The Infects Page 11

  Mom’s Visa was turned down.

  Twice.

  The people in line behind them began to get impatient.

  “Um, don’t take this the wrong way,” the clerk said, his voice cracking, “but where do you stand on the subject of cash?”

  “Seriously?” a woman in line said.

  “Maybe you should try Tedd Gunn’s card,” Nick suggested.

  Mom blew a wisp of hair off her forehead.

  “Run it one more time. There must be something wrong with your machine.”

  “Umm? Mom? Umm?”

  Amanda was shifting her weight from foot to foot. She hated confrontations. And lines. And stores. And fluorescent lights.

  “Any day,” someone else said while the clerk fed new paper into the register. A bead of sweat ran from under the bill of his hat. He looked back at a door that said MANAGER on it. The door remained closed. The register tape wouldn’t fit into the slot. The Visa was rejected a third time.

  “Sorry,” the clerk said.

  “Need to pee, Nick? Bad?”

  “Can you take her to the boys’, honey?” Mom asked, the honey dripping with arsenic. Nick thought about having to walk past the Headbangers’ Ball and their girlfriends again.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Mom tried to smile while upending her purse onto the counter. Tissues, pens, buttons, a small bottle of mouthwash, a checkbook with no checks, a lipstick, matches, an empty box of cigarettes, a Kotex. She slid coins into dollar groupings and lined them up next to a worn stack of bills. The cashier licked his thumb, lost count, started over again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  A tall man tossed his forty-piece Totally Official S.W.A.R.M. “First Response” Kill-Copter gas-powered, unidirectional U-Build-It Model Set with twelve-hertz remote, special One-Thumb Aeron Flex Control, and twin .50-caliber “So Undead” machine-gun mounts (with Guaranteed 12x Lurker Stopping Power) onto the counter. It landed with a bang. Some of Mom’s dollar bills wafted onto the floor. The man stormed out. A woman followed, pulling her crying child behind her.

  “Pee, Nick? Pee? Now?”

  Nick took Amanda by the hand and led her the long way around the food court.

  Pussy One at your service.

  Fortunately, the bathroom was empty. Amanda chose a stall and then turned, dead serious, starting to raise her dress. “I stand and you aim? Huh? Nick?”

  “Did you just make a joke there, A-dog?”

  Amanda closed the door. After she came back out, Nick washed both their hands at the same time, sudsing up a tall pile of bubbles and then blowing on them as they scattered and clung. A man walked in and gave them a strange look.

  “Time to split.”

  “Was time? A long time? Ago?”

  Mom wasn’t at the game store. The clerk shrugged and handed them the bag of games, which had been paid for. Inside the bag was a twenty-dollar bill. They passed Fresh Bukket, which was packed, and went to the mostly empty Burger Barn instead. Nick ordered a yogurt and side salad for himself and a Junior Moo Meal for Amanda, since she dug the toy inside — or at least dug pretending not to. For Mom he ordered a Cal-O-Riffic Rib Strip Diet-Plus Plate. Now with 60% less trans fats!

  “What are? Trans fats? Nick?”

  “It means they replaced the old synthetic lard that they’d replaced the original real lard with, with new real lard.”

  An hour later, the diet plate was cold. Amanda was already on her second game, having crushed the first, El Fister’s Revenge, zipping through every level and running up an all-time high score that she immediately uploaded to the company’s servers.

  “Don’t like it anymore? Nick? Boring?”

  He riffled through the stack. “Try this.”

  Amanda ejected El Fister with malice. It clattered to the floor.

  “You dropped your cartridge,” a cute girl said, walking by. Nick smiled, but the girl didn’t smile back. The cartridge stayed where it was. Amanda slid Delicious Warm into her handheld. It was pretty much just an excuse for Asian girls in pigtails and plaid skirts to do flying kicks. She cruised through a dozen levels before it hit the floor. In went Akkak Attack Prime, truck-bots that turned into plane-bots and back again. Floor. Next was The Adventures of Gary Brain and Eunice, a riddle game with the famous brother-and-sister detective team. Eject. It was down to The Evolved 66: Celestial Embryo. A spaceship on the way to Proxima Centauri was full of sentient babies. The babies were heavily armed. In the hold sat over a million gallons of narco-milk.

