“Weak,” Salina Morales muttered, glaring at the woman from Jubal’s party who had screamed when the horde of zombies emerged from behind the diner. This woman was obviously on her last nerve and would prove to be a burden to anyone serious about surviving in this world. She must have witnessed her fair share of the walking dead by now, yet it was obvious to Salina that it had all become too much for her.
She won’t last long, whoever she is. Probably Slate’s bitch. And the little girl must be their kid.
“Step aside,” Salina said, brushing past the woman who was holding a hunting rifle in her clenched, shaking hands; a waste of ammo in Salina’s opinion. It was a pain hunting down ammo these days. Eventually, she reckoned, they’d be reduced to fighting with rocks and sticks. But that would suit Salina just fine; gun or knife, bomb or club, she was always primed to put these stinking motherfuckers back in the dirt where they belonged. In fact, she had made it her goal in life. Zombie-stompin’ was her business and business was outstanding, thank you very much.
Besides, she didn’t have anything better to do. It wasn’t like she could rejoin the Army—at least not as far as she knew. After the horizon had turned green and the disease had hit her base in Texas all those months ago, most people she knew had been killed off, including all her superiors. And afterward came the rising of all those killed by the disease. It was enough to make you lose your mind sometimes, just thinking about it.
But shit, as far as she knew, there wasn’t anyone alive left in the world but a handful of people who were somehow immune to whatever the disease had been, probably something in the air after the sky changed color.
Ned, Philly, and Morris were already in position, taking professional shooting stances as they popped off shots at the approaching mob. But she didn’t dwell too long on her own crew because her attention had been drawn to the newcomers: that huge Mother character, the tall, freaky looking woman, the Asian, and the little girl, all holding their weapons steadily, if not quite as professionally as Salina’s men, taking out their share of the zombies that were shuffling toward them. Hell, even that skittish bitch knocked down one or two.
Well, that was all great but now it was Salina’s turn. She lifted her handgun and sighted down the barrel, pointing it at a lurching son-of-a-bitch who didn’t have any eyes. As it moved forward with the rest of the horde, she wondered how this sightless geek knew where it was going. It could probably smell the fresh meat and blood, or maybe it just followed in the wake of its crowd of buddies. Or shit, maybe it had some sort of zombie radar. Squeezing the trigger slowly, she smirked with satisfaction as the thing’s head flew back, a large chunk of skull spinning away beneath the moonlight as the body fell to the ground.
Too easy.
She took her time shooting at others. It seemed that between her own group and Slate’s they had the situation well in hand. Perhaps if her group had been on its own and isolated, this large an undead mob might have proved a worthy challenge. But who was she kidding? If any difficulties arose, she always had the grenades hanging off her belt which would put an abrupt end to most any troublesome situation—at least they had so far. Which reminded her, they were running out of grenades too. Time to hit another army base, right after they were done mopping up this crowd of lurching losers.
And maybe Slate’s group had to die as well. She hadn’t decided yet.
Ever since this thing had begun, she had taken control of her life and made the best of a horrible situation. She recruited only the most loyal and vicious recruits she could find. Okay, she had to admit to herself that there weren’t a lot of recruits to choose from these days, yet she had been lucky finding these leftover military men from the Fort Hood, Texas undead buffet. Her boys followed orders without blinking an eye. And, heck, Philly wasn’t half bad in the sack either. The other two, not so good. Anyway, she was used to getting her own way by now, and there definitely wasn’t any room for another leader-type contradicting her at every turn. No, sir.
She glanced to her right and noticed Jubal Slate had arrived with fat old Nestor in tow. And hey, Slate had given Nestor a gun. Fuckin’ A.
Nestor glared at her and she could see the hate burning in his eyes—burning for her head on a stick no doubt. He fondled the pistol in his hand as if he were debating whether he should shoot at the remaining zombies or save all the bullets just for her.
“What are you staring at, huh?” she said.
“Cut the crap,” Jubal, who stood between them, said. “And start shooting.”
Nestor nodded, smiling at Slate and blinking big puppy dog eyes at him, like he already worshipped the little guy or something.
Salina didn’t like that, not one bit. But she would worry about Slate and Nestor later. Right now, there was still a minor threat of the gnawing dead kind to contend with. She turned and took out a few more, as did Slate. In that way, he reminded her of herself: a born leader who didn’t allow a few walking corpses to get under her skin. He took his time and made every shot count, no doubt fully aware how difficult it would be finding more bullets.
Soon, it was over and the street before the diner was layered in stinking, decaying bodies.
