Fountain of the Dead Page 21

  “We run through the back door, kill anything in the way and then get to the vehicles and drive off,” Gerry said.

  “I don’t think I like that plan,” Beverly said.

  “I think we’re out of options and time.” They stared at the door as the crack stretched further up the pane. “I love safety glass,” Frank said. Frank ran to the opposite doors and looked outside, the way was clear; a few stragglers roamed the truckers’ lot. There were a few trailers in the lot, no trucks to pull them. The trailers would make a good hiding space assuming they were empty. At least until the dead moved off for better pastures. Williams would be safe in the trunk which was more than he deserved. The crack spread into a spider web across the door

  “Ok, everyone after me.” Frank reached for the locks and slid them free. He turned to see the others bunched around him as the first door exploded inwards covering the floor in glass. The dead poured in like flood waters, blocking the way, causing a pile-up, the slow ones in the front crushed by the weight of bodies struggling to get in.

  “If we’re lucky they’ll kill each other.” The first one rolled down the ramp of writhing dead and slid across the floor. Broken glass ground into its dead skin. “We are so not that lucky,” Sam said.

  “Let’s get out of Dodge,” Frank said and took off at a jog. Gerry and Sam carried the supplies and the med kit. Sharon took up the rear. The group skirted the side of the building, Frank stepped out to check the corner; he waved the others on. Beyond them in the secondary lot came groans and shuffled steps. They heard the second front door shatter and fall inwards.

  The front of the building, looked like a mob scene, bodies pressed in ten deep trying to get into a Black Friday Christmas sale or reporters and lawyers that hovered over accident scenes. In the parking lot, a few wandered among the three parked cars looking for signs of life. Frank pressed a finger to his lips and hushed the others. He could hear Williams rolling around in the trunk.

  “Stupid shit is going to attract them back to the cars.”

  Catherine looked around the corner.

  “There’s a dozen if even,” Catherine said. “We have to take them out and get to the cars. Frank has to get out of the lot first since the top to his jeep is in Connecticut.”

  “Fuck.” Frank swore silently. “I left my can of cola in the building. The first soda in years and I forgot it.”

  “You’ll have to deal, Frank,” Catherine said. Beverly took the keys from her pocket.

  “I’m going to get to the car; I’m a fast runner. I get in the Monte and lay on the horn. I’ll draw them away and circle around and I’ll pick up Sharon and Catherine. That will give you time to get to the cars. You’ll need to watch out until I get back around.”

  “They can come in the Explorer until you’re around. I got the room,” Sam said. Frank picked up some rocks and threw them across the lot; a few of the dead moved towards the sound. Beverly took a deep breath and took off at a run, keys in hand. She reached the Monte, pounded on the side a few times hoping Williams would shut it, engaged the auto-locks, and started the engine. It roared to life. She laid on the horn and switched on the brights, flashing them and rolled backwards then shifted into drive and slowly drew them away. She drove painfully slow to lead the dead away from the other vehicles.

  Frank was the first to the Jeep; he started the engine and rolled over the sidewalk to get to Gerry and Pierce. The others jogged behind the side of the Jeep as a shield getting to the Explorer; everyone else piled in. Sam started the engine and dropped it into four wheel drive. He started up the walk way and ran a few over, crushing them beneath the tires.

  They heard the Monte’s horn before seeing it and headed for the highway. There were no streetlights to light the way out of the parking lot, just the moon. Frank flipped on his blinker out of reflex and sped up seeing the yield sign. There was no oncoming traffic to worry about, just packs of wandering dead. Frank picked up the radio.

  “Let’s try Charleston, its two hours minimum from where we are. Check for fuel, get some rest.”

  “I hate the south,” Gerry said.

  “Right now, I do to.”

  “Want to know what I hate?” Pierce asked.

  “No one cares, Pierce,” Frank said, sounding exhausted. Pierce reached over the seat and dropped the can of cola in Frank’s lap. “I hate warm soda. Warm soda and zombies. I miss my swamp.”

  “We’ll be back there soon enough, Pierce.” Frank glanced at his arm in the moonlight, something about his arm, wasn’t right. “Is that a fresh bite?” Frank asked. Gerry turned in the seat and pointed a pistol at him.

