Well Fed - 05 (23 page)

Then the blood sprayed, and fireboy’s wails of terror became squeals.

“Mmmm, good,” Prout exclaimed and held up his binoculars for anyone interested.

A genuine smile slid across Comeau’s face.

“You okay?”

The question left Gus slack-jawed stupid. He had to blink twice, and even then he wasn’t sure of what was happening. He stared at the gimp before him and couldn’t summon his voice, so instead, he just hung there with his mouth open, stunned as if someone had hooked booster cables to his toes and frazzled his system.

“Huh?” he finally got out.

The zombie placed himself before Gus’s dangling frame, and instead of coming forward and chomping into him, it merely stood and inspected. Or at least Gus
believed
it was inspecting. He couldn’t see the eyes.

“Said, you okay?” The mouth worked stiffly, as if the cold affected it. “You look like shit.”

Gus balked. “You’re not…”

The gimp waited.

“You’re not… gonna…”

“Eat you?” the zombie asked. “No. Just the opposite. Gonna get you out of here if anything. Think you can move?”

“I’m dreamin’.”

“You’re not dreaming.”

“You’re a figment of my imagination.”

“Listen,” the gimp said with deliberate clarity. “I’m not here to kill you, okay? I’m going to cut you down from there. But we have to hold on for a minute or so.”

“A minute.”

“Yeah, just a minute.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

The creature’s pallid lips drew back, exposing those terrible black teeth cemented in place by a green, receding gum line. That horrid smile caught Gus off guard.

“Clay Wallace. You?”

“Gus. Berry.”

“Well, Mr. Berry. Offhand, I’d say you’re lucky I happened along here.”

Gus snorted in disbelief. “You don’t fuckin’ say.”

That caused Wallace to smirk with all the grace of a snake. “I do. The gunshots drew our attention.”

“
Our
?”

“My partner and I.”

“There’s
two
of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t worry about that. Right now, eyes are on us, and we have to put on a show.”

“What?”

“Can you scream?”

Gus didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

“I need you to scream. Just until I tell you to stop, okay? Scream like a dying man might. Someone who’s being devoured by zombies.”

The distrustful expression on Gus’s face said it all. Wallace reached up and carefully undid the first three buttons of his combat shirt above his drooping vest. His hands were as filthy and bleached as those belonging to a fresh corpse. Every so often, bones crackled, but his fingers manipulated the buttons until a gap hung open. He reached inside and pulled forth a bottom of what appeared to be a squeeze bottle of ketchup.

“Now,” Wallace whispered, stepping closer, “don’t freak out. Jesus, you stink.”

Gus couldn’t answer, still unable to discern if this speaking ghoul was real or not, and he didn’t appreciate the thing getting closer. A memory of a dentist leaning in much too close with a poised drill came to mind.

“You ready?” Wallace asked, the visor considering.

“Yeah,” Gus said with unmasked dread, squirming to the right just as Wallace lifted a hand to his shoulder and made cold contact. Gus’s innards twisted, revolted, as if being invaded by a knot of maggots, and any remaining mental fortitude burned away as that diseased maw drew closer.

He screamed without prompting and yanked away as much as possible from the zombie’s grip.

“Good.” Wallace’s voice sounded soothing. “That’s good. But stay still.”

Gus shrieked again, freaking out––the zombie’s shocking mouth was far too much for him.

“You’re a natural,” the monster said.

Gus lost it entirely.

But Wallace moved closer and hooked an arm around the man’s neck, pulled his weakened form in close. The corpse leaned in, absorbing the frantic thrashings. He aimed the ketchup bottle at Gus’s bare chest.

The last thing Gus remembered before passing out were the helmet closing with his neck, those horrible teeth, and jets of red spritzing the air before his eyes.

Comeau lowered his binoculars and mulled over what he’d just witnessed. The zombie had latched onto fireboy’s neck and opened it up, covering the hanging man in a mess of blood. In seconds, the screaming died away, and the man hanging from the tow truck went limp.

However, something bothered the gang leader.

That zombie wasn’t right to him.

It wasn’t gorging itself on its human lunch as others would’ve. If Comeau didn’t know better, the thing appeared to be simply nuzzling fireboy’s neck. The binoculars were at their limits and didn’t allow greater scrutiny, which meant he’d keep an eye on the feeding for a little longer—just to make sure.

