Among the Living (34 page)

“Wait, I almost forgot the goods.”

“Send them down.”

He has a sudden but brilliant idea.

“Babe, do you see a water pipe on the side of the house over there? It should be near a meter of some sort,” he guesses since there is one like that at his house.

“Yeah, it’s behind me.”

“Will the rope reach it?”

The rope is nearly torn out of his hand as she grabs it and pulls. He rubs his palms against his pant legs.

“Yep.”

“Tie that sucker tight, babe. I’m going to slide down, and you can help me if I get stuck.”

The rope jitters around in his hand, and he takes a look at his audience. The deaders have been gathering below. There are now six or seven and more on the way. He looks away, then reconsiders and gives them the finger.

Lester pulls out his .38, points it at each one, and mimes pulling the trigger while he waits. When he has killed the fifth one with a fake shot, complete with ‘bang’ noise, she gives the all clear. Lester uses some hangers to jury-rig the bags so that he can slide them down the rope.

First goes some of their food. Then goes his black bag and Angela’s new Coach purse. Next up is some of the ammo, then another bag with more ammo and his handgun. He keeps the little .38 in his pocket just in case.

The AR-15 and shotgun are last, but Angela stands under the fence and catches the guns with both hands and lowers them to the ground. Then everything is over, and he is ready to make the leap.

He runs to the other end of the fence and calls to the deaders again. “Hey you dead freaks, come to papa!” Then he hoots and hollers, jumps up and down, and generally makes an ass of himself. They wander over, some with split mouths, grinning like clowns at a circus. Some of them moan, but most just mill around as if confused. They don’t seem to get really excited unless they are on a level playing field with their prey.

He dashes to the other side, but a couple of them are still hanging around. He draws his .38 and puts bullets in both their brains. The gun may be small caliber, but it does the job nicely, and they both flop to the ground like rag dolls tossed aside.

He grabs the rope, leans over and drops so he is hanging over the yard. He now knows how terrified Angela was a minute ago. His balls have shrunken into his stomach. He loops his foot up and over the rope and slides down it inch by inch. None of the deaders is around, but they may see him any second.

His feet touch the top of the fence, and he is home free.

Then there is a snap and the rope comes loose, shaking him so violently that he nearly lets go. He yelps but recovers quickly and puts one foot back on the fence while he ponders what to do next. He is dangling a mere seven or eight feet off the ground, but on the wrong side of the fence. He has no leverage, no way to stand up straight, so he slides farther down until his legs are on top of the fence. He gets an idea. He will lower himself until he is sitting on the fence and then drop to the other side.

Another pop and the rope loosens even more. He dangles free again but recovers just as before. “What is that?” he hisses.

“It’s the pipe,” she whispers back. “It’s coming loose from the wall. It’s breaking … And it’s not a water pipe, babe.”

It’s not a … then the smell hits him. Gas. Fuck! Gas, brilliant! How many shots will it take to cause that shit to explode?

He starts jumping so he can get on top of the fence. His legs are pressed over the edge, and he has to slide down to get his thighs on top of them. The bouncing has produced a lot of noise, and the deaders are moving in on him.

One of them, a guy who must be close to six foot six reaches for him and gets ahold of his shirt. Lester makes a squeaking noise that is half scream half girlish yelp. He pulls away and takes one hand off the rope so he can slap the deader’s hand aside. Angela must realize the danger he is in, because she grabs his leg and pulls. Her hands on his ankle and calf scare him so badly that he jumps and nearly kicks her in the head.

The deader grabs him around the waist and pulls. Lester is half dragged off the rope. One hand still hangs on, wrapped around it in a death grip.

He reaches across his body with his left hand and pulls the .38 out of his pocket. The deader gives him a fierce tug; he tries to hold on but is ripped off the rope.

