No Flesh Shall Be Spared (39 page)

The sale of gasoline was what drew most patrons off the Interstate and it had kept the little store alive when the rest of the town dried up and blew away years ago. It had been rough going there for a while, but between the few remaining locals and the steady stream of travelers seeking road supplies, they were still able to keep the lights on. Unfortunately, every day had become a dance with insolvency.

Out front, three gas pumps squatted like sleeping Indians. Small signs on springs which read "Get Your Gas On" swayed back and forth in the wind. A blue Ford Taurus sat next to the pumps; its driver’s side door left hanging open. A lone shoe laid abandoned just under the car’s chassis. At the far end of the row of parking stalls, a beat-up red Hyundai Accent was parked; its bright paint obscured by a thin layer of road dust and bird shit. At the other end, a Mercedes E-class coupe sat looking regal and out of place.

Inside the store, a dozen rows of fluorescent lights lit up the place and gave the stock an all-too-white appearance both day and night. Along the wall on the left, an open cold case sat humming, brimming with an array of sodas, juices and energy drinks. At the back were the Beer, Dairy and Bulk Soda refrigerators with several glass doors set in a rubber-gasketed metal framework. A thin layer of frost coated the metal racks inside.

To the right, the L- shaped checkout counter was set up, its surface littered with impulse items like candy, lighters, and snacks. To one side of the cash register was a Quik Pik Lottery machine. Behind the counter, small pints of alcohol lined up like soldiers on long shelving with racks of cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco and prophylactics to one side. Below that, a small rack of men’s magazines stood, their covers obscured by black cards which read "For Adults Only." At the far end of the counter, the coffee station and fountain drink machines were surrounded by racks of condiments, creamers, cup lids and assorted straws.

The leftover floor space in the center was monopolized by six aisles which offered everything from candy, cookies and chips to bags of charcoal briquettes and loaves of bread. For the most part, if it could conceivably be needed in a car or in the middle of the night, the Grab-Ur-Grub stocked it in abundance.

An air of "inconvenience" hung over the little convenience store now as several people nervously milled about the place. Most were either looking disgruntled or complaining loudly. Up until a short time ago, these people had been simple customers, who—for one reason or another—had stopped in for some necessity or to cure a craving for something sweet. Now, they were besieged—having become little more than hostages. As they paced up and down the aisles, the mood in the place was becoming more and more agitated and, in some cases, downright angry. They’d been stuck behind the store’s locked doors for about a half an hour now and, from the looks of things, no one was leaving any time soon.

Every now and then, one of them would cast a wary look outside and shake his head in disbelief. Each in his own way questioned what in hell was going on: some silently, some quite vocally. Oddly enough, "what in hell" was, given the present situation, exactly the correct terminology.

Betty Gillespie stood anxiously behind the counter in her green and red striped uniform and tried her best to settle everyone down. She was the afternoon clerk at the Grab-Ur-Grub and while she had precious little experience telling people what to do, she was working on being able to assert herself. Betty was a plain woman with a heavy smoker’s voice and a look about her that showed she’d had her share of hard knocks. Married young, divorced early, and having raised two kids who’d both ended up doing some time, the job at the Grab-Ur-Grub was the best thing ol’ Betty could manage this far out from civilization. A good worker, she’d hoped to land a shot at a management position should one ever open up. From the look of things outside, those dreams were rapidly going up in smoke.

"Ok, folks," her voice wavered nervously, "I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it all. So, if we can all just remain calm, things should be ok."

Across the counter, five people looked at her with unabashed exasperation. A couple of them were regulars, but the others were unknown to her. Just some folks who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become stuck here like the rest of them.

Stanley Dillard was one of her regulars and had been coming here for as long as she could remember. His usual order of beer, smokes and an occasional girly book were as constant and dependable as the hands that wiped away the afternoons from the clock’s face. Stanley was an older, widowed man with skin like a worn saddle who always came dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a plaid shirt. His bright blue eyes which could be seen beneath his cowboy hat looked—even at this distance—confused.

