Zombie D.O.A. (53 page)

I thought about Kelly and about Ruby and about what Joe Thursday had said back in Flagstaff. ‘Ruby’s not there,’ he’d said ‘or at least she won’t be by the time you get there.’

I wondered whether Joe had been telling the truth, and decided that he probably had. The Joe Thursday I knew was no bullshitter, if he said that Ruby wasn’t there, then that was likely the case. So why was I going there?

I guess it was because I knew Ruby
had
been there. I guess it was because I felt that being in the place where she’d been would somehow allow me to connect with her. I guess it was because I needed somewhere to start, and Palos Verdes was all I had.

I suddenly caught a flash of movement in the Voyager’s side mirror, and I saw a Z, a boy of maybe sixteen, approaching fast, running between the rows. Behind him I could see figures following in the shadows, some running the path he was on, others leaping from one car to the next. I tried to get a better look using the rearview mirror but the view was obscured by the delivery truck parked directly behind.

The young Z raced past with his pursuers closing in. Suddenly, there was a loud bang and the Voyager swayed slightly as one of the Zs landed on its roof. The creature slid down the windshield, clung to the hood and peered through the window looking directly at me. For one insane moment I was sure that he saw me and I lifted the AK and lined it up at his head. But then something stuck to the windshield caught his interest and he picked at it with a nail, before running a blackened tongue over whatever it was. Then he sprung from the hood to the next vehicle and followed his companions in pursuit of the youngster.

After that I fell asleep, oblivious to the howls and grunts and bangs around me. At one stage I thought I heard gunshots and the sound of a motorcycle racing away. But that may have been part of the dream I had that night. A dream where I was standing on that now familiar beach at Palos Verdes. Kelly was with me and she was looking out to sea, with me standing behind her, my arms around her resting on her swollen belly. There were two surfers out there riding a wave into shore. I heard the sound of motorcycles and I looked around half expecting to see Virgil Pratt and his Dead Men. But instead I saw Zs, hundreds of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder looking out to sea. Then they suddenly parted, and I saw Ruby, sitting on the sand in her blue swim suit, her entire focus on the red bucket that she was trying to scoop sand into.

I woke to the sound of knocking, and my first sight of the day was a Z peering straight at me through the side window. She was middle aged with bleached blond hair, the dark roots showing through. A bullet had ripped a deep furrow through the side of her head and one of her cheekbones was smashed giving her face a lop-sided look.

She was knocking again now and then peering in, hands held to the sides of her head. I knew that she probably couldn’t see me, but I needed to get out of there, so I was left with two choices. I could either shoot her through the glass, or I could try to sneak out of the car without been spotted.

Both of these approaches carried an element of risk, but I decided on the less risky strategy. I lined up the rifle on her and put a neat hole in her forehead. The report of the AK was deafening in the cab, but I knew it would be muffled outside. Still, I carefully checked both side mirrors before creeping out onto the road top. I had some miles to make today.

I’d walked only a few miles when I realized that I was being followed. I’d just crossed an area where the freeway cut through open fields with some low-lying hills to one side, then passed through the outskirts of a small town. As the suburban housing gave way to small business establishments and then to a strip mall, I heard a sound behind me. I spun round with the AK at the ready and the street was empty.

The left side of the road was given to storefronts and on the right was a small park with a single clump of trees. Behind one of those, I could clearly make out the outline of a man, a man in a red shirt, standing in the shadows but not making any great attempt at concealment.

I pretended not to see him, walked a few yards then crouched down next to a car as if to tie my bootlace. I looked into the vehicle’s side mirror and saw three Zs, then another and another until eventually they seemed to be pouring from every nook and cranny into the street and I lost count.

Now that creepy Z hum, the sound they make when they’re grouped together, reached my ears and I was tempted to just turn round and open up with the AK. But there were too many of them, and their numbers were still growing.

I knew from experience that, pretty soon, one of them was going to break ranks and charge and that the others would follow. Even now I could see them growing restless, see a few squabbles breaking out among their ranks, and I wasn’t about to wait around for them to rush me.

From my crouching position I suddenly burst forward, sprinting down the middle of the road. Normally, I’d be confident of outrunning a Z, but I was carrying a heavy load and I hadn’t yet fully recovered from the incident in New Mexico, and even though I threw everything I had at it, I could hear them closing, their footfalls on the tarmac, their harsh grunts, the sound of their bodies slapping the abandoned cars as they ran.

I saw a road junction coming up and I veered left between two buildings, hoping to find some cover, some hiding place, perhaps an escape route. What I found instead was a twenty-foot wall, from sidewalk to sidewalk, blocking the road.

I looked frantically left and right and saw metal shutters covering the storefronts on both sides. In front of me the wall now loomed, behind I could hear the low-pitched hum of the zombies and I had no option but to turn and face them.

Now that they knew they had me trapped they’d stopped running, and there were dozens of them, clogging the road junction, cutting off any avenue of escape. I was reminded of being cornered in the alley back in New York. Only this time there was no weak chain link fence to exploit, no fire escape to clamber up.

