The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel (4 page)

“Ah, Magma Man. I thought you had every Magma Man shirt there was.”

“Not that one, Billy.”

“Well, why don’t you go and pick one out.”

“I don’t have enough money.”

“I’m not selling it to you, Lenny. I’m giving it to you. A gift.”

Lenny put his hands on his hips. “It’s not Christmas!”

“It doesn’t have to be Christmas for me to give a gift to my pal.”

Lenny wouldn’t argue with that logic. “Okay, Billy.”

He walked over to the rack, picked out a medium, and held it up to his body.

“Take a large, Lenny. They tend to shrink in the wash.”

Lenny gave Billy a thumbs up and traded the medium for a large.

“Let me get you a bag for that.” Billy walked behind the counter and snatched up a bag. He held out his hand, and Lenny handed him the Magma Man tee-shirt. Billy folded it neatly and placed it inside the bag. He handed Lenny the bag.

“Thank you, Billy.”

“Anything for my buddy. Where you headed now?”

“Going to get some pizza.” Lenny wore a mischievous grin.

“Really. Just pizza?”

“And ice cream,” Lenny added, his voice squeaking with glee.

“Don’t worry, pal. I won’t tell your mom.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

“All right, get on outta here.”

Lenny saluted, placed his headphones on his head, pressed play on his MP3, and glided out of the store to the opening track of Magma Man 3.

Lenny clutched his gift in his hands and was in heaven. As he often did, he receded into his fantasy world, where he was a superhero and evildoers lurked around every corner. He passed tourists walking the boardwalk—chomping on their pizza, fried dough, and fried pickles; clutching the stuffed animal prizes—pizza slices, ice cream cones, and doughnuts they won at the water gun race or frog bog (Lenny liked the smiley faces the stuffed animals wore); unaware that they had a protector from unseen villains; the good people of Smuggler’s Bay.

To Lenny, the Smuggler’s Bay boardwalk was a wonderland of food, games, and fun. He waved to Johnny Wong as he passed by on his way to Marco’s Pizza.

Johnny Wong wiped his face with his already very damp towel as
Run To The Hills
by Iron Maiden was wrapping up. The fact that he sat in a small booth under a roof did not provide much comfort from the oppressive heat. Even the breeze from the beach did nothing except blow hot air around.

He clicked around on his laptop, queuing up the next song, and clicked on his microphone.

“It’s another sweltering ninety-eight degree day on the boardwalk at Smuggler’s Bay, and I’m right there with you, on the boardwalk baking in the heat. This is Johnny Wong on H-H-Hot 96.1FM.

“Our weather department (the internet) says there’s no end in sight to the August heat wave. It’s going to be mid to upper nineties through the end of the week with no end in sight.

“So I think it’s appropriate that our next song reflect our plight. Yes, it’s
Hotter Than Hell
by KISS, on Hot 96.1 FM.”

He clicked and the song began to pipe through the speakers mounted above his head. Normally he was blissfully surrounded by young co-eds chatting it up with him, requesting songs, and asking for shout outs. But not today. It was too damned hot.

Marie Russo strolled up the boardwalk from the other direction, waving to Johnny Wong as she passed. She loved the ’70s and ’80s rock and metal that Johnny cranked out. In fact, that was exactly what she loved about Smuggler’s Bay. No matter how much time passed, the place always seemed stuck in the ’70s and ’80s.

That was part of its charm…that and the fact that the town didn’t become one of these hoity-toity havens for hipsters, yuppies, and their larva. Nope, no gourmet coffee shops or boutiques here. This was a rock n’ roll town for working and middle-class families.

Marie was heading to Blake’s Beachwear Store on the boardwalk to check out the merchandise. She walked up to the store and peeked in. No sign of Billy. Maybe he was off today. She sure hoped not.

Maybe if she lingered a little longer…

“Hey, Marie.” Billy was holding a bunch of blank tee-shirts on hangers as he made his way to the front of the store.

“Hi, Billy. How’s tricks?”

He placed the shirts on a rack next to pink and yellow short shorts with words like ‘Princess’ on them. She wore a sly grin. “Why, Marie, are you minding my business?”

She smiled back and shrugged. “I always keep an eye on the competition.”

