The Infects Read online

  “Oh, you want some?”

  “You want some more?”

  “Eat this, bee-yatch.”

  “Beg for it, Ponytail!”

  Idle took three long strides and executed a perfect kick. Jack Oh took it in the temple and rolled into a crouch, growling and spitting. An oval of red smeared his mouth like demented lipstick.

  They’d hammered him good. He should have been curled fetal, nursing balls and ribs.

  But he wasn’t.

  “This is so totally insane.”

  “In the freaking membrane.”

  The boys came together in a line, backing up slowly, weapons held out in front of them. Jack Oh got on all fours, stalking.

  “Now what in the sac do we do?”

  “How in the sac do I know?”

  Jack Oh feinted. The boys drew back with a yelp. Mr. Bator accidentally stepped on Heavy D’s tent, pulling it down. They all looked over at where Heavy D lay, his sleeping bag torn open, like a giant burrito that had been rudely picked at. Dried blood caked his perm and headband. His stomach had been raked apart, tubes and muscle and cartilage visible through a hole in his neck.

  The same hole where Swann was feeding.

  She was perched on his enormous chest, chewing away, stiff hair jutting at random angles.

  She was also completely naked.

  “Is not even possible,” Yeltsin said.

  Blood washed over Swann artfully, like body paint.

  “It is just me, or is she still mad hot?”

  “You, my friend, are a total degenerate.”

  “But, yeah, that is centerfold epic.”

  “Of what? Skeezer and Cannibal Digest?”

  Swann glared at them, her eyes wide, pupils pinned like a hawk’s. She tore a piece of gristle away from D-bone and chewed it intently. Fresh blood spread down her chest, over dried rivulets, and spattered between her legs.

  “This is so my best nightmare ever,” Idle said.

  “I could swear this happened to me once before,” Billy said.

  “Okay, time to wake up,” Mr. Bator said.

  Jack Oh howled with rage, loud and plaintive.

  Nero felt the sound vibrate through his body, from head to foot.

  Ankle to femur.

  Nape to coccyx.

  Right to the center of his palm.

  Inhuman.

  Especially when Swann joined in. She threw back her head and then hooked her arms around Heavy D’s body.

  “Chica is marking her kill,” Estrada said with a low whistle.

  “That is just way way too trippy.”

  “Okay, I go to my safe place now.”

  Then came a third howl, matching Jack Oh’s.

  The boys all looked back as Bruce Leroy rolled onto his belly, glasses broken, strips of skin torn away. His headband was bloody, but the rising sun was still intact.

  “You okay, dude?” Nero asked.

  “His Afro looks funky.”

  “Bruce, man, help us,” Idle said, his voice rising. “It’s, like, your job.”

  Bruce Leroy shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. Black liquid began dribbling from his ears.

  “Bruce?”

  “Seriously, dude. This is not the time for screwing around.”

  “Yes, like, now to bust out some of the karate!”

  Bruce Leroy growled, then lurched toward them, teeth bared.

  “Oh, snap.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Oh, Calcutta.”

  Time to make a move, G Smoove.

  Nero stepped forward and swung his log, catching Jack Oh on the shoulder, just above the knife. There was a cracking of bone. Jack Oh tumbled back into Bruce Leroy, knocking him over. They fell in a snarling pile. Swann clawed at the dirt like a lizard, covering Heavy D with her body, then swiveled her head toward the boys.

  And opened her mouth impossibly wide.

  Her tongue slowly unfurled.

  Dripping wet.

  Dripping red.

  “Screw this shit,” War Pig said. “C’mon!”

  The clients turned and ran downhill as a group, but Jack Oh was on all fours, blocking the clearing. Bruce Leroy was preparing a frontal assault. The only choices were to try to bushwack through the scrub, slow and ripe for the picking, or head straight up.

  “This way!”

  “What about our gear?” Yeltsin said.

  “Good idea,” War Pig yelled over his shoulder, hurdling the first line of underbrush. “You go back for it.”

  “What about Tripper?” Nero yelled.

  This time no one answered.

  Because Tripper wasn’t with them.

  He was always the hardest one to wake up.

  A lousy trait to have.

