Last Stand
Westlake listened to Sal rage outside the booth. He couldn’t do much else but hunker down. Moving hurt, and he didn’t want to attract any more attention to his presence. The music blared over the loudspeakers, and he could hear the doors banging as walkers flooded in.
Sal, being the territorial sort, expressed his displeasure at their presence – or maybe he was just venting his frustration. Either way, every so often, what was left of an unlucky walker would splat against the window of the booth. Westlake knew that eventually Sal’s distractions would end, and he would remember where Westlake was and come sniffing around.
The shotgun was useless except as a club. He needed something better. He dragged himself towards the DJ zombie. There was a revolver in the dead man’s shoulder holster. Better than nothing. He extracted it and popped the cylinder, checking the ammunition. Two shots. Still better than nothing. Especially if he could get Sal in the other eye–
His musing was interrupted by the sound of a thump against the glass window of the booth. He looked up. Sal grinned down at him, shotgun-scorched features pressed tight to the window – like a dog staring at a steak. Sal scraped the glass with its claws. The thing looked amused, despite the steaming hole where its left eye had been.
“Like to play with your food, huh?” Westlake said, rolling onto his back and raising the pistol. “You always were an asshole.”
Sal reared back, fists raised to smash the glass. Westlake darted a glance towards the door. He didn’t want to die in a DJ booth. It was undignified. But Sal’s blow never came. Westlake looked back at the glass and saw the towering zombie had turned. Something had caught its attention. Westlake, never one to ignore an opportunity, dove for the door.
It took more effort than he liked to get to his feet, and when he did, he thought he might fall over again. But he made it to the door without collapsing and out. What he saw made him pause. It was the bear all over again.
Calavera, looking bruised and battered, stood on the other side of the room, staring at the monster like a climber seeing Everest for the first time. He cracked his neck and shoulders. “You are very big – that is good,” he called out. “That means you will take some killing.” Sal snarled and started towards the masked man. Calavera laughed. “Good, good! Come to me, monster – come to El Calavera Santo!”
With that, he flexed his hands, tensed, and sprang. Onto a table, across the heads and shoulders of the cluster of walkers gathered about the towering monster. Moving so quickly that the zombies barely noticed his weight before he was past and gone and they crumbled. Westlake watched in amazement as the luchador raced across a bridge of the dead towards his foe.
The masked man leapt – and drove both feet into Sal’s midsection, sending the monster staggering. It turned, trying to fend off this new opponent. Calavera hauled himself up its form, using the spiky protrusions as handholds. Sal spun, trying to catch hold of him with bloody claws, but Calavera was moving too quickly.
“You are a stain on the world, and Santa Muerte bids me send you on your way,” Calavera roared, as he hooked Sal’s neck and dug stiffened fingers into the zombie’s remaining eye as the sound system started up an Isaac Hayes song. The ceiling lights flashed in scintillating patterns as some keyed-up discotheque program began. For a moment, it looked as if man and monster were engaged in a dance.
Then Sal managed to catch hold of Calavera’s shirt and drag him from his perch. The zombie slammed its opponent down onto one of the few tables still standing, breaking it. Calavera lay groaning in the wreckage as Sal loomed above him, blindly flailing.
Westlake shoved past a distracted walker and fired the revolver. Sal’s head snapped around, following the sound of the shot. It shrieked and started in Westlake’s direction. Calavera, still on his back, grabbed a chair and slung it under the monster’s legs, causing it to stumble. Sal fell heavily, crushing a pair of walkers beneath its bulk. It screeched in frustration and shoved itself upright, casting aside the still-twitching remnants of the smaller zombies. Westlake circled the room, avoiding the rest of the walkers as best he could as he tried to line up a clear shot on Sal.
Calavera was on his feet as well. “You still live, Mr Westlake – truly Santa Muerte watches over you,” he called out, as he snapped a walker’s neck and tossed its body aside.
“Yeah, well, wouldn’t want you to have all the fun,” Westlake said. Sal’s head turned, following the sound of his voice. It bared its teeth and stalked towards him on all fours. The walkers parted around it. Westlake backed towards the doors. “Any ideas, big man?”
“I could hit it again,” Calavera said, helpfully. He paused and laughed. “Then, maybe I will not have to.”
Westlake was about to ask him what he meant when the doors slammed open, admitting Ramirez and Ptolemy. She held a broken mop out before her, like a spear. Ptolemy had a meat tenderizer in one hand. Both makeshift weapons were dark with blood and other substances. Ramirez saw him and grinned. “Still in one piece?”
Westlake ignored a twinge of pain from his back – not to mention the one in his arm – and nodded. “So far. Hutch?”
Ramirez shook her head and turned her attention to Sal. “Looks like you two have been hard at work,” she said.
Sal snarled and swung its head towards her. Westlake shot him. Sal whipped back around with a roar and advanced on him. Westlake tossed the empty pistol aside. “I hope you two found what you were looking for!”
Ramirez thrust her spear into a walker as it got too close, then held out her hand. Ptolemy shoved a bottle into it. She lit the rag wick and hefted the bottle. “Hey, ugly,” she shouted. “Over here!”
