“A what? A good
what?
”
I cleared my throat nervously. “I was just...looking. Down. Looking - ”
“Looking! Who said you could look? Huh? Who said you could
look?
”
I really didn't know how to answer that, and only stared at him, my hands twisting anxiously on the shaft of the spear. He brought the machete up higher in response, and shuffled his feet quickly in the dead grass.
“I will take your fuckin' head off boy,” he muttered. “I will pump you so fulla holes you'll look like...” He faltered, trying in vain to find an adequate analogy for my bullet hole-laden corpse. So he settled for asking me again why I thought I could just up and go
looking
again.
“Huh?” he demanded. “Who said you could look?”
“No one,” I mumbled weakly.
“
No one
,” he repeated. “That's right.
No one
told you you could look. Not one muthafuckin' no one told you. Did they? No one!”
My heart hammered in my ears, and I felt the urgent need to pee. This guy was crazy enough to kill me at any provocation. Why he hadn't just shot me in the back of my head was beyond me. He took two steps towards me and waved the machete, and I flinched. He gave a wild laugh.
“I think you should drop that pack, boy. I'll take it.
I'm
taking it from
you
.”
I wondered if there had ever been a time when my muscles cooperated with me, and couldn't recall. They felt like they were solid to the core. Hadn't they always been that way? I was just a statue all my life, wasn't I? We stared at each other, and he took another step forward.
“I said drop it. Drop the pack. Drop it. I said drop it, you have to drop it,” he barked, and lunged out with the machete. “You either drop it, or I drop you.” He laughed long and loud. “I drop you. I drop
you!
”
I blinked stupidly at him, and then it dawned on me he was a lying son of a bitch. My head had felt huge and stupidly heavy, and then suddenly the pressure was gone. I could feel tension bleed out of me, and the feeling of relief made me shake. He laughed at that, which pissed me off and I could feel heat build inside my ears.
“You know what?” I asked. He was still laughing, so I screamed at him. “
Hey!
” He jumped, startled, and swung the curved blade towards me, but took a step back.
“You know what?” I asked again. He didn't answer, just tried to scowl at me but I didn't buy it. Not one damned bit.
“I don't think that gun is loaded,” I said. “I don't think you have any ammo. If you
did
, a little rat-fuck bastard like you would have shot me by now. You talk it big, dude, but you keep shaking that bush-whacker at me instead of the gun. And hey - you know what
else?
” He stared at me and I could see his bravery leave him like it was nothing more than a gob of spit - hacked up to let fly and hit its target, only to run harmlessly down and dry up.
“I said, 'do you know what
else?
'” I screamed at him, and he flinched, shaking his head.
“I have got the reach on
you
, mother
-fucker!
” I yelled, and jabbed the spear at him. He twisted, turned to run but his feet tangled up and he went down. I took long, confident strides up to him as he tried to get up, drew a foot back and kicked him solidly in his balls. He dropped again, the air in his lungs escaping violently as if it didn't want anything to do with him. It was just an innocent bystander in all this – no need to get involved! I giggled at the thought, stomped on his left wrist until the hand opened and the machete fell out. I bent over, scooped it up and flung it out and over the fence, the gagging and retching noises the guy made almost drowning out the sound of it clattering against the rocks. I spied the gun lying in the dead grass, stepped over him, and picked that up and sent it sailing over the edge as well.
I let him gasp and wheeze in the turf, then jammed the spear head into the ground inches from his face.
“Do you see that, asshole?” I asked. I didn't get a reply, so I kicked him and repeated my question. His head gave a sharp nod, and a sob finally burst out of him.
“That spear head has greasy-grimy zombie guts all the
fuck
over it,” I said, and pulled it free from the grass. “I bet,” I added, flicking the blade towards him as he flinched, “all I have to do is
scratch
you with it and you'll get the fever and die a horrible, no-good fucked-up death. Whatcha think?”