Billy casually leaned on a metal rack and gazed at Marie, drinking her in. She was in her late forties, like him, but he thought she looked damned good, like one of those MILFs.

She smelled him. He wore his sweat like a sensual musk.

“Don’t you think your husband should be doing that?”

“He doesn’t think he needs to worry about you.”

“And what do you think?”

“I better get back to the store.” She looked over his broad shoulder. “That a new press?”

“Yup. And I got all new decals for the shirts, too. WTFN is big this summer.”

“WTFN?”

“Why the Fuck Not?”

“That’s a little too trashy for our store,” said Marie.

This time Billy shrugged. “I guess I’m a trashy kind of guy.”

Billy had a reputation. His was married once, and briefly, to a hot young thing about fifteen years his junior. She was a barmaid at the Wet Dock Bar. He always landed younger girls with daddy issues. He acted like a kid and had a good body for a guy his age.

But when you had very little in the way of responsibility and tons of free time to devote to yourself, you had time to work out and go to the gym. Marie’s husband, Mario, was a working family man. A real sweetheart, but chubby and balding like most husbands his age.

Billy was an overgrown man child with the luxury of leisure time and completely disposable income. He represented something that was lost forever when one got married and had kids.

Marie eyed him significantly, trading flirts like it was some kind of sport. Billy knew the game and never took it further than that. She didn’t realize that she was twenty-five years too old for his taste.

“Well, I gotta head back.”

“Hate to see ya go, but I love to watch ya leave.”

Marie sucked her teeth in half-hearted disapproval, and she kept walking up the boardwalk.

***

Meanwhile, farther down the boardwalk, Chief Holbrook was talking to Mario Russo in front of his clothing shop. He had his hand up to shield his eyes from the unrelenting sun.

“I’m telling you, Chief, every time I turn my back some punk walks up and pulls the tops off the mannequins. It’s unseemly. I have families with young children walking past and coming in to shop. The last thing they need to see is topless mannequins.”

“Mario, I’ve got officers walking up and down the boardwalk all day. How come nobody has ever seen anyone doing this? Maybe it’s someone working in your store.”

“What are you talking about? I only have my wife, Marie, working in the store now. I had to cut back on account of the recession. And I’m not the only one. Billy farther down has been complaining about the same thing.”

Holbrook felt sweat trickle down his neck. It was peak season, and Smuggler’s Bay had its share of thefts, public intoxication, fights, the occasional sexual assault, speeding, drugs…and this guy was breaking his balls about some wiseass kid pulling the tops down on female mannequins.

“Mario, I’ll have the officers keep an extra close eye out for your shop. I promise.”

“When you catch this pervert, I’m willing to press charges. In fact, it’ll be my pleasure.”

Holbrook reached back and wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with his hand. His skin was sensitive, like he was fixing on the beginnings of a burn. “Mario, he’s probably some kid thinking he’s being funny. If I catch him, I’ll give if a stern talking to. I’ll talk to his parents.” Changing the subject, “How’s Marie?”

“She’s fine, other than this,” said Mario waving his hands dismissively. It was the heat. It was making everybody irritable.

“How’s business?”

“It’s been a good summer. Good sized crowds this year. My kids can eat this winter.”

“Mario, your kids can eat steak every day this winter. Can I count on you to come to the Town Council Meeting to discuss preparations for the Centennial next year?”

“When is it?”

“October. Right before Halloween.”

“I’ll be there, Chief.”

“Great. You coaching soccer this year?”

“Yeah. I’ll be doing soccer again.”

“Maybe you’ll get Robbie this year.”

“I hope so, Chief. I’ve seen your son play. He’s good.”

“I guess we’ll see. I gotta run. Stay cool.”

“Ah-right, ah-right,” said Mario.

As Chief Holbrook was leaving, Marie was coming.

“Hi, Chief.”

“Hi, Marie. We’ll keep an extra eye on your store.”

“Great. Thanks. The sooner you catch whoever’s doing it, the sooner I won’t have to hear about it from Mario anymore.”

She entered the store and smiled at her husband.

“So how’s Billy Blake’s business doing?”

“Same as ours. He’s got a few new prints.”

