Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology (13 page)

Bertie and the others were laughing uproariously by the time they piled into Bil y Gaspar’s black Ford. It had been parked around the angle of the house. Bil y floored the pedal and the truck whined away toward the blacktop. The night swal owed the laughter.

Bobby Mack and Martha stared after them. The deputy realized his fingers were stil clamped to the flap of his holster. He took his hand away.

The yard light went on, bathing the whole area in mercury vapor glare. Mr. Malinowski stood framed in the doorway, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, you kids! What the hel ’s going on out there? Some of us are tryin’ to sleep.”

Martha and Bobby Mack exchanged looks. She reached up arid touched his lips. “I’l see you at the Diner.”

Talk at the Diner in the morning centered around two things, footbal and zombies. The preseason game between Denver and the Seattle Seahawks had been canceled just before kickoff. The rumors mentioned locker-room atrocities and half-devoured tailbacks.

“Musta been Seattle zombies,” said Shine Wil is grimly. “’Bout the only way they could beat the Broncos.” No one contradicted him.

“Okay, ace,” said Bertie. “Listen up. I got a little question for you.”

Everyone listened up, especial y Shine.

“So can animals bite you and turn you zombie?”

“You mean like dogs?” said Shine. “Get bit by Cujo? Beats the shit out of me.”

No one knew, but everyone had an opinion.

“I was wonderin’,” said Bertie, “’cause when I come out of the trailer this morning, the Jergensons’ mutt came for me and I had to put him down. He looked like he’d already been dead a couple days.”

Bil y Gaspar looked glum. “Cripes, al we need is for every critter to be set against us.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Shine. “The Jergensons’ dog always looks like twenty pounds of shit.

Probably just didn’t like your looks. You shower this morning?”

The men along the counter laughed. A bit nervously, Martha thought. She dispatched the plates of hotcakes, eggs, potatoes, bacon, toast. Poured the coffee. The real stuff. No one here drank decaf.

A rough hand gripped her wrist. The coffee pot sloshed. “No more for me,” said Bertie. “I’m tryin’ to cut down.”

“Let go,” she said.

He sat there; she stood waiting. A silent tableau. The men stared, then went back to talking. But glances kept flickering toward Martha and Bertie.

“Tipped a few with Carl Crump real late last night,” said Bertie casual y. “He talks real interesting.”

“I doubt that,” said Martha. “Now let me go.”

“No.” The thick fingers did not relax. “He says you got a little mark under your left titty. Looks like a bird. That true?”

“No.” Martha switched the steaming coffeepot to her right hand. “Let me go right now or you’re going to get this al down your front.”

In the sudden silence, the radio playing John Hiatt’s “I Don’t Even Try” seemed to blare out. The men at the counter no longer pretended to look away.

“If you’l go down for Bobby Mack,” said Bertie, “then how come you won’t do nothing for me?”

“Carl’s a liar,” said Martha evenly.

Bertie looked into her eyes intently. “Sure,” he said, and let her wrist go. “Maybe tonight we can go to Walsenburg?”

She didn’t know why she said it. “I’d sooner fuck a zombie.” She said it so low, no one heard but Bertie. He stared at her.

Martha turned away and walked back to the kitchen, trying to move straight and true, and not bolt. Once out of sight of the dining room, she rubbed at the quick tears. She felt a raw pain. Her wrist. She turned it over and saw the angry-looking black-and-blue marks. They looked like the wings of a bird.

Bobby Mack didn’t come into the Diner for his mid-morning coffee stop. About eleven Martha cal ed to Henry Roybal, “Hey, anything on the scanner? What’s going on out there? Anybody hear tel of Bobby Mack?”

“Nary a word about your young man, Martha. Lots of other stuff, though.”

She balanced a tray of dirty dishes and flatware into the kitchen. Jose, the dishwasher, took it away from her, grunting as the load clattered and splashed into a steel sink ful of soapy water.

“What do you mean, other stuff?”

“Don’t know, real y. Lots of code things, like when they know people are listening and the sheriff don’t want anything to hit the grapevine right away.”

As if on cue, the police scanner crackled and hissed around a cal : “Sheriff central, this is patrol three.”

“Patrol three, come in.”

“Hey, affirmative. Kenny and me, we got a confirmed patch of veggies just off county one-fiver at the Centennial Ditch. Must have been holed up in the First Baptist. We’re gonna take actions as ordered.”

