Green Ice: A Deadly High (24 page)

“
There’s more of those crazy fuckers out there?” the gunman asked. “Man, I thought it was just something around this town. What the hell is going on out there? You said infected. They’re infected with what?”

Trey
didn’t want to elaborate too much. He felt he’d said enough already and thought it best to distance himself with any involvement in the outbreak.

“Damned if I know, man. We’ve seen a few pockets of these guys along the road.”

“Where you guys headed anyhow?”

“La Paz, down on the south coast,”
Trey replied.

The gunman remained silent for a few moments. He seemed to be mulling over Trey’s answer. “You guys on vacation?”

“Yeah,” Trey said, nodding enthusiastically.

“Who are your buddies, the two guys you were with? Are they a couple of fags?”

Trey shrugged, quickly trying to think up another cover story. He knew the guy was referring to Mancini and Jorge. “I don’t know. They’re just a couple of guys we picked up hitch hiking, on the road along the way. They said their car broke down a few miles further back.”

“Why are you carrying that piece?” The gunman’s eyes flashed to the
Heckler and Koch on top of the work bench beside him. “Serial numbers are filed off, which makes it kind of illegal, don’t it?”

“Ah, well…you know, man,” Trey stammered, trying desperately to think of an excuse why he was carrying a firearm. “Mexico gets a bad rep for being a dangerous place and all. I bought it from some guy at a road stop outside of Tijuana,” he lied.

The gunman seemed to buy his bullshit story and nodded slightly. He shuffled backward and turned his attention to Leticia. “Okay, Baby Doll, I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth now but don’t make a sound. You hear me?”

Leticia slowly nodded behind the man’s vice like grip
still wrapped around her lower face.

“You make a sound, and I’m going to shoot Sweetheart here in the face, understand?” He turned the barrel of the Beretta in Trey’s direction, pointing it directly in line with the young man’s nose.

Leticia nodded a second time and the gunman removed his hand from her mouth. She glanced nervously at Trey before the gunman shoved her in the back. Leticia stumbled forward and Trey caught hold of her upper arms before she fell onto the concrete floor.

“All right, you two,” the gunman said. “Let’s take a look at that damn fine T-Bird out front and see if we can patch her up a little.”

Leticia flashed Trey an anxious glance. He reacted with a slight shrug, not sure what to do or how to escape the deranged guy holding them at gunpoint.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“How do you know if it’s even got any keys to start the damn thing?” Jorge asked, staring at the dented and rusting, dark blue Volkswagen Beetle, parked in an alleyway off the side street.

“It’s parked next to that small house.” Mancini pointed to the dwelling to the right of the alley. “Maybe the keys are inside someplace.
They won’t be difficult to find. In my experience, folks generally keep their car keys in a place in plain view. We should take a look.”

“But look at the state of that thing,” Jorge protested, gesturing towards the VW. “It looks as though it’s ready for the junk yard.”

Mancini glanced up and down the street to check they were still alone and unspotted. “I don’t think you understand the concept of time and motion, Jorge,” he sneered. “Time says we have to get to La Paz and motion says we have to get the fuck out of here by any means, which leads us to this beast right here. All we need is to reach the next big city and we can ditch the rust bucket for something with a little more class.”

“I had a bad experience in one of those things when I was a teen,” Jorge groaned. “A pal of mine was driving home from a party one night. He was really drunk and I was sitting in the backseat when…”

“Tell me your story of woe another time, Jorge,” Mancini interrupted. “Right now, we need to get rolling.” He stared back towards the main street and Jorge turned to follow his eye line.

A slow stream of infected crossed the intersection between the main street and the side road, heading from right to left. Mancini grabbed Jorge by the arm and quickly led him across the side street and into the alleyway. They ducked behind the driver’s side of the VW and Mancini glanced through the window at the steering column. No keys hung from the ignition but Mancini tried the door handle anyway. To his surprise, the door was unlocked and opened.

“All right, let’s take a look in here,” he muttered, sliding into the vehicle across the front seats.

Mancini searched the obvious places for a spare set of keys. Underneath the sun visors, inside the glove box, under the driver and passenger seats and on top of the front tires
but the search yielded nothing. He knew how to hot-wire a vehicle but the procedure was time consuming and noisy and he also didn’t want to waste time if the engine didn’t fire up.

“Okay, we’ll try inside the house,” Mancini sighed.

“What happens if somebody is still inside there?” Jorge asked, his forehead creasing in concern.

“That’ll make it real easy,” Mancini growled. “They’ll be able to tell us where the
car keys are.”

Jorge groaned and reluctantly followed Mancini through a narrow gateway at the side of the house.
Mancini carefully avoided piles of dried dog shit as he crossed the small, sand covered backyard. He stopped at the rear window and peered through the glass inside the one storey property.

Jorge lurked at the back of the yard and spotted an outdoor water faucet. He twisted the handle, which produced a squeak at every turn. Mancini glanced around, alerted by the noise and saw Jorge lapping up the water like a
thirsty dog and splashing the liquid over his face.

“You animal,” Mancini groaned but his throat was also dry. He joined Jorge and cupped his hand beneath the faucet and took a few gulps, wetting his lips and face.

“See anybody inside?” Jorge asked, between slurps of water.

“I can’t see
nobody in there but that shit looks as though it belongs to a big dog.” He nodded towards the excrement piles ground. “That could be a problem.”

“Nah, it’s dry. It won’t stick to your shoes.”

“I meant the dog, not the shit, dumbass,” Mancini snapped, turning back to face the house.

Jorge looked slightly embarrassed and ducked his head. He turned off the faucet and flicked the excess water from his hand.

