He wanted the dead fuckers to
know
that he wasn’t about to stand down without raising some hell. That he was through being scared. That he was going on the offensive.
He emerged from the store and sounded the air horn, delighting in its heavy blare.
“That’s right, cocksuckers. The fuckin’ Loveboat just pulled into port.”
He blasted the horn again, his cheeks aching from the size of the grin on his face.
“Wooo!” Gus threw his arms wide and howled. He felt like a gladiator, ready to take on all comers. “All aboard!”
He went to the snowmobile and rummaged through the saddle bag once more. Finding the rum, he steeled himself with whatever was left. He finished the bottle with a ferocious yell and dumped the empty back into the bag, intending on converting it into a firebomb. Seeing as he was in town, he figured he’d scoot on over to the pop-shop and get some more beverages. He wanted more rum––or anything else––to keep his own motor running.
Gus, the self-proclaimed Loveboat, left the store and cruised toward sunnier ports of call, goosing the air of Annapolis with deep prodding toots of the new found horn.
8
He hunted.
The snowmobile’s thunder echoed harshly through the city of Annapolis, announcing the hunt in grunge fashion. The air horn blasted the already stirred-up stillness, causing the dead not fully frozen to move mindlessly toward the bleating sound. Just as Gus wanted them to do.
Feeling better than he had in a long time, Gus zipped along roadways, avoiding the close confines of snow-choked alleys and narrow streets. Sometimes the dead wandered directly into his path, causing him to steer around them. He would park a short distance away, dismount, and lay into the corpses with aluminium fury. Gus had no problem dodging near-skeletal hands or slow-moving limbs, bobbing and weaving through several deadheads with half-drunken grace. It was more than easy to dispatch the things. His counterattack became a massacre the likes he hadn’t seen since the initial outbreak of zombieness or the siege at his walls. His mind warned him of the creatures’ one weapon—mass attack—but the weather was his ally. Whatever evil powered the dead’s icy bodies into motion had been crippled by two months of sub-zero temperatures. For the first time in a very long time, the living had the edge over the dead.
Gus killed more than two hundred of the shambling creatures that day. Actually, he had lost count, but he believed that over two hundred was a fair estimation. He retreated to his home in the waning hours and celebrated modestly that night. He didn’t want to be so hungover that he was immobilized the next day, which would allow the dead a brief respite. He didn’t want them to regroup in any way, if such a thing were possible. The thrill of the hunt excited him, and he looked forward to heading down into the city.
The next day, Gus rose before dawn, got ready, and timed it such that he entered the expanse of Annapolis just as the sun broke free of the mountains. He raced up and down the streets, the snowmobile grinding forward like a warhorse. When the dead appeared, he put them down with his bat, never once having to resort to using ammunition, which he wanted to spare if possible.
After a morning of killing, he steered the snow machine into a fast food takeout that had snow piled up to its smashed-out picture windows. He parked the machine on a huge drift that ran through one corner of the restaurant, making an effective bridge from one window to the other. Dismounting his ride with a moan, Gus examined the interior of the restaurant. The place looked like a bomb had denoted under its roof. Most of the tables with their attached seating were almost filled in with snow, the walls were dented, and pictures were smashed. The large plastic menu hanging over the counter had its face shattered, and loose wiring and the broken light bulbs underneath lay bare. The kitchen area was draped in gloom. Gus walked over and kicked the checkout machine, sending it spinning away with a rattle.
No reaction from within.
Gus went back to the snowmobile and threw open the saddlebag with his lunch. Grabbing a can opener, he sat on the machine and worked the lid off the tin. A moment later, he removed his helmet and dug into his spaghetti and meatballs. He ate in silence, peering out at the cityscape and watching for movement. Halfway through the can, something warned him to look over his shoulder. He spotted a shadow against the dark inside the kitchen area.
