Zombie Fighter Jango #1 The Road to Hell Is Paved With Zombies (15 page)

“This was just cut,” Stuart whispers, his head swinging back and forth, eyes scanning our surroundings. “Cut today. Maybe yesterday, but my guess is sometime this morning.”

“Then where are the Zs?” I ask.

Stuart shakes his head and stands up. “Don’t know. Let’s go.”

“That rhymes,” Jon says.

“It does,” Stuart replies.

My gut clenches at Stuart’s words. He doesn’t glare at Jon for the stupid joke. That means he’s worried. I don’t like it when Stuart gets worried.

Then he makes my gut feel worse by walking towards the church doors.

“Uh, Stuart?” I ask quietly. Very quietly. “Where are you going?”

“Only more than a couple reasons someone would cut that chain,” Stuart answers. “And one of those reasons is to get inside the church.”

“Then it stands to reason that they already found what they needed,” Jon says. “So let’s go find what we need and leave it be.”

“After I take a look,” Stuart says.

Now, this is the part where someone gets killed. Every movie, book, comic book, TV show, has the macho tough guy walk into the dark, and then the guys that aren’t so macho follow and usually one of those not so macho guys gets his head ripped off, or his balls eaten.

“Coming?” Jon whispers, taking me from my thoughts of getting my balls eaten.

“No,” I say, “can I wait out here?”

“By yourself?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stuart hisses, “and move ass.”

We do and we do, getting right on his heels, weapons ready.

Three seconds. Three long seconds it takes for my eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the church. Unfortunately, my nose doesn’t have the luxury of adjusting. A couple years of being a Z pen means a stench that can only be gotten rid of by a cleansing fire. And even then, the stink that soaked into the earth will have a half life of about a million years.

Jon just gags while I think of all the ways to describe the smell.

“It’s like someone ate the ape house at the zoo and shit it out,” Jon says.

Stuart is ignoring us and leaning, kneeling, sniffing, and, oh, God, tasting, his way through the church. He’s halfway up the pews when he freezes. Jon and I instantly go back to back, our eyes searching for the threat.

“Fuck. Me,” Stuart says and waves us forward.

We look into the row of pews he’s next to and see layers of bones. This isn’t anything unusual in the zombie apocalypse. Bones are lying around all over the place. But both Jon and I see what makes these different: the ends of the bones have been cut. Like by a very sharp meat cleaver.

“Someone was feeding them?” Jon asks. “Why would someone feed them?”

“Another good question,” Stuart says. “Only thing I can think of, is…”

He turns and hurries from the church, squatting in the dirt that used to be a nice, well-kept lawn. Just weeds and rocks now.

“Fuck,” Stuart says. “Double fuck. I’m an idiot. How did I miss this coming in?”

I want to go to him and say it’s all okay and that everyone misses something sometime, but I don’t know what he’s missing. Jon and I wait until he finally looks at us, his eyes steely and hard. Well, steelier and harder than usual.

“Let’s keep going,” Stuart announces. “We’ve lost too much time.” He looks at us. “And silence from here on out.”

Neither of us argue.

The street is buckled and torn up in many places. Nature has decided to take back what was taken from her. Tree roots, massive weeds, water damage, it all has taken its toll. We navigate through the uneven surface without even a glance. Infrastructure is an anomaly; disrepair is the norm. It’s close to half an hour before we get to the next sucky part of our journey: the interstate.

Before us is an overpass that spans four lanes coming and going, or going and coming, depending on your direction of I-26. All lanes are choked with vehicles, most with their doors wide open; ghosts of the occupants that fled on foot. The trouble with the interstate, is that it is a huge part of former society. Which means it is a natural place for Zs to gather.

No one knows why, but the Zs like to be where they think they should be. Absent stimulus or prey, they mainly hang out, or shuffle along slowly, their undead legs taking them through a routine that’s lost in the rotten recesses of their memories. Another sad result of post-Z life.

