An Axe to Grind (2 page)

It was funny how things worked out, he thought as he rolled the girl over and transferred her to the table he’d transferred from the mortuary and reassembled, welding shackles to it as a finishing touch. It gleamed in the cold fluorescent light. He turned on the CD player on his workbench and sang along with Black Sabbath as he worked. At forty-six, he’d long considered himself too old to learn another line of work but had, with practice, discovered that he had a knack for embalming. He inserted plastic tubing into an artery and a vein - they were easier to find on the walking dead than they were on a junkie - and turned on the embalming pump. It was funny how things turned out, he thought again, watching the flow of clear fluid in and brackish fluid out. He never expected to live out his days in a fortified public arena in a tiny town in the middle of damn near nowhere, fifty miles from Topeka and pretty much completely isolated amidst miles of tallgrass prairie. He’d had a gig that night and he supposed that it was just luck that it had been here rather than in Topeka, where he usually played, or Lawrence or Kansas City. Those places were death traps, teeming with ravenous undead.

Kickstart, his band, had just started their second set at Wranglers when things got weird. The house soundman had started coughing violently, sending what looked like a bright red arterial mist over his 32-channel mixer. That was repulsive enough but the crowd had just kept drinking and didn’t seem to notice, and so John had kept on playing to the skimpily clad girl in a cut-off Harley t-shirt and an older woman that could have been her mother who were sitting at a small table directly in front of the stage - he’d have done ‘em both for sure - soloing to LaGrange with his Les Paul behind his head and checking out the younger one’s substantial cleavage. He’d have the bartender send over a couple of shots of tequila for them before the next break. Suddenly Andy, who’d been dutifully playing a chunky blues rhythm under John’s solo, missed the key change. John looked back and glared at him, but his anger dissolved into disgust and amazement when he saw that Andy was leaning back against his Marshall stack with his eyes closed, chin drooping down toward the collar of the stupid black t-shirt he always wore (emblazoned with a request to PULL MY FINGER!), and a thick sludge of blood was running over his lips and dripping off his chin. His shirt was saturated with the stuff and it glistened nastily on his hands and guitar strings. Alarmed but not sure what to do, John abruptly ended his solo and turned back to the three-quarters empty room. He hoped no one had noticed--good paying gigs were hard to get these days. He figured he could take a short break, get Andy offstage, and finish the gig as a power trio while Tommy, his roadie, took Andy to a Med-Check.

No one in the bar had noticed, but then, no one in the bar other than the hotties up front were paying much attention to anything. A slender, slightly effeminate man in tight Wranglers, a white cowboy hat, and what were obviously his dress boots slumped over the bar, passed out. His wallet had fallen from his fingers and lay at the foot of his bar stool. Ty, the bartender and owner of the club, was polishing beer mugs with a grungy towel, his eyes half closed and his body swaying with the motion of his arm. From a distance it looked like he had a nosebleed, but John couldn’t see well in the stage lights and figured that would be too much of a coincidence. A woman in heels high enough to defy the laws of physics slithered off her barstool and unsteadily made her way toward the ladies room, sashaying past a pair of bikers arguing good naturedly and playing pool at the back of the room. He glanced back at Andy, who was still doggedly pounding out an A5 power chord oblivious to the fact that everyone else was playing in C, for the love of Jesus, and John opted to end the song. He’d had weird shit go down at gigs before but in his nearly 30 years of playing the bars, nothing compared to this.

“We’re gonna take a short break, be back before you know it. Don’t go nowhere we got some David Allen Coe and Skynyrd comin’ up.” John smiled at the hotties and switched off his mic, then rapidly walked back to Andy and ripped his instrument cable out of his amp - fucker was still playing. The rest of the band were staring at Andy with frank fascination. Blood now gouted from his nose and mouth. John pulled the guitar out of Andy’s hands and set it down in the stand beside his amplifier.

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get you some help. You don’t look so good right now.” Andy gave no indication that he’d heard, but complied when John began walking him toward the exit door to the left of the stage. Andy’s movement was sluggish and uncoordinated, and John grimaced when he reached out to steady him and pulled his hand back, slathered in viscous, clotted blood. They slowly walked past a big screen television where the Kansas City Royals were losing in high-def. There was some sort of disturbance on the field.

“Fuck this,” John swore. His cell phone had started vibrating in his pocket. He paused to pull it out, and was surprised to see on the caller ID that it was Nicky, his girlfriend. She knew better than to call him during a gig. He silenced the phone and put it back in his pocket. John had time to wonder why she’d called when Andy stumbled and collapsed by the exit as a woman’s shriek cut through the now-silent bar. John whipped his head around so quickly he felt the muscles in his already tense neck hyperextend and viciously cramp. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The woman in high heels had returned from the ladies room, so intoxicated or disoriented that she’d left her mini-skirt behind. Wearing only her heels, a black thong around one ankle, and a sleeveless maroon blouse, she stood gazing into the room. Clutched in her right fist was a mass of gore, and her jaws snapped open and shut, open and shut, gnawing on what couldn’t be - but sure as hell looked like - a dangling, glistening string of entrails that had smeared blood across her face and mottled neck. One of the bikers threw down his pool stick and ran past her to the women’s restroom, shouting the name of some woman named Sheila. Seconds later, John heard the man coughing, retching, and screaming in either pain or panic. The other biker had warily approached the woman in high heels and had gotten within four feet of her when she suddenly rushed him. Taken by surprise, he stepped back only to have his boot come down on the discarded pool stick and fly out from underneath him. The biker twisted awkwardly and came down hard on his left side with a hoarse curse. Then the woman was on him, her jaws locking around his neck. She ripped her head back and tore most of the soft flesh of his throat out as blood geysered against a neon blue Bud Light sign and spattered across a cardboard Nascar cut out of Clint Boyer. The biker’s white t-shirt had rucked up as he fell, and her fingers scrabbled and dug into his abdomen. One of her manicured nails broke off, but the others found purchase, tearing into his flesh and ripping great gashes below his ribcage. She paused long enough to lean forward and bite into one of his cheeks. The man howled and struggled to push her away as she tore the flesh from his lower face in a long bloody strip. It hung from her bloodstained teeth as she resumed tearing into his abdomen.