  There was level after level of raging firefights, forced diaper changes, and booby-trapped snacks.

  “This is? Awesome?”

  Amanda hunkered down, punching buttons with a precision frenzy. Points doubled and tripled, accumulating faster than the counter could tabulate. The Palmbot started to hum and emit a high-pitched whine. A few junior nerds stopped by to watch.

  “Whoa!”

  “Are you, like, pro?”

  “Badass thumb work!”

  “That deaf, dumb, blind girl sure plays a mean pinball.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  People came and went. Food was ordered and eaten.

  Muzak ingested and then squatted out the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours.

  By the time Burger Barn flipped around the Sorry! There’ll be more Yum tomorrow! sign, there was a pile of game boxes under the table and crushed wrappers spread across the top. Security gates were being pulled shut in front of all the stores. A guard ushered Nick down the escalator and out onto the sidewalk, told Amanda to “Watch your step, sweetie,” and then locked the door behind them.

  There were only a few cars left in the parking lot, almost all of them tan.

  “Who buys? A tan? Car?” Amanda asked.

  Nick found a pay phone and called the Dude.

  A couple hours later, he swung by and picked them up.

  A LONG CHANNEL OF WET GRANITE LED TO A slippery carapace they took turns helping each other onto. Estrada was last, gripping War Pig’s forearm. From the ledge, it was clear how far they’d risen above the tree line. There was nothing left but a triangle of bare rock, angling straight up. They stood in the cold like cows in the early morning, stamping their feet, not ready to move. Nobody wanted to mention that they were out of mountain, with nowhere else to go.

  But down.

  Either a ledge or a gullet.

  Still, there was a giddy relief in being at the end of the line, no matter what happened when they stepped over it. Or were forced to.

  “Wow.”

  “Is peaceful.”

  “Almost like shit is mad normal down there.”

  Below, the valley was laid out in green and white, sparkling under a wedge of moon. It was actually beautiful.

  “Wonder if everyone’s dead.”

  “Hopefully only the ones who deserve it.”

  “And, possibly, some others.”

  “I would seriously kill someone,” War Pig said. “For, like, three almonds.”

  “Weird there’s no gunshots. Aren’t people fighting back?”

  “Seriously. Why we gotta carry all the weight?”

  “I smell smoke.”

  “Bet they’re torching the bodies.”

  “Yeah, but who’s torching who?”

  “We are. To them.”

  “We who? Them who?”

  “Dude, like the National Guard. SWAT and shit. Someone gotta be in control, don’t they?”

  In the fields the bodies burning, as the war machine keeps turning.

  “No one has to be in control,” War Pig said. “No one’s ever in control.”

  “You guys,” Nero called. “Check it out.”

  The path wound up the rock ledge for a hundred yards, then rose quickly to a peak that jutted above them. There was a gap that opened onto a clearing carved from the mountain like a shallow bowl. In the center, a dark wood Tudor hunting lodge sat forlornly, all spires and gables and mansard. It w
as grim, a gingerbread house gone wrong. A mirage.

  “That’s convenient,” Idle said.

  ZOMBRULE #7: Convenience is great in a store that sells smokes and Magnums and Big Gulps, but not so hot in a monster plot. In Zomb-World, if it looks too good to be true, it almost certainly is. Next stop: raw fat, red gallons, and patella gnawing.

  “Yeah, huh? But a helicopter with the keys in the ignition would have been even better,” Billy said.

  “How did you know it was up here?” Estrada asked.

  Nero’s hand throbbed. “I didn’t.”

  Next to them was a wooden sign buried deep in the granite that said REBOZZO LODGE — CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. Beneath that, someone had spray-painted Even if it were open, only a fool wood go in.

  “Guy tags all the way up here, but doesn’t know how to spell would?”

  “This is the spray paint?” Yeltsin asked, fingering the letters. “Or blood?”

  “Who cares? Check out that pad. It’s epic.”

  The lodge seemed to hunker in an eerie mist.

  “If by epic, you mean it looks exactly like every ghost movie ever made rolled into one big Frankenhouse, then yeah.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Seems like a total trap,” Idle said.

