Life of the Dead (Book 2): Road of the Damned Page 4

  Please, let the little bastard be shit-faced, Mead thought. Nothing worse than that.

  He liked Jie. Even if they could barely understand each other much of the time, his company was nice. Every time Mead killed a zombie, Wang Jie gave his little clap of approval and that made Mead feel about as happy as winning a blue ribbon at the county fair.

  He stood on the precipice of aisle seven and took a deep breath. After steeling himself, he continued past the shelves toward aisle eight.

  Mead didn’t find Wang Jie. Instead he found a middle aged zombie in a torn housecoat. One of her droopy breasts sagged out from amongst the floral print. Her gray nipple stood erect and swayed back and forth in Mead’s direction as if it were shouting, ‘Hey there, big fella!’

  “What the fuck?”

  Mead knew they’d locked the door - locked it and blocked it with a few kegs of beer - to prevent something just like this from happening. But it happened anyway and now there was a zombie inside.

  Mead strode toward the dead woman who seemed more interested in reaching for, and knocking down, every bottle of wine on the shelf. As they exploded at her feet, Mead took the knife end of the stick and rammed it through her temple. She fell into the shelf, destroying the remaining bottles of chardonnay.

  He pulled his stick free of her skull and again scanned the store. “Jie? Where are you?”

  He explored every inch of the building, expecting to find Jie passed out or dead, or undead. His search came up empty. That left only one option. The open door. He noticed the kegs had been pushed to the side, but in an orderly manner. This was done on purpose and gave Mead some hope. The zombie hadn’t broken in. Wang Jie had gone out.

  Mead stepped into the daylight. The Cavalier sat undisturbed, and he didn’t see any zombies in the immediate area. He knew making a spectacle of himself was foolish, but he wanted to find his friend.

  “Wang Jie!” He shouted the words and his call sounded like a thunderclap against the utter silence of the town. “Where the hell did you go?”

  He walked up and down the nearest streets but Jie was nowhere to be found. Mead did see zombies though and that reminded him that wandering about was a stupid idea. He returned to the car and recommenced his search on four wheels instead of two feet.

  He was passing Ripple Avenue when he spotted a small man at the end of the street. He slammed on the brakes, backed up five feet and turned up the street. As he did, the man rounded the corner onto Garfield Street. Mead followed.

  As the Cavalier breached Garfield, Mead saw the man was only five yards away. He couldn’t hold back a relieved smile when he recognized the clothes as Jie’s and saw he was carrying a canvas shopping bag.

  Mead remembered the man had said something the night before about living a few streets away and suddenly this made sense. Jie must have gone back to his apartment for something. A dumb, reckless move, but he was alive, and that was what mattered.

  Mead pulled up beside Jie and leaned out the window. “I thought you were zombie chow, buddy.”

  The Cavalier was moving faster than Wang Jie and Mead moved from seeing his pal from behind, to looking him straight in the face. That was when he realized Jie was dead.

  The little man’s lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. Dried, brown blood covered his left arm and Mead saw several bite-sized chunks taken out of his bicep area. Mead could see the bone through the wounds.

  “You fuckers. There was hardly any meat on him to eat.”

  He slowed the car and Wang Jie outpaced him by a few feet. Mead considered driving away, taking the easy way out. But he wouldn’t want to go one as one of those revolting, dead fucks and he couldn't condemn Jie to that fate either.

  He put the car in park and opened the door. He didn’t bother with one of the sticks. Instead he took a buck knife from his belt as he approached his temporary friend. Mead didn’t say anything as he shoved the blade of the knife into the base of Jie’s skull. It sank in easily and when it was buried to the hilt, Mead quickly jerked it from side to side. Jie went limp and collapsed to the ground and the knife pulled free of his head in the process.

  It took him a moment to understand why everything looked so blurry. He wiped tears from his eyes and snot from his nose and tried to compose himself.

