The Infects Read online

  Nero wrapped a sleeping bag around his shoulders while Yeltsin and Estrada checked out the bear sling. There was good-looking stuff. Crackers. Peanut butter. Hot dogs. They found sticks and began hitting the sling like a piñata.

  “Just untie the knot,” Nero said.

  “My hands are too cold,” Estrada answered.

  “I am very starving,” Yeltsin said. “At this point, as long as there is spicy mustard to accompany, I will eat a dick.”

  A granola bar fell between the mesh and hit the ground. Yeltsin scooped it up and crammed the entire thing in his mouth.

  The rest of them stared.

  “Even for you,” Mr. Bator said.

  “Mmmf . . . yes? what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Yeltsin reached into his mouth and pulled out a chunk with squirrel-blood fingers. “Yuth guyth want thome?”

  Estrada began poking the bag again.

  Nero found a small daypack filled with socks, a highway map, underwear, Tampax, a lipstick, a wallet. Inside was a driver’s license: Exene Doe, age twenty-six, weight 145, eyes blue, hair black, organ donor.

  She may end up donating more than just organs.

  In the front flap was a ring with two keys. One said APT 3C. The other had FORD TOUGH stamped on the back.

  Nero slid the key into his pocket. They’d want to head down immediately once they knew — take the van, refuse to wait.

  He had to find Petal first.

  Then they could all go together.

  Being the big cheese means making tough decisions. Unpopular ones. Deceptive ones. To follow, in the end, is to be lied to. Complicity.

  Mr. Bator swayed nervously from foot to foot. “Can we go now. Please?”

  “No. We do not leave without this food,” Yeltsin said, taking angrier swings.

  Nero ducked into the final tent. There was a shirt, a magazine, some loose change. A backpack with cooking gear and underwear. In the side pocket was a tiny notepad. On the front it said GAZES.

  A gentleman never, ever reads someone else’s diary.

  Nero opened it to the middle. Stuck between two pages was a picture, which fell to the ground.

  Facedown.

  He picked it up and slowly turned it over.

  It was cut out of his high-school yearbook.

  Nick Sole, Junior. Clubs: none. Activities: none. Academic honors: none. Sports: former varsity track, quit.

  Petal had a picture of him.

  Carried it around with her.

  “What is it?” Mr. Bator asked.

  “Nothing.”

  In the corner of the tent was a balled-up pink puffer jacket with a fur-lined hood. Nero shoved the notepad and picture into the pocket and pulled the jacket on. It was way too small.

  “Oh, man, I forgot,” Mr. Bator said. “Do you want yours back now? We can totally switch.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Nero closed his eyes. He was wearing Petal’s jacket. His arms stuck out four inches from the sleeves, and it barely covered below his belly button, but when he pressed the nylon to his face and inhaled deeply, he could smell her.

  Vanilla sherbet.

  “I’m sure.”

  Also, he didn’t want Mr. Bator to see.

  See what?

  What he’d felt when he’d put his hand in the jacket’s inside pocket.

  Gold bullion?

  Thermite grenades?

  A pound of uncut Turkish hashish?

  A cell phone.

  “Why don’t you go do a check of the perimeter?”

  Mr. Bator nodded and wandered off.

  Nero slid all the way back into the tent, cupped the phone in a sweater, and hurriedly dialed.

  It rang six times.

  Nine times.

  Thirteen times.

  Twenty-two times.

  And then someone picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Amanda!”

  “Nick? Is that? You?”

  Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Listen —”

  “Miss you? Nick? Are you? Coming? Home?”

  “No, Boo. I’m really far away. Are you okay?”

  “Yes? Of course? Why?”

  “Is there . . . anything happening outside?”

  “Dunno? Can’t go? Outside?”

  “Why not?”

  “Dad says? Not to?”

  “Listen to me. Carefully. You need to get in the car, okay? You need to get the Dude and drive to —”

  “Can’t? Dad says? The highways are? Closed?”

  “Why? Amanda, tell me why!”

  “Dunno? Nick, I —”

  The phone beeped three times. The screen flashed BATTERIES LOW, BATTERIES LOWER, BATTERIES CRITICAL, and then died.

