Sven the Zombie Slayer (55 page)

103

Jane came in off her watch sometime around 2 A.M.—at least according to the big Wegmans clock. Sven remembered where he’d stuck his watch, and though he wasn’t sure why he’d stashed it, he didn’t want to look at it right now. Just the thought of it made his throat lock up.

Jane crouched next to Brian and whispered something to him, then Brian winked out the light on his iPhone, got up, picked up his baseball bat, and walked away.

Maybe now, Sven thought, now that Jane’s back, I’ll be able to sleep a little.

Jane lay down on top of her sleeping bag without addressing Sven. That was alright, he decided, just her being there made the day a little less terrible.

Sven reflected on how Randy had left to find food, then had come back with some strange frozen food item that was completely unrecognizable. Sven asked him about it, and Randy cheerfully explained what it was, but it still made no sense to Sven.

He wasn’t in the habit of eating such things—he didn’t believe in them—and given his current state, it didn’t matter either way. Sven wasn’t going to try the bite that Randy offered him. Sven wasn’t going to try a bite of anything. He could barely keep down the water he was drinking. Food was not an option.

Sven’s mind was still resisting the events of the day. He didn’t believe what was happening, what he was seeing and feeling. It didn’t make any sense. And why wasn’t anyone there to help? Why were they suddenly cut off from the rest of the world?

And Ivan! How Ivan had scared Sven earlier that evening. That wasn’t like him, running off into the night. What was he doing in the woods with the zombies anyway? Sven looked over at Ivan, who had settled down on his paws in the middle of his arrangement of new bowls, each filled with food. Sven had picked out four of the meanest, metal cat bowls that the Wegmans had. Ivan was a tough cat, after all, and his bowl—or, as in this case,
bowls
—should show it.

Into the bowls Sven put tuna, sardines, sockeye salmon, and shrimp. Ivan deserved no less than a feast for getting through the day, and why not spoil him now? How much time did they have left at this rate?

Sven looked at Ivan, who lay there with his eyes half-open, and remembered the warning they had all given Randy. Randy had gotten up after finishing his frozen food item, suddenly announced that he needed matches, and then it must have crossed Jane’s mind that Randy didn’t yet know about Milt. She was right. Sven and Jane told Randy the barest of details, with Lorie chiming in hatefully every now and then. Randy’s expression grew more concerned as he listened, but the lecture hadn’t stopped him from walking off—probably in search of more of his strange food in addition to the matches.

Randy hadn’t come back, but Sven wasn’t worried about him, and felt no need to go searching for him. The man was a survivor. He had easily proven that today, having hobbled miles up 29 to safety, surviving hungry zombies, and according to the story he told, also surviving an encounter with an overweight, leather-clad, tire iron aficionado.

Sven was confident that after having come all this way, Randy would be just fine.

104

Milt was tromping up and down the candy aisle, stewing with rage. He couldn’t believe how foolish the others were in their sentimentality, in their unwillingness to see that he had saved them from the zombie boy—an inside threat that could have destroyed the safety of the Wegmans sanctuary they had taken for their haven.

He had eavesdropped after he left the produce section, hiding behind a large macaroon display to listen. He was appalled by the things they had all said about him...after all of the good he had done for them.

I saved them, Milt thought, and they repay me by speaking ill of me behind my back. They want me out of here, to displace me from the very sanctuary I fought to secure. I shall not allow such a travesty to pass into being. I most certainly shall not.

And he was almost as incredulous of their having taken issue with his treatment of the cleanup duties. So he hadn’t joined in the removal of the bodies, what of it? Didn’t they realize that he was above such menial tasks?

It is irrelevant, Milt decided, they can be stupid all they want. I shall not be stupid. I am not going to be caught unprepared, enslaved by rudimentary human emotions, and I shall continue to take the initiative when the situation calls for it. What unintelligent saps they all are, with no appreciation for the fine art of survival…and it is a fine art.

Now that the cretins had taken Milt’s sword away, creativity could become a necessity.

Milt gulped down the rest of the contents of the Coca-Cola bottle he held trembling in his hand. He set the liter bottle down and eagerly approached the shelf of candy miniatures, in the center of the aisle.

I shall feed my brain, he told himself, settle down a tad, and then plot my next move.

He tore open a package of Snickers miniature candies, and began popping the candies into his mouth with the ease of an expert candy popper. As he chomped, dribbling chocolate and nougat down his chin, he knew that he and the others were at an impasse, and that the only solution was to—

Milt found himself the sudden victim of a very odd hallucination: a very skinny man limped past the candy aisle, smoking a cigarette and carrying two cartons of cigarettes under his arm.

Milt rubbed his eyes with chocolate-smeared hands, making his eyelids sticky. Working through the sticky chocolate and nougat now on his face, he reopened his eyes and stared. The hallucination returned, backtracking to the mouth of the aisle and turning in toward Milt.

The slender apparition began to travel toward Milt. “Hi,” it said in a cheerful voice as it waved its cigarette in Milt’s direction. “You must be Milt.”

The apparition began limping faster now, and Milt dropped all the treats he was holding.

