The blast rang in her ears, a sustained note that muffled the world around her. Gore slowly dripped from the ceiling onto her hair and face. She struggled to sort through the flood of sensory data: she could see the man slowly crumpling to a heap at her feet; his name tape clearly said “RABENOLD” in white stitched lettering with a stray string on the “N.” The rifle slipped from her fingers just as her finger tips started to burn. As the weapon hit the tile, time snapped back to normal.
Lily patted the body down, stashing his extra magazines in her pack before she slipped the sling from under his body. If they hadn't already, the dead would soon come to check out the dinner bell she'd just rung. She grabbed her pistol from the shelf where she'd set it down-stupid stupid stupid-to grab meds.
By sheer luck, she made it back to her truck before the first zombies crossed the parking lot. As she started her truck, she saw the yellow-bellied bird zip away. She followed its example.
* **
Johnny, the youngest of the workers on forty-seven, let a pretty, petite blonde, Nicole, rest her head on his shoulder while they listened to the “bad news.” Not that there had been any other kind in the last week. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed gently. Since he met Nicole, Johnny wanted to ask her out, but never could work up the courage, settling instead for a secret admirer approach. He really wished it hadn’t taken the walking dead to attract her attention, as it made him feel any connection they might have shared rather moot.
Now that she sought comfort from him, Johnny wished he could focus on how it thrilled him to hold her, even considering the less than ideal circumstances. But he couldn't focus on Nicole, and Johnny certainly wasn’t paying attention to what the TV reporters spouted. For one thing there was nothing new; for another, he’d rather focus on comforting Nicole. His attention, however, focused on Chris.
There's something very wrong about that guy.
Something had changed in the way Chris stood, the way he looked at the rest of them. Then there was the fact that he’d beaten Jim, kicking him repeatedly after he was down. Johnny watched Chris, doing his best to look like he wasn’t watching him. Chris sized up each of them, and looked like he was even deciding how far each of them would go.
When he walked back to the corner office, Johnny waited a minute or so before making an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. He followed Chris to the corner office with no clear plan. The door stood mostly open so Johnny could see right in.
Behind the desk, Chris squatted down next to Gary's body, the man who turned and Chris had bludgeoned to death a couple days ago. He couldn’t tell for certain, but Johnny could have sworn Chris was staring at and talking to the corpse.
Johnny backed away from the door and went to the employee bathroom just around the corner. When he got back to the group, he told them, in hushed whispers with his eyes on the corner office, what he’d seen and what he suspected.
Chapter 5
Liquor Before Beer Have no Fear
Braeden Bann ignored the news. He rarely believed what the media had to say when they covered a truly newsworthy event, so the headline “Dead Returning to Eat the Living” didn’t even register on his truth meter.
Every Thursday and Friday Night Braeden spent the evening at Tavrish Tavern,. Jerry the bartender was in a foul mood because Braeden was only the second person in the bar in three hours. It was the slowest night Jerry had seen in five years working the bar.
Tavrish Tavern was normally a happenin’ place. Even during a weeknight fifty or so happy drinkers would shuffle out the door between midnight and closing time.
As soon as the heavy wooden door closed, Jerry popped the top off a lesser-known ale that was Braden’s poison of choice. Braden looked at all the empty tables and bar stools. It was the first time he could remember seeing the narrow stained glass windows after 5 p.m. The absolute lack of people meant for the first time since he started going to the tavern, he could hear the TV. Braeden cringed because the only thing on every channel was news.
He took a long drink from the brown bottle. “Ain’t anything worth watching on?”
“Nope. Every channel is news, including cable channels. I already checked,” Jerry said, leaning back against a cooler.
None of the three men paid any attention to the TV. In less than a half hour, Jerry unlocked the jukebox so he could play music without feeding it money.
Braeden had nothing better to do, so he stayed and drank despite the bar being empty. Jerry stayed because he was being paid, if minimally. And the other man, Willeford, practically lived in Tavrish Tavern.
