know if he believed in the soul mate cliché but he felt such a deep connection with her.

  “And she popped your cherry.” He twirled the machete in his hands like a baton. He liked Becca, and he felt safe – relatively safe, of course – with her. He’d just need to man up and be stronger for her, be the dominant male that he wasn’t and make her respect him. It was obvious that that was what she was looking for in a man.

  “Fuck this,” he said and decided to take charge of the situation. If she told him to go back out into the hallway he would be a man and tell her that he was now in charge, and she needed to go out.

  The first thing he noticed when he entered the living room was the picture of Becca with a woman on the television. A collage of pictures of a much younger Becca adorned the far wall. He found her, curled up in a bedroom, holding a book and crying.

  “This is your apartment?” he finally asked when she just stared at him through bloodshot eyes.

  “It was. I lived here with my mom until this started.”

  “Why did you lie about knowing the area?”

  “I didn’t. We’d only lived here for a couple of weeks. I was on my way from school when I was attacked. By the time I got back here my mom was gone. The neighbors were packing and leaving but I couldn’t go without my mom. So I stayed. Since I was the only one left I decided to board up the place and wait for her to come back and save me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Reality is what you want it to be.”

  “Reality is being honest and clinging onto your humanity. I spilled my guts about who I was and where I came from, but you haven’t.”

  “And I won’t. None of that matters anymore. Does it matter that the day this went down I got a D on my report about global warming? Not even close.”

  “Can I ask how old you are?”

  Becca grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m legal. I turned eighteen last month. Afraid the zombie police will come and arrest you for fucking a minor?”

  “Fifteen gets you twenty.”

  “Not anymore. You can do all kinds of bad shit and not have to worry about it.”

  “Again, my idea of clinging to humanity would negate that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I told you to wait outside in the hallway. Finally grew a pair?”

  “That was mean.” Randy felt his face get hot. What a stupid-ass thing to say to her, like a whiny bitch. He decided to fight fire with fire. “I see your boyfriend-girlfriend skills haven’t been honed too sharply. I wonder if you were a virgin before I got here.”

  The slap was quick and hard, Becca coming off of the bed in a flurry and striking him. He fell back onto the floor, banging his head on the dresser behind him. “Go fuck yourself, you pussy.” She held up the book, a collection of poems by Edgar Allan Poe. “Crow loves me.”

  “Crow?” Randy stood and tried to act like the slap had no effect on him. “Doesn’t anyone use their real names anymore? From now on call me Dante.” He knew he was being sarcastic but he didn’t care. “Or, better yet, call me Azrael, or Demon, or Killer Clown From Outer Space.”

  “Fuck you.” Becca fell back on the bed and held the book to her chest. “Crow was here again.”

  Randy didn’t know what to say. Who the Hell was Crow? Why had he been here? Was he still here?

  Becca stood up and brushed the tears from her cheeks. She still clutched the book. “If I know him he’s upstairs waiting for me.”

  “Is he an old boyfriend?”

  “Something like that. He helped me secure this building. The top floor was his, but we’d never spoken before all of this shit.”

  “I thought you said you were the only one left in the building.”

  “I was. Crow came back to gather his belongings. When he found me here I was a mess, screaming and crying and within hours of jumping off of the roof.” She smiled faintly. “He got me under control and helped me. Then he left.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “I couldn’t. I had to stay and wait for my mom to come home.”

  “Leave her a note, a forwarding address.” Randy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Becca’s mom was out there, mindless and chewing on someone right now. He supposed that Becca knew it as well. “Why did he leave you here?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go ask him. He’s probably sitting upstairs with a glass of Bordeaux and his feet up on the table.”

  VIII

  Crow was there, feet on the table and a glass in hand. He stood when Becca entered the room and lifted the wine bottle from th
e table. “Can I interest you in a glass of 1787 Chateau Lafite, once owned by Thomas Jefferson? It’s exquisite.”

  “It’s over three hundred years old. It’s a bottle of vinegar now,” Randy said.

  Crow stared blankly at Randy.

  Becca looked awkward at the exchange. “Crow, I’d like you to meet Randy.”

  Crow turned and faced her. “Raven, you look beautiful as usual.”