  When he could see clearly, he saw the bag Jie had been carrying. Inside it was an assortment of oranges, apples, and a head of iceberg lettuce which was more brown than green.

  “You dumb ass. Why’d you go out to get me food? I didn’t ask you to do that.” His eyes felt like they were on fire and the knife fell from his grip as he brought both of his hands to his face to cover them, to rub them, anything to stop the pain as saltwater poured out and he sobbed.

  He stayed beside Wang Jie’s body until he’d composed himself but even then his eyes, his whole head, throbbed. He grabbed the knife, then took the bag of food from Jie’s dead hand and returned to the Cavalier. It was time to get the hell out of Johnstown once and for all.

  8

  After stealing Winebruner’s key card and leaving him to die, Mitch continued through the maze until he reached E Wing. There, he found chaos similar to what he’d seen play out in his own bunker. Living people dying, dead people coming back to life, undead people eating the living. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  He discovered his mother tucked away in a corner where she huddled over his father. Dear old dad had several ragged bite wounds on his bare shoulders and upper arms. When Mitch looked at him, the only thought that came to mind was, "Where’s your suit?"

  His father caught him staring and looked up with fevered, yellow eyes. “Mitchell. You’re alive. Thank God.”

  Mitch’s mother turned and when she saw him, she gave him a crushing embrace like the one he received upon arriving at the Greenbrier. This time, Mitch pulled away immediately. The two of them looked so pathetic, as they sulked, helpless and passive on the floor. These were the people who’d kept him under their thumbs his entire life. Now they looked like cowed dogs.

  “It’s falling apart,” his father hissed and bloody spittle leaked out from between his colorless lips.

  Mitch nodded. “It’s over. Your money. Your power. Those things you spent your life chasing, they’re all worthless now. Now, all that matters is how fast you can run.”

  He saw sheer terror in his father’s eyes, a look Mitch found both unnerving and satisfying at the same time. Everyone gets theirs in the end, he thought.

  Just then, Mitch spotted a drop dead gorgeous woman. He immediately recognized her as the wife of Senator Fitzpatrick from NY. Normally, Mitch couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about his father’s colleagues or their spouses, but this woman stuck in his mind because she was a Czech fashion model before tying the knot. When her countless nude photos leaked, it became a modest scandal. Now Magda or Marta or whatever her name was dashed around the bunker in a silk nightgown that did little to conceal her ample tits or perfectly round ass.

  As Mitch admired the woman, a zombie dove at her and bit a mouthful of flesh out of a juicy butt cheek. What a waste. It made him think of Rochelle and he wondered if she’d become zombie chow as well. That too would be a waste. The woman screamed and struggled and her tits popped free but zombies descended upon her and tore away her flesh in heaping mouthfuls. That ruined Mitch’s cheap thrill.

  He pulled his mother close to him. Her confused gaze drifted around the room, taking in random bits of chaos. Mitch pitied her, but that pity turned to annoyance when she refused to meet his gaze. He grabbed her chin and forced her to make eye contact with him.

  “He’s going to die. Not just die but turn into one of them.” Mitch cocked a thumb toward the zombies which roamed about, eating people.

  Tears burst from Margaret’s eyes. “No. That won't happen. Not to your father. It can’t.”

  Mitch shook her, hard. Even though she was taller, he was stronger, and she snapped out of her hysterics. “Are you going to die with him or are you going to try to live?”
/>
  She looked back to her husband who picked at one of the larger wounds with his fingertips. He peeled back a thick strip of flesh and stared at it, curious.

  “I… We can’t leave him, Mitch. What would people think?”

  It took every bit of restraint Mitch had to resist slapping her hard across the face. He almost did anyway, just to see how it felt. He stopped himself though, because the scales were tipping fast inside E Wing. The zombies nearly outnumbered the people, and he didn’t want to call any attention to them. To himself.

  “Decide now, mother. We’re almost out of time.”

  She looked to her husband, to the chaos overrunning the room, and then back to Mitch. Margaret grabbed his hand. “Go.”

