Mountain Man - 01 (11 page)

A heavy blow came to the door, forcing Scott to open his eyes. Another crash, and he saw the door bulge inward just a fraction. Another strike, spiking his fear to new heights.

Scott moaned. He felt the hard rim of the open barrel pressing into the softness under his chin. He swallowed. Another slam against the door was followed by that sobering hiss he knew so well, but
fuck
if he couldn’t pull the trigger. How much strength did a person have to have to do that one little simple movement? One quick squeeze and he would be off, and that would be that. He eyed the turning door handle, a curved lever and not the traditional knob, and Scott knew he hadn’t locked it. The lever turned down, then snapped back up, as if the thing on the other side had lost its grip. That was Scott’s chance, and he swore he would pull the trigger
now,
and yet goddammit, he couldn’t, even as the door handle went down and opened with a click loud enough for him to defecate himself if he had a full load in the pipes. The door swung open, and Scott moaned again and shook his head as a zombie that had to be four hundred pounds shambled into the doorway and fixed him with empty eye sockets filled with balls of worms.

The thing hissed, and Scott heard himself
whimper
of all things, but he could
not
bring himself to pull the trigger. He let out his breath in a burst of snot and tears and, red-eyed, stared at the fat dead man taking that one uncertain step toward him, followed by another. It crossed the black tile in slow shuffles that left grease stains on the clean surface. The smell from the thing made him gag, a putrid stench of meat that had been in the sun for far too long. A fleshy gray hand came up, and Scott saw that there was a hole the size of a golf ball in the palm, and the bones were coated black. That one hand reached for him. The face of the undead had half of its cheek chewed away to expose a row of teeth, making it appear to be smirking at him.

Something in Scott locked in place at that grinning corpse, before a greater sense took over, and he tilted the shotgun forward and blew the zombie’s head from its shoulders. The blast flung its reeking bulk backward to land with a splash on the floor.

Scott got to his feet. He had very little time. Moving around the headless corpse, he hopped out of the bathroom, leaning hard against the walls and taking the shotgun with him even though the thing was empty. He held onto the railing as he hopped heavily down the stairs. Sounds of hissing came from the basement, but he ignored them. He rounded the corner, found the front entryway, and slammed off balance against the door. His back and ankle cried out in pain, and Scott grabbed for the knob, yanking the door open with a grunt. Sunlight blazed in. He hopped down the steps on momentum alone before collapsing on the yellow lawn. His shotgun flew from his hand. Hisses cut the air behind him, closer than he thought possible.

Then, he heard the engine. There on the road, a van drove down the street toward him, while the hissing grew louder.

Scott gasped and raised his hand.

That’s no fucking gimp!
The thought ripped through Gus’s mind, and he turned the wheel right at the figure lying on the yellow grass. He lined up the wheels of the beast at the last instant so that the vehicle went over the person and crashed into the three undead cocksuckers at the guy’s heels. The grill guard knocked them back ten feet, sending them to land in broken heaps.

Flipping his visor down, Gus swung open his door and jumped out. He ran over to the three deadheads just getting to their knees and caved in their skulls with his bat. He turned around and saw that the street was clear. It wouldn’t stay that way for long. He flipped the visor back up and went around to the side of the van. Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered under it and locked eyes with a very frightened-looking young man.

“You okay?” Gus asked.

“Yeah.” The guy smiled.

“C’mere.” Gus offered his hand, and the man took it. Gus pulled him out from under the van. “Get up and get in the van.”

The guy on the ground rolled onto his back and winced. “My ankle’s fucked up.”

Gus bent over and, grasping the guy’s arm, heaved the hurt man to his feet. Together, they struggled around the front of the van. Gus got the door open and pushed his soon-to-be passenger inside.

“My gun’s over there.” The man pointed. Gus turned and spotted a shotgun, a twelve gauge, just like his own. He scooped up the weapon and hurried back to the van. As expected, zombies emerged from between houses and shambled toward them. Gus didn’t give them another moment’s thought. He had gotten what he came for. He climbed aboard, tossed the extra shotgun in the back, buckled in, and shoved the beast into drive . The van smashed into three approaching corpses as it barrelled away from the house and into the street. He paused only for the moment it took to change gears, then they sped off toward the main drag.

“Buckled in?” Gus asked, leaning over the steering wheel.

A
snick
, then, “Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Scott.”

“I’m Gus.” He glanced over once, then twice. The dude was staring at him. “What’re you looking at?”

The other man squinted in discomfort for a moment. “Nothing.”

Gus frowned before turning his attention back to the road.

The van turned onto the main street and began the drive home. Gus eased off the gas a little and glanced over at Scott—bulky and tall, thinning blond hair with a shitload of stubble, maybe a week’s worth. The guy had a fat face, which puzzled Gus.

“What’s up with the foot?”

“Fell down some stairs.”

“In that house?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Yeah.” Scott’s face became set then, and Gus didn’t have to ask any other questions on the matter.

“Where we going?” Scott asked after a bit.

“Back to my place.” Gus looked out the side window. “You can’t do much like you are. You’re lucky. I thought you were one of them.”

“Yeah.”

Hearing the weariness in the man’s voice, Gus looked over at and saw Scott press his head against the headrest. Scott’s eyes opened and closed slowly, as if his system was being hit by a heavy sedative.

“You relax,” Gus said over the growl of the engine. “It’s a twenty minute drive back to the house. Okay?”

Scott’s head had already slumped forward by the time Gus had finished speaking. Gus didn’t mind. The man was buckled in. Just as long as he didn’t snore.

