No Flesh Shall Be Spared (24 page)

 "Thank you, Jenny," Wolf said and smiled at her in gratitude.

Cleese half-stood and thanked her with a reflexive slight bow. The girl looked at him and smiled. Then, as quickly as she’d come she disappeared back into the crowd.

Cleese grinned as he sat and looked at the steaming cup. Picking up the Styrofoam cylinder, his hands were instantly warmed by the hot smoky fluid within. The first sip sent cascades of warm flavor down his throat. Cleese kept the cup at his lips and blew across the rim. Breathing in the rich aroma, he cast his gaze into the surrounding crowd. His eyes were met by a small sea of normal—albeit frightened—faces. The interesting thing was not one of them stood out as exceptional. These were not soldiers, not by any stretch of the imagination. What he saw was the run-of-the-mill faces of grocers, students, delivery drivers, businessmen, and cashiers; all of them just regular people who’d been thrust into a nightmare far beyond their wildest reckoning. Hot on the heels of that thought came the realization that unless things radically changed in the world,the vast majority of them would be dead inside of a month.

"We’ve managed to make a safe place for ourselves up here," Wolf continued, "but it’s still pretty touch and go. We have supplies. We have food and ammunition. But we know all too well that one—just one—of those things getting inside the perimeter would mean the death of every one of us."

As Cleese drank his coffee and pondered all that he’d been told, a pot-bellied man stepped out of the crowd and sat down uninvited next to Wolf. The guy gave off a bitter vibe due mostly to the perpetual look of disgust on his face; the expression of someone who’d just stepped on a slug in his bare feet. From his build, Cleese could tell the guy had some muscle on him back in the day; probably from playing high school ball. These days though, he was just another fat guy who was way past his prime, laboring under the misconception that he was a whole lot harder than he really was.

"Enough of this shit, Bob," the guy interrupted. The man tried to look Cleese dead in the eye and push his dominance. Cleese stared back unimpressed. In his day, he had given hundreds of fat slobs like this the bum’s rush; tossing them onto their asses out of the back doors of more bars than he could count. In the end, it wasn’t Cleese who looked away.

"Cleese," Wolf said as a way of introducing this pudgy asshole, "this is Fred Bartlett. He’s been helping out with scheduling the security watch around the camp and leading some of the recon runs into town."

"Charmed," Cleese said to Bartlett and, as if in dismissal, returned his gaze to Wolf.

Bartlett returned his gaze to Cleese for a moment and his sneer intensified. He snorted in what passed for disgust and then went back to his obviously prepared bit of bravado.

"So, tell me… Cleese was it?" he said with an exaggerated smirk. "How is it that you—all alone—made it out of the city in one piece? Everyone we’ve run into out there has been either severely injured or infected. Yet, here you are… neither one of those things."

"What can I say, Fred?" Cleese responded wryly. "I’m a talented motherfucker and a mean, mean man."

Bartlett turned and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly to the obvious appreciation of his collected short bus of sycophants off to the side. There was the bespectacled bald guy who looked like a pharmacist, the Polack with the big nose and clown hat of hair on his head, the ex-corporate suck-up who was now playing at survivalist tough guy, and the dark complexioned dude with the even darker circles under his eyes. This confederacy of dunces watched over Bartlett like he was their own personal Jesus.

Something told Cleese that these dopes would soon become a major sore in his ass. He chalked it up as little more than a hunch, but if experience had taught him anything, it was that his hunches were rarely wrong.

"Well, I don’t know about any of that, but…" Bartlett said, looking back incredulously, "I’m of the opinion that you’re either one of the luckiest men on the face of the earth… or, and this is much more likely, that your story is full of more holes than a block of Swiss cheese."

"Well, shit, Fro-derick… that just plain ain’t nice," Cleese responded with a slow smile. "You wound me."

As this exchange was transpiring, Wolf’s gaze drifted over the assembled crowd, judging their mood. He quickly realized that this avenue of bickering and macho posturing was proving to be a fruitless one and would, in the end, be antithetical to them continuing to work together as a team.