  They took off in a quick jog as Mitch led her away from the carnage.

  His father didn’t protest; he was too busy digging his fingers into his own arm, at least he did until the Speaker of the House dove on top of him and gnawed away at the soft, exposed flesh on his belly. Senator SOB died with his eyes open as he watched his own shit filled intestines being devoured.

  9

  Wim sat in the Bronco and watched the man for almost 30 minutes and he still wasn’t sure if he was alive, dead, or undead. The man was old and black. He sat still as a statue on a park bench overlooking the river. Wim eventually decided that sitting and staring wasn’t doing either of them any good so he grabbed one of his pistols and exited the truck.

  When he was 10 feet away, the man turned and glanced in his direction. His movements were slow and stiff. For a moment, Wim thought he was a zombie after all.

  When he saw the man’s face, he saw life. He noticed the man’s cheeks were shiny and tear-streaked and regretted bringing the gun. Wim tried to hide it in his pocket but the grip still poked out notoriously.

  “Are you friend or foe?” Emory asked as he wiped the wetness from his cheeks with the back of a gnarled, arthritis swollen hand.

  “A friend, I promise.”

  “And I accept your promise. I, myself, am unarmed. And a friend would be most welcome.”

  They sat in the shade cast by a grove of silver maples which had recently broken out in foliage. There, they shared their stories of how they survived the outbreak and subsequent chaos. Wim didn't go into great detail over exterminating his hometown, but he did tell Emory about the mailman and his chance encounter with Ramey.

  Emory broke down when he spoke of Christopher and again as he described the fraternity brothers who had saved his life. Wim thought him somewhat weepy in general, but the old man’s kindness was clear. Emory was a good four inches taller than Wim but skinny as a rail. He reminded Wim of his father in that regard. His short hair had gone snow white but hadn’t receded and he seemed sharp as a tack mentally.

  They shared a can of ravioli which Emory had scavenged, eating it with their bare hands.

  “Grant would be absolutely distraught to see me right now,” Emory said and chuckled. He popped another bite into his mouth. "Eating like a toddler."

  “I suspect we’ll be eating out of a lot of cans from here on out.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I haven’t seen any animals since the flu took out my stock. Not even a crow flying overhead or a squirrel running across the road.”

  Emory’s peaceful expression faded as he considered that. “Now that you mention it, neither have I.”

  “Our country took food for granted. Took a lot of things for granted. But if all the animals died, that means no fresh meat, no dairy products. And I reckon no one's going to plant and harvest fields for a while. All that leaves is packaged food.”

  “So, why did you leave your farm? I hope you don’t find that question improper. I’m genuinely curious.”

  Wim looked to the river where the clean, clear waters trickled along lazily and ran his hand through his shoe polish black hair. “My pa was German, but I guess my surname tipped you to that. He was born there and came over as a teenager."

  “He didn’t speak much Dutch, but he had a couple sayings. One of them was, ‘Einer all in ist nict enmal im paradise’ or something along those lines. He said it meant being alone is not good, even in paradise. I’ve been alone a long time, and it never bothered me much. But now that almost everything else is gone, well, I suppose I thought it was time to quit taking other people for granted because you never know when they’ll be gone for good.”

  “That’s quite wise, my new, young friend.”

  Wim felt his cheeks get hot. “That might have been the most words I’ve ever said all at one time.”

  Emory gave him a pat on the thigh. “You’ve been saving them up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you have a particular itinerary or destination in mind?”

  “The girl I mentioned, she was going to West Virginia to look for her father.”

  Wim glanced at Emory to see what reaction that stirred. Emory gave a warm, comforting smile. "And you hope to stumble upon her trail?"

  Wim shrugged. He checked the can and saw Chef Boyardee’s kitchen was closed. He stood and carried the can to a wastebasket, then dropped it in. When he turned back to Emory, the man had also risen and was stretching out a body full of aches.

  “I’d like to join you, if you’re amenable to some company.”

