The Infects Page 8

  All along the trail, the trees shook violently.

  Yeltsin moaned. “The ziggers are here to floss with our intestine, and instead of run, you just keep talking.”

  “Not cool,” War Pig said.

  “Yes, okay,” Yeltsin said. “I apologize. The ziggers is racist. You are, of course, down with zombie rights.”

  The trees shook again, louder, closer.

  Idle and Billy got in batting stances. War Pig was a lefty who looked to have power to the gap.

  “I am ready to rock, son!”

  “Come and get a taste, Z!”

  Nero put his hand on War Pig’s shoulder. “Hey, man, even if you’re right about these rules, the first one has got to be: teenagers alone in the scary woods shouldn’t ever split up.”

  “We’re fighting,” War Pig said, not looking back. He took a few warm-up cuts as the trees closest to them began to sway. “You fags want to run, run.”

  Some people have a natural gift for dystopia. Others, not so much.

  Nero turned and slipped into the woods at an angle he figured would lead back toward Overlook Pass, the trail the girls had taken.

  A few seconds later, Yeltsin followed.

  So did Estrada.

  So did Mr. Bator.

  And then they heard an incredible roar.

  Followed by yelling.

  And the sound of flesh upon flesh.

  Upon flesh.

  THE FOREST SEEMED DARKER AND MORE ominous with each step. Mr. Bator whimpered at every noise, Yeltsin telling him to “sac it up” and be quiet before crying out himself at the next. There seemed to be no motion at all, as if they were in a wooded cathedral — no animals, no wind, nothing.

  Majorly creepy, huh?

  It was nearly impassable. Scrub grew like rolls of wire; the trees were dense and slick. There were bogs of mud and sludge, boulders and jagged shale.

  “This sorta blows,” Estrada said.

  “Was not my idea,” Yeltsin said. “Twice I vote for up. Twice no one listens.”

  Nero pushed through a culvert of nettles and sharp branches, wondering if they should turn back, when he saw something in the thicket to the left.

  Blink.

  The wind moaned.

  Blink. Blond.

  The trees moaned.

  Blink. Blond. Bloody teeth.

  He doubled the pace through waves of brush, ignoring the pain. No one said a word, the crunch of boots over dead scrub counterpoint to Mr. Bator’s chattering teeth.

  Nearly an hour later, Nero shouldered through a last line of pines and then stuck his head into empty space. It was like leaning out of a packed subway car. He held the branches aside and peered down the trail. There was no movement, no sound. No moaning.

  “Well?” Estrada asked.

  “We made enough racket to be heard out by the interstate,” Nero said. “If Tripper and Heavy D followed, they might have come this way.”

  “The skinhead perhaps,” Yeltsin said. “But Heaviest D? No. That barge, she is stuck in dry dock.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You did not see the many kilos supermodel chowed?”

  Nero closed his eyes, trying not to.

  “In very fine movie Bite Me Once, Shame on Me III, handsome Mr. Brad Pitt is chewed upon in exactly such way. Down to the bone. And does not rise again.”

  “Scientific,” Estrada said, and crawled out onto the trail. Yeltsin followed, then Mr. Bator, pale and shivering, hatched with fresh scratches and welts.

  “Peroxide twins are for once correct,” Yeltsin said, pointing at Mr. Bator’s cuts. “Is like sharks. They smell blood in water. He is walking trail of bread crumbs and leads them right to us.”

  “Will you shut your hole already?” Estrada said. “God, no wonder we won the Cold War.”

  Nero took off his jacket and held it out.

  Mr. Bator shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

  “Wear it for a while, then give it back.”

  Might as well put on a clasp, wear that kid like a necklace.

  Mr. Bator nodded gratefully as he zipped the jacket up to his chin.

  “Okay,” Nero said. “Here’s the plan —”

  “Who puts you in charge?” Yeltsin interrupted.

  “You want to be in charge?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Fine. What should we do now, boss?”

  Yeltsin looked around, yawned, and cracked his knuckles.

  “I do not know.”