“Now that,” Philly said, lifting his rifle above his head, muscles rippling on his heavy arms, “was my kind of entertainment. If I had a beer right now, things would be perfect.”
From behind Philly, Mother shook his head, probably thinking that this was no game and shouldn’t be treated so lightly. Probably thinking that Salina and her crew were a bunch of fools. Well, he was wrong. She would put her boys up against Slate and his crew any day. Just because her guys enjoyed killing instead of moping around like a bunch of crybabies didn’t make them hotheads. No way Salina would put up with any nonsense from her men; they were a well-oiled machine who only made it look easy. Confidence was good in the field and the world was now one big, motherfucking field. It was us and them and nothing else, so why not make it interesting? She’d rather be thought of as a carefree killer than have to go through life like that shrieking bitch Slate hung out with.
“Good job, everybody,” Slate said. He clapped Nestor on the shoulder and Salina rolled her eyes as the fat fucker practically drooled with joy.
“Thanks, Jubal!” Nestor said, forgetting the gun he held as he fawned over the serious young man. She watched the weapon slip from his fat fingers and fall to the ground. She gritted her teeth, waiting for the gun to go off, but fortunately nothing happened.
“Way to go, tubby,” Ned scolded. “If you handled pies like you handle guns, I imagine most of them ended up on the bakery floor.”
Salina, Philly and Morris smiled at Ned’s joke but of course Slate’s crew did not. In fact, they had all orbited their leader just as her boys had instinctively gathered around her. They all now faced each other in silence, a silence that Slate’s crew probably found awkward but that Salina didn’t mind at all; if they wanted a battle of nerves, she was all ready to go.
Well, someone had to make the first move, so it might as well be her.
“Nice meeting you folks, I’m sure. Be sure to swing on back around these parts sometime soon and maybe we can do this again.”
Slate shook his head, as though he was dealing with a stupid child. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until we’ve had our little talk. Get into the diner.”
He held a scattergun waist high, not really aiming it at any one of them, yet able to cover all if them if the balloon went up. Of course, all of his little patsies were pointing their guns at Salina’s crew. Even that creepy tall chick. She bothered Salina more than the others, although there was no clear reason for that. It just felt like the silent bitch could see into Salina’s brain.
Salina jerked her head toward the diner. Her guys started in that direction.
“Not so fast,” Slate said. “Mother, get their guns.”
“This shit again?” Salina glared at Slate. Her fierce look was enough to make some men piss their pants, but Slate didn’t even blink.
“What if more of those cocksuckers come around?” Philly said.
Mother took the big handgun from Philly. “Then we’ll give these back. Or we’ll let you get eaten. Depends on our mood, I guess.”
“You’ll get your weapons back,” Slate told them. “I want to make sure we can exchange some information in a reasonably civilized way. Then we’ll be out of here.”
“Okay, fine.” Salina handed over her own rifle and pistol to the one they called Mother. As she did it she made a silent vow that it was the last time any of these fuckers would have her at a disadvantage. The first chance she had, she would put a hollow point round through Jubal Slate’s skull.
As if he could read her thoughts, Slate raised his shotgun ever so slightly. The tall black bitch did the same.
Hell, were they all psychic?
She smiled at the ridiculousness of the idea. That’s what you got when you spent too much time thinking about shit that didn’t really matter.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
Mother, his arms burdened with the weapons from Salina and her boys, carried the load back to his own group. The Asian guy and Slate’s bitch took some of the guns. Mother kept the rest.
“Move out,” Slate said.
They crossed the street to the diner, maneuvering past a few dead vehicles, including an ancient SUV, which housed the mummified corpse of a woman and three small children. The mother’s blonde ponytail still looked clean and fresh, like she had showered that morning.
According to the faded sign, the restaurant had been called Slice O’ Heaven. Salina pulled at the door. It was locked. Mother stepped up and smashed the glass with the barrel of Philly’s gun. Slipping his hand carefully through the jagged edges, he turned the lock. Withdrawing his arm, Mother pulled the door open and, with a mock bow, beckoned Salina to enter.
Slice O’ Heaven wasn’t a big place. It would seat maybe 40 customers. Salina wondered if there were enough humans alive in a 50 miles radius to fill this place. She doubted it. If there were more survivors of the plague, they were staying well hidden.
The air in the diner was stale, yet it retained a faint hint of cooking odors, cinnamon maybe, and the scent of fresh bread.
“Heaven,” Nestor, that fat little fuck, said from behind her. “This establishment was perfectly named.”
