The Last: A Zombie Novel (28 page)

Before that though, I see the man in the road.

Two floaters trail behind him, on leashes tied about their necks. For a second I think I must be dreaming, I blink but that doesn't change the reality. He's there. He's real, and he turns and waves as I roll near.

I pull the JCB to a stop and race out to meet him.

23 – DON

I run over and he runs to me with his pet zombies dropped behind, and we stop an awkward distance apart, sizing each other up.

"Jesus," he says. His eyes are wide and watery. His face is thin and he's tall, he's got almost a foot on me. Across his thick chest he wears bandoliers of bullets just like I used to. There's a sword in a sheath at his waist and a handgun, and a shotgun in a sleeve down his back like Ash in the Evil Dead. "I thought everyone was dead."

I laugh. "Me too. Damn, it is good to see another living person."

He holds out his hand. I spread my arms. We pull into a braced, manly hug. He stinks of old sweat and the sour saltpeter tang of expended gunpowder, but then I probably do too.

We pull away and we laugh in the awkward gap between us.

"Don," he says, holding out his hand. He has a southern drawl. We're both grinning like idiots. "I'm from Texas, I've been roaming all the highways for months, looking."

I take his hand and give it a firm pump. "Amo, from Iowa, though I've just come from New York."

He raises his eyebrows. "New York, in that rig? It must've taken a month."

I shrug. "Yeah. I was looking out too, for others."

His eyes narrow eagerly. "Did you find any? Are there others?"

I consider telling him about Lara and Cerulean, but despite the natural ebullience of meeting a survivor, I hold back. I don't know this guy at all. "No. Well, yes, but she was dead. A girl. She committed suicide before I reached her."

This casts a pall over our jubilant meeting. He runs a hand through his thick blonde hair. He looks to come from Scandinavian stock.

"And you?"

He shakes his head. "You're the first, man. Damn, it is good to see someone."

I nod. It is.

"And you said your name was ammo? Like, bullets?"

I hold in a laugh. Shall I tell this huge man that my name actually means love, and my parents were hippies? Maybe later.

"Sure," I say.

"That's cool. I guess I should've come up with something better than Don." He laughs sheepishly. Then he draws his sword. It looks like a medieval replica, maybe from a fantasy movie or something, with an ornate pommel and what look like runes carved into the shaft.

"Sword, maybe? It could be a good name. Here, you want to have a go?"

He swivels the blade smoothly, doubtless a practiced motion, and holds it out to me.

"I got the idea from that zombie TV show, you know, that black girl?" He jerks his thumb to the two floaters milling aimlessly where he left them, their leashes trailing. "Them too."

I notice they're both female. They're dressed as cheerleaders, in bright miniskirts and tight sweater tops that haven't faded with exposure to the sun. I think-

"Here," he says, pressing the sword closer. "The balance is perfect. Most of these things are made of zinc, and the tang, that's the bit of the blade that goes down into the handle here, is nothing more than a thin pin, so when you hit something, snap, the whole thing comes apart." He hawks and spits to the side. "This baby is real though, cold-rolled steel sharp as a straight-razor."

I take the sword by the handle. There are spots of dried blood on the blade, but the balance is fantastic. I give it a few experimental swishes.

"It does feel good," I say. "Where did you get it?"  

His grin widens with pride. "I found it in some rich asshole's pad in LA. He had a whole wall full of them, like he was some kind of crusader knight."

"You've been to LA?"

"Sure. I go back and forth, you know, patrolling the desert. Scouting."

I swing the sword a few more times, then hold it out to him pommel first. For an instant I feel vulnerable, with the handle toward him and the blade pointing toward me. All he'd have to do is push and I'd be impaled.

The moment passes though and he takes the sword.

"Just hot shit," he says abruptly, while sheathing it again. "Just color me damn surprised to meet you. Ammo, what a name, and what a rig." 

"And you walk?" I ask. "You just, kind of roam?"

He laughs. "Yeah, sometimes. Me and the girls."

We look at his floaters. They toe the ground and strain at the edge of their taut leashes. I notice he's tethered them to a nearby car. I guess he did that while I was getting out of the cab.

