Loose Ends: A Zombie Novel (15 page)

“There are people around,” Short Order noted. “Or were.”

“Did you hear anything while we were traveling around?” Doc asked. “Any of you?  Gunshots that weren’t ours, engines, voices, anything?”

Chef and Short both said, “No.”

Doc turned to me. He was inches from my face. I could feel his breath on me.

He whispered, “Did you see or hear anything interesting, Mutt? Say?”

I didn’t move.

Chef drove on without the trio of zombies showing any interest in our passing. We ended up in a higher class neighborhood and closed ourselves in the rickety gate and wall that surrounded the property of a large house. The house was empty of zombies or bodies. It looked like a castle, but it wouldn’t have provided much of a defense.

It did have a fire pit in an enclosed courtyard inside the house itself. I went with Short Order to raid the pantry as Chef and Doc began setting up the cooking gear. I didn’t know what to think of the other two anymore.

As we cast aside fossilized bread and pasta, we began stacking cans and sealed dry goods on the counter. I wanted to tell Short Order what I knew to try to have an ally in this mystery of who our traveling companions really were. I actually reached in my pocket and pulled out the license of the David Sharp we had buried today. I was holding it in my hands behind him when I heard the door open to the house from the courtyard. I jammed the card back into my pocket.

Doc walked into the kitchen. He looked at both of us as Short continued extracting cans.

Doc said, “Short, Chef wants to talk to you. I’ll finish sorting cans with Mutt.”

I just stood as Short walked out and Doc stared at me.

When the door shut again, Doc said, “We need to talk, Mutt.”

I pointed to my mouth with a shaky finger and shrugged. Doc actually laughed. It made me more afraid.

He said, “That’s why I like talking to you, kid.”

I couldn’t slow my heart down. I could feel it in my neck and I was sure he could sense my fear. I had no idea who I was dealing with anymore.

Doc said, “I think you know what I need to talk to you about, Mutt. We all have secrets. I’m going to need to know exactly what you saw and exactly what you know.”

I didn’t answer. My mother had told me if I stayed silent I would be safe. I saw her unclear face retreating away from me. I saw the bed being lifted off of me by the monsters that came to devour me.

The door to the courtyard opened again.

Short Order called, “Come on, guys. Chef wants to talk to us.”

Doc stared at me a moment longer.

“We’re coming,” he called.

He whispered to me, “You heard him, Mutt, it’s time to talk. Let’s go.”

Outside we sat on the stone benches around the fire pit that was now spitting flame up above the stone lip. Chef stood to the side away from the heat and spoke to us.

“I have a taste for pasta,” Chef said.

Doc laughed, “Wow, I’m glad you had us sit down first.”

“Did you find some eggs?” Short asked.

“I assume you mean dry pasta,” Doc said. “It’s getting late, Chef, you want to keep the fire going that long?”

“We’re in a courtyard,” Chef said. “The light will be blocked. There is a hand crank pasta machine inside. We’ll bring it out here. We’ll use the same recipe with our flour, olive oil, water, and a few spices. The challenge is ‘Bury the Pasta’ in honor of the trouble I put you all through today.”

We sat silently.

Chef added, “I thought it was funny. Maybe too soon, I guess. We use the same pasta, but bury it in any of the ingredients we found in the pantry.”

I got to be the pasta holder. I stood with my arms out as they pressed, cranked, and cut the pasta. They placed the pieces over my arms to keep separate.

The day slowly darkened over our heads as we cooked in the courtyard. I felt the pressure of the day was hidden for a while as everyone lost themselves in the work.

Doc and Short both ended up doing some variation of vegetable pasta in sauce. I don’t know if they were good or I was just starving. Chef did a pasta dish using oil and vinaigrette spices. It was simple, but good. I had two helpings and felt ill afterward.

Doc brought out a couple bottles of wine from a rack in the kitchen. He shared one of them.

He said, “We need to scout out upscale neighborhoods from now on. Why don’t we just hop from one mansion to another until Jesus comes back?  He has to be coming soon and even if he’s not, at least wine gets better with age.”