  “Raven?” Randy turned to face her. “Crow? Can I be Turkey Vulture or is that someone else coming for dinner?”

  “Stop it,” Becca whispered.

  “I see you found my present.” Crow stood and he was imposing. At six foot five and well-built, he towered over Randy by at least six inches. His head was clean-shaven with a long salt and pepper goatee. Three hoop earrings dangled from either ear. He wore a Cashmere sweater and black slacks, with dark black cowboy boots. Despite being more than twice Randy’s age Randy had no doubt that in a fair fight Crow would dust the floor with him.

  His blue eyes were piercing and Randy tried to look away but failed.

  Becca cleared her throat. “What brings you back?”

  “You, my sweet Raven. I came to ask you to join us in Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore is burning.” She pointed at the glass doors for emphasis.

  Crow shook his head. “Not all of Baltimore, just the worst parts.”

  Randy realized that he was gripping the machete tightly and tried to relax. He put it to his side but kept his hand on it. The way Crow was staring at Raven and completely ignoring him was unnerving. He didn’t know whether to leave the room or rush him and bury the machete in his smug head.

  “The stadium went up three nights ago. I guess we’ll not live to see another World Series game in this fair city. What a pity. I had to personally put a bullet in Cal Ripken, Jr. in the parking lot.”

  “Ripken retired years ago. I doubt he was hanging out at the ballpark months after the season even ended and zombies attacked,” Randy said.

  Crow drained the last of his wine and turned to Randy. “I’m actually drinking the last glass of a Trockenbeerenauslese from my collection.” He looked back at Becca. “If I’d known you’d taken another lover I would have brought another bottle, perhaps a Vintage Port.”

  “Are you staying for dinner?” Randy asked. He was getting annoyed at the intrusion but found it difficult to gauge how to act. Crow was very unsettling to be around.

  “Dinner? No. I have plenty of food in Baltimore. We’ve gathered fresh meats and dairy and have our own garden.” He turned to the glass doors. “Nothing as fancy as what little Raven has growing.” He turned suddenly back to her and grinned without humor. “Perhaps someday you’ll join me there and be in charge of the fresh fruits and vegetables?”

  Becca stood silently, glancing between Crow and Randy.

  “I’ll leave you two lovebirds; don’t want it getting awkward in here.” Crow pulled out a large baggie from a backpack that had been resting behind his chair. “Another present for the lady of the house.”

  The baggie was overflowing with pills, reds and greens and whites and blues, all mixed together. “I trust you know which is which at this point.”

  When he held it out to Becca and she didn’t take it he grinned again. Randy thought he looked like a crocodile about to pounce on a duck. “Love,” Crow said and placed the pills on the table. He swept past them, ignoring Randy, and rushed down the stairs.

  IX

  Both generators running at once took up too much gasoline, so they started using one at a time unless they were doing something important like laundry. The curtains had hidden them from prying eyes – dead or otherwise – but the noise drew an unwanted crowd. Dozens of them gathered around the fence, spread out with arms outstretched between the links.

  “We’ll have to reinforce the fence. A crowd of zombies will be able to knock a section down with their sheer weight,” Randy had said. “We need to figure out a way to get large sections of fencing back here, either wood or more chain-link. What do you think?”

  Becca didn’t reply. Since Crow had come and gone she’d been melancholy, tending her garden, doing menial choirs or reading her new book.

  They’d had sex once in the last two weeks, quick and animalistic from behind. After, Becca had simply balled up in the corner and gone to sleep. Randy had felt dirty after, sitting outside on the patio and watching the fires in the distance. That was the night that he realized Becca had been fishing in the bag of pills every few hours.

  “What are you doing?” he’d asked, confronting her by taking the pills from her grasp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

  Becca had laughed at him, snarling and her nostrils flaring. “Kill myself? I’m already dead, motherfucker, and you’re already dead. You’re just too stupid to know it yet.” Shed snatched the bag from him. “You’re not my father.”

  Luckily the summer was still holding on, so Randy pulled a blanket and an oversized pillow to the patio and slept out under the stars on a chair. With his eyes closed he’d imagine that life was normal, back to being simple, with his mom in the kitchen cooking up her savory meatloaf while he lounged on the couch with a beer and watched mindless television.