“Does he have any idea who’s pulling down the tops on the mannequins?”

“For all we know it’s him,” she jested.

Mario snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised. A man his age living alone, drinking and shooting pool at the Jolly Roger every night, and cavorting with girls half his age…”

Marie chuckled, but she felt warmth in her nether regions.

“By the way,” said Mario, shifting gears, “I need you to run the store tomorrow. I’m going to visit my mother.”

“How’s she been?”

Mario sighed deeply. “She doesn’t always recognize me anymore, and when she does, she thinks I’m a teenager or something.”

Marie smiled sympathetically, and her mind wandered to her husband as a teenager. He was thinner and built back then. But no one looks like they’re seventeen forever. Billy Blake looked good for his age, but he didn’t have responsibility or obligations.

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates you bringing her food and cookies. She always had a sweet tooth, your mother.”

Mario suddenly looked very sad. “They won’t let me bring her cookies anymore.”

“What? Who?”

“The nurses.”

“Why?”

“They’re afraid she’s going to choke on them.”

Marie put her hand to her mouth. “Jesus, Mario, I’m sorry.”

He looked off into space. “Yeah, well…”

“Well, you visiting her is a good thing.” Marie put her arm around his shoulders. “You’re a good son.”

“Thank you for understanding. She never liked you,” he said sheepishly, “but thank you for being so patient with all this.”

“Come on,” she said, “whether she likes me or not, she’s still family.”

Chapter 4

“It’s a balmy night on the Smuggler’s Bay boardwalk, and it’s crowded with walkers taking relief from the sunset. The sun is down and the night is on as the temperature is at a cool eighty-five degrees.”

Johnny Wong called a young family over to his booth in the middle of the boardwalk. The husband and wife looked at each other tentatively and decided to approach with their little one.

“I have with me another young family. Little boy, what’s your name?”

The boy’s father reached down and picked his son up, placing him on the countertop. Johnny swung the microphone over to the boy.

“Tyrell.”

“Hello, Tyrell. My name’s Johnny. How old are you?”

“Five.”

“Where are you—”

“I’ll be six in March.”

“Oh, really? How nice.”

“I’m forty-five inches long, and I weigh forty-five pounds.”

“You don’t say. Where are you from, little man?”

“I live here.”

“Right here in Smuggler’s Bay?”

“Yes.”

“Are Mom and Dad letting you stay up late tonight?”

Tara glared at the DJ, and then she smiled.

“A little later than usual,” said Marcus.

“Really?” asked Tyrell. “Yay!”

“What’s the special occasion?” asked Johnny.

“My Mommy got a job today.”

Tara blushed. “All right, Tyrell. Let’s go play some games.”

Tyrell looked at his father for confirmation. Marcus winked. Tyrell jumped down from sitting on the countertop.

“You guys have a great night,” said Johnny waving goodbye to the trio. “This next song is dedicated to my new buddy, Tyrell,
Youth Gone Wild
by Skid Row.”

“Oh, jeez,” said Tara. “This place is so stuck in the eighties.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” asked Marcus.

“What year is this?” asked Tara sarcastically.

“I like eighties music,” declared Tyrell.

“What do
you
know about eighties music?”

“Daddy and I watch it on VH1 Plastic.”

“You mean VH1 Classic,” corrected Marcus.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Tara raised an eyebrow at Marcus. “So this is what you two have been doing when I’m not around?”

Tyrell tugged on Tara’s tee-shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, I want to play games.”

“You did promise him,” said Marcus.

“Okay,” said Tara. “What games do you want to play?”

“I wanna play that pop the balloon game over there!”

“That game’s a scam,” said Tara. “There are no large or medium prizes. Everything’s a small. You have to spend forty dollars to win a prize I could get you in a toy store for five or ten dollars.”

“What a buzzkill, honey,” said Marcus. “Hey, Ty, how about we play some racing games in the arcade?”

“I can get into that,” said Tara. “In fact, I think I can beat you and Daddy.”

Tyrell squealed in delight and looked at his father for his reaction.

“C’mon, little man. I work the pedals and you steer.”

“Yeah!” Tyrell grabbed his mother’s and father’s hands and led them into the arcade.

