Holiday of the Dead (67 page)

And then the bomb detonates.

THE END

DECEMBER IN FLORIDA

By

Asher Wismer

Cal sat motionless, wedged in the space between the soda machine and the wall. It was an unusually deep space, the soda machine being a recent model, with many more brands of soda available in a wide refrigerator. Of course, with no electricity, the machine had been off for over a year, and while the soda inside wouldn't have gone bad, Cal hated warm carbonation.

Outside, one arm reaching through the space and waving up and down an inch or two in front of his nose, was Santa Claus.

He shivered, trying to keep his breathing steady. Even though he had been back from the Dead Zone for more than a month, he still got the shakes when he confronted one. He didn't like them, didn't like the way they pushed and stumbled and killed. Not that anyone else liked them either, but for Cal it was more about the civility of the thing. You shout a warning, or fire a shot over the head. You don't just attack. War has rules.

Had rules.

His bag, with his Kukri and guns, was out in the middle of the corridor. The zombies paid it no mind; it was dead and they only liked living things. His combat vest was hanging on a chair, alongside his pants and shirt, boots and socks folded neatly underneath.

It was getting dark outside. The mall had skylights and large bay windows, so he'd had plenty of looter's light despite the lack of electricity, but he'd been trapped here for over three hours now, and the sun was setting.

Outside, the red-clad arm wavered and withdrew. Cal took in a deep breath and waited. He knew better than to run blindly, and sure enough, a different arm pushed into the space and waved around, fingers opening and closing with the mindless need to grab and infect.

This arm was bare, with chunks of skin missing. The figure behind the arm was indistinct, but Cal could see Santa behind, pushing aimlessly at the zombie that had muscled him out of the way.

It wasn't really fair, Cal thought. If anyone deserved to get a present on Christmas, it was Santa. He spent the whole year planning for the holiday, and then while everyone else had a day off he was hard at work, giving stuff away for free to screaming kids who didn't appreciate the work he put in.

Not that it was too much of an issue these days. The mall had been open to the elements, most of the windows broken, but he needed to resupply and the area had seemed to be reasonably clear. Cal had found a few things – an untouched pair of socks was very nice – and had let his guard down.

The mall had a fountain, and in the year since the infection struck, it had long since ceased pumping. The water remaining in the basin, though, was clean enough, sediments and pollutants having settled in the interim. Cal was used to going days without washing, but the urge was too strong, and he had stripped down and started to wash and … well, here he was.

Santa wasn't the only one out there. Zombies tended to stop moving and wait without visual or auditory stimulation, and these must have gone into their personal stasis after the mall cleared out. Cal had made just enough noise, and they wandered in from their various hiding places, and he had barely made it to the hiding space in time.

It was a bad mistake, Cal thought. He wouldn't let his guard down like that again, if he made it out. He had nothing on but a pair of boxers, and he couldn't risk trying to bull his way through; too much skin exposed, too much risk of infection.

At least it was warm.

The arm waved.

The sun peeked over the first skylight, sending a gleam of light down into Cal's face. He hadn't slept, hadn't dared to take the risk, and the waving arms – two now, Santa and the other, side by side – hadn't faltered.

Cal had been awake longer than this before, and he wasn't too tired yet. At some point, fatigue would take over his mind and even if he could get out, he wouldn't be able to react fast enough to keep the zombies off. That would be the tipping point, where he had to sleep or risk passing out. As it was, his body was aching with the strain of stillness. He tensed and relaxed, trying to allow his body relief, but it wasn't enough.

With the light, he tried to evaluate his status anew. The space between the top of the soda machine and the ceiling was far too narrow to climb into, and the machine itself was set into a space between the wall and a partition, meant to allow patrons some privacy as they pondered how to best spend their buck seventy-five. The partition, on the other side, meant that he couldn't push the machine sideways, which would allow him room to move but also let the zombies in. He barely fit himself as it was, so it was nothing but luck and Santa's girth that kept them out.

A gunshot. The arms, which had grabbed and grabbed all night long, froze, and then withdrew. Cal remained utterly still. Out of his sight, he heard the distinctive moan, and then two more gunshots in quick succession. Footsteps. An airhorn, from outside the mall. Clattering movement and then someone ran past the soda machine, fast, not a zombie but human and Cal jerked towards the opening and stopped, torn between his desire to escape and the danger of mistaken identity.

