THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Book 1: Bleeding Kansas: A Novel Of The Zombie Apocalypse (23 page)

“Shit, there he is, man!” says
Timcat as I get out of the truck. “The Dead Motherfuckin’ Silencer!”

A confetti
of hoots and cheers erupt from the people standing around the large grill.

“What?” says
Randy. “Oh! Yeah! We didn’t think we were getting outta there, we could hardly hear ourselves think over all that moaning and shit! Fuck, man, I thought we were done for! And then this old motherfucker jumps off the dock and starts choppin’ ‘em up from behind—!”

Timcat
finishes for him. “And they all turn like to look at him after a while and it’s just dead…silence!” He spreads his arms and hands out and the people go quiet. “Like
that!”
he stage whispers.

“Oh, bul
lshit!” I see they’ve got the Goth kid lying in a low folding lounger, which is why I didn’t see him at first.

“Yeah, Lonely Boner over here’s still
gettin’ over havin’ his ass saved by a man who knows how to dress himself,” says Timcat. The crowd laughs, albeit uneasily. It’s obvious Goth kid has been bitten; they’re going to have to put him down sooner than later.

“What I don’t get is how Kerch is
goin’ around embarrassin’ him sayin’ he got three at once.”

Marta steps forward. “That’s so you’d be all
be hatin’ on Mr. Grace for being the new guy while you’re takin’ all the food you risk your stupid fuckin’ lives for to old man Kerch! That ever occur to ya?”

“Well, shit, Marta, you don’t know that!”

“Why were you gonna take all this food over to Kerch, anyway? What makes you people think he knows better what to do with it? Though to tell ya the truth, I hope you don’t eat all this tonight and tomorrow! This is the last meat we’re gonna have for a long, long while!”

The people start murmuring among themselves.
It’s apparent this is the first time most of them have even heard Kerch’s name. The highest-up person they’ve ever known is Evans.

The rest seem merely confused.
“You don’t have to eat nothin’ if you don’t want to!” says Timcat.

“Oh, I’ll have a plate!
” says Marta. “So will our hero of the hour, too! We ain’t done yet, today, not by a long shot. We might have to drop everything and board ourselves up in there and hope we don’t get broke into!”

“Oh, my man the Silencer is definitely
gettin’ some of this steak! Got some fries, too, you want some, man?”

I feel Marta nudging sharply into my side. “Get yourself re-fueled. I’m
gettin’ some Tupperware an’ I’ll meet you at the truck in a little over half an hour.”

Everyone wants
to shake my hand and cheer me on for saving the squad. I smile and nod, wondering how Marta knew I’d want to get something to eat before hauling ass. She says she’s going for Tupperware? Oh, let me guess….

The steak is damn near perfect, seared on the outside and hot pink and bleeding on the inside. The only side I wanted was
the fries. I have a feeling I’ll need the carbs. Besides, steak fries were one of the few decent things about this civilization fading before our very eyes. Might as well enjoy them while I can.

Krystal
plops herself on the opposite end of the cafeteria table they’ve pulled out of the school. She sighs theatrically to get my attention. I cut another piece of steak, put it in my mouth, and savor it in a way the dead can never know before I give her an acknowledging glance.

“You’re going back out, right?”

“As soon as I finish this.”

“I mean, you’re
gonna look for Brandon, right? He was supposed to hit that supermarket. He hasn’t texted you, has he?”

“Only Brick and Gitmo
were thoughtful enough to get in touch. Either Brandon took up with one side or another or he got shot just to get him out of the way—”

“They wouldn’t shoot Brandon! He’s too good at what he does!”

“Amos and Andy looked like they were good at their jobs, too.”

“Well, what are we
gonna do about this! We can’t just leave him out there!”

“
Krystal, if he’s dead, he’s dead.”

“You don’t know that!”

“So we’ll look. Marta knows where the supermarket is.”

“I’m coming, too!”

“Like hell you are! We’re going into a combat zone!”

“So I drive the truck while you and your new girlfriend do your combat thing!”

“It’s not gonna work like that.”

“How do you know how
it’s gonna work?”

“That’s just it
! We don’t know, and we don’t need your goddamned drama distracting us and getting us killed! You want Brandon back, you’re gonna have to trust us. That’s all there to it.”

Krystal
gets up. Others take this as a sign they can sit and talk but I get Timcat and Randy to hold them off so I can finish my lunch in peace. After a while I get up, accept a bottle of cold beer and make social for a few minutes, checking my phone for the time. In a few more minutes I see Marta standing by the Big Yellow Truck. I excuse myself, do the thumbs-up soul handshakes, the one-armed hugs, and make my way on over.

I pop the lock with the remote and Marta climbs in her side—loading a stack of Tupperware with steaks and barbecued chicken. “You’re sharing some of that with me, right?”

