Extreme Zombies, page 16
“I’ll be there.” Sarge’s used to the way I talk. She never says it, but she knows why she needs me. I’ve lasted longer than any other cop she’s known. She wasn’t from the precinct, not originally. The army, I think. Sarah? Susan? What the hell’s her name? Anyway, Sarge told me once that either I’m a crazy motherfucker or I’m the toughest bastard this side of the river. She said I must be off my nut to be doing what I’m doing, and she’s right. “But you owe me. What’s the address?”
“1543 Cedar Street.”
Trees. Why name a street after a goddamn tree? Do they feel guilty for plowing them down? Always seems like the tree-streets in those neighborhoods are oily, black and perfect. Least it covers up the blood. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Be careful,” she warns me. There’s no trace of fear in her voice, but I know she’s afraid. “Her family’s rich.”
Oh, crap. Not another one. To some folk, doesn’t matter who lives or dies—as long as it ain’t them.
Three-fifteen. I take my sweet-ass time getting over to Cedar Street, drive the long, safe way through the electric fences. Fucking rich people. Dead rising from their graves, people dying in the streets, and what do they do? Bribe people with food to build them a goddamn wall with fucking turrets and video cameras. I know that shit ain’t legal, but the law doesn’t apply to some people, I guess.
Shit. I don’t want to meet the family and I’m too tired to fight. Just want to put a bullet in the girl’s head and be done with it. Crap, no bullets. Why do I keep forgetting things? Right. No food. Nothing to fuel my body ’cept my red-hot rage.
Survivors are worse than zombies. They’ll say stupid shit like, “Not my precious baby lamb. She’s just sick.” Then I’ll say, “Ma’am, with all due respect, your daughter is a zombie. She may be walking, but she’s a corpse.”
Sometimes they’ll ask me to leave. When I do, I slap the court order on ’em, quarantine the house, and light it up. Fence or no fence: we can’t have their precious lamb eating the neighbors. Wasn’t always that way. Used to arrest the fuckers for the good of society and all. Now Sarge orders me to burn ’em to the ground. Take no prisoners, no room for the stupid. If they won’t follow the law, then the law won’t help them. Right or wrong, that’s just the way it is. Save those that want to be saved and put down the rest. Put down the sheep.
Lord, Lo-ord! Lead Your lambs through the val-ley, all the way down to the ri-ver.
Four-thirty. Pull up to a big house all lit up like a tree on Christmas morning. Whole lawn is lush, rigged with sprinklers. These fuckers must have money. Most people can’t even get fresh bread or water, these assholes have to manicure their grass. I pull up to the door. Grab my gear: handcuffs, Taser staff, C4 and my badge. Set my staff to maximum. That’s all I fucking need. No goddamn shrubbery. Bet these people don’t care there’s a war on. They have their house and all this shit. Why call me?
Four-thirty five. Ring the doorbell. Fat man comes to the door dressed in a black tuxedo. Tells me to be quiet. Says he’s having a dinner party and we don’t want to disturb his guests.
“I’m Officer Francis, but you can call me Mike.” I stick out a hand just to fuck with the guy. Hope he doesn’t shake it. If he does? I’d have to play nice.
He doesn’t. Damn, I should’ve called Sarge to bet on that. Could have won an extra hour of sleep. “Yes, well. No names are necessary. You don’t need to know who I am.”
I lean in close. Know my breath stinks; ran out of toothpaste. “Yeah, I really do. You see I’m the law around here.”
Fat man grunts and looks right into my eyes. His eyes are cold, black. “I can have you fired. Then how are you going to eat, Officer?”
“Motherfucker, you can die for all I care,” I hiss. “But I will do my job and put that zombie down.”
“My little girl is not a zombie,” the fat man screams, trails of spit flying out of his mouth. “Her name is Mackenzie.”
Knew that was coming. Fat man’s precious lamb-child couldn’t possibly be one of them. “According to ordnance three dash two point . . . ” I give the fat man a present, slap the law on his back.
“You can’t do this!” Asshole tries to push me down. Almost works, too. Got a lot of meat on his bones, meat I don’t have. “I will sue!”
“Do you want the chance?”
Fat man’s eyes blink. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Show me where she is and you can sue me and the whole fucking country for all I care.”