“What’s wrong?” Boone asked.

Comeau didn’t answer him right away. “You got eyes on that corpse, Jack?”

Murray had snatched the binoculars back from Prout and resumed watching the action. “Yep.”

“What’s it look to you?”

“Honestly? Looks like the two of them down there are necking.”

Comeau shook his head. “That dead bastard hasn’t really made any progress, has he?”

“Nope.”

“Something’s wrong?” Edgar asked, scratching at the screaming-eagle bandanna cutting off his scalp’s circulation.

“Something is,” Comeau muttered. “Just can’t figure––”

A suppressed burp flung Boone’s stick-like figure over the gun ports. Edgar’s head exploded in a messy plume of hair and skull fragments, the screaming eagle spurting free and flying like a bloody lasso falling to earth. Prout only half spun around when his chest burst open in a smoking spurt of red, a fine spray erupting from his other side. He grunted in surprise, and as he sank to his knees, Murray’s cry of “Hey!” was silenced by three more of those soft coughs as his torso slammed into the metal railing. The bodies slumped to the ground. Comeau dropped his binoculars and spun about to face a figure dressed in light green-brown camouflage and wearing a ski mask.

A suppressed pistol was in the masked attacker’s hand.

“Wait––” Comeau got out as Cam Boll rolled to the side, pulling his knife free of its sheath.

The man in black shot Comeau twice in the chest, backing him up against a nearby car door, before smoothly altering aim and firing twice more, tearing a chunk out of Boll’s midsection and buckling him over. A third shot blew out the back of Boll’s head in grisly streamers.

Comeau lay against the car, holding a hand to one of his chest wounds and gasping as his blood flooded a lung and his heart bleated a code his brain recognized as dire. No more than four seconds… four seconds before, they’d all still been alive, shooting the shit while watching the circus on the crossroads from afar. Now, Comeau’s darkening vision took in the slain forms of his companions as their killer walked toward them, pistol trained.

Careful
, Comeau realized, close to blacking out.
Quiet
.

Stealthy
, his mind corrected… before shutting down.

Gus moaned and rolled his head to one side, repelled by the potent smell of vinegar. He rubbed his scruff of a beard before his arm flopped back to the pavement. A shadow passed over him, and he opened his eyes, grimacing at the bright flash of the sun. A moment later, he realized he was lying on his back, no longer bound to the tow truck. His arms buzzed with renewed circulation and moved haltingly, as if thawing after a long winter. Something moved just beyond his head, and he turned with some discomfort to see a man disappearing around the corner of the truck.

Gus tried to sit up. Cramps seized his legs, and he winced at the biting pain rippling through his thighs and calves. His arms ached, but he could move them… slowly.

Dream.
Had to be a dream. A delirious dream. But who had cut him down?

“Hey,” he called out. “Who’s there?”

Silence. Then a metallic clatter of something bouncing.

“Hey! What’s happening?”

He rolled onto his belly, wondering why the hell he was coated in spoiled ketchup, and saw boots underneath the truck on the driver’s side. Whoever wore them stood on the balls of his feet, leaning into the vehicle. Pebbles stuck to Gus’s belly and chest, and lying down as he was, he felt the clingy saturation and burn of his undershorts. That wrenched a sigh from his tortured form.

Boot heels came down and moved back around the truck, distracting Gus from his aches. Whoever the guy was, he took his time coming around the truck, but he wasn’t walking like a deadhead, and for that, Gus was grateful.

The figure stepped into sight and towered over Gus, forcing him to look up, his face slackening into an expression of horror.

That fish-belly-colored jaw and the face only half revealed by a lowered visor… the skeletal smirk and horrible teeth… A stiff hand rose and adjusted the helmet.

“How you doing?” the gimp asked.

Gus couldn’t reply. And when he finally did, it was a heartfelt “Holy shit.”

Silence stretched out after that sincere answer.

The zombie ended it. “That a good
holy shit
or a bad one?”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Gus whispered, keeping the dead fucker in sight.

“No. It wasn’t. You’re free to go. If you can walk, that is.”

“I can walk.”

“Well, that’s a good thing.”

