LZR-1143: Redemption (15 page)

TWENTY-THREE

Around us, the rain beat the ground into submission, dirt turning to mud, and wind forcing the rain sideways. It clattered against the glass of the shop window, as Kate finished drying the boy off with a hand towel she had found in the back. Note cards and books lay scattered on the floor of the small store, and rows of snow globes and ceramic figurines sat untouched by the tribulations of the end of days.

I guess people didn’t need knick-knacks and pieces of sentimental clutter when they were worried about flesh-eating zombies.

The small fridge by the door, however, was empty of the bottles of water and soda it had once offered.

“Where are they?” she asked again, holding the boy by his arms as I stared out the front window.

We had gotten in through the back door, which I had unceremoniously kicked in. Other than the two lone zeds, we hadn’t seen any other activity here. It made sense, since the herds we had seen must have gathered the wayward creatures together like iron filings to a magnet in this area to be able to have put together such massive numbers in Boise.

Their herding instincts were becoming stronger. Which meant they were becoming more dangerous.

“Are they close?” she said, watching his features. I glanced back and saw him nod.

“Where?” A single word, met with a single gesture.

He pointed again, in the direction he had pointed before. But now, with a final destination.

The bar across the street.

Gina’s Pub.

Of course.

I walked to the back and took a small metal chair from the office near the back door. I jammed it against the door, wedging it shut from the inside. Then, as an additional precaution, I pulled a display case from the back of the store that had been overturned into the back hallway, creating another obstruction. Walking to the front, I scanned the street.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

He just pointed again.

The rain had turned the glass into a watercolor of absurd light and shadows, and I could see the faded sign across the line of parked cars. A streetlight swayed on the cable to our right, where the intersection was a jumble of vehicles, and a paper cup shot across my field of vision, propelled by the wind.

“Okay then,” I said. My shotgun swung forward, and I grabbed the door.

Kate moved to follow.

“No,” I said, holding my hand out.

“Like hell,” she said heatedly, but then stopped, turning to the boy.

“You know we can’t leave him,” I said softly, watching him curl up behind the counter, staring at the cash register as if it were a television screen, eyes vacant.

“But how do you know what’s over there? You can’t go alone. It could be—”

“It could be an army of mutant turtles or a cloud of killer bees. Shit, it could be a lot of things. This world has a fuck-ton of stuff in it now that no one should have to see, or to live through. There is nothing certain any more, and very little is right. But one thing I know is certain and right, is that this kid needs someone to watch him. Besides,” I said, turning to the door and letting the sound of the rain and wind howl into the shop.

“I’m a fucking superhero.”

I didn’t wait for her answer. I knew it would be vulgar.

She had such a mouth on her.

The rain was so heavy and thick that I removed my sunglasses, blinking with the still too-bright light in my eyes, but able to see better without the smears of water on the lenses.

Seven large, black motorcycles of different models and makes were parked haphazardly in front of the wooden porch of the bar, with an old saloon style awning hanging over several dirty, opaque windows—the type that probably let very little light in, and very little visibility looking out. I moved between the cars and accumulated debris on the road at an angle, so as not to be seen from the windows in the event that someone was smart enough to post a watch.

I had a bad feeling about the type of folks that were inside this building, but it also meant that I had very little confidence in their planning abilities.

Tacking around to the edge of the building, I circled to the back door, pulling gently on the metal handle in the back alley, and watching as two zeds moved in tandem across the opposite end of the alleyway. A third followed closely behind. None of them saw my furtive movements in the pouring rain. The handle was locked, and I discarded the idea of shooting it open, knowing that it was the fastest way to get into a firefight that I might lose.

I had one major advantage, and that was in small places with no guns.

I’d have to take a different approach.

Circling around to the front, I hopped over the small fence that surrounded the porch, and cringed when my boots hit the wood with a loud thump. I stayed crouched for thirty seconds in the same position, waiting for the large double doors to come slamming open with a burst of automatic weapons fire. Water dripped into the neck of my jacket, finding its way to my back, and trickling down my spine. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, and I clenched my eyes shut, listening for movement.