His legs slide along the fence, and there is a blinding flash of agony in the left one, just above his ankle. He hits the ground hard, and the breath is punched out of his body. He manages to get his head up just before impact, but he still feels it in his neck. The deader loses his grip when Lester falls. He looks around for his prey, then his gaze is inexorably drawn to his victim. The thing’s mouth drops open, and Lester sees a portal to Hell in that maw.

The deader drops on top of him like a giant tuna, cold, dead, reeking of shit he doesn’t even want to try to identify. The guy goes for the throat, but Lester shoots his hand up and holds him off, gripping the deader’s neck, which is cold and slimy. It is covered with old blood and possibly drool. The smell of death hisses out of the bastard’s mouth right into Lester’s face, making him want to puke his goddamn guts out.

Angela is screaming on the other side of the fence, and he knows he needs to get the fuck up and save her if another deader has managed to get to that side of the fence. His peripheral vision picks up movement to his right. The army of deaders he attracted to the other side of the house must have gotten wind of him. If he doesn’t get the fuck up, he is going to be one sorry drug dealer. He wedges a knee up between him and the deader and manages to roll the big guy to the left.

Hand free, he fumbles the gun, nearly drops it. He recovers it in his right, pulls it up and without even a half-second to aim, puts the gun in the general direction of the deader’s head and pulls the trigger. The little hammerless revolver isn’t the most powerful thing in the world. It doesn’t pack a wallop like the Glock, but it does an admirable job of blowing a hole through the deader’s head.

“That’s right, you fuck!” Lester growls as he rolls to his feet. The big man drops face first to the ground, and Lester gets a look at the thing’s brain, since pieces of it hang out of the hole. They are gray with bright red flecks running through them. It looks like a ropy mass, nothing like he would expect.

“Les! Are you okay? Les? Please answer me. Oh God, PLEASE be okay!” Angela pleads from the other side. Then the gate rattles as if she is trying to come for him. The doorway is a mere three feet away.

“Just a second, babe.” He tries to yell, but he barely has breath, and his voice sounds raspy in his throat.

“LESTER! Are you all right? Was that you?”

Another deader is almost on him before Lester realizes it. His body aches as though he were being pummeled by fists from three different directions, and for all his heroics, he has just about had it.

He sucks in big breaths. Big ragged, gasping breathes. His stomach hurts like he just tried to run a mile, and he is stupid-tired. He can’t seem to pull enough air into his lungs, and stars dance in front of his eyes. He wonders if he was seriously hurt during the fall. He turns halfheartedly as another thing moves on him, this time a kid with black hair wrapped around his head like a tornado of hair gel hit him. He is dressed in black from head to toe, and both of his arms are covered in bite marks as if he had enough of the horror and just offered himself to the deaders.

Lester staggers toward him, and he feels a sense of irony at the thought that if anyone were to pass by, they might mistake him for one of them. They would see his weary form shambling like the mindless things and probably try to blow his brains out.

Weariness drags at Les as he takes the two or three steps that will bring him to the gate. The deader in black seems intent on making sure that doesn’t happen. Lester walks right up to him with his gun in one outstretched hand. He slips on a rock that throws him off balance, and the twisted ankle sends a fresh bolt of pain up his leg. Because he no longer gives a fuck, Les points the gun at the kid and shoots him in the throat. “Fuck you, emo-boy!” he rasps as the kid drops to his knees, then falls forward in a pool of blood.

Angela finally gets the gate open and peers out with giant eyes as if she expects one to jump on her the second she cracks the door. Les rips the gate open and staggers onto John’s lawn. He slams the door shut, but the latch doesn’t catch, and the door bounces back, striking him across the flat of his back. Fresh pain joins the host of injuries all over his body. He doesn’t even bother to curse. He just stares straight ahead with teeth clenched so hard he is sure they will crack.

During the mayhem of the last minute, a group of the things has gathered at his back, and now they push through the pitiful wooden structure and onto John’s lawn.

