The Undead Situation (9 page)

I rappelled down, noting that all undead in the immediate area caught wind of the action and were ready to give chase. Both ends of the alley were choked with dead bodies, happily trotting along.

My boots touched the roof of the car. Francis was at the wheel, Gabe still shooting. She cleanly blew the head off a naked woman missing an arm.

“What’s the plan, Cyrus? Reverse or forward?”

“Forward!” I told Frank. “Get some momentum so you can run them over.”

“You got it, boy!”

I ducked into the vehicle, yanking Gabriella down with me.

“They’re going to fly over the Hummer,” I said. Just to keep her guessing, I lied and added, “Don’t want you going with ‘em.”

G-force knocked me back a little when Frank put the pedal to the metal. Bodies hit the front of the car, thumping and soaring over the roof. They were no match for the stolen Hummer.

There were barricades set up back when the military was still trying, which left some roads wide open and others beyond the description of ‘traffic.’ Frank seemed to have a plan, so I didn’t bother questioning him, although I wasn’t sure why we didn’t get on the freeway.

I glanced into the rearview mirror and noted the growing horde following us. A zombie wearing Mickey Mouse ears was in the lead.

“So, Cyrus. I’m surprised to see you outsid’a that hole you call a home. Did this firecracker ball-n-chain you, or what?”

If he were anyone else, I would’ve knocked him out for a comment like that. But he was Francis Bordeaux. He was the father I’d wished I had. The role model who came in too late. I remembered the regret from our last conversation, and decided I’d never end a conversation with him negatively again. So, instead of being snide, I laughed with him and clapped him on the shoulder.

Gabe ejected her clip, checking to see how many rounds she had left. After slamming it back in, she looked at me skeptically, then up to Frank, who was still laughing at his ‘ball-n-chain’ remark.

“So this is Frank? He was walking around with a knapsack and a shotgun like it was nobody’s business.”

“Yeah, that’s Frank. Nothing he does is anybody’s business.” I grinned.

Frank howled in the front seat as he hit a faceless teenager, who flew over the car and into a street light.

“So, what’s the plan, ya’ll? We gonna bunker down in the mountains? Head to the cabin?”

Gabe avoided eye contact. Frank’s presence seemed to have stunned her. She didn’t think we’d find him, and now that we had it probably felt like us against her. If she
was
thinking that, she was partially right. I had more control over our plans than her, but I was ready to let Frank call the shots for a while.

“There’s going to be a ton of them the farther east we go,” Gabe said. She was trying to be assertive. “I’m sure your cabin is overrun by now.”

“Only one road that leads to my place. Then it’s a full day’s hike to the cabin. We just have to skirt around a couple towns and we’re clear.”

“What about food? Water?” Gabe continued seeking flaws in his plan. “What if we get there and run out of resources in a few weeks?”

My thoughts went back to his home in the Ozarks. Two words: self sustaining.

He merely chuckled.

“I don’t think that’s an answer,” she prodded.

Scowling, I looked back at her. “If Frank thinks the cabin is a good idea, it is. Stop your bitching.”

Maybe it was something in my voice, because she stopped her bitching.

It had been a long time since I’d driven out of Seattle, and it was a while before I remembered the road system. Even though I had a car, I couldn’t remember the last time I actually drove it. A few memories of driving to army surplus stores came into focus, along with driving to the local docks for gun pickups. Nothing out of the ordinary for good ol’ Cyrus V. Sinclair. With the help of some interstate signs, my memory came back.

We managed to drive another twenty minutes on I-5 North before the roads became heavily congested. Cars ranged from bumper to bumper to impassible wreckage, which forced us to use surface streets. We made it on to SR 522 East. After three hours, we arrived at our first stop, a small town called Monroe. I projected the trip would normally taken 45 minutes tops, sans apocalypse.

The Hummer was low on gas by the time we reached the town. Roads were clear, and we glided down the off ramp into Monroe. It was late in the afternoon, but the sun was still warm and the visibility good. So far, we couldn’t see any zombies, so we took a risk and decided to fill up the tank.

Frank maneuvered to a gas station without hitting too many cars. More noise, more zombies. The logic was flawless. Frank took the pump, while Gabe and I stood guard duty.

“The pump is electric,” Gabe whispered to me. “How is he going to…”

“He’s going to siphon it. Just keep your mouth shut, don’t shoot unless you have to, and watch.”

A fat kid with huge headphones shambled out of the convenience store next to the gas pumps. His cheeks were gnawed off. It was unbelievable he still had the headphones. I wondered how long he could walk around ‘listening’ to music until his player ran out of juice. Not really caring, I shot him. Other than him, the coast was clear.

And, sure enough, we heard gas gurgling.

“Hey, ya’ll. We should consider getting something to put more gas in for the road. No telling when we’re gonna get another lucky chance with a gas station.”

“There’s probably something in the store we can use. Gabe, you stay at the entrance. Frank and I’ll go in. That okay with you?”

Frank nodded. Once the tank was full, we approached the building. The front of the store was dimly lit from the windows, but the back was pretty dark. I glanced at Frank and noticed he had no gun or flashlight.

He caught me looking and raised a machete at his side. “In ‘Nam we didn’t have flashlights, and when we ran out of bullets…” He shrugged.

My ears rang from the silence. The scent was surprisingly mild in the store. Back in Seattle, the scent of multiple rots was everywhere. You’d expect a gas station to be no exception. All it smelled like was stale pretzels and old pizza. The refrigerated section wasn’t bad at all. Metal shelves were only mildly disheveled. No one had come in and raped the place like they did back home. Interesting.