Chef took out his camera and tried on a couple different lenses. He twisted them and clicked the shutter a few times.

“It has held up okay after all this time,” Chef said.

Short asked, “Were you a photographer, Chef?”

“I was,” he said.

“You take pictures of babies and engaged couples?” Doc asked between swallows.

“No,” Chef answered, “I took pictures of food.”

We sat silently.

“Food?” Doc asked. “You took pictures of what you cooked? Were you making a scrap book or something?”

“No,” Chef said, “I was a culinary photographer for magazines and websites. I taught cooking at a local college and I started cooking for charity events.”

“When did you move up to head chef?” Short Order asked.

Chef laughed, “After the zombies came … when I moved into the Complex.”

Doc and Short both laughed.

“I’m glad the dead got you off your ass and into a real career then, Chef,” Doc said.

“You need batteries?” Short asked. “I saw some inside, but I think they might be leaking acid.”

“For the flash, I guess,” Chef said.

“Is it digital?” Short asked.

“No, I was using film still,” Chef said. “I thought it was more pure.”

“Do you know how to develop film?” Doc asked. “Do you know how to make film?”

Chef just shook his head looking down at the camera.

Short said, “We can probably find a digital camera and some batteries, if you want to take pictures again, David.”

I looked up at Chef and remembered the broken face of a skull sitting in a pile on cinderblock.

“Why did you go back for a film camera?” Doc asked.

“I don’t know,” Chef dropped the pieces back in the bag. “Why the hell do we do anything, John?”

Chef walked off and Doc went back to drinking. I looked at Doc and remembered a body tied out prone on a bed with an ID card choked down its decaying throat.

The magic from burying the pasta was gone.

Short asked me to help him clean up. We carried several items out to the vehicles.  We dropped a couple utensils as we tried to carry everything in one trip. We loaded the larger items in the truck and then I began unpacking the smaller pieces. Short went back for the things we lost along the way.

I lifted the strainers out of the duffle bag and put them back into their places in the cargo section. As I separated each piece, I started to realize our rolling kitchen was a tad ridiculous.

Lastly, I lifted out a small, black bag. Chef’s camera case had gotten packed in with the cooking gear. I set it on the bumper and looked at it. I looked back to see that neither Short Order nor anyone else had come back out yet. I looked back at the bag.

If this had happened the next day or a week later, I would have just put it in the truck and would have forgotten it, but this was the same day that I found the real David Sharp’s license. This was the same day that I realized Doc was not the only stranger in our midst.  He was not the only liar.

I felt through the side pockets. The locket was on a gold chain. It had a small picture of a woman in it and a date. The initials CLH were in it. I shoved it back into the bag.

The ring was yellow and white gold. There was nothing on it, but 24K on the inside band. I put it back.

I pulled out the two framed photographs. It was the woman in the locket hugging the man we called Chef and that called himself David Sharp even though we had buried David Sharp’s face today. The other was the woman on the beach in a wedding dress. That seemed like that would ruin the dress. I put them back in the bag.

I looked back at the house. I could see the fire through the windows, but no one was coming. I started feeling through the inside netting in the bag. There was another card.  I held it.  I wanted to see it, but I was afraid.

I heard someone coming. I pulled out the card and zipped up the bag. I lifted the strap and set the bag inside the storage area. I took the risk to look at the card quickly. It was a business card. It had images around the side. The words read, Davis Holland  Culinary Photographer.

I shoved it into my pocket with the secret licenses and turned around. He grabbed me by my shoulders and jerked me away from the truck. I felt his breath in my face. It was sour and rotten like spoiled vegetables and vomit.

It was cold.

***

He was holding me too hard and was shaking me as I tried to push him away from me. He wasn’t going to stop and I had had enough. I kicked him in the groin, but he didn’t react. As he pulled me forward again, I pulled out the hunting knife and jammed it up under his chin. His white hair flipped back as his head raised up with the force of my stab. His mouth opened slightly and I could see where his wine colored tongue had been staked to the roof of his mouth.

He let go with one hand. I tried to run, but couldn’t pull loose from the other. He was clawing at my neck with his jagged nails. I reached back up and jerked the hunting knife free. When his mouth dropped open again, I regretted doing it.

