Saint Death (17 page)

“Fucker went down like a sack of bricks,” he said aloud, eliciting a fresh roar from his sightless companion.

There were others closing in now and no time to waste. A stream of undead horrors was now converging on the parking lot of the Radisson from all sides, drawn in by the chaos and the smell of fresh meat. Edgar wiped his hands on his pants before turning back to the Escalade. He jogged over, feeling sore in his hips and legs from where he'd hit the ground only moments before, and inspected the vehicle. There was blood all across the driver's seat and what looked like a puddle of urine, but he didn't care anymore.

I just gouged a man's eyes out with my bare hands
, he thought.
What's a little piss after that?

He got into the car and slammed the door. He could feel the alien wetness soaking into his pants as he hit the car locks. He did his best to ignore it. There would be time later to deal with it. He buckled up, more from routine than a conscious attempt at safety, and turned over the ignition. The car came to life, blaring loud hip-hop music. He recognized the song on the radio. It was by the rapper, Snoop Dogg, a world famous icon for the West Coast and L.A. area, who grew up in Long Beach. Snoop had always impressed him. The fact that he'd gone from selling drugs on the streets of Long Beach as a member of the Crips gang, to becoming one of America's most beloved celebrities – all the while advocating the use of marijuana – always struck Edgar as nothing short of brilliant. He'd become familiar with Snoop Dogg’s music during the two weeks he'd spent in Budapest having an affair with a local named Agi. She'd rented a friend's flat so we could screw all week without being interrupted. The place was sprawling, with solid plumbing, having been built before World War 2. It was also almost surely haunted. The slightest breeze would produce unearthly howls through the eroding tile hallways as if the dead were calling us to follow them home.

The guy who rented the “cable ready love shack” to them was a Serbian refugee who went by the name of Victor. He owned and ran the youth hostel in the heart of town, on the Pesti side. His assistant, Vlad, was a Romanian who'd preferred staying in a building teeming with teenage Swiss girls rather than going into the family’s factory business back home. One night we went to visit them, giving ourselves a chance to hydrate a little and score more ecstasy pills. We found both of them painting the stairs up to the beds a shade of bright blue that reminded him of Violet Beauregarde; high on coke and blasting Snoop Dogg's hit single, “Gin & Juice.”

“You know, I usually don't like rap music,” Edgar had said at the time. “But this is pretty catchy.”

After that, Victor made them take the CD with them. They'd never been able to hook up to it without Edgar breaking down and laughing, but when the week was over he packed it with his stuff and took it home. It had been on his iPod ever since.

“Sorry Snoop. Gotta concentrate.”

He shut the stereo off and turned the AC on. A frigid gust hit him in the face and arms as the air loudly came blasting out.

“God that feels good right now.”

A moment later a resounding thump rang out on his left side. He nearly jumped out of his seat as he turned to face another monster – a woman this time – with stringy blonde hair sticking out of her head in patchy clumps. She had started out pounding both fists on the driver's side window but soon gave up and pressed her open mouth against it, sucking at the tinted glass.

It's like those fish at the doctor's office
, he thought,
the ones that eat algae off the walls
.

He could see inside the woman's mouth to the back of her throat. Her tongue was chewed up to a pulp. She was missing several teeth including her two front ones, which looked like they might have come out before she was transformed into a walking corpse. She was dressed like a streetwalker so it came as little surprise to Edgar, who assumed that women only turned tricks to score illegal drugs anyway. He knew from years on the job that women like that worked at airport hotels all over the world, buying rooms and placing ads for Johns online. He was grateful once more that he'd never sunk so low as to hire one, even for comfort. He knew a pilot years back who'd been robbed at gunpoint by a pimp who had literally caught him with his pants down in Singapore.

Play with fire
, he thought,
and eventually you will get burned.

The hooker let out a loud, distressed moan of hunger. She ran her fingers pitifully down the windows, almost as if she was begging him to get out and kindly let her take a bite out of him with her hobo teeth. He could see her fingernails were chipped and cracked, and in some places torn off completely, exposing the sensitive quick of the nail.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he said, a feeling of renewed confidence coming over him. “But I’ve got a flight to catch.”

He put it in drive and the car shot forward with a sudden jerk toward the exit and Century Boulevard. There were people blocking his immediate path out of the parking lot – a landscaper missing his right arm at the elbow, a tall white guy with spiky black hair in an expensive suit covered with bloodstains and looking like a charred palm tree; and a short, severely overweight woman with a huge ass wearing pink sweat pants, a bejeweled, sequined T-shirt, and flip flops. The woman carried the gnarled remains of a lap dog still in her arms, while the empty leash dangled from her other hand. There were huge chunks torn out of the now deceased animal. A sickening shade of dirty yellow puss ran out of the bite wounds and over her manicured hand with French tip fingernails. She clutched the remains to her out of instinct, emitting a low growl sounding like a sinister siren as she waddled forward in between the men.

There were more monsters out in the streets, but Edgar knew he could drive around most of them. These three stood between him and his escape plan. They'd have to be dealt with, one way or another.

“Fair warning,” he said darkly as he brought his hand down and sounded the horn.

He noticed the monsters in the streets turning at the sound of the noise, their heads rising up like wild beasts as they sniffed at the air. It was then that he realized they were drawn to sound as well as movement and smell. If he was going to make it out of this nightmare alive, he'd have to do a better job of keeping a low profile – or find a way to blend in.

