Dead Man's Party

by Nathan Robert Brown

  Stacy timidly nodded. “It was my mom, but not my mom.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “I don't know. I got really sick and slept a lot. We spent four or five days in a camping store though.”

  Hanse's eyes widened, and he looked back at Mike. “Do you know why everyone is so ready to kill you?”

  “Something to do with the bite? Does it make you like them?”

  “For most people it does,” Hanse said with a smile. He looked at Or and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to protect Stacy like he would protect Hanse or his own mother. Or nodded and lowered his weapon the rest of the way.

  Stacy moved back to Walter, hugging him. Hanse turned and inspected Joseph with a look that would have impressed a drill sergeant. Joseph holstered his pistol and stared back.

  “You drew pretty quick, but I'm not impressed.”

  “Didn't realize impressing you had anything to do with survival,” Joseph said, keeping his voice level.

  “It just might, POG,” Hanse closed within a step of Joseph. “How many of those things have you killed?”

  “What today or total?”

  “Mike, who does this kid think he's fooling? You seriously trusted this whelp?”

  “Haven't had to kill any today,” Joseph paused. “Stopped counting after the first dozen or so. That doesn't include the ones I ran over.”

  Hanse laughed. “Nice bluff, kid. You got balls.”

  “Hanse. Man, he's not bluffing. He's probably under estimating. I've seen him kill two dozen. And I'm not kidding, he pulled me out of some fucked up shit, three times.”

  “Alright. Joseph, a guy I owe my life to just vouched for you. That does impress me, so don't fuck it up.”

  ***

  “Well, well , well. Look who we found, Maes'.” Lily heard the baritone voice from inside the back of the moving truck. So far the owner of the voice and Maes', whoever the hell he was, hadn't thought to look in the back of the U-haul truck; that suited Lily just fine. She grabbed her AR and checked the chamber.

  “Looks like Kim the Kitten,” Lily assumed the owner of the second voice was Maes'. “What you got there? Presents for your old friends?”

  “Mostly it's ravioli. And you can't have any,” Kim said. Lily heard Kim step toward the truck.

  “Whoa. Where do you think you're going? We didn't say you could leave. Who's gonna keep us company?” the baritone said.

  Lily stepped down from the storage area as quietly as possible. As soon as her feet hit the pavement, she tip-toed to the front of the truck and put her back to the front tire. She paused to take a couple deep breaths.

  “Where'm I going? Away. Not staying here with you assholes,” Lily heard Kim's voice move toward the rear of the truck. “And, for the record, I've never liked either of you.”

  Kim whimpered. “I think you'd best apologize, whore,” the baritone barked.

  Lily stood up. She'd heard enough. As she side stepped from behind the cab, she brought the rifle to her shoulder, pulling it in tight like her daddy taught her all those years ago. Both men stood with their backs to Lily. As far as Lily could tell, each man carried a pistol and a rifle, but neither had the weapons in hand.

  Mistake number two.

  “Won't apologize for telling the truth. But if you apologize and leave now, my friend might not shoot you both,” Kim said, still holding the box of canned goods.

  “I guess I didn't hit you hard enough last time I saw you,” baritone said. He backhanded Kim.

  Mistake number three.

  “My Turn!” Lily yelled.

  Surprised, the two men turned to see Lily behind them. They had almost enough time to register the AR-15 in her hands, aimed at them, before Lily started pulling the trigger. She fired four shots, hitting baritone through his liver, and Maes' in the belly and in the shoulder. They staggered and fell to the ground holding their wounds.

  “Fuck” baritone said through a mouthful of blood, “you. Bitch.”

  Kim put the box in the truck then stood over the men with her pistol drawn. “Boys. You really should have learned how to treat a lady. Go to hell, Darian.” She shot the man with the liver wound through the head. “Goodbye, Maeson. Next time around, don't hang out with assholes.” She shot him through the head as well.

  “Let's just go,” Lily said, letting her shoulders relax. “Deads will have heard the shots. We can look for more food and stuff along the way.”

