B-Movie War (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The next two hours were a waiting game. Jimmy wouldn't stop eating everything in sight. The crunch of potato chips was a constant blot against the silence. Barry finished root beer after root beer while surveying the streets with his binoculars.

Vic asked, “Anything out there yet?”

“Just caught a topless nun ram a crucifix down a guy's throat. And…oh, a dude with a pumpkin on his head skewered a guy with a pitch fork. Pumpkin guy's driving a bunch of corpses around for a hay ride by the looks of it.”

“Then it's really true. Horror movies are coming to life. And this is happening everywhere?”

Barry sighed. “From what Nelson explained to us, it's slowly breaking out globally. It'll be a full-out war soon. They've set up various bases everywhere.”

“Set up base?”

“The movie reels are possessed by ghosts. When the movie reels play, the characters come to life. It's complicated, but it has to do with magic and illusion. The dead have had all the time in the world to perfect their system, I guess. Now, they're using blood soaked reels to pull off the same effect as possessing the reels. It's complicated.”

Vic remembered the group of zombies back at the police station. They were playing a movie reel against the wall. “Yeah. I'm sure it is.”

Barry said, “They're scattered throughout the world playing movies, building up their forces. Some monsters are out there killing, others are in hiding, others are ready to be deployed, but there's one main event we can't stop. It's the true start of the war. Nelson told me there's not much that can be done to stop it either. We have to get to New Jersey, and then we go from there. Our job is something extra special. Our job will save the world from global extinction, if we succeed.”

“But your son didn't explain those details, did he?”

Barry's face burned with conviction. “No, but I trust Nelson. I trust him with my life, and the life of my only living son.”

“This is the cynic in me,” Vic argued, “but what if your son isn't a good spirit? What if he's tricking you?”

“Too much has happened for me to believe that. Nelson would never betray me.”

“Yes, but how do you know for certain? When I had my vision of all those dead people moments ago, they looked tormented. How do you know Nelson hasn't been changed by the hell he's been put through on the other side?”

Barry was trying his best to be patient in the face of such tough questions. “Vic, I hear what you're saying. The only thing I can say is when Nelson visited our home as a walking dead man, he did his best to explain through writing on a piece of paper what was happening and what we needed to do to prevent global extinction. Then he walked out in the backyard, and Nelson had us bury him. He wished us no harm. He only wants to rest in peace, and he couldn't until he knew he'd done his part in saving us, and the world, from serious harm. Those aren't the actions of a bad soul. They're the actions of a good soul. I'm proud of my son.”

Vic let the argument go. He wasn't entirely convinced. It gave him all the more reason to watch his back.

The time to chat would soon be over.

The Cavalry finally arrived.

Barry and Jimmy acted out a plan between themselves. They left the food and drinks behind. Next to the table with the big chest on top was a laid out blanket. Under that blanket was a small arsenal of guns. The two guys stripped off their shirts in tandem.

“What the hell are you guys doing?”

Barry said it like he was Vic's father. “Take off your shirt.”

“I—but why?”

Vic got a nice show of man boobs, hairy chests and fat rolls. It was the first time he'd seen skin so pale and hairy in his life. When the two reached over the table and put on what looked like an ugly piss yellow wet suit, Vic began to put it together. He took his shirt off and tried one on for himself.

Jimmy said, “We've had other visitors besides my brother before this happened, including a guy from the military. He gave us these vests. They're liquid armor. It's light weight, so it won't slow you down. He said in case of friendly fire, we should wear these. Bullets are going to be flying. It's our job to duck and get the fuck out of there.”

Vic noticed the change of clothes next to the guns.

Barry smiled. “Yeah, those are for you. Nice jeans. Clean shirt. The boots are steel toed and water proof. Put them on. I'm sure you'll appreciate not being covered in blood for a minute.”

“Why didn't you tell me about the vests before you started stripping?”

They hesitated. Then Jimmy said, “We were eating. We forget. Sorry.”

“Whatever. You guys are weird.”

Now that Vic got a closer look at the guns, there wasn't a lot of weaponry. The weapons were already in leather holsters. Vic strapped one on his shoulder. He chose the .357 SIG. It was a heavy firearm, but he knew the blast would hit home when it needed to. Accuracy was worth the weight. Next, Vic strapped on a Cobra Patriot on his left leg. He wanted more guns, but his partners beat him to the chase.

