Zomburbia (17 page)

It felt like I moved in slo-mo as I dug the keys out of my pants pocket. Why did I wear such tight pants? It felt like I could barely get my stupid hand in there. The grease made it hard to grip the keys. I glanced over at the shufflers—the girl was back on her feet and the boys were making steady progress toward me. I did my best to ignore them so I wouldn't panic again.

The key finally slid into the lock. I gave it a turn and threw the door open and bolted inside. The first thing I saw was an empty seat where Chacho should be.

I heard someone call from the back, “Jesus, Courtney, what's your—”

“Where is Chacho?” I screamed at no one in particular.

“Have you been rolling in the garbage back there or what?” I didn't look up to see who was talking to me. If I knew for sure who it was, I'd probably kill them later.

Chacho's stuff sat next to his seat. He must have still been in the boss's office.
Great timing, Chacho
. I rushed over and threw the helmet on my head. Then I grabbed up the shield and the baton and I ran back outside. I heard someone yelling that I couldn't take that stuff. I ignored them. No one was going to tell me what to do just then.

Only about thirty feet separated me and the boys. I closed it quickly as I gave my
Braveheart
yell again. Since I had more room to maneuver, I dodged to their left at the last minute and swung the baton at the preppy boy's head. But my aim sucked and I hit him in the shoulder.

While he recovered, I charged the grunge shuffler with the shield held up between us. I hit him with enough force to knock him down and was just able to not fall on my ass. With him down and the girl still lagging behind, I had the preppy boy to myself.

I turned to face him and held the shield up like I'd seen Chacho do a bunch of times. I circled him to the left and when he lunged at me, I dodged to the right and swung the club right at his melon. That time I connected and I nearly dropped the baton as the shock of it traveled up my arm. The kid's head busted open like over-ripe fruit. It was disgusting. He fell down and didn't look like he'd be getting up.I stood there for a second to admire my handiwork.

“Courtney, goddammit!” someone shouted at me from the store. Chacho stood in the open doorway and pointed off to my right. The grunge zombie crawled on hands and knees to get at me. I was dimly aware of Chacho running back inside the store for something.

My first inclination was to boot the kid in the head and see if I could actually knock it off his shoulders. I reconsidered because I had my Chucks on and I could see him just biting through them, so I settled for swinging away with the baton like a kid at tee-ball.

It took three good swings before his head finally caved in and he fell on his face.

I immediately turned to face the girl. She was just a few feet away. I planted my feet underneath me and got ready to take a swipe at her. Then I noticed Chacho standing next to me and he had something in his hands.

An ungodly boom sounded as he leveled his shotgun and pulled the trigger. The zombie chick flew through the air and landed a few feet away from us.

“What in the hell is wrong with you, Courtney?” Chacho looked so pissed, like I've never seen him before. But every time he breathed out, his lips flapped and for some reason that struck me as really funny. I tried to hold it back, but I started giggling. Chacho looked even more mad and that made it even funnier. Pretty soon I laughed out loud and then tears were running down my face because of it. I knew everyone was watching me through the store's plate-glass windows. I still laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. I started to worry that I wouldn't be able to stop—maybe I'd really gone around the bend. Jesus, maybe I was crazy and I'd start to think everything was funny. Napalmed babies, burning churches, hordes of zombies; all of it was fodder for chuckles when you're insane.

Everyone stood at the big window looking out at me and Chacho. They all looked horrified. Except for Phil. He stood there looking basically emotionless, like always, but then he gave me a thumbs-up. Why? Because I'd killed a bunch of zombies on my own or because I was losing it? That made me laugh even harder.

Chacho grabbed me by my shoulders and gave me one big shake. My head whipped back and forth and if it weren't for him holding on to me, I would have fallen to the ground. I stood there, stunned, just looking into his eyes. He'd gone from angry to worried in the space of a few seconds. That, more than anything, got me to stop laughing. I started crying instead. Not the great racking sobs I'd gone through when I heard about Willie's death. Just a soft, hopeless crying.

Chacho pulled me close. I guess he didn't care that I was covered in Bully Burger trash. He whispered softly to me in Spanish. I couldn't understand a word and it felt so nice, so soothing. Actually, I did catch one word,
mija
. “My daughter.” I cried a little harder then. Everything felt hopeless. Everything felt like it always did.

B
ecause being covered in zombie gore was sort of an occupational hazard, Chacho kept spare sets of clothes in his rig. While he dragged the bodies back to the incinerator, I changed into a set of coveralls that would have fit about three of me. I did what I could to make them stay on my body. Rolled sleeves and pants legs at least meant you could see my hands and feet. I cinched the waist with a belt borrowed from Mary Kate and I got some flip-flops from her evil twin, Ashley. It was really quite attractive in a postapocalyptic sort of way. The clothes I'd been wearing earlier went in the incinerator, too.

Mr. Washington left after asking me a bunch of questions. I think he was mostly worried about whether or not I would sue him because the store's security guard was in his office at the time of the attack. After I convinced him I didn't even know how to contact a lawyer, he went home, still muttering to himself. I'm sure he had nightmares about lumbering liability suits that night.