He put his foot down hard on the gas and drove straight into the three ghouls blocking his path, gripping the wheel confidently with both hands and bracing for an impact. He felt the grill of the automobile hit the bodies before he heard it. The woman was in the middle when he collided with them. She was so short that she instantly went under the car, taking the corpse of her rat pup with her. The others bookended the hood of the SUV, both of their heads whipping forward dramatically on impact like two stoned teenage boys headbanging at a rock concert. Only instead of coming back up again with their fingers twisted up in a heavy metal salute to their favorite bands rock guitarist solo, they collided hard with the hood – the force of the blow cracking the landscapers skull. Edgar didn't stop to see if he was dead.

Instinctively he pressed down on the pedal, causing the wheels to pull the men’s legs under the tires and spin them away from the speeding vehicle, their ragged clothes making them look like flags whipping around violently in a gale wind. Edgar could feel the woman beneath the car hitting the undercarriage as he bore down on her. He felt only relief that it had worked. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the expressionless face of the Latino man just as his gray brains slid through the gash in his forehead and down the front of his tattered uniform. It was all over in seconds and Edgar was out on the street at last.

Cars jammed up the short distance between him and the airport departures entrance, but he wasn't worried about that now. He piloted the Escalade up onto the center divider, covering the short distance of stalled and abandoned vehicles before turning back to the right and using the cars weight to push a Toyota Corolla and a Mazda Miata easily out of his path. He saw a few mangled people out there, moving in between the cars, searching for living things to eat. He didn't see any normal-looking people. He passed the Police Checkpoint station that had been set up after 9/11 and was never taken back down. Whoever had been left in charge had done him a favor by setting up the wooden RESTRICED ACCESS signs and blocking off incoming traffic. Edgar barreled through them like they were made out of matchsticks, leaving a trail of scattered plywood in his wake.

“Maybe that was the worst of it,” he said, trying to give himself some kind of encouragement. “Maybe it will get easier from here.”

He sped up as he took the corner, veering sharply right toward Terminal 1. He'd have to take the short cut across the bridge and past the Terminal 7 parking lot, then drive the wrong way back up toward Terminal 5 to get back to his plane. He came flying around the corner and had to jam on the brakes hard to avoid plowing into the back of a line of empty cars. The tires screeched loudly and the seat belt cut into his shoulder and chest, restraining him. He furiously slammed his fist against the wheel a few times in frustration.

“Great,” he bellowed. “That's just fucking great, man! Just what I needed.”

He noticed that his sudden stop had caused a shiny metal revolver to slide out from underneath his seat.

“Who the fuck keeps a gun under the front seat? It's like everyone in this city is fucking crazy!”

He didn't have time to work it out. A loud growl sounded from somewhere behind him. He whipped his head around just in time to see a small child with blood pouring from his torn open mouth come hurling in his direction, teeth first. Without thinking, he leaned forward and chucked a hard elbow back at the demonic brat's forehead, colliding dead on and causing him to tumble back. He could hear the pintsized nightmare scrambling on the seat, pushing himself back up to attack once more. Edgar looked in the rear view mirror and saw the terrifying child monster preparing for a fresh lunge.

“Hold on, fucker,” he said, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal and turning the wheel to the right toward the loading and unloading zone.

An unearthly roar erupted from the back seat as the SUV lurched forward again, but it wasn't going to be enough. Instead of being pinned to the creamy beige leather upholstery, the kid had collapsed into a crouch and was now inching forward. Edgar considered his options for a split second. He could reach down for the gun and hope it was loaded and working, but it was a huge risk.

It sure didn't help whoever used to own it
, he thought.

One bite was all it would take to ruin his plans of escaping this disaster. The little savage was bound to be climbing all over him like a playground jungle gym the second he stopped, chomping at anything that looked like flesh and blood. He'd come too far to give up so easily, too far to leave things to chance.

Instead, he aimed the Escalade toward the wide concrete pylon closest to him and closed his eyes, pushing down so hard on the pedal that his foot hurt. It was over in seconds. Edgar felt the car lurch forward as it collided, his seat belt locking up and digging hard into his guts until the wind was forced out of him, a spray of glass misting over his arms and face. At the same time, he heard the child scream as he flew past him out the window, kicking him in the back of the head and neck with his faddish light-up sneakers. Edgar opened his eyes and inhaled like a man drowning. The windshield was busted and the front of the SUV was smashed up with steam coming out the front grill. On the top, like a hood ornament, were the mangled remains of the kid, who'd gone head first into the pylon as well. A greasy looking stain of dark red blood was splattered where the impact had been. The body shook; the child's now shoeless foot twitched, then went still.

It looks like someone threw a huge tomato as hard as they could at the pole,
he thought absentmindedly. His head felt like it was still ringing. It hurt to think. He rubbed the back of his stinging head and neck and then checked it for blood, but he was unscathed. As he looked down at his trembling hands he saw a drop of bright red fluid fall and land on them. He felt a trickle from his nose. Looking up in the rear view mirror he was relieved to see that he had a nosebleed. He smiled at himself and saw that his mouth was bleeding as well. He'd bitten his tongue during the impact, but it was nothing serious. Once more he'd survived, even if he felt like he'd be better off dead.

“That's what you get for not wearing your seat belt, you little asshole,” he yelled to his former passenger. “Don't you know you're not supposed to mess with the driver? Ever?”

He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. The vehicle was totaled. He'd have to find another way to his destination. He winced in pain as he stepped out. He was bruised and beaten, but still in good shape overall. He told himself to ignore the pain in his legs and arms, in his chest, and his throbbing head. There would be time to feel pain and be weak later. Now there was only time to survive.

He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands. It was the real deal, a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum, just like the kind Clint Eastwood used in the
Dirty Harry
movies. It was made out of stainless steel and gleamed in the harsh Los Angeles sunlight. He snapped open the revolver to see there were five working bullets in it and only one spent shell casing.

“The original owner probably ate that bullet. The next guy who found it didn't have the brains or balls to use it. Instead he hid it under the seat.”