  “Zombies don’t set traps.”

  “Maybe not, but rednecks do. Inbreds. Bandits. They all out of canned yams already, luring people in for survivor stew.”

  Billy nodded. “Every Z movie has at least one Texas Chainsaw family eating hitchhiker patties.”

  “It’s called a parable,” Estrada explained. “Z are eating people so the script has people eating people too. Even when they don’t have to. You’re supposed to be all ‘What a profound insight into the human condition’ and shit.”

  “Oh,” Idle said.

  “Oh,” Billy said.

  “What do you think?” War Pig asked Nero.

  The clearing around the lodge was wide open, like a natural amphitheater. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Nero pictured Leatherface in a Kiss the Cook apron, simmering down a hearty mushroom and backpacker stock.

  “Seems dicey, but we’re fresh out of choices.”

  “Okay, but how do we get in?”

  “Break a window?”

  “They’re too high up. Must be twelve feet. Looks close from here, but standing below? No way you could reach them.”

  “You will notice gun notches built beneath each casement?” said Yeltsin. “There is a reason they are so high. I have seen this before. In Chechnya. Is built to hold off attack.”

  “From who?” Estrada asked.

  “Me,” Billy said.

  “Me,” Idle said.

  “Only way in is the front,” Nero said, pointing to a huge wooden door that looked like the entrance to a castle. It was weather-beaten and ancient, with iron hinges.

  “What do you suppose the chances are it’s unlocked?” War Pig asked.

  Twenty feet below, the horde moaned in unison, their whispers whipping between the rocks like a demented flute.

  You got to know when to hold ’em, fold ’em, and walk away. It’s pretty obvious when to run.

  “Hurry up and start decisioning,” Idle said.

  “Yeah,” Billy said. “It’s mad cold.”

  Nero clambered onto the terrace, which was worn smooth under a thin layer of snow. Dead and withered trees poked through the cracks like sentinels. It was quiet. Peaceful. At least until a figure stepped through hazy gray and onto the carapace with him.

  Swann.

  White, ethereal, naked.

  “Not again.”

  “Oh. Please, no.”

  Her skin was beyond pale, except for the wash of red that ran from her chin to her belly button. It looked like she was wearing debutante’s gloves, lacquer-red from fingernails to elbows, but hers were made of dried heart blood, deep and glossy.

  Other Infects emerged from behind her. The two children, lurching in tandem. The Shasta County Anorex Recovery Team they’d passed on the highway. Cheerleaders. Lumberjacks. Taxi drivers.

  Then came Mr. Bator. Velma. Boblegum and Kim Fowley. Tripper, his tattoos obscured by gouges and layers of dried blood.

  He was also missing an arm. And a hand. And both ears.

  “They ate his freaking ears,” Billy said.

  Tripper grinned. His tongue flickered between his missing front teeth. And then, over the carapace, as if he’d free-climbed the ice face, pulling himself up with mangled fingers, came Counselor Jack Oh. He scrambled onto the plateau and perched next to Swann’s leg, on all fours, like a dog.

  “Ponytail knew what he was all along.”

  “A mutt.”

  “A leg lifter.”

  “An asshole sniffer.”

  Swann reached down and scratched Jack Oh’s snarl of gray hair with her bloody nails. He was shirtless, and most of his pants were torn away. The knife, planted to the hilt, still jutted from his shoulder.

  ZOMBRULE #8: This breaks pretty much all the zombrules. Which means you are teetering on zombarchy. As has been proven in nine out of ten CDC plague simulations, zombarchy is 26 percent worse than a full-on Zomb-A-Pocalypse. Conclusion? If there’s anything tall nearby to jump off of, now would be an excellent time to consider it.

  Swann snapped her fingers.

  Jack Oh tilted his head, gnashed his teeth, and then charged.

  Like a Doberman.

  Yeltsin squealed and ran. The other boys followed, making a dash for the lodge. The footing was bad. They cursed and slid and bitched, legs trembling as the door seemed to get farther away with each step, the echo of Jack Oh’s peculiar gait closing in.

  Hand-hand, foot-foot.