Everyone else finished cleaning up while I sat with my back to them and stared off into the distance. This crazy idea was running around in my head and I wanted to think it through.

Chacho sat a couple of tables away and picked up his magazine again. I turned to face him.

“You should come sit over here,” I said.

He set down his magazine, heaved himself out of his seat, and sat across from me in the booth. He didn't say anything, just waited for me to talk. Man, I liked him so much.

“So, I'm having this crazy thought,” I said.

“No shit.” Deadpan.

“Funny. Listen: the way those zombies came at me. Two hiding in the Dumpster area and one trying to flank me. That was a trap.”

Chacho nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, “that
is
crazy.”

“Cha-
cho
.” I hated it whenever I whined, but I couldn't keep it out of my voice. “C'mon, man, what else would you call that? A classic pincer move.”

“Now you're General Patton. I don't know about battle tactics, but I do know—from experience—that zombies aren't aware enough or smart enough to plan traps.”

“Maybe it's not smarts,” I said.

“What, then?”

“I don't know,” I said. I strained for an analogy that would work. “Okay, you know the way some animals work together to do stuff. Even
insects
can work in groups. Would you call those creepy ants in South America smart?”

“No, I wouldn't,” he said. “I also wouldn't say that what happened tonight is evidence the zombies are working together.”

I sat there fuming. I thought if anyone would believe me, it would be Chacho.

“Oh!” I startled him, which was pretty funny. “The reservoir,” I said.

“What reservoir?” he asked.

“You didn't hear what happened to me at the reservoir last weekend?” His expression was all the answer I needed so I launched into the story of me and Crystal being attacked by three zombies. A pair on one side and a single from the other.

“Tell me that's coincidence, Chacho.”

He scratched the stubble under his chin while he thought about it. “Something happening twice isn't exactly a trend,” he said. “I admit that it's weird, but that's all it is. Weird.”

I sat back in the bench and pouted. Chacho is like special-forces guy. How could he not see it as plainly as I did? Maybe because he wasn't the one who had been attacked. Even if that's what it was going to take, I didn't want it to happen. Besides Sherri, Chacho was the coolest person I knew. Cool or not, I was still mad at him, though.

“You can go back to your booth,” I told him.

He chuckled. “Yes, ma'am.”

Screw him. I crossed my arms and slumped down in the bench. People were going to be sorry when a huge wave of highly coordinated ninja zombies swept across the face of the earth.

The next thing I knew, Chacho shook me awake. I'd fallen asleep on the bench. My body felt achy as I stood up. I wasn't sure if it was from sleeping on the bench or laying into those zombies earlier. I worked the kinks out as I stumbled to Chacho's work SUV. Besides me, that night he carried the twins home, too. The rig had two rows of seats behind the driver. I took it as a bad sign that they huddled together in the very back, probably to facilitate better whispered bitchiness. Hell, let them talk about me if it meant I got to ride shotgun.

They fell silent when I first climbed into the cab. After a beat, I heard whispers and suppressed giggles. Being a better person than them, I ignored it.

Chacho climbed in a couple of minutes later. He scoped out the girls in the backseat and then whispered, “What the hell?” I just shrugged.

“You live closer to the store,” he said to me. “You also live just a few blocks away from me so it'd be cool if I could take you home last. You mind?”

I shook my head. Just then, talking seemed like way too much effort. I sometimes forgot that Chacho lived in my 'hood. I'd see him out at, like, the grocery store and, instead of the gray overalls, he'd have on jeans and a T-shirt. Usually his kid, a little boy about five or six, was with him. It was like running into one of your teachers outside of class, except that I'd never seen any of my teachers kill a bunch of the undead.

We drove farther south on Commercial and then entered a gated community to our left. We weren't far from Brandon's subdivision. The guards at the gate eyed me and Chacho suspiciously. Then he saw the girls in the back and waved us through. As we meandered through the streets, the twins' whispers and giggles became louder. Chacho glanced at me and then he reached over and flipped on the stereo. Latin-tinged hip-hop came out of the speakers. I usually didn't like anything even resembling rap. This, however, was pretty cool. I wondered who it was, but didn't ask.

We stopped in front of a huge house. It looked like my place could fit in their living room. Ashley told me one time, or maybe it was Mary Kate, that the only reason they worked was because their dad thought they needed to learn what it felt like to be one of the common people. Ugh.

Chacho idled at the curb while the twins disembarked. When Chacho called good night to them, they had a real giggle fit, nearly fell over each other as they staggered up the walk. Even though there was zero possibility of their being attacked by zombies—damn it all—Chacho stayed parked until they were safely inside. Then we glided back onto the road.

We were nearly back to the neighborhood's gates when I felt like I could talk to Chacho. Having the twins in the back had been a real mood killer.

“How many zombies have you killed?”

“A lot,” he said. “I think you're gonna catch up pretty quick the way you're going.”

The guards already had the gates open for us when we got to the security checkpoint.

“How many really?” I asked.

“What's this about?”

“Where were you when the dead returned?”