I stabbed at his head, but caught his palm as he was reaching for me. The knife went to the hilt through the skin between the bones of his hand. He pulled the blade away from me and then reached for me again.

The knife sticking through the back of his hand missed slashing my face by less than an inch. He bit at my cheek. I shoved him away by the side of his face at the last second. His whole body turned and I thought I might have a chance to get away. The knife came up at my stomach as he reached for me again. I let go of his face and barely deflected the blade before it would have opened up my belly. I tried to grab at the handle, but he turned his face to lock his teeth on my shoulder. I let go of his hand and pushed his head up away from me from under his chin. Thick fluid leaked between my fingers from the hole under his jaw. The knife came across my face again. I let go of his chin and blocked it with my elbow. I had managed to make the creature more deadly than he had been before I tried to use the knife.

He lunged for my throat with his jaw open wide and his punctured tongue hanging out.

I saw a bottle swing into the side of his head. It made a hollow pong as it rocked off the side of his head and knocked him two steps to the left. He finally let go of my arm.  It hurt worse when he released it and my hand at the end of that arm was tingling. The knife sliced out wildly in the air. I stumbled back into the truck knocking the camera bag off the end of the storage area on to the ground.

Doc swung the wine bottle down into the back of the zombie’s skull three more times before it shattered and the zombie fell down. It left shards of glass in the creature’s head, but it began to lift itself off its face from the concrete of the parking area.

Doc raised the sharp edges that were left around the neck of the bottle to finish the job. Before he could, he was grabbed from behind and pulled backward.

The knife zombie got up to his knees. I shoved him from the back pushing him face down on the ground. He rolled over and growled up at me. He reached for me with the knife again. I grabbed his wrist with both hands. I twisted it around. He tried to close his fingers on me as I let go with one hand and grabbed the knife handle. I used my grip on the knife and his wrist to jam the back of the zombie’s hand into his own face. The point of the blade connected with one of his eyes and kept going. He reached up for me with his other hand. I twisted the handle in a “C” pattern. The other hand fell back to the ground.

I stepped on the body’s wrist and finally jerked the hunting knife free of all the layers it had stabbed through. The head shuddered, but didn’t rise back up from the ground again.

I turned around in time to see Doc pull the broken bottle neck out of the side of another head on the ground. Two more grabbed him and he dropped the broken bottle.  He grabbed both of them by the throats under their jaws and stiff armed their heads back away from him. They both reached out and clawed at his eyes. He ducked his head down to protect his face. They locked on to his hair with their dirty hands and pulled. He screamed as they walked him backward into the side of the truck. With his butt against the door, Doc kept his arms stiff and their faces away as they kept trying to pull him toward them by his hair.

I stepped behind one of them and reached my hand around over Doc’s hand on its throat. I gripped its gullet just above where Doc was clamped on tight. I drove the knife up into the back of its skull below the bump at the base like I had lied about doing earlier. The zombie went limp and released Doc’s scalp. As it fell, its weight dropped back toward me. I turned it and let it fall away and off of the blade.

I stepped over the body to go for the other one. Doc stood up and grunted as he swept his foot under the zombie. It tripped and they both fell to the ground. Doc climbed on top. The creature clawed at his face again. Doc shoved its hands aside and began driving his fists down into the zombie’s face.

The creature’s nose collapsed. He punched three more times and the top pallet folded in exposing the lower teeth. It hissed up at Doc. He punched again and again. Its eyes burst and ran down the face like tears. I couldn’t get the knife into its head without catching Doc’s fist. I was afraid he was going to drive his knuckles into its teeth and have the same effect as being bitten. The skull began to change shape. The zombie reached up for Doc again. He slapped the hands away. I tried to step in, but he started punching the forehead again. Suddenly, the skin broke one side and gore oozed out. After two more hits, the head burst on both sides like a pumpkin. Grey matter popped out around the mangled face. Every muscle in the creature went from tense to slack in an instant. I had never seen a zombie punched to death. I never imagined it was possible.