Mancini strode to the back door and tried the handle. It was secured from the inside but Mancini glanced through the window panel and saw a key protruding from the lock. He turned his Heckler and Koch around so he had hold of the barrel and tapped at the glass with the butt of the firearm. Wincing at the sound of the glass breaking and shattering onto the interior floor, Mancini reached inside and unlocked the back door. He flashed Jorge a brief glance before he entered the house. Jorge sighed and followed Mancini across the threshold.

Mancini held his handgun out in front of him as he entered the small, whitewashed kitchen with matching white floor tiles.
A stench of spoiled food and rotting meat hung unpleasantly and heavily in the air. Groups of flies buzzed around in separate rotating spirals throughout the kitchen. Dirty food stained dishes and pots sat on the countertops and in the chrome sink.     

“Smells like something died in here,” Jorge croaked, wafting his hand in front of his nose.

Mancini turned back to Jorge, grimacing while holding his index finger to his lips. Jorge reacted with a nod, understanding he should keep quiet.

The kitchen door
, leading to the rest of the house was closed but was constructed of bubbled glass panels so Mancini could see into the hallway. Nobody moved around and he couldn’t hear any noises to indicate the house was occupied. He turned the handle and pulled the kitchen door open. Another waft of foul smelling air attacked his senses from the hallway beyond.

“Ah, shit, what the hell
is
that?” Jorge moaned. The stench was making him feel increasingly queasy.

“Let’s just find those car keys and get the hell out of here,” Mancini muttered
, stepping into the hallway.

Two sets of white painted doors on each side of the hallway all stood closed. The hallway ran to the wooden front door. Light streamed through a small glass panel at the top and center of the front door, which o
verlooked the side street. Mancini looked out onto the street but couldn’t see any movement outside.   

“Are you sure that heap of crap even belongs to this house?” Jorge asked.

“Just keep a look out for a key rack or something that looks like a bunch of car keys,” Mancini snapped.

Sudden movement to his right caught Mancini’s immediate attention.
Jorge shrieked as Mancini spun on his heels to his right, raising the handgun to head height as he moved. He didn’t have time to fire off a shot as the bulky shape leapt forward, knocking him backwards and slamming him against the hallway wall to the left of the front door. Something or somebody had rapidly emerged from the room to his right and was now on the attack.

Mancini struggled against the huge dark shape
, pinning him against the wall. His handgun was knocked from his grip and his sunshades fell from his face. Both items clattered to the tiled floor and skidded away from him.

As his focus cleared, Mancini caught sight of a man’s torn and ripped face snarling and lurching a few inches from his left cheek.
Hands tore at his clothes and throat and black eyeballs, wide and fierce glared into Mancini’s own eyes. Jorge emitted shrill gasps and stood rooted to the spot in the hallway doorframe. Mancini batted away the man’s grasping arms with a sideways punch. He swept his left foot around in an arc, kicking away the attacking man’s legs. The contaminated man fell sideways, smashing his head against the front door. Mancini regained his balance and stomped down hard with his left foot, aiming at the guy’s blood smattered face.

A cracking noise reverberated around the hallway as the infected man’s skull fractured in several places but he still tried to regain his feet. A plume of blood
erupted from the wounds in the man’s face and splattered up the wall in a vertical splash. Mancini raised his foot for a second stomp. Jorge crouched down and scooped up Mancini’s handgun, pointing it at the infected guy.

“Move out the way,” Jorge shrieked.

Mancini didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t sure if Jorge could use a handgun but he wasn’t going to stand in the way to find out for sure. He threw himself across the hallway, towards the kitchen door, landing in an ungainly heap beside one of the closed doors then skidded across the tiles on his right side. Jorge fired once and the kick of the recoil caused his arms to jerk upward. The nine millimeter round zipped through the glass panel at the top of the front door. Mancini groaned when he saw the result of the gunshot, high and way over the target.

“Give the damn gun here,” Mancini yelled, holding out his hand but Jorge was oblivious.

He aimed lower and fired another round and the infected man, who had hauled himself to a kneeling position.

The second shot was closer to the target this time but still not a killing one. The round zipped alongside the guy’s head, slicing off most of his right ear before slamming into the wooden door frame behind him. Jorge took a couple of forward steps towards the guy, who was staggering to his feet.

Mancini pushed himself up but slipped on his sunshades lying on the tiles. He went down heavily on his left knee and resisted the urge to cry out in pain.

Jorge aimed the Heckler and Koch directly at the infected guy’s face
, from around two feet away. The attacker howled and lurched forward and Jorge pulled the trigger. This time, he couldn’t miss. The round entered the gaping mouth and the back of the contaminated man’s head exploded outwards with the exit impact. Blood and shards of brain matter slapped against the front door in matted clumps. The body slumped backwards and sagged to the floor.

“Yeah,” Jorge shrieked. “See what you get, you motherfucker.”
He jabbed the gun barrel towards the prone corpse.

Mancini sensed Jorge was becoming a little unhinged. A scenario he’d seen previously when somebody makes
a first kill.

“Okay, Jorge. You did
good,” Mancini said as calmly as he could muster. “Just hand me the gun now, will you?”

Jorge swiveled on his heels, now aiming the firearm at Mancini.

“Whoa, hold it there, cowboy,” Mancini called out. “Watch what you’re doing with that loaded piece. Just hand it over.”

Jorge
grinned then emitted a wheezy giggle, which Mancini didn’t like. “The boot is on the other foot now, my friend. I’m the one with the gun and you are now the bitch. You do as I say now, eh?”

“Ah, come on,” Mancini protested. “You’re not serious.”

The smile slipped from Jorge’s face and a crazed intensity burned in his eyes. “Oh, I’m very serious, Mancini,” he snapped. “In fact, I’m
deadly
serious.”