  Kim took a moment to pull the dead men's weapons from their bodies then nodded. They closed the rear of the truck and climbed in the cab. Lily drove them out of town.

  Epilogue

  Mob Men

  Juan Diez Espinoza scratched at the tattoo that partially hid the scar on his right hand. Usually something not good followed that itch. He looked at the man sitting uncomfortably in the chair across the little room. Carlos Garza, his partner, who from the waist up resembled a gorilla in an expensive suit, complete with hairy knuckles, asked the runner to tell the story again, where the four of them made the weapons drop to the gringo.

  “Two SUVs, driven by the usual guys, dropped off four crates each,” the man said in a torrent, “We held them here at the farmhouse for three days. I had Manuel get our delivery truck. We loaded the crates and took them to a set of coordinates. Some property East of Fort Hancock between that big road 10 and another highway. A pair of men had us put the crates in a gully. They said not to worry about the crates. They gave us the money for boss plus a little for us. We left.”

  Juan figured the poor farmer and delivery boy told the truth. He knew lying to Sicarios resulted in pain, not all of it physical or aimed at him. So far, the man told the same story four times, all the exact same way.

  Carlos pushed. “What did these two pendejos look like? Was their boss there?”

  “White guys, no suits. They wore camouflaged masks on their mouths and noses, like they rode in on four wheelers. They walked like soldiers, and talked good Spanish.”

  “Was this guy there?” Carols showed the man the same security camera picture he'd showed him three times already.

  “No, señor. Both the men at the drop were bigger. His size,” the man pointed at Juan.

  Juan didn't consider himself big, at a hundred seventy-five centimeters and eighty-seven kilos. But he kept a fighter's physique, lean and muscled. Two men built like him at a drop site meant operators, enforcers. Pendejo is careful and thorough.

  Outside the man's family waited in a box truck. He craned his neck to look out the window at the truck. It sat idling, exactly where Carlos left it. For looking like a gorilla, Carols understood the best ways to get to people. Keeping the truck where the man could see it gave him every understanding of what Carlos had in mind if he lied.

  “No,” the man shouted, “Dios Mio, no! Los muertos!”

  Juan turned to see what the man started yelling about. Outside, a man with saucer-sized, bloody holes in his back approached the driver's door. Juan had heard stories about los muertos, those who moved with mortal wounds. He'd never seen one like this. Large caliber rounds hit this man through his chest shredding and liquifying his organs, yet he stood, walked and now beat on the door of the truck. Juan also paid attention when others said how to kill these walkers.

  He picked up his folding stock, short barrel AK-47. Calmly, he opened the window and shouted. When the walker turned, he fired. Three rounds pulverized the things face, reducing the back of its head to a smoldering crater.

  “Anything else you can tell us about the men at the drop? Where they went, anything?”

  The man looked at the floor and shook his head.

  “Orale. Go. Go to your family,” Juan said.

  They crossed the border miles from anywhere at a spot they used often when they had to cross unobserved. It kept them out of the big cities, which they'd heard devolved into war zones. Across the border Julio Cavasos kept a small, legitimate ranch as a safe house. Normally three families lived and worked on
the ranch. The pair would find a truck there, as well as any other supplies they might need. Eduardo and Julio kept good stocks to limit surprises. They hated surprises.

  Six terrified men, holding guns that seemed bigger than them, greeted Juan and Carlos when they reached the ranch house. Carlos nearly went for his guns. He hated people pulling guns on him, and usually took it as leave to permanently cripple the offender.

  Juan didn't like the workers holding guns, let alone around him, but having seen one of the los muertos himself, he understood. This time, he planned to let it slide. He waved Carlos down. Carlos glared at the six men behind the guns.

  “We need a truck,” Juan said after giving the password.

  “We don't care. Los muertos are spreading away from the cities. We will hide and be safe. Later we need the trucks,” the man near the center said.

  Carlos nearly exploded.

  “We represent Eduardo. Give us the truck.” The man shook his head. “I'm not out here to hurt you. But if you don't give us the truck.”

