Zombified (17 page)

I wondered what Phil was thinking beside me.

“We're here to see Buddha,” I said.

“Well, who else
would
you be here to see,” she said.

Everything mostly looked the same as I remembered it. He'd gotten a new couch, and I'd never figure out how he got new things delivered to a city that was officially quarantined. Other than that, this girl was the only thing new in the apartment. Same stereo system, same bar, same art on the walls. Maybe the TV was new, it was hard to tell.

Buddha came out of one of the back rooms, all smiles. All he wore was a pair of jeans and a smile. His
chica
must have been wearing his only shirt. He looked the same, too. Long silver hair, pirate mustache—good-looking for someone older than my dad.

“There you are,” he said to me. “I've missed that face. I see you met Precious.”

The girl rolled her eyes and flopped onto the couch without speaking.

“Yes,” I said. “We're great friends now.”

“Speaking of friends . . .” Buddha said.

“Oh, right,” I said. “This is Phil.”

Phil stepped forward and reached out his hand. “Hello, sir,” he said.

Buddha looked at his outstretched hand like it was some undiscovered species of slug, then he broke into a huge grin. He gripped Phil's hand with both of his.

“Hello, son,” Buddha said. “This fella has much better manners than the last one you brought over here.”

Phil shot me a raised eyebrow.

“Brandon,” I said, and the eyebrow sank back into the depths of Phil's forehead.

Buddha sat on the couch next to Precious and she wrapped herself around him like a friendly cat.

“Grab something out of the fridge if you want,” Buddha told me.

I went behind the bar to the dorm fridge he kept there. “Want anything?” I asked Phil.

“Is there juice?”

“Orange or pineapple?”

“Pineapple, please,” he said.

Buddha laughed. “Where'd you find someone with such good manners, Courtney?”

“He followed me home one day, and Dad said I could keep him.” I winked at Phil to let him know I was just playing.

“Phil, right?” Buddha asked him. “Have a seat.”

Phil sat on the love seat across from Buddha and Precious. Brandon and Sherri had sat there the last time we'd all come here. The time we smoked Vitamin Z and Sherri ended up dying.

“How are those drinks coming?” Buddha asked. “Want to bring me a Dos Equis?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anything for you?” I asked Precious. I refused to actually speak a name that dumb out loud.

“No, I'm fine,” she said.

“She's fine,” Buddha repeated and he ran his hand up and down her thigh. Gag.

I got our drinks and came back to the living room. I gave Buddha his beer, then flopped onto the love seat next to Phil and handed him his juice.

“Before I forget,” Buddha said. He dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little baggie full of Z. “Don't do anything stupid with that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And that's on the house,” he said. Precious shot him a look like he'd just said he was giving up the drug business to become a missionary.

I thanked him again, and then something popped into my head and I just had to ask him.

“Have you been changing the formula on this?” I asked. “Like, since I stopped selling it?”

He gave me a weird look, then said, “My chemists are always tinkering with the makeup of Z. We're always looking to maximize our customers' experience. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” I said. I didn't know how to tell him I suspected that zombies were getting faster and smarter because he'd been altering his formula from the original recipe. Anyway, since it was just a suspicion, I thought I'd keep it to myself for now. I'd just tell Dr. Keller when I got him the sample.

“So, what's new in the real world?” Buddha asked.

“Here's something,” I said. “You're going to have to hang out a Help Wanted sign again.”

Phil shot me a look.

“How's that?” Buddha asked.

“Brandon,” I said. “He's dead.”

His face clouded over, got red, and then returned to the same placid state it almost always exhibited. I had a feeling that looking so serene took a lot of work for him.

“How'd that happen?” he asked.

“He overdosed,” I said. “I was there, unfortunately.”

Buddha rubbed a hand through his hair. “That's too bad,” he said. “I liked that kid. But I had told him to lay off the product. You were there when it happened, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was at my house.”

There was that same weird look he'd given me when I asked about the Vitamin Z formula.

“And . . . ?” he asked.