The tables were part of plastic booths that lined the walls. In the center of the restaurant was a lunch counter that had a dozen plastic chairs attached to it. Slate ordered the four of them into one booth. Smart move. With them crammed into that small place, they would have little mobility. They wouldn’t be able to try anything. Salina stayed quiet, even though she seethed inside. She felt like a caged animal, and she hated that feeling.
Memories rose, unbidden. The tiny closet in her Mother’s room, where Salina would be locked in and told to stay quiet while Mama entertained her “guests.” When the sex was over and the men were gone, Mama would smoke her drugs or drink until she passed out, leaving little Salina in that small space until the next day, sometimes after lunch. All that time the little girl would lay curled up in fear, stinking from her own urine.
Fuck that. Salina stared defiantly at Slate. She was outnumbered and outgunned. But it wouldn’t always be that way. She would get her shot, and she would win. It had worked out for her so far. And if it didn’t? Well, everybody died. When it happened to her, Salina meant to take a lot of the enemy with her.
“Mother, Amara—you’re on watch,” Slate ordered.
The big scarred man and the creepy tall woman positioned themselves at opposite sides of the restaurant, surveying the streets outside the big windows. Salina was happy the woman was stationed at the back of the diner. At least those flat black eyes of hers would be pointed somewhere other than at Salina.
“What happens now?” she said. “We gonna hold hands and sing hymns?”
Her men laughed.
“I vote for a couple hands of Texas Hold ‘Em,” Philly said. He leaned forward so he could see Slate’s woman. “Or we can make it Strip Poker, mama.”
They laughed again, especially Salina.
Slate didn’t take the bait. He leaned against the lunch counter, between two of the plastic seats. His woman didn’t even blush, and the rifle in her hand didn’t waver from Salina’s direction.
“Let’s start with who you are,” Slate said.
“I already introduced myself,” Salina said.
“Where are you from?”
“Texas, originally. Army, like these other grunts.”
“Probably ex-army now,” Ned said. This brought a chuckle from Philly.
“Why are you in Illinois?”
“Why not?” Salina said. The actual reason wasn’t much more complicated: she had to keep moving. Staying in one place made her uncomfortable. As long as she kept her boys fed and led them to zombies, they didn’t care where they slept. They’d stayed in Chicago longer than anywhere since the world turn to shit, and now she was itching to leave. “We just do what Uncle Sam trained us to do. We kill. In case you haven’t noticed, the whole goddamned world is crawling with monsters. So we exterminate them.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Morris said. He bumped fists with Philly.
“So that’s us,” Salina said. “Now who the hell are you?”
Before Slate could answer, the door to the kitchen swung open and that fat little weasel Nestor came out with a big can and a knife.
“Not much left,” he said. “I was hoping there would be something I could cook. But I found this.” He held up the can. It was coffee. “Anybody want a fresh cup?”
“Sounds great,” Slate said.
“How you gonna do that?” the Asian guy said.
“There’s a gas stove in the kitchen, and the gas is still working. I just need a match.”
“How ‘bout my ass and your face?” Ned said.
Nestor ignored him.
“Heather’s got matches,” Slate said.
His woman stuck a hand in the leather bag slung over her shoulder, while her eyes—and her rifle barrel—never left Salina. Maybe the woman was tougher than Salina had first thought. The woman—Heather—handed a foil-wrapped package to Slate. He passed it to Nestor.
“Fantastic,” Nestor said. “I’ll boil some water and find a filter.” He practically skipped as he returned to the kitchen.
Slate settled back against the counter again. He held his scattergun down next to his leg. It didn’t matter. By the time Salina could squeeze out of the booth, Slate could splatter her guts all over the window.
“Do you know what caused all this?” Slate pointed out the window. Everyone in the room knew what he meant. The skies. The plague. The dead coming back to life.
Salina shrugged. “What does it matter? It is what it is.”
“I heard it was something we did. The government, I mean.” For the first time since they entered the diner, Philly’s voice lost its mocking tone.
“I think it was God’s judgment,” Ned offered. “Just like the Bible says. He took all the faithful to Heaven and left us sinners. Now Hell is gonna rule Earth for a thousand years.”
“What about you?” Slate said to Morris.
“I’m with Salina. It don’t matter. We’re here and we’ll do whatever we have to in order to stay alive.”
“Okay, Mister Know-It-All,” Salina said. “What do you think happened?”
Slate sighed. “I know what happened. I met somebody who was there, at a lab in Nevada.” He nodded at Philly. “You were right. It was run by the government. But what happened was a mistake. It was an experiment that went wrong.”
