I've Been Deader (19 page)

Annie's blush deepened at Jon's use of the Mayor's nickname. "Um, there are two of them now. There was a third but she disappeared this morning."

Jon walked to the family room where the sliding glass doors overlooked the back deck. Two zombies stood on the other side, foreheads gently thumping against the glass. "Jesus. Hey, Timmy! Come here."

Annie raced into the room. "Mr. Tanner ..."

"Jon, please."

"Jon, what are you doing? I don't want -"

"Listen, Annie. I may be out of line but the sooner both of you learn how to deal with these things, the more likely you'll be around tomorrow to deal with them again." Jon touched her face, reviving that beautiful blush. "Trust me."

Timmy stood at the back of the room, eyes avoiding the glass door.

"They just stand there like that all the time. They don't move for nothing. Not even when I went out the front door."

"Maybe they got a look at your mom in that dress," Jon joked. "Okay, Timmy. Here's what we're gonna do. I'm going to lie down on this couch here and use the arm rest to steady my aim. When I tell you, you slide open that door and then hit the floor." Jon leaned in close enough to Annie that his lips brushed against her ear. "And you, you just stand there in that red dress for now. Later I'll think of something for you to do." He sensed more than felt Annie shudder.

Yum.

The couch was at right angles to the glass door. A two piece white sectional. He lay down, propped up on elbows, gun resting against the couch arm. The two undead remained unconcerned. The one on the left wasn't much bigger than the boy. He wore a Dodger's baseball cap and what once was a white undershirt. A fat fly crawled slowly across the zombie's left eye. Jesus. The other zombie was a bit taller and wore a Target T-shirt and a John Deer cap with the bill pulled down low and tight.

Perfect.

"All right, Timmy. Go stand by the door."

Timmy remained frozen in place, eyes darting from the gun to the zombies and finally resting on Annie, but no one came to his rescue. The whole scene reminded Jon of a spaghetti western.

"You going to stand there and whistle Dixie or pull those feet off the ground and git to that door?" Jon said in a terrible Clint Eastwood impersonation. He doubted either of them knew what he was talking about. But Timmy moved just the same, albeit too slowly for Jon's taste. He sped up a bit when he came into Jon's line of fire.
Smart boy
.

Finally he crouched down next to the door, hand on the handle.

"Make sure it's unlocked."

Timmy pushed the small metal handle up.

"Be careful!" Annie hadn't moved, except maybe a step or two backwards.

Mother of the year, ladies and gentlemen.

"Good. Now slide it open all the way and hit the deck. I'll do the rest."

Timmy looked to Annie, perhaps hoping for a reprieve. What he got was a worried smile.

"Be careful."

No help there, little buddy.

The kid closed his eyes and pulled the handle as hard as he could. Unlike most sliding glass doors, this one slid right open. Jon took aim at the bigger zombie, going for the Target bull's eye conveniently plastered across his chest.

The zombies became a little more reanimated. The tall one, caught in the act of banging its head against the door when it opened, stumbled into the room. Jon adjusted his aim and fired.

Nothing.

Fuck.

The small zombie lumbered into the room and made a bee line for Annie.

Can't say as I blame you
.

"Shoot it. Shoot it!" Annie screamed.

Bull's-eye Pete had his mindless set on Timmy, who was lying face down on the ground.

Jon fumbled the safety to 'off' and fired two shots at Bull's eye, settling for hitting the head. Blood and gore splashed against the glass and part of the wall, and the zombie collapsed on poor Timmy.

Jon rolled off the couch, jumped up and fired at the remaining zombie. From two feet away the results were predictable. More gore and blood and another dead corpse.

The place stank of cordite and smoke. Annie was screaming and Timmy was gagging, still buried under mortified flesh.

"Who's hungry?" Jon asked, but no one was listening.

