Chapter Seventeen

 

 

 

 

 

I heard a thud and a grunt behind me and turned to see Punch pulling himself and his shotgun from the sticky zombie waste that coated the ground. It was a mixture of clothing, shoes and mottled bones mixed with the slimy, melted residue of those who once utilized them.

He got to his feet and joined me, Hemp and Nelson.

“What happened to you?” I asked, as he attempted to squeegee the slime from his clothing with one hand.

“I got fuckin’ treed by four of ‘em, so had to waste two critical rounds. Did the job, though.”

“How many flechette loads you got left?” I asked.

“Around twelve,” he said. “How we use them is a different question.”

“Where’s Rachel?” asked Nelson, his eyes filled with worry and his head practically spinning in all directions. “I haven’t seen her since I left the lab.”

“I don’t know, man,” I said. “I never saw her.”

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Nelson, and ran back through the muck toward the burning RV.

“Nelson!” I shouted, but he ignored me. He sludged through the thick scum and got to the door, but in seconds he backed away, his arms up over his face, blocking the searing heat from the flames.

“She was in the back, man!” he yelled. “She was in the rear!”

“Didn’t she come out?” I asked, but again, Nelson jumped off the now sunken door and trudged toward the rear of the mobile lab. The very back of the rig hadn’t begun to completely burn yet. He yanked open a tail-end storage compartment and jumped inside.

“Flex, look!” shouted Punch. Hemp and I turned to see the red-eyes emerge from the ground like amphibious creatures from the black water of a murky swamp. There was an army of them advancing on the SUV where Gem, Charlie, Serena and our dogs and children waited.

“We can’t fire on them!” I shouted. “Damnit, they’re moving on it!”

The headlights of the SUV lit up, but the females continued to advance. No gunfire erupted from the SUV and I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why. Some of the baddest ass women I knew were in that rig.

Suddenly the situation changed. As the clouds parted overhead and the wind took a shift, the red-eyes stopped and appeared distracted.

All at once they turned and changed direction, now moving toward the field where we had intended to keep the livestock and grow the food that would sustain our families into the future.

A wave of relief washed over me. “Let’s go!” I shouted. “That’s Lola doing that! She went to the field!”

We all ran to get ahead of the advancing horde of red-eyes. As we rounded the corner of the RV, the engine fired on the Crown Vic, the headlights came on and it shot forward, cranking hard left around the enormous, burning branch that had ignited the mobile lab.

We saw the driver then. Dave Gammon spun the car around and jammed toward the middle of the field. He reached Lola, who stood dead center, her red eyes like tiny beacons in the night, staring toward us.

I glanced back at the mobile lab and saw that the driver’s side rear access panel for the storage area was open.

Nelson had entered from the passenger side, but I could now see all the way through to the other end of the rig. The compartment was empty. I said a silent prayer for my crazy friend and his new love.

Dave drove with the pedal to the metal straight toward Lola. When he reached the spot where she stood, he spun the vehicle behind her and pulled up on her side, stopping the Crown Victoria. I saw the gun on top of the Ford spin around, but he didn’t fire.

Lola never acknowledged the car’s presence; she stood as still as a column, her arms by her sides, staring, beckoning the powerful creatures. She held no weapon.

As we approached Lola, we slowed to a walk and turned to witness the fruits of her labors.

The brigade of red-eyed, female zombies made its way toward the field, their individual movements coordinated and far more surefooted than their dumber, male counterparts. The entire mass of them moved three to four times faster than the regular rotters.

Mesmerized, Punch raised his shotgun, flush with the deadly ammunition, in their direction. He didn’t fire.

“Guys,” said Bug, his voice a whisper. “Take a little spin around and check out this shit.”

We all turned to see what he was talking about. Hundreds more tattered, shambling men, women and children emerged from the woods on all sides of us, moving toward the field from the forest beyond. They were slowed by downed branches and debris, not only from the surrounding forest, but pieces of nearby homes undoubtedly destroyed by the hurricane and tornado.

I heard shouting and saw Nelson and Rachel emerge from the Ford. They ran toward us and I smiled at the sight of them despite the rapidly deteriorating situation around us. As they drew nearer, I saw that Rachel had smears of soot on her face and carried a one-gallon bottle in her hands.

“I got her, dude!” shouted Nelson. “She was trapped in there!”

“I didn’t know about the rear hatch,” Rachel puffed, her breathing strained. “I wanted to grab this bottle of urushiol oil before I got out, but the Plexiglas walls fell and I was trapped behind them. No way to get to the door.”

“Look at all of ‘em!” shouted Nelson. “We can’t stop ‘em all, Hemp! What do we do, dude? C’mon, man!”

Dave got out of the Ford and jogged up to stand beside us.

“You see all of them?” asked Dave. “Jesus, guys.”

