Zombie D.O.A. (47 page)

At that exact moment Hooley’s Browning fell silent and the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the whoosh of heat-driven winds.

I made my way upstairs and began searching the rooms. The first two were dark and dusty, their ancient furnishings concealed under ghostly white sheets.

In the third, I found Nate, stripped naked and tied to a bed. The room was dim, lit only by a kerosene lamp, and with the drapes drawn. Still I could see the extent on Nate’s terrible injuries. The gunshot wound to his shoulder, the bite marks to his face and neck and the horrific mutilations inflicted further down.

I walked across and sat on the bed next to the lifeless body of the man I’d come to consider a friend. Nate eyes were still open and I closed them and said a silent farewell.

It was then I heard the door creak shut behind me, and I turned to see Zelda. The beautiful lady zombie I’d described to Cal and Hooley was wearing a black see-through negligee with silk stockings and suspenders.

“Hello lover,” she whispered in a dark seductive voice.

For a moment I froze, and then I went for the .38 I had stuffed into my waistband. But Zelda was too fast and before I had the weapon raised she grabbed my hand and twisted it. I felt pain flare instantly and heard a sound like dry kindling snapping. The revolver fell from my grasp and skidded across floor.

Zelda pushed me slowly back onto the bed, pinning me under her weight. She brought her face closer to mine and I could smell her putrid breath and see the flame of the kerosene lamp reflected in her insane eyes. She pealed back her lips to reveal over-sized incisors and moved her mouth steadily towards my throat. Pinned down by Zelda and wedged between her and Nate, I tried to push myself upward with my weaker left hand but I was powerless to move. Zelda moved closer and I could feel her run her cold tongue along my jugular.

I closed my eyes anticipating the bite and then I heard a loud crack as the bedstead, its ancient frame unable to take the weight of all three of us, collapsed. Zelda momentarily released her grip and I rolled away and crawled in the direction the .38 had gone. I saw it under the dressing table and without thinking I reached with my shattered right hand. The pain was instantaneous and exquisite. I looked frantically towards Zelda and saw that the bed had collapsed on her leg, trapping her. At that moment she worked herself free and got slowly to her feet.

I was wedged half under the dressing table, lying on my side and unable to reach the gun. With my left hand I gripped the edge of the table and started to pull myself up. I felt something warm against my hand and then Zelda suddenly grunted and hurtled across the bed towards me. My hand closed on the kerosene lamp and as she moved in I smashed it into her face.

Zelda’s face and hair were immediately engulfed in flame and she fell back, beating at the fire and emitting a high-pitched shriek that reminded me of a nail being levered from timber. She crashed back into the drapes pulling them down and setting them ablaze. 

While she still lie writhing on the floor I picked up the .38 and finished her. Then I slung the AK over my shoulder. I knew I’d have a hard time firing it one handed, but I didn’t want to be caught short of firepower when I needed it. I crept out onto the landing with the .38 at the ready. The bar room still looked empty and I stepped towards the banister for a better look. I heard a footfall behind me and turned just too late to prevent myself being pushed. Then the railing gave way and I was falling. 

One moment I was standing at the banister, the next I was plummeting towards the floor. At the last instant I managed a half-roll, and I hit one of the gaming tables shoulder first, which helped to break my fall and possibly saved my life. Still the pain that flashed down my arm and flared in my damaged wrist was worse than anything I’d felt since my altercation with a Dodge pickup back in Kentucky. And I was pretty sure I’d cracked a couple of ribs in the fall.

“Get him up!” Someone shouted and I was hauled to my feet. The bar room was now filled with smoke, but I could make out a figure framed in the doorway, backlit by the flames beyond. “Well, bring him here you dimwits,” the man said, and I recognized the voice of Stanley Tucci.

“Well, well, well,” Tucci said as I was dragged towards him, “I might have known. Chris Collins, you crafty son of a bitch! How the hell are you?” He gave me a friendly slap on the arm and when he saw me flinch he looked down at my hand, “Ouch, you’ve done yourself some damage there, my friend. Let’s see if we can make you a bit more uncomfortable.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed and I had to dig deep to prevent myself from crying out.

“Come on outside,” Tucci said. “There’s an old acquaintance you might want to pay your respects to.”

Tucci’s goons pushed me through the batwing doors out onto the porch. The street looked like it had been hit by a firestorm. The buildings over the road had all but been destroyed and the road surface was scattered with the smoldering remains of motorcycles and men. Cal and Hooley had done their jobs well.

I looked up towards the church and saw that it too was burning and I hoped that Hooley had been able to get himself, and the people inside, to safety.

The fire suddenly flared across the road and, to my left, a figure separated itself from the shadows. Virgil Pratt stepped forward, looking every bit the sideshow cowboy. That was, if you could look past his face. Virgil was not having a good face day. The shirt buttoned to the top only partially hid the suppurating wounds that stained his collar a bloody brown. His face was haggard and drawn and he looked to have aged twenty years. Worse still was the bluish tinge to his complexion, visible even in the firelight.

“Thought you done for me back in Tulsa didn’t you?” Virgil said. “We’ll I’m still here, despite what that bitch Zelda tried to do to me. Ol’ Virge is still kickin’ ass and taking names. And I’m still the fastest gun in the west.” He drew his weapon with the same lightening speed I’d seen before, blew on the barrel and the holstered it. “Stanley” he said, “I think I need a cocktail.”    