Chapter 33

Losing it

For the second time that day Fred caught himself walking in circles. He kept zoning out, his mind going blank like a - well, like a zombie. How long he wandered aimlessly, he had no idea. It wasn't as if the other zombies were keeping an eye on him.
I should get a watch
. Somewhere along the road he'd lost the eye patch, but he hardly noticed. He was beyond such vanities now. He supposed traveling on the road was beginning to take its toll on him.

Que sera, s… s... something
.

The undead band of brothers was spread out over half a mile on the highway.
Zombie army we might be, but disciplined marchers we ain't
. He was still at the front of the line, more or less, so he couldn't have been unplugged for long.

They were more than five hundred now, give or take, and they were just a few days from Comfort, Colorado and the prize. Even with miles to go, Fred could feel himself getting stronger. His control over the others was stronger, although the girl still remained a problem. Fewer zombies seemed to be dying again, which, given the incessant moaning and personal hygiene issues, was a mixed blessing.

Five hundred was a good number. He expected trouble when he reached the meteorite - if not sooner. The more undead the merrier. But it wasn't just the numbers that put a little spring in his shamble. It was the runners.
Twelve
undead children added to his army. The orphanage had been a gold mine. He'd counted sixteen little runners zipping to and fro throughout the halls when he first got there, all covered in gore and looking for more. The institutional beige walls sported a sloppy coat of arterial red. Fred noticed quite a few children's corpses scattered among the older dead, which was a shame. He remembered inspecting the children, both dead and undead, looking for … looking for …

What was I looking for? My eye patch?

… But they were just children.

Twelve of the little undead tykes immediately responded, joining the growing throng of zombies in the courtyard. The little buggers ran circles around the adult undead, looking like kids at a playground. He imagined he could hear them laughing. Four of the zombie kiddies, however, were not interested in what Fred had to say. Instead they ran up and down the halls, stopping only to feed on anything still alive, or sometimes recently dead.
Still, twelve runners!

The only fly in the formaldehyde was the girl - again. They had finished up at the orphanage and were ready to leave before sunrise. They milled about in front of the building, waiting for Fred's orders. One of them, the short man with no dick, kept gently pushing another zombie, as if he were trying to get the undead to form rows, for Christ's sake. Ignoring the strange scene, Fred ordered everyone to head back out, and the undead started shambling toward the road. That's when he noticed the runners, who weren't running. They stood in one spot, and in the front of that one spot stood the girl.
Karen.
Something about that kid rubbed him the wrong way. She made him anxious.

Next to her, like always, the woman with the two pretty eyes.
The old ball and chain
. Fred commanded them to get moving, and they did. Even Karen, with the woman in tow.
Aleta. Her name's Aleta!
Remembering her name increased his anxiety.
If I forgot her name, what else am I forgetting?

Gunfire from somewhere down the road snapped Fred back to the present. With some alarm he found himself shambling in circles again.

"Braaaiinnnss," he moaned in frustration, and started down the road.

A few more days and he'd have his hands on the mailman. The thought made him both excited and uneasy. The waking dreams about George Potts and the golden ticket residing in his head were becoming stronger and more frequent the closer he got to his goal. Every time he had the vision, Fred's determination to get his hands on that rock redoubled.

Lately though, disturbing images kept popping up in the dream. Images of vague shadowy things that wanted to hurt him. Stop him.

There was the dark man, a shadow that walked up and down the streets of Comfort. In his dream, Fred couldn't make out any features of the dark man. Everywhere the figure appeared, light faded. The man never did anything - just walked around a bit. But always he stood between Fred and George Potts. He made Fred uneasy. But that was nothing; small potatoes.

The real wild card was the boy.
My boy!
The small boy, features also hidden -
It's Timmy. You know it's Timmy
- hovered around Mr. Potts, making playful grabs at the heavy mail bag slung around the zombie's shoulders. Always in his dream he knew the boy -
Timmy
- wanted the rock, wanted to destroy it.
He wants to help me. But he's going to kill me if I don't do something.

Fred didn't want to think about that. He loved Timmy. The boy was misguided, that's all.

