Only The Dead Don't Die (8 page)

Great, only two bags to go.
She grabbed the paper handles of the two stuffed bags, relieved that this was the last trip. She stood on the front porch.
Oh shit
, more creepers than the last trip. And
they
seemed to be in what she called “alert mode.” Instead of their usual dawdling about, a six-pack of creepers paused in the parking lot adjacent to the building and gazed up at the sky. Based on her limited behavioral study, she knew that meant
they
were aware of a possible food source.
Was it her or someone’s hapless pet?

Scarlett’s heart stopped—a sound, something scuffling on the pavement. Was it on the sidewalk? She ducked behind a black Webber barbecue grill on the porch, praying she blended into its shadow as the rising sun’s light gleamed between the buildings. She didn’t chance setting down the bags, afraid the rustling paper would give her away. So she knelt there, two heavy bags in her hands. In her haste, she had left the bat leaning against the front door.
Are you flippin’ kidding me?
She would just have to wait them out.

That repulsive putrid odor wafted by, making her want to gag, but she managed to stifle it. She remained veiled in shadow and watched in horror as the pack ambled down the sidewalk only a couple of yards away. Evidently her scent was in the air; their wobbly heads reeled upwards, and they fervently sniffed at the air searching. For her?

They
hadn’t spotted her—yet.
Should I make a run for it?
As long as she remained hidden in the shadow, motionless . . . One of the paper bags ripped. All of the items tumbled onto the porch. Scarlett stared in disbelief as a glass jar of pasta sauce landed on a bag of basmati rice, then rolled down the porch, down the cemented walkway, across the sidewalk, then down the curb. From the sound of it, the jar shattered when it hit something metal: the metal storm drain. The sound was deafening to her ears.

Paralysis took over her body when the six creepers stared in her direction and approached the broken glass jar of pasta sauce.
They
continued sniffing like wild animals and ogled the broken jar like it was an alien from another planet. A gurgling sound made her want to jump out of her skin and go screaming down the street. But, she forced herself to remain motionless. Then for some unknown reason, the small pack suddenly lurched towards the next row of townhomes. Searching for her? She wondered.

Scarlett ran back to the Katovich townhome, one bag less. Had she just been saved by a flippin’ jar of pasta sauce? She couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the aroma of the “Newman’s Own Fire Roasted Tomato and Garlic Pasta Sauce” had masked her scent.

Scarlett raided several homes that week; she found it to be rather terrifying and yet thrilling at the same time. What would her sister think of her new way of living? What would Kevin think? Were they even alive? Had they made it to one of the shelters? Maybe she should leave? She could travel west down the I-80 corridor and stop at each major town from Davis to San Francisco until she found civilization. There had to be other people out there. Eventually, she would run across them.
Right?
I can’t be the only non-cannibal . . .

Scarlett contemplated the possibilities unable to make a decision. Was it procrastination or fear of the unknown? She continued gathering food, water, and supplies for the trip; meanwhile, she decided it was time to become familiar with the rifle. She had shot a rifle before, just for fun. Kevin had taken her to a shooting range last summer. She had rather enjoyed target shooting, probably because she was a great shot, better than Kevin, and that was probably why he had only taken her to the shooting range once. According to the shooting range attendant, Scarlett was a natural due to her perfect aiming eye.

The obvious problem, shooting would make an awful amount of noise. And noise meant more creepers. She decided to practice every day after her morning scavenging hunt. Surely
they
couldn’t find her if she only let off three or four shots each day while remaining hidden on the balcony like a sniper. The idea intrigued her immensely.

“Holy Mother of GOD!” Dean Wormer braced himself as he slammed the brakes on the oversized Dodge Ram truck (he had neglected the seatbelt), forcing the truck into a sharp right turn and squealed around the corner, swerving onto Davis Street. He had finally located the source of the sporadic gunshots. A mob of dead-heads swarmed around an RV like a monstrous anthill quivering with ants; only
they
weren’t ants. And, stranded on top of the crumpling RV was some poor sucker, looked to be a kid, shooting wildly into the hungry mob.