  Slap slap, slappity slap.

  “How does he move so damn fast?” War Pig grunted.

  “Every moaner’s supposed to be a slow moaner,” Idle said. “It’s written in the Z constitution.”

  “Garlic probably don’t work on vampires anymore either,” Billy said.

  ZOMBRULE #9: Depends on the director. Zombies move at different speeds. Old-school ones are slow and rotty but dangerous in a pack. Your new breed are young and agile, all amped up on the rage virus, none of that shucking and jiving between a parking-lot-ful of decomposing shufflers. Best bet: try to get cast in something retro.

  Jack Oh came in low, from the left, closest to Yeltsin.

  Hand-hand, foot-foot.

  Slap slap, slappity slap.

  “Help! Friends! Teammates!”

  Hand-foot.

  Slap, slap.

  Yelstin swung around, kicked Estrada’s leg, and ran ahead. Estrada fell, carving a groove in the snow with his chin.

  Bait.

  Okay, that is beyond cold.

  Jack Oh tried to stop and bite, but his hands couldn’t get a grip. He slid past Estrada like a collie, toenails scrabbling across linoleum, and careened into Yeltsin’s legs.

  The two of them went down hard.

  Yeltsin rolled over, holding his hand out plaintively.

  “Help! Again I ask! Please, you guys! Nice doggie!”

  Jack Oh bit off three fingers.

  They say it tastes just like chicken tastes to other chickens who prefer ham.

  Yeltsin screamed and gripped the bouquet of his palm, a trio of gurgling roses. Jack Oh went in for another bite. Nero grabbed a handful of ponytail and yanked it hard to the side while War Pig pulled the knife from Jack Oh’s shoulder. It came out with a sickening shtunk, releasing a gout of yellow bile, and then went back in, as War Pig stuck it up to the handle in Jack Oh’s eyeball.

  Jack Oh collapsed next to Yeltsin, who lay quietly sobbing.

  “You need some ointment for your lady parts?” Billy asked, kicking him in the ribs.

  “Yeah,” Idle said. “I have a whole tube right here. Traitor.”

  “Don’t,” Nero said, taking off Petal’s jacket and wrapping it around Yeltsin’s ruined hand.

  “Is so
kind. But frankly, why to bother?”

  “I’m not sure. You don’t really deserve it.”

  Yeltsin closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. “Is terrible thing, a small time to know you die, but do not die. To see what comes next, this madness.”

  “Leave the prick to rot,” Idle said. “Right, Pablo?”

  Estrada said nothing, brushing himself off.

  “For my actions, I blame society,” Yeltsin said, rolling over. “Also, my mother.”

  Nero stood as Idle took the knife, sawed off Jack Oh’s ponytail, and threw it at Swann’s feet.

  The other Infects shuffled behind her, closing in from three sides.

  Soon it would be four.

  The boys ran the last forty yards and slammed into the lodge door as a group.

  “What a surprise,” Estrada said. “It’s locked.”

  War Pig clanked the huge metal knocker, a bronze ingot shaped like a snarling wolf’s head. Idle and Billy pounded the frozen wood with their hands, digging their fingernails in. Behind them, dozens of Infects fanned out. There was no way back to the rocks, no way around the lodge. The football team, faces gray, a rictus of hunger behind their face masks, howled with victory. The cheerleaders moaned some approximation of a cheer.

  Screaming now, Billy clawed at the door.

  Idle gripped the knife by the blade and threw it. It hit a cheerleader in the stomach and sank in. She barely glanced down.

  War Pig double-timed the knocker: bam-bam, bam-bam, bam-bam.

  “Open up! Open up!”

  Nero just watched. It all seemed so anticlimactic.

  This was the end.

  And in the end, he’d done nothing but prolong their misery.

  Amanda was stuck with the Dude.

  Petal was lost.

  No one would be left to tell their story.

  And what about Uncle Rock?

  The football team slavered forward.

  Fifteen feet.

  Ten.

  Yeltsin rose jerkily, sucked his fingers, and began to howl.

  The boys gave up on the door and turned to fight.

  “This is such bullshit,” Idle said.

  “Totally,” Billy said. “I deserve mad better.”