“Fine. I’ll play your game.” Fat man waddles down a long hallway like nothing happened. Strange motherfucker. What’s his angle? “Come, Officer Francis,” fat man says, snapping his fingers. “This way.”
I shake my head. People struggling to survive and this fat fuck acts like he’s king. There oughta be a law. Wait. There was supposed to be one, up until some idiot politician threw himself at the press, saying some folk were just too important to be treated like everyone else. Said they were vital to the survival of the human race. We all knew it was bullshit. Some people are just way too scared to die.
Course, not all folk are bad. Some of ’em, once they figured out what was going on, they helped out. Gave up their nice homes and fancy cars. Opened their doors and shared their food before they—or it—rotted away. I asked one of ’em why he gave up everything to help his neighborhood. Man told me there was no rich or poor. No numbers to crunch. No papers to file. Until the zombies were put down, everyone has shit and we need more than a prayer to get through tomorrow. He was right, too. Life ain’t perfect, but we adapted. Some people used the brains that God gave ’em to give us a fighting chance.
Death and zombies. The two great equalizers. No one gives a fuck what you did or who you were in life. Eat or be eaten. Fuck or be fucked. Kill or be killed.
We come to a door at the back of the house. It’s white, clean. Can’t remember the last time I saw something so new and shiny. “Don’t kill her,” the fat man tells me. “There will be consequences if you do. Severe consequences.”
Check my watch. Five a.m. Wasting too much time on this guy but I have to humor him. Damn, I hate my job. “Why’s that?”
“She volunteered.”
And He’ll wash, oh He’ll wash . . . His lambs, his pre-cious lambs . . .
Fat man pushes the doors open, waves me into a well-lit lab and shuts the door behind us. Gleaming white, looks likes a dentist’s office, or a giant tooth. Never did catch this guy’s name. Asshole. That’s his name. Mister Asshole.
“There,” Mr. Asshole points to a large metal fridge. “I was trying to feed Mackenzie and she got loose. She’s over in that corner.”
Something’s wrong. I can almost taste the bullshit. “If she’s turned, you know what I have to do.”
Mr. Asshole snorts. “Not this time, Francis. Like I said. She volunteered.”
“Then why’d you call me? Why call the cops?” I want to sucker punch this guy. No one volunteers to become a flesh-eating, animated corpse. No one.
Another grunt from Mr. Asshole. “Wife’s idea. She didn’t want me getting hurt.”
Nice. So there was a Mrs. Asshole. More than I had. “Let me guess. She doesn’t want her precious daughter getting hurt either.”
“That sums it up, yeah.”
I stare him down, but he doesn’t budge. Guy has balls, I’ll give him that. Probably lying, though. Don’t trust this penguin. He didn’t even bother to ask me if I wanted a muffin. “Fine. Wait outside.”
“Suit yourself, Officer. This room is sealed from the outside, so knock twice on this door when you’re done.”
Down by the ri-ver, drink the deep, deep wa-ter. Bathe in the blood of the Lamb.
Five-fifteen a.m. Find the girl, lock her up and be on my way. Take ten minutes. Hour or two ’til dawn. Maybe I’ll douse another nest on my way back to the station. Maybe I’ll force Mr. Asshole to ride along. First? The girl.
I check the juice on my staff and sneak to a corner. Still can’t shake the feeling I’m not supposed to be here. I keep wondering if this is one of those stories I heard about where a cop winds up in the oven. Sarge said this was a domestic abuse call. “A biter,” she’d said. Maybe I’m losing it. I try calling the station but my phone’s dead. Not good. Could’ve charged it, but I didn’t. Must’ve forgot.
“Help me.”
The words sound like a dying prayer. I walk over to the gap behind the fridge and see a girl crouched behind it. From what I can tell, she’s wearing one of them pink frilly dresses girls do for Easter.
Bathe in the blood of the Lamb and wash your sins a-way.
Don’t want to examine her, but I do it anyway. Shit. Her dress is covered with stringy, bloody bits. I tap my thunder stick on the ground in front of her. She looks up, but I don’t think she’s able to see me. Most of the signs are there—bulging veins and blackened flesh—but her hair was combed and her eyes were milky white, no pupils. Couldn’t confirm she was a zombie, but I don’t think Mackenzie is human any more either. Can’t help but wonder who she’s eating.