  Randy missed his mother. The last time he’d seen her…

  Becca came outside around midnight and gave him a beer as a peace offering. She sat at his feet and chugged her beer and faintly smiled at him.

  He remembered feeling dizzy at first, then surreal. Colors and shapes collided before his eyes. He rose from his chair and floated over the trees and buildings, soaring like a bird. His arms grew feathers and then sprayed a rainbow to either side, extending to the horizon.

  “Don’t you feel better now?” Becca asked. He was back in the chair and he heard laughter. It was his voice. He hadn’t laughed like this in months.

  Sunlight falling on his face brought him up into a sitting position. His head was pounding and five empty beer bottles were on the ground around him, where he had obviously slept outside.

  He looked back and saw that Becca was still asleep, wrapped up inside in her blankets and cradling a pillow. He felt wrong. No, I feel wronged, he thought.

  After slipping downstairs to an apartment and running a cold shower – the water still worked in the building, but before the generator it had only been cold – he grabbed a bag of beef jerky, gathered some tools and his trusty machete and left.

  Might as well get this all started before we’re overrun, he thought. The dirt around the building was getting weed-choked. He realized that clearing weeds was probably the least of his worries, but he knew some routine would be helpful amidst the chaos. Becca had her garden. Maybe he had a green thumb and didn’t realize it. He imagined growing grass and bushes and a bed of roses around the building. Shit, he was the landlord now. He could do anything he wanted. Besides, the neighbors wouldn’t be complaining about the noise or his gardening. Randy wondered if there were any neighbors left within sight of their place.

  Watching the skyline and the surrounding area from their comfortable perch, they’d seen no movement except the zombies. The screams had died off, the shots and the car engines were long gone and nothing moved on the highway that Becca had first spotted him.

  As far as he could see the zombies were gone. He climbed the fence, looking around as he went. If he could figure out a way to move large amounts of items at once without attracting too large a crowd it would solve so many problems. He didn’t fully understand the movements of the dead; he knew he was missing something simple about the way they migrated, fed and killed. He decided to take a walk.

  His journey began the opposite way from the Home Depot and that area. When he’d finally gone out after getting the generators situated he’d found a used car lot a block over. He’d managed to siphon enough gas for about a month’s worth of electricity. He wondered if he could find a useful truck or van in the lot to use.

  The car lot was just as he’d left it. He climbed the fen
ce and weaved through the cars to the main office. The area was cordoned off with ten-foot high fencing and barbed wire around all but the gate. Randy wondered how many other safe havens were still intact, and how many had fallen just today.

  He wondered when he would be in the last place not occupied by the dead and if they would surround them, waiting for Becca and him to run out of food. He imagined them, thousands of them, as far as the eye could see, pushing up against the barricades and slowly clambering up the side of the building to their hideaway.

  The door was closed but unlocked. He slipped inside the small room, with three folding chairs propped up against the window facing the worn desk. Calendars and pictures, all depicting racing cars and beautiful women, adorned the greasy walls. The soda machine had been busted open and was empty. There were no other signs of destruction, which seemed odd. If zombies had gotten into the room it would have been destroyed, and if looters had gotten in the cash register would have been turned over and cracked open, the door to the backroom kicked in, or the door leading to the work bays in ruins.

  A black box on the rear wall got his attention. He went to it and smiled when it was unlocked. Inside a multitude of car keys dangled. Randy decided to head back outside, check out the cars in the lot and choose the perfect ride for him.

  It was when he turned that he noticed the old man in dirty overalls staring at him. The shotgun was pointed directly at his genitals.

  “I’d have a seat if I were you, kid.”

  X

  “Any chance you could put that gun away? I’m clearly not a zombie.”

  The old man spit a brown wad onto the ground, where it splashed. “I didn’t think you were dead. But you might be soon enough, I reckon.” He motioned with the shotgun for Randy to sit.

  Randy complied. He casually scanned the room for an escape route. There weren’t many choices. He didn’t want to attack the old man wit his machete, supposing that he was in the wrong for trespassing.

  The old man had slipped into the room via the bay door while Randy was looking at the key box. He looked to be about sixty, with loose white strands protruding from under his Orioles baseball cap. He was leaning against the wall, one foot propped up on the nearest chair.