“And what?”

“Courtney,” he said, “you know what I'm asking.”

“I do,” I said. “No, he didn't stay dead. Or, at least, he didn't stay down.”

“Did you put him back down?” Buddha asked. “I know your reputation in that department.”

“No,” I said. “He got away from me, but I'll be keeping an eye out for him.”

“Well, I wouldn't want to be him,” Buddha said. He turned his attention to Phil. “How about you? Are you a badass zombie killer, too?”

Precious smirked at that. I bit my tongue before I said something I'd regret.

“I do what I can,” Phil said. “Mostly I try to stay out of the way.”

“Sure,” Buddha said. “Say, let me ask you something.”

I'd never find out what he wanted to know. Just then the phone in the other room began to ring. Buddha rose to answer it, shedding Precious like a sexy lap blanket. Then the lights went out and the phone stopped ringing.

“What the hell?” Buddha said.

Phil and I exchanged a look. Buddha was supposed to have a generator in the basement that was meant to keep the lights running no matter what.

A cell phone started to buzz. Buddha reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He thumbed it to life.

“What?” he said. He listened, shooting a look at me and Phil. “How many?” he asked. “Uh-huh. Get everyone down to the lobby,” he said. “I'll be there in a minute.”

He killed the call and tossed the phone to Precious. “Hold that for me,” he said. He stalked over to the window at the far end of the apartment. “Sounds like we have more guests,” he said. He threw open the curtains, exposing floor-to-ceiling windows. “Son of a bitch.”

Phil and I jumped up and ran to the window.

“What is it, baby?” Precious asked from the couch, her voice small like she was crawling inside herself.

It looked like every zipper in Portland was converging on Buddha's apartment. Leaning over and trying to look straight down, I saw that there was already a mass of them smashing against the windows down there.

“What are they doing?” Phil asked.

“Do you still use the basement as a warehouse?” I asked.

“What do a bunch of zombies want with some barrels of Vitamin Z?” Buddha asked. He wasn't trying to maintain the serene mask anymore, and it was a little scary.

“I don't know,” I said, “except that a lot of them probably died of drug overdoses. Maybe they still crave it?”

Buddha laughed. “Junkie shufflers? Is that what you're saying?” He laughed some more, but I didn't think he found it too funny.

“We need to get out of here,” I said.

“You take your friend and get out,” Buddha said. “No way am I leaving my home and my business to these assholes. We'll hold them on the first floor, no problem.”

“Some of the new ones are fast,” I said. “Some can open doors and climb stairs.”

“Well, ain't that something?” he asked. “Okay. You two get, and you take Precious with you.”

“I'm not going,” she said. I jumped because she was standing right behind us. When did she get up and come over? “I'm staying here with you. No matter what.”

Buddha smiled and wrapped his arms around her. “Oh, baby,” he whispered and he gave her a deep kiss. “You're so stupid, you remind me of me at your age.” He nodded to me and Phil. “Avoid the elevator. There's a stairway access on the far side of this room, I'll show you. I'd avoid the ground floor, too. Make your way down to the basement. There's a tunnel in the northeast corner that leads out to Twentieth.”

“Uh,” said Phil.

“What is it, son?” Buddha asked.

“I don't have a weapon,” he said. “I didn't think I'd need one.”

Buddha thought on that for a moment. “I think I can get you kitted out. How are you fixed, Courtney?”

I showed him my pistol. “And I have some ammo in speed loaders,” I told him.

He disappeared into his bedroom and I heard him rummaging around. He emerged a few moments later. He held a matte black shotgun in his hands.

“It's a Remington .12 gauge,” he said as he handed it to Phil. “Nothing fancy, but it will do the trick. It's carrying a full load now, and there are fifteen extra shells on the strap. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Phil said. “This should be fine.”

“Manners,” Buddha said with a smile. “You two be safe. I gotta get dressed and help my boys downstairs.”

With that, he turned back into the room. Precious followed him a second later. That left me and Phil standing there looking dumb.