"So, you know they don't want to kill us right," I say.

"Sure, of course. I woke up when the plague hit and some nurse was leaning over me all attentively, you know? I was in a hospital, then. For a minute I thought she wanted to screw me, you know, but then I figured it out. TV down, lights down, the white eyes?" He points to his eyes to help me get the point. "I figured it. I gave her what she wanted."

He grins. I smile back. What did he just say?

"So, Ammo. You say you're going to LA?"

I nod, then wish I could take it back. I'm not ready to tell him about the others yet. I ad-lib. "Yeah, I've got family there." I cast around for a part of LA I know. "Down near Muscle Beach. You know it?"

He laughs. "It's full of posers still! I guess they were having a full-moon party or something, there's a stage set up, the band's gear all up there, and all these idiots wandering around with only their bikinis and shit on like there's no better place to be than the beach."

I nod, absorbing this. I look back at his cheerleader zombies on their leashes. It's clear they're straining to get away, to go wherever the rest of them go.

"So what's with them?" I point. "It's not like the TV show, you don't need them to fend off the others."

He shrugs. "Company. I like to have them around."

"Where did you get them? They must've come out of some midnight show in a casino, perhaps, with clothes still bright like that?"

His eyes narrow slightly. "Yeah maybe. I found them wandering in the desert nearby, and they came up with all the hugging that they do, you know? Maybe they're sisters, I'm not sure, you can't really tell with the raisin faces. I figured I'd keep them. There's nothing where they want to go but other drifters, you know?"

I process this for a second. I put it to one side, that their clothes would not be so bright if they'd truly been wandering in the Nevada sun for three months, because it leaves a pretty distasteful taste in my mouth. Did he dress them like that?

I focus on the most interesting thing.

"You're saying you've followed them, the floaters? You know where they go?"

He laughs. "Sure I have. I guess you wouldn't have though, would you, not when you're making for your family?" His brow wrinkles. "But let me ask, why the convoy Ammo, pulled by that thing? You could've made it across the country in a few days if you took, like, a Lamborghini or something."

He's catching me in a lie. "Supplies," I blurt. "I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know they weren't dangerous until a week ago."

He stares at me. "Seriously? So you've been fighting the zombie apocalypse, like, all this time? That sucks. I feel that. Of course they're not dangerous, not in that way at least. And you've not got any yourself, chained up inside? It's really all ammo in there?"

He looks concerned. I try to puzzle out the reason.

"Why would I have them chained up inside?"

He laughs again. "I don't know, man. Who can say what people do? Can I take a look inside, anyway?

"What?"

He points. "Inside the school bus, see what kind of gear you're packing. Call it professional curiosity, one survivor to another. I showed you my blade, show me yours. Plus, I've got some whiskey in my pack, we can toast."

I let my answer wait a second too long, maybe. I recover quickly, but still.

"Sure, yeah. I've got tea."

He laughs. "Tea! Brilliant. Yes, let's have some tea. After you."

"OK."

I lead us toward the battle-tank. He catches up and slaps me on the back. The sour stink of him is actually overpowering. "Don't be nervous," he says. "We're all good. I've been waiting for this moment for so long."

I laugh. "Who's nervous? I've been hogging my RPGs since the start, I don't want to go sharing them out now."

"You've got RPGs? Damn, I knew you didn't play about, Ammo. Walking around with no weapon on you, music blaring like you were the ice cream man come to town or something, I knew either you'd gone soft or you had to be packing some major heat. You sure there's no one in there right now, drawing a bead on me?"

"What? No, there's no one in there."

"Good."

We reach the concertina-door, where the glass is reinforced with cut strips of sheet metal. I open a square cover in the tank's side, like the flap on a gas tank, and pull the lever. The door cranks noisily open.

"Love it," Don says. "After you, boss." 

I climb in. It's the same as it always is, though my crates of comics are lying right there. For some reason I feel I ought to hide them away. This starts to feel like a mistake. There's hardly even any ammo or weapons in here at all, and I forgot I tossed all the RPGs away weeks ago.

