Zombie D.O.A. (29 page)

“Yeah, well maybe the Pendragon Corporation got something right for once.” It was silent for a moment and then he added in a Bella Lugosi b-movie voice, “But then again, maybe not.”         

He broke into hysterical laughter and after a while his men joined him with a few uncertain chuckles.

I opened my eyes a crack and could see a bald man sitting in a chair. Three other men were gathered around him but from my position, I could only see their legs.

“Fuck it,” the bald man said, “I haven’t got all day, fetch the fire hose.”

“Yes, boss!” one of his men said with enthusiasm. He trotted off and returned after a few seconds.

“Well, one of you chuckleheads get back there and turn the fucking thing on!” the boss shouted.

I heard footsteps and after a moment a faint hiss and then a burst of water hit me square in the face and took my breath away.

I staggered to my feet and the man holding the hose redirected his
burst at my chest. I was
pushed backward and clattered into the bars of the cell. The guy on the floor was lying in a puddle of water now, but still he slept.

“Turn it off!” I heard the boss shout and the water was cut off instantly. I slumped to my knees feeling like I’d just been punched by Big George Foreman.

“And get a mop!” the boss was shouting, “I get water on my shoes, and someone’s gonna pay!”

One of his henchmen ran off and returned momentarily with a mop and bucket. 

“You!” the boss shouted at me, “What are you doing in my town!”

Even if I’d wanted to answer, I didn’t have the breath for it. Instead I pulled myself up, using the bars. The man facing me, I was sure, was Stanley Tucci, he even bore a slight resemblance to the actor, except that he wore thick, black-framed glasses.

“I asked you a question mister! What were you doing in my…”

“I needed a car,” I spluttered.

“Oh, and you thought you could just waltz onto a lot and jack one? Doesn’t anyone have any principles anymore? Is lawlessness now the norm in this country?”

Behind him one of his men was mopping the floor, while the other two stood,
arms folded and looked at me. One of them resembled a military man, all crew cut
and bulging muscles.
The other looked like a professional wrestler gone to seed.

Tucci though was different, a slight guy in a blue pin-striped suit and a white open-necked shirt. He could have been a Wall Street stockbroker. 

“You killed one of my men,” Tucci said, “got another one all bit up.”

“I didn’t kill…” 

“Don’t interrupt!
he
screamed. He glared at me with his complexion turning an angry shade of pink. I could see a vein pulsing at his temple.

“You killed one of my men,“ he repeated, “You lured my men into a trap and the Z’s got one of them. The other one, Clint here, got bit up pretty bad.” He indicated the man on lying on the floor, who had yet to regain consciousness.

“Fortunately for you, our em
ployer
s have seen fit to provide us with the means to treat such injuries. Unf
ortunately, for you our employer
s are incompetent assholes, and the stuff they give us usually doesn’t work.”

He looked now at the man on lying on the floor and said in a mock-disappointed tone, “Ah, see what I mean?”

His men clamored round for a better look, and one of them said, “Ahh, man!”

I looked over at Clint and saw that the wound on his neck had started bleeding.

“Wake him up!” Tucci said.

“Ah boss, I ain’t going in there,”

“Use the mop you idiot!”

The man extended the mop through the bars and started to poke at Clint’s prostrate form, which remained immobile. The neck wound seemed to be worsening, with blood now seeping from it like syrup rolling off a stack of waffles.

Suddenly, Clint started to twitch.

“Atta boy, here we go now,” Tucci said. “Come on, Clint, you can do it.”

A low moan escaped from
Clint and he pulled himself on
to his knees and grabbed the bars with both hands
.

“There you go,” Tucci encouraged and then he let out an insane giggle and said, “Oh what fun!”

He squatted down on his haunches and went face to face with Clint. “Come on,” he said, “do it for your old boss man.”

Slowly, painfully, Clint pulled himself to his feet. He stood clinging to the bars with both hands, his well-muscled back turned to me.

“Jesus, he looks like crap!” one of Tucci’s men said.

“Shut up,” Tucci responded, “You’ll hurt his feelings.”  Then to Clint he said, in the sweet voice of a pre-school teacher, “Oh Clint, I‘ve got a little surprise for you. Now close your eyes and turn around, no peeking now, turn around, go on.”

Clint started turning slowly around. He was shorter than me, but he quite obviously worked out and paid special attention to his biceps, which were huge.

That wasn’t what caught my attention though. What caught my attention was the ragged hole that had miraculously reappeared in his neck, and the incisors that seemed somehow too big for his mouth, a mouth that now trailed a thick line of saliva.

Amazingly, he’d obeyed Tucci’s command to keep his eyes shut, and stood there like a five-year-old playing a game of hide-and-seek.