  “Okay,” Nero said. “Here’s the plan. At a steady jog, we should reach Overlook Pass in a couple hours. When we get there, we tell their counselors what’s up and then head down to the other van.”

  “They’re not going to believe us,” Mr. Bator said. “I wouldn’t believe us.”

  “You’re right. Maybe we tell them there’s been a bad accident and Bruce Leroy is hurt.”

  “Is weak,” Yeltsin said. “Forget counselors. Forget story. Instead, we take three best-looking girls and steal van. We will need to repopulate soon. Also —”

  There was a loud noise above. They all looked into the trees as a wet chunk of meat plummeted downward.

  And slammed onto Yeltsin’s face.

  Blood spattered in every direction. Mr. Bator screamed. Yeltsin screamed louder, spinning wildly as he pulled at the cutlet that had suctioned onto him. “Help, friends! Help get the zigger off before is too late.”

  “Calm down, Aryan Nation,” Estrada said. “Hold still!”

  Nero reached over and lifted the thing by the tail.

  “Oh, my God,” Yeltsin whined, wiping his face on Mr. Bator’s back. “Is chunk of Tripper?”

  “It’s nothing,” Estrada said. “Just a dead squirrel.”

  Yeltsin broke out in a broad grin. “Squirrel attack? Now, fuck that, please! We are officially very screwed when the squirrels have chosen sides.”

  Nero flung the thing into the scrub. “Let’s go.”

  What, you’re not going to tell them the truth?

  What truth?

  Details are everything.

  Details are nothing.

  Coward.

  The truth was, okay, the squirrel had a lollipop jammed into its mouth.

  A giggle echoed through the trees.

  Nero turned and took off running.

  After a few hundred yards, Estrada caught up. It had begun to snow, the flakes falling heavily as they jogged side by side.

  “You smell something burning?” Estrada asked.

  The air did seem heavier, rancid.

  “Reminds me of Cherokee Spirits.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hippie cigarettes. The kind the Dude . . . the kind my dad smokes.”

  “Hippies make cigarettes?”

  “All the tar and nicotine of the leading brand, but the cancer’s organic.”

  They leaped over a log in unison. Behind them, Yeltsin didn’t make it, eating dirt. Mr. Bator helped him up.

  “You know what the craziest thing about this shit is?”

  Nero checked off a mental list: Petal. Swann. Flesh eating. Lost in the woods. Flying meat. War Pig left behind with a stick. The whole world crumbling. It was a tough call.

  “No, what?”

  “In the movies, they keep cutting back to NORAD HQ or whatever, then show a few seconds of New York, a few of Cleveland, and you get a feel for what’s going down out there. The army mobilizing, fighter jets, people on container ships, scientists and microscopes, doctors injecting vaccines. But here? Man, we got zero info. It’s like being blind.”

  More like certifiable.

  In the distance, there was a giggle. It was impossible to tell from what direction.

  “C’mon,” Nero said, speeding up.

  “Listen, this deal with the van has to work,” Estrada huffed. “I got people back in the city to check on.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  ZOMBRULE #2: After a fight, avoid turning away from a fallen zombie to
hug your girlfriend with relief. Under no circumstances fail to tag that zombie again, or while you have your PTSD face buried in her shampoo-smelling hair, said zombie will stand up offscreen, give the audience time to scream, and then take a big ol’ hunk of rib eye out of your back.

  “Yeah, but she wasn’t too pleased about the orange jumpsuit routine,” Estrada said. “Could be she’s hooked up with some other dude already. I know some ‘friends’ been dying to get their chance. On the other hand, maybe San Francisco’s zombie central and she’s calling my name, busy fighting them off.” He cleared his throat. “Either way, I gotta find out.”

  Nero pictured Amanda in the kitchen, under the table playing Tourette’s vs. Zombettes while the Dude held off an army of biters with the remote.

  “I know how you feel.”

  “You got a woman too?”

  Tell him about Petal. A friend would definitely tell his friend about Petal.

  “Not really.”

  “Slick cat like you?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, as soon as we find the girls’ camp, we’re heading back to the city.”