  Nero resisted the urge to crush it into a ball with his bare hands, then sat up quickly, almost catching a nose in the eye.

  Because Mr. Bator was in the tent with him, watching.

  Nailed.

  “Perimeter’s fine.”

  Nero got on one knee, ready to defend himself. Or abjectly apologize.

  Mr. Bator looked back at Estrada and Yeltsin. “Don’t worry — I won’t tell. I would have done the same thing. Those two would have just fought over it, anyway.”

  “Maybe. But it was still selfish.”

  “Yeah, but at least the selfish part bothers you.”

  Nero nodded. “Thanks.”

  Outside the tent, the clearing was quiet, peaceful.

  ZOMBRULE #3: When it’s quiet and peaceful, it means only one thing: the shark is going to surface and take off the marine biologist’s leg, or the capo is going to fork up his last carbonara before getting whacked, or the school bus full of kids is about to head-on a cement mixer, or the hottie with the heartburn is going to pull her hands away as an alien bursts between her double-Ds. Zomblogic dictates a similar outcome. In other words, run!

  “We need to go. Now.”

  “I definitely have to go,” Mr. Bator said, walking toward the porta potty.

  No, don’t.

  “No. Don’t.”

  “Pinch the head of turtle off,” Yeltsin said.

  Mr. Bator opened the door. Two children in snowsuits sat on the porta potty’s bench. A boy and a girl. Probably around six and eight. They were perched on Exene’s lap, arms around her neck as if they were posing for a vacation photo.

  Except it must have been a crappy vacation, because Exene was dead.

  And half-eaten.

  Maybe a little more than half.

  The girl’s face was gray. She had pigtails and wore a pink Annoya the Explorer scarf. The boy wore a blue hat with a pom-pom. Both of their faces were glistening, eyes pinned, demented.

  And both of them were smiling.

  Before Nero could say anything, the little boy reached out, grabbed Mr. Bator by the neck, and sank his tiny Chiclet teeth deep. Blood pulsed in slow motion, in delicate twin geysers, spraying the picnic area.

  Nero grabbed Mr. Bator’s free arm, but the girl was stronger. She opened her mouth like Jaws rising under an unsuspecting surfer and clomped down on Mr. Bator’s nose. There was a rending noise, the sound of a phone book being torn in half. The girl jerked back.

  Nero lost his grip.

  The boy pulled Mr. Bator the rest of the way in.

  And then the door slammed shut behind him.

  A SERIES OF MOANS ECHOED THROUGH THE woods, sharper than the noises the children were making, which were giddy, brutal, joyous. Mr. Bator’s screams ebbed and flowed.

  “Sorry, but I’m not opening that door,” Estrada said, helping Nero up. “Little dude is done.”

  “When the porta potty is rockin’, is unwise to come a-knockin’,” Yeltsin agreed, giving up on the bear sling as the trees at the edge of the clearing began to shake. “And when the forest is a-rockin’, is wise to run.”

  They turned toward the path just as a woman in hiking gear em
erged from the scrub, blocking it.

  Hooray! Mommy’s home!

  She must have been pretty once — expensive haircut, subtle makeup, wearing a tight snowsuit.

  In one hand she held a water bottle.

  In the other she held a foot.

  With painted toenails.

  Around the ankle were the remains of a pink jumpsuit.

  “She got one of the girls.”

  “Or perhaps all of them.”

  Mommy let out a hungry gargle and then rushed forward, her nylon pants going chuff chuff chuff. Yeltsin squealed, stepped on a log, and fell flat on his back. She grabbed his leg, twenty grand worth of perfect orthodontia snapping open and shut.

  “Please, help to get this crazy cougar off of me!”

  Nero grabbed a rock and threw it, missing badly. Estrada picked up a rock and grooved a fastball, hitting her flush in the chest. She ignored them both, ready to sink incisor into thigh, when a yell came from below. War Pig tore up the rise, coiled his neck, and leaped. It was like footage from the 1956 World Cup, Pelé in front of the net and ready to redirect a perfect corner. War Pig’s cranial bone slammed into the bridge of Mommy’s nose, her entire face collapsing inward.