Dean only had time to react, not think. He pounded the horn until he got the attention of the poor unlucky bastard trapped on the RV’s roof.
That kid only has a few seconds before that RV crumples like tin foil. Then that poor sucker’s gonna be lunch.
Dean bellowed, “JUMP! Take a running leap into the back of the truck.”

Dean caught a glimpse of the kid dressed in a hoodie and torn blue jeans; the boy had a wild expression of “What the hell” on his face. The kid must have realized Dean’s plan, for the boy took as many long strides as the RV’s roof allowed and jumped. The kid slammed into the back of the truck just as Dean drove by a second time, daringly close to the RV and the mob of swarming dead-heads. Dean felt the truck lurch upon the kid’s impact and glanced back to make sure the boy had made it all right as the truck plowed over several dead-heads, who had evidently caught onto the impromptu escape. “Ha ha,” Dean exclaimed, “Sorry folks, lunch will
not
be served on the RV this afternoon.”

Dean anxiously scanned the road ahead, searching for a safe place to pull over to check on the kid. Because the roads were often jam-packed with deserted vehicles, he had learned to be extremely cautious; the dead-heads had a sneaky way of hiding behind things especially around vehicles. Just when he’d thought it was safe, one of them ugly things would suddenly pop-up right beside him. He pulled into an empty parking lot, Mallard’s Upholstery, and jumped out to check on the boy, hoping the kid hadn’t broken his neck in that madcap jump.

“Dude, you’re like a superhero . . . that was like, so amazeballs! Thought they were goin’ to eat my brains. That was soooo random dude,” the Asian boy ranted on and on while waving his arms as blood spurted from his lower lip. “Dude, you’re like, uh,” he paused for a moment. “Ram Man.” That’s it—you’re Ram Man, dude.”

The kid must be in shock
.
Hell, I’d be
. “Hate to disappoint you son, but my name’s
not
‘Ram Man’ or ‘Dude’ for that matter,” he couldn’t help but chortle when he said “Ram Man.”

“Let me introduce myself,” Dean said, extending his right hand, “I’m Dean Wormer, please to meet you.” The two shook hands.

“Break any bones?” Dean paused to check over the kid.

“I’m awesome,” the kid replied and then shook all of his limbs and did a funky spinning dance as if to confirm he was in good shape.

“I see. How in blazes did you manage to get yourself in such a pickle?” Dean asked in astonishment. “Damn near fifty of ‘em . . .”

“Ye-ah, that. I sorta thought I was the only person left on the planet and decided to de-activate as many as I could. Before, you know—I turned into one of
them
,” he said sheepishly, as if suddenly aware of how idiotic he had been. “Isn’t this a cool gun?” The boy started waving around a tiny 22 pistol.

“Fool, that ain’t no gun. That’s nothing but a palm pistol. A 22 automatic will wind up gettin’ you into more trouble than you started off in.”
What was the kid thinkin’?
“And what exactly did you plan to accomplish?” Dean asked. The gun was damn near useless, except at point-blank range.

“So, like, you just happened to be driving around the neighborhood when you found me?” The boy quickly changed the subject.

“No fool, I heard some idiot playing with a pop gun. Figured someone was either in a heap of trouble or just plain stupid.” Dean stole a glance at the kid to see his reaction. “In your case, it was both.” And they both laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Hell’s bells,” Dean suddenly cursed. “Hop in, left my two men a few streets down when I heard your gunshots.” Dean scrambled into the driver’s seat of the brand new Ram truck, and they took off with a squeal.

“Sweeet Ride,” the boy drawled, blood still dripping from his lower lip. “Is it yours?” The kid sounded more impressed with the truck than with his rescue.

“Now it is,” Dean smiled and patted the dashboard proudly. “Look in the glove compartment, should be a first aid kit in there. You need to stop the bleeding.” Dean realized he sounded too much like a concerned father.

“Dude, are you like
abducting
me or something,” the Asian boy’s voice faltered.