“Oh, I’ll treat ya right,” Marta says. She situates the stacks of plastic containers in the rear cab and climbs in. “You got any place you need to go before leaving town?”

“I’d like to go back to my house on Oak Blossom and collect my stuff.”

“Good. We can do that.”

“Nice to know,” I say. “What did
you
have in mind?”

“Weapons.
I got a cache of ‘em.”

“Could be useful.
Where are they?”

“Let’s hit your place first
. Make it fast. We need to be settled in before sundown, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I say
as we pull out of the lot. “I think I got an idea.”

I speed away down the narrow road between the fields of wheat and soybean.
So far, so clear.

“I
figgered out why you got that stuff you did in the pharmacy,” she says as we speed down the straightaway. “I wanna trade ya.”

“
One on one, then. That Vitamin C is going to be all that stands between us and scurvy until someone learns how to cultivate some year-round fruit. Even then it’s only good for a year. Just like your Vicodin.”

“Shit,
ya kiddin’ me!”

“Nope.
Most of the people who live to see all this one year from now are going to have another set of problems entirely. Even the canned food will start going bad.”

“
Well, shit,” says Marta. “One day at a time, I reckon. We gotta live through this day and a whole buncha others before we level up to those problems.”

“
Yeah,” and I mentally kick myself for worrying this far into the future. I’m not getting anywhere until I get through today.

We cross the bridge, ma
ke the turn. You can feel the temperature drop ten degrees as we enter the sheltering trees. I race down the empty street to my assigned quarters on this old town aristocrats’ street and pull up fast into the driveway. Apparently all hands are on deck with the former citizens of Natalia, Kansas, because I skid to a halt in old, half-dried blood no cleaning crew showed to clean up.

I’m unlocking the fr
ont door when Marta says, “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“No, what I mean, is I heard you spent the night with Rebecca last night.”

“She drove me home from the party.”

“That’s all?”

I push the door open. “That’s all.”

“I guess the fact you’re here says it all,” she says as she steps in behind me.

“How’s that?”
I say, heading immediately up the stairs.

“I’ve watched her kill a man just for
smartin’ off at her. I bet y’all didn’t talk much on your way over.”

“No,” I say as I reach the secon
d floor ahead of Marta. “We didn’t.”

“I heard she was here this morning.”

“Yeah, they were looking for that girl.”

“That’s what’s left of her out front,
ain’t it? That girl, I mean.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, unlocking the door to the trophy room.

“Yeah, that was so sad—oh!” Marta is stunned by the array of weapons in the room. “Why aren’t you carrying that crossbow?” she says.

“That’s why I’m here now.”

“Can I have this?” she says, holding up a long, heavy spear.

“Knock yourself out.”

“All right!”

T
he crossbow and every arrow in the room is all I can bother myself with. I’m halfway through packing the last quiver when the air horn blats loudly in the street.

Not once, but several times.
Ringing the dinner bell on Oak Blossom Lane. I grab what I’ve got and run to the master bedroom in front.

Through the sheltering boughs I see the bri
ght red fire truck pulling up in front of the house. It pulls close to the curb, thoroughly blocking the driveway. And whaddya know, Krystal: there’s your boy Brandon sitting tall in the driver’s seat, living every five-year-old boy’s dream.

I turn and run from the room.

“What are you doing?” asks Marta.

I’m tearing through the closets, looking for the luggage I might have had the sense to find and pack last night if I hadn’t gotten lucky. I’m damne
d if I’m leaving without a change of clothes.

THREE

Burn

21

I find a small suitcase, the wife’s I presume.
I shove in all the clothes that fit, zip the toiletries into the appropriate compartment.  I shoulder the crossbow and quiver. Marta’s carrying her spear and we’re on our way out the door.

Brandon sees us coming out of the house. “Yeah, y’all better
be gettin’ outta here, muthafuckas…hey!
You!
”

I’m putting the suitcase into the rear cab, careful not to disturb the Tupperware stacks
. Brandon leans on the horn. “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” he shouts.

I close the rear cab door. I turn to look at Brandon. “What?”
We have to shout to be heard over the idling fire truck, even as I close the distance to stand below Brandon’s high perch in the driver’s seat.

“You
s’posed to be dead, man!”

He’s drunk. So is the young man smirking over Brandon’s shoul
der in the cab. So are the six others who have stumbled laughing from the side and rear panels of the fire truck, pulling cigarette lighters from their pockets and scattering among the yards. One squats to strike fire to the dry debris around the privacy hedge.

“Hey, what
are you guys doing?”

“New
bossman says clear this shit out! Burn ‘em out and feed ‘em to the former citizens!” Brandon turns up his beer bottle and throws it to shatter at my feet. “Bossman’s orders. Whatchoo gonna do?”

“Who’s
Bossman?”