Nothing.

Inside, I could hear talking and laughing. Drinking was involved, and I heard the clinking of bottles or glasses. I also heard someone whimper, then moan.

The voices inside were a mixture. Some sounded coarse and uneducated. Others, more refined.

“And what’s it to you, Drake? You got somethin’ you want to say to me?” The loudest voice inside also sounded the meanest. And the drunkest.

“I’m just saying that this isn’t necessary. I think she’s dying, and you don’t need to keep this up. Just let her go. She’ll probably die outside anyway. What’s the point in keeping her tied up?”

A new peal of laughter greeted the second man—Drake’s—question.

“You growing balls,
now
, lawyer-man?” The loud voice carried on in an amused voice.

“I’m just trying to—”

“Because I’d like to remind you that you had a piece of that too. You didn’t seem all broken up about it yesterday.”

“Jesus, Rod, you had a gun to my head. That’s not exactly me making a choice—”

A chair scraped against the wooden floor loudly as someone moved quickly. Drake shouted briefly, and then the sounds of a scuffle. The man named Rod was angry, and he spoke as if he were closer to Drake. He was probably on top of the man.

“Are you unhappy with my leadership? Because if you are,” his voice dropped nearly to a whisper, and even my enhanced hearing had trouble picking it up. “I can arrange it so you don’t have to worry about it no more. Just say the word.”

Across the room, a new voice, a woman, chimed in.

“That’s not what he meant, right Drake?”

“Nobody asked you, honey,” another man’s voice almost purred, and the woman shouted once as a smaller altercation broke out, ending in a loud curse from the man and Rod’s voice booming over the ruckus.

“Stop! Now! I will deal with our lawyer friend and his girl—”

“I’m not his girl, I’m his secretary, and you can’t—”

“I don’t think you understand,
secretary
. I can do whatever I want. It’s what I was doing when I found you two, huddled in a car, trapped by ten of these shambling assholes. You would have been breakfast for those things if not for me doing whatever I want. I saved your ass. It’s why you’re with me now, ain’t it? Because I have the power to protect you? Because we are survivors? God damn right, that’s why,” he finished, not waiting for a reply.

“Rod, I’m not saying we’re not grateful, it’s just… Jesus Christ, man, you were selling insurance when this thing—”

The sound of bone meeting flesh interrupted Drake, and a clutter of furniture hitting the floor.

“The fuck that matter to you for? I told you never mention that shit, Drake. Now you’ve gone and done it. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You couldn’t just shut the fuck up?”

The responding voice was muffled, and awkward, as if trying to respond through a shattered mouth. But Rod understood him well enough.

“Fuck me? Oh no, I think fuck
you
, my friend.”

I had heard enough.

It was time to say hello.

I ducked underneath the large window, and reached the door. I removed the Pathfinder from my arm, and leaned it carefully against the wall outside the door. I popped the lever on the compartment that held the spring-loaded sidearm in the reinforced cargo pocket on my right thigh, and placed the pistol on the other side of the doorway.

Then, I grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it open softly.

Eight people turned to look at me and six hands went to their belts in an uncoordinated response to my movement. My hands went up slowly, watching each man for the smallest response that would indicate a trigger pull.

“I’m unarmed,” I said loudly and calmly. “Just saw your bikes out front and thought I’d join you and get out of the rain.”

My eyes scanned the room quickly, and my heart began to race, fury pounding against the inside of my chest. A young woman was tied to a pool table in the back corner, spread-eagled on the green felt. Her clothing was piled on a wooden bar table, and her face was dirty, and streaked with tears.

An older man with large sideburns and a leather vest over wrinkled and sun damaged skin straightened from where he held a pistol to the head of a small, squirrely looking man in a filthy sweatshirt and jeans with a shattered mouth. That must be Drake.

A scared woman in her twenties hovered near the bar, where a small man held her by the long, dirty hair.