We searched the small auto section and found no gas canisters or anything else of use. The only option would be to empty out pop liters and fill them back up. As Frank and I poured the fizzy drinks to the floor, I noticed the back room.

“There’s probably something back there. Industrial containers, maybe. I’ll go take a look.”

Frank nodded, watching red soda pour onto the floor. I didn’t need to wonder what he was thinking about.

Gun back out, I pressed the door open an inch and listened. No noise. No light, either. Bringing a flashlight out from my side holster, I let it roam across the room. Sure enough, there were large, lidded buckets stacked up against the wall. I confidently strode into the room, lowering my gun.

The lights turned back on.

I spun around, spots in my eyes from the harsh fluorescents. A greasy, rotten man with a beard waited for me.

He caught me off guard, knocking me onto the floor when he lunged. I fell back and landed in the buckets, loudly scattering them. Stagnant mop water sloshed out.

Greasy Beard didn’t have a left hand, but he still had a mouth and a right hand, which was hazard enough for me. I tried fending him off with one arm while I grabbed for my 9mm. He dropped to his knees and moved toward me. The gun rested in the mop water, too far away for me to reach.

Putrid breath engulfed my face as the zombie groaned, his jaws snapping. His stump of a left hand streaked old, dark blood on my neck as he grabbed for me.

The 9mm wasn’t a possibility. There was no way I could get to it and hold Greasy Beard off at the same time. I reached for my other gun, the .40, but it was on my other leg which was blocked by the Z. With a surge of strength, I heaved and pushed him off, sending him landing on his rump a few feet away.

I grabbed for my gun, turning around and—

There was a machete in the top of his skull. His mouth slowed down then stopped.

Frank put his foot against Greasy Beard’s back and pushed, sending the zombie sprawling. Old blood escaped the head wound. Frank proceeded to wipe the machete on the back of the Zs jacket before letting it rest at his side.

“Well, now. That was kind of sloppy, wasn’t it? You should’ve known to check everywhere before entering.”

I grunted and kicked the truly dead undead on the floor before collecting as many buckets as I could carry.

“What’s with these lights?” I asked. “Did you find a generator or something?”

The rest of the gas station was lit, pop machines and lotto ticket vending machines ablaze. Somewhere, speakers played static from an abandoned radio station.

“No, sir. Them lights just turned on by themselves,’ Frank replied.

Outside was normal looking, except for a smoldering car in the intersection across the street and some dead bodies. Gabe leaned against the Hummer, looking up at the lit pumps.

Though the power was on in our location, it was hard to tell if it was on anywhere else.

“Rolling power,” Gabe said as we filled the buckets with gasoline. “Sometimes power supplies go into an auto-conserve mode if there are errors in the system. It probably powers different sectors of the town every couple of hours or so.”

If that were true, it explained the freshness of the gas station goodies. Power in Monroe also implied something dangerous. People would be considerably more willing to stay in the town if their modern comforts were still available, which meant Monroe was probably overflowing with people.

I voiced my thoughts to Gabe and Frank. Gabe seemed excited by the idea, Frank wary.

“What’s the problem?” she protested. “More people means help, supplies, and shelter!”

“How long has it been since this thing started, girly?” Frank said slowly, acting as though she were daft (which in my opinion, she was).

“Maybe close to three months. It started in April, so it’s about July now.”

“You ever heard of people living in the woods all by themselves? How crazy they get ‘cause they’re in survival mode?”

I finished Frank’s point. “In a situation like this, people will either become territorial animals or ‘save-everyone’ do-gooders.”

“Like you said—there are do-gooders, Cyrus.” She hopped into the car, slamming the door shut behind her.

Frank threw a pained,
what were you thinking?
look at me. “How have you handled that?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

* * *

After consulting the map in the glove compartment, we decided to take a back road through Monroe. It was less likely to be congested and populated. There were straggling zombies here and there, but we either grazed or ran over the ones who got in the way.

We drove under an overpass and were feeling moderately confident when everything started to go downhill again. That’s because we hit a roadblock of two police cars obstructing a roundabout. We had to get through if we wanted to continue on our merry way. Stuff couldn’t work out forever, I guessed.

Frank and I left the Hummer with Gabe at the wheel. It was then I noticed a score of zombies about a block back. By the time we broke into one of the cop cars, put it in neutral, and rolled it away, the Zs would be on us.

I was about to use the butt of my gun to smash through the window of the cop car when Francis grabbed my shoulder.

“Don’t go the hard way if there’s an easy way right in front of you.”

He proceeded to open the car door, grinning wisely.

We were rolling the car up onto a curb and into a small patch of grass when we heard a shout from the Hummer.

“Get the fu—”

I cranked the E-brake up on the car and peered over its hood. Some guy was at the wheel of the Hummer, driving straight at us through our cleared path. Gabe was nowhere in sight, but I guessed she was knocked out in the vehicle.

The gore-covered Hummer soared past us, a husky, bearded man glaring at us as he went by. My lips curled back in an angry snarl, and I reached toward my thigh holster as Frank set his hand on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Cyrus? We can just start over. I got my pack and you got whatever’s on ya. What else do some fellows need? Besides, didn’t look like you were screwing that girl.”

“That Hummer has my ferret in it.”

His face went somber and he nodded in understanding.

Back in 99, Francis had given me a valuable piece of information. “You think you can rough it on your own, but you can’t. You gotta love something and hold onto it. It’ll keep you sane, even if you don’t wanna be.”

The lesson was that even if you think you’re a badass, keeping something close to you to take care of keeps you mentally fit and sound. I was still working on the concept. Bottom line was Pickle was in that fucking Hummer, and I was going to get her back.