  Especially since now they could hear him screaming.

  And screaming.

  And screaming.

  For a good half mile up the trail.

  NICK WALKED THE HALF MILE FROM THE BUS stop, threw his books on the sofa, and then poked his head into the living room. Dad was home already. He’d set prototypes out on the dining-room table, poured four fingers of bourbon, and turned the stereo on. Some cool jazz station sqwonked out of the hi-fi as he snapped his fingers and did little dance moves on the rug. Amanda grabbed a steaming prototype, stuffed it into her mouth, and then continued pushing a tiny stroller in perfect ellipses around Dad’s mambo-y legs.

  It was Nick’s twelfth birthday. He figured a present must be waiting in the garage or a closet but wasn’t sure if it was the right time to ask. Mom had been making dinner but was now leaning in the kitchen doorway, apron wet, arms crossed, a bemused expression on her face that seemed inclined not to be bemused much longer.

  “Ronald, why are you feeding her that?”

  Dad took a slug of bourbon. Some of it dribbled down the front of his shirt. He dabbed the spill with his tie.

  “Why shouldn’t I? Our daughter is only chewing on the future of food. When the future arrives, darling, you don’t tell it to come back later. You open the door and let it walk right in.”

  Nick winced. He knew that darling never meant darling. It meant sleeping on the couch. Or slamming the porch door. Or gunning the Continental out of the driveway and just missing the Andersons’ mailbox. Nick could feel Mom staring at him, mentally willing him to come stand next to her. Pick a side, prove a point, play a favorite. And he wanted to. Make her feel better. But he wanted to check out the prototypes even more. So he pretended to sneeze and then lifted one from the chafing dish.

  It was a chicken nugget, warm, plump, golden, breaded. Shaped like a pristine kidney of deliciousness.

  Dad leaned down and smiled. “Bottoms up.”

  Nick popped it in his mouth.

  The nugget exploded with heat. Juice coated his tongue. It crunched and melted at the same time, with a burst of flavor that was both sharp and smoky.

  It was totally, completely fantastic.

  “See?” Dad said. “The Sole Fryer is the future of gourmet-quality chicken, Lydia. A new generation of bird. Me and Winnie Fuld are Rebozzo’s golden boys now. It’s going to sell a million units first year, easy. And do you know what that means?”

  “No,” Mom said. “I don’t.”

  Dad poured another drink, triple-sipped, and then put it down on the table without a coaster.

  “It means we’re not going to be living in this dump much longer.”

  It had been Mom’s parents’ house. The one she grew up in. Nick knew you never put a drink down without a coaster in Mom’s parents’ house. He knew you never, ever called Mom’s parents’ house anything but cozy or charming. Why didn’t Dad know that?

  Amanda reached for a sample and crammed it into her mouth. Then took another. Nick grabbed one too. Mom strode over and pulled them both away angrily. Amanda just stared at her empty hand, but Nick — much to his surprise, because he was way too old for it — almost started to cry. He really wanted that nugget.

  Mom held up the greas
y samples. Nick was tempted to run over and lick her fingers.

  “This is what I put you through school for? This is why you got a chemistry degree?”

  Dad flipped back his hair, which was getting long and needed a trim.

  “You put me through? Did you take the classes? Did you pass the tests?”

  “No, I just wrote the checks.”

  Dad pulled a Fresh Bukket menu from his back pocket and then grabbed the phone. “Forget dinner. We’re ordering out.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We’re dialing up a whole mess of the Bukket.”

  “Yay!” Nick cheered.

  “Yay!” Amanda would have cheered, if she cheered. Instead, she hummed in a low voice from under the sofa.

  Dad spun his gold card between his fingers like the ace of spades. “We’re having a little taste test. See for our own eyes what kind of slop Fresh Bukket is dishing out. And then we’re going to compare it to the Sole Fryer. I’ve got another whole platter in the car.”

  Mom turned on one heel and slammed the kitchen door.

  Dad took another slug of his drink and then ordered one of everything from the menu. “Yes, I’m serious,” he kept telling the clerk. Mom swooped through the living room, picked up Amanda, and took her upstairs. Dad grabbed at her dress, missed, and almost fell.