The guy had enough breath back in him to start crying miserably as his legs worked uselessly in the dead grass. He lay at my feet, an emaciated half-crazed hermit of a man – much like me – and scared to death. Much like
I
was a few moments before. I spun my spear around and gave him a series of sharp whacks across his arm, back and legs with the handle, then kicked him one last time.
“I ever see you again I
will
kill you,” I muttered, then felt incredibly stupid for stating such an insipid little threat. “You just lay there, catch your breath, and thinks things over,” I added, a bit more gently this time. “You can
have
the whole damned hotel to yourself. I just wanted to see the view for a minute.”
I didn't know what else to say, so I made a point of stepping back over him as I walked away, and around the corner of the hotel into the parking lot. I could still hear him hitching and gasping as he cried. I didn't know what else he might have stashed around here, but I was pretty sure he had given me his best shot. Still, I picked up my pace. I had seen what I came to see and it seemed unlikely I would ever cross the river down there, and I just wanted to get the hell away from the hotel now. The dead guy I had knocked over wandered aimlessly over the dusty pavement, and I detoured to take him out. One less thing for the miserable wretch behind me to worry about.
Good manners don't cost nothin', do they?
* * *
I trotted along North River Drive, and I halted abruptly. In the distance I could see the sports arena peeking over ancient brick buildings, and on the street ahead the dead populated the road between Washington and me. I immediately cut to my right and into a sea of parking lots and medical buildings. As I tried to head north, retaining walls, buildings and simple basalt barriers blocked my path. I ran along them to the east, and I was beginning feel winded and needed a rest – something I had hoped to have at the hotel until its occupant made me feel unwelcome. The thought of him angered me - yet also mined a startlingly acute sensation of pity, which I thought had been so buried in my heart as to be irretrievable. Which in turn angered me again. I felt a strong desire to go back and finish beating him to a pulp, and to also offer him some of my supplies. Share a fucking granola bar, for chrissakes. That feeling made me want to beat the crap out of
myself
, and before I could work up a sarcastic internal argument, I burst through a stand of bushes and trees and spotted a set of stairs set into a rough block wall, and they lead up to – oh look, another parking lot.
This one was small and narrow compared to the ocean of asphalt below, and I shot out of it, glanced to my left and there were still quite a lot of dead to the west.
Son
of a bitch. I didn't slow to take in details, just jogged up the street in front of me and discovered it was Atlantic, and soon saw the empty lot I had crossed over to Division not very long ago.
You have got to be kidding me
, I thought bitterly.
Round and round I go, where I stop who the fuck knows?
For shits and giggles, I hung a left on Boone and could see more of the dead up near Washington. Man, they really seemed to like hanging around up there. What was so damned special about it? I decided to take a right and head north again just one more street. I really felt the need to see what the draw of Washington was all about, but didn't relish the thought of being surrounded by the dead. I could avoid a lot of them I was sure, but it would only take a few like the sprinter to ruin my day.
I took the next left, and once again found myself in familiar territory. Before long, I was at the top of the grade on Washington, the desecrated church in front of me. I avoided looking at it again, but it added to a feeling of dread that had been building in me. To the north the dead seemed to have grown in numbers – whether it was my imagination or not I didn't waste any time debating. But many were coming my way. To the south it looked more or less free of dead. Well, compared to what I had seen back that way, at any rate. I felt a sinking feeling, that I was trapped and had made a stupid, stupid mistake for taking this journey.
This is turning into a bad idea
, I thought with rising panic.
A very bad idea
.
The words ran in an endless loop in my head, and as I trotted south they tried desperately to find a tune to play along with them. The best I could come up was,
Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
This is turning into a bad idea,
bad idea, bad idea
This is turning into a bad idea,
you're a fucking moron!
I made a note of the jumble of rocks to my left that formed a retaining wall for the medical complex above. I couldn't imagine any of the dead being able to navigate their way up or down them – I was always looking for quick barriers, and these might come in handy. Well before I could make it to the corner of Washington and Boone, I skidded to a stop.
