Clickers vs Zombies (12 page)

Jeanette wondered what was going on.

Gardena, California

The house on Avalon and One Hundred and Eighty-first Street was filled to capacity. Joker found a place to park around the corner; he’d switched out his classic ride with something more conspicuous—a late model silver Toyota Tercel, cut normal. He’d also dressed down, like a normal citizen, in blue jeans and a tan polo shirt. Only his decorative tattoos and his look gave him away.

After a quick meal at Lucy’s, where Sparky got a taste of that
carne asada
he’d grown to miss while a resident of Arizona, they’d headed down the Harbor Freeway toward Gardena. They’d made small talk. Sparky had been a little surprised to learn that Joker had a cache of weapons in the trunk, everything from fully automatic rifles, clips, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition, to hand grenades. He was carrying a 9 mm handgun—it lay on the console between the front bucket seats. “I got a piece for you too, homie,” Joker had said, indicating the glove compartment with a nod. Sparky had checked. Sure enough, a black semi-automatic handgun had lain in the glove compartment. It looked brand new.

Sparky recognized a few familiar faces in the house, all rivals—from Tortilla Flats, Redondo Beach Trese, Lomita Mafia, Los Compadres, Lawndale and Hawthorne Trese, San Pedro Locos, and other South Bay crews. Sparky had asked Joker why Venice was included in this meeting. All the gang bangers assembled here were from the outlying communities of the South Bay and Long Beach. Wouldn’t it have made sense to fall in with crews from Santa Monica and the West side? Joker had shrugged. “I don’t make the rules, homie, I just follow them.”

Sparky and Joker found places to lounge near the front door. The sofas and chairs were all taken. Other homies stood around, huddled in small groups. Most were dressed down, and the average age of everybody assembled was wide ranging, from late teens to late thirties. Sparky glanced at his watch. It was eight-thirty. It would be fully dark in another thirty minutes.

A short, thin man dressed in tan slacks a striped polo shirt with slicked back black hair addressed the crowd. “Okay, listen up.”

All conversation stopped. The short thin man nodded once as all attention turned to him. “I won’t keep you here long because we don’t have much time. You are all here because you’ve been selected by your leaders as being loyal and trustworthy. This is what we’re looking for, and you all know about our current struggle. With your help, we are going to turn things around drastically tonight.”

Tonight? Sparky thought.

The thin man continued. “Many of you know me from past meetings, but others of you don’t. I am Emilio Hernandez, from the Hernandez family.” Sparky nodded in recognition, as did several others. The Hernandez family was one of half a dozen interconnected Los Angeles area families who comprised the Mexican Mafia, an organization that went back to the 1940’s. “Other meetings are taking place in four other locations across Southern California. We also have gatherings in San Francisco, Chicago, Dallas and El Paso, Texas, Phoenix, and in various locations on the east coast. I will say that most of the concentration is here, in the southwest. Where our status is under the most threat.”

Whispered murmurs erupted. Emilio raised his hands again for silence. “LAPD is strapped thin. You know that from the past five years as your foot soldiers took our first series of orders. Those orders have been carried out perfectly and have played just the way we want. This is why you have been called here tonight, to carry out part two in our mission.”

Outside, the sound of a police siren. It rose to a screaming crescendo and was joined by others from other directions. Everybody was silent as the sirens drew closer—to Sparky, it sounded like they were barreling somewhere down Avalon, maybe even down Normandie Avenue—then began to fade as they headed for their destination.

“Okay, real quick then,” Emilio said, with a humorous grin, “before the next one comes for our asses.”

Scattered laughter at this. It broke the ice.

“Tonight we hit Crip and Blood safe houses,” Emilio said. “I’m splitting you up in teams of seven. Blanca has detailed maps and locations for each of you.” At the mention of Blanca, a woman Sparky hadn’t noticed before stepped up bearing several file folders. She was a looker—shoulder-length dark brown hair, ruby lips, shapely figure, nice cantaloupes. She looked like she’d just gotten off work as a secretary at some office. Despite her dress code, her make-up was a dead-giveaway—she was a veteran of the streets all the way. “Only two of you will be paired up with rival homies and you’ll be hitting their turf.” Ernie glanced in he and Joker’s direction. “Doc has already dispatched four of your homies to another meeting taking place in Santa Monica. We needed the numbers in the South Bay. Dig?”