About 11:30 the men heard the sound guaranteed to get a reaction from anyone and everyone: a car’s brakes locked up. Its tires skidded across the pavement for nearly two full seconds, followed by the sounds of shattering glass, bending metal, and crunching plastic.
The three men ran out the door to see what happened. A pickup truck had slammed into an ambulance. Both destroyed vehicles sat smoking and venting hot coolant in the middle of the busy road. More cars tore along Rockville Road like they were in a time trial for the Indianapolis 500 as they raced out of town. Two of the passing cars swerved around the smashed vehicles and nearly flipped into the brush around the parking lot.
Braeden pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. To his astonishment, the number was busy.
“Fuck it,” the old drunkard said and moved back inside to his beer.
Braeden went to check the pickup driver while Jerry ran to the ambulance. The man in the truck slumped over the dashboard. Braeden had little doubt the man was dead. His seat belt had broken, his head smashed a spider web in the windshield, and the steering wheel folded under his chest.
Braeden looked over at Jerry and shook his head.
Jerry saw the signal through the windshield of the ambulance. The driver sagged against his door, held more or less upright by his seat belt. Jerry climbed through the passenger side and looked into the patient area. He could see a woman with half her face torn off strapped to the stretcher. She moaned and strained against the restraints. Jerry couldn’t see the paramedic that had been tending to the woman, but he could smell blood heavy in the air.
Jerry grabbed the CB mic. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“This is an emergency channel reserved for official use,” the dispatcher said. “Please clear the channel.”
“This is Jerry at Tavrish Tavern. Your ambulance and a pickup just had a nasty wreck in front of the bar. The drivers are hurt bad—maybe dead.”
“Get back inside!”
“Lady, I just said you’ve got people hurt over here,” Jerry shot back.
“You’re not safe. Go back inside and bar the door. We’ll try to send someone for you,” the dispatcher said.
A bloody hand came through the window to the back and grabbed Jerry by the collar. He screamed and tried to jerk away. Braeden ran over to see what the problem was. He grabbed Jerry’s belt and tried to pull him out of the cab.
Finally, Jerry twisted and the bloody hand slipped. As he pushed himself out of the ambulance, the driver spasmed and turned to face Jerry. The driver lunged at him and came up short, thanks to the seat belt.
Jerry screamed as he ran back to the bar, followed closely by Braeden.
“What the fuck is wrong?” he yelled as he ran.
Jerry slammed the door shut behind Braeden and started pulling a table to block the door.
“Turn those tables up against the windows,” Jerry yelled.
“Why? What the hell happened back there?” Braeden demanded.
“Shut up and do it. Now,” Jerry said as he pushed another table against the door. “I’ll give you free drinks.”
Braeden and Willeford hesitated another few seconds until they saw Jerry dumping tables on their sides without bothering to clear their ashtrays and ad boards.
It took about five minutes for the three to set tables against all the windows. Jerry set a beer in front of each man when the work was
done. Then he poured himself a double shot of whiskey and downed it.
“OK? So why did we just make a mess of this place?”
“The woman on the other end of the CB said to get inside and bar the doors. And right after that the driver, who was pretty much dead, tried to grab me. I ain’t taking any chances.”
“Dude, I’m the one who’s been drinking, and you’re the one talking funny. I mean, seriously, did you just hear yourself?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding? Huh? The driver was dead—I mean, I know dead when I see it. Then he was reaching for me.”
They sat there for two more hours, Jerry steadily pouring drinks for all three of them. Jerry paused with a drink half way to his lips. Braeden and the other man started giving him a hard time about not drinking to such a grand toast.
“Shhhhh.” Jerry put a finger to his lips. “Did you hear that?”
“Now you’re hearing things too?” said a happily inebriated Braeden. “Man what kinda drugs you been takin’?”
Jerry was about to snap back that Braeden was cut off when the sound came again slightly louder this time. Braeden and Willeford stopped laughing and listened. Jerry absently grabbed the master remote and turned off the TVs and jukebox.