In the vast parking lot for the civic theater and overflow for the sports arena was the largest group of the dead I had ever seen, period. They milled between abandoned cars, trucks, Hummers, RVs, you name it. They also wandered out into the streets, so I backpedaled furiously hoping I had not been spotted. A dead man with stumps for his arms came limping towards me from behind, and the knowledge that I had not been aware of him at
all
made my guts feel like they had liquefied. I took him down easily, but I could see at least a dozen more coming down Washington to me. Panic welled up in me. I had never been surrounded before - at least not on this scale. I could clamber up the rocks to the medical complex above, but I hated not knowing what was up there waiting for me. I swung my head desperately around for an exit.
Across the street to the west, a telephone pole had been knocked over, its jagged end suspended over the sidewalk as it jutted across an outcrop of basalt. The top rested across the roof of a medical supply store. I shot across the street and clambered up the rock face, then ran up the shaft of wood like I was a freakin' Wallenda. It shifted a bit as I neared the roof, but I jumped over the parapet and onto the tarred surface not knowing what to expect, but fairly confident there would be less dead up here than down below. I was also pretty sure no dead would be able to climb up the pole as well. I hoped if any saw my escape route they would forget it soon enough.
I looked around the rooftop, and while it appeared someone had been up here due to the random trash, cigarette butts and shell casings, there was no one here now. I almost shouted with relief, and eased the backpack off of me. I
really
had to go to the bathroom, and once I figured out the logistics, did so. Nothing like adding a little desperation on top of desperation...
Well that didn't take long,
I thought gloomily.
So much for not getting treed.
I sat against an air-conditioning unit, the sun at my back, and let my nerves settle. I saw the telephone pole shake slightly and heard the quiet moan of the dead. A distinct
thud
sounded from below, and I assumed one of the dead had fallen between the rock outcropping and the back of the building. I raised a water bottle in salute, then took a swig. Not even something as agile as the sprinter could get me, I was certain. Only the living. And if they were hunting me, I was a goner anyways – I was certain of that too. Self confidence was never my thing. All it did was get me in trouble. March down Division. Right to the river. You can do it!
My nerves were calming, but I was fuming – muttering to myself what an idiot I was. I took off my vest and jacket, the sun warming the rooftop. I didn't want to get up and survey my situation. I just wanted to sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself. I hadn't really acclimatized myself for this trip I realized. I was used to my nighttime rambling, and was feeling some jet-lag.
So it wasn't long before I dozed off.
A sharp whistle sounded in my ear, and I woke with a start. A girl sat against the wall that ran along the roof, facing me directly. She appeared to be fairly young – maybe twelve or thirteen judging by her size. But I couldn't really tell – sunglasses covered her eyes. Her deeply tanned legs were crossed at the ankles, one foot twitching lazily with an internal rhythm. Her hiking boots looked like they had seen some miles. Raggedly cut sun-streaked hair poked out from under the ball cap perched on her small head, and the sun glinted off the gun she pointed at me.
I gaped at her, and then sighed. She looked so damned
adorable
– it had to be that my hallucinations were back. Only she smiled, and flashed me a peace sign. My head jerked in surprise, and her grin grew wider.
“Cute, isn't she?” a voice whispered behind me. “Yeah... Say, I do believe you are on our roof.”
“You're quite the sound-sleeper,” said the older one. She was going through my backpack as the younger one held the gun on me, still smiling.
Well this is a new development
, I thought. They're acknowledging me now. My hallucinations were believing in
me
, it seemed. I was kind of flattered.
As the older girl (or woman - it was hard to tell since she had sunglasses on too, but she was taller than the younger girl and her voice sounded mature) methodically emptied my pack, she would occasionally glance at me as if expecting me to talk back to her. I was afraid that would spoil it all, and anyways my voice seemed to be having trouble finding its way out. So I stayed silent and just watched them, fascinated. The sun was high now, around noon by the look of it. The light was still bright and full and wonderfully summer. The false light of autumn wouldn't show up for some time yet.