Walkers (22 page)

Boom!
The hole in the door grew. The swollen, mindless face that had been Peter Landau's was

there looking at her. The ruined hand reached in through the broken door and fumbled for the bolt.

Fighting for control, Joana unscrewed the cap from the bottle of alcohol. She took a drinking glass from a holder next to the sink and poured it full of the clear liquid. The pungent odor of the alcohol squeezed tears from her eyes.

Peter had found the bolt now, but the mangled hand could not manipulate it. The hand withdrew, and the other, the good one, came through the hole.

Joana set the bottle and the glass of alcohol down long enough to search through her pockets.

Dear God, let there be matches
.

At the instant Peter rattled the bolt back into the door Joana's fingers closed over a book of paper matches. The doorknob turned. The shattered door was knocked inward. For a fraction of a second the dead creature was framed in the doorway. Joana took up the full glass and dashed the alcohol into the purpled face, wetting down the front of the shirt at the same time. She dropped the glass and, as it crashed on the tile floor, struck a match. She threw the match at Peter. It bounced off his shoulder and went out.

A scream rose in Joana's throat. She fought it down. The thing was in the bathroom with her now with its hands reaching for her, one of them whole, the other a shattered wreck of bone and tendon. The reek of alcohol was strong, but the odor of death was stronger. Joana struck another match. Gripping it between thumb and forefinger, she reached out and forced herself to hold the flame against the alcohol-soaked shirt.

She held it there one second, two seconds. Abruptly the shirt and the swollen head whopped into light blue flame. The creature reacted with what remained of human instinct. It staggered backward, arms beating at the flames that licked across the chest.

Joana ran past Peter into the hallway. Behind her, there was a whimpering cry as Peter lurched out of the bathroom and came after her.

She made it through the front door and flew down the steps, taking them two and three at a time. The inhuman voice wailed behind her. When she reached the street she turned to see the flaming figure of a man stumble out of the house, the arms still reaching for her.

A car coming up the street from Laurel Canyon jammed to a stop as the driver caught sight of the fleeing girl and the burning man. Someone across the way, hearing the commotion, came out of his house. Then someone else. And another. The people ran into the street, gathering into a small crowd at the foot of Peter's stairs.

Above them, the thing that had been Peter Landau, the decaying flesh crisped and splitting under the flames, stumbled at the stop of the stairs, fell, and bounced in a tumbling fiery mass all the way to the street. Several people tried to approach the burning figure, but could not get close in the intense heat.

"Get a blanket!" someone shouted.

"Never mind," said somebody else. "Nothing can help him now."

Joana sagged against the side of the Datsun. The flames crackled merrily. Peter's flesh sizzled and split. The viscera steamed. Joana turned her head away.

As the flames subsided, one of the neighbors came down with a garden hose and sprayed water over the body. Much of the face was burned away, leaving a grisly smile of exposed jawbone and strong white teeth.

Joana braced herself and walked over to look down at the steaming remains. Later she would think about Peter Landau, remember him as he had been, and grieve for him. Right now all she could think was,
There lies number four. It's over. I've won
.

The heat broke Sunday morning as winds from offshore carried mist and high clouds inland, driving the Santa Ana back to the desert. In the evening Joana and Glen sat close together on the couch. A Woody Allen movie was playing on television, but neither of them laughed, because neither of them was really watching the picture.

"It's over," Joana said, as though to herself. "It's really over. Why don't I feel happier about it?"

"It's been a rough time," Glen said.

"For sure."

They were silent for several minutes, then Joana spoke again.

"Do you realize it's been only eleven days? Eleven days since I went for that swim at the Marina Village and this whole ghastly nightmare started. It seems like the walkers have been following me forever."

"It will take a while," Glen said. "You don't get over something like that in a day. You'll need some time for reentry to the real world."

"Ah, yes, the real world. Where the dead stay dead, and only the living walk."

After a moment Glen said, "It was bad with Peter, wasn't it."