Hemp eyed the field and the partially completed fence. “Over there! The golf cart’s there!” he shouted.

We looked where he pointed, and saw that against one of the posts rested the golf cart on its side.

“Follow me!” he shouted. We did, and he ran toward the overturned golf cart.

We reached it and Hemp practically dove to the ground and jammed his arm behind the seat into the storage basket. A couple of seconds later he pulled out a stack of quart-sized plastic buckets and four wood-handled paintbrushes that had somehow remained lodged inside.

He separated the three small buckets from one another and placed them on the ground, side by side. Then he uncapped the urushiol jug and poured an equal amount in each bucket, leaving about the same amount in the jug. “Flex, you have your pocket knife?”

I gave it to him and he cut the top off the jug, dropping one of the brushes inside.

We looked back. The red-eyes were a hundred yards from Lola and closing, and the horde was working their way over the fallen debris toward the fence, now staggering toward it from around about twenty yards away.

It was impossible to determine which of them would kill us faster. A fucking miracle needed to fall out of my ass pretty damned fast or we would all be dead.

I got on the radio. “Gem!” I shouted. I didn’t wait for a reply. “Fire up that truck and get the hell out of here!”

Hemp went on: “We need to coat as much of that fence as we can with the urushiol oil, and we need to hurry! Divide into four groups and let’s split the oil up and brush as much as we can on the top two wires. Let’s go! We have to get there before they do!”

Hemp and I went to the first section of fencing on the east side of the pasture. Nelson and Rachel ran toward the south side, and Bug and Dave covered the west perimeter.

Now the mass of rotters was no more than ten yards from the fence. Even without the urushiol it would hold them for a moment or two, but we hadn’t intended its design to be efficient without the oil coating, so they could get through with minimal effort.

Hemp held the bucket and I dipped the brush, running it along the fence and slopping it on the top wire. As he ran toward the next section, I ran back the opposite way and coated the second wire.

To give me a rest, I held the bucket this time and we repeated the process for the next section with him doing the running. There was no looking back to see what kind of effect our work was having; we had to get as much coated as possible.

Battling these creatures while not on WAT-5 was something we hadn’t done since Hemp had discovered the compound. I quickly decided it didn’t like it much at all.

I glanced over to see that Rachel and Nelson had utilized the same procedure as Hemp and me. They were making progress, but the horde had now reached the fence. In the section they had not yet coated, the zombies were pushing through it, hitting the clean section of fence, falling backward among their fellow rotters, and once down, crawling below the two installed rows of baling wire.

Nelson improvised. He ran toward them and gripped the brush tightly, flinging the coated bristles at them and splashing their emaciated bodies with the caustic oil. They stood briefly, then dropped to the ground and began the melting process that ate them away.

Nelson’s response might have been more effective than Hemp’s original plan. Each drop that hit them was like a bullet to the brain and took them down by the dozens.

The situation on our side was the same. I would have yelled for Bug to do the same thing, but he was no fool. He had glanced at Nelson and had begun to fling his brush at them, too. I saw Dave dipping his fingers in and flinging the oil toward them as well.

Soon, there were piles and piles of writhing zombies melting inside the fence line and just beyond it. The others, trapped behind them, were significantly slowed by the mounting, degrading mound.

I had time to look toward Lola. The creatures were now ten feet away from her and closing. She moved for the first time now, backing toward the Crown Victoria.

I hadn’t known if she had even been aware of its presence; she had never looked away from the advancing horde of females, and I had believed Lola Lane was in a trance of sorts.

When she reached the Crown Vic, she opened the door and slid inside. Even from across the field I could still see her red eyes within, never averting from the females who surrounded the car to the point that I could no longer see the Ford at all.

 

*****

 

As soon as the radio cut out after Flex’s brief order to evacuate, I looked at Charlie.

“Do you want to lose Hemp?” I asked.

“Hell no,” she said. “No, Gem.” She looked at her son and back at me.

“Serena, you want to lose Dave?”

I looked back at her and she shook her head. “You know I don’t,” she answered.

“Well, I’m not losing Flex either,” I said.

I grabbed my Uzi off the floorboard, jumped out of the SUV and ran around to the driver’s side door. I slapped on it and Charlie leaned past where Isis stood and unlocked it. I pulled it open and picked up Isis, placing her on the other side of Charlie.

“Isis,” I said, “You’ll need to plant your bottom on the seat and use those little fingers to hold on to something. Now.”

“Yes, Gemmy,” she said., scooting next to Charlie who put her right arm around the toddler as she held Max.

I turned the key, and it clicked. My heart sunk into my stomach. I closed my eyes, said a little prayer, and turned off the headlights.

I turned the key again and the starter wound once, then twice, more slowly. I released it and dropped my head against the steering wheel, feeling the tears rolling down my cheeks. I sat there and wondered if Flex had forgotten who I was. He and everyone else knew I’d rather die than leave my family and friends to do the same.