“No, no, nothing like that. Need to catch up with my men. After I check on them, I’ll be happy to drop you off—where ever,” Dean worried, his fingers flexed on the steering wheel.

“So what’s your name, boy?”

“Well, dude, it’s not ‘boy.’” The young man said sarcastically. “I’m Justin Chen. I’m 20 years old as of this month!”

Dean hadn’t meant to insult the kid. “Hard to tell with that thing over your head. How do I know you’re not one of
them
?” Dean half-way joked. Truth was, he didn’t understand the young generation: the way they dressed and talked, not to mention all that computer mumbo jumbo.

“It’s a hoodie,” Justin retorted. “Anyway dude, uh, Dean, that rescue was absolutely cray cray! Thanks again for saving my sorry ass,” the young man said with animated exuberance.

Dean wondered if the kid truly realized how incredibly lucky he had been. “Anytime,” Dean replied, but he focused on maneuvering the truck around all the obstacles in the street. It still amazed him at a number of cars people had left in the streets. What could have happened to make all these people leave the security of their vehicles like that? Then again, he knew—only too well.

It made him nauseated to drive the often brownish-reddish stained roads, for he knew it wasn’t paint. The telltale signs of gruesome battles were everywhere. It wasn’t unusual to come across the decaying remains of corpses or detached body parts scattered on the road—damn near as common as discarded plastic water bottles. However, what disgusted him even more, was when he came upon a mound of bones: licked-clean.
Just plain gruesome.
He swerved to avoid a baby stroller forgotten in the middle of the road.

“I shouldn’t have left my team,” Dean grumbled. When I heard the gunshots, I knew someone was in a heap of trouble,” his grip tightened on the steering wheel, knowing Nate and Paxton were going to give him hell when he returned. “Just around the next intersection . . .” He turned the corner onto Hume Way; there it was.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he exclaimed to Justin, pointing to a semi-trailer truck with COSTO emblazoned on the side in bold, red letters. “Can’t wait to see the booty in that baby.”

Dean pulled up in time to see the two men do their usual celebratory bro handshake and noticed that the back door of the semi’s trailer was now open. Dean skillfully spun the truck around and backed the truck’s bed, so it was only a few feet from the trailer’s opened rear door. Dean jumped out of the truck and methodically scanned the area.
No signs of any dead-heads.
But it was only a matter of time.

“Where the fuck you been?” Paxton shouted.

Dean remained calm, “What’s the situation here?” Dean asked looking from Nate to Paxton.

“We just busted in,” Nate said triumphantly and started jumping around the way he did when he was jacked-up on something.

“Problem. Scouted a horde heading this way. They probably heard us breaking into the truck,” Paxton replied hastily.

“How many?” Dean asked.

“I counted ten,” Paxton said, glaring at Justin while field-stripping a cigarette with his fingertips, one of those things Paxton liked to do to show how tough he was. Paxton hadn’t wasted any time.
He’s already trying to intimidate the new kid in town.

“Justin, do us a favor, stand on top of my truck’s cab. Need a spotter while we load the trucks,” Dean ordered briskly. “Time to get the show on the road.”

“Aye, aye captain!” Justin offered a flimsy excuse of a salute.

At least the young Asian man seemed anxious to help out; Dean couldn’t help but admire the kid’s spunk. “Do us all a favor son, when you see ‘
em
, don’t start shootin’
at
‘em,” Dean ribbed.

“Ha, Ha,” the kid smirked.

The three over-sized pickup trucks were each parked with their truck beds pointed towards the back of the big semi, waiting to be loaded. Dean had been greatly relieved when he had found the Costco truck: the problem was, getting everything from point A to point B.

“Well, Nate, Paxton—hate to break it to you. We’ve got ourselves a bigger problem, got about four to five dozen dead-heads a couple of streets down, most likely headin’ this way by now.” Dean stepped into the trailer. “Let’s take what we can for now and come back later,” he ordered, already shuffling boxes around searching only for food. They needed the food!