"Well, whatever…" Wolf interrupted. "You know as well as I do, Fred, we all have our stories and maybe Cleese will share his one day. Right now though, we still have a schedule to keep and there’s enough of the day left that we can do that run into the ’burbs and recon that strip mall we saw last time out. I’m convinced that pharmacy has some shit we can use. Agreed?"

Bartlett cocked a sideways grin and nodded. He figured that whatever Cleese’s story turned out to be, they would get to the bottom of it soon enough. They’d all see him for what he was—a fraud—and they’d see that he’d been lying about where he’d come from and what he’d done. Awkwardly, he stood up and took a step away from the table.

"Cleese," Wolf continued, "you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you’d like, but we’ll need to find something for you to do, some way to contribute. No one rides for free around here and you look pretty able-bodied."

Cleese nodded. "I’m happy to help in any way I can."

Bartlett, who’d taken another step toward the crowd, stopped and looked back over his shoulder. A wide grin of smug self-satisfaction spread across his face. It was pretty obvious he’d done himself a bit of quick thinking.

"Hey, Wolf… How’z about we get Mr. Talented here started by having him come with us to check out that drug store?" Bartlett suggested. "We’ll get him a gun and I can show him the ropes."

Both Cleese and Wolf saw the idea for precisely what it was—an opportunity for Bartlett to establish a pecking order with the New Guy. It was a move that would by definition put Cleese in a subservient role.

Bartlett figured to use it as an opportunity to put Cleese in the shit and when he went pussy, he’d be exposed for what he was—a phony and a coward.

Cleese knew it would be fine and perhaps even shut this fuckin’ idiot up once and for all.

Wolf shook his head and was about to shoot the idea down, but Cleese quickly interrupted him.

"That sounds like a swell idea, Freddie Boy and maybe, while we’re out there, we can get us some matching tee shirts. You know… his and hers."

Wolf looked at Cleese and thought that there just might be more to the guy than what met the eye. Sure, he had the look of someone who had been in some scrapes, but his relaxed manner said there weren’t a lot of situations he felt he couldn’t handle. If nothing else, a couple of things would become apparent. First, they’d get a chance to see how well Cleese handled himself under pressure. Second, Cleese just might take Bartlett down a few notches. It sounded like a win-win to Wolf.

Wolf looked at Cleese and gave him an appraising stare.

"Listen, friend…" he said, "right now, the Asshole-to-Good Guy ratio is at an all-time low around here. I’d like to keep it that way. Now, I don’t know you from Adam, but you strike me as someone who can handle himself and may just come in handy."

Wolf stroked his beard and stared more intently.

"I’m going to put a modicum of trust in you in the hopes that you don’t fuck up and make me regret it. Sound fair?"

Cleese shook Wolf’s hand and said, "Fair enough."

Wolf nodded to him and then looked over at Bartlett.

"Go get your team ready, Fred. I’ll get Cleese a gun and have him ready in twenty."

~ * ~

Through the binoculars, the drug store they’d come to recon sat like a monolith at the far end of the lifeless parking lot. As he sat in the passenger’s seat of a midsized Self-Haul truck, Cleese lowered the eyepiece and looked over at Bartlett. Seeing the human facial equivalent of a dial tone, he shook his head in disgust and raised the glasses back up to his eyes to get a more comprehensive look at what they were up against.

Past the trees and down the hill, the pale cement and red brick of the store’s geometrically designed façade gave the building a cold, sanitized appearance. A large blue and white sign which read "Accinelli’s Drugs" hung from the flat face of the building, its vivid color a bright and contrasting eyesore. Across the sweltering tarmac, two buildings were set at right angles, half-framing the parking lot around the pharmacy. Their retail spaces were a mixture of small specialty shops: a beauty shop, an Indian restaurant, a sandwich joint, and a mailing store. A few cars were sporadically parked about the lot, abandoned by their owners back when things went south. Some still had their doors open from when the occupants either abandoned their vehicles or were pulled from behind the wheel, but a few—the ones toward the back of the lot—were shut tight. Near the front doors of Accinelli’s, a beat up old Honda 650 laid on its side like a horse left to die in a waterless black desert. A rainbow-hued mixture of oil, water and gasoline pooled beneath it.