John stood stunned. He felt Andy’s hand close weakly around his ankle but ignored him, instead surveying the carnage throughout the bar. It was a scene from a Romero movie, he thought. The cowboy had cornered the hotties, who were screaming and successfully keeping him at bay with a couple of barstools. He growled and swung his arms wildly at them as they screamed back in terror. The older woman had begun inching sideways toward the jukebox, jabbing her chair at the cowboy when she was grabbed and thrown to the floor by John’s drummer. His Iron Maiden t-shirt was covered in blood, and his eyes were yellow and dilated to the point that the pupils were empty, massive orbs. He ripped her long bleached blonde hair out by the bloody handful as she lay screaming and struggling.

The bartender was still polishing mugs, oblivious, his nose now bleeding profusely. He looked up with momentary recognition when John shouted “Ty,” but returned dully to his work. Panicked, John turned toward the back exit next to the stage. His bass player, Leon, lay near the door with his knees drawn up, cradling his stomach with both hands as he bled out from a series of bites that had virtually disemboweled him. His hair was plastered to his face, wet with sweat, blood, and tears. “Help me,” he whispered, but John shook his head and looked away. He could see Andy convulsing on the floor. A second later Leon was swarmed by the two bikers, his arms and legs wrenched in their sockets as he was tugged between the two men who were devouring all visible flesh. Leon’s screams filled his head and made it difficult to think; Andy was again tugging at his leg. When he felt Andy’s teeth clamp down on his boot, John screamed himself and stepped away. There was blood everywhere and it was difficult to keep his footing. As Leon stood and lurched toward him, John grabbed a microphone stand off the stage and swung it in wild arcs, the centrifugal force of the heavy base nearly throwing him off balance. The circular base connected suddenly with the side of Leon’s head and caved in his skull. For a moment, John could see blood and grey flecks of brain matter silhouetted in the stage lights. Leon went down and didn’t get back up. John’s cell phone had started vibrating again but he made no effort to reach for it. He could hear the sound of sirens outside, and that’s when the power went out and left him in nearly complete darkness.

The Black Sabbath CD had ended. John had nearly finished the girl’s clean up. He’d washed out the debris and cut the tangles from her hair, and dug out the spots on her back where he’d found maggots in a couple of raw wounds. The embalming process had been completed with no difficulties. It would stave off further decay and reduce the stench - she already smelled immeasurably better; her internal organs had been removed and were piled wetly beside her on the table. Her chest cavity had been filled with polystyrene foam, trimmed to fit. She gazed at the organs beside her but John figured their significance didn’t really register for her. He’d stitched her chest cavity back together with a tidy line of little black sutures. Another recently acquired skill. The sutures wouldn’t look too bad once he’d gotten her dressed again. He’d also taken his standard precautions, cutting her fingernails down well past the quick - it didn’t hurt her and it ensured that she couldn’t him - although the first time he’d done it he’d cringed. It was still better than ripping them out with a pair of pliers. He also felt much better about his new approach to dental work. With the first few, he’d simply pulled their teeth out with a pair of vise grips. That had seemed barbaric even though he understood that they would eat him sashimi-style at the first opportunity if he did not. It wasn’t until he was using a small Dremmel power tool to remove the head of an errant screw that the solution became clear. The Dremmel was now fitted with a grindstone attachment which made quick work of grinding down their teeth to smooth, harmless nubs. It even sounded a little like a dentist’s drill. Pain-free dentistry, thought John, who laughed out loud. “Well babe,” he said, “I guess we finally got universal health care. How’s that working for you?” he asked, doing his best Dr. Phil impression. The girl didn’t respond, but John had not expected one.

The dead girl’s clothes were still in good condition, so John redressed her in them. Plus, it was a sweet little outfit, a fine look, showcasing a tight ass and long legs. Some of the others had worn their clothes to tatters and he had to provide them with new ones. Since most of the ones he’d brought in were women, he’d chanced a trip out to the Fashion Bug at the little mall on Industrial Avenue and picked up several cartons of clothes in a variety of sizes, but not plus sizes. He just put a bullet in the heads of plus-size walkers. They were too heavy and hurt his back.

With the majority of his work finished, John put a new CD in the stereo. Rust Never Sleeps. The dead didn’t sleep, either. John could hear some faint hissing and moaning outside the storm shutters. Something had riled them up and attracted them to the building. Figuring he’d better check it out, John left the girl secured to the table and trotted down the hall to check the monitors. Sure enough, he could see at least eight of them circling outside the west side of the building. All adults, no animals at least. Though they were dead, and as a result slow, dull-witted, and uncoordinated like their human counterparts, animals were far more difficult to deal with. Sharper teeth, better balance, a lower center of gravity, and much faster. So far, John had encountered more than three dozen dogs, the wolf in the liquor store, and six or seven coyotes. At least no mice, they seemed to be immune, along with cats and birds. Thank god no birds. Outside the building, the monitors revealed four of the walkers milling about in front of the heavy metal doors to the fire station. Another walker had picked up the metal lid to a trash container somewhere and was banging it against the side of the building. Although the behavior looked far more random than volitional, John was concerned. So far they had not demonstrated the ability to use objects in even the most rudimentary way, but he knew better than to underestimate them. He’d need to go out there and torch some zombie ass. To the south, he could see storm clouds gathering in the distance.