We were at the stop sign, waiting to make the turn onto the main road. He stopped long enough to give me a once-over.

“Again,” he said, “what's this about?”

“Just curious,” I said.

I sat up and turned down the music. Down, not off. I liked the way the rhythm matched my heartbeat. Or maybe my heartbeat matched the rhythm.

“It seems like anyone older than me, you know them for longer than ten minutes and you hear the story about where they were. I've never heard yours, that's all.”

He didn't answer and, after a little while, I figured he wasn't going to. Which was fine; I didn't want to harp on him and piss him off, I really was just curious.

“Baghdad,” he said. He stared straight ahead.

“Like, in, uh, Iraq?” I asked.

“Yeah, Iraq,” he said. He paused, checking his mirrors and changing lanes. “I was stationed there when I wasn't much older than you.”

I scanned my memory banks for what I knew about that from my different Civics and History classes.

“Holy crap,” I said. It didn't really seem like enough. It was all I could manage.

“Right.” Chacho nodded slowly as he pulled off Commercial and toward my neighborhood. “We'd been killing people there for a couple of years at that point. Hussein had been killing his own people for even longer than that before we showed up. There were dead people everywhere.”

I thought he was going to keep going on. He didn't.

“What was it like?” I prompted.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight I heard the hard plastic squeaking. “What am I supposed to say to that, Courtney? It was bad? It sucked? It was a living nightmare?

“I never thought I'd get out of there. I literally gave up hope of getting out alive. That's the hardest part. If the Army hadn't come to airlift us out when they did, I would have just given up.”

We stopped. I looked at my comfortable little house. I felt so stupid for bringing this up.

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just curious . . .”

“I know.”

There wasn't anything else to say, so I opened the door to get out of the truck.

“Hey,” Chacho said. I closed the door again.

“I don't know what you're going through,” he said. “I do know you need to figure that shit out. You're starting to look like me back when I gave up.”

I swallowed hard. “What should I do?”

“Hell if I know,” he said. “Just do it quick. Talk to your dad. He's some kind of shrink, right?”

“Yeah, some kind.”

“Well, there you go. Damn, I could have used a doctor. I didn't get myself together until my wife threatened to divorce my ass.”

“Maybe I should get married so my husband can threaten me.”

“There's no boys around you worth getting married to,” he said.

“Well, Brandon seems to be interested in the position now . . .”

“Like I said,” he said, “no one. You should get on inside.” He pointed out the window. “Looks like someone's waiting for you.”

My dad stood in the open doorway and he waved. I turned back to Chacho and smiled. It felt weird, having some clue of what he'd been through, and knowing he cared enough about me to tell me to get my act together.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You'll be okay,” he said. “Just gotta figure some stuff out.”

I nodded like I believed it would be as easy as he made it sound, then I got out of the rig and walked toward the house where my dad waited for me.

It was just him, too, which I liked. Bev wasn't bad; I just craved time alone with Dad. She had to work late and he'd told her that he'd see her tomorrow.

“You should have told her to come over after,” I said. “I'm going to bed soon anyway.”

“I'll see her tomorrow,” he repeated.

He asked me how my day was and I told him as much as I could about school and work. I didn't tell him about the zombie attack. He knew something had obviously happened since I came home wearing Chacho's clothes. I made up a hilarious story about dumping garbage all over myself. Okay, maybe not hilarious, but he laughed and it kept him from delving any deeper into my admittedly thin story. Sometimes I wondered if Dad just didn't want to see that I was spreading the bull pretty thick.

I used up all of our hot water showering the various forms of gunk off my body and out of my hair. I stood under the hot water for as long as I could massaging the knots out of the muscles in my arms and back. I didn't feel clean when I was done, really. I got into my boxers and T-shirt and thought I would go right to bed. Dad was still up when I got out of the bathroom.

I stayed up with him for a while. He popped popcorn and we watched some late-night TV. Dad laughed at all the crappy jokes the host of the show told so maybe he really did think my story was funny, too.

After saying good night and getting ready for bed, I closed my bedroom door and pulled the drawer with a false bottom out of my dresser. I counted the cash I had stashed there one more time and sorted out the money I owed to Buddha, and set some aside to use during the trip to see him the next day. That money went into my backpack where I could easily get at it and the other money went back into the drawer.

The tally from my half-year of illicit activity came to nearly $60,000. I know Sherri wanted me to quit, but if I could keep this up until I graduated next year, I'd have enough for a year of school in New York, two if I made the money stretch. And I could make it stretch. I mean, I'd gone this long without spending any of that money on clothes or video games or any of the dumb stuff that other kids wanted. I had a goal and I was going to meet it.

I considered going online, but it felt like all I would see were sites where I used to chat with Willie, so I decided to go to bed. I lay there in the dark concentrating on what I should tell Brandon tomorrow when I saw him. That was a trick my Calculus teacher taught me. If you have a problem you can't solve, think about it as you go to sleep and in the morning you'll more than likely have the answer. Believing in that little bit of wisdom was as close as I came to a religion.

I thought on it as hard as I could, trying not to picture the worst-case scenario as I did it, and I drifted to sleep.