Double Dead (18 page)

“I can’t shoot,” she said.

“You and Dad went out shooting just last week!”

Cecelia looked horrified and… was that shame in her eyes? “We… didn’t end up doing any shooting.”

“Gross,” Kayla said, pushing past her and fumbling with the gun. She pulled back the action, which was always harder than it looked in the movies, and threw open the RV door.

Ahead of her, Ebbie leaned out the passenger side window, stuffing through as much of his profuse bulk as he could to get a clean shot.

Kayla squinted one eye and stared down the barrel. She wasn’t a great shot, but Gil had taught her well enough.

Together, she and Ebbie began firing.

Her shots hit, but they didn’t hit true. She clipped a zombie nurse in the leg, and while it staggered the monster, the bitch kept on coming, now dragging her ruined foot. She hit another in the hip, and a third in the neck.

No headshots.

Ebbie, on the other hand, was downright surgical with that shotgun. He always had been and, curiously, he credited it to video games. Gil credited it to him having such a big body, as the big boy was able to anchor himself and steady his shots without much effort. Unlike Kayla, whose frame had all the strength and stability of a wind-swept napkin.

With Ebbie shooting, heads erupted like kicked pumpkins.

Gil and Leelee finally pulled one of the spike strips across just as the zombie nurse came up behind them, mouth like a snake ready to swallow a rabbit—threads of mucusy blood connecting her lower jaw to her upper.

She leapt onto Gil.

And then her head exploded as Ebbie took her out.

Dazed but not down, Gil waved Leelee on to the next spike strip. By now, the other zombies had noticed the RV—and worse, Kayla saw movement on the roof as one of the cannibals peered over to see what all the ruckus was about.

The man had a rifle. He took aim. Kayla screamed for Ebbie.

The cannibal took his shot and the side mirror spun away from the vehicle, the round hitting only inches from Ebbie’s head. He pulled himself back inside. Kayla, too, swung the door shut just as a rifle bullet punched a hole in it.

The worst thing about the zombie apocalypse is the people
, Kayla mused.

She scurried up to the front as she heard another
crack
of the rifle and the ricochet whine of the bullet hitting somewhere near the wheel well. He was aiming for the tires. If he hit even one tire…

“Ebbie!” she said, panting. “Just drive!”

“But they haven’t pulled back the second spike strip yet!”

“Then drive backwards, I dunno! It’s harder to hit a moving target!”

Ebbie hauled himself back into the driver’s seat, and threw the RV into reverse, the tires squealing and kicking up loose asphalt.

Kayla peered out one of the side windows—

Just as a rotter’s face appeared. Mouth wide. Foul slug tongue licking the glass. Kayla yelped and hit the floor. Then the window shattered as a bullet drilled a hole from the back of the zombie’s head all the way to the front of his forehead and through the glass. The monster fell away and tumbled under one of the tires; the RV hit it like a speedbump. Kayla screamed, “Ebbie! Now go forward! Go, go, go!”

Ebbie did as commanded. Again the RV lurched. Again tires squealed and broken asphalt complained beneath them.

Suddenly, Ebbie was, well, ebullient. “They did it! They got it!”

The RV skidded to a halt. Outside, Kayla saw that the shooter up top of the Wal-Mart had changed his targets—now he was taking down zombies. The moat had filled up in places and some zombies were crawling over one another and coming up on the other side. If it kept going like that, they’d soon be overrun.

Coburn
, she thought. She knew he’d make it out of there okay. He had to. Even though the sun was up, he still managed to send the signal. It was because of him they were free.

When her Daddy and Leelee came tumbling inside the RV and Ebbie once more jammed on the accelerator, Kayla felt a swell of pride and triumph—it had been a long time since she felt that way, felt full of hope and promise and possibility.

It would be short-lived.

Kayla threw her arms around her father’s neck. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

“The vampire did good, Daddy,” she said, twinkling.

But he didn’t say anything.

“We’ll pull over soon?” she asked. “You told him about a half-mile. I don’t know when he’ll make it, but I think we’re good—the cannibals have their hands full with the zombies, and the zombies have their meal for the day I figure…”

Gil sighed and shook his head. “We’re not stopping, little girl.”

“Wait. What?” Kayla’s heart sank.

Ebbie looked back, too, a quizzical look on his face. “Yeah, what?”

“Keep on driving,” Gil said. “We’re not stopping for anything. Not until we need gas.”

“But Coburn—” she started.

“Is a godforsaken monster,” Gil finished. “We’re not playing this game anymore. Besides, he ain’t coming out of there. He’s up against cannibals and surrounded by the living dead. The fact it’s daylight only complicates issues.”

Kayla felt tears at the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks reddened, became hot. Her hands formed fists and she pounded at his chest. Hard.

“Leelee!” Kayla said. “Tell him he can’t do this. Ebbie! Ebbie, please.”

“Yeah, Gil, I don’t know about this,” Ebbie said, protesting.

“Ebbie,” Gil growled. “You keep on driving. You pull this vehicle over and you’re going to have to deal with me. I saved your life before but I am just as happy to toss you back out there into the world like chum for sharks.”

Kayla sneered. “
You’re
the monster here.”

“Kayla…”

“No!” she said, pushing away from him. Cecelia replaced her at his side, looping her hand around his hip and pulling him close.

Cecelia kissed his neck and said, “Good job, baby.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Food of the Gods

It was if he were underwater. Words, warped. Sounds, distorted—
echo, echo, echo
. Womb-like. The rush of blood. The dull thudding of a heartbeat. Not his own, surely.
Your heart is a piece of dead meat, like a fatty gobbet of beef
.

Time had no meaning.

It stretched, taffy-like, and collapsed upon itself again and again.