Another local, Cody Chenault, was a kid whose parents owned the flower ranch out on the frontage road. His was a lonely life out here with few other kids his age to hang out with. Betty did what she could to take the time to talk to him, but the vast age difference between them always made their conversations consist of the smallest of small talk. He was a bright kid with a wide smile and an almost puckish nose who rode that bike of his all over the valley. His favorite topic of conversation was where he was going to go once he was old enough to drive. His plan pretty much started and stopped with him getting the hell out of Dodge.

"Look, Cody," Stanley was saying, "are you sure you saw what you think you saw? You have to admit it all sounds pretty far-fetched."

"Honest to God, Mr. Dillard," the boy said, his arms outstretched and his face pleading to be believed. "I was sittin’ over by the newspaper machine eatin’ that Abba-Zabba I just bought," he quickly shot Betty a glance for corroboration, "and I saw Boyd Chambers come walkin’ down the highway there."

He pointed off down the road and continued talking at a feverish pitch. "At first, I thought he didn’t look right, y’ know? I mean, he was all pale and his face looked like he was sick, really sick, ya know? Or about to
be
sick. Anyway, he was walkin’ down the side of the road like he was drunk, stumbling over his own feet and moving like his balance was all off… like that time he got all plastered at the County Fair and started pissin’ near the kiddie rides."

Cody looked around to make sure everyone, even the people who weren’t from around there, understood what he was saying. He knew coming in here that his story was going to be pretty hard to believe, so he figured he needed to make sure he got each and every detail exactly right in order to stall any questions before they got asked. Even then… with what he’d seen, he wasn’t so sure he believed the facts of the matter himself.

"Anyway, the guy that was drivin’ that blue Taurus there was fillin’ up on Pump #3 and he had his back to the street. He’d just about finished fillin’ up when Boyd came stumblin’ up behind him. I swear to God, Boyd looked like he was going to get sick all over the hood of the Taurus when he got close enough for me to get a good look at his face."

Cody looked around again for more of that confirmation he was now so interested in. He took an abrupt pull off of the soda can he held tightly clenched in his fist. The bump in his throat bobbed up and down as he drank. His tongue no longer dry, he went back to the telling of his story.

"So, Boyd comes up behind that fella and for no reason whatsoever he grabs him see. Grabs him from behind and…" He shook his head in disbelief. "I know how crazy it sounds, but… he bit him; bit him hard, he did."

The group all looked at one another and shook their heads as if the boy was just talking crazy. The stranger in the back of the store tisked incredulously.

"I swear!" Cody’s face was pulled tight in its anguish. "The guy he bit started screaming and trying to bat him off, but Boyd was like a dog on a bone. He just kept huggin’ him and tearin’ into the side of his neck with his teeth."

Cody took another swig off his can.

"It was about that time I noticed Jocelyn McNabb coming up from the opposite direction. She was near the pumps and she went over to Boyd and sort of grabbed the man he’d bitten by the arms. Then, she took a bite out of him as well. I mean she bit his arm right through his shirt!"

"Jesus…" Dillard sighed and shook his head. "Are you sure…"

"Look, if you don’t believe me, just ask
them
!" Cody said and pointed toward the front glass.

Outside, the aforementioned Boyd Chambers and Jocelyn McNabb stood staring wall-eyed into the store. Both of their faces looked jaundiced and a dark maroon—almost black—substance coated their faces from the cheeks down. Their eyes were empty and their mouths hung open. Drool dribbled from their chins and mixed with whatever it was that soaked the fabric of their clothing. Both kept touching the glass and, as if trying to reach through it, extended their arms toward those inside. Behind them, looking confused, was the guy from the Taurus. More of the dark fluid coated the front of his shirt. The meat of his neck looked like it had been hacked into by a garden cultivator.