  “Company would be nice.”

  “Good. I have a few more cans of food and some soda pop in the van. Let me gather that together. The least this old hitchhiker can do is supply some nourishment.”

  As they progressed deeper into West Virginia the roads became narrower and the population even more sparse. That was a turn for the positive as it meant fewer zombies and the few they did spot, they didn't bother killing.

  While Emory napped on and off, Wim had driven a few hundred miles. The setting sun fell below the mountains and plunged the valley they were traveling through into darkness. As they rounded a sharp curve, the headlights of the Bronco didn’t illuminate the horde of zombies until it crashed into them at 30 miles an hour.

  10

  The need to evacuate his bowels had been building for half an hour. Bundy knew he should pull the van to the side of the road, drop trou, and do his business. But, after months in prison where he had to shit on open air toilets where anyone could and did walk by whenever they wanted, he had grown to appreciate bathrooms with a door. Every rumble in his belly was louder and more dangerous than the last so, when he saw the sign reading “Rest Stop - 2 mi” he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  The parking lot was empty save for an old Chevy pick up towing a pop up Coleman camper. As he parked as close as he could get to the plain, concrete building, he saw no one. He switched off the engine and climbed free of the van, then duck-walked toward the entrance while clenching his ample ass cheeks together at the same time.

  He shoved the steel entry door open, slamming it against the wall. Inside, the men’s room appeared empty. The gross, sweet smell of urinal cakes burned his nose, but he ignored it as he scurried to the nearest stall. It was a regular unit and he barely fit through the doorway. The handicap john at the other end of the room would have been more comfortable, but the rumbles in his belly had turned to quakes that could be measured on the Richter scale, and he wasn't about to push his luck.

  Bundy unbuckled his belt, pushed down his pants and underwear, and felt the shit start gushing out of his asshole like hot pudding as he was still dropping onto the seat. Fortunately, he had solid aim and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard his droppings plunge into the toilet water.

  “Bullseye,” he said with a contented smile. He sat there for several minutes as the raging river slowed to a trickle. He suspected round two might be coming, so he waited.

  A few minutes later, and around the time he thought he might be finished defecating, he heard the restroom door open.

  I just wanted to shit in peace, he thought. He considered calling out, "Occupied", but decided to wait in silence.

  Footsteps of the slow, dragging variety
moved into the room and with every step, they grew closer to Bundy’s stall. He realized he was holding his breath and exhaled slowly, soundlessly.

  Whatever or whoever it was crept toward Bundy’s stall, stopped in front and stood there. Bundy attempted to peer under the small gap at the bottom of the door, but he was squeezed into the small stall and had no room to maneuver.

  Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Then the footsteps moved on. They continued to the end of the row of stalls, then returned. They paused again at Bundy’s stall. He heard a noise. Sniffling? No, sniffing. Well, that's pretty disgusting, he thought. The sniffer took a few more whiffs, then vacated the room.

  Bundy waited long enough to deem the coast clear, wiped several times and tried to flush. The toilet gave a weak gurgle but did nothing to make the mess he’d left behind vanish. He closed the lid and hoped the next person to come along didn’t have the misfortune of checking stall number one.

  He opened the stall door and double checked to make sure the room was empty. After verifying it was, he continued to the exit. The space outside the men’s room also appeared vacant. He was unsure to where the sniffer had disappeared, but he was fine with letting the mystery of the bathroom interloper remain unsolved. Let the Hardy Boys tackle that caper.

  Bundy made it halfway to the van when he heard the voice.

  “Mister?”

  The voice was weak and inconsequential and almost got lost in the wind.

  “Hey, Mister?”

  Bundy turned and scanned the area. Soon enough, he saw someone. He thought it was a boy, but it could have been a girl with short hair. He’d rarely been around children, and guessed this one to be 5 or 6 years old. Bundy saw it wore a medical boot on its left leg and the dragging footsteps made more sense.

  “Mister, my daddy’s stuck.”