what they could in greedy bites. Edgar cursed himself for being so weak.
If you'd have done what you were supposed to do he wouldn't have had to suffer any more, he thought. Instead your cowardice and mercy have now made you a new enemy to fight off.
He turned back around and saw that there was a stalled BMW on the bridge blocking the rest of the cars. Holding up his shiny long barreled gun he charged toward it, moving quickly past a hotel shuttle and a series of blue vans by the curb. He felt pain in his hip as he ran, but he told his mind to ignore it. He couldn't afford anything else slowing him down now.
There was a black Jaguar smashed into the back of a white Honda Accord in his path. With a running start he jumped onto the hood and slide all the way across, just like the Dukes of Hazard. He landed on his feet clean on the other side.
“Always wanted to try that,” he said as he sauntered up to the BMW. It was still running. “Must be my lucky day.”
There was another kid in the passenger seat. Unable to unbuckle himself, the angry boy thrashed and growled as Edgar approached.
“What's with all these kids today?”
The boy snapped at him over and over. Edgar leveled the long barrel of the gun at the boy’s face and pulled the trigger. The kid's face imploded into a mess of stinking, decaying brain matter, drooling puss, and coagulated blood. He fell against the restraint and lay still. The gun kicked back hard, almost causing Edgar to drop it. He stared at it in wonder, his ears still ringing from the deafening sound of the shot going off. All around him he saw signs of movement. More of the creatures were stirring now, brought to life by the sound of the gun.
“Time to go,” he said, sliding into the BMW. He shut and locked the door, then put on his seat belt once more, just in case. He put the car in drive and headed over the short bridge toward his terminal. A woman in a long dress stumbled toward him; she had blonde flowing hair and the bloody face of a demon. He swerved around her easily in the M3.
“Sorry honey,” he said as she roared at him, “I've got a flight to catch.”
He punched it over the bridge and out onto the road, turning right into the narrow path where passengers generally said their tearful goodbyes while exchanging long hugs. A line of blood-smeared, empty cabs stood there now. The image of them sent a cold sensation through him, but he forced his mind to stay focused. He was so close now, but there was still work to do.
The BMW covered the remaining distance to the front of ticketing at Terminal 5 in under a minute. A former motorcycle cop stood near the plate glass windows. His eyes were solid black. He chewed mindlessly on his own arm which drooled a bubbly black gunk – like used motor oil – down the front of him.
“Fuck this shit,” Edgar laughed.
He turned the wheel hard at the last second and slammed the front of the M3 into the cop at full force. A look of surprise crossed the man's face as his body went through the airport glass, right along with the front of the car. Razor sharp shards of the window noisily rained down on the car for what felt like a small eternity. The cop squirmed but remained firmly pinned under the front of what remained of the luxury vehicle.
Edgar threw the door open and took off at a run for the escalators, glass crunching noisily under his feet. He held the gun high in his right hand. He was going to make it no matter what the cost. There was no other choice in his mind.
I've come too far to give up, he thought.
At the security gates he saw another TSA agent, a big Mexican guy. His barrel chest had been pried open by a scrawny twenty-year-old skater punk who leaned over him and gnawed on his lifeless bones. He looked up and snarled as Edgar raced toward him. Edgar had time to see that the young man's nose was pierced in the middle, like a bull’s nose.
“Toro motherfucker,” Edgar screamed.
He pointed the gun straight at the monster as he ran toward him and squeezed the trigger. This time he was ready for the recoil and it didn't throw him off. The kid's head exploded as the bullet tore through it. Bits of brain matter and skull fragments flew in every direction. A fine mist of spoiled blood lingered momentarily in the air. Edgar gracefully leaped over his body like an Olympic runner jumping a hurdle. His gate was no more than a few minutes away now. All around him a sea of monsters stirred; former people who'd been transformed into demon hellspawn, hungry for living flesh and blood. They'd been packed against the windows, ramming their heads into the glass that looked out onto the runways. Over and over they banged their bodies fruitlessly into the invisible barrier, like stubborn flies stuck in a screen window on a hot summer’s day.
They turned toward him in unison, drawn by the sound of the gun blast. Edgar could feel himself slowing despite his will power to ignore his pain. It wasn't just his libido that had been affected by the ravages of time. He'd atrophied significantly since his time in the service as well, despite regular trips to the gym. He felt panic rising in him. He could feel it coming, feel himself blacking out, but he fought it with everything he had.
“Don't stop,” he shouted at himself, raising the gun at the zombie closest to him and obliterating it's face with one squeeze. He used the remaining bullets to clear his path, taking down three more attackers before getting tangled in the ropes at his gate. A man in a trucker hat and a shirt that said HUSTLER HOLLYWOOD caught his foot and began trying desperately to pull it into his wretched, open mouth. There were blisters all over his face. Edgar kicked at the man, popping one on his right cheek, which oozed slimy green discharge onto his chin, looking like he was wearing a goatee.
“Let go of me, you fuck!”
He used the butt end of the revolver to fight him off, feeling the bone give like he was cracking through a walnut shell. He rolled over and crawled onto the plane through the boarding ramp, shutting and locking the door behind him. He knew he should check the plane for more of them, but he didn't want to waste any more time. Quickly he scurried into the pilot's cabin and bolted himself in. He collapsed in his seat and tried to catch his breath. He'd done the impossible. He'd made it out in one piece.
Undead L.A. 1: LAX Page 8