“Let's go,” I said. My mouth was so dry I had trouble talking. I hadn't drunk any of my Pepsi.

We walked to the far end of the living space and rounded a corner. This was a part of the apartment I'd never seen before. Buddha had a mini-arcade back here. Pool table, dartboard, and several video games—one of which was a zombie hunter type. There was also a doorway with a red EXIT sign hanging above it.

“Let me go first,” Phil said.

“Why, because you're a strong man and I can't take care of myself?”

“No, you idiot,” he said. “Because if I try to shoot past you with this, I'll probably blow your head off.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. You go first.”

He pushed open the door and poked his head inside. A second later, he pulled his head out and looked at me.

“Clear as far as I can tell,” he said. “Come on.”

He pulled the door open all the way and stepped through. I took a deep breath and followed him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A
s quietly as we were able, we raced down the concrete steps. Since the power had been cut, eerie red emergency light filled the space. At each landing, Phil paused to look and listen. How he was able to hear anything over the sound of our ragged breathing, I had no idea. Eventually he'd decide everything was okay and we'd move on.

As we descended the stairs, the sound of gunfire coming up from the lobby got louder and louder. It sounded like World War III down there. When we reached the ground floor landing, we heard men shouting—and screaming—on the other side of the door. The smell of cordite nearly made me gag.

“Should we try to help them?” Phil asked.

“No,” I said as something thudded against the stairwell door. “We need to get out now,” I said.

Without another word on the topic, Phil continued down the stairs. We got to the bottom and stood before a door marked with a huge
B
. Phil pressed his ear against the door and listened. “I don't hear anything,” he said.

“That might be either good or bad,” I said. “I don't think there are ever many guys in the basement. Anyone who was in there probably went up to the lobby to join the fight.”

“So we just go and hope for the best?” Phil asked.

“Isn't that the plan we've been following our whole lives?” I asked him. “Why change things up now?”

He nodded, not looking very comforted by my version of the Saint Crispin's Day speech. He put his hand on the doorknob and took several deep breaths—trying to psych himself up. Then he threw the door open and ran through.

I followed and nearly ran into him. He stood in the darkened basement, shotgun up on his shoulder and at the ready. More red emergency lights were the only thing throwing off any illumination down here, too, but the space was so cavernous—the same footprint as the building above—that it might as well have been full dark. All the support pillars down there threw what little light there was into all sorts of weird shadows that might hide a whole army of zombies.

“Which way is northeast?” Phil whispered.

Shit, why ask me about direction? I thought about it. What direction had we been traveling when we parked the car? Where was that in relationship to the building's entrance, and where were we now? Ugh.

“Over there, I think,” I said and pointed in what I hoped wasn't just a random direction.

“Stick right behind me,” Phil said. “And watch for anything behind us.”

“This isn't the first time I've done something like this,” I said. But I did as he suggested.

We crept along the darkened space, every footfall sounding like a hammer blow on the concrete. We swept our guns toward the slightest noise or perceived movement. It felt like it took us a half hour just to cover ten yards.

“We need to be moving faster,” I hissed in Phil's ear.

“I'd rather take my time than blunder into some unseen zombies, Courtney,” he said. He wiped sweat away from his eyes.

“One of Buddha's goons told me that this place is rigged to blow,” I said. “Apparently, Buddha's paranoid about cops or another gang taking over the place. I don't know if it's true, but I don't want to stick around and find out.”

“Well, shit,” Phil said. “Okay, here we go.”

He took off at something halfway between a fast walk and a run. A jog? A trot? My much-loved vocabulary was failing me. Keeping up with him was taking too much effort to use my brain properly.

We cleared some pillars and then we were staring at the far wall. A door stood there, but it wasn't marked. Anything might have been on the other side of its pitted white surface.

“Is this it?” Phil asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “I've never seen it before.”

“One way to find out, I guess,” he said. He stepped forward and threw the door open. All we saw was blackness. No lights of any kind, not even red emergency ones. But there was something.