  One of the men twitched. Carlos rotated his rifle on the sling, firing as he spun the barrel up. The first man didn't have time for his eyes to widen before a round tore through his crotch and a second one ripped into his belly just above his hip. Carlos pivoted and brought his other hand to weapon so he could aim.

  Two rounds ripped into the dirt and ricocheted away as his continued blazing on full auto. Juan pulled his weapon as three rounds stitched across a second man, catching him through the heart and lung. With two men down, the rest of the men started lifting their weapons. Juan started at the far end of the group. His rifle cycled fast and smooth, putting rounds right where he wanted them.

  His target dropped when the first round caught him under the chin and exited the top of his head. Juan dropped to a knee still firing. He caught a second man under the arm as he tried to shoot Carlos.

  While Juan worked his side of the group, Carlos continued firing with a devil's grin spreading across his face. He didn't care that half his shots flew wide. The other half tore apart the men who dared stand up to him.

  "Pare!" Juan yelled.

  Carlos stopped drilling rounds into a dead man's back long enough to look at his senior partner. He shot Juan a “why?” look.

  Juan stood up and walked to the last man, the one who had talked back and thrown his weapon down when the shooting started.

  "Arriba." Juan commanded. The man, visibly shaking, stood up with tears running down his face. “I would have left you alone. Maricon puto, arriba. Take us to the house.”

  The man nodded weakly and turned to lead them down the dirt road to the house a quarter mile distant. Before they made it a hundred feet, Carlos stopped cold. Juan stopped a moment later. There it was again, a moan and a scraping across the gravel.

  Juan turned, slowly, nearly dreading what would be there. Four of the five bodies twitched and shuddered on the ground. Just one and he might have written it off as a man in his death throws. But four of five?

  Among other stories, such as shooting the head, Juan heard a couple men, talk about people la policia shot getting up again. He'd seen one earlier, but his mind refused to recognize it as real. Despite the bodies before him starting to rise, his brain still tried to refuse reality.

  “Shoot them in their heads,” Juan said. He took careful aim as one of the men pulled himself to his feet. The round jerked his head backward, and the body sagged back to the earth. Behind Juan the surviving rancher screamed for god's protection. Juan started to line up a second shot when the man suddenly grabbed him, exclaiming los muertos. The shot missed, giving the fresh zombie time to gain its feet and begin to charge.

  Instinct told Juan he'd never get a shot off. Instead he threw the rancher at the turned man. The zombie caught the man and tumbled to the ground with him. Screams tore from the man's throat as the zombie bit several chunks from him.

  Juan saw enough. He took a knee and shot as soon as the sights lined up, blowing the undead away as it pulled a against a stubborn piece of muscle. The man sobbed as he screamed "Madre de dios!" Juan looked over to see Carlos take down the last of the zombies just before it got within arms reach. Both men heard the stories of people getting bitten and becoming monsters. With all the other stories proven true, Juan saw no reason to doubt that one.

  Carlos pulled the man up by the ruins of his shirt and pushed him toward the house. Juan didn't even try to restrain Carlos this time. He simply followed him to the house and found the keys to the trucks hidden in a spare barn behind the house.

  Juan pulled the truck to the front door. Carlos appeared a moment later wearing a demented smile. They stopped at the bodies near the road to take their weapons.

  When he climbed behind the wheel again, Juan asked, “What did you do with the families?” He almost didn't ask; part of him really didn't want to know. Once or twice he'd seen Carlos with the same look he'd worn as he came out of the house, and each time the reason for the smile had been horrific, almost demonic. Thinking of it made Juan cross himself mentally.

  “I left him with them,” Carlos said, setting the coordinates in the GPS unit.

  Juan crossed himself for real while Carlos wasn't looking.

  Standing at the coordinates for the drop told them very little. The runner who made the drop described the place well enough. A little gully ran along side a small, winding dirt path. Wind obliterated all tracks around the gully a long time ago. Under the lip of the gully, Juan found evidence of four crates lined up side-by-side, almost completely hidden from view by the small shelf. The flaco could have left the crates for a day or a month and no one who didn't know exactly where to look would have a prayer of finding them.

