Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (77 page)

He took the original fingerprinting sheet out of the file—the one Doc. Harrington had done when the Sheriff first brought the corpse in, Jimmy guessed—and crumpled it into a wad, using it to wipe away the excess ink from his hand. Once finished, he stuffed the soiled paper in his pocket, slipped the new form into the file, and gathered up the folder.

His heart hesitated in his chest as his hands moved forward, positioning the tool’s cutting edge between the first and middle knuckle. Then, after one last glance at Stuart, he squeezed down on the sheer’s handle with both hands as hard and as fast as he could.

Shick!

Stuart grimaced as Jimmy lifted the severed digit from the table, holding it between thumb and forefinger.

“You really gonna eat that thing?” Stuart asked.

“I ain’t gonna
eat
it,” Jimmy corrected as he slipped the finger into the Zip-Loc bag. “I’m going to do like we talked about and just ... chew it a little.”

“This is nuts,” Stuart said.

Jimmy eyed him. “Hey, we’re in this together, man. Don’t start getting fidgety on me! Just keep thinking about that old lady who burned herself with the coffee from McDonalds. What’d she get for her lawsuit ... a million? Two million?”

“Actually, I think it came closer to three.”

“Exactly! Now imagine what a big-ass chain like Smokey’s will have to shell out when I find a human
finger
in my food!” He clapped his hands together. “Hot damn, boy! Even split fifty-fifty we’ll both be rolling in it! I’ll make sure a couple of guys from the worksite are with to see me spit it out. Then those patty-flipping pricks will have to pay through the roof for emotional stress.”

Stuart’s expression remained as serious as ever, but Jimmy noticed a renewed gleam of determination in his eyes at the mention of the money. “Just remember to cook it,” the kid said. “You gotta simmer it in the chili for at least three hours at 180 degrees so the spices will permeate the flesh. That’ll give any prosecutor in the country an uphill battle to prove it wasn’t in the mix from the start. Especially since Smokey’s meat supplier just got busted for hiring illegals. I Googled the case settlement last week and ...”

3.

Jimmy waited three days, just like they’d planned, allowing the police time to do a fingerprint check on the Mexican, and when no word came from Stuart to abort the mission, he drove to work on the forth morning with the finger in a Styrofoam cooler full of ice on the passenger seat.

With the lid on, the white rectangular box hardly looked worth the three dollar price tag. Because he knew what lay inside it, however, Jimmy couldn’t help seeing the container as something secret, something important, and for part of the drive from the Shell station, he imagined himself as a character on one of those TV medical dramas transporting an urgently needed donor organ.

He arrived at the job site just after nine, coming to a stop amid the larger pick-ups and SUVs of the regular work crew. Construction had been suspended for the last few days due to the rain, but today the steel skeleton of the new Park Street mini-mall bustled with activity.

Before getting out, he peeked in on the finger. It lay in the Zip-Loc bag like a half-curled worm. Smiling, he closed the cooler’s lid and got out of the car.

The ground remained soft and moist from the recent rainfall, and Jimmy’s feet made loud smacking sounds in the mud as he walked to the construction company’s mobile office. He noticed Tom Ryder, the foreman, talking with two of the subcontractors working the same site, animatedly clapping them on the back as he always did during conversations, acting like a father congratulating his sons on a well-played little league game. Jimmy ducked into the trailer to clock in before the man spotted him.

He found Jeff Densi, the lead mason, out by what would become the entrance to the mall’s parking lot. Jeff crouched beside his brother, Roy, near the first of two walls that divided the lot from the sidewalk, and when seen side by side, the two looked like the working-Joe equivalent of Laurel and Hardy.

Jimmy waved hello as the men looked up.

Jeff had been kneeling alongside the guide wires that outlined the wall’s base, and he stood up as Jimmy approached, maneuvering his bulk with ease. He returned the greeting eagerly enough, but his features appeared grim. “You’re a half hour late, Cooley. What gives?”

Jimmy put on his apology face. “I’m sorry—”

“I gave you a break with this job,” Jeff went on without pause. “You wouldn’t have it if my regular bricklayer hadn’t wrecked his back.”

“I know, Sir—”

“With your work history you’d be lucky to get hired at a firecracker stand, let alone anywhere else. I took you on ’cause I didn’t have another choice.”

Jimmy nodded, trying to look humble. “It won’t happen again, man. I just couldn’t find my lunch box this morning… I think Meg must’ve taken it with her when she split.”

Jeff had been glaring at him with what Jimmy had come to know as his “business look,” but at the mention of Megan, his true amiability reappeared and his face softened. “Your woman left you?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Like you said, I’d be damned if I could hold a decent job for long, and that doesn’t look too good on a home loan application… She must’ve just got fed-up with living with a loser.”

“Here comes Slappy,” Roy commented, breaking the silence. He tipped his head in the direction of the company trailer, and Jimmy spotted the foreman making his rounds.

Jeff clapped his hands together and gestured at the wall base. “Okay, let’s get back to it,” he said, sounding relieved to have gotten off the subject of Jimmy’s muddled love-life. “I hope everything works out for you, Jim—I really do—but we got a schedule to keep.”