Using every bit of the powers of the universe that I could lasso, I focused my thoughts on that key and the electrical signals it would transmit when turned. I clicked it forward and turned it again.

With a quick, single wind, the engine turned over. I revved it twice, hit the headlights on the high beams again, and threw it in gear.

“Hold on, guys. Those bitches went somewhere and I don’t think it’s to a fucking Tea Party Rally.”

 

*****

 

I heard the engine of the Land Cruiser fire and my heart and breathing settled, even as I splashed each and every zombie that made it past the fence line. It wasn’t all that difficult. If you’ve ever flung a paintbrush against a wall, you know how much paint flies off and the amount of spatter you can expect.

We had the advancing horde well under control.

Static sounded on my radio and I grabbed it in time to hear Lola’s voice. Dave had a radio in the car and she had felt the need to let us know some more bad news.

“I can’t do this much longer,” she said. “I’m doing the best I can, but I’m exhausted.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Lola,” I said. “You got ‘em away from Gem and the others. We’ll think of something.”

When I heard the engine whine and saw the Land Cruiser bouncing in the rough terrain on the outside of our pasture, I nearly shit myself. I pressed the radio button again and yelled, “Gem, get the hell out of here!”

“Not gonna happen, baby,” she said, her voice calm but determined. “None of us think that’s a very good idea.”

“I say it is, Gem! Tell them I think it is!”

“Isis can handle this,” she said. “She’s working on it now.”

With that, Gem cut the SUV hard left and the front end of the Toyota hit the baling wire at the first section on the east side. The zombies who had melted there were squirming in their own muck as they died, and Gem powered that 4-wheeler right over them, snapped the baling wire and bounced into the field, where she floored it again, heading straight toward the surrounded Crown Victoria with our tired Lola inside.

 

*****

 

I drove to within twenty yards of the focused crowd of red-eyes. I had seen Flex, Hemp and the others using paint brushes on the fence and the creatures who had gotten by it, and it appeared to have really helped, from the number of bodies just outside the fence.

As for the red-eyed females, they appeared to be in a huddle, and after a moment of staring, I realized there was a machine gun just above their heads.

They were around the Crown Victoria. I pushed the radio button. “Lola, are you in the Ford?” I asked.

“Yes,” she came back. “I’m here, and I’m calling them. But I’m goddamned tired, Gem.”

“Hang in there,” I said.

I looked at Isis. “Isis. Can you show these fine ladies what you are not?”

“I can,” she said.

“Then I respectfully ask that you do so right now.”

Isis stood on the seat again as I put the SUV in park, leaving the engine on to avoid a repeat of what I’d been through when trying to start it.

“I must reveal their children as I did before,” she said.

I knew what was coming. “Girls, please keep your eyes down,” I said.

Isis peered through the broken windshield and brought her fingers to her own stomach. With both hands this time, she made scratching motions, as though she had a rash from poison ivy itself.

In unison, the females turned their attention from the Crown Victoria and its inhabitant to our vehicle.

I picked up my radio. “Lola, you can stop calling them,” I said.

“I have,” she said.

The rotting women did not move toward us. Instead, as Isis continued the clawing motion with her little hands, each of the females before us began clawing into their own distended bellies, tearing the flesh away.

Their decayed skin peeled in flaps and shreds, the almost deep purple liquid flowing like molasses down their hips and legs. As we watched, newly visible movement began to emerge from within them, and in many cases, tiny arms or legs slid out of them.

“Your babies,” said Isis, her red eyes focused intently on the standing creatures outside of the vehicle. “Your babies are with you. I am not of you.”

Not one pair of red eyes watched us now. To a one, they all looked down at their own bodies at the emergence of their living dead babies.

Some of the squirming fetuses dropped onto the ground at their feet, prompting their deceased mothers to lean forward to try to pick them up. Coordination and proper care of a baby eluded them, however; many of them merely clutched the squirming infant by the arm or leg, which in its deteriorated state, was not enough to support the weight of their undead children.

The arms and legs pulled from their sockets, leaving their babies to drop back to the muddy ground.

Others were more successful and were able to take their grey-faced babies in their arms, still connected to them by a shriveled umbilical cord.

I watched this for too long. For the first time in a long, long time, I remembered that these were once women who were excited about their forthcoming children, putting together wardrobes and nurseries and hanging musical mobiles above cribs, anxious for the moment their beautiful children would gaze up at them with wondrous eyes, smiling at the sweet melody and so fascinated with the many, many things to discover in their new world of light , sound and love.

I raised my radio to my mouth and pushed the button. “Whatever Punch was doing with that gun of his before, I think he should do it again … like now,” I said.

I turned to see Flex say something to Punch, and the man ran toward the horde of red eyes. He planted himself between the Land Cruiser and the dead women and their offspring, and placed shot after shot into the crowd.