The shadow walked unsteadily into the light, followed by half a dozen more—workers in their uniforms and as solemn as monks. He forked another mouthful of spaghetti into his mouth. The seven figures dragged their feet into the serving area and filled the area behind the long counter. Pasty arms sought purchase to haul their bodies up over the counter. Black skin tags and sores clustered around their mouths. Gus stopped chewing. How the hell could anyone eat with the likes of
that
staring at them?
He placed his lunch to one side, pulled the silenced Ruger from his boot, racked the slide, and took aim at the first takeout employee. One shot through the forehead and the corpse dropped to the counter with a hard slap. Gus looked around, checking his flanks. Seeing all was clear, he sniffed, and took up the gun in two handed fashion.
Pewp-pewp-pewp
. The shots threw the deadheads back against a counter filled with to-go containers and coffee machines. One of the remaining zombies stood up and moaned loudly enough that Gus thought the thing was about to beat its chest. He shot out its eye, and the body fell behind the counter. The remaining two gimps fell just as fast, each taking a bullet to the forehead and collapsing behind the counter.
Gus waited for more, but none appeared. Placing the Ruger on the seat, he finished his lunch. Once done, he tossed the can at a nearby trash bin and got it in on the first try.
He started the snow machine. Not liking the service at the takeout in the least, he vowed to never eat at the place again.
*
By the end of the day, Gus had killed at least another two hundred undead things. He returned home in a whorl of exhaust and blowing snow and got pleasantly buzzed.
But something troubled him.
“Something’s not right.” He directed the comment at the captain, who sat at the other end of the sofa, tucked between Gus’s feet and a cushion. The Christmas tree glowed at the other end of the living room, and Gus alternated between looking at its hypnotizing pixie lights and the duct-taped captain.
What?
Gus didn’t care if he was slipping into deep bat shit crazy by conversing with an empty bottle. He needed the company.
“I’ve put down a good many undead critters in the last two days, and I haven’t seen the mob that pinned Scott and me in the attic that one time. That was an army of ‘em. You know the ones I’m talkin’ ’bout. Nowhere to be found. There ain’t many places for ’em to hide, and there was a
lot
of ‘em.
Too
many of ‘em. I don’t even think a stadium could shelter ‘em all, and they’re… brainless. I mean, they ain’t goin’ ‘
Holy shit
it’s cold out. Jesus, it’s cold! My fuckin’ arms are dropping off here. We better get the hell inside!’” He shook his head.
And your question is?
“Well, where the hell are they?”
Maybe they’re still back at the cul de sac. They’re tidal. Maybe they didn’t get a chance to move before the cold took a dip.
“Hmm. You’re smart. For a bottle. I’ll get on it tomorrow. I’ll be takin’ out some of your boys for this one.”
Be careful. It ain’t small bunches you’re heading after here. You’re going after the mother lode. Remember what happened the last time. In fact, I don’t think you should hunt for them at all. It’s an army of undead, after all
.
“Yeah? Well, I’m an army of one.” Gus smiled sleepily at the bottle. “Goddamn right, I am.”
The captain let that one go.
*
The captain’s idea––Gus gave credit where it was due––was solid, or so Gus thought. Zombies were tidal. There were stragglers, some groups even large enough to be considered packs, but the really big packs, the mobs, the hordes, drifted from place to place like kelp caught in a current. If one of them caught scent of something and started walking, alerting the rest, the entire swarm would follow. And if they found something, they might linger in the area for a bit, before being pulled in another direction.
Thus, as the captain pointed out, if Gus really wanted to wage war on the bastards, if he really wanted to kick them in the collective rotting balls, he had to go to the last place he had encountered them and simply make noise in that general area. If they were still there, they would answer.
The dead feared nothing.
And that would be their destruction.
The next day, Gus packed the saddlebags with another tin of spaghetti, a can opener, and eight Molotov cocktails, ready to roar.
You taking the Benelli?
Gus stopped pulling on his Nomex pants and frowned at the old sailor watching from the workbench. “What do you think?”
The captain didn’t have anything to say to that.