“Veggies?” said Martha.

Henry Roybal nodded. “Al mornin’.”

The scanner crackled. “Patrol three, don’t do nothing stupid.”

“Central, can you send us backup?”

“That’s a negatory, patrol three. Things are jumpin’ al over the county.”

“We copy, central. Do what we can. Got my old AK47 in the trunk. Worked on Charlie. Figure it’l harvest a whole row or two of veggies.”

“My God,” said Martha.

“Repeat, patrol three. Stay cool. We already lost a coupla harvesters this morning.”

There was a silence on the scanner. Then the voice of patrol three said, “We know that, central.

This one’s gonna be for Dale and J.B.”

Henry Roybal expel ed a long breath. Martha looked at him. They both knew exactly whom the voice was talking about. Town cops. They hadn’t come in for coffee either. Bobby Mack, she thought, staring intently at the scanner. Say something. Report in. Please.

“Hey, central, we got civilians back of us. It’s Reverend Beecham and some others.” There was a pause, and then the voice got fainter as though the speaker were sticking his head out the car window. “Hey, Pastor! You need some help? The cavalry’s here—”

A strangled scream filtered through the scanner.

A second voice shouted, “Central, they’re veggies too—” A crackle of shots. Another scream.

Indistinguishable noises. Scratching. A sound like something chewing on the microphone.

Silence.

“Patrol three, what’s goin’ down? Report, patrol three—”

Martha rushed from the kitchen, trying to blank the sounds from the speaker. Bobby Mack. At least he wasn’t patrol three.

The radio on the shelf was playing Nick Cave’s cover of “Long Black Veil.”

“Why don’t you give us some news!” Martha cried at it.

“Mayor Hardesty don’t want none of us to panic,” said Bertie Hernandez. His pals and he had evidently entered the Cuchara Diner in the last minute or so. They’d tracked in some of the thin skiff of snow that covered the Diner’s parking lot. Brown water pooled on the tile floor.

“I think maybe
I’m
about ready to panic,” said Martha candidly. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” said Bertie. “We’l take good care of you, somethin’ happens.”

“You didn’t see Bobby Mack out there this morning, did you?”

Bertie and Shine Wil is exchanged glances. “Not lately,” said Bertie. “He’s a smart boy. I ’spect he’s okay, but probably real busy. You won’t see him before tonight.”

“Just what’s going on out there?” said Martha. “For God’s sake, tel me!”

“It’s the zombies,” said Bil y Gaspar.

“They’re spreadin’ faster’n AIDS,” said Shine.

“Yeah,” said Bertie. “Looks like maybe al they got to do is bite you, not even kil you. The bastards are al over town, lotta people you and me both know.”

“We kil ed a bunch of them,” said Bil y Gaspar. “But there’s so many—”

“Now,” said Bertie, “we got to hole up and rest. Diner’s as good a place as any. Anyhow, I figure we got to have lunch. What’s the special?”

“Meat loaf,” said Martha.

Bil y Gaspar groaned. “I don’t think my bel y can take that.”

“Eat or be eaten,” said Bertie with a grin.

“This is KHIP,” said the radio, “the kay-hip country voice of the southern Colorado empire.

Pueblo to Durango, we bring you the absolutely latest news…”

“Shut up,” said Martha tightly. “Just tel me what’s going on.”

The recorded opening trailed off, and there was a moment of dead air. The announcer, when he came on, sounded dead tired and scared shitless. “This is Boots Bel at the kay-hip studios north of Fort Durham. I’ve got a whole raft of announcements and they’re most al life and death, so listen up.”

“We’re listening, goddamn it,” said Bertie Hernandez, sounding as tightly wound as Martha. “Get to it.” The boys hadn’t gone out much during the afternoon. They’d stayed close to the Diner, bringing in weapons from their trucks and drinking a lot of beer. A few of the other regulars had drifted in. There was very little traffic on 159.

Boots Bel riffled some papers over the radio. Then he said, “The main thing is, stay indoors. Lock your houses. Anybody comes to your door, check ’em out good. Al of a sudden, there’s dead folks walking everywhere. This is no joke, no test of the emergency broadcast system, nothing like that. It’s the real thing.”

“Damn straight,” said Shine Wil is.

“If you’ve got weapons,” said Bel , “keep them loaded and handy. Shoot for the head. That’s about the only way to kil a zombie.”

“Hey, what about fire?” said Shine.