"It was the worst. Because I knew him. Or I knew who he was before he became that...thing. The others were bad enough, but I never knew them when they were alive. They were just zombies. They might as well have never lived. I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

"Go ahead, if it makes you feel better."

"It doesn't really. I'm just running on nervous energy. The only thing that will make me feel better is time."

"Was there any trouble with the police about Peter's death?"

"Oddly enough, there wasn't. That Sergeant Olivares from downtown moved right in and took over the whole scene. He said not to worry, it would go into the books as accidental death. I think he knows more about the walkers than he will admit."

The doorbell rang, and they both jumped, muscles tense. Then they exchanged sheepish grins.

"Who is it?" Joana called.

"Warren."

She walked over and opened the door. Dr. Hovde came in. At his side was a tall woman with blonde hair, just beginning to silver. She had smiling blue eyes.

"Joana, Glen," said the doctor, "I'd like you to meet Marge. My wife. Honey, these are the people I've told you about."

Marge Hovde shook hands with both of them. "I'm very glad to meet you," she said. "Warren tells me you've just been through some unpleasant times.''

"Yes, we have," Joana said, "but they're over now."

"I'm glad to hear that." Marge looked at her husband. "With a little luck our bad times will be over too."

Glen looked from one to the other. "Does this mean I'm losing a neighbor?"

"Just as soon as I can pack my records and clear out," said Hovde. "The events of the past week have made me do a lot of thinking about life in general, and my life in particular. We had our differences, Marge and I, but who doesn't. One thing I learned for sure is that living alone is not my style."

"Mine either," said Marge. "So when Warren said why don't we try to work things out, I jumped at it. Then it seemed foolish for him to be driving back and forth from one end of Los Angeles to the other, so..."

"So I'm moving back to the Valley," Hovde finished for her. "Now that we've had a near-divorce, maybe I'll fit in better."

"I think it's wonderful," Joana said. "And I just know it's going to work out. The two of you look so right together."

"Yes, we do make a lovely couple," Hovde said, grinning at his wife.

"Modest too," she added.

"I'll be moving out too before long," Glen said.

"Really? You mean you and Joana...?"

"That's it."

"I guess it's pretty old-fashioned of us," Joana said, "but we're going to get married."

"Right after the World Series," Glen added, smiling.

Dr. Hovde pumped Glen's hand. "I'm really glad to hear that," he said. "Congratulations. You're getting a hell of a woman."

"I know it," Glen said.

"And, Joana, all the best to you, always." He kissed her on the cheek, and they all laughed for no other reason than feeling good about themselves.

Joana brought out a bottle of burgundy and they drank to each other's good luck in the future. In a little while Warren and Marge Hovde left. Joana stood in the doorway smiling after them.

"They look like newlyweds," she said. "Holding hands and giggling with each other."

"I've never seen the doctor look happier," Glen said.

"What do you think we'll look like after twenty years?"

"Lord, who knows? Who
wants
to know. I've had enough predictions and apparitions for one lifetime."

"I'll second that," Joana said.

Glen stretched and cracked off a yawn. "I'd better get going. Tomorrow it's back to the workaday world."

"Good old world," Joana said.

She kissed him good night in the doorway and they stood for a long time holding each other very tight.

Dr. Hovde whistled happily as he parked his car and strolled across the lot toward the Emergency entrance to West Los Angeles Receiving Hospital. He did a little dance step, then looked across the way and saw two student nurses watching him with amused smiles. He waved at them, they waved back.

He had arranged his schedule to have this Monday morning at the hospital, then take off a couple of days at the end of the week so he and Marge could drive up to Tahoe and work at getting reacquainted. Last night they had slept together for the first time since he moved out a month ago. No, before that, actually. Their lovemaking had been better than ever before. Maybe, he thought, all couples should take a break somewhere about the midpoint of their marriages. No, on second thought, most of them would probably never get back together. It seemed to be working for him and Marge, and that was all that mattered.