“Honestly, man, times like these, I remember you’re just a bottle with a face on it. ‘You taking the Benelli?’ Fuck a monkey, I’m takin’ the Benelli. I’d take a fuckin’ elephant gun down there if I had one. Or a sniper gun. That’d be cool. Can you imagine that, eh? Snipin’ gimps a mile out? Wouldn’t mind tryin’ that. That might be the safest way of doin’ things. By the way, you ain’t comin’ on this one. You get to stay home here. Watch the fort.”
Why?
“No room for an empty bottle on this trip. Only got room for eight of your marines as it is. Your boys ready?”
They’re ready. You’re taking my finest.
The captain’s finest. Or so
he
said. Gus could have made room for the duct-taped officer, but space
was
limited on the snow machine, and there was no way he was going to endanger his only companion by lugging him along. But he wasn’t going to flatter the bottle by telling
him
that.
Watch yourself out there.
“What are you? My mother?” Gus huffed in exasperation as he pulled on his helmet and batted down the visor.
Just wishing you well is all. No need to be snarky about it.
Gus realized the captain was right. He gave it a thumbs-up as apology and adjusted the X of bat sheath strap and full bandolier across his chest.
Finished with his preparations, he mounted the snowmobile and started the machine, filling the garage with the smell of exhaust.
“Love that smell,” Gus said, savoring it for a moment.
Give em hell out there
, the captain said in a serious tone.
Gus regarded the bottle one last time. “You got it..
And he was off.
An hour later, he drove through the car-filled streets of the city, heading to the cul de sac where he and Scott had been trapped by the undead. He didn’t know if they were
all
of the remaining dead, and they probably, most
certainly
, weren’t, but if he killed as many as he could, it would go a long way in making Annapolis safe. Zombie free. If such a thing was possible.
Not remembering the exact location of the cul de sac, he took a few wrong turns before finally coming upon what he believed was the right one. The house where he and Scott had taken refuge was at the end, smashed windows leering like a broken smile. Snow snaked up and over the picture windowsill, flowing into the living room. Gus stopped the machine, gazing at the place where he had hidden for three days. Or had it been four? The aftershock still muddled his memory.
Gus studied the cul de sac area, his machine resting on perhaps feet of packed snow. He stood up, rooted around in a saddle bag, and brought the air horn to bear. The blast ripped through the morning quiet and made him smile. It was almost too much fun. He squeezed off another couple of blasts, then waited. There were plenty of residential areas where he knew the corpses still roamed. If he couldn’t summon the dead there, he would check the other places.
Gus switched off the engine. In the abrupt choke and death of the motor, he inhaled, feeling nary an ache from his ribs. He studied some of the other wealthy-looking houses. He cleared his throat and listened.
The creaking of his seat.
Wind. Rising and falling, like the breath of a sleeping animal.
White ghosts blew across the front of some houses, misting their colors.
A gray arm punched through the surface of the hard-packed snow, startling him. Gray fingers clutched at air, then dipped and scratched at the snow. Another limb joined it, devoid of any fingers at all, a fleshy spade stabbing into the air, flexing. The subtle sound of shifting snow, a soft grainy hiss that might have been the hitching escape of air from a puncture tire, captured Gus’s attention. Other hands and arms burst into view, some extending from the icy surface just past the elbow, others appearing as twitching digits as long and frightening as spiders’ legs.
The snow near the first arm shook, bulged, and broke. A gray-black head struggled to free itself of the drift. It turned, and black cavities where eyes had once been captivated Gus for a moment, rooting him to the spot. The snow around the skull shivered, and another head rose near it, like a curdled knob in a vat of milk. Its jaws opened, and Gus knew if he were close enough, he’d hear the joints creak.
More figures fought free of the snow, working their way to the surface until the scene resembled something from a horror movie where the deceased occupants of a cemetery decided to rise for foul reasons. The mob he’d been seeking
had
come back to the cul de sac. In fact, they had evidently fallen and frozen in place. With the presence of nearby meat serving as a tantalizing stimulus, the dreadful power that animated them in the first place surged within their decomposing cores, powering them to extract their bodies from the deep snow.