“Where are they?” Jon asks.

I look about and wonder what he’s getting at, and then notice that the interstate is sans Zs. Zs don’t just follow routine, but also the path of least resistance. The interstate affords them both. On any given day, there should be hundreds below us weaving and lurching between the cars. Today, there are none.

“The cars are empty too,” Stuart says.

“Jesus,” I say, “someone let the trapped ones out? Zs couldn’t do that, right?” I look at them, not even bothering to hide my fear. “Right?”

“Zs can’t do that,” Stuart says. “They can’t cut chains either.”

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.

“What the hell?” Jon asks. “Someone’s gathering Zs? Is that it? Creating a herd?”

Stuart looks at Jon for a second, a brief hint of suspicion clouding his face. I catch it, but it’s gone so fast that I have to wonder if I wasn’t just seeing things.

“Could be. Could not. I don’t know,” Stuart says. “Come on. We have to keep moving.”

“You keep saying that, but you keep stopping,” Jon shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

The silence below us is almost as bad as having a thousand Zs down there. To think that someone took them, moved them, herded them away, makes me shiver. What is the end game there? Is there some mad Z collector taking up residence in the area? Is this some new fad with other survivors? Like silly bands? Or Pokemon? Gotta catch ‘em all…?

At least we don’t have to hunker down and crawl to stay unseen by the Zs. That’s usually how you get across the overpass, on your hands and knees. If you’re spotted when there’s a few hundred below, they come straight for you. Up the embankments, up the exit ramps, however they can get to you. It gives you only a short amount of time to get from one end to the other before being boxed in. And even if you get across, you still have to deal with the fact that you have a herd of zombies on your ass.

So, despite the uncertainty of the recent discoveries, yeah, I’m stoked, I don’t have to crawl or worry about a Z herd.

“Bob and Fam aren’t home,” Jon says once we are across and back in the neighborhoods again. “That’s weird.”

Jon raises his hand to shield the sun from his eyes so he can see through the living room window of the house next to us. Always, whenever anyone comes by here, they see Bob and his family up against the glass. It’s a newer house and the double-paned, extra insulated, front window, has refused to break no matter how long Bob, his wife, and two kids smack at it. There has been discussion at HOA meetings about putting them out of their misery, but it never gets enough votes. I always half expect someone just to come do it. The lack of Bob and Fam makes me wonder if someone hasn’t finally done it.

“No Bob,” I say and shrug, “that is strange.”

That look is back on Stuart’s face, but now I see worry, not suspicion.

Movement. Again.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Whispers carry farther than just speaking in a low, quiet voice,” Stuart informs me.

“I know,” I say in a low, quiet voice. “Just thought you should know we have company again.”

“Same then?” Stuart asks.

“Don’t know,” I reply. “I’m guessing yes.”

“Does it matter?” Jon says. “A threat is a threat.”

We get weapons ready, but keep walking. I can catch flickers of action to my right, back behind some of the houses that line Lakeshore Dr. Just brief flashes of limbs and clothing. I have no idea how many, what size, sex, or age. I just know they are there and they are keeping pace with us.

Stuart’s thumb flicks with just the barest of movements and I know he has taken the safety off his pistol. He’s ready for a fight. I grip my pistol and SS, very aware of the clammy sweat on my palms. I pray my weapons don’t slip from my grasp right when I need them.

Stuart spins quickly and fires one shot. A person cries out in pain and Stuart is off, running towards the sound, his pistol up, his eyes taking in everything, his machete at the ready.

“Fuck,” Jon curses, looking at me. “Do we follow?”

“If you were running towards uncertain danger, wouldn’t you want your travelling companions coming with you?” I reply.

We follow, basically mimicking Stuart’s attack: pistols up, melee weapons at the ready. But before we get more than a couple of feet, they come at us from all sides.

Kids.

“Shit,” I shout as four preteens rush at me from my right.

