Loose Ends: A Zombie Novel (7 page)

The grey, one-eyed zombie rolled off the side, but hooked his fingers in my window grate. He held on too long. I knew he was going to break off fingers into the cab right next to me. Finally, his hand let go without leaving any digits behind. He didn’t keep his feet as he bounced and skidded on the mostly north road behind us well ahead of the other zombie just emerging from the woods at the spot where our decision got made for us.

As he rose up, I saw a road rash on his dead belly that was the worst scarring I had ever seen up until the point we got to the farmhouse.

***

Most of the wrecks we passed had turned into planters with grass growing up along the sides and various trees and bushes sprouting out of empty windows from accumulated dirt and leaves piled inside. I wondered if zombies were still buried inside pinned down in the roots. I wondered if plants would even grow with zombies as their poisonous fertilizer.

We made it about fifteen miles over the road that was sick with potholes, fissures, and a couple, near total washouts before we started looking for a place to stop. We had gone three more miles including two detours into the trees around two debris piles before we found something promising.

We pulled several yards off the road over a neglected trail. We parked in the cover behind a series of cars. There were pieces of nylon peeking through the dirt where tents had been washed flat over the years and nearly buried. Several cars were parked in a sporadic circle. They were mostly rusted through hulks, but they hadn’t taken seed like the other abandoned vehicles we had passed under the trees. There were stones still fashioned into a fire pit in the middle. The ancient, forgotten camp was on high ground that gave several yards worth of sightline in every direction.

“Don’t unpack everything,” Chef said as he turned off the engine. “We’ll sleep inside the truck tonight. Just take out the implements we really need. It looks like we’re doing a very late lunch or an early dinner.”

“Is there a challenge tonight, Chef?” Doc asked as he stepped out of the truck.

Chef laughed. “Yes, finish dinner and put out the fire before it gets dark and we get spotted.”

I went with Doc to the back of the truck to unload the stakes and the flat, camping grill wrapped in a blanket.

“Hold up a moment, Doc,” Short Order said. “I have a challenge, if you guys are up for it.”

Doc tapped me on the shoulder to stop me and leaned against the open door waiting. Chef turned from looking over the cars with binoculars back toward Short Order. He set the rifle he was holding down on the hood of the truck as he spoke.

Chef said, “I don’t know, Shaw. I really just want to get us fed and back inside as quickly as possible.”

Doc said, “Come on now, Head Chef David Sharp, that doesn’t sound like your old self at all. You’ve been eating from cans for too long. Let’s hear him out and then we can dash his dreams.”

Chef said, “Okay, Short, challenge us.”

Short Order explained, “I did a lot of cooking in the open on the way across the state. I wasn’t carrying cooking or camping gear obviously. I found ways to cook on metal hub caps and even in bird feeders a couple times.”

“I’m regretting talking Chef into listening, Short,” Doc said.

Short kept talking. “The Mongols used to cook in their shields while they were on the march. They would use whatever meat they killed and cook it up right there. That led to the curved bowls in Mongolian buffet style we use today … well, used before the zombies started eating us. Anyway, I found that the metal off an old car door or hood would heat up nicely and you could cook anything in there mixing up the flavors. If you guys are up for it, I bet we could find something suitable in these old cars. I also bet I can find some frogs like I used to cook on the road.”

“The Kermit the Hun challenge?” Doc looked at Chef.

Chef took a deep breath. “I’m game. I’ve had frog a few times since the dead rose and I know I can cook it better than you two, so let’s play.”

“The jackass said yes,” Doc slapped the truck before he closed the door.

Chef said, “One of us should top off the tank while the other two find us a proper cooking shield.”

I helped Chef fill the tank using a siphon hose through the window grating. It was a tricky process when we couldn’t afford to spill any. We managed somehow.

Doc took his pole with him and Short Order carried one of the machetes. Doc carried a bag of tools in the other hand.

Short set the machete down and began checking through his pockets while we were refueling. He pulled out a leather pouch and slid out a hand rolled cigarette. He took out a match from the tin case and struck it on top of the car.

“Where did you find smokes?” Doc asked.