  Chick is now officially convex.

  War Pig one, Mommy nil.

  “Brilliant!” Yeltsin said, getting up. “Is practically move by very fine actor Chuck Norris.”

  Idle huffed over, picked up a large flat rock, and dropped it on Mommy’s head. It made a sickening pumpkiny sound. Billy stood on top and did a little dance step. First tap, then samba, rounding it off with a little of the old soft shoe.

  “What?” he said as they all stared. “Just making sure homegirl don’t rise again.”

  “It’s smart policy, yo,” Idle said.

  ZOMBRULE #4: Survival is for the ruthless. Everyone else is a hippie poet.

  Billy dipped his finger into the blood pooling behind Mommy’s ear and drew an anarchy symbol on his forehead. “Now Z know who they dealing with.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Nero asked.

  “Like, anarchy as a concept, or the blood?” War Pig asked.

  An HGH existentialist!

  “We have thought you guys were doomed,” Yeltsin said.

  “Or heading back down to the vans.”

  Idle and Billy shook their heads.

  “Not much chance of that, chief.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hate to say it, but we got us a fan base. There a whole bunch of groupies shambling right behind us.”

  “It’s not just counselors down there,” War Pig said. “It’s hikers, fat chicks in sweat suits, people from the highway. Counter girls, schoolkids, dudes in three-piece pinstripes. After you guys ran off, they rushed us in a pack.”

  “They came in mad waves,” Idle said, covering his mouth and doing a passable beat box. “Not outta Compton, outta the caves.”

  Billy joined in, spitting flow.

  “But check it — it was epic. We dropped a dozen, at least. I was a raging, caging, Z-killing beast.”

  Idle slapped War Pig on the back.

  “And yo! Big boy here? Man got hella skillz with a blunt-force object.”

  “Dude a Zach thresher,” Billy agreed.

  War Pig shrugged, embarrassed. Dots of blood on his cheeks mixed with freckles, forming constellations. The Big Dipper. Ursa Minor. Romero. Merging and separating. It was hypnotic.

  Romero is not a constellation.

  Billy held up the stump of a heavy branch covered in a thin wash of brain. “Seriously, though, yo? I cracked so many skulls, my Q-tip broke.”

  Idle laughed as two girls in pink jumpsuits came out of the grass at the edge of the clearing.

  “Righteous. Some of the ladies made it.”

  “Hey! Over here!” Estrada said, waving his arms. “Hurry!”

  The girls continued forward.

  With mechanical, quivering steps.

  One of them moaned.

  The other gurgled.

  “Dang.”

  “Never mind.”

  “I am sorry, but I do not wish your phone number after all,” Yeltsin said.

  It could be her, it could be her, it could be her.

  Nero bit his lip and ran halfway down the rise to read their name tags. One said BOBLEGUM. The other said KIM FOWLEY. They were covered in blood and mud and geometric bite marks, evidence of resistance. And failure.

  “Okay, can we please now, for sake of fuck, run?” Yeltsin asked.

  Nero was about to answer when there was a loud metallic creak.

  Ding-dong. Company’s here!

  The porta potty door slowly opened.

  And Mr. Bator staggered out.

  “Whoa. The Showerbator forgot his nose,” Idle said.

  Mr. Bator had a deep hole in the center of his face. Wet ropes of blood and mucus slathered the exposed row of top teeth — his skin ripped free and hanging like a fairway divot.

  “Kid gotta new Trek Handle. Check it: Bull’s-eye.”

  “Who needs Botox? Shit’s a mad improvement.”

  Mr. Bator spread his arms, opened his mouth, and roared through strands of flesh. The voice that came 0ut was surprisingly deep and raw. Furious. An echo resounded through the treetops.

  “That supposed to scare me?” Idle said.

  “I don’t even need a stick,” Billy said, taking a step forward. “I kill this homo with just my thumb.”

  Boblegum and Kim Fowley roared back. A second later, there were dozens more roars, coming from deep in the woods.

  Yeah, well, that’s not so good. Anyone got a machine gun?

  “What are they all doing up here?” Estrada asked.

  “It’s true,” War Pig said. “They should be down in the valley, like at Kinko’s, chomping assistant managers and shit. Easy pickings. This is way too much work.”