  “No, nothing touched me.” Pierce held up his arms, there was no blood or broken skin.

  “Why is it shiny?”

  “I wiped my forehead with my arm.” Frank turned back to the road, giving the dark lanes his full attention.

  “You want me to shoot him, Frank? No one will question it.”

  “Not until Catherine says to. Besides, I told Sam he could end him if I didn’t.” Gerry sat back in the seat and looked through the windshield. In the back, Pierce slipped his hand in his pack and thumbed the pages of his secret book. “We should have cuffed him to something.”

  “We don’t have cuffs.”

  “You know what I mean, Gerry. Tie him to a support or the front of the jeep like a dead deer.”

  * * * * *

  Micah squirmed in the seat; the supply chest dug into his ribs. Catherine watched the dotted lines in the road pass by. He took out a book and quickly took notes; Catherine looked over at him.

  “I wish you stayed back at the village, Micah.”

  “I wanted to know if my grandparents are still alive.”

  “Do you even know their address?” He dug through the bag and took out a photo and handed to Catherine. The address, though faded, was written neatly on the back. “I can’t guarantee we can stop.”

  “Then I can’t guarantee I’ll stay in the car.”

  Sharon’s head whipped around. “Don’t talk like that, Micah. We’ll swing by on the way back.” Catherine nodded and closed her eyes. “On the way back, if we’re all still alive. Our priority is getting in and out of the swamps.”

  * * * * *

  Crowe pushed the car to its limits. The tank was full but the engine strained. He drank from a water bottle, spilling more than he swallowed and then ripped into a piece of jerked meat. He glanced in the rearview to see if there was a tail, but the road behind was dark and the road ahead long and pitted. He half expected Waters to be in the back seat waiting to jump out and slit his throat before he took off, and to slowly choke to death on his own blood as life ebbed away. But Waters had gotten back on the plane, followed Crenshaw back in.

  “Next time, I kill your pilot, Crenshaw. Then I kill your thug, and then I kill you.” Crowe drove for hours into the night, trying to devise a way to kill the villagers, get the cure, and then kill Crenshaw, but not in that order. He didn’t know exactly where they were going, to get to the glades and they’d be damned stupid, like he almost was, to go to Orlando.

  Crowe followed I-95 past St. Augustine and Daytona Beach. He smiled at the road signs and a random memory. He pulled the car over on to a stretch of beach, ransacked markets and kiosks marked the strip. Bullet holes and scorch marks covered the buildings.

  “Man at his finest, looters and murderers galore,” Crowe mumbled. He switched on the new cell phone Crenshaw gave him; there was no signal. He pulled the car into a side street facing the road. Crowe watched the road until his eyes got too heavy. “This is the path they will have to take.” His eyes eased shut and a soft snore escaped.

  * * * * *

  “Hit him with the bat.” Crowe looked at Crenshaw across the office. The nameless man knelt on the floor weeping, stopping only to cast tearful eyes at Crenshaw or wipe snot from his nose. His expensive business suit wrinkled on his heaving frame. Crowe took a step forward, with the bat raised high over his head. The man held up his hand,
with a wallet clutched in it.

  “Please, take my wallet, take my money, everything.” He opened the folds and money spilled out onto the floor. A plastic fold out hit the floor. Crowe’s eyes glanced to it, full of pictures of a woman with children. “Yeah, I’m married, that’s her, we have four kids.”

  “Kick that money out the way, Crowe,” Crenshaw growled. “I don’t want blood stains on it.” Crowe slid his foot through the bills; they scattered like leaves in the wind. He lowered the bat and the man relaxed for a minute. He turned to Crenshaw and winked.

  Crowe hit him from the side; the bat slammed into his ribs. He fell over in a ball, pink foam bubbled at his lips. Crowe raised the bat, struck the man on the side again, heard and felt the ribs break and give away.

  “Please,” the man groaned. His free arm scratched at the floor for his photos. Crowe swung the bat, shattering his hand and then forearm.