  Nick ran over and steadied his father’s leg, and then held on, tight, even after the food came.

  NERO AND WAR PIG WERE AT THE FRONT, followed by Idle and Billy. Yeltsin was right behind, with Estrada at the rear of the pack. They kept up a steady pace for half an hour, grunting with the exertion of a near sprint, leaping over logs, repeatedly thwacked in the face by branches, ignoring the pain.

  Which was nothing compared to the phantom sensation of teeth at their ankles.

  When they’d gone at least a mile from camp, the boys huddled on a small rise where they could see down the trail. Mr. Bator was farther back, but not so far that they couldn’t hear his sobs. Yeltsin put his hands on his knees and puked an effervescent froth.

  It was mostly pink. Everyone stared.

  “What?”

  “Blondie let you suck her lollipop?”

  “Thanks for sharing, douche burger.”

  Yeltsin shivered. He hadn’t had time to put on a jacket. “Who gives such crap about the candy? Um, hello? The counselor Bruce just tried to eat our pancreas.”

  “Pancreases?”

  “Pancrii?”

  Estrada looked back down the trail, sweat running from his still-groomed hairline. “Yeah, what in the fuck was that about?”

  “It means we paroled, for starters,” Idle said.

  Billy reached out to slap five. “Camp’s over, son.”

  “Freedom!”

  “Anarchy!”

  “The freedom to commit serious anarchy!”

  “It means we’ve got to start hoarding water,” Mr. Bator said, huffing into the clearing. His nose made an odd whistling sound, like an engine letting off steam. “And canned beans and stuff. And guns.”

  “Oh, okay,” Billy said. “Good idea. I think there’s a canned bean and gun store a little farther up the trail.”

  “I can’t believe that . . . thing was Bruce Leroy,” Nero said, knowing he had to decide right there, right that second, if he’d gone completely insane.

  Nope. You’re good. Voice in your head’s still here, though.

  War Pig nodded. “Not so hard to believe about Jack Oh.”

  Idle laughed, “No doubt. I smacked that ponytail hard. Left, right, left. Ground and pound. Tapped his shit out!”

  “But he got up again,” Estrada said. “Didn’t he?”

  Billy spit on his fingers, moussing his hair. “And what about Blondie’s pole dance?”

  Everyone inhaled, visions of Swann dancing like sugar plums in their heads. Naked Swann. Blood-soaked Swann. Ravenous Swann.

  Did you mention naked Swann?

  “Kid, that almost made the whole thing worth it,” Billy said.

  “Chick was, I swear, totally giving me the eyeball,” Idle said.

  “She stares at you because you are the walking pork chop. Yes? Just like rest of us.”

  War Pig held his hands up solemnly. “I believe it’s now officially official. Welcome to the Zomb-A-Pocalypse, dudes.”

  “There’s no such thing as zombies,” Mr. Bator said.

  “I am glad you think so,” Yeltsin said. He grabbed Mr. Bator by the collar, spun him around, and pulled off his jacket.

  “Hey,” Nero said.

  “Hey, what? We are in Nintendo World now, no? The game is on, and this meatsac will not last even two levels. He is the zomb-bait. Therefore, is more necessary I keep warm.”

  Everyone shrugged at the half wisdom of it.

  You gonna be a shepherd? Protect the meek? Inherit the sheep? Well, then, make your play.

  “Even so, that’s not cool,” Nero said.

  “There is no cool in Zomb-A-Pocalypse, there is only survival, or to be an appetizer.”

  “I wasn’t pulling it, by the way,” Mr. Bator said. “In the shower? I was just washing.”

  “Sure you were,” Idle said. “Washed so clean your hand almost got pregnant. I say we cut him loose.”

  Billy nodded. “Time to lighten the load. Get lean and mean. We need soldiers around here, not whiners.”

  “We’ve got zero clue what’s actually going on,” Nero said, “and you guys are already sacrificing people?”

  War Pig looked over his shoulder. “Don’t need no more clues. This here is pure End of Days. It’s the Zombie Rapture. Except no one’s going to heaven.”