4.

Just before lunch, Jimmy went to his car under the pretext of retrieving his wallet. Using his body as a shield, he reached into the cooler and snatched up the Zip-Loc bag, slipping it into the pocket of his jean jacket.

Jeff and Roy had already started across the road to Smokey’s, and Jimmy caught up with them as they fell into one of the lines behind the bank of registers along the counter. The lunch rush had the small building packed to capacity. He wiped his brow in an unconscious reaction to the crowd, and his hand came away covered in sweat.

They grabbed a booth at the back corner of the main dining room as a trio of teens vacated their seats to leave. Jimmy pulled the plastic top off the paper bowl of chili as Jeff and Roy sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“I hear they got a new titty bar open’n up over by the air base,” Roy said, sipping his drink. “Seeing as you don’t got no current attachments, Jim, maybe you’d like to check it out sometime?”

Jimmy had steeled himself to keep cool, to just act normal so the others wouldn’t get suspicious, but he suddenly found himself speechless as his thoughts focused on how to execute the plan.

Jimmy reached into his pocket as the two men exchanged looks, splitting the bag’s seal with his hand. He had to force a neutral expression as his living fingers found the dead one. Then, with the finger cupped in his hand, he picked up the packet of Saltines that had come with his order and tore open the plastic. “Check out the peach by the register,” he said, crumbling the crackers. “I’d like to see her in one of them places.”

The men looked over their shoulders, and he dropped the finger into the chili with the crackers, stirring it under with his spoon. Initially he’d planned to take a few bites before getting to business—to make the lunch seem more authentic—but the thought of swallowing a single drop of the food after the finger had been mixed in with it made his stomach flop over in protest.

Get a grip, Jim. Think dollar signs.

He churned the chili, feeling the finger’s weight against the plastic utensil. Then, with a furtive glance to make sure Jeff and Roy had their attention on their own meals, he scooped the finger into his mouth.

It slid off the spoon, onto his tongue, taking up far more space than he liked.

Don’t think about it, dumb-ass, just do it!
he thought.

And he did.

He bit down, feeling the rubbery texture of the finger’s skin, the hardness of bone. The heat from the chili had yet to penetrate the cold from the ice and as his teeth came together, a frigid liquid spurted against the inside of his cheek.

His empty stomach seemed to fill with a putrid green liquid in reaction to the sensation in his mouth and his body instinctively fought to expel the nauseating object. But just as he prepared to spew it onto the tabletop, Jeff and Roy turned away, facing the front of the store to look at the menu.

They won’t see it!
his brain raged.
They have to see me spit it out!

So he held it in his mouth, feeling its horrid presence.

And it moved.

He’d raised his hand, about to slam it down on the table to regain the men’s attention, when he distinctly felt the finger uncurl, its nail scraping the side of one molar.

Every nerve in his body seemed to short circuit from the shock, and he stiffened in his seat, unable to move. Then the finger did it again, squirming like a half-dead worm trapped in a storm puddle, just as someone said, “Hey there, Jimbo!”

Slapping him on the back—

Gulp!

—causing him to swallow!

He felt the finger slide down his throat like a thick bite of licorice, pressing hard against his insides.

Oh, shit!

He clutched the table with both hands, tensing his neck muscles in a last ditch effort to stop the dead man’s digit from reaching his stomach. But then he felt one last squeeze deep inside his chest and knew it was already too late.

“Jimbo,” he heard Tom, the foreman, say from behind. “You alright, man? Damn, I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”

The others set their food aside when Jimmy failed to respond, Jeff leaning in close, asking him what was wrong. Tom offered him a hand, but he pushed it away.

“Outta my way, you back-slapping asshole!” he cried.

Without another word, he leapt from his seat and raced for the bathroom.

5.

He elbowed his way through a group of teenage girls blocking the hall that accessed the restrooms, then shouldered the door open, only to slam it shut again and slap the lock into place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he did, and for a heart-stopping moment thought he’d come face-to-face with an albino psychopath.

Without wasting another second, he turned away from the mirror and crammed his own finger down his throat in an effort to puke. He reached as far back as he could, painfully stabbing tender flesh and poking his tonsils.

He gagged a few times, but nothing came up.

“Dammit,” he shrieked. “This can’t be happening!”

He slammed his fists on the sink top and punched a hole in the plastic cover of the paper towel dispenser. He tried hitting himself in the stomach a few times, but when that didn’t work to bring up the finger, he took his frustration out on the waste basket in a flurry of kicks.

Huffing out of exertion and fear, he leaned against the sink and paused to collect himself.

“Think, dipshit! Think!”

His breathing had just begun to ease when the door to one of the two toilet stalls clicked in its frame and slowly swung open. Jimmy looked up. A moment later, a balding middle-aged man wearing a business suit and wire-frame glasses stepped out, clutching his unzipped pants at the waist. Without making eye contact, he edged toward the exit like an overweight tourist who’d fallen into the lion pit at the zoo.