“Help me.”
I hear the words, but they aren’t coming from the girl’s mouth. Sound is coming from somewhere else. Somewhere close. First things first. I bend over to secure the girl, but I slip on something wet. Hit my head. Bitch comes after me, her arms flailing. Drops of blood drip down on my face. Yep, zombie. Has to be. Don’t care whose daughter this was, she’s no one’s daughter now.
I roll over and kick the girl hard in the chest, then crack a good one upside her head, hoping to stun her. Then I pick her up carefully, just in case Mr. Asshole’s watching, and haul her over my shoulder. She won’t be out for long. Have to tie her up quick.
“Help me.”
I wander around to the back and open a plastic curtain. Jackpot. Four beds, only three of them empty. Skinny, naked woman was all tied up. Hell of a way to treat a woman, but I’ve seen worse things. I throw the girl down and strap her to the bed. Zap her head a few times for good measure. Sizzle, sizzle. Truth be told, I hope she stays knocked out. Maybe that’ll teach Mr. Asshole a lesson. Soon as I touch her legs, though, sweet Mackenzie lamb starts chomping at the bit. Can’t see how she got loose. Bed’s restraints are pretty thick.
“Please, just end it.” The woman gasps.
“Gladly.” I grab my stick and ram it into the corpse’s mouth. Fry it good, so good it won’t move anymore. Fuck, Mr. Asshole.
“Quickly, set me free.”
Drink and be free, drink the blood of the Lord.
The woman . . . She was conscious, crying, half-eaten. Her body hadn’t been gnawed on; pieces of it had been cut off. She’d been kept alive somehow, though. Not sure what kind of tricks Mr. Asshole was using to keep this woman alive, but when I’m through with him, he’ll know what it means to be afraid.
“What’s your name?” No reply. I check her pulse and see if she’s still breathing. “You okay?”
“Officer Francis, I’d like to show my appreciation for the civic duty you have just performed.”
Mr. Asshole. How’d I guess? “Sorry, I don’t follow you.”
“Turn around.”
I back up slowly and wave my thunder stick in the air. Doors are open. Good. “You can’t hurt me. I’m an officer of the law.”
Lord, protect your precious lambs from those nasty wolves. Be our shepherd and lead us to salvation.
Mr. Asshole laughs. “Hurt you? I want to feed you. You’re obviously hungry.” He pushes a cart in front of me filled with apples, peanut butter, nuts, cheese and sweet bread.
“I don’t understand. I thought . . . ” Not sure what I thought. Been a long time since someone, anyone other than the Sarge has been that nice to me. My gut tells me I can’t trust the fat man. There’s gotta be something else going on here. There just has to be. What do I do? Phone’s dead. Soon as Mr. Asshole finds that out he might kill me where I stand.
“I believe we got off on the wrong foot. I understand you were responding to a domestic abuse call, but it seems you have the wrong house.”
Fuck. Impossible. “1543 Cedar Street?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then I have the right house.”
“What suburb?”
I close my eyes. Can’t think, can’t remember. Sarge never did tell me where I was supposed to go. Just assumed, I guess. All the goddamn houses look the same. “I . . . ”
Mr. Asshole pushes the cart of food closer to me. “You made a terrible mistake, Officer, but I understand. You’re obviously overworked and exhausted. Have something to eat. You’ll feel better.”
Five-thirty. Sun’ll be up soon. Flesh walking, bone-crunching, brain-sucking monsters will go back to the darkness and the worm-ridden earth they came from. As soon as they do, I’ll crawl back to the station and pass out on a cot, praying one of the recovery teams brings me some food. Ain’t much, but it’s what I know. It’s my home. “No thank you,” I tell the fat man. Maybe he’s not an asshole, after all. Maybe I’ve just lost my mind.
“Suit yourself,” the fat man says. I must be imagining things, because I hear a tinge of compassion in his voice. “You know you could stay here.”
I shake my head. “And do what? I already have a job.”
“Security. I could pay you with food.”
Lead us from temptation, Lord. Help us to see into men’s hearts, to know right from wrong and recognize when the Devil is manipulating us.
“When are you going to be straight with me? I may be hungry, but I’m no fool. What do you want?”