He entered the hospital, nodded to the others on the ward, and hung up his light jacket. He scrubbed up and put on the white coat. Nothing was happening in Emergency this morning that needed his attention. A dog bite, a separated shoulder from the Venice bike path, a firecracker burn, a battered wife. Nothing out of the ordinary, everything under control.

Hovde wandered out into the hall to get a cup of coffee and think about last night with Marge. In the two days since he had impulsively called and asked to see her, they had talked more together, really talked, than in the last five years of their marriage. He was surprised and chagrined to discover that Marge had intelligent opinions about subjects he had not suspected she cared about. She also had insights to offer him on everyday living that he truly listened to for the first time. It was like meeting a new, exciting woman, only it was better because they had all their memories intact.

"Son of a gun, if you don't look like a man who got a little last night."

Kermit Breedlove's voice startled Hovde out of his reverie. He grinned embarrassedly, realizing he was standing there with his coffee cup in his hand looking foolishly happily.

"Hi, Kermit," he said to the pathologist. "How's things in the icebox?"

"We got a customer in last night that you were asking about. I tried to call you at your apartment, but there was no answer."

Hovde was instantly alert. "Who is it?"

"Body of a girl, Caucasian, about seventeen. They pulled her out of the surf up at Leo Carillo Beach about five o'clock yesterday afternoon. I think she's your cliff-jumper."

"Thanks. You know why I wanted to hear."

"Yeah."

"Have you done an autopsy yet?"

"No. The body was in sorry shape, what with the battering it took on the rocks, and then the crabs."

"Then I don't suppose you can be sure of the time of death?"

"Come along to my office," Breedlove said.

"What have you got?"

"Some of the girl's friends are there. They came in to identify the body."

"Did you get a positive I.D.?"

"Yeah." Breedlove's toothpick shifted sides of his mouth. "The girl's name was Quilla Styles. Her parents live up in Santa Barbara, but they're on a world cruise now and can't be reached. Apparently the girl hasn't lived at home for a couple of years."

Hovde studied the pathologist as they walked side by side down the hospital hallway. "What's the story, Kermit? There's something you're not telling me."

"I'd rather have you hear it from the girl's friends. Here we are."

Breedlove opened the door to his office and gestured Hovde inside. On a black leather couch sat two young men and a fat girl with an outbreak of pimples on her chin. The trio was dressed in soiled thrift-shop clothes. Their body odor was rank in the small office. Sad, scruffy reminders Of the hippie culture of the 1960s.

Facing them sat a young man in the neat brown uniform of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's office. He turned toward the door when the doctors entered.

"Go right ahead, Deputy," said Breedlove. "This is Dr. Hovde, a colleague of mine."

The deputy nodded and returned his attention to the three young people on the couch.

"How many of you are living in the burned-out condominium?" he asked.

"Who knows, man?" said one of the boys, a pale, moon-faced youth. "Six, eight, sometimes twenty. People come and go, you know."

"How long had Quilla Styles been staying there?"

"A week, a month, whatever. She came and went like everybody else."

The deputy sighed audibly. "All right, suppose you tell me what happened on the evening of Wednesday, June eighteenth."

"We're not going to get busted, are we?" the fat girl said.

"Just tell me what happened, please."

The second boy spoke up. He was thin, with apointed nose that dripped on his upper lip. "Don't worry, they can't use anything we say against us. He didn't read us our rights, and besides, we got no attorney here."

"You are not under arrest," the deputy explained patiently. "I'm just trying to establish the circumstances of the young woman's death."

"Yeah, well, okay," said the moon-faced boy, "just let me get it together for a minute." He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, "What happened, we were doing a little angel dust Wednesday, okay?"

Breedlove and Hovde exchanged a glance. Angel dust, PCP, phencyclidine. Cheap and easy to make, readily available at any high school. And just about the deadliest drug on the streets.

"No big deal," the boy continued. "Just nice and mellow, okay?"