“Don’t worry,” Gus added, and focused on the road.

*

Scott woke up in a bed, lying on his stomach with his cheek mashed into a pillow. He tried to roll over, but he felt pain when he pulled to his left. He realized then that he was stripped to the waist and bandaged. He lay underneath a thick comforter. He eyed the room, and from what he could see, the place was nice. A glass of water sat on a night table. He sat up, wincing at the tug in his ankle. He pulled back the blanket and gazed down to see that his ankle was heavily bandaged. Not bad, he thought, and inspected the cloth wraps looped around his chest. He took a deep breath, and it hurt, but considering where he was, he could bear it.

“Hey!” He reached for the glass of water and drank it all.

The door opened, and Gus walked in. Light gleamed off his bald head. “What?”

Scott eyed Gus uncertainly. “Where are we?”

“At my house. Interested in knowing how long you slept?”

“How long?”

“Two days. I got your boots off and bandaged up your foot there, and your bullet holes. I disinfected them with some peroxide. Best I could do with what I got.”

Scott placed the glass back on the table. “Thanks. Where’d the water come from?”

“Got a well.”

“A well?”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ well.” Gus frowned. “Why’s that a shock?”

“How do you…?” Scott shrugged.

“Get the water up?”

“Yeah.”

“Got an electric pump, too.” Gus leaned against the door frame. “I’m pretty much self-contained here.”

“Jesus, I’ll say.”

“It ain’t perfect, by any means. Solar panels on the roof take in energy and save it in a battery or some such bunk. I don’t understand it really, and I expect the whole damn works of it will die on me this coming winter. But it’s working now, and it operates the pump that draws up water from the well. Gotta cistern on the mountainside, too. Collects rainwater, or so I think.”

“Oh.” Scott arched his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yeah, but if you need to use the can, you use that bucket.” Gus indicated a five gallon plastic bucket near the bed, a roll of toilet paper beside it. “You fill that, give a holler, and I’ll empty it. We don’t use the toilets in the house; that’s rule one. There’s an outhouse out front. But I figure by the time you can use that, you’ll be ready to leave anyway.”

Scott nodded. He supposed he would.

“Regardless, you’re here now. If you need anything, give a shout. I got books, but I’m not moving the TV up here.”

“You have a TV?”

“Bet your ass I have a TV. Only one of a few things you can do up here. Flat-screen bastard as wide as your ass. Home entertainment system, too. ”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gus said. “Got a full digital library of just about anything you want to see. Sports, old TV sitcoms, horror movies, comedies, action, you name it. Even got a bunch of foreign flicks down there.”

“How many people are here?” Scott asked.

Gus picked something off his black sweatshirt. “Just you and me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. Only you out there?” Gus asked.

“Just me now,” Scott said and rubbed at his growing beard.

“Hmm.” Gus looked down at the floor for a moment. “Were you the guy who shot my van?”

“Huh?”

Gus looked at him. “Were you the guy who shot my van?”

Scott thought about it. “Were you driving around that same area a couple of days ago?”

“Yep. I was. House picking.”

“Then I probably shot at you.”

Gus nodded. “You got my attention.”

Scott grimaced. “Thought you were someone else, man.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“Didn’t see his face. He called himself Tenner. He… he killed the two people with me.”

“He killed two people?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. I was at the back door when it happened. All I heard was them talking, and then I got punched in the back. I came to in a pool of my own blood, man. I had this war pick-hammer thingy I took from a museum slung over my back. The guy shot me, and the bullet went off the metal bar of the thing.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Yeah. The two folks I was with, he got them into the basement. Taped them up with duct tape and cut them. Sick fuck…”

“And he left you?”

“I figure he thought I was dead. When I woke up… the house was empty. And I heard your van out there. I spent two nights in that house’s upstairs bathroom with zombies stomping around downstairs. No water. Nothing. Then one of them caught a whiff of me or finally decided to check out the upstairs, and that was that. The game was on. I… I was this close to getting it.” He held up his hand with two fingers pinched almost together. “I even kept the one shell in my gun to blow off my own head.”

Gus listened with a pensive expression.

“But when the thing came into the bathroom…” Scott shook his head. “I couldn’t pull the trigger. I couldn’t. That bastard was maybe two or three steps away from me when I shot him. After that, I got the hell out of there. I knew there were others. If you hadn’t come by… well, anyway, thanks, man.”

The silence grew, and Gus finally broke it by straightening up and leaving his spot in the doorway. Scott remained in bed, the images swirling through his head of just how close he had come to dying, to being eaten by something dead but still running around. He collapsed back on the mattress and watched his hands shake until he made fists. He hadn’t had any nightmares, but he figured they would be coming, and they’d be dingers when they did.

Gus returned with two bottles. Pursing his lips, he walked over and held out both of them. One was a bottle of Crown Royal whiskey, the other, Captain Morgan dark rum.

Scott looked up at his host in puzzlement.

“Take one,” Gus offered.

“What?”

“You drink, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, a little…”

“Then, take one. It’ll help. Sure as hell can’t hurt.”

Hands still shaking, Scott hesitantly took the whiskey.

“Good choice,” Gus said, and removed the cap from the bottle of rum. He gestured for Scott to do the same.

Gus waited until the man had the whiskey opened, then he dipped his head in a somber fashion and held out the bottle. “Cheers.”

Blinking, Scott clinked the whiskey bottle off the rum one. “Cheers.” He watched as Gus took a heavy sip from his bottle, drinking it straight down. He regarded his own bottle, saw the contents tremble somewhat, and took a drink.