Nate started to argue, “Can’t save everyone you dumbass. I can’t believe you left us to save some useless punk.”

Dean tossed a big cardboard box of Kellogg’s cereal (he didn’t bother to read the variety) into the truck. “We’ll talk later. Just load the damn trucks. Justin, see any dead-heads—give us a whistle,” Dean demanded.

“And, whut if I don’t want to?” Nate rattled off, prancing about like a black flamingo on crank. “Huh, whatcha gonna do about that you old fart?”

“Get your shit together,” Paxton yelled to Nate.

Dean regretted the day he had met up with the two men he called the “Stockton Boys.” He had spotted the two men heading east down I-80 and had offered them a home at the hotel; the temporary sanctuary Dean had set up to provide protection for the two women he had rescued: LuLu and Ella.

When it came right down to it, Nate and Paxton were not so nice. He could definitely see a mean streak in the two of them, and he didn’t exactly approve of their viewpoints where women were concerned either. Why, the Stockton Boys actually seemed to revel in this new, mad world and all the chaos and violence required to survive in it.

Although usually, the Stockton Boys agreed with his plans without much grief, and the two men were definitely adept at siphoning the much-needed gasoline, hot-wiring vehicles, breaking into stores, and apparently semi-tractor trailers too.
Looks to me the Stockton Boys may have prior experience in this line of work.
And perhaps that’s what had Dean so damn worried. Had he made a grave mistake the day he offered the Stockton Boys a home at the hotel?

The trucks were loaded nearly a third of the way when Justin frantically announced, “Uh, hey guys? Uh, guys—GUYS!
They’re here
. . .” Justin’s voice trailed off.

Dean heard the panic in Justin’s high-pitched voice and poked his head out of the trailer to see a small mob coming from the northeast, heading straight for them. A dozen or so dead-heads were no problem for the three experienced men. They could handle that, no problem, if prepared. However, when Justin pointed frantically in the opposite direction, all three of the men hesitated momentarily: staring in disbelief. There, just a few yards away, four to five dozen dead-heads furiously flailed along the road.
They
were coming for Dean and his men. It took all of Dean’s courage to stifle the fear that threatened to take over his mind and his limbs.

From what Dean could tell, the semi-truck had partially blocked Justin’s view from the northwest. It wasn’t until the creatures were only a few yards away that they could be spotted. No one had heard the dead-heads shuffling up the road, because of the ruckus the men had been making shoveling boxes around and tossing them in the pickups. Dean scolded himself; he was usually much more careful on their looting runs. However, as food became more and more scarce, he had been overly anxious on commandeering his latest find.

“Fuck me,” someone shouted.

“Do you see that? WTF?” someone said.

“Go—GO—GO!” Dean yelled.

Dean ran to his truck and from out of nowhere a stray had snuck up behind the door of his truck. Dean snatched the crowbar stashed on the floorboard, and with one furious swing, the creature was down for the count. Dean didn’t waste any time putting the thing out of its misery. No time for that.

Dean was in the truck and took off like a bat out of hell with poor Justin still on the cab’s roof. He heard Justin yelling something, then caught a glimpse of the poor kid tumbling around the back of the truck along with the confiscated Costco cargo.

***

“Dude, Holy Shit!” Justin yelped as he bounced around in the back of the truck with the boxes. He was about to get super-pissed at Dean but realized it was way better to be in the truck than to
not
be in the truck.

Justin watched wide-eyed as Nate and Paxton hopped in their two Ram trucks and eagerly plowed over the smaller horde. The two men whooped and hollered obscenities at the zombies like mad cowboys herding carnivorous cattle. They slammed on their brakes, peeled out, burnt rubber, then raced back so they could run down the ones they had missed the first time around. And then they did it again until the two trucks had completely pulverized the smaller horde. Justin watched in disgusted amazement as the two trucks left behind gory, gooey, globs of blood and guts and bones. “Wouldn’t want to clean up that clusterfuck!” Justin shouted out as Dean sped down the street.