Meanwhile, shadows flitted in the deeper dark. A tall silhouette stood always in his peripheral. The shadow flashed glinty fangs. Leaned as if in a doorway.

Beyond him, crying. The wails of a little girl. Calling for her Daddy.

Kayla?
he thought.

He heard the roar of flames—both real and imagined. Gunshots, too.
Echo, echo, echo
. Movement. Fabric against fabric. Leather against flesh. A sound like ice cracking all around, tiny fractures ever-crackling. With it, the smell of char. The smell of gunsmoke. The fetid stink of human sweat and spoiled meat.

Voices swam with him here in the tenebrous depths like fat eels just under the surface of black water.

“…looks like he done cooked himself…”

“…still see the whites of his eyes… his teeth, too…”

“…just keep the monsters at bay, I still haven’t had my breakfast, which is now, regrettably, going to be my dinner…”

But then, an unexpected visitor. A tongue worming into his mouth.

And with it?

Blood.

Ambrosia would never abandon the Wal-Mart, because this was her temple. She was the queen of this place—no, she was its
goddess
. She refused to acknowledge the deeper reality: they couldn’t get her out of here if they tried. Ambrosia—real name Martha Cason-Jones—came here on a flatbed truck and would have to leave here on one. She’d lost a little weight since coming here, she knew, maybe even as much as a hundred pounds. But that still put her at, what, six hundred? Seven?

Uh-uh, no way. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Still. It was hard not feeling like she was losing control here. Up top, the sentries on the roof were picking off the zombies all around, but the gunfire was only drawing more of them. The moat was no longer working like it was supposed to—damn thing had piled so high with rotter bodies that the monstrosities were just clambering over their fallen, spike-stuck brethren. So they poured gas down from above and lit it on fire. Zombie bodies burned pretty well, and in fact, because they kept bumbling into one another, the fire spread—though it didn’t kill them, either. They just kept flailing around, blinded by the light, limbs ruined by fire.

Of course, they’d spent all their remaining gas lighting those fires.

Because
someone
had decided to break free of his doggy kennel and start shooting up the place. Ambrosia looked down at the plate of food in front of her—the ‘plate’ was really just the lid flap from a piece of luggage and the food was the scorched head and torso of their most recent visitor, interloper, and victim. His arms were mostly burned to brittle sticks. His leg stumps looked like charred elbows. Only things left unblackened were his teeth and his eyes.

Ambrosia belched, took her knife and fork and cut another wedge of meat from his mid-section. It wasn’t bacon, but hell with it, she didn’t care. This was delicious. Far tastier than any meat she’d ever consumed—and, by this point, Lord knew she’d eaten a lot of so-called ‘long pork’ or ‘pink pig.’ But this? Exquisite. It wasn’t the fat—frankly, he didn’t have much fat on him. And the meat by now was long cold. But every once in a while she’d get into a sweet pocket, and the pink juices ran like she was squeezing a fresh steak in between her hands. Bloody and delicious. The one good thing about the fire on the roof was that it had cooked the meat just right: charred on the outside, rare on the inside.

Cookie, the Chef, said it wasn’t the explosion that got him, though—he said the body just caught fire all on its own. “Spontaneous convection,” he said, even though he meant combustion. Cookie was a meth-head—as it turned out, making meth once the world ended was a lot easier when you had no competition for supplies and no cops kicking down your trailer door—so anything that came out of his mouth was more than a little dubious.

Still, in some places the char was a little challenging.

She wiped her greasy hands on her mammoth cleavage, licked her lips, and then saw a precious gem—like a pearl hidden in the ugly labial folds of an oyster.

The tongue.

The tongue wasn’t burned. It was pink, perfect, untouched by fire.

She felt herself salivate.

Ambrosia knew she deserved a taste. She deserved everything. The whole world. This place was her kingdom because it was what the universe owed her. Grandpaw—her actual grandfather—made that dream possible. With his mind and her girth they were a pair of easy, natural leaders. Plus, why would anyone rebel against such a wondrous system? They were fed, weren’t they?

She took her fork and knife and poked around the corpse’s mouth the way a dentist might, but when she tried cutting into the tongue she really couldn’t get a good
angle
on the whole affair.

“We’re losing it all,” Grandpaw said, wheeling up. He looked haggard. Long day of fighting off zombies—and punishing the men for letting a goddamned
camper
full of fresh meat go driving past—and now night was coming, which meant the zombies would start to get riled up again like a kicked-over hive of killer bees. “They’re on all sides. And they keep coming.”

Ambrosia snarled at him: no words, just a brutish, animalistic sound. Its intent was clear:
I am eating
.

“It’s all falling apart,” he said, turning his chair and wheeling away. “It’s all going away…”

Ahhh. Alone again.

So. Fork and knife not working.

“Let us try a more direct route,” Ambrosia said, lifting the corpse’s face to her own. She cracked back the jaw like she was busting open a crab claw, exposing the sweet meat—
the tongue
—within.

Then she sucked the tongue into her own mouth and started to chew. The cannibal’s French kiss, she thought, and felt a bubble of giddiness rise inside her.

The tongue was tough—not unusual, really. No fat on the tongue. All meat and muscle. Were you to cook it, you’d cook it long and low and slow, but now she did not have that luxury. She bit down hard—

And in the process, bit into her own cheek.

She tasted blood.

The tongue between her teeth—not hers, but his—wiggled.

Her eyes went wide. Did she just feel what she thought she felt? Wasn’t possible. Or maybe it was. Corpses sometimes moved after death. Didn’t nails and hair continue to grow? Or was that just a myth?

An odd thought struck her:
he didn’t die very easily
,
did he
? Grandpaw shot off his legs. Shot him in the chest. And still he lived. Hell, he didn’t just live—he got out of his crate and bit somebody and stole a sentry’s gun.