The monstrosity turned with a loud snarl. She hurled the Molotov full into Sal’s distorted features, eliciting a shriek of mingled pain and fury from the creature. Ramirez retrieved her spear as Ptolemy readied a new Molotov. Westlake hurried towards them. A walker, dressed in a dark suit and broken sunglasses, lunged for Ptolemy. The zombie knocked him sprawling, even as he brained it with his tenderizer.
The lit bottle rolled from his hand, and Westlake stooped to scoop it up. Sal, blinded by the fire, swiped blindly, smashed tables and knocked walkers from their feet. Westlake stepped forward and hurled the second Molotov, which smashed against one of Sal’s flailing arms. Fiery droplets sprayed across the nearby zombies, setting them alight.
Alarms were going off now, drowning out Sal’s howls. The sprinkler system kicked off, spraying down the room. The big zombie staggered away from them, retreating towards the back of the room where another set of double doors sat – the ones that led to the stairwell on the opposite side of the building. It was trying to get away, Westlake thought. Whatever was left of Sal’s mind was urging it to retreat. He stooped and helped Ptolemy to his feet. “Get that last one lit and get ready to throw it. Ramirez, toss me that stick!”
She wrenched the mop handle out of a kneeling walker’s mouth and used the blunt end to batter it to the floor before tossing it to him. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I owe Sal, and I always pay my debts.” Westlake started towards the staggering monster. It was a bad idea – a terrible one, even. But there was no time for anything else. If Sal got away, that was it. Something told him it wouldn’t fall for this trick twice. “Calavera, make me a path!”
Calavera flipped a table, crushing several walkers beneath it. Westlake ran across the table, trying to ignore the searing pain in his back and the tingling in his arm. He had to get between Sal and the far doors, and that meant catching the monster’s attention. He snatched up a chair and threw it – bouncing it off Sal’s back.
The zombie spun, hissing. “Over here, you dumb bastard,” he shouted. “I’m right here! Come and get me!” As he’d hoped, Sal followed the sound of his voice, charging towards him with single-minded ferocity, all thoughts of flight forgotten in its rush to smash the life from him. He could hear Ramirez shouting, but had no time to listen. It was all he could do to get Sal in position.
Ptolemy came through. “Westlake!” he cried, as he sent the last Molotov arcing up over the heads of the walkers to smash down against Sal’s spiky back. The flames spurted up, resisting the dampening effect of the sprinklers. Sal screamed. He could still feel pain, whatever else. Westlake was glad. If anyone, dead or alive, deserved to feel the full effect of three Molotov cocktails, it was Salvatore Bonaro.
Sal fell onto all fours as the flames consumed him, and lunged towards Westlake. There was no time – and nowhere to go. Westlake lifted the mop in both hands and readied himself, teeth bared. Blinded, burning, dying – Sal couldn’t avoid his thrust.
His momentum carried both of them through the sound booth in an explosion of plaster, wood, and sound equipment. Sal shrilled like a faltering steam engine as Westlake thrust his spear up through its jaw and into his head, twisting it even as he drove it deeper. “Be seeing you, Sal,” he rasped, eyes stinging from the heat.
Finally, Westlake’s improvised weapon struck something that made Sal spasm and slump with a disgruntled groan. The burning bulk of the zombie pressed Westlake down against the floor, and he wondered if this was how it was going to end. Not exactly a blaze of glory, though fire was involved. He coughed, inhaling the stink of burnt meat.
Then, with a roar, Calavera heaved Sal off and Westlake could breathe again. He lay for a moment, sucking air into his abused lungs and wondering if his ribcage was intact. “Jesus,” Ramirez said, tossing aside bits of broken equipment. “Are you still alive?”
“I’ll let you know,” Westlake coughed. He reached up a hand, and Ramirez hauled him to his feet. “Sorry about your mop.”
“I wasn’t that attached to it.” Ramirez stared at the smoldering bulk of what had once been Salvatore Bonaro. “Jesus,” she said again, covering her mouth and nose. “I hope we never see one like this again.”
“A good fight. A worthy foe.” Calavera wiped his char-stained hands on his trousers. “Santa Muerte is pleased.”
“I should damn well hope so,” Westlake said, coughing again. His arm was throbbing now, and not just from the impact. The world spun about him, and Calavera reached out a hand to steady him.
“Are you injured?”
“I got knocked through a wall. What do you think?” He decided not to mention the bite, or the fact his arm was going numb. There’d be plenty of time to tell them later – or deal with it himself, if it came to that.
Calavera glanced about. “It was only a little wall.”
Westlake stared at him for a moment and then gave a wheezing laugh and slapped the big man on the shoulder. Ptolemy cleared his throat. “As relieved as I am, we should think of retreating. This creature was not the only danger here.” As if to emphasize his point, the sprinklers cut off. The remaining walkers were making their way across the room, eyes fixed on Westlake and the others.
“He’s right, everybody out,” Ramirez said. “Head back to the lobby. Don’t stop for anything!”