I spin and fire, hitting one in the leg and then I fire again at their feet, hoping it will make them stop and back off. It doesn’t. The three left are nearly on me, axes, handmade spears, and twisted clumps of rebar in their hands, ready to split my skull wide open

I fire again and again, emptying my magazine before I realize I took them all down. I stare at the dirty, bloody, malnourished bodies before me. Two are missing half their face, the other is trying to suck air from the hole I put in his chest. The first one I tagged is trying to get up, screaming at me about how he’ll rip me open and eat my guts without even cooking them.

Nothing ruins a day like feral, cannibal kids.

Well, not true. Not seeing a fifth kid come at me from my left, kind of ruins the day too.

I feel the pain before I know what’s happened. My left leg buckles and I barely get SS up in time to block what would have been the killing blow. I stare up at the teenage girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and our eyes fall on our weapons. A smile almost crosses my lips as I see she has a baseball bat with spikes driven through it. But my leg is on fire and I know she can give a shit about the coincidence.

She tries to yank her bat back, but our spikes are crisscrossed and all she does is drag me a foot closer to her. So I kick out as hard as I can, shattering her kneecap. She screams, a real bloodcurdling scream, and goes down hard on the wounded knee. Another scream, almost so loud it hurts my ears, escapes her throat as the shards of patella grind against each other.

I kick again, my foot hitting her in the chest. It knocks her back, but her momentum is enough that she does manage to take SS with her. That pisses me off. Fucking feral cannibal bitch has my baseball bat. I look for my pistol, but it was knocked from my hand and is several feet away. I don’t have that kind of time, as I see more kids streaming towards us.

Struggling to my feet, I nock an arrow and fire. It hits her baseball bat. She actually got her bat up in time, and in the right position, to block a mother-fucking arrow. A deadly grin splits her face and I can see the three teeth she has left sitting in brown, rotten gums. I nock another arrow and fire. This one hits the mark. Straight through her throat. She gurgles and coughs while blood pours from the wound. Huge bubbles of blood and snot foam from her mouth.

She’s done, so I nock another and spin about. Shit. Too close. Eight kids, various sizes, are almost on me. I let the one arrow go, hitting a kid in the eye, luckily, and then use the bow as a bat. I cringe when it connects with a kid’s head, not because I probably split his skull, but because I know it has fucked my bow up. I duck down and swing again, sweeping the legs out from under another kid. Lunging up, my leg screaming in pain, I use the top of my head and connect with the jaw of a boy that is about to stab me with quite the wicked looking hunting knife.

He screeches and I feel something wet fall down my neck and into my shirt. I don’t want to think about what it is. Not that I have the luxury of thinking time. I punch the kid in the nuts and shove him back, but his pals are on me and tackle me to the ground. I can see sharpened screwdrivers, steak knives duct taped together, even a fucking gardening trowel, coming at my face.

Then the sound of suppressed gunfire reaches me and I am suddenly pinned under a pile of dead and bloody kids. Trying to free myself from the tangle of limbs, I end up slicing my hand on the fucking gardening trowel (apparently it is very sharp) and shout, “Get these evil munchkins off me!”

“Shut up, dipshit,” Jon says as he helps roll the kids off my body. “We’ve made too much noise as it is.”

“They made too much noise,” I reply as he gives me a hand up. “All I’ve done is bleed.”

“Let’s take a look,” Jon says, helping me off the asphalt and onto a patch of moss under a large oak tree. “Any wounds besides the hand and leg?”

“Aren’t those enough?”

“Big baby,” he smiles as he takes his pack off and pulls out his first aid kit. “Hold still. This will hurt.”

It does. I grit my teeth as he cleans and bandages my hand. My leg needs cleaning, stitching, and a bandage, and then I’m good to go.

“Can you walk?” Stuart asks. “Because we need to-”

“Move?” Jon finishes.

“Up there,” Stuart says as he points up a winding street that overlooks Beaver Lake.

I glance down Lakeshore and realize I should be able to see the lake, but something is blocking the view.