  Juan sighed and climbed out of the waist-deep gully. Not enough evidence remained at the gully to tell them where to go next. Carlos looked up from cleaning his fingernails with a large knife usually strapped to his calf.

  “Crates were here, but no way to say how long or where they went,” Juan said.

  Carlos looked around for a moment. “Damn wind.”

  The pair climbed back in the truck. If not for the undead, there'd be plenty of ways for a pair of resourceful Sicarios to track down even those who don't wish to be found. Juan and Carlos normally specialized in finding such people. So far, this Gringo was the only one good enough to stump them.

  “Everyone makes a mistake somewhere,” Juan said. I just hope this pinche maricon isn't the exception.

  “Long shot, but maybe there's a house on this property,” Carlos said, scanning the horizon.

  They found the house not long before sundown. Juan picked the lock to Carlos's annoyance, but he couldn't argue with Juan wanting to be able to lock the door, just in case they decided to make themselves comfortable.

  Inside, the house showed signs someone lived there. Pictures hung on the walls and stood arranged on the various little tables. Dishes rattled in the kitchen. Juan drew a pistol and stepped quietly through the small living room. Carlos followed him. Juan could sense the evil grin on the man's face.

  An older man, Juan pegged him for former military from his hair and posture, stood at the stove with his back to the living room. To the right of the door way, watching the man, sat a woman in a well worn bathrobe. She shrieked the moment she saw the Sicarios enter the kitchen guns drawn. The man turned, knife in hand. Juan saw the man contemplating whether or not he could take both armed men without getting killed in the process. Carlos aimed his pistol directly at the shrieking woman, effectively ending the man's debate.

  “Keep cooking, gueh, we're hungry too,” Carlos said, sitting down across from the woman, keeping his pistol on her.

  “I really don't want to hurt either of you. Feed us and don't give us any trouble and you'll both live to see us leave tomorrow morning,” Juan said. “I give you my word of honor.”

  The man, obviously angry, turned back to the stove. "Que honda?" he asked, stirring something in the skillet.

  “We're looking for
someone. Tall-ish gringo with yellow hair. Uses your property as a storage point for his merchandise. Know where we can find this man?” Juan said pulling the photo from his shirt pocket with his free hand.

  “I'm just getting some extra platas,” the man said, calmly reaching to a cabinet. He pulled down two old style plates. Slowly, the man turned and put them in front of the Sicarios. “Never seen that guy,” the man said as he turned back to his cooking.

  Juan's scar started to itch. “Why aren't you bothered by the news someone is using your property to hide their property if you don't know the guy,” he asked.

  “Mijo, I have near sixty acres out there. I do well to tend five acres on any given week. All manner of things probably happen out here, right under my rather large nose. And honestly, after three tours to Iraq, I've quit giving a damn.”

  Juan studied the man. He had the start of a beer belly and carried himself like a man who had seen things that made most men freeze in terror. The man held off fighting, clearly looking for a tactical advantage against his pair of foes. His answer to a direct question screamed security clearance.

  “What's this guy done that you're looking for him?” the man asked as he took the skillet off the stove and served all four of them sliced potatoes and sausage.

  “None of your concern, old man,” Carlos said, shooting a sidelong glance his way. “And you're sure you've never seen this man before?”

  “Oh, I'm sure I've not met him,” the man said. He sat down between the Sicarios and bowed his head in prayer.

  The man mumbled amen and tore into his food with the zeal of a man eating real food for the first time after a month of field rations.

  “Some habits die hard,” the man said around his last mouth full of fried potatoes.

  He stabbed Juan through his firing shoulder with the fork. At the same time he snapped a punch to Carlos's head. The blow connected, surprising Carlos. Juan grunted in pain as the old man twisted the fork still stuck in his shoulder. Carlos tried to get his pistol back on the woman, but the old man smashed a plate into his face.