Joker nodded. “It’s cool, homes.”

Sparky nodded too, but he couldn’t help but feel a little disconcerted at Emilio’s gaze, the way he’d casually addressed them. The son of a bitch knew who they were!

“Everybody got the required hardware?”

Assorted nods and acknowledgements. Joker nodded. That explained all the weapons in the trunk of the Toyota.

“When you leave here, you’re to go to the first location on the route Blanca has mapped out. I suggest you familiarize yourself with your routes before you leave. Each group will travel in a minimum of two vehicles. Sparky and Joker from Venice? I’m having Midget from Gardena Trese ride with you to be your navigator. The three of you will be paired up with Josie and El Gato from San Pedro, and Cyclone from T-Flats. El Gordo and Psycho from Harbor City? You guys are being paired up with…”

It didn’t take long for Emilio to pair everybody up. Sparky had to hand it to the guy. When the Mexican Mafia gave orders, they got right down to business. As Emilio paired them up, his recitation of groups and territories by memory, Blanca handed out the folders to each group. A short, wiry dude with a shaved head and the slinking approach of an alley cat joined Sparky and Joker—this was obviously Midget—and began consulting the print-outs Blanca had handed them. Four other homies also joined them, all casually dressed. Sparky acknowledged them quickly with nods, then turned his attention to the computer-printout map Midget and Joker were consulting with the others. Blanca had highlighted four locations for their territory, with the first one in Lomita, the second in San Pedro right on the edge of Sunken City. The other two were in north Long Beach, solid Crip territory.

“Damn, so we’re like, doing this shit tonight, then?” Sparky whispered, mostly to himself.

Joker, Midget, and the others looked at him. “This is it, man,” Joker said. “The beginning of the ride for all of us. This is what you been training for.”

Sparky nodded. “I know, man. Just didn’t think it would be so soon.”

One of the homies in his group, dressed in tan khakis and a tan polo shirt, his head bullet-shaped, nodded. “I hear you homes. These marching orders are quick, but marching orders is marching orders.”

“I hear you,” Sparky said, nodding. It was best not to discuss this anymore. He didn’t want to give his team the false impression that he was against this. He was just surprised it was happening so quickly.

“Okay, listen up, people!” Emilio was calling for attention. He stood in the center of the throng, hands held up for silence. “Everybody has their maps. If you finish, destroy the maps. Dump ‘em in the trash, burn ‘em, whatever. Report back to your home turf and lay low. Your leaders will report back to me. If any of you are caught by the police, you know the drill. You encounter women and children in these locations and they get hit, not our problem. You recognize any players, they’re fair game. Ideally, you should be in and out within one minute. Questions?”

“So if we finish, we just head back to our hoods?” This from a light-skinned man in black jeans and a white shirt standing with a throng of men from the beach communities.

“Si. All told, if the cops don’t pick you up, this should only take you two hours tops.”

“Cops’ll be pissing all over themselves once this shit starts,” Joker said. He was grinning. “And with all this shit happening all over the fucking place, at the same time? Shit!”

“You got it, homie,” Emilio said. He nodded and winked at Joker and Sparky, then turned to the rest of the assembled group. “That’s why we’re hitting tonight. First work night after Fourth of July, less police activity, less cops. We’re hitting when they least expect it.”

Sparky nodded, feeling that old adrenaline rush come back. He grinned. It was time to step up to the plate. Time to fight for his homies, to take back what had been taken from them. To be a part of the big picture, the grand struggle.

A moment later, with addresses committed to memory and their group of seven ready, they filed out of the house with the others and headed out to do their part.