  “Looks like you won’t be playing baseball with little Jimmy for a while,” Crenshaw cackled. Crowe looked at Crenshaw with steely eyes. Crenshaw nodded once and the bat came down over and over. Blood sprayed and pooled, bones broke and at the last, bubbly breath escaped his lips. Crowe brought the bat down one last time on his head. “It’s so hard to find someone like you, Crowe. With such loathing and disregard for others.” Crenshaw threw him a towel and he wiped his face and hands. Crowe dropped the aluminum bat on the floor; it echoed out with a hollow metallic thud.

  “Pick up that money, you earned it.” Crowe stuffed the fallen bills into his pockets, leaving the bloody ones behind. “You’re hired, Mr. Crowe, if you want the job.” This time Crowe nodded once.

  “I don’t have a place yet.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took the liberty of getting a condo for you. There’s an allowance in the envelope on your couch. We’ll talk pay tomorrow.” Crenshaw walked to his desk and shuffled around in the draw; he pushed a framed picture to the side.

  “Do you have a first name, Crowe?”

  “Just Crowe for now.” Crowe looked down at the corpse and then dropped the bloody towel on top of him. “Did he have a name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. It’s not like I keep a diary. I was just curious. What did he do?”

  “You don’t need to know.” Crenshaw handed him a card. “That’s your new address.”

  “Can I get a gun?” Crenshaw raised an eye at Crowe. “I don’t mind the hands on approach, but it’s so fucking messy. Again what’d he do?”

  “Come in tomorrow, I’ll have a selection for you,” Crenshaw answered annoyed at Crowe’s insistence of what he had done. Crowe buttoned his leather jacket and pulled up the collar. He reached for the door and stopped.

  “Who recommended me?” Crenshaw pulled a bottle out of his desk and sat at the chair. He pointed at the windows. “I fought my way into this office for the view of the city. Amazing skyline, I love Boston, museums, concerts, plays.” He poured three fingers of Scotch into a glass and sipped. He offered the bottle to Crowe who only shook his head.

  “The corpse on the floor had some info about my fondness for obstacles and empty elevator shafts.” Crenshaw took a sip from his glass and sighed. He hated giving away info even the tiniest scrap. “I knew your old drill sergeant. He’d done some jobs for me overseas. Businessmen have to travel; sometimes they meet with accidents. And sometimes the accidents get blamed on terrorism. He said you had certain skills I might be in need of.”

  “That was very nice of him.”

  “On your way out, Crowe, could you call in one my morons to clean this mess up? It’s starting to smell.” Crowe closed the door behind him; neither his footsteps nor the door made a noise. He looked up and down the office hall. People bustled from door to door. A mail room clerk approached Crenshaw’s office; he handed a packet of inter-office envelopes to Crowe, eyes down and kept on moving.

  Crowe dropped them on Crenshaw’s secretary’s desk. “Call someone, Crenshaw has a mess.” She looked up at him, something in her eyes showed she’d been broken, stuck at this desk until fired or killed. Crenshaw had something on her. “The mess is still warm, better to get it before it cools.” She flipped through some cards on the desk and picked up the phone.

  “I’m going to like this job.” Crowe said and went to the elevators. He looked at the card in his hand and felt the re-assuring pressure of the wad of bills in his pocket. He pressed the down button in the elevator. “Yes sir, I am.”

  Chapter 8

  Frank crossed into Rock Hill; the wind whipped at his eyes. He leaned forward into the seat to get more coverage from the windshield. The road was dark and void of life, not a bird or a rabbit to be seen or heard. Gerry kept his eyes peeled for zombies and if they were lucky, a deer. Frank eased the Jeep around massive holes in the road.

  “Looks like mortar strikes, or grenades,” Frank said. “If it were mortar, there’d be army or military vehicles right?”

  “They’re old meteor hits,” Pierce said.

  Frank talked to himself more than anyone else. Pierce leaned forward. “I can feel you breathing on my neck, Pierce.”

  “I have to piss,” he said and then pinned his wild hair down to his head with his hand.

  “Hold it.”

  “I almost miss Williams being here,” Pierce muttered and sat back.

  “I can arrange for you to be in the trunk of the Monte with him. You two can spoon.” Gerry fired into some trees on the side of the road. Frank didn’t slow long enough to see if he hit anything. “Are you trying to attract every zombie on this strip of road?”

