Book of the Dead (16 page)

Bertie looked into her eyes intently. “Sure,” he said, and let her wrist go. “Maybe tonight we can go to Walsenburg?”

She didn’t know why she said it. “I’d sooner fuck a zombie.” She said it so low, no one heard but Bertie. He stared at her.

Martha turned away and walked back to the kitchen, trying to move straight and true, and not bolt. Once out of sight of the dining room, she rubbed at the quick tears. She felt a raw pain. Her wrist. She turned it over and saw the angry-looking black-and-blue marks. They looked like the wings of a bird.

Bobby Mack didn’t come into the Diner for his mid-morning coffee stop. About eleven Martha called to Henry Roybal, “Hey, anything on the scanner? What’s going on out there? Anybody hear tell of Bobby Mack?”

“Nary a word about your young man, Martha. Lots of other stuff, though.”

She balanced a tray of dirty dishes and flatware into the kitchen. Jose, the dishwasher, took it away from her, grunting as the load clattered and splashed into a steel sink full of soapy water.

“What do you mean, other stuff?”

“Don’t know, really. Lots of code things, like when they know people are listening and the sheriff don’t want anything to hit the grapevine right away.”

As if on cue, the police scanner crackled and hissed around a call: “Sheriff central, this is patrol three.”

“Patrol three, come in.”

“Hey, affirmative. Kenny and me, we got a confirmed patch of veggies just off county one-fiver at the Centennial Ditch. Must have been holed up in the First Baptist. We’re gonna take actions as ordered.”

“Veggies?” said Martha.

Henry Roybal nodded. “All mornin’.”

The scanner crackled. “Patrol three, don’t do nothing stupid.”

“Central, can you send us backup?”

“That’s a negatory, patrol three. Things are jumpin’ all over the county.”

“We copy, central. Do what we can. Got my old AK47 in the trunk. Worked on Charlie. Figure it’ll harvest a whole row or two of veggies.”

“My God,” said Martha.

“Repeat, patrol three. Stay cool. We already lost a coupla harvesters this morning.”

There was a silence on the scanner. Then the voice of patrol three said, “We know that, central. This one’s gonna be for Dale and J.B.”

Henry Roybal expelled a long breath. Martha looked at him. They both knew exactly whom the voice was talking about. Town cops. They hadn’t come in for coffee either. Bobby Mack, she thought, staring intently at the scanner. Say something. Report in. Please.

“Hey, central, we got civilians back of us. It’s Reverend Beecham and some others.” There was a pause, and then the voice got fainter as though the speaker were sticking his head out the car window. “Hey, Pastor! You need some help? The cavalry’s here—”

A strangled scream filtered through the scanner.

A second voice shouted, “Central, they’re veggies too—” A crackle of shots. Another scream. Indistinguishable noises. Scratching. A sound like something chewing on the microphone. Silence.

“Patrol three, what’s goin’ down? Report, patrol three—”

Martha rushed from the kitchen, trying to blank the sounds from the speaker. Bobby Mack. At least he wasn’t patrol three.

The radio on the shelf was playing Nick Cave’s cover of “Long Black Veil.”

“Why don’t you give us some news!” Martha cried at it.

“Mayor Hardesty don’t want none of us to panic,” said Bertie Hernandez. His pals and he had evidently entered the Cuchara Diner in the last minute or so. They’d tracked in some of the thin skiff of snow that covered the Diner’s parking lot. Brown water pooled on the tile floor.

“I think maybe
I’m
about ready to panic,” said Martha candidly. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” said Bertie. “We’ll take good care of you, somethin’ happens.”

“You didn’t see Bobby Mack out there this morning, did you?”

Bertie and Shine Willis exchanged glances. “Not lately,” said Bertie. “He’s a smart boy. I ’spect he’s okay, but probably real busy. You won’t see him before tonight.”

“Just what’s going on out there?” said Martha. “For God’s sake, tell me!”

“It’s the zombies,” said Billy Gaspar.

“They’re spreadin’ faster’n AIDS,” said Shine.

“Yeah,” said Bertie. “Looks like maybe all they got to do is bite you, not even kill you. The bastards are all over town, lotta people you and me both know.”

“We killed a bunch of them,” said Billy Gaspar. “But there’s so many—”

“Now,” said Bertie, “we got to hole up and rest. Diner’s as good a place as any. Anyhow, I figure we got to have lunch. What’s the special?”