Les grabs Angela, and feeling like he is coming off a three-day drunk/high, legs heavy as lead, chest full of water, he steers her toward the back of the house. He looks back and sees at least five of them following close behind. He draws a bead on the last one and pulls the trigger, but the little five-shooter has seen its day, so Les throws it at the deader, striking the thing in the head. He may as well have thrown a sponge for all the good it does.

They reach the door, which is cracked open just a hair, and they tumble inside. The door moves fast and bounces off of the jamb. Les spins around and slams it shut, but he does it too hard and the door bounces back. At least the damn thing doesn’t break.

He tries again, this time smashing a deader’s fingers as she tries to slip a hand inside. The woman is of middle years and has a wig hanging half off her completely bald head. She has a ton of makeup on and is as skinny as a rail, and the word cancer springs to mind. At least she isn’t feeling any pain; the bitch is dead as can be.

Fingers drop to the carpet, but he is beyond the point of horror. He just looks at them in a numb fugue. He slams the door again and this time shoots the lock home. The deaders press up against the glass door and cry out for them. Angela does the only thing she can and closes the blinds on the creatures. She spins the little rod so the slats close lengthwise and they are no longer in view.

Les grabs her in a fierce embrace, pulls her tight and feels like weeping. But he isn’t a girl; he is the man in this relationship. He is one in-control motherfucker as far as he is going to let on. Inside, he feels like he is on the verge of falling apart.

“You got deader shit on me,” Angie says. She stares down at her shirt, which now has red stains on it. Les thinks that is the funniest damn thing he has ever heard in his life. Deader shit. Those things aren’t even alive, how can they take a dump? But what else do you call the goop those goddamn things wallow in?

Laughter bubbles out of his lips even as his chest burns from the fall. He tries to catch his breath, but the laughter interrupts, and soon he is gasping between fits. Snot bubbles out of his nose with a pop, and this just makes it worse. Tears stream down his cheeks.

Angela doesn’t seem to understand why he is laughing, but it infects her, and soon she joins him with a tentative giggle that turns into full laughter complete with at least one snort. They hold each other for a minute until he can sit down in John’s big lazy boy. He looks around and there is Jane/Justine lying flat on the ground just as he left her.

“Honey, I’m home,” he says to her vacant eyes, and that is the second-funniest thing either of them has ever heard.

The deaders pound on the door as if they are the big bad wolf about to blow the place down. For the moment, Les ignores them as he and Angela enjoy a laugh at the morbid spectacle they have become.

Once Les is back in control of himself, he steps over the body of Jane/Justine and moves into the dark kitchen. He finds a roll of paper towels and wipes the tears and snot off his face.

“That scared the shit out of me, Les. I thought you were dead when you fell.”

“I feel dead now. Every inch of my body hurts.”

“As soon as we get somewhere safe, I will go over your body and check every square inch,” she swears. “I never want to go through that again. Sitting on the other side wondering if you were being eaten by those things, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I can’t shoot worth a damn and, well, I don’t even know how to load the guns that well. I am one useless bitch.”

“Oh, stop. I’m fine, and I like you just the way you are. Besides, you aren’t a bitch. You are my girl, and nothing—I mean nothing—is going to come between us. If I have to torch the whole goddamn neighborhood to save you, then that’s what I’ll fucking do,” he says with sincerity.

“Well holy shit, Les. That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me,” she says with conviction, and then they burst into laughter once again.

He goes to her and kisses her, but she pulls away and crinkles her nose.

“You smell terrible. Let’s get out of here. Let’s find a hotel with warm water so we can soak in a tub for a few hours.”

The pounding on the back window dies down for a moment. Les figures it’s because they can’t see anything in the house anymore. He feels warmth on his left back pant leg and looks down and twists his leg to see a bloodstain. Pain rips through his leg, and he staggers. He yanks the pant leg up, suddenly terrified that he was bitten, only to find that—to his relief—there is a piece of wood sticking out. It’s not a large piece, just a chunk of the fence from when he was hanging over it.