Death and Biker Gangs (11 page)

“Veto,” Dax said. “I don’t want to hear about zombies when there’s real-life zombies hanging around outside.”

Tony turned the page, pointedly ignoring him. “Once upon a time during a zombie apocalypse…”

SEVEN

The next day, we came to the remains of a 24-hour pharmacy. Abandoned cars littered the lot, and Tony crouched down to inspect some tire tracks, though whether he could actually identify them remained up in the air. “These are pretty fresh,” he announced. “Keep your heads up.”

I coughed quietly against my sleeve, earning another Glare O’Death from Fearless Leader. I hung back with my rifle, letting him and Dax muscle open the doors. “You stand watch,” Tony told Dax once they got them separated.

“Don’t forget the kibble,” Dax said.

“Fuck kibble, I want some beets.”

There’s something vaguely peculiar about grocery shopping at the end of the world. For starters, there’s no lines to deal with. I prowled through the store, gun held loosely in my hands, my backpack open and ready to receive whatever I could shove into it. I hit my usual aisles, trying to stock up on things that might come in handy on the road. 

I reached the food aisles last. They had clearly already been raided, but there was still plenty to choose from. I pulled granola bars, soup, and cans of tuna. I had no idea if the stuff was still good, but I could snatch a lot of them, and hell, beggars can’t be choosers.

I turned the corner and walked right into the dead woman’s arms.

I screeched and tried to step backward, but her skeletal hands clamped down on my shoulders, and all I could see was her huge, sore-filled mouth coming toward my face. Several of her teeth had cracked, and still others were missing, and the 
smell
, oh God, the 
smell...

I dropped the backpack and tried to get a firmer grip on my rifle, but she pressed forward, mashing herself up against me. I kicked at her knees and calves, and my boot bounced off the rigid limbs. It was all I could do to lean away from her as her teeth snapped shut mere inches from my cheek.

I lifted the rifle up enough to grab the stock with my left hand, then thrust my arms out as hard as I could, shoving the gun against her. Her grip loosened a little bit, and I thrust the stock upward, catching her in the neck. Her head snapped back, the bones in her neck cracking loudly. 

I swung the gun up and around, then shoved the business end into her gaping mouth. Her jaw slammed shut around it, half-rotted teeth splintering and scattering around the metal.

I pulled the trigger without the benefit of a witty one-liner.

The shot took off the back of her skull, and I turned my head to the side as gore pelted the aisle behind her. Zombies leave behind a murky mist when you blast their brains out, and I’ve never been enthused about breathing it in. I stepped aside as her body dropped. 
Son of a bitch. 
This was as far from the crater as we’d been, but if anything, the number of dead seemed to be increasing.

It’s in the air...

I went for my backpack, only to stop when a low growl issued from behind me.

Shit.
 
Now they could sneak up on us?

I swung around and put on my best feral grin, which faded when I realized how 
close 
the damned thing was. I lifted the gun, fully intending to send the zombie back to whatever torn-up, intestine-dragging hell he had come from—I hoped his guts had been ripped out 
after 
he died, for his sake—when his hands closed around the rifle. Before I could say 
zombies don’t use guns
, he wrenched it away from me.

“Whoa!” My hands went up instinctively, before I realized he was just awkwardly holding the thing, rather than pointing it at me. Good, the brain hadn’t made 
that 
connection yet. Bad enough that the undead were happy to bite off chunks of flesh to get their way. We didn’t need to arm them on top of that.

He grappled with the gun, pointing the muzzle at the ceiling. I waited a half-heartbeat to see if he would do me the professional courtesy of blowing his own head off, only to realize he didn’t have any intention of doing so.

Hmm. Time for Plan B
.

Wait, did I 
have 
a Plan B?

He barreled toward me. I flailed to the left, and my hand came into contact with something fairly solid. 

I snatched it up and swung it at the ghoul’s head. He lifted his hands at the last instant, and the gallon of vodka smashed his right arm up against his face. The thing staggered, but held onto the gun. I grasped the jug with both hands and pummeled him again.

He stumbled to the side. I hefted the jug overhead and slammed it against his forehead. “Stupid fucking undead piece of shit...”

He reeled backward, and I heaved the vodka against his stomach. The thing bent double. I darted in, closed my hands around the rifle, and pried it from the dead man’s hands. By the time he re-oriented himself, I had the barrel pressed to his temple, and then I was down another round.

Shit. How many shots do I have left? 
I’d lost count.

Rapid footsteps approached, and Tony appeared at the other end of the aisle, pistol clenched in one hand. “What are you 
doing
?”

I pointed at the bodies.

“Don’t use the goddamn 
rifle
, you’ll attract too much attention!”

“Well, 
you 
kept the silencer!”

Two more of them came staggering over from what had once been the frozen foods section. These two didn’t shuffle as badly as the woman did; they seemed to have decent range of motion in their knee joints, at least. 
Are they fresher, or has the rigor mortis just worn off? 
This, and other fascinating questions, rolled through my mind as they came toward us, jaws working mechanically. If they got faster as they aged, that meant more of them might start running—and that was something I wasn’t entirely ready to face.

Tony sent me yet another Glare o’Death. “They heard you.”

“This pit stop was 
your 
idea.” I lifted up the gun and peered down the barrel, trying to get the one on the left in my sights. My arms shook more than I was willing to admit, and I had to back up a step to aim correctly. “You gonna help, or is this on me?”