  “You promise?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Good enough for me, man,” Estrada said. He held out knuckles, and Nero bumped them. “You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

  “To be honest, I wish I wasn’t steering at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d rather be in the backseat. Safe. With the picnic basket and the map.”

  “Nah, dog,” Estrada said. “You a leader. A total natural. I knew it the second I saw you.”

  “AT FIRST THIS SEEMED LIKE A TOTAL NATURAL,” Ely said with a sigh, sitting in the dark next to Nick. “But I knew we were doomed the second it started.”

  They’d ridden their bikes down to the multiplex, Nick on his old Santa Fe ten-speed and Ely riding one of those tiny tricked-out BMXs that he was constantly doing wheelies and fakies and deekies or whatever on. All week they’d been talking about seeing Killsaw Williams IV: The Saw Bites Back. It was sophomore year. Nick and Ely weren’t really friends anymore. At one point they’d been scouts together, failed to make the eighth-grade basketball team together, hung out in the woods together, had their first beers together. But something had changed over the summer before high school. Ely decided to start lifting weights, while Nick decided to start buying his clothes at the thrift store. Ely liked Modest Mouse; Nick liked old Police.

  Growing pains. People change. Every piece of lined silver has a silver lining. Friends don’t let friends drive with band kids.

  Name your cliché.

  Bottom line, they barely spoke for two years.

  But the week before, Nick had been at his locker when Ely leaned himself against the wall and said, “Know what happens Thursday?”

  “No, what happens Thursday?”

  “New movies come out.”

  “So?”

  Ely’s smile wavered.

  “Know what particular new movie is out this particular Thursday?”

  “No clue.”

  “The new Killsaw Williams.”

  Now it was Nick’s turn to grin. They’d seen the first Killsaw Williams movie in fourth grade. Reggie “Chains” Watts had been a young actor then, relatively unknown. The movie’s tagline was: The city needs a good man, but sometimes a bad man with a blade will have to do! The movie changed everything. The way they talked, the books they liked, the games they played at recess.

  In sixth grade they cut school and thumbed to the Cineplex for a matinee of Killsaw Williams II: No Succor for Suckas. Then in eighth grade, Ely’s older sister took them all the way into the city to see a midnight screening of Killsaw Williams III: Faster Saw, Cut Cut. The third one pretty much blew, and Chains Watts had gotten so fat that they’d used a body double for the punching and jumping, but it didn’t matter since the entire theater cheered wildly every time a chunky and sweating Watts delivered his signature line, “I’m-a gonna cut your back, Sweetcheeks!”

  It was as if Nick, Ely, and Killsaw had grown up together.

  And now they were old together.

  “So are we going to the movies or not?” Ely asked.

  “We are totally going to the movies,” Nick said, slamming his locker closed.

  By the end of the first reel, it was obvious that IV was the worst of the Killsaw series, and probably the last one. There was almost no one else in the theater. Chains Watts’s Afro had gone gray, he’d ballooned another forty pounds, and all the jokes sounded like they were written by a malfunctioning hard drive. When the credits came up, Ely was bleary eyed and quiet. Popcorn grease smeared his chin. Nick walked into the lobby, ready to fake some story about having to go pick up Amanda’s meds at the twenty-four-hour Walgreens.

  “Listen,” Ely said, shuffling over. “I’d totally love to hang and catch up, but —”

  Ely never got a chance to finish because another movie let out. It was called The Metermaid. The tagline was Sometimes even love needs change for a dollar! The usher opened the door, and a line of red-faced women streamed through.

  One of whom was Nick’s mother.

  Which was weird.

  But not as weird as the fact that she was holding hands with some guy who looked like he sold exercise equipment door-to-door.

  “Whoa,” Ely said.

  Nick’s mother blanched, trying hard for casual.

  “Hi, Ely! Haven’t seen you in a while!”

  Nick winced. He could practically smell the exclamation points.

  “You guys just catch that Killspout movie?” The guy asked, flashing the world’s third-fakest smile. “Heard it was way cool.”