Race after race, Tara smiled as she looked over at her husband and son, her family. Marcus was right. Jobs come and go, as do the trials and tribulations of life, but they’d always had each other.

There was a time when she didn’t appreciate them like she should’ve…

But she appreciated them now.

After a few games, they went for some ice cream cones and sat on one of the wooden benches facing the beach. They watched the waves crash in the darkness, the sounds of the games and crowd behind them, as they licked their cones.

Marcus looked over his son’s head and smiled at Tara. It was a warm, loving smile, but there was something in addition…something different. There was an anxiety lying at the surface beneath the smile, a cautiousness.

Tara couldn’t blame him, not after what she put him through.

“Okay,” she said, placing her arm around Tyrell, “After this, let’s take a ride on the carousel!”

“Yay!” Tyrell had a dollop of vanilla ice cream on his little nose.

Tara took her napkin and wiped it off. “Jeez, Tyrell, try to get some ice cream in your mouth.”

After they finished the last of their cones, they continued down the boardwalk, Tyrell in the lead pulling both his parents by the hand.

Tara heard the familiar calliope music from her youth emanating out of the side of the Blackbeard’s Pier Arcade. Tyrell squealed with excitement and squeezed their hands tighter when he caught a glimpse of the horses whizzing by, bobbing up and down.

Tara smiled as she reminisced about her many rides on the Merry-Go-Round as a young girl, how she used to wave to her parents as she made each pass, the smell of popcorn and zeppoles wafting in her little nostrils.

“Let’s go!” Tyrell released his parents’ hands and dashed right toward the small line to the carousel.

“Hold on a minute, little man,” said Marcus reaching into his back pocket and producing his wallet. “We have to get tickets.”

This minor detail did not deter Tyrell in the least. He took his place in line, jumping up and down in anticipation, figuring his father was bound to catch up to him with the tickets before the old man running the ride opened the gate.

Tara and Marcus split up, Tara joining Tyrell on line to make sure that he didn’t push or cut in his enthusiasm, and Marcus purchasing the tickets from the automated machine.

Marcus pulled out two dollars and slipped the bills into the automated slot. The second bill was rejected twice, but after smoothing it out on the top edge of the ticket machine, it was accepted. Two small orange raffle-type tickets with the name and logo of Blackbeard’s Pier rolled out of the slot, and Marcus carefully ripped them free.

Tara eyed the candy stand across from where they stood on line, her mouth watering as she spied candy apples, a variety of fudge flavors, and chocolate covered pretzels.

Marcus joined them on the small line, handing the tickets to Tyrell. “Now, don’t drop these. You hand them to the nice man when he lets you in.”

Mike Brunello smiled at the reference to him.

“You didn’t get tickets for one of us to ride with him?” Tara asked.

“Don’t worry,” said Mike, “a parent rides for free. Not Blackbeard Pier’s policy, but it’s
my
policy.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Tara, smiling.

“Do you want to go on with him?” Marcus asked.

“No, you go.”

“Are you sure? I know how you like the Merry-Go-Round.”

“I have the rest of the summer to ride it,” said Tara.

Marcus shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

Mike pressed a red button, and the carousel began its wind down. “So, you folks rent a house, or did you just move here?”

Tara was a little startled by the astute but intrusive question. Then she saw the kind face of the old man and softened a bit. He was a townie, retired, and talking to the customers was probably his favorite pastime.

“We just moved here.”

“Where you from?”

“Bergen County.”

“Ah, nice county.” He looked down at Tyrell, who looked like he was picking out which horse he was going to ride. “And what’s your name, big guy?”

“Tyrell.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Mike. How old are you, Tyrell?”

“I’m going to be six.”

Mike chuckled to himself. “Going to be six! Wow!” Then to Tara and Marcus, “Funny how at their age they look forward to getting older.”

The carousel was slowing to a stop as parents lined up by the exit gate to greet their riders.

“So, Tyrell, have you decided which one you want to ride yet? We have horses, sea horses, a lion…” The carousel came to rest and Mike opened up the exit gate. Riders and some parents began to file through the exit. Mike smiled and nodded to each one as they left. A few said goodbye, referring to him by name.