A sound like an autumn wind through a tunnel of dead tree limbs nearly didn't get through the walls. But the next time it was loud enough to tell the sound was made by human vocal cords. The moan rolled like a wave breaking softly against three sides of the building.
“That sound isn’t from just one person,” Braeden said, taking a nervous sip from his glass.
They listened to the rhythmic moans and sipped their drinks. None of them dared speak or look at one another.
Something hit the door. Willeford spilled his drink down the front of his shirt, and Braeden nearly fell off of his bar stool. Whoever it was kept hitting the door like the clapper of a bell. The heavy wooden door shivered slightly with each measured blow.
More hands joined in, beating on walls and windows. Combined with the incessant moaning, it was more than Willeford could take.
“What the fuck’s with all the fuckin' racket? Can’t a fella drink in fuckin' peace any more?”
He continued grumbling for a few more minutes. “Jerry! Gimme a double whiskey to drown out some o’ the racket.”
Jerry kept his eyes glued to the windows as he poured the shot and left the bottle within arms reach of the old man.
Braeden dusted his pants off and grabbed his drink. Drink in hand, he wandered near one of the windows to see who or what was trying to beat the place to the ground and maybe why.
The natural darkness of the bar let him see out the window easily. He saw several raggedly dressed figures doing the drunken shuffle across the parking lot toward the bar.
“Dude, that wreck has all kinds of people comin’ up to rubber neck,” Braeden said, turning to look back at Jerry.
“Really?” Jerry said, “So the rubber-neckers the ones trying to bring the place down, or is that the cops tryin’ to tell us they want a statement?”
Braeden shrugged and turned back to his window. He jumped backward, falling over an overturned chair. “Jesus—fuckin’a!”
Outside the window a six-foot-tall zombie looked at Braeden the way a dog eyes bacon. The entire right side of the tall zombie’s face was exposed bone, and its right eye dangled by the optic nerve where his nose should have been. Flaps of skin flopped from the thing’s right cheekbone, and what was left of its lower lip dangled from its chin. The low glowing lights made it hard for Braeden to be sure, but it looked to him like the exposed teeth were completely coated in drying blood and gore.
The tall zombie looked at Braeden for a second and let out a loud, high moan. Others around the bar took up the call and continued beating on the building.
Jerry reached Braeden’s side right after he fell.
“Hey, you OK?” Jerry asked, helping Braeden to his feet.
“J—Jerry.” Braeden pointed over the bartender’s shoulder toward the tall zombie. Jerry looked to the window in time to see the tall zombie beat a spider web into the ancient glass of the narrow window.
The two scrambled back to the perceived safety of the bar. Braeden started to sit down on his bar stool with his back to Jerry. The sound of breaking glass began to fill the tavern.
Across the bar, the tall zombie finally shoved its arm through the window. Shards of glass sliced it to ribbons. Braeden slid along the bar until he found the corner. Eyes still riveted to the pale, bloodless arm driving through the broken window, he sidled up next to Jerry.
“Did, uh, did the woman on the CB say anything about what to do if they got in?”
“No, but I ain’t stickin’ around long enough for them to get in.” Jerry grabbed a bus tub off the floor and slung the contents into the middle of the room. He turned to the wall of liquor and put anything higher than 80 proof in it.
Braeden continued staring wide eyed at the windows. In several places, the glass had given enough that shoulders shoved their way in behind the arms. Braeden tapped Jerry’s shoulder.
“Faster, Dude. Faster.”
Jerry risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw the glass beginning to give way. Soon the zombies, he was absolutely convinced that’s what they had to be, would push the flimsy barricades out of the way and come for them. He reached into a low cabinet and pulled out a mostly full, forbidden-by-the-owner bottle of Everclear.
“Braeden, pour this on the bar.”
Braeden took the bottle and started pouring it along the bar. It never registered that Willeford wasn’t sitting at his customary spot.
The tall zombie got in first. He pushed the table blocking the window aside with an ear-splitting screech. Shards of the mugs and shot glasses Jerry tossed to the floor shredded the thing's feet, but it didn't seem to care or even notice. More windows gave, and more zombies pushed the hastily overturned tables out of their way.