“Meat loaf,” said Martha.

Billy Gaspar groaned. “I don’t think my belly can take that.”

“Eat or be eaten,” said Bertie with a grin.

“This is KHIP,” said the radio, “the kay-hip country voice of the southern Colorado empire. Pueblo to Durango, we bring you the absolutely latest news…”

“Shut up,” said Martha tightly. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

The recorded opening trailed off, and there was a moment of dead air. The announcer, when he came on, sounded dead tired and scared shitless. “This is Boots Bell at the kay-hip studios north of Fort Durham. I’ve got a whole raft of announcements and they’re most all life and death, so listen up.”

“We’re listening, goddamn it,” said Bertie Hernandez, sounding as tightly wound as Martha. “Get to it.” The boys hadn’t gone out much during the afternoon. They’d stayed close to the Diner, bringing in weapons from their trucks and drinking a lot of beer. A few of the other regulars had drifted in. There was very little traffic on 159.

Boots Bell riffled some papers over the radio. Then he said, “The main thing is, stay indoors. Lock your houses. Anybody comes to your door, check ’em out good. All of a sudden, there’s dead folks walking everywhere. This is no joke, no test of the emergency broadcast system, nothing like that. It’s the real thing.”

“Damn straight,” said Shine Willis.

“If you’ve got weapons,” said Bell, “keep them loaded and handy. Shoot for the head. That’s about the only way to kill a zombie.”

“Hey, what about fire?” said Shine.

“—or burn ’em,” Bell continued. “Remember they’re quicker than they look, and real strong. They generally run in packs. If you see one, there’s probably another ten sneaking up behind you.”

Jose dropped a pan in the kitchen and half the guys at the counter twitched.

Bell said, “Here at the station, we’ve received word that the National Guard’11 be moving in as soon as they finish mopping-up operations in Walsenburg.” He hesitated. “Reckon that’ll come after they clean up the Springs. And in Denver—well, we don’t have much word at all.” Papers rattled for a few moments. “We’re keeping a map at the station of all sightings, so if you spot a zombie, give us a jingle and we’ll pass the news along.” There was a second voice, indistinguishable. Then Bell said, “We’ve already got so many reports of zombies, we can tell you it isn’t safe to be anywhere outdoors in Fort Durham. Period. Sheriff and police officers are doing what they can, along with community volunteers. But if you don’t have to be out, then don’t go out. Not for any reason.” Bell’s voice cracked slightly. “The station manager just told me something, and I agree with it. If we stick together, we’ll come out of this okay. Remember that.”

In the Diner, the men with guns held them tight and exchanged looks.

“More news when it comes in,” said Bell. “Now let’s listen to some music.” The speaker began to twang the opening chords of Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.”

“At least,” said Billy Gaspar, “they’re not playing the Grateful fucking Dead.” He tried to grin, but the effect was ghastly.

Martha set her tray down on the counter and went to the phone behind the cash register. She dialed her parents’ number, knowing
of course they’re all right
, but just wanting the reassurance. All she got in the earpiece was the soft buzz of a dead line.

*  *  *

By three o’clock, the first zombie appeared in the Diner’s parking lot. It was Mrs. Dorothy Miller, who had been the head cashier at the Stockman’s Bank.

“For Chrissake, kill her,” said Bertie, waving Shine and Billy toward the door. “They’re probably like ants, sending out scouts. We don’t want the rest to know there’s all sorts of food here.”

The men nodded and went outside, Shine first. Billy put the butt of the 30.06 deer rifle against his shoulder and slowly squeezed off a round. The bullet went squarely through Mrs. Miller’s left eye. The zombie flung out its arms and spun around. Shine raised his Remington pump at close range and blew Mrs. Miller’s head completely off.

Shine and Billy dragged the body around the corner of the Diner and out of sight; then they came back in and shared a pull off Miguel Espinosa’s flask of home brew.

Martha hardly noticed. She kept listening to the radio and badgering Henry Roybal to keep close track of both the CB base station and the police scanner. “Anything?” she’d say on her trips into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” Henry would answer. “Listen, Bobby Mack’s probably way too busy to use his radio. Try not to worry.”

In the dining room, KHIP was playing Gordon Light-foot’s “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

“Christ,” said Shine, “who picks the music? I wish to hell Henry had a jukebox.”