  “I’m hoping we left them all back at that rest area,” Gerry craned his neck trying to see if he had hit anything. “Thought I saw a deer. I’d kill for some venison steaks.”

  “Not very restful, was it?” Frank asked.

  “I can think of better ways to spend my nights,” Gerry said.

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “I used to be a cop. We used to play poker, go hunting. Had our own softball team.”

  “You’re a hunter and we have no deer?” Pierce asked.

  “Get me a tree stand, a cool fall day, and a forest with no zombies. You’ll be choking on venison.” Shadowy figures loomed in the headlights, staggering, lurching in the darkness. They turned to the lights and engines.

  “Look alive, Gerry.” Frank slowed the Jeep. “How many you think there are?”

  “More than we got bullets for. Way more than we have bullets for.”

  “What’s up?” Came through the radio.

  “Road is blocked, Catherine.”

  “How many?”

  “Déjà vu,” Pierce said.

  “A lot. It’s like some tour busses exploded on the road.” Ahead of them the road seemed to end beneath the shuffling feet of the undead. Their moans and groans were soft, getting louder with each shambling step. The white dotted lines were blocked from sight as the dead advanced.

  “Ideas?” Catherine asked.

  “Drive through them at great speeds, in four wheel drive. And hope the engines and gears don’t get clogged with skin, hair, and entrails,” Frank said.

  “Pleasant vision. Thanks, Frank.” Gerry said. “Besides, we’ve done that already.”

  * * * * *

  Micah took the radio from Catherine. He held it against his forehead. Trying to form thoughts into words and express them. He cleared his throat and winked at Catherine.

  “Take one of the fuel cans, make it a bomb. Stick it on the hood of the Jeep and drive at them wicked fast. Stop the Jeep, the can rolls off the hood into them and explodes,” Micah handed the radio back to Catherine.

  “That’s my boy,” Sharon said with pride edging her voice.

  “For someone who didn’t talk for such a long time and seemed very passive, you’re kind of scary,” Frank said through the radio. “Everyone back up a ways. It will take them a while to get to us.” They watched the flare of tail lights as Frank slowed the Jeep.

  “Thank
goodness we got the slow zombies,” Catherine said.

  The caravan rolled in reverse and stopped. Catherine and Sharon ran to the Monte. Sam opened the tailgate of the Explorer and pulled out a red 10 gallon, plastic container.

  “That enough?” Sam asked.

  “You ask like I’ve done this before,” Micah answered. Frank took off his shirt, leaving him in a stained wife-beater. He ripped off the sleeves and tore off long strips of cloth. He tied them together and stuffed them into the container, then taped them into place.

  “I could throw this at them and run.” Frank said.

  “You won’t get far enough away,” Sam said.

  “Tell me, Sam. When did you become a munitions expert?”

  “Just saying.”

  Frank carried the container to the Jeep and set it on the hood. He set his hands on the hood for a moment feeling the engine’s warmth.

  “I need to get this into the center. Otherwise we just char the outer fringe of them.” Frank climbed into the driver’s seat. He tossed the bag of guns and ammo to Sam. He spied Pierce’s bag tucked under the seat. “Just in case.” He patted his pockets and took out his lighter and handed it to Gerry. “For you, I have a plan.”

  The others gathered around the Explorer. Sharon kept watch on the road behind them. Frank started the Jeep and headed towards them. Next to him Gerry stood, flicking the lighter. The flame flared to life and Gerry put the lighter to the torn shirt. Frank screamed like going into battle.

  He cut the wheel, spinning the Jeep, scattering the front line. Gerry raised the can over his head, the smoke from the rag stung his eyes and he threw it hard as he could. Frank stood on the gas pedal knocking Gerry into the back seat. He spun the wheel knocking more aside and sped off towards the others. He watched in the rearview as the can faded from sight, blocked by the approaching dead. He held up his hand, and lowered his fingers, hoping the count was right.The can exploded on two. Frank swore. Gerry spun around to see the results. There were blinded for a moment by explosion. Great gouts of black smoke filled the air as the dead burned.