  “They’re not zombies,” Mr. Bator insisted, rubbing his arms to keep warm. “Bruce Leroy must be sick. You should call them infects, because that’s what they are. Infected with something.”

  Like what, a peanut allergy?

  “Like what? The ear clap?”

  “Who’s to say what there’s such a thing as?” War Pig asked.

  Kid’s practically a freckled Nietzsche.

  “Argue this, argue that. Is boring,” Yeltsin said. “They ate the skinhead! Remember, my shitdip friends? Were many chunks of Heavy D in supermodel’s hairline. Whether is virus or meteor or hell is now standing room only does not make difference. Only that we must keep moving.”

  “So go, already,” War Pig said.

  Yeltsin rubbed his chin, rubbed his neck, and ran a finger through his stringy black hair. He crouched, then stood, then crouched again.

  “Is hard to say, but truth must be admitted — I do not wish to go alone.”

  “Tough guy needs a boyfriend,” Idle said.

  “Hardcase mobster needs someone to hold his hand,” Billy said.

  “Fine, I go.” Yeltsin turned and walked into the pines. No one followed. After twenty yards he turned and came back.

  “We need an ambulance,” Mr. Bator said. “We should get down to the highway and find a doctor.”

  War Pig shook his head. “Negatory. Only thing Bruce Leroy’s going to do with a doctor is snarf him up like a meatball sub.”

  “Forget the ambulance,” Billy said. “Let’s just get to the van. Gun the engine, put Z in the rearview.”

  “You got the keys?” Estrada said.

  “No.”

  “You gonna go ask Counselor Bruce for them?”

  “No.”

  “Then what good does the van do us?”

  “You ever heard of hot-wiring?”

  “Yeah, on TV. You know how for real?”

  Idle looked at Billy. Billy looked at Idle.

  “Not so much.”

  “Besides, what if the highway’s swarming?” War Pig said. “The nearest town might be a kill zone.”

  “We have to find out,” Mr. Bator said. “Don’t we?”

  “What we have to do is make a decision,” Nero said. “We can’t head down, since they’re right below us. But if we keep heading up, we’re screwed.”

  “What is wr
ong with up?” Yeltsin asked. “I am casting vote for up.”

  “There’s only so much real estate on a mountain,” Estrada said. “If they keep chasing us, what happens when we get to the top?”

  “Mexicali got a point,” Idle said. “We fresh out of parachutes.”

  “I saw a path a little way back,” Nero said. “It’s grown over and will be slow going, but maybe we can use it to cut across.”

  “Cut across for what?”

  “The girls.”

  “What girls?”

  Nero cleared his throat. “The other van? Exene and Velma? We gotta warn them.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Um, because it’s the right thing to do?”

  Idle laughed. “The right thing.”

  Billy laughed. “To do.”

  “It’s also the only move that makes sense,” Estrada said.

  “No,” War Pig said. “There’s another move. And it’s the only thing zombies understand.”

  “French grammar?”

  “Applied economics?”

  War Pig reached over and hefted a thick branch. “Battle.”

  “Fuck, yes!” Idle said, already convinced.

  “The dead don’t deserve no slack,” Billy agreed.

  “All we have to do is follow the rules.”

  “What rules?” Nero asked.

  War Pig rolled his eyes. “You know, how you have to aim for the brain stem. How zombie blood can get on your skin, but not in your mouth or eye. How if you get bit, you got one scene to say good-bye to your girlfriend before you turn feral. Whatever. The rules.”

  “This isn’t a movie,” Mr. Bator said.

  “Mad practically,” Idle said, finding a stick. “They’re slow. We’re fast. They eat neck steak, and we crack skulls.”

  “Plus tits,” Billy said. “And guns that never run out of ammo.”

  “Exactly. Why make it complicated?”

  There was a noise in the woods behind them. Cracking. Cackling. Movement.

  “Shhhh,” Nero said.

  They all crouched, waiting for the noise to come again.

  ZOMBRULE #1: Always assume there’s a zombie or six in the bushes when the orchestra begins to ramp up. Because — and this is vital — you can hear the moaning and you can smell the flesh, but the sound track is like GPS — whether’s it’s speed metal or Doris Day, theme music is the one sound that will never let you down.