Jimmy had strapped on two chrome f9mm guns, each holstered on his shoulders. He had three grenades on a belt. He said they were smoke grenades, in case they needed to retreat. Barry was the one who'd taken the majority of the weapons. He left the buck shooter rifle next to the pile of trash and leftover food. He had a M4 Benelli semi-automic shotgun, the ones SWAT and the Marine Corps used. Barry strapped on a mean looking six inch blade. Vic imagined it could slice through necks and sever bone with little force on the user's end. The grenades on Barry's hips were the real thing. Barry called them his “Big Boomers.”

Vic said, “Why don't I get to carry those shotguns? I can probably shoot better than you guys.”

“Nope.” All the weapons accounted for, Barry pointed at the chest. “You grab one end, Vic, and Jimmy grabs the other. Use your muscles.”

“What about firing our guns? We can't haul this thing and watch our backs.”

Barry smiled. “I've got your backs. You're carrying more guns in case mine go dry. You're keeping that payload safe. That's your job. I'll do mine.”

Vic didn't like that plan. “Why don't I fire the guns, and you carry this chest with your boy?”

Barry shook his head. “Nope. Bad back. I've had disc problems my whole life. I used to drive the metro bus before I was forced into early retirement. Bad wreck. Long story. Messed me up good.”

“Okay, fine.” Vic helped Jimmy lift the chest off of the table. The thing was hefty. “You sure you guys don't know what's inside? This thing's as heavy as an anvil.”

“We have no idea, I swear,” Barry insisted. “Now let's go.”

Outside The Hall of Records, they stuck to the shadows of the parking lot. The night air was loud with human agony, random gunfire, the sound of fires eating up buildings, infernal demon laughter and lunatic thrills. They kept moving. Carrying the wooden chest was taxing on Vic's arms to hold up. Jimmy was struggling more. The young man was sweating profusely and breathing out his mouth. Barry stayed behind them, his weapon trained at sixty. They moved up two city blocks, staying on the sidewalk, and having to step over the occasional dead body. The corpses would lift their heads up and cheer them on: “
It's clear
.” “
Keep moving
.” “The plane should be here soon.” “
Only minutes before they arrive. Watch out
.” “You're close to where the Calvary's meeting up.”

Vic couldn't help but feel doomed.

“This feels too easy,” Barry complained. “I expected monsters galore by now. Wait, I see Carlos up the street.”

The person named Carlos was standing in an empty parking lot outside a closed down Mexican restaurant. A heavy duty pick-up truck had a trailer attached to it that was like a long wooden platform lawn mowing businesses used to transport industrial sized mowers. On that trailer was a black cannon. Cannonballs were heaped in boxes, as was gunpowder. Barry told them to run to the truck. When they arrived, Vic and Jimmy placed the chest in the bed of the truck.

“What's with the cannon?” Vic asked Carlos. The guy was dressed in flannel, jeans, and was tipping back a forty ounce into his maw. “And where do I get one of those beers?”

Carlos spoke fluent English, though it was rough in parts. “Everybody thought the cannon in town hall was a replica. It's not. I always wanted a chance to fire this thing. And this is my last beer. Sorry.”

Vic turned to Barry. “So how do you know Carlos?”

“I don't. Some dead person told him to be here just as my son told us to meet a man named Carlos here.”

“So where's everybody else?”

Barry didn't have to think. “They're hiding. Waiting to ambush the bad guys when they show up. I expected more trouble before getting here. I'm kind of worried. Doesn't matter. Carlos, you manning the cannon?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, then I'm driving the truck.”

Barry gave Vic his Benelli shotgun. “You stay on that trailer hitch and shoot whatever comes our way. Carlos will stay in the trailer hitch with you and man the cannon. And don't worry. Carlos knows what to do with that big boy. Jimmy, you get in the passenger side and get ready to fire at whatever comes our way. I'll get us to where we're going. Okay. We've got our jobs, so let's do them.”

By the time they loaded up and were ready to drive, the collection of city buses started pulling up. Dozens. Carlos was in the trailer with Vic, already shoving a cannon ball into the cannon.

Carlos barked orders at Vic. “We've got company. Those buses are trouble. Shoot the trailer connection. We have no choice. I know it wasn't the original plan. We've got a fight on our hands, and I know just what to do to keep you guys alive.”

Vic was confused. “What do you mean? You're not making sense.”

“Just shoot the damn connection!” Carlos snarled. “No time!”