“Feel that?” I asked Phil.

“What?”

“A breeze.” I felt it against my face. Not strong, but it was there, and the smell it carried was dirt and rain and trees. Outside.

“This is it,” Phil said.

“This is it,” I agreed. “Let's go.”

We stepped into the tunnel and for a few seconds, red light filtered into the space. Then the door closed and we stood in utter black.

Phil took point again and we moved as fast as we could in the complete dark—sort of a fast walk. As we went, I did my best to keep my brain from screwing with me. It kept wanting to serve up images of hands reaching for my face, like I was a little kid afraid of the dark all over again.

Every once in a while, one or the other of us would call to stop and we'd listen. Each time we heard nothing, but the breeze was getting stronger. We'd run on again after catching our breath.

I had no idea how long we'd been running when Phil called for us to stop.

“See that?” he said. “Ahead of us?”

I was about to tell him no when it came to me that I really did see something. If I squinted, I just made out a light.

“Let's go,” Phil said.

Before we took off, we heard something in the tunnel behind us. The door to the basement opened and after a few seconds, closed again.

“Hello?” I yelled. “Buddha?” No answer. “Buddha's goons?” Still nothing.

“What the . . . ?” Phil said.

“Know what I don't like?” I asked. “This. I don't like this. Let's keep moving.”

And we ran on. We kept our eyes on the growing patch of light, but behind us we heard something moving. At first it was the sound of walking, then it grew until I knew there was something running to catch up with us.

“Keep running,” Phil said. “We're almost there!”

And then something stepped into the light from outside the tunnel. Phil's steps faltered, but I grabbed him by the arm and kept running. “Don't stop,” I said.

So we ran right at the zombies that were waiting for us at the end of the tunnel. I fell back as Phil let loose with a blast from his shotgun. I whirled around and assumed a two-hand stance. The moment a runner came into view, I pulled the trigger. The thing's head flew backward and its feet kept running. It looked like it ran into a clothesline.

More shotgun blasts and I squeezed off another round as a zombie, a girl, came into view. I hit her shoulder and she stumbled, but she kept coming. Dammit.

I took a deep breath and squeezed off another round. A small dot appeared on her forehead and she looked sort of surprised as she fell over.

My ears rang because the shots were so loud in the confined space. Phil grabbed me by the shoulder and motioned for me to get out of the tunnel. He slammed new shells into the shotgun. I took off. Just as I cleared the mouth of the tunnel, a zombie jumped at me from the underbrush. I screamed and swung at the thing. The barrel of my pistol gouged a huge gash in its face, but that hardly slowed it down. It was on top of me in a flash.

As I lay on my back, I looked up an embankment and saw the street. I almost called for help before I remembered that there were no people up there, just shufflers and runners.

I did my best to hold the zombie at arms' length, but the damn thing moved like a monkey or something. I had time to notice it wore a letterman's jacket, but not from any high school I recognized.

“Phil!” I shouted.

I heard two more shotgun blasts. How many shots was that? I hoped Phil was keeping count.

I kept trying to get the pistol in position to do some good, but the monster on top of me refused to hold still. Just when I thought my arms were about to give out, a foot lashed out and connected with the thing's head and it flew off me. Phil stood over me, then aimed his riot gun at the thing thrashing on the ground. Its thrashing days came to an abrupt end.

Phil gave me his hand and helped me up. “We have to get out of here,” he said. I agreed.

We ran up Twentieth for a few yards, then ducked behind an overgrown shrub. Looking back down the street, I realized that unless you knew what you were looking for, you'd never see the entrance for the tunnel. No way the zombies just happened to be standing there.

“I got two more that had been behind us,” Phil said. “Sorry about the one that jumped you. I thought I'd cleared the entrance.”

“It was waiting for me,” I said. “It was trying to trap me. The whole thing in the tunnel was a trap, you get that, right?”

“I guess I do,” he said. “There's no way it could have been anything else.”