San Pedro, California

Jim awoke from his nap with a start, and at first, he wasn’t sure where he was. He’d been dreaming that he was in some sort of bomb shelter, and somebody had kidnapped Danny. He’d been unable to leave the bomb shelter because there were people waiting outside to kill him. The dream faded now, but he frowned, trying to remember if one of the killers had been Tammy.

Yawning, he got up off the couch, checked his email, and then walked down the street to the local coffee shop. He did this every day—a late-afternoon latte to wake him up from his regular power nap. He’d drink it on the way back to the apartment, and then call Tammy’s house so he could tell Danny goodnight.

He slowed as he neared the coffee house. Two ambulances and several police cars were parked curbside in front of it. Their revolving dome lights flashed off the sides of the buildings. A crowd of customers, employees, and curious passerby stood outside the store, beyond a line of yellow police crime scene tape. Jim recognized one of the baristas—Kelli, a perky, exuberant Wisconsin native who had moved out here to be in show business and instead had ended up selling coffee. Jim liked the young woman. She always made him laugh. He approached Kelli and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hey, Mr. Thurmond. What’s up?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh, you know how the homeless are always using our restrooms? Well, one of them died inside the men’s room. He was sitting on the toilet.” Kelli’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Just like Elvis, huh?”

She smiled at the joke. “I don’t know if it was a heart attack or a drug overdose or what. The manager found him. Anyway, here’s the kicker. Turns out the guy was dead. I saw it myself. He didn’t have a pulse. But when the paramedics got here, one of them tilted his head back to clear his airway, and started to give him mouth to mouth. And all of the sudden, the homeless guy bit him!”

“Bit him?” Jim shuddered. “What was it? Some kind of reflex?”

Kelli shrugged. “Apparently, he just came back to life. Or maybe he was never dead after all. Maybe his pulse was just weak. Anyway, he chewed off half the paramedic’s face, and then an off-duty cop shot him, and then we all got herded out here. Pretty weird, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jim nodded. “That’s pretty damned weird. Whole world is getting weird. Was just talking about that with my ex-wife this morning.”

“It’s nice that you two get along the way you do.”

“Yes,” Jim said. “It is. Speaking of which, I’d better give them a call. See you later.”

Kelli raised her hand and waved. “Later, Mr. Thurmond.”

Jim tried to call Tammy and Danny as he walked home, but his cell phone service was out. He had five bars, indicating a clear signal, but when he tried calling Tammy, the call didn’t go through. At first, he thought that maybe it was her phone, so he tried calling his friend, Adam Senft, but the call to Adam’s cell also didn’t go through.

Scowling, Jim wondered what was going on.

San Francisco, California

“There’s another one,” Michele cried out as they rushed toward the Golden Gate Bridge in Clark’s car.

Heeding her warning, Clark jerked the steering wheel, swerving out of the way as a dead homeless man ran out into the street, wielding a brick and trying to smash his way into passing cars. One of his ears dangled from the side of his face by a thin strand of gristle, and there were horrific gashes across his face and chest.

A second zombie charged out into the street several car lengths ahead of them. This one had terrible burns across most of its body. Charred clothing had merged with blackened flesh. The burned skin slipped off it in sheets with each step that the corpse took, but still the creature didn’t slow. It clutched a handgun in one burned fist. As they watched, it opened fire on a taxi cab. The cab’s passenger window shattered. The second shot caught the driver in the throat. The cab rolled to a halt, crashing into the car ahead of it. The zombie lurched forward and emptied the gun into the chest and abdomen of the passenger in the cab’s back seat.

“Oh God,” Michele moaned. “Oh my God, what is going on?”

“Just give me a minute,” Clark urged. “Calm down. I’ll get us out of this, but give me a few minutes to think.”

The cab driver stumbled out of the vehicle, dead but moving. Grinning, it lumbered toward them. Without pausing, Clark stomped the accelerator and ran the zombie down. It bounced up over the hood of Clark’s vehicle and then back onto the road. The car bumped and screeched as the rear tires ran over the attacker. Michele glanced behind them and saw the dead man stumbling to his feet. The zombie gave them the finger, then lurched off in search of easier prey.