“They were on the shelf in the garage with the matches. I found them when we first started packing,” Short Order explained as he took a long drag and picked up the machete again.

“Are they Mary Jane specials?” Doc asked.

“No,” Short said, “Just tobacco. Someone in the garage knew someone that was growing and curing it outside somewhere, I guess.”

“How can you smoke and still expect to have a pallet for cooking?” Chef called after him.

It made me nervous that they were yelling so much outside after everything we had seen today.

Short called back, “I’ve given up salmon, indoor plumbing, refrigeration, and central heat … again.  I’m going to give myself this.”

“Happy birthday, me, hope you like cancer,” Doc said.

“I thought you smelled like tobacco,” Chef called again. “I thought you hadn’t bathed or I was going crazy.”

“Well, I bathed, so that just leaves you being crazy,” Short called as he and Doc moved on looking at the cars.

They checked several doors as they looked in on deteriorated seats, broken glass, and disintegrating clothing. Engines had fallen through the bottom of a couple vehicles, but Short shook his head after looking at the rusted hoods. Doc reached in one car and pulled out plastic box with dials on it.

He said, “What do you think this used to be, Short? A weather radio maybe? Hello out there. It looks like it is crappy with a strong chance of being eaten by your long dead relatives.”

Doc set it on top of the roof of the ruined, muscle car.

Short said, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how those worked, Doc.”

Doc said, “Would be better if it was.”

Short stopped at the next Ford. The trunk was wedged slightly open and askew from the bent fenders over the flat and rotten tires. Piss on Free Soil was painted on the side in black. The Ford’s trunk was gritty on top, but wasn’t rusted.  He tapped it with his knuckle and nodded.

He snuffed his cigarette out on the roof of the Ford and then stamped it in the grass a couple times under his foot.

They went after the exposed bolts on the bent hinges behind the Ford’s intact back window. At first it looked like it was hopeless. They used a file to grind down the corrosion around the edges and then managed to get them loose. One snapped into three pieces and fell into the trunk. That was fine since they didn’t plan to put it back.

They pulled twice and got it loose from the body of the car. As they lifted it off the open trunk space, two heads lashed out and struck at their hands. The teeth missed them by inches and they dropped the trunk lid in fear. It hit the bumper and tore it off the car as it fell to the grass.

Doc picked up his aluminum shaft and tool bag screaming. Chef and I could see them and hear them. We came running. Chef had the rifle and I was carrying a pipe.

Short screamed too and grabbed up the machete. He hacked away at the trunk cutting through their necks and into the brittle lining and the deflated rubber of the spare tire. A few fell out on to the ground and Doc ran back stamping on their skulls. A couple slithered away under the other cars.

They were done by the time we got there.

“My God, how many were there?” Doc yelled dropping his bag and pole and rubbing his hands over his shirt even though he had no blood on them.

“There had to be twenty,” Short said staring into the trunk as he flipped the trunk lid over to look at the underside. “Yes, this will work perfectly.”

Doc wasn’t ready to move on to another subject. “Holy Moses, I wished it had been a trunk load of zombies instead.”

“Were those coral snakes?” Chef asked looking at the bodies.

There were multi-colored rings down their skin.

Short answered, “No, these are king snakes or milk snakes. I don’t know my snakes very well.  Red doesn’t touch yellow. Scarlet snakes?”

Chef said, “I didn’t know they would make a pit like that in a car.”

“Neither did I. I thought they ate each other in groups actually,” Short said as he piled the snake bodies on the overturned lid.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Chef said.

“What are you doing?” Doc asked.

Short stood up and looked at us. “Looks like our Kermit challenge just became … I don’t know any famous snake names. The Devil, I guess.”

“Really?” Chef asked. “We are cooking snake on a Ford trunk lid?”

Doc ran his hands back through his hair.

Doc said, “I’ve had snake before, Chef. I don’t think it’s been this fresh, but it’s good if you can cook it where it’s not rubbery. I would have been fine with a trunk full of frogs.”

It turns out Chef didn’t pack light either. He had loaded down the cargo area with bottles, spices, utensils, and other ingredients.