“No fucking way Virgil,” Tucci said, “It’s only been two hours, you’ll burn yourself out, you keep drinking that stuff like it’s RC Cola.”

“Shut the fuck up, Stanley, I’m still heading up this outfit, last time I looked.”

“Virgil, I have to strongly advise…”

“Advise this dickwad,” Virgil said and drew his gun.

Tucci threw is arms up to protect his face in an involuntary action and Virgil started laughing. “Just so as you know who’s the big kahuna around here.” he said, holstering his gun. “Now get me some of that goo-goo juice.”

Tucci nodded and one of his men ran back into the saloon. Over the road one of the last remaining structures collapsed as the fire started to burn itself out.

“Pretty fucking stupid torching your own town, Collins,” Virgil said.  “Seemed like a nice little place, too.  Could have settled here myself, raised a few little Z brats with Zelda.” He chuckled at the thought then shouted suddenly, “Where’s my fucking goo-goo juice?”

The man came running back out of the saloon. He stopped and whispered something to Tucci, “What the fuck!” Tucci exploded,  “Don’t tell me that shit! Go look again! Fucking idiot!”              

“But…” the man started to say then thought better of it. He walked reluctantly back inside.

“What’s happening, Stanley? Why the fuck am I waiting?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucci said, then, “Oh, fuck it!” He turned and walked briskly into the saloon himself.

Virgil turned to me. “I been thinking, Collins, of a special kind of death for you. Here’s what I got so far. Come sun up, when we muster the men for their morning shot of prune juice, I’m gonna strap you down to a table right here in the middle of the road. Then I’m going to walk them past you single file and let each one have an itty bitty nibble, what you think?”  

“I think you’re…” I started, but then Tucci came running towards us, “Tell me you moved it!” he demanded of Virgil.

“I ain’t moved…Moved what?”

“The BH-17, Blueberry Hill, goo-goo juice, whatever you want to call it. It’s gone!”

“Gone? What do you mean gone?”

“Gone! Missing, vanished, disappeared. Fucking gone! Do I have to spell it out for you!”

“How the fuck is that possible?” Virgil said, and then an idea seemed to occur to him and he turned to me. “Collins,” he hissed, with a smile that was more terrifying than any Z I’d ever seen.

“Yeah, I’ve got your stuff,” I said. I was strapped to a chair with my hands behind me, which was becoming a familiar position when I was around Virgil and Tucci.

“Well, that’s a start,” Tucci said, “Where is it?”

“Oh it’s close. Very close”

“Cut the crap,” Virgil said, “You tell us where it is and we’ll finish you quick, maybe even let you go.”

“And if I don’t.”

“Ain’t no don’t,” Virgil said, “You’ll tell us, any which way.”

“Nah,” I said, “Think I’ll pass.”

Virgil drew his six-shooter, turned it around and swaggered towards me, holding the gun like a club.

“On the other hand,” I said, “I might tell you, in exchange for certain guarantees.”

“What guarantees?” Virgil asked, pathetic hope in his voice.

“The guarantee that right after you I tell you, you shoot Stan Ritz here in the head and then yourself.”

“I’ve had enough of this shit,” Virgil said. He raised the gun and brought it down against my skull. A fireworks display seemed to go off in my head, followed by pain that started dull and ended razor sharp. I felt blood trickle down my forehead. “How’s that do ya?” Virgil said, “I got more in that locker.”

“Gimme some,” I said.

This time he took a roundhouse swing, connecting with my cheekbone. I heard a crunch and the hammer ripped though the flesh before coming to a jarring halt against my nose. The chair teetered for a moment and then crashed over. The pain in my ribs, my damaged wrist and in the new injuries inflicted by Virgil lit up instantaneously, like the biggest jackpot in Vegas. I hit the deck, and the vial of Blueberry Hill slid from my pocket. Virgil stooped and picked it up.

“Well, looky here,” he said. “Looks like Ol’ Chris has been holding out on us all along.”

He held the vial up to the light, admiring it like it was a rare and beautiful artifact. Then he unscrewed the top, glugged down a mouthful, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Go easy on that stuff, Virgil,” Tucci warned, but Pratt ignored him and took another slug before screwing the top back on and dropping the vial into his breast pocket. “Now where was we, oh yeah, where’s the rest of my stuff?”

“Probably, right under your nose,” I said, and then Tucci exploded.

“Jesus Christ, Collins, do you understand the shit you’re in? In less than one fucking hour these men will be gathering for their fix. Do you know what will happen if they don’t get it? You’ll have two hundred Z’s pouring into this saloon looking for blood. They’ll tear you limb from limb!”

“You reckon this room will hold two hundred,” I said.

“Aw for chrissakes, just shoot him Virgil, this is useless.”

“No need,” said Virgil, now regaining his composure as the Blueberry Hill took hold, “He’s already told us where it is. And why shoot him when we can feed him to the boys later?”

“What?” Tucci said, “I told you to go easy on the blue, you’ve really fucking flipped this time. Where did he…”

“Right under your nose, isn’t that what, he said? I’ll bet ya dollars to donuts he’s hidden it under the fucking floorboards. Not so clever are you now, Mr. Chris fucking Collins?”