"This is bullshit," the voice from the back of the store said. The man, who’d come in with the pretty brunette standing by the magazine racks, was busy microwaving himself something to eat. He looked over the racks of merchandise with a haughty and arrogant look on his face. He’d not asked for permission nor yet paid for whatever it was he was heating up and from his demeanor, he probably wouldn’t be doing so, either. He was tall, thin and wore black slacks and a Polo shirt. His hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail which somehow added to his "I think I’m better than you" vibe.

The brunette stood quietly by the magazine racks off to the side and seemed as if she was more fashion accessory than real person. She was pretty, there was no denying that, but there didn’t seem to be a lot going on between her ears. Dressed in a denim jacket, a tight tank top and even tighter jeans, her attire was obviously designed to garner attention. However eye-catching her appearance was, she seemed to be the intellectual equivalent of a child. As she occupied herself with fashion magazines and the sunglass rack, it was almost as if she was blissfully unaware of the danger that was quickly unfolding around her.

"No, sir," Cody said. "I saw ’em do just that."

In response, Boyd and Jocelyn pounded feebly against the glass. Their fists left dark smears across the clear panes. The group looked at them and watched as they both pressed their mouths against the window and slobbered all over it.

"Say…" said the middle-aged woman who’d come in to use the public bathroom when all of this first started, "is that glass going to keep them out?" The lady, who’d earlier said her name was Irina Kovalenko, wore her brown hair in what almost looked like a bob. It fell limply down, but not so far as to reach her shoulders. Bangs hid her forehead and the hairstyle served to frame her face. She wore a single strand of pearls, a grey sweater and Capri pants. Her car sat idling next to the Handicapped space outside. She’d left it running since she was only going to be inside the store for a minute.

At least that was what she’d thought, anyway.

Stanley Dillard stepped up to the window and looked the panes of glass over.

"It should. I mean, it’s plenty thick," he said patting the surface of the glass. Outside Boyd made a feeble attempt to bite at his hand through the clear window "I doubt even a gang of men could beat their way through."

Betty suddenly spoke up from behind the counter and all eyes turned to her. "Well, if things ever get bad and they somehow get in here, there’s a Count Out Room in the back. We use it to balance the tills. It has a safe in it and it’s kinda small, but there are no windows and the door’s reinforced metal."

"Well, that’s good to know," the man at the microwave said sarcastically. "We can all pile in there like it’s a fucking clown car."

"Mister," Stanley said, "I didn’t quite get your name."

"Monroe. Phillip Monroe." He nodded his head toward the brunette. "This is my fiancée, Claire."

Claire smiled and waved as if it were a very real pleasure to meet everyone.

"Hiiii-eeee," she cooed.

"Well, Mr. Monroe, I’m not sure how you do things where you’re from, but out here in the sticks, we use a tone that’s a little more polite when people are talking about things that could save your life. Y’hear?"

"I’ll try to bear that in mind, Mr. Ziffel."

Claire giggled and walked back over to where Monroe was standing. He smiled at her and opened the microwave in order to retrieve his now hot food.

They all stood around in silence for a bit, just staring out the window and watching Boyd and Jocelyn French-kiss the glass. After a few minutes of being frustrated that she had been unable to get through to the sheriff, Betty reached under the counter and switched the radio on to see if any of the local stations were broadcasting any clues as to what was going on.

At first, there was just a lot of static coming out of the little speaker, but as Betty spun the dial, snippets of different conversations could be heard. As each one tumbled into the next, a story began to unfold and, from the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to have much of a happy ending.

"…any dead person should be isolated…" a man’s voice said.

 "Human remains are returning to life… and… and…
attacking
the living."

 "Stay indoors."

Betty continued working her way through the stations. Only a staccato of hissing white noise and modulated voices came out of the speaker. She kept turning the dial—at first in an attempt to find something that didn’t sound crazy. Then, she kept at it in order to try to find something that didn’t make her feel more afraid.

"Do not attempt to leave your homes," another man intoned. "These creatures seem to stay alive, as improbable as it sounds, by… by
consuming
human flesh."

"Every person who is killed will become one of them. If you are bitten, you will eventually die and become one of them as well," a woman’s voice said, sounding like it came from a place just this side of desperation.