Oddly, there were only a few of the dead roaming around and they were busy moving about the dumpsters at the back of the lot near the Indian restaurant. The rotting garbage drew them in as they continued their never-ending search for food.

Cleese lowered the binoculars and again looked at Bartlett.

"Looks ok to me. There are a few of them, but they’re pretty spread out or busy with that dumpster."

"Well, then… by all means, if you say we’re good, we’re good. Let’s go check it out," Bartlett responded and put the truck into gear. The guy acted pretty much like a dick when they first met and his mood had only gotten dourer as the day wore on. Not that Cleese gave much of a fuck. He’d pretty much written the guy off as a waste and was now only following his lead in order to secure a place in the compound. Against considerable odds, Wolf and his people had managed to pull a good thing together in the crush of it all. Cleese was willing to help out for as long as he could. Or as long as it suited him. Truth was… while things looked good now, he knew how quickly shit could go south and so he probably wouldn’t be sticking around for long. He’d help them out while he could, but he wasn’t exactly the type to go all in.

It just wasn’t how he was wired.

The truck pulled into the lot and drove around the perimeter in a wide arc, moving indirectly to the front of the drug store. Bartlett was obviously doing his best to keep them out of the sight of the few dead that were milling around. There was no sense in broadcasting their presence if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. When the truck came to a stop, the back door slowly rolled up so it made as little noise and possible and four figures jumped out. Bartlett and Cleese climbed out of the cab and the group was soon gathered at the back of the truck. All of them moved assuredly, holding their rifles tightly to their chests. Leaving the back door of the Self-Haul open, the men cautiously approached the building.

Coming back into the city from the safety of the compound was never fun nor was it ever easy. Inherently, the excursion was dangerous and, though everyone was called upon to do it, it was not an activity anyone relished.

Well, not anyone sane that is.

Cleese shouldered the heavy SIG 556 SWAT rifle Wolf gave him and directed his gaze at the spot directly in his line of fire. With every step, the weight of the 9mm in the shoulder holster he wore thumped against the soft flesh of his armpit. As he moved carefully across the sidewalk in front of the store, he took the opportunity to give Bartlett’s crew a closer look, summing them up. Cleese believed that knowing your cohorts—what their pros were, what their cons were, and being able to make a guess on which way they’d fall if a bad wind were to blow—was essential to remaining an upright and breathing member of the human race.

After giving them the once over, he was disheartened to arrive at the conclusion that these guys were all jolly-timers and were likely to get him—and themselves—killed in short order. They were total amateurs playing army. They’d been given a shot of courage after they’d come up victorious against a distinctly brain dead enemy. They were, at least to Cleese’s mind anyway, little more than walking liabilities.

As they’d geared up back at the campground, Bartlett had done the formal introductions and Cleese made it a point to take some mental shorthand on each of them. There was Hines (who, as it turned out, was a pharmacist, so he’d made a good call on that one). His beady eyes peeked out from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses which constantly slipped down his nose. His bald head reflected any offered light. Next up was Pugnowski. The guy was a goof with the big nose and a volcanic eruption of red hair coming out of the top of his head. Harrison had, once upon a time, been an executive or some shit. Now he was Rambo on a fuckin’ day pass. Finally, there was Del Castillo, a Spanish dude with a paunch and an annoying habit of calling everyone "Bro."

Looking them over, they reminded Cleese of a heavily armed Our Gang.

Overhead, the sun had already begun its descent from the noonday sky, but its warmth remained. The group carefully made its way to the electronic front doors, grateful to be out of the heat and in the shade. Cleese put his hand up to the glass to cut the glare and peered inside the dark of the store. Row after row of shelving extended into the blackness. Signs that hung from fine filament declaring "Sweet Summer Sale" twisted in the air like the bodies of hanged men.

"Harrison…" Bartlett said breaking the expectant silence, "blow the door."

"Wait! What?" Cleese asked, turning and staring dumbfounded. "Why?"

"We need to get inside."

"So…?"

"Power’s been cut. We’ll smash the glass and get in."

"Are you fucking retarded? You bust this glass and if there are any more of those things around than what we saw, they’ll hear you. You might as well stand up on the roof and ring a goddamn dinner bell."

Bartlett looked at Cleese and sniffed in contempt.