Santa and a few more zombies followed the running figure, more slowly, and Cal waited for them to get past. He breathed as quietly as possible. The fourth gunshot preceded a volley, and then silence.

Footsteps again, slow and measured, not halting and dragging, and therefore human. Cal closed his eyes. He knew what would happen if they saw him, and if he couldn't make them understand fast enough …

Cal took a deep breath and allowed his body to slump as far down as possible. He let his face relax, let his body go limp, and knocked gently on the soda machine.

The woman had a hunting rifle – lever action carbine – pointing vaguely in his direction. Cal knocked again. "Are you OK?" the woman said.

With the space open, Cal crawled out, looking up. The man was short, hairy, and wore a hunting vest covered and filled with things. He had Cal's Kukri in one hand and a pair of revolvers holstered on each side. The woman was taller, but very thin; she held her rifle like a professional, not pointing directly at him but easily aimed if the occasion rose.

Cal understood; he would have done the same. At least he was clean; he dropped the shorts, raised his arms, and made a second, slower, circle.

"Fine," Vin said. "Put your things back on. You know, we saved your ass here. The least you could do is say thank you."

"Vin–"

Cal pulled his boxers back up and repeated his earlier motions at his mouth and throat. He finished by shaking his head and signing, "I can't speak."

Cal nodded. He was used to people assuming the inability to speak vocally meant mental retardation, so he took no offense. He walked to the fountain, slowly, keeping his arms out from his sides. Vin and Candy watched as he pulled his pants and shirt on, socks and boots, and finally the combat vest. His pack was behind the chair.

"Not yet," Vin said. "We don't know if he's safe or not. He might be one of those baiters, gets travellers to drop their guards and then kill them for their gear."

"He was trapped in there, maybe for days," Candy said. "Look at him. He can barely walk."

Cal didn't smile.

"Don't trust anyone, not these days." Vin pointed to one of the shops, windows shattered and rotting merchandise strewn across the tiles. "Stranger, get something to write with and tell us who you are and how you got here. We'll decide what to do after that."

"Vin," Candy said. "Give him his knife. You're not sending him into a dark shop without defence."

Vin hesitated, and Candy took a step forward. "Fine," he said. "Stranger, turn around. Don't move unless I say."

Cal turned. He felt the movement as Vin approached, placed the Kukri on the floor behind at his feet, and backed away.

"Now you can move," he said.

It was like a bizarre game of Red Light Green Light. Cal turned, picked up the Kukri, and held it loosely in his left hand. Vin pulled one of his revolvers and thumbed the hammer back.

"Go on," he said.

Cal turned and scanned the shops. Most of them would be empty, or close to it. Looters had long since ravaged through; perishable items had perished, and anything else would be useless or hard to carry. He chose the closest shop, a florist, with big open (and broken) windows letting in the light from the corridor.

He walked to the shop and peered inside. This, he knew, was where most people made their mistakes. Zombies were brainless, but accidentally cunning; one could be stuck behind a counter, throat cut so it couldn't moan and alert himself to its presence. That, he decided, was why the two travellers had blown the airhorn. It excited the zombies and brought them out where they could be dealt with. It was a good idea. He would have to find one somewhere.

Without that option, Cal settled for kicking in a chunk of unbroken glass. It shattered across the tile floor of the shop, making an enormous racket that no zombie could possibly miss. He waited.

There was no sound from the shop, and he walked in through the broken window, right to the counter. No one, it seemed, had bothered to loot the florist at all; the broken windows were the extent of the damage. All the flowers had died, wilted, and rotted, the dry ones crumbling to dust and the ones still in water turning to some sort of horrible slime. There were bouquets of plastic flowers here and there, looking uncommonly cheerful and bright among the wreckage.

Behind the counter, Cal found a pad of credit card receipts and a pen, which was dry. He rooted around and found a whole box of pens. He tested a few, stuck a couple in his vest, and took the box out with him. You never knew what items would be useful barter.

Outside, Candy was still covering the shop, while Vin rotated one turn every other second or so, keeping the open area under supervision. Cal walked to the chair and sat down. He put the box of pens down and started to write.

"He's been walking north," Candy said. "The last thing he heard was a talk radio station from New York, so he figures there might be people left alive up there."