“—or burn ’em,” Bel continued. “Remember they’re quicker than they look, and real strong.

They general y run in packs. If you see one, there’s probably another ten sneaking up behind you.”

Jose dropped a pan in the kitchen and half the guys at the counter twitched.

Bel said, “Here at the station, we’ve received word that the National Guard’11 be moving in as soon as they finish mopping-up operations in Walsenburg.” He hesitated. “Reckon that’l come after they clean up the Springs. And in Denver—wel , we don’t have much word at al .” Papers rattled for a few moments. “We’re keeping a map at the station of al sightings, so if you spot a zombie, give us a jingle and we’l pass the news along.” There was a second voice, indistinguishable. Then Bel said, “We’ve already got so many reports of zombies, we can tel you it isn’t safe to be anywhere outdoors in Fort Durham. Period. Sheriff and police officers are doing what they can, along with community volunteers. But if you don’t have to be out, then don’t go out. Not for any reason.” Bel ’s voice cracked slightly. “The station manager just told me something, and I agree with it. If we stick together, we’l come out of this okay. Remember that.”

In the Diner, the men with guns held them tight and exchanged looks.

“More news when it comes in,” said Bel . “Now let’s listen to some music.” The speaker began to twang the opening chords of Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.”

“At least,” said Bil y Gaspar, “they’re not playing the Grateful fucking Dead.” He tried to grin, but the effect was ghastly.

Martha set her tray down on the counter and went to the phone behind the cash register. She dialed her parents’ number, knowing
of course they’re al right
, but just wanting the reassurance. Al she got in the earpiece was the soft buzz of a dead line.

* * *

By three o’clock, the first zombie appeared in the Diner’s parking lot. It was Mrs. Dorothy Mil er, who had been the head cashier at the Stockman’s Bank.

“For Chrissake, kil her,” said Bertie, waving Shine and Bil y toward the door. “They’re probably like ants, sending out scouts. We don’t want the rest to know there’s al sorts of food here.”

The men nodded and went outside, Shine first. Bil y put the butt of the 30.06 deer rifle against his shoulder and slowly squeezed off a round. The bul et went squarely through Mrs. Mil er’s left eye. The zombie flung out its arms and spun around. Shine raised his Remington pump at close range and blew Mrs. Mil er’s head completely off.

Shine and Bil y dragged the body around the corner of the Diner and out of sight; then they came back in and shared a pul off Miguel Espinosa’s flask of home brew.

Martha hardly noticed. She kept listening to the radio and badgering Henry Roybal to keep close track of both the CB base station and the police scanner. “Anything?” she’d say on her trips into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” Henry would answer. “Listen, Bobby Mack’s probably way too busy to use his radio.

Try not to worry.”

In the dining room, KHIP was playing Gordon Light-foot’s “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

“Christ,” said Shine, “who picks the music? I wish to hel Henry had a jukebox.”

“But he don’t,” said Bertie. “We’re just gonna have to make our own entertainment.” He caressed the rifle lying across his lap. Then he looked up toward Martha and held out his cup.

Martha stared at him and started to turn away.

“Please?”

She thought about it a moment and then brought the pot over.

His expression was earnest. “Listen, Martha, if we al get out of this, think maybe we can start over?”

“No.” She resisted the impulse to start laughing hysterical y. “We can’t start over what we never began in the first place.”

Something seemed to smolder in Bertie’s eyes. “I’m real y on my best behavior now.”

“I know that,” she said quietly. “But I’m being honest with you.”

“Me too,” he said. “I real y want you to be my girl.”

She shook her head.

“Final word?” he said.

—
dangerously
, Martha thought.
He sounds like he’l do anything
. She nodded. Yes.

“Wel , shoot,” said Bertie. “I guess the only thing left is to fuck you til you can’t see straight. Or walk straight, neither.”

“Try it,” said Martha, “and I’l kil you.”

“And I’l come back,” said Bertie. “And keep fucking you. Bet it doesn’t do no good to kick a zombie in the nuts. What do you think?”

“I think you’re disgusting.” Martha held the handle of the coffeepot tightly. The temptation to blister his face so that it looked like a basic zombie visage of torn and rotting flesh was nearly irresistible. She turned away.

“I’l wait,” said Bertie toward her back. “After you’re done waitin’ for Bobby Mack, I’l stil be good and hard.”

Without turning, she said, “I can wait too.”