Tony sniffed. “There can’t be that many of them, and you’ve got more bullets than me.”

At least someone was keeping track of my ammo.

The one on the left went down without issue, and Tony backed down the aisle, whistling softly. The zombie on the right looked between the two of us, as if trying to figure out who looked tastier. It lifted its hands and knocked several containers of macaroni off their shelves, then let out a low, piteous moan. It almost sounded embarrassed.

Stop humanizing them, Vibeke. 
People got killed when they saw the humanity in revenants.

I sensed movement behind me. “Think there’s one in the kitchen aisle,” I called to Tony. “Hold him.”

“Dammit, Vibby...” But he came back anyway, effectively catching the macaroni ghoul’s attention.

I turned around to take out the kitchen ghoul, and the last thing I saw was the butt of a gun zooming toward my head.

***

“I think she’s coming around.”

I blinked. I could see the ceiling overhead, dimly lit by whatever diffused sunlight was able to filter in from the front doors. A face forced itself into my field of vision, though I couldn’t quite focus on it yet. “
Always 
look around the corners, little lady.”

“I keep warning her about that,” Tony sounded close. “She never listens.”

“Blow me,” I croaked. I lifted a hand to my head, then jerked it away. Pain radiated out of my temple, spreading down to my jaw, my teeth, even my neck. “What the hell did you hit me with?”

“Revolver. Your teeth won’t feel loose after a couple of days. Just don’t chew anything hard.” The figures blurred together, then eventually solidified into three people in black staring down at me. “You killed our guard dogs,” the figure nearest me said.

I didn’t feel any new hurts around the rest of my body, but I wasn’t about to try sitting up yet. I’d gone my entire life without a concussion, and now I’d wound up with two in the span of a few months. Viva la endtimes. 

“Guard dogs?” I asked. I was pretty sure I hadn’t shot any actual canines.

“Ethel, Ricky, and Lucy,” another figure said. “Your snarky friend took out poor Harold before we got to him.”

“Will you have to kill him in retribution?” I couldn’t keep the note of hope out of my voice.

Tony apparently heard it, too. “You 
are 
miss flowers and sunshine when you wake up, aren’t you? I told you not to take them out.”

“No, you told me to do it 
quietly
.”

The people around us laughed, and I groaned and closed my eyes. 
Just pretend it’s the hangover from hell...you aren’t sitting in an abandoned store guarded by revenants...

Wait. A store guarded by the undead?

My eyes snapped open. “You 
named 
your zombies?”

There was more laughter, and the three people backed away to give me some space. Tony crouched down next to me. “I thought this place was too pristine. Guess they keep some shamblers around to scare the locals off.”

“Shit, man, it’s cheap labor,” the one who had chided me said. I figured he was the ringleader. “They’re easy enough to control, and you don’t have to pay them.”

I turned my head carefully in the direction of the speaker. “You can control them?”

My vision hadn’t exactly restored itself, but I could make out a graying beard and old-school green camouflage on the ringleader. “Nah, not really,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re just slow enough to evade, provided we don’t let them corner us. They tend to stick to the back of the store, and when people come in for food…” He shrugged and mimed a jaw snapping with his fist. “Crunch.” He grinned down at me. “Never saw someone take out a goober with booze. That was inventive. Think you should’ve used rotgut, though, not the good stuff.”

Goober
? I liked that nickname. It made them seem less like flesh-eating monsters and more like unfortunate bodily excretions. 

I sat up gingerly, trying to ignore what felt like a hot brick in my head. I’m sure people have taken worse hits in the long history of violence, but there’s really nothing like your first pistol-whipping. “You couldn’t just tell me you liked how I handled them?” I asked.

“You took out our guards,” one of his companions said. They all had some form of spiderweb tattoo along their hands or necks; some kind of gang sign, maybe? Holy crap, had we found an 
actual 
biker gang?

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't know.”

And now I was apologizing for killing some zombies. What the hell?

The youngest of the three scowled at me. “Now we’ll have to get new ones. They clump together, y’know. Hard to just find them wandering alone.”

“They’re social creatures,” Tony said. “It’s very charming. Now are you going to boil us alive or what?”

“Tony, don’t be a dick.”

“Hey!” Dax’s voice sounded muffled. “Can I come in? Or are you still working out your differences?”

Tony scratched the back of his neck. “Can the Boy Scout come in?”

Graybeard nodded, and his companions hauled the doors open. Dax and Evie strolled in, the former hauling his backpack, the latter licking her chops.

Dax stopped and gaped at me. “What the hell’d you do to her? You said she just needed to use the bathroom!”

I figured that meant I looked pretty bad. Even Evie seemed concerned, straining at her leash to reach me.

“I lied,” Tony said. “I thought they were going to roast us over a spit. Figured you shouldn’t see it.”

Graybeard pulled a face. “Not sure I’d roast you up. Y’all look kind of diseased, no offense intended.”

What the hell, dude? 
I started to take offense, only to realize that Tony and Dax were still covered in their hive-like marks. I glanced at my hands and knew I hadn’t escaped it, either. “We splashed through something the other day,” I said, feeling an instinctual need to inform them I was 
not 
carrying some freakish superbug. “We don’t have smallpox or anything. Well, I don’t. Tony might.”

“Hey!”

Graybeard looked between us. “I’m relieved to hear it, miss, but we’re still not going to eat you.”

“Vibeke,” Tony said, “next time potential cannibals think we’re diseased…please let them continue to entertain that fantasy.”