“Oh, Fuck,” Braeden said, unconsciously backing into the wall. Jerry shoved the partially full bus tub in Braeden’s hands and pushed him through the door to the kitchen and supply cage. Before Jerry backed into the kitchen as well, he struck a whole pack of matches against the door frame and threw them on the puddle of Everclear. It immediately erupted in a wall of flame that spread along the bar.
The zombies weren’t overly deterred by the flames dancing across the bar. They were focused solely on the need to get to Jerry and Braeden. Jerry started to worry. The flimsy, hollow-core, pressed laminate door between the bar and the kitchen would last all of six seconds before a determined zombie shattered it.
The zombies right in front of Jerry suddenly turned to their right and lurched toward the bathroom.
No. Willeford. That poor bastard.
The old drunkard stumbled back toward his spot at the bar. He wasn’t ready for the sight or heat of Everclear fueled flames. The shock made him block his face and stumble to his left, away from the flaming bar. His steps ran him right into the waiting arms of the zombies.
Jerry thought the tall zombie looked him squarely in the eye for a full second before rearing back and biting down on Willeford’s neck. Two more zombies grabbed the man and took chunks out of his arms.
Jerry didn’t hear the poor man’s screams. He grabbed a wrench that hung near a CO2 tank and the first bottles of ignitable alcohol he could reach. He smashed a bottle of 1800 Tequila on the floor at his feet and a bottle of Jamison against the back of the bar. He waited just long enough to make sure the alcohol in the doorway caught fire.
Braeden waited in the kitchen behind Jerry, holding the bus tub of high proof booze with Willeford’s screams ringing in his ears.
“Christ, what are they doing to the poor bastard?” Braeden asked no one in particular.
“Eating him,” Jerry replied off handedly as he shut the flimsy door. He stalked past Braeden and threw a stack of hand towels in the bus tub. “Start stuffing those in the bottles.
Jerry unlocked th
e liquor cage and started looking for more bottles to make Molotovs with. His eyes ran over a box of matches and a pair of lighters. On an impulse he grabbed the pair of lighters.
After less than a minute, Jerry decided they couldn’t spare any more time. He shoved five of the six bottles he’d grabbed into the bus tub. He jammed a towel in the neck of the sixth and upended the bottle to soak the wick then lit it. Without hesitating or asking if Braeden was ready, Jerry, with his wrench in one hand and the lit Molotov in the other, went to the back door and pulled it open.
A single female zombie that had been beating on the back wall latched on to Jerry’s left hand with surprising quickness. Jerry jerked his arm back, but succeeded only in pulling the zombie through the open door. The sudden motion and the neck of the liquor bottle saved him from being bitten.
Jerry cranked the wrench up by his left shoulder and snapped the wrench out and around, catching the zombie at the jaw line. The head of the heavy-duty plumbing wrench broke the zombie’s jaw and knocked out half a dozen teeth.
His second strike came straight down on top of the zombie’s head, breaking its skull and fracturing the first two vertebrae. Jerry hit her again, collapsing her skull. The zombie crumpled into a heap just inside the door, knocking the Molotov out of Jerry’s hand.
Jerry and Braeden hurried out of the tavern as flames oozed out from under the fallen zombie. His old truck sat two hundred feet around the corner from the back door. Two zombies beating on the wall not far from the truck froze Jerry in his tracks.
Braeden ran into the bartender, jostling the bottles in the bus. Irritation flooded Jerry because the sound may as well have been a foghorn. Yet the zombies didn’t seem to notice.
Jerry grabbed one of the bottles and tried to light the wick without taking the wrench out of his hand. Finally he gave up, put the bloodied wrench under his arm, and lit the liquid grenade's fuse. He chucked the bottle at the zombies.
The bottle broke when it hit the ground and threw flaming alcohol all over the pair of zombies. They lit up like macabre Christmas trees.
Dead Man's Party Page 5