The fat man, a.k.a Mr. Asshole, grins at me. “You are smarter than you look, Officer Francis.”
“That’s what my momma used to tell me.”
“Where is she now?”
“Cemetery was next to the church. When the dead rose up, my momma thought Jesus had brought back my daddy from the dead, so she led the lot of them into the church for Sunday service. When I heard her and the other churchgoers screaming, I burned it to the ground.”
Fat man pushes the cart a little closer to me. The food smells like someone ripped out a piece of heaven and threw it on a plate. Not sure how much longer I can hold out. Probably poisoned. “You have been looking for me for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Not unless you’re responsible for millions of people dying.”
“What if I told you I was?”
“Then I’d beat you down and feed you to the dogs.”
“Then do it,” the fat man whispers. “Release me.”
I scrutinize the man’s face to see if I can find something good and decent in his plump cheeks and beady eyes, but I can’t. Grabbing my thunder stick, I lift it over his head.
“I’ve been waiting all night to do this, Mr. Asshole.”
Help us to recognize the tricks of the Devil when he walks among us. Save your precious, tiny lambs.
“Don’t!” the naked woman cries. “That’s what he wants!”
Fat man roars and charges at me. I step out of his way and let him crash into the wall. Too easy. Fat man’s too soft for this old bird.
“Woman, what the fuck are you talking about?”
I turn my head for a second and the fat man grabs my ankle. “Kill me,” he yells. “I’m the one you want. I’m responsible.”
“He’s a necromancer!”
“A what?” Fuck. I try to kick the fat man free, but he won’t let go. “The hell he is. Magic ain’t real.”
“Science! He uses science.”
“Shut up, Beatrice. You never could keep your mouth shut.” Distracted, Mr. Asshole loosens his grip. I kick him square in the nose. He yelps in pain. “Goddamn that hurts. Any harder and you would have killed me.”
Jumping up, I knock Mr. Asshole off-balance. As soon as his foot lifts off the ground, I sweep my leg out in front of him, tripping the bastard. He falls flat on his pudgy face. “Sir, you have a right to remain silent. You are under arrest for the murder . . . ” Breaking out my cuffs, I quickly bind his wrists behind him.
Beatrice cackles. “Your superiors won’t let him live.”
I tighten the cuffs as much as I can. Yep, they’ll hurt, but not as much as I want them to. The woman was right. Boss’d never let this son of a bitch live until tomorrow. Bet Mr. Asshole knows that, too. Starting to feel faint; the energy shot is wearing off. I breathe deep and let the anger of a hundred thousand innocent people fill my belly.
Come and wash, oh come ye precious lambs. Wash away your sins in the river of faith. Bathe in the light of the Lord. Oh, yes. Bathe the light of the Lord and tomorrow you’ll be clean.
“You’re right, Beatrice.” I haul the fat man to his feet and drag him over to the little girl. The corpse is gnashing its teeth. How could a man do such a thing?
Fat man stumbles and I push him on top of her. “What are you doing? No, not to her. You can’t possibly . . . ”
Uncoiling my rope, I tie the fat man to his daughter so tight there’s no room for either of them to breathe. “You . . . you win. Let me go. I’ll fix this. I promise!”
Ignoring him, I step over to Beatrice. “Are you going to release me?” she asks me. “I guess I wouldn’t, either. I don’t know what my husband did to me.”
I smile down at her to let her know I don’t hate her, just her husband. “My friend will come to set you free,” I whisper. “It’ll hurt.”
“I know.”
Brave woman. She was nothing like her whimpering mass-murdering husband. I stick a small block of C4 above Beatrice’s head and a slightly bigger one on her husband’s back. Sarge would be proud of me. I didn’t use my whole stash this time.
“Waste not, want not.”
Drink the blood of the Lord. Save our precious, baby lambs from the Devil that begs us to live in darkness.
I salute Beatrice, spit on the fat man, and stuff a bunch of food into my jacket. “Forty-nine, forty-eight . . . ” Have to count my steps. Only way I know I’ll be safe.
“You’ll burn in hell you fucking cop!”
My turn to laugh. “That may be, Mr. Asshole, but the Devil knows your name and he’s calling for you. Can’t you hear him?”