Tyrell was frantically scanning the ride, his eyes bouncing from horse to horse. This was an important decision that had to be made quickly. Suddenly, he pointed, reaching through the slats in the fence that surrounded the ride. “That one! I want to ride the bunny!”

Mike nodded gravely. “Ah, yes, the Rabbit. He’s the fastest on this ride. Excellent choice, Tyrell.”

Mike opened the gate, and Tyrell grabbed his father’s hand and yanked him through. They made a beeline right for the Rabbit, and Marcus helped him up.

Mike closed the gate and said hello to some of the familiar parents, but he was interested in Tyrell’s mother. She was a new face, and there was something that he found interesting about her. Here she had this beautiful family and she had apparently just moved to Smuggler’s Bay at the peak of the season, yet there was this sadness about her.

“The kids love the carousel,” he remarked as parents strapped their kids to the horses.

Tara smiled, her mind half-wandering elsewhere to memories of her childhood. “It’s a classic. I don’t think one ever outgrows the Merry-Go-Round.”

Mike smiled at this. She got it.

“You are exactly right…”

“Tara.”

“…Tara. The bigger rides come and go, some of them new-fangled, but the carousel endures. It was here before I was, and it’ll continue to be here after I’m gone.”

“You’re not from Jersey,” said Tara, observing his slight accent.

“I’m from Brooklyn. After I retired and my wife passed on, I moved down here.”

“You have any children or grandchildren?”

Mike saw that all of the riders were properly strapped in. He pressed a button and a bell began to ring loudly, signifying that the ride was about to begin. Then he pressed the green button on his panel, and the ride sprung to life.

“No children, but I get to see these youngsters grow up summer after summer.”

Tara smiled at Mike, as there was something sad about him, beneath the grandfatherly demeanor. “It must be wonderful to watch.”

“It is, Tara. I get to watch young families like yours make happy childhood memories. Life can be so hard, but when families come to Smuggler’s Bay, it’s like the outside world vanished for a weekend or a week, and parents and kids alike just get to have pure fun. And they come back year after year.”

“Yeah, we found out about this place from a girlfriend who had been coming here with her family for years, and with her parents for years before that.”

Mike nodded proudly as he waved at young riders passing by. They waved as much to him as their own parents. The ride was in full swing now. “Smuggler’s Bay is a kind of institution, much like this ride.”

Tara looked around at the old-fashioned shooting gallery, the retro cabinet arcade games, and the skee-ball machines. “This place hasn’t changed much, has it?”

“That’s part of its charm,” said Mike. “I can do without the eighties style rock n’ roll, though.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” said Tara, returning his smirk.

After several revolutions the ride wound down to a complete stop, and Tyrell and Marcus came bolting out of the exit gate.

“Mommy!”

“Hey, little man.”

Marcus bent down next to Tyrell and pointed at the shooting gallery. “Let’s do that. I remember playing that when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, Daddy, let’s go!”

Marcus and Tyrell dashed over to the shooting gallery.

“It was nice to meet you, Mike.”

“Same here, Tara. You enjoy your evening, now. Come back again.”

Tara smiled and walked off to join her husband and son.

Marcus put a dollar bill into the change machine on the counter, and it spit out four quarters.

“Yay, we won!” declared Tyrell.

Marcus laughed. “No, buddy, that’s just the change machine. Daddy needed to get quarters so we can play.”

Tara smiled at her son’s innocence. She treasured it. Knowing that it was only temporary made it priceless.

Marcus popped two quarters in the slot (it was still only fifty cents after all these years), and he grabbed the rifle. He propped Tyrell up on one of the wooden boxes at their feet and helped him aim the rifle. After several shots they managed to make tin cans pop up in the air, a cowboy play the piano for a few seconds, and a rattle snake rattle.

“Good job, sweetie!” Tara looked across the arcade and back at Mike. She watched him admire the young children and their families, making their joy his. She admired him for that. Here was a man who lost his wife, yet he picked up and made a new beginning here at Smuggler’s Bay.

She smiled as her son cheered every time he hit something. She smiled at her husband, who was sharing something from his youth, this simple shooting gallery, with their son. She wondered if Tyrell would look back one day with fondness at the memories they were making from this point onward.