Vic unloaded two rounds from the Benelli and snapped the trailer/truck connection. Seconds later, Carlos lit the cannon. “Get in the truck bed with the chest. Protect your friends. I'm going to stall them. This is what the dead commands me to do!”

No time to argue. The cannon would go off any moment. Vic jumped off the platform and climbed into the truck bed.

Psssssssssssssssssssst
.

KABOOOOOOOOM!

Ass-kicking thunder!

The city bus blocking the street down the way exploded, the middle caving in like a dented can. Out the entry point burst forth a solid plume of fire. The windows shattered not from the blast but from a mass escape. Crawling free, landing down and charging forth, their bodies pirouetted in synchronicity. They moved in a line, one behind the other. Pink tutus clung to tight and toned bodies, the ballerinas standing on the points of their feet, then hands reared back the strings of their chainsaws. The collective roar of the revved up chainsaws, the thirty young ballerinas swung the deadly tools in wild arcs. Their bodies maintained graceful motion.

Carlos unleashed another cannon blast, the ball slamming into the head of one of the ballerinas who was reduced to a high velocity splatter. The ball pounded through the ballerinas behind her, but the damage wasn't enough. Ballerinas continued to come in closer to their position. Carlos removed a MAC-10 from his belt, but a chainsaw swiped his head off first. Another separated his arm from his body, then the other arm, and the rest of him was sliced in pieces like a carrot as the collective efforts of ballerinas became a wild dance of mutilation.

“HOLD ON TIGHT BACK THERE!” Barry shouted at Vic. Vic braced himself. “I'M GOING RIGHT THROUGH THESE DANCING BITCHES!”

As the pick-up truck charged forward, bullets rang out from on high. Vic located the shots coming from apartments and building rooftops. Twelve of the ballerinas were shot between the eyes. Marksman quality. From building entrances and from down the block, citizens arrived in droves carrying weapons ranging from guns, to shovels, to pick axes, to chunks of the curb, to flaming bottles.

Back up has arrived
, Vic thought.
God help us all.

More enemies emptied out of the collection of buses parked randomly at both ends of the block. Dozens more of the crazy cops Vic had seen at the station, each more murderously zealous than the next, clutched onto riot guns or machetes. Another bus unloaded people dressed in bloodied clothing, their eyes closed and their mouths chewing on wads of—Vic checked his vision—
flesh
. The sleeping cannibals each helmed axes and sharp weapons. He caught a few of the closed-eyed killers slash the weapons at victims only to chop them up into finer pieces and eat them raw.

Women dressed as school girls slashed with samurai swords, their words vicious and making Vic's blood run cold: “Cut their dicks off and shove them into their mouths!” “Cut their little heads off so they'll start thinking with the big one!” “Give them sword enemas!” The man with a pumpkin on his head with mean jack-o-lantern carved features and burning flame eyes arrived with his rig of hay bales and victims propped in a sitting position with poles shoved down their throats to stake them in place. Five Satans stepped out of one bus, each roaring with delight. He imagined a donkey meets a hyena, the laugh was so insidious. The devils were spitting fire out their mouths and coal-hot eyes sprayed flames and lit up people with a heat so intense they were charred to ash in seconds.

Vic aimed at the closet Satan, the Benelli cutting the monster in half and unleashing a great ball of flames that covered half the block. Everything was burning bright. Vic blasted the pumpkin head guy. Only a corner of its head was damaged, going up into orange chunks and sizzling mealworms. The jack-o-lantern's features shifted to Vic, eying him with the hatred of a thousand serial killers. The jack-o-lantern clutched a three-pronged spear and chucked it at him. Vic ducked just in time to feel the edge nearly plunge into his back. Then spears by the dozens were thrown at the truck, the spears made of rough wood, maybe bamboo, and carved into jagged points. The following war cries sounded like charging Indians without tongues. Tribal gibberish. Loin-clothed persons bolted forward in a great throng out of a nearby Five and Dime Laundromat. Hair wild and long like they were spit forth from the wildest jungle. They were dark skinned natives of an indigenous tribes. They wore human ears, human fingers and leathered flesh as capes that waved in the wind. Other tribesmen built fires and cooked humans on spits. Women and children were using makeshift knives and shivs to dig out the guts of dead bodies. Other cannibals hung up ribs and prepped the meat for cooking. He struggled to watch it all happen as the vehicle sped by the carnage in progress.