  “Oh, it was,” Ely said. “Way cool.” He patted Nick’s back. “Catch you later, man.”

  “Where’s Ely going?” Nick’s mom asked, obviously relieved.

  “Home. Where his father is,” Nick said, and then almost felt bad, watching his mother’s face crumble. She was wearing a new dress, blue with little orange shells on it, showing some leg. She was also wearing makeup, something she rarely did at home. In a way it was like seeing her for the first time. Was his mom weird? Desirable? Awful? Or maybe worst of all, just another person who had zero clue what they were doing?

  “This is Mr. Gunn. Tedd Gunn Jr. A friend of mine from work.”

  Tedd Gunn Jr. stuck out his big treadmill-selling paw. Nick stared, trying to summon the balls to not shake it.

  Don’t shake.

  Don’t do it.

  Do. Not. Shake.

  Nick raised his hand and gripped Tedd Gunn’s palm, which, of course, was big and rough and warm.

  “See you tomorrow, Tedd. Okay? At work?”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure. Tomorrow.”

  Tedd Gunn peeled away in a red sports car as Nick loaded his ten-speed into his mother’s wagon. They drove back across town, the radio on low.

  “Listen, I just want to —”

  “Can we not? I mean, really?”

  His mother nodded, gripping the wheel.

  “But I want you to understand —”

  Nick cleared his throat and began speaking in a cheesy announcer’s voice: “Sometimes, even though they love you very much, mommies and daddies come to realize they’ve developed different . . . priorities.”

  Nick knew he was being a dick but couldn’t stop himself.

  “But don’t worry — insert child’s name — it’s not your fault. It’s just that —”

  Nick’s mother slammed on the brakes, almost back-ending a Volkswagen. Nick rubbed his forehead where it’d hit the dash and stared out the window as they accelerated again, watching the cement and broken bottles and orange pylons sweep by.

  When they got home, the Dude was convincing the vacuum of something. Amanda stared at her Palmbot, pressing buttons in a frenetic pattern.

  “How was it? Nick? The movie? The Saw?”

  He crawled under the table with his
sister and hooked up a second controller. Upstairs, a door slammed. Nick logged in and was immediately taking musket volleys from a platoon of mutant Quakers. He set up a firing line and then lobbed some grenades.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I would? Nick? Believe you?”

  Nick led a suicidal bayonet charge, running downhill into the face of heavy fire.

  “A-dog, it was totally and completely awesome.”

  A HUNDRED YARDS PAST THE POINT WHERE the two trails intersected was a large clearing with neat fire pits and gravel walkways and porta potties.

  “They have private shitters? Is no way! How come we do not get the private shitters?”

  “Will you please be quiet?” Estrada said. “Please?”

  Nero motioned them forward, then crept into the clearing and crouched behind a tree. It was silent, still. Pink tents sat pitched in a row. A fire smoldered. Food hung in a bear sling from an overhanging branch. A little brook babbled innocently beneath fringes of ice.

  “It’s too quiet,” Nero said, trying to hide his disappointment behind chattering teeth. “They must have set out already.”

  “But all their stuff’s here. Why would they just leave it?”

  “Maybe they went for a day hike,” Mr. Bator said.

  “Perhaps they are in woods together,” Yeltsin said. “Getting all lesbo.”

  Nero and Estrada looked at each other, shrugged, and then walked over.

  Those tents sure seem empty. That’s the thing about tents, though. You never know what might be hunkered down in there, knitting tendon doilies and sharpening its teeth.

  “Don’t open it,” Mr. Bator whispered. “Please?”

  Nero lifted a rock from the fire pit. “One . . . two . . .”

  Yeltsin pulled back the first zipper with a rip.

  Empty.

  Estrada opened the next.

  Nothing. Gear. Utensils. Pillows.

  They went down the line, all the same.

  “Maybe they have a radio,” Mr. Bator said.

  “Yes, dicknose,” Yeltsin said. “Probably a CB, for the calling of truckers late at night. Start a convoy. Hello there, one-niner, keep peeled eye for shamblers in fast lane!”