“You can look now,” Tucci whispered close to his ear, and Clint’s eyes instantly flew open and I could see straight away the yellowing effect of the virus.

I was ten feet from him in a locked cell with nowhere to hide, no weapon I could use and virtually no chance of getting out alive.

Clint took a step forward and then kicked out at the tin plate, which still lie on the ground. It flew across the floor like a lethal Frisbee, missing my shins by a whisper and becoming lodged between the bars.

“Get him, Clint,” one of the men said and then Clint waded forward, swaying his torso like a man walking in thick mud.

The only thing I had available to me was the cot, so I moved quickly to my right and got behind it, putting a barrier between me and him. He tried to round the cot to the right and I feinted left, then when he went left, I moved right.

“Come on!” one of the man shouted like a disappointed punter at a rather tame boxing match.

“Sick him!” I heard Tucci scream.

Clint now stood at the head of the cot, while I was at the foot. I grabbed hold of the metal bedstead and pushed it upwards so that I had him jammed against the bars. With both hands grasping the bed frame I began to push forward, hoping to get a crush on him.

But he was just too strong. I felt the cot being pushed backward, felt it topple and felt it come crashing down with me under it. My head hit the ground and I felt a burst of stars and a sharp jolt of pain as I bit my tongue. 

“He’s under the bed! He’s under the bed,” I could hear Tucci’s men shouting like kids at a pantomime.

From my position under the bed I could see Clint’s boots and, to his right, the tin plate jammed between the bars.

“He’s under the bed,” Tucci’s men continued to cue him and then I heard Tucci himself say, “Oh for Christ’s sake!”

I crawled towards the tin plate, grabbed hold of it and yanked. On the second pull it came free with a metallic screech. It had been folded by being forced between the
bars and I used that start to
bend the two ends together. Then I bent it back and heard it snap.

At that moment the bed was suddenly tossed aside and Clint hovered over me.  He raised his boot and then brought it down ponderously. I rolled away and came up with half of the tin plate in my hand, it’s jagged edge outward.

Clint blundered forward with hands outstretched. I swung and felt the metal plate cut deep into his bicep. It didn’t even slow him. He got both hands around my throat and rammed me back against the bars.

“Kill him!” I heard Tucci scream.

I still had the makeshift blade in my hands and I drove it now into Clint’s lower abdomen. He continued squeezing my throat and I could see his lips peel back from his teeth and his face slowly pushing forward towards mine. His breath smelled gangrenous.

Using every ounce of my fading strength, I pulled upward on the blade and felt it slice through Clint’s guts. Something warm and slippery slithered across my hand and I heard the patter of blood raining down on the cold concrete of the cell.

Clint’s gnashing teeth were just an inch from my face when he suddenly blinked and a look of confusion flashed across his features. I felt his grip loosen on my throat and then quite suddenly the yellow tinge faded from his eyes and they turned a muddy green. He slid to the floor like a broken doll.

For a moment the men outside the cell looked on with matching expressions of astonishment on their faces.

Then Tucci broke the silence, “I always knew Clint was a pussy,” he said. “Now get this mess cleaned up. Then take this superhero up to the roof and throw him off.  On second thoughts, take him over to the BOK Tower and throw him off there. Let’s see if he can fly.”

One of the
Resurrection
men
, the paunchy one,
co
vered me with a rifle while an
other told me to turn round and back up to the bars. Then he slipped a pair of cuffs on me and the
paunchy
guy
opened the cell door.

They led me through what looked like a police station house and out onto the street. It was a
beautiful morning with clear skies
overhead. I wondered how long they’d held me here and wondered about Babs. Chances were Babs was dead by now and chances were I was going to be joining him soon. 

We walked down a street lined with office blocks and hotels and boutiques, and but for the absence of people and the stalled cars in the streets, we could have been
strolling to an early appointment
or going for a frappe at the local Starbucks.

I found myself hoping that we’d run into some Z’s, which might create a diversion and maybe, just maybe
,
give me a chance to escape. But, as luck would have it, on the one day of my life when I would have been happy to see a Z they seemed to have all taken the day off.     

After a few more blocks we turned into a street marked by a sign as East 2nd Street and I could see a tall building that somewhat resembled the old World Trade Center.  Not as tall of course, but still I made it at least 50 floors.

“There’s your launch pad, superman,” one of the men joked.

“Don’t know what you’re so fucking joyful about,” the other said. “We’re the one’s that have to walk up 52 floors. And down again. At least this asshole only has to make the journey one way.”

“Worth every step,” the other said, “Just to see this fucker fly.”

We entered the building and
the paunchy guy
crossed the foyer, walked towards the elevators and started pushing buttons.