"What the hell is all this?" Don asks, climbing in behind me. His head almost strokes the roof of the tank. In the confined space, the disparity between the size of us becomes far more apparent. He's huge, and his animal stench comes at me in waves, like an assault. "Where are the guns? And what are these, comics?"

He thumbs the copies lying topmost on the crate. "Jesus, they're all the same. 'Zombies of America'? What are you doing with these?" He picks one up and leafs through. "New York," he murmurs, "the road West. Damn, is this you Ammo? Did you, somehow, make these?"

He holds the comic out by the cover, causing its own weight to pull at the binding.  

"Yeah," I say. "I printed them out."

He looks at me. "Why? Just for your own pleasure?" He twirls his finger round next to his head. "Gone a bit crazy? That's fine, I understand. I've gone plenty crazy myself. It can be hard, you know, to keep a handle on things."

"I know."

He eyes me hard. "Do you know? From the look of this, and the lack of guns, it seems like you've had it pretty easy."

"I've had plenty."

He puts the comic down. "So where are the guns then? The ammo? I don't see anything. You promised me RPGs."

"I guess I threw them mostly away, after I realized they weren't dangerous. Let me see." I back up to the end of the bus, and rummage in the storage boxes there. I come up with a handgun. I turn back and find he's followed me halfway up the bus, closing in tighter.

"I've got this."

He nods, licks his lip. "Let me see that."

I stare at him. "Why?"

"Just let me have a look. Is it a police gun? Man I love those. Smooth recoil."

He advances a step closer.

"Hang on a second Don," I tell him. "Hold up. You're crowding me."

He stops and raises his hands. "Sorry. I don't mean it, I'm just, you know, so excited? Let's relax, you're right." He doesn't take a step back. "Where did you say your family live, down near Muscle Beach? A lot of apartments that way, are there?"

I massage the gun's handle into my palm.

"I've never been, to be honest."

He nods. He looks around the battle-tank interior. "Yeah, OK. It's kind of drab in here, you know? I'd cheer it up a bit, some color or something. You're an artist, why don't you paint it?"

"Let's drink a whiskey," I say. "Why don't you pour us a whiskey? There's glasses at the front. We can celebrate."

He grins. "You know, now I've got a taste for tea? You put the idea there, and now it's stuck. Can you make me some tea, Ammo?"

It's wonderfully awkward. It would make a great moment in a movie, because I just can't read him. Am I truly penned in, about to hand over my only gun to some psycho, or is this just friendly chitchat? Social nicety or bait on a trap? My finger slips silently through the trigger guard.

"What's with the cheerleaders, Don?" I ask. "You've got them on leashes. What are they for?"

He frowns at me. The moment ticks over. "Those drifters? I told you, company. It's lonely out here."

"But you dressed them. You must've stripped off whatever rags they were in, and you dressed them like that."

He shrugs, then grins. "So what if I did? What's that between you and me, a little titillation? A little company. You know they come to us in the night, what do you think they're looking for?"

I edge up against the hard plastic crates lying along the back seat. 

"What have you been doing with them, Don?"

He laughs. "Seriously? Don't look so offended, Jesus. Do you really need me to explain this? And you're telling me you haven't? It's OK buddy. We all get lonely, we've all got natural drives, there's nothing wrong with that. They come to us and we give them what they want, and who doesn't feel used when they leave the next morning? Like a one night stand." He winks. "So I keep them around, my favorites anyway. It's no big thing."

I stare at him as the wave of understanding crests. It repulses me.

"You've been having sex with them?"

He laughs. "Well, sex is a bit strong. It's more a kind of masturbation, you know, since they don't really get involved. But we don't need to talk about that, if it freaks you out."

I can't not talk about it. "It's rape."

He laughs. "What? How could it be rape? They don't even think."

"They're in comas," I say. "You were in a coma too, right?"

He frowns. "A coma? Sure, like a year ago, but what's that got to do with this? And how did you know?"

"I was in one too." I gesture around me with my free hand. "That's what this is. You had terrible migraines afterward, but then it went away when the zombies came, am I right? You said you were in hospital, it was probably for the migraines, yes? Now these 'drifters', the ones you've got roped up outside and dressed like damn Barbie dolls, are people in comas. It is rape."