“The scientists accidentally opened a…a hole to somewhere else,” Heather added. “The plague came through that hole. But it wasn’t the only thing.”
“What do you mean?” A cold ball of dread settled in Salina’s stomach. She didn’t like that feeling. It was a precursor to fear. And she loathed being afraid of anything. She was possessed by an urge to stand up, to run before she could hear what these crazy people had to say. She wanted to get back to her life on the road, and the killing. But she knew the second she twitched Slate would paint the place with the contents of her skull. It’s what Salina would do in his place.
“The meanest, coldest bastards you ever met came through,” Heather muttered.
“Necros,” Jubal said, as if that explained everything.
“You mean zombies or something?” Ned said, scratching his head nervously, face pale.
“Beings from another world,” Jubal answered. “Ones who can raise and control the dead.”
Salina couldn’t believe what she was hearing: that aliens from another dimension came here and caused all this mess. She couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. “That’s your explanation? Bug-eyed aliens did this to the human race? And you’re expecting me and the boys to swallow this story?” She shook her head. “You have all lost your ever-loving minds!”
“No, lady!” screamed the little girl, her face red. “He’s not lying. I saw them and so did Mother and my mom!”
“Calm down, Robin,” Heather said, pulling her daughter close.
The little blond girl glared at Salina with bright blue eyes, angry that Jubal’s integrity had been called into question. If that kid ever had a chance to grow up, she’d be someone to reckon with.
Salina looked at her boys. They all stood dumbfounded, staring at Jubal with jaws hanging, trying to process the information he had put into their heads.
“My name is Tommy Cho and I saw them too,” said the Asian man. “I was walking across a cornfield one afternoon when something glided across the sky. At first, I thought I was losing my mind from all the disease and…what had happened, but it circled around and for certain it was some crazy red-robed dude riding astride a flying machine. After I made sure what I had seen, I ducked down into the wilted corn stalks because that thing looked like bad news and there was no way I wanted it to spot me.”
Philly whistled, long and low. “Goddamn aliens came here and turned everyone into zombies. Ain’t that some shit?”
“That about sums it up,” Jubal said, pushing back his disheveled mane of hair. “We found the hole they came through a few months back and one of our team went down there and blew it up. His name was Mike and he was a very brave man.”
“So, he destroyed them,” Salina said, folding her arms. “No more aliens?”
Jubal shrugged. “I haven’t seen one since Mikey blew their base to hell, but it’s not as if the dead have stopped moving around; at the very least, we still have that problem. Whatever they did to animate the corpses in the first place is still working its dark magic.”
“But at least no one’s controlling them now,” Heather said, rubbing her daughter’s shoulders softly, trying to calm her. “We haven’t seen any dead armies.”
“Dead armies?”
Jubal nodded. “Yup. To some extent, the necros had the ability to control the zombies and move them in formation against their enemies, sort of an organized feeding frenzy. And, worse still, they gave this same power to a madman named Luther Kemp.”
“Where is this Kemp now?”
“Dead.” Jubal said, but the expression that crossed the man’s face when he spoke the single word indicated to Salina that Slate had his doubts on the matter.
Controlling armies of the dead. She definitely liked the sound of that. If Salina had her own undead army, she was certain that it wouldn’t be long before she’d be running the whole show and by “the whole show” she meant at least the entire continent of North America. And, hell, before long she’d be working her way down into South America. And pity the fools who got in her way.
“Why are you smiling?” Jubal said, an edge to his voice. “This shit ain’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She wondered how this Kemp had controlled his army. What had the aliens done to him so he could do what they did? What had given him such wondrous power? She wondered how he had died, or if he was truly dead at all.
She had changed her mind about separating from Slate and his crew. Now, she definitely wanted to hang out with this little dude, at least for as long as it took to find out everything he knew about Kemp, the necros and their awesome abilities. Because if zombies still wandered the land, that might mean there was still a way to control them. All she had to do was find out details on how it could be accomplished. And once she had gotten every last bit of information out of Slate and his gang, she’d be off with her boys on a quest to rule this backwards-ass world.
Her Royal Badness, Queen Salina Morales! Hell yeah, she liked the sound of that. And if any of her undead army ever gave her any lip, why all she had to do was put a bullet between the troublemaker’s eye sockets. Dealing with the dead would be so much simpler than handling human soldiers, who always whined like babies and felt they had rights.
A chill of anticipation shot up her spine and she shivered deliciously.
It was time for Salina to turn on the Morales charm.