“Gitmo!” he shouts. Brandon leans out the window. “Any man who gives me and my crew beer and tells us to go have fun with the fire truck, I’ll follow that motherfucker straight into hell!”

“Haw!” cries the boy in the cab with Brandon, holding up his beer. “
Gitmo!
”

“C’mon
, Brandon, why burn this neighborhood! These are nice houses! Your people could be living here!”

“Fuck th
ese snooty-ass houses and shit!” Brandon cackles. “Fuck you, too, you sell-out son-of-a-bitch!” He holds up a black Glock 9mm. “Whatchoo gonna do about it?” he sneers. “Wanna try and make me move this? C’mon! I wanna see you try!”

The crack of a rifle and a high-pitched scream cut through the rattle of the fire truck’s diesel
engine. Another rifle shot, another scream follows. Then another.

“The fuck!” says Brandon. He and his companion look over. I can’t see past this fire truck but it’s a safe bet some of
Brandon’s firebugs are getting stepped on by the residents. The flames are rising by the truck where the privacy hedge is; the two who set the fire have already moved on to another house. I hear another rifle crack. He’s opening the door and edging over to jump out. He looks at me, his gun upraised. I hold up my hands, make no threatening moves.

I only need the second he takes to slip to the ground from the truck, which he does with a surprising agility for his condition. Still, he’s slow bringing the gun around. When he does my
panga is there to relieve him of it. At the wrist.

“My God
!” squeals Marta from behind me.

By the prodigious spray it’s ap
parent the arteries aren’t convulsing shut. I grab Brandon by the back of his shirt and shove him hard into the blazing privacy hedge. There’s a hissing like a fuse as the spurting blood drowns the flames. Stunned, Brandon falls to his knees and shrieks as the heat from the smoldering debris seals his wound with a crackling of seared flesh and steaming blood. The stench is gagging. Goddamn it, I’m so looking forward to living somewhere in post-undead apocalypse America that doesn’t stink like a bag of sour assholes.

The other boy from the cab comes running around the front of the truck. He stops long en
ough to go reeling from pistol fire. He falls over, clutching his side.

“
Shit!” I turn to Marta. “Can you hold off any deaders coming this way while I move this truck?”

“It’s
all right, Mr. Grace,” says Mr. Paulson. “I’ve got the truck.” I turn in time to see the muzzle flash of his silver .38 service revolver as he bangs a round into the face of Brandon’s fallen cab mate. 

Paulson
waits a couple of seconds for the initial ringing from the gunshot to leave our ears before continuing. “In fact, if you and your friend can defend the area around the hydrant we can take care of the fires.”

“Yeah, sure.
Great.”

Paulson
climbs into the cab. I hear the tenor of the engine shift as he puts the truck in gear and clears the driveway. So much for my getting out of here right away.

I turn to Marta. She cuts quite the figure, a tiny little woman with a huge spear upright beside her, the pointed stone head of which is half the size of her own blonde noggin and
a foot taller besides. “You ready?” I ask her. Marta nods.

The truck pulls away and a mangled, chewed-over woman in gore-blackened hospital scrubs toddles up towards Brandon. Brandon mewls piteously as he watches her approach, too weak from blood loss and burn trauma to flee. I walk towards the former hospital worker
. Up come her arms. Off come her arms. Her head tumbles after.

Standing over
her remains I see her fellows advancing one by one down the street, following the vibrations of the fire truck—which the old man has brought around in a three-point turn to the hydrant across the street. He’s killed the engine but it’s too late for these, they’re going to keep coming until they scent one of us.

Still, the quiet is welcome.
It’s just the sound of ringing in my ears now. That, and the clank of the wrenches as the old man and his younger neighbors work to attach a hose to the hydrant. 

Still, the approaching dead are
massing. They’re already more than Marta and I can handle on our own. The people putting out the fires are going to need some time to do just that before they join in the battle.

I bring the h
ammer down on the snapping hospital aide’s head. I look back towards Brandon in the steaming, smoking grass and get an idea. I jog across the broad lane to the men at the hydrant. “Where’s the other firestarters?”

One of the men gestures up towards one of the yards across the street.

“Thanks.”

“You evil son of a bitch,
why don’t you just kill me?” Brandon says as I cross the street back to him. I grab him by the back of his hair and the top of his pants. I lift him from the smoldering, stinking grass and begin carrying him up the driveway.

I heave him over the tailgate into the back of the truck. He lands with a thump, wisps of smoke and blood-steam still rising from his clothes and skin. I walk around to the cab, start the truck.

Marta looks at me wide-eyed as I back out of the driveway. I roll the window down. “Be right back,” I say. “Can you take care of these other characters coming down the street?”

“Where are you going?” We both glance over at a second hos
pital worker. He looks as if he’s trying to decide between homing in on the sound of my truck or on Marta’s voice. He settles for a few steps in the general direction of both of us.