I went with Doc into the woods to gather wood. We didn’t go far and he kept looking around the ground as he picked up pieces. I think he was more concerned with snakes than zombies.

The trunk heated well once we gathered wood and got a fire going. The chunks and strips of snake sizzled in the oil and basted in the sauces and spices that each cook added.  It was different.

Doc mumbled, “Protect me, Lord, from the false and fallen. Keep me safe from the serpent’s touch. Bring me safe to Abraham’s bosom. Let my dish taste better than theirs on the other shore.”

I wasn’t familiar with the song, but I was pretty sure that’s not how it was originally written.

We didn’t cook all of them. What they did cook was good. I tried cooking some too, but mine just tasted like soy sauce. The cooks were polite about it. Chef suggested that I add it more slowly and taste as I cook. Mine was rubbery.

Short tried something with mint that wasn’t bad. Doc and Chef both went tangy. I couldn’t tell the difference and they got mildly irritated when Short and I wouldn’t pick a winner.

We cleaned up the gear and kicked dirt into the fire under the hot trunk lid even though it was getting colder as the sun set.

Short stepped away from the group and sat on the trunk of a rusted out Corvette and enjoyed one last cigarette as he stared at the sunset.

Doc turned his back on the colorful sky as he fussed over repacking gear in the cargo section.

Chef used the last light of the sun to get out the small bag he had packed in the back. He took out a flip open, straight razor and a leather strap. He looped belt over a broken side mirror on one of the cars. He grazed the razor up and down the strap several times with the same fervor and skill he used with sharpening the kitchen knives.

He tested the edge with his fingertip, but didn’t draw blood. He then took out a mirror that he propped up in a door jam. He dry shaved his face and neck. I watched nervously, but he finished and put everything away without a nick.

His face almost shined in the twilight and he looked like his old self again. As he put his bag away, Doc was unrolling his sleeping bag by the open truck door.

“Do you think they’ll get in the truck?” Doc asked, “I heard snakes are attracted to body heat. They could crawl through the window grills.”

Short Order asked, “What do you guys make of this?”

He was kneeling down next to the outside fender of the Corvette that was facing away from us.

Chef walked over and cursed.

Doc walked over next.

He said, “Snakes, and then this … we should go somewhere else.”

Chef said, “It’s too late. If we leave now, we’ll be driving in the dark and we don’t want that. I’m sure they are long gone even if it is them.”

I came around where they were standing. In black paint across the side of the car was written, Shy is a lie. Believe and you die!

We stayed for the night anyway.

We were cramped in the floor of the truck around each other and the seat bases, but we managed to all four get into sleeping bags without killing each other.

***

I woke up in the darkness after getting kicked in the head. I tried to cover up, but then I got stepped on and kicked again. There was yelling and the ground was shaking.  I didn’t know where I was.

“Get it started while we still can,” Doc yelled.

The truck pitched up and dropped again on the noisy shocks. Gear in the back clanked and rattled with the impact. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and bumped my head on the underside of a jump seat. The truck tilted again and I fell against the door. I tried to grab hold of something and nearly pulled the handle to open the door by accident. The plastic popped out behind me and I heard the groans from their throats and the thrum of their fingers pulling on the metal grating. I let go of the door handle.

“I need light,” Chef grumbled from the front.

“That might be bad,” Doc said.

My eyes were adjusting and I didn’t like what I saw all around us.

“Not as bad as it will be, if I don’t get this damn thing started,” Chef growled over the growls all around us.

“I got it,” Short said.

A flashlight blazed on in front and I was blinded. The roars rose up around us and the truck rocked harder as the engine roared into life. I found my seat and belted myself into the seat harness. Doc had turned his swivel seat and was holding on to the fuel canisters with both hands.

“We need to go before they flip us,” Doc yelled.

As if he gave them the idea, the truck tilted to the side and kept going. I heard gear sliding over to my side in the cargo section. Chef pressed the accelerator, but the wheels just spun in the air and against the ground without moving the truck. I had seen this happen before from the outside more than once. We were going to be upside down and trapped at any moment.