That was the very first time someone had ever agreed with me when I talked about zombies laying traps. Usually people looked at me like I needed some new medications. I felt a strong urge to kiss him right then, but I put it in check.

“We need to keep moving,” I said. “I think we need to work our way up past the apartment complex, then up the street where we left the car.” God, I hoped they hadn't found the car.

We moved off as fast as our feet were able, stopping whenever we thought we heard something that wasn't us. It took us a good fifteen minutes to make it around the apartments. Somewhere in there it started to rain and we were soaked and freezing. I was worried I'd be unable to squeeze the trigger anymore as cold as my hands felt.

Pretty soon we were running up a street that ran parallel to the one the car was on. We just needed to find a cross street, then we'd be able to cut over. The sun was starting to go behind the Portland hills and it'd be dark soon. I wanted us on the freeway before that happened.

We found a connecting street and ran for all we were worth. There it was. God, never had I been so relieved to see a stupid Subaru. Phil climbed in and I was about to follow suit when I stopped.

“What is it, Courtney?” Phil asked. “What's going on?”

I looked down the street, the way we'd originally walked to get to the apartment building, and I saw a lone figure standing there watching the carnage at the bottom of the hill. Brandon. Brandon stood there like some sort of slack-jawed general watching his troops.

I walked away from the car and from Phil, and walked calmly down the hill toward Brandon. As I walked, I raised my pistol and fired a round. It didn't hit him, but it got his attention. He turned and looked at me. For a second, I thought he was about to wave or something, then he hissed at me. I fired again. And missed.

“Come here, you shit!” I yelled at him.

A handful of zombies, boys and girls, but all young, came running up the hill toward me. I stopped walking and started aiming more carefully and picked off three of the things. Then there was a pair of strong arms around my waist and Phil was carrying me back to the car whether or not I wanted to go.

“Put me down,” I shouted and thrashed in his arms.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” he shot back.

I slammed my head back in frustration, and through the back of my skull, I felt something give way on Phil's face. It wasn't enough to get him to let go. We got to the car and he threw me in the front seat. When he leaned in to make sure my legs didn't get shut in the door, I saw that blood streamed out of his nose and down his face. That calmed me down. I'd done that to him. Hell.

He turned and unslung the shotgun from across his back. He let off three or four volleys from the scatter gun and the rest of the zombie pack fell down dead, or near enough. He walked around the front of the car and climbed in.

“Go,” he said.

I did as he said. I swung the car in a tight U-turn and got us headed in the opposite direction.

“I think the rumor about the building being rigged to blow was bullshit,” he said.

Just then from behind us a huge fireball filled the darkening sky. It felt like someone shoved the rear end of the car, and I fought to keep it under control. I slammed on the brakes and we turned in our seats to look. Orange flames threw everything into shadow. Brandon stood down the street, silhouetted by the explosion. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought he was still watching us—me—rather than the destruction of his zombie army.

We sat forward in our seats, both of us too tired and freaked out to say anything about what we'd just seen. I put the car back in drive and got us the hell out of there.

The guard who let us back on the freeway asked if we knew what had happened.

“We seen a big ol' fireball,” he said, “but we're not sure where it come from.” He might have asked us because both Phil and I looked like we'd been in a war. The hundred dollars I slipped the soldier shut him up, though.

We'd been on the road for a while when I said to Phil, “Sorry about your nose. Is it broken?”

“Don't think so,” he said, touching it gingerly.

“I wasn't really thinking straight,” I said.

“I gathered.”

“You saw who I was shooting at, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Phil said. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and grimaced. “And before you ask, yes, I know just who orchestrated that little surprise party at Buddha's.”

I didn't know what to say. Again, I'd expected some push back for thinking that zombies planned and orchestrated anything more complex than walking.

“I guess the question,” Phil went on, “is, what do we do?”

“You're asking me that?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said. “You've been thinking about this longer than anyone, Courtney. So, I'm going to look to you for some sort of answer.”

It was one thing to go from being a lone nut whom no one believes to being looked at like some sort of expert whom folks look to for leadership.