He recoiled, taking two laborious steps backward. “Stay back! My time on this plane is not yet finished!”

Then Milt grabbed a bag of miniature 3 Musketeers candy, tore it open, and began throwing the small candies at the hobbling ghost.

The ghost stopped and put up his cigarette hand for cover, still holding tightly to the cartons under his arm. “What?”

Milt flung another handful of small candies. “Do not play coy with me. I recognize Death when I see him, or rather,
it.
”

“I’m not Death,” the ghost said, almost believably. “I just got here. I’ve been carrying on up 29 all day, looking for a place to hide...” the ghost’s voice dropped to a whisper, “from
them.
”

Milt wasn’t buying it. “Then how did you gain entrance to this place?”

The ghost hesitated, and began to hobble nearer.

Milt flung the remainder of the 3 Musketeers candies. “Stay back I say!”

“Alright, alright. Cool your jets. Sven let me in. He was burying…well…he was burying a dead person. That’s when I got here more or less.”

“More or less? Likely story.”

The ghost shrugged. “Likely or not, it’s the truth. I’m Randy.”

The ghost offered his hand to Milt. Milt looked at it with suspicion, and did not shake it.

He waited for the ghost to lower his hand, then he said, “I gather they have told you a plethora of fabrications as to my nature.”

“What?”

The ghost broke into a violent spasm of coughing, and Milt backed away, noticing for the first time the incredible pallor of this supposed man.

The pallor of him, though fitting for a specter, could mean only one thing in the ongoing zombie outbreak—this man who called himself Randy was turning.

“I see that you are ill,” Milt said. “Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“I’m exhausted. Been walking all day, got beat up, starved half to death on the way over here. You’re right. I was just on my way to find some blankets and set up. I think I’m gonna set up away from the others. I’m gonna be smoking for a while—probably all night—and I don’t like to smoke on kids, and I guess on non-smokers in general. I imagine I’ll find the aisle with matches and lighters and such and spread out there—I’m running low.” Randy put his cigarette in his mouth, fished a box of matches out of his pocket and shook it at Milt. “Just one left,” he said through his cigarette. Then Randy shrugged, said, “Good meeting you,” and walked out of the aisle.

Milt grabbed a fresh bag of miniature Snickers off the shelf and tore it open. He couldn’t believe that Sven and his bunch had done it again. What were they trying to do?!

He sat down, propping himself up on some bags of candy that burst under his weight. He began to pop miniature Snickers bars into his mouth, gobbling them as soon as they touched down on his tongue. He knew he would need the energy very soon.

105

Hours later, when the supermarket had gone completely quiet save for Brian’s ludicrous watchman act, Milt clambered to his feet. His training as a
World of Warcraft
professional had taught him incredible patience and endurance. He was practiced in staying up for inhuman lengths of time, waiting and plotting, especially if he had a steady supply of Snickers and Coca-Cola, and the supply at the Wegmans was practically inexhaustible.

Simultaneously sucking on two miniature Snickers bar, one lodged skillfully in each of his cheeks, Milt crept to the outskirts of the candy aisle, hiding as much of his body as was possible behind a display of Butterfinger candies. There he waited for Brian to walk past on his predictable, uninspired route.

Brian came at the expected moment, humming a tune that Milt didn’t recognize except to know that he disliked it at once. Milt waited a few moments, then lumbered into action.

He got out of his position from behind the Butterfinger display and exited the aisle. Milt began to trace Brian’s circular path, keeping the man out of sight. This afforded Milt plenty of time, as long as Brian didn’t change his route through the supermarket, and Milt doubted that Brian had the mental initiative to do anything of the sort.

Milt crept until he arrived at the right aisle. He entered the aisle, quickly found the item for which he had come, and exited the aisle again. His next stop was Randy’s nest—wherever that was.

Milt surmised that Randy would be easy enough to find by the man’s tobacco stench and lung-shaking cough—a cough Milt suspected now had more to do with the zombie contagion than cigarettes. It would just be a matter of avoiding Brian and the other unfortunate souls with which Milt had been forced to share the Wegmans.

After only a short creep through the supermarket, Milt found Randy, a vision of death warmed over, snoring lightly next to packed bundles of firewood and kindling.

Just the spot for a perpetual arsonist, Milt thought, how pathetically predictable.

Looking at the man’s pale skin, frail limbs, and haggard appearance, Milt was certain that Randy was afflicted with the same nightmare disease that was ripping its way through
Virginia
. But Milt felt no pity for Randy, understanding that becoming a zombie was simply Randy’s lot in life. Then Milt saw the golden cross that hung from Randy’s neck, and he knew that Randy would understand. The pious always did.

Milt stood over Randy and retrieved the item he had hidden in his trench coat. He raised it with both hands, and brought it down with all of his strength, simultaneously biting down on the peanuts that remained trapped in his cheeks.

The king-size jar of pickles shattered on Randy’s head, dousing the tiny, reeking man in pickle juice. The breaking of the jar had made hardly any noise, and Milt guessed that the sound had been muffled by Randy’s tousled hair, onto which the glass broke.