The rock. Once I have the rock thingy everything will be right as rain. With that rock-et in my pocket nothing will hurt me. Then we can look for Timmy and then ... then we'll see.

Chapter 34

Holiday

Jon sat on the front porch, rifle resting in his lap, tears streaming down his face from laughing so hard.

The two female zombies, naked except for their toe tags, slipped and fell on their asses, again. Before going over to Laguna Drive he'd taken the garden hose and created a nice little ice rink on the street in front of the house. He discovered a small horde of undead holed up in one of the houses, and they'd followed him home. The rest of the morning was spent watching the undead take pratfall after pratfall.
Chevy Chase lives
. By mid-morning Jon had shot all the zombies except for these two, now sitting in the middle of the icy street, legs splayed out at unnatural angles, moaning in frustration.
Priceless.

He was a happy camper today. The injuries had healed nicely over the last several weeks. He felt great and the good people of Deerkill had welcomed him with open arms - in Annie's case, open legs. Physically he was in the best shape of his adult life. No one would be mistaking him for Lance Armstrong but he was breathing and feeling fine. Regarding his mental state the jury was still out.

Nothing put the bark on his wood like killing. It used to worry him. But that was before the world turned into a George Romero wet dream. In this brave new world appearances were everything. Anyone who survived meeting Jon Tanner walked away thinking he was a guy with a lot on the ball.
A man with a plan
. Now people looked to him for ideas and leadership. His unique skill in putting zombies back in the ground made him a pillar of the community - a growing community. More than seventy-five adults lived in the neighborhood proper. How many damn rug rats were running around was anyone's guess. They still met at the Lowes Theater two or three times a week to discuss business, a.k.a, shoot the shit. Everyone had something to say, but Jon inevitably ended up leading the meetings, with Mayor Biggie's blessing.

He made sure to give the Mayor credit for all his ideas. The idea for ammo and weapon stashes in various places throughout town, the establishment of the research lab, the security patrols - all his ideas. And all of which he was happy to attribute to Mayor Biggie. No sense in pissing in his cornflakes. At any rate, not until he got what was promised.

Besides, on some level, they know what's what
. There were those who survived and there were those who were stars. Jon was a star here, and everyone knew it. What it all came down to - what it always came down to - was this: People were scared, and he wasn't.
Any port in a storm,
he supposed.

At the moment, alone on his porch, he luxuriated in the comfort of dropping the mask and being himself. If someone happened to walk up to the porch right then, they would have found him grinning in a most disturbing way. The phrase 'pillar of the community' would not have occurred to them.

Today he'd be trying out the game room. It wasn't as fancy shmancy as the one he had before Z-day, but it would have to do.

For starters, the walls weren't completely soundproofed. In a world of concerned citizens and law and order, that would be a problem. But the times they were a-changing. Deerkill was largely empty and most of his neighbors were neither curious nor alive. As for the few that were living, well, these days people tended to treat screams the way they used to treat car alarms - unpleasant and annoying but not worth paying attention to. That's why he had chosen this house.
Location, location, location.

Recessed upright against the far wall of the room stood two modified Murphy beds. Both were equipped with thick leather straps - the kind that were all the rage in asylums, prison hospitals and certain Korean massage parlors. Above each bed, as well as in each corner of the room, he had installed spy cams to film his activities. A small 'remote caddy' was fixed against the wall between the two beds. All the cameras were connected wirelessly to the TiVo which in turn was hooked up to three large-screen televisions. Using the remote, Jon could direct the camera angles for maximum effect. It took him some time to get the hang of it, but after some practice and reliance on the male chromosome, he could easily manipulate the cameras.

The one thing that bothered Jon about the room was its sterile feel. It felt too clean. Unused.
But we can fix that
.

Inside the car, Jon turned on the portable TomTom. A few dead undead littered the street in front of the house and driveway. 'Zbumps' he had taken to calling them. The one directly in front of the car had been run over so many times he couldn't tell it had once been human. He could, however, see that the treads on his tires were still good.