  A long line of Infects emerged from the bush. First a shambling road crew in bright orange hard hats, chunks of skin torn from their muscular arms. Then a high-school football team still wearing uniforms, a coach with a whistle around his neck leading them along. Behind them were parents, college dorks, people without elbows, with sausage-link viscera, half a troupe of cheerleaders whose teeth were as red as their poms.

  “Well, I think it’s time to go,” War Pig said as a hunter wearing full camo emerged from the woods to their left. His stomach protruded from beneath a red safety vest. He was holding a cooler in one hand and a compound bow in the other.

  That could come in handy.

  Nero picked up a rock and clocked the hunter in the temple.

  Wait, that was sarcasm. I meant run!

  The cooler fell, Fresh Bukket wrappers and cans of beer spilling across the mud. Nero scooped up beers and lofted them toward the others, then pried the bow out of the hunter’s hand. As he was trying to free the quiver, a pom-pom girl jumped on his back. Estrada grabbed her by the bra strap and flung her to the ground. A yellowed retainer tumbled from her mouth and got caught in the fibers of her Shasta High varsity sweater.

  Rah rah! Yay undead! Go undead! Touchdown!

  Nero notched an arrow, steadied himself, pulled back the string, and fired.

  Totally missing.

  He notched another and fired again.

  Missed again.

  He fired.

  And missed.

  Fired.

  And missed.

  The next one flew true but too high and dug deep into the shoulder of one of the football players.

  War Pig, Idle, and Billy clapped mockingly, offered oles and bravos, then raised their beers in tribute. Nero picked a beer up and cracked it as he ran back over, the horde closing in around them.

  “Beer’s okay,” Billy said. “But it’s too bad zombie hunters don’t smoke the schwag.”

  Idle belched. “I’m telling you, this undead shit is way easier if you don’t take it too serious.”

  War Pig killed his beer and crushed the can against his forehea
d.

  Everyone laughed, too hard, almost giddily.

  Beneath the laughter was a slick of unease.

  Idle’s eye twitched.

  War Pig looked exhausted, haggard.

  Yeltsin, caked in blood, tried to smile, managed a sick grimace.

  We got a morale problem here.

  They all waited, looking at Nero.

  No one was looking at Nick.

  “Which way?” Estrada asked.

  Don’t go down. Go up.

  Amanda was down. Amanda needed his help.

  The line of Infects cleared the rise, a silhouette of teeth and hands, fingers twitching, ready to sink into fleshy crevices and extract pearls.

  “Um, Nero?” Estrada said.

  The van was down. Zombies were down. Hell was straight down.

  Go up.

  They came on, inexorable, like the tide, like a spray of foam edging closer to their toes.

  Petal. Amanda. Amanda. Petal.

  He had a key. He should use the key.

  If they bushwhacked for the van, they just might make it.

  But probably not.

  Up.

  “Dude, make the call,” War Pig whispered.

  A tall, pale farmer in a leather butcher’s apron and overalls shambled out of the brush.

  Are you serious? A pig farmer?

  Holding a scythe.

  Are you serious? They still make scythes?

  The blade was rimed with rust. The farmer’s mouth, a rude line of snaggly teeth, was rimed with gore.

  Now.

  Nero was thinking of the foot Mommy had held, the pink toenails.

  Did Petal paint her toenails pink?

  Did Petal paint her toenails at all?

  Now!

  Nero finished his beer, belched, turned, and began running.

  Upward.

  There was never really any choice at all.

  The rest of the boys followed.

  One by one, without a word.

  THE TREE COVER INCREASED AS THEY CLIMBED, moving into an area of older growth. The sun was just barely able to poke through, outlining the path in ethereal silver. The group moved as fast as they could, breathing hard, hoping but not entirely certain they were putting distance between themselves and the horde, which could be heard thrashing around farther down the trail.

  And why was the horde thrashing? Why was there a horde at all? They acted like movie zombies, slow and mindlessly shuffling — except the ones who didn’t. Like Mommy seeming to care about her kids. Or the football team all sticking together. Or Mr. Bator almost seeming to laugh.