The lead zombie showed his teeth and emitted a growl that sounded like an idling muscle car. His companions pressed forward, their numbers seemingly magnified by the reflection in the plate glass storefront of the department store at the road junction.  I suddenly saw a way out. A long shot granted, but the only spot I had.

I eased the rucksack from my shoulders and allowed it to fall to the pavement. The magazines inside made a hollow clunk as they collided with the blacktop and for a split second it was utterly silent. Then the lead Z grunted and they rushed me. I had nowhere to go but forward, so I met their charge, firing as I did.

I directed the AK not at the dense center but at the right flank. As the distance closed I angled right and shifted my fire towards the window of the department store. I saw it shatter, felt flailing hands rip at my clothes and kept firing until the shattered window pane loomed large. Then I threw myself forward, hit the deck rolling and was up and running.

The department store was dark inside, but I was guided by the dim light creeping through the windows at the other end of the floor. A zombie suddenly appeared in front of me and I shot her and kept running. I fired off a burst at the display window that ended in an impotent click. Then I pushed my way through onto the street as I heard automatic gunfire open up behind me. A blue sedan rounded the corner and screeched to a halt.  Three men spilled out with raised guns. I dropped the AK and put up my hands.

“Mister, are you fucking crazy!” I was standing in an office that had once been home to Sunshine Realty. The building was off an open parking lot, with shops on three sides and a road on the fourth. It was a beautiful, warm fall day and in another time the mall would have been buzzing with shoppers. Now though, it had been turned into a fortified encampment surrounded by high breezeblock walls topped with wire.

The man addressing me was Sam Suchet, and he was pissed. “I’m amazed you didn’t get yourself killed out there, not to mention my men. What the fuck are you doing running around like Rambo, you got a death wish or something?”

“I’m sorry if I put your men at risk, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought I kind of had things under control back there.”

“What!” Suchet said turning to his lieutenant, “Can you believe the balls on this guy?”

“Look,” I said, “I appreciate your help, but if it’s all the same to you, I need to be on my way.”

“Well. It’s not all the same to me, thanks for asking. You think I’m going to just let you walk out of here to become Z burger.”

“Figure that’s my choice.”

Suchet looked at me across the desk, studying me like a liquor store clerk trying to decide whether to ask for I.D. or not. “Okay, okay,” he said eventually. “We can’t keep you here if you don’t want to stay. Can you at least tell me where you’re headed?” When I didn’t answer he said, “Where you’re from then?”

“New York City. Originally.”

“Figured that from your accent. Where are you coming from today?”

“I came down from Flagstaff, Arizona yesterday. Had to abandon my car at Corona.”

Suchet let out a whistle, “And you got this far on foot? Jesus mister, how’d you manage that without getting eaten? You some kind of miracle man?”

“Just lucky I guess.”

“So you’re heading west. Where to? Anaheim? Long Beach? Because I gotta tell you, if you think that what you faced out there today is bad, that’s kindergarten compared to Anaheim, and Long Beach is even worse. You have zero chance of making it through. Zero.”

“I know this dude,” Suchet’s lieutenant said suddenly. He walked over to a table and picked out a magazine from the pile sitting there, flipped through it and brought it back to Suchet.

“Chris Cruisin’ Collins,” Suchet said showing me the page, from a dog-eared old copy of KO, “that you?”

“Yeah that’s me.”

“Fighter, huh”

“Uh huh.”

“Is that where the attitude comes from?”

“Didn’t realize I had one.”

“Tell you what, Chris, rather than being a hard on, how about you sit down with me, tell me where you need to get to and I’ll see if I can help.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Let’s just say it’s in my nature and leave it at that.”

I thought about that for a minute. He was right of course. I’d been lucky to get this far. Sooner or later I was going to back myself into a corner I couldn’t fight my way out of.        

“I’m heading to Palos Verdes,” I said.

“Nice country,” Suchet said, “Not so many Zs down there. Corporation owned though, they don’t take kindly to visitors.”

“Does that mean you won’t help?”

“Hell no, we’re no friends of the Corporation. Self appointed, self-righteous motherfuckers. We’ll take you.” Then to his assistant he said, “Mike, we’re going to need the dump truck.”

The dump truck Suchet was referring to was a six-wheel, articulated hauler, yellow in color, made by Caterpillar. They’d made a couple of modifications to it though, including attaching a wedge shaped steel scoop to the front and mounting a fifty mil canon in the bed. There were benches fitted to the side of the bed too, and brackets for securing motorcycles.

“I’m sending you through with Beau Stewart,” Suchet said, “Crazy son of a bitch but the best driver you’re likely to meet. Says he used to drive Nascar before this shit storm went down, but between you and me, I think he’s bullshitting. Then again he might not be.

“There’ll be four men on the back, all you need really. Between that dump truck and the 50-mil, not much is going to stand in your way, unless maybe the Corporation, and my boys would love a crack at them.

“I’ve put an off-roader on the back for you, Yamaha 250, good bike. Do what you have to do in Palos and get the hell out of there. You don’t want to end up in that hellhole they got down at Pendleton. I got some good men lying rotting in that cage. Oh, and don’t come back this way, not on a bike. Hug the coast line as much as you can down to San Clemente, head inland from there. Good luck, Chris.”