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Berry, we’ve covered introductions.”

“I mean,” Gus’s voice grated, “who the hell
are
you? And why did you…?”

He couldn’t say anymore, overwhelmed by Wallace’s presence.

“I was a professional soldier, Mr. Berry,” Wallace stated, lips working as if fresh out of a dentist’s chair. “Now, I suppose I’m freelancing. Lucky for you we came along when we did.”

“You’re fucked up.” That didn’t merit a reply, so Gus tried again. “I mean, you look like a zombie.”

“Well, you know what they say about looks, Mr. Berry.”

Gus knew.

He placed his hands flat to the pavement. With a growl and a surge of pain as if his guts were about to drop, he attempted to push himself off the ground, gave up, and struggled into a sitting position. His legs felt too stiff to support him just yet, so he sat and shook them out as if recovering from a far-too-lengthy stretch.

“You take your time,” Wallace said and glanced in the direction of the overpass. “We’re good here now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re safe. Relatively speaking. How many of those men were there? The ones that did this to you?”

“Six.”

“I see.”

“
Are
you a zombie?” Gus blurted, fixing his rescuer with a harsh look.

Wallace surveyed the land, and for a moment, Gus wondered if he’d heard the question. The man’s head bobbed oddly, as if he were concentrating on listening.

“Yes and no,” he finally answered.

“Yes and no? Well, what is it?”

But Wallace turned around and left him. “I’m heading over to that campsite. Climb onto the back if you want, and I’ll drive you over.”

“The back? Why not the front?”

“Because you stink.”

The driver’s door opened. That got Gus moving. He pulled himself up to the tailgate, his arms and legs on the verge of being torn apart. He stood on shaky legs and regarded the boom-and-winch system taking up the rear of the vehicle. Gus couldn’t see a place to climb onto, so he waddled around to the passenger side, walking as if he wore plaster casts on both legs.

The truck started up.

Gus opened the passenger side door, sweating precious water he couldn’t afford to lose, and hauled himself onto the seat. Wallace waited but didn’t offer a hand or turn his head to watch. Groaning, grunting, Gus got himself tucked away and closed the door.

He glanced at Wallace’s intimidating profile before rolling down the window.

Gus wasn’t the only one who stank.

The soldier put the truck into drive and rolled away from the crossroads, back toward the overpass. He drove slowly, his head again weaving in that erratic, odd fashion that reminded Gus of Ray Charles. But Wallace wasn’t blind. Far from it.

Gus rested his head against the doorframe and watched the plains roll by. “Taking your time, aren’tcha?”

Some trace of civil politeness forbade him from further questioning his rescuer about his condition, which was totally fucked up in Gus’s humble opinion. It felt like asking a terminal cancer patient, “How you feeling?”

Wallace focused on driving. His pale hands gripped the steering wheel, the skin tight and white around the knuckles.

Gus directed his attention back to the road.

The tow truck pulled into the center of the ring of motor homes, brakes squealing as it slowed to a stop. The leather recliners remained situated in front of the white and tiger-striped blocks, waiting for cutthroats nowhere in sight. Wallace placed the gear stick into park and got out without a word, letting Gus stare after him in unchecked horror.

What is this guy? He’s infected, but how can he function?

The fact that he didn’t
eat
Gus while he was strung up proved the soldier didn’t have the killer appetite of other zombies, but his appearance suggested otherwise.

Wallace ambled around the front of the truck, allowing Gus to inspect him at length. He didn’t move well, as if every joint was afflicted with arthritis—or he’d been shot in the ass and couldn’t be bothered to dig the bullet out.

“Get him?” a woman called out, breaking Gus’s study of Wallace. He leaned forward, looking into the side mirror.

There, between two RVs, sauntered a figure clothed in camouflage gear, complete with ragged body armor, tactical webbing, and assorted pouches. A sidearm rested in a hip holster. A black ski mask completely covered the face.

“He’s in the truck?” the woman asked, and Gus took a moment to realize the approaching soldier had spoken.

“Yep,” Wallace answered. “How many you get?”

“Six.”

“That checks out. Anything useful on them?”

She stopped and shook her head. “A bunch of knives. Some Glocks. A couple of high-powered hunting rifles up top but nothing special. Debating even taking them along.”