Car Trouble
Four months after that night in the Pine Barrens, Westlake was driving through north-eastern New York in a car that wasn’t his, with a golf bag full of guns and a gym bag full of food, swiped from the local Stop-n-Go. It wasn’t much, but Westlake hadn’t had much appetite since the night the dead had risen, and the world had effectively ended.
He was feeling fairly serene, despite it all. The end of the world had had a remarkably calming effect on him. Before things had collapsed, he’d been worried about the Feds, the Outfit, where he was going to go, what he was going to do.
None of that mattered now. The world was… simpler. He had only a single outstanding marker to collect on. Then – what? He didn’t know. Maybe Atlantic City. He’d always liked Atlantic City. It was like Vegas, but not in a desert.
Westlake hadn’t had many attachments, before the apocalypse. He couldn’t afford them, in his line. He had few friends, all of whom were in the life or retired from it. He had his money and his freedom and that was all he needed. Four months in, though, he was starting to miss other people – not to talk to, but just to see. To hear. Ones that didn’t want to gnaw his face off.
To distract himself from such thoughts, he took in his surroundings. The town was called Saranac Lake, which was a strange name given that the lake in question was called Lake Flower. It was small, as such places went. Squeezed between Lake Flower and Lake Colby, with the mountains looming over it all.
Not the mountains he was interested in, though. He was heading east, towards what he’d heard was called the High Peaks area. Not that he could tell the difference. All mountains looked pretty much the same to him. That was why he’d brought maps.
Downtown resembled the background of a Rockwell painting – all red brick and white fences. Someone had spent a lot of money to make it look appealing to a certain sort of middle class American. Westlake had always hated these sorts of places – the streets were too narrow, too many faces walking on said streets, and too many cops. No cops now, though. Not much of anyone. Not alive, anyway. Thankfully, he was just passing through. He had a long-delayed appointment in those mountains.
The streets were empty, but the sound of the car brought the undead out of hiding. They stumbled through broken doors and out of alleyways, drawn in his wake by the growl of the motor. He didn’t pay much attention to them, but kept the car at a steady twenty miles per hour. No sense burning more gasoline than he had to. It was getting harder to come by. So long as they stayed behind him, he was content to leave them be. He only had so much ammunition, after all. Let someone else handle them.
And there was someone else; maybe not close, but definitely in town, or in the woods. He could see the telltale signs of looting – scavenging, rather. The busted windows, the wide-open doors; the spray-paint on the latter, to mark which ones had already been searched. He’d seen enough in the past few months to recognize it for what it was. He wished them luck, whoever they were.
He guided the car around a stalled-out tow truck. A zombie lurched into his path, and he clipped it, sending it spinning out of sight. It appeared that a horde was spilling out of what might have been a diner, in pursuit of a dog. The dog had something in its mouth and scampered out of sight. These towns were always lousy with strays – not that he minded. He’d always had a soft spot for animals. He tried not to think about farms and pet stores as he left the dog and its pursuers in his rearview.
A gauntlet of stalled and parked cars made it slow going. He kept moving, kept his eyes on the road, but his hands tightened on the wheel. Getting boxed in would be a bad idea. He glanced up at the rearview mirror, checking on his pursuers.
They were still coming. Of course they were. They didn’t stop. They never stopped. But they were slow and stupid and that meant if you were smart, you could stay one step ahead of them. He’d never had difficulty with that. Done it enough times before the apocalypse.
But he wouldn’t relax until he was clear of the village and closer to his destination. Saranac Lake was one of several villages scattered around Lake Flower. The lake was split between three towns, and its shoreline was – or had been – almost entirely in private hands. But he didn’t care about any of that. He was aiming for the Adirondacks.
The mountains stretched across the horizon, just above the tree line. A black swoop of peaks and slopes that grew taller and more imposing the closer he got. He wondered whether there were roads up into the mountains. He knew there had to be maintenance trails and such. The real question was whether the car could make it.
It was a good car, with a sunroof and a GPS that no longer worked, but it wasn’t made for off-roading. He’d picked it up at a dealer’s lot south of Fishkill when his last one gave up the ghost. He’d run over too many zombies and busted the transmission all to hell.
Westlake preferred using a car to using a gun. Both were loud, but one had the advantage of being in motion. He had learned early on in the apocalypse that moving was good. Zombies were slow, but they didn’t stop. Shoot one, there’d be three converging on you a few seconds later. Shoot those three, there’d be six more on your ass before the bodies hit the ground. They just kept coming, like the tide.
But a car – or even better, a truck – and you could paste four or five at a time, and keep rolling. The only problem was, that sort of thing took a toll on a vehicle. Luckily, there were still plenty of cars around – in lots, dealers’ showrooms, on the street. Getting gas was always an adventure, but what was life without a bit of risk?
A flash of brown cut across his eyeline and he tapped the brakes in time to keep from running over the dog. The same dog he’d seen earlier. Somehow the mutt had lapped him. And it wasn’t alone – it had brought all its friends along, plus a few it had picked up along the way. Too many. More than a dozen. “Shit,” Westlake muttered.
Startled by the near miss, the dog took off up the street, running flat out. One of the zombies broke away from the herd and sprinted after the animal. A runner. Westlake recalled the first time he’d seen one with a queasy sensation. But as bad as the fast ones were, the big ones were worse. He pumped the accelerator as the zombie churned after the animal. The runner was alternating between two legs and four in a disturbing fashion. The dog was doing its best, but the zombie was closing the gap.