“But he don’t,” said Bertie. “We’re just gonna have to make our own entertainment.” He caressed the rifle lying across his lap. Then he looked up toward Martha and held out his cup.

Martha stared at him and started to turn away.

“Please?”

She thought about it a moment and then brought the pot over.

His expression was earnest. “Listen, Martha, if we all get out of this, think maybe we can start over?”

“No.” She resisted the impulse to start laughing hysterically. “We can’t start over what we never began in the first place.”

Something seemed to smolder in Bertie’s eyes. “I’m really on my best behavior now.”

“I know that,” she said quietly. “But I’m being honest with you.”

“Me too,” he said. “I really want you to be my girl.”

She shook her head.

“Final word?” he said.

—
dangerously
, Martha thought.
He sounds like he’ll do anything
. She nodded. Yes.

“Well, shoot,” said Bertie. “I guess the only thing left is to fuck you till you can’t see straight. Or walk straight, neither.”

“Try it,” said Martha, “and I’ll kill you.”

“And I’ll come back,” said Bertie. “And keep fucking you. Bet it doesn’t do no good to kick a zombie in the nuts. What do you think?”

“I think you’re disgusting.” Martha held the handle of the coffeepot tightly. The temptation to blister his face so that it looked like a basic zombie visage of torn and rotting flesh was nearly irresistible. She turned away.

“I’ll wait,” said Bertie toward her back. “After you’re done waitin’ for Bobby Mack, I’ll still be good and hard.”

Without turning, she said, “I can wait too.”

“Not long enough for the Deputy Dawg.”

She whirled. “What do you
know
?”

Bertie ostentatiously licked his lips.

By six o’clock it was getting dark. Henry Roybal came out of the kitchen and switched on the
EAT
sign.

“Think that’s a real good idea?” said Shine.

“You think zombies can read?”

“They could when they were alive,” said Billy.

“They’re animals,” said Henry flatly. “Beasts. Probably color-blind too.”

Nobody pushed the issue. The neon on the roof fizzed and crackled. The glow on the snow outside the window cycled from red to green.

“Maybe we should make a break for it,” said Miguel Espinosa. “Head for New Mexico.”

“Doubt there’s anything different there,” said Bertie. “May as well stay where there’s lots of food and booze.” He winked at Martha. “And a pretty lady.”

“I got a full tank of gas,” said Billy to Miguel.

“How come
you
don’t leave?” Bertie said to Henry.

The owner of the Diner answered without hesitation. “My daddy stopped here in Fort Durham while he was on his way to California during the Dust Bowl. He loved this place.” He shrugged. “I like it too. I been here for floods and droughts, blizzards and tornadoes. I’m not going to be driven off by a passel of flesh-eating sons of bitches.”

The radio intermittently delivered repeats of the afternoon messages. There seemed to be few developments. The warnings continued. Stay indoors. Lock the doors. Load the weapons. Aim for the head. Boots Bell finally added a new one. Save a round for yourself.

The men in the Diner talked and drank. Bertie Hernandez mainly drank. By eight o’clock he was chasing shots of tequila with mescal rather than beers. Shine Willis wasn’t far behind him.

At nine-oh-seven by the Hamm’s clock beside the radio, Bertie hurled his glass against the far wall. It shattered below the mounted head of a twelve-point buck Henry’s father had shot sometime around Pearl Harbor.

“I think,” said Bertie, grinning horribly at Martha, “it’s time for some real entertainment.”

Miguel and Shine had moved into position to either side of her. Martha glanced at them, then back at Bertie. He stood up and played for a moment with his Peterbilt belt buckle.

“What I propose,” said Bertie, “is to screw this little girl until my pecker comes out her asshole. Is there anybody here with an objection?”

“I don’t think I can let you do that, Bertie,” said Henry Roybal.

“Didn’t think so. You’re a good man, Henry.” Bertie drew the .357 magnum from its holster and shot Henry Roybal through the heart. The impact threw the old man back against the kitchen doors. They flopped open as the body fell backward. The doors swung shut again, but now dappled with butterfly wings of blood.

“Anyone else?” said Bertie, surveying the silent men.

No one said anything. Not everyone looked wholly enthusiastic, but there were no objections voiced.

“Okay, then.” Bertie set the pistol down on the table, then bent and grunted as he tugged his boots loose. His belt buckle followed.