“You may have walked into the wrong bar,” he said, smiling slightly, confident in his position among friends despite the altercation I had interrupted.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I said innocuously, inching forward as if seeking to join a conversation; as if I didn’t appreciate who exactly these bastards were.

“Check him,” the man said, and two others lowered their half-raised pistols and moved toward me. Their hands were rough over my jacket and pants, pulling the machete from its sheath and my knife from my boot.

“Unarmed, huh?” he said, spitting once and effortlessly backhanding Drake as he rose to his feet, sending the man to the floor, unconscious. He passed the woman tied to the table, running his calloused hand demonstratively along her stomach, eyes narrowing in malice.

“You fixin’ to try something?”

I shook my head quickly, trying to act cowed and meek as I watched the others lower their pistols slowly.

They weren’t worried about me, now.

Good.

“Cal, he’s got some sort of fancy gear on. Heavy plates and shit—like it’s some high tech biker gear or something.” A small man in a black leather jacket covered in patches and a long handlebar mustache nervously chewed on a toothpick, his pistol back in his belt.

The other men not involved in the fight—two large white men, one bald and one with a shock of blond hair atop a brutally ugly face—lounged behind the bar, bottles of beer held negligently in their hands. A hispanic woman, her large bust held in check by a woefully inadequate halter top underneath a tight jacket, chuckled as she caressed the arm of the black man next to her. Of medium build, and looking slightly more intelligent than the rest, he was the only one left with a gun trained on me—a simple Glock held in his right hand. He wore a tee shirt that said simply “Your Mom.”

“That so? Probably stole it from a dead biker, didn’t you?” The ringleader was moving forward slowly, at a pace that was probably intended to be menacing.

“No, not at all. I took it from a sporting goods store in Spokane.” I edged backward a little, trying to amplify my fearful image, and make them less wary.

“I’m not sure you really want to be a member of this party,” the cruel-looking man said, weaving between the thick wooden flattop tables, and reaching the aisle in which I stood, facing the bar with the mirrored backdrop. I meaningfully flicked my eyes to the woman, whose traumatized eyes found my own.

Drake still lay prone on the ground, and his companion still cowered before the small man with the handlebar mustache.

“Could be, we could add you to the guest list,” he waved toward the woman on the table. “Would you like that, faggot? How ‘bout one of my men takes you to town in your fancy get-up? That make you think about walking into someone else’s party unannounced?”

This gang laughed, and one of the large men behind the counter grunted apishly, “I’d take a shot with this one.”

I desperately fought to hold my anger in check, as my cheeks flushed with fury. My hands began to tremble above my head, and I hoped they interpreted it as fear.

“See? Now my friends want to get acquainted. Maybe you can just sit down and have a drink.”

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just leave.” I turned to the door, and the leader spoke.

“What do you think boys? Should we let him leave? Or should we show him how to carve?” he said, gesturing to the bladed weapons on the bar. The rest of his gang laughed

“Oh, I think we’ll let you leave,” he said, as I reached my hand for the door. “But maybe not just yet.”

His voice went down an octave.

“Get your hand off the door.”

“Get out of here, mister!” Drake’s friend shouted bravely, then crumpled to the floor as the small man clubbed her brutally to the ground with the butt his pistol.

Good. Last obstacle removed. Clear sight lines.

Excellent.

“You know what?” I said, facing the exit and allowing my voice to betray the anger that was forcing the blood through my veins.

My hand was on the edge of the door that stood open, the rain and thunder outside lending the darkened space an extra air of ghoulish dystopia.

“What’s that?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

I pushed the door shut, and threw the deadbolt, locking it tight and bending the small metal latch so it wouldn’t open.

“Maybe,” I said as I turned, smiling once and lowering my hands. “Maybe I do want to stick around.”

His smile faltered as he saw the hate in my eyes, and the black man’s eyes narrowed slightly. His gun fired once, and I clenched my body, feeling the impact of the bullet in the armored torso as the jacket absorbed the shot.