Westlake swerved and gave the undead a tap with the bumper, knocking it sprawling. His wheels ground its head and torso to mulch as he continued on. He didn’t see where the dog went, and he didn’t waste time looking. One good deed was enough for the day.
He caught sight of something in his rearview mirror and grunted. Another runner. Only this one was chasing him. It was dressed like a jogger, sweatband and all. Even had what was left of a pair of earbuds flapping behind it – hard to wear earbuds with no ears, he supposed. He considered another swerve, decided against it. No way it could catch him.
He was so busy keeping an eye on the jogger that he didn’t see the new one up ahead, until it hit the hood and had its rotten face pressed to the windshield. Instinct prompted Westlake to hit the brakes. Experience told him that was a stupid idea. Instead, he hit the accelerator, hoping to dislodge it. It snarled and hammered at the glass with broken, mangled fists. Eyes like poached eggs glared at him through a spiderweb of cracks. It had been a woman once; dressed for a hike, maybe, going by the backpack.
Without taking his eyes off it, he groped beside him until his hands found the Glock – Tommy’s Glock. It had come in handy since that night, though he’d always preferred revolvers. They didn’t jam, easier to load. But when the world provided, only an idiot complained. He swung the pistol up and pressed the barrel to the glass, aiming for a spot between the zombie’s eyes. He hated to bust the windshield, but sticking your arm out the window around zombies was a bad idea.
He turned his head and fired. The windshield buckled, and the zombie pitched back and was pulled under his wheels. He heard something clunk in the undercarriage and cursed. In a fight between a car and a zombie, the car always won – but sometimes it was a pyrrhic victory. Using the pistol, he busted out as much of the windshield as he could, his ears still ringing from the gunshot. At this point, he needed to see more than he needed the protection.
Unfortunately, what he saw wasn’t good. He’d slowed down, and the tide had caught up with him. They were everywhere – clogging the street, leaving him no room to swerve. That left only one option: plow through and hope the car didn’t stall. He gunned the engine and slammed into them. Bodies flew, thumped, and rolled.
For the first minute, he thought he was going to make it. Then, in the second, the car stalled, fishtailed, and crunched into a lamppost hard enough to make him bite his tongue. The ache of the crash radiated through his back and neck, but he ignored it and fumbled at his seatbelt. They were already closing in – the ones that were still standing, at any rate.
By the time he got himself loose, they’d already swamped the car. Fists battered at the windows, and the car creaked as the weight of the dead pressed against the frame. Some scrambled at the cracked windshield, ripping their fingers on the jagged edges, trying to get in. They clawed at the glass and the metal with dull, animal need. Westlake ignored them. He’d gotten good at ignoring them in the months since the world had gone down the tubes. Unless one was close enough to put its teeth in you, it wasn’t important.
The car rocked suddenly. The airbags deployed, punching him back into his seat. Something big had arrived. Or maybe bloated was a better word; the zombie’s skin had swollen to shiny tautness, and he could see intestines and muscle tissue straining within.
The big zombie gave a guttural groan and brought both heavy fists down on the hood of the car again, further denting the metal. Steam whistled out as the radiator split. As the giant groped towards the busted windshield, it used its other hand to slap aside those zombies who got too close. From behind the airbag, Westlake emptied the clip into it with next to no effect, save to make it madder and draw new zombies closer.
He needed to get out. He squirmed out from behind the airbag and hastily reloaded the Glock. No way to get to the other weapons or his supplies – the windows were already buckling. A good thief knew when to cut his losses. He lashed out at the control panel with his foot, hitting the button for the sunroof. They weren’t on top of the car yet.
He didn’t panic as he hauled himself out, zombies clutching at his ankles. Nor did he panic when the first of them clambered up the trunk of the car, arms stretched out. He pivoted, fired, and moved on to a new target. Plenty of those – they were all around him. The car buckled, shocks popping like thunder. The big one had bellyflopped onto the hood.
Westlake turned, teeth bared, like an animal at bay. A hundred thoughts ran through his head as the bloated face heaved itself into view – plans that would never be enacted, unfulfilled dreams. Atlantic City.
Suddenly angry, he fired, and the creature reared, causing the car to bob like a ship at sea. Westlake fell to the street – the Glock skidded from his hand. A walker toppled onto him. The big one reached down and hauled it off, flinging it aside as easily as a man might toss a bag of garbage. Then it reached for Westlake.
Westlake let it grab hold of him – better than being torn apart by the others. As it dragged him upwards, his hand went to his belt and the black Velcro sheath there, containing a Schrade folding knife. He whipped the knife free and snapped the three-inch blade into a fixed position. Then he jammed it into one of the zombie’s bulging eyes until he felt the tip scrape something solid. It staggered back, still holding him. One ponderous step. Two. Three. Then it was clear of the rest.
Westlake twisted the blade. Fluid spurted and he ducked to avoid it. No telling what it might do if it got on him. The zombie spun in a slow gavotte, carrying him along for the dance. Westlake tore the blade loose and stabbed at its pulpy skull, again and again. Its grip tightened, and he increased the pace of his stabbing, trying to find some weak point. Finally, it sagged. He jerked his knife free, and it released him. He fell to the street, panting, a scream held back in his mind. Saw the Glock and scrambled for it as the rest shambled towards him.
Westlake snatched it up – and felt a vise-like grip fasten on his ankle. The big one was still in the game. Ignoring the spurt of terror that seized him, he emptied the weapon into the fat zombie a second time, turning its head to mulch. It released him, and he backed away as the rest closed in. He heard a bark and turned. The dog stood on the other side of the street, watching him. It barked again, as if in invitation, turned, and ran.
Westlake ran after it.