What happened was nothing I could describe. I had believed nothing would affect them like urushiol, but the estrogen blocking agent infused into the shotgun rounds was the hammer of Thor to these creatures.

The skin peeled away from their legs, hips, rib cages and breastbones. It worked its way from top to bottom, exposing their skulls and popping their red eyes out, to extinguish forever, becoming dark and lifeless.

By the time they fell among their own remains, only their shining hair was recognizable as potentially human.

I don’t know how many estrogen blocker-soaked rounds Punch had to start with, but in the end, it had been enough.

I got back on my radio. “Get the hell in that Crown Vic, you guys. The rotters at the fence line are making progress now.”

From the outskirts of the field, the horde of standard-issue walkers that had backed up against the piles of their melted and fallen brethren crawled over one another. In some cases their hands or feet melted away in the process, hindering their forward movement; others avoided contacting the oil altogether and came through unscathed, now advancing in their slow, jerky way toward our kind.

To my great relief, all of our friends crammed into the Crown Victoria with Dave Gammon at the wheel. Two apparent diggers had made their way in front of the Ford, and Dave accelerated, flinging them both out of the way with the car’s cow catcher.

Everyone was alive. Now I needed to get the antitoxin, Doc Scofield and Hemp in the same room with my son and Charlie’s new baby. Isis would also be immunized, whether or not she felt it was necessary. Sometimes a baby had to be put in her place.

 

*****

 

“Flex, man,” said Dave,” tell me it wasn’t like this the whole time we were in California.”

With Gem, Jim Scofield, Trina, Taylor, Serena, Charlie, Flexy, Isis, the dogs and the newest member of our brood, Max, crammed in the Land Cruiser behind me, we kept our speed to a cautious minimum as Dave carted the rest of us down to Tony Mallette’s house in the Crown Vic. Punch introduced himself to my partners in the zombie war and they all thanked him for taking down the red-eyes.

“Well, Dave,” I said, “I don’t mean to insult anyone, and this definitely isn’t a slam on Bug, but this shitstorm – and the hurricane – all started when you guys got back.”

“No offense taken,” said Bug, from the back seat. “My girl does what she does. I’m just glad we’re all alive.”

“Anyway,” I said. “We were gettin’ ready to live like the fuckin’ Waltons before all this.”

“I’d take a little freakin’ house on a prairie about now,” said Nelson.

“Punch,” I said, “We’ll see about gettin’ the grape GTO back here in the next couple of days,” I told him.

“No hurry,” said Punch. “Pretty distinctive color. I think I can find it if it gets jacked.”

Tony’s house was roomy, centrally located, and it was built out of brick. We hoped it had been missed by the tornado and spared substantial damage from the hurricane.

As it turned out, Tony’s house was intact. On the way there we passed Doc Scofield’s place, and it had not done so well. The path of the tornado was clear, and his home had been dead center. It was more rubble than our place.

Just after we went by, the radio kicked into life. It was Scofield’s voice. With an audible sigh, he said, “There goes my resale value.”

Bug grabbed the radio and pushed the button. “Easy come, easy go Doc,” he said. “I’m starting to miss my bunker.”

“If only anything came easy these days,” said Jim. “I wasn’t there all that long, but it sure started to feel like home. I was ready to grab a club and go out huntin’ for a good woman.”

“Hey, bro, give it here,” said Nelson. Bug did, and he pushed the button. “Grampa Jim,” he said. “Any chick would be lucky to snag a guy like you, man. You’re smart, about the same height as a woman, and you got a nice beard. What else do chicks want?” He paused a moment and said, “Wish I could grow a beard.”

I didn’t hear Scofield laugh, but I’m sure he did. I imagined just knowing that his grandson was alive had to give him some peace.

A huge oak tree had fallen at a home about an eighth of a mile up the street, and it nearly blocked the entire road. As we drove up on a lawn to get around it, two straggler zombies staggered toward us so Bug tried his luck at shooting with his left hand. He wasted three rounds, but eventually took the rotters down.

Dave turned into Tony’s driveway and we got out. I went immediately to the Land Cruiser that pulled in right behind us. Everyone piled out and I lifted Flexy from Gem’s arms. “Let’s get this boy inside and give him the antitoxin. I don’t want my boy breathin’ out of any goddamned pen tube any longer than he has to.”

Gem put her arm around my waist. She didn’t say anything right away. Just the feel of her beside me was all it took to tell me that despite the fact that we lost everything yet again, we had what was most important.

We still had one another. I looked up at the house and thought again about Tony. He was the sole casualty of this harrowing couple of days. He was a great loss and a character who would be greatly missed.

“Tony Mallette is dead,” I said. “Long live Tony Mallette.”

I don’t know why I said it. There would never be another Tony.

 

*****