The Z Club (16 page)

They were close enough to see the tall chain-link fence surrounding the refinery.  The front gates were closed, secured with a sturdy loop of chain, the end links secured together with a heavy-duty padlock.

“Hang on!” Ryan said, jamming his foot down on the accelerator and plowing through the gate.  The chain burst on impact.  The padlock flew off, struck the windshield, leaving a vertically zigzagging crack that ran from the top to the bottom of the front window.

Ryan slammed the brakes and looked around.  “Everybody okay?”

Fred nodded.  They exited the truck, gazing down the long stretch of road behind them.

“Can you see them?” Becky said.

“No, not yet,” Fred said.  “I’d say we’ve got five minutes, give or take.”

Ryan leaned over the driver’s seat and snatched up the backpack with the propane canisters in it.  Fred grabbed the trashbag containing the remaining brains and threw it over his shoulder.

“Better make this quick.”

Ryan glanced around frantically, trying to ignore the rotten egg smell that permeated from the refinery, causing his eyes to water and his nostrils to burn the slightest bit.  He felt the weight of the backpack on his shoulder, the canisters knocking together each time he moved. 
This shouldn’t be hard,
he thought,
seeing as how we’re surrounded by a giant bomb, but we don’t know how to blow it up.  Like a virgin with a hard-on that can’t get his dick in the hole.

Fred said, “My mother used to say that standing around doesn’t get the job done.”  When Ryan didn’t respond, he added, “Yeah, I didn’t listen to her much either.”

Becky had wandered several feet away.  “Would this work?” she asked, pointing to a red diamond-shaped symbol with white lettering stenciled on a corroded metal cylinder that sat atop stubby iron stilts.  On the sign, below the picture of white flames, was the word: COMBUSTIBLE.

Ryan and Fred looked at each other.

“Might just work,” Fred said.

Ryan sat the backpack on the ground and removed the propane canisters one by one.  Fred emptied the brains from the trashbag and arranged them neatly in a semi-circle around the tank.

“They’re coming,” Becky said.  “I can see them now.”

Ryan was reaching skyward, on his tiptoes in order to reach the surface of the metal tank.  He had the roll of duct tape clamped between his teeth, using both hands to hold the first propane canister against the tank.  “Ha ong?” he said, tape still clenched between his teeth, meaning it to come out as
how long
.

The words were muffled, nearly unintelligible, but Becky knew what he was asking.  She squinted, trying to see through the snow and into the darkness.  “I’m not sure.  Three minutes maybe?”

Ryan pulled the roll of tape from his teeth and looked at Fred.  “I could use your help here.”

“I’m not as tall as you,” Fred said.

“Find something to stand on then, midget.  Hurry.”

Fred looked around.  What the fuck was he supposed to find out here?  Like they just left stepstools laying around for shit like this.  Finally, he found a crumbling cinder block sticking out of the mud.  He picked it up and hauled it over, positioning it next to the tank.  He stepped onto it.  Ryan handed him one of the canisters.

“Just hold it up there long enough for me to tape it in place.”

Ryan tore a length of silver tape from the roll, reached up and placed it over the middle of the canister, and secured each end to the rusty tank.  “Okay, let go of it,” he said. 
Just a little luck right now,
he thought.

Fred let go of the canister.  It held.

“It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle!” Fred shouted.

But the surface of the tank was rusty and grime covered.  The air was cold, the tank’s surface damp with moisture.  The ends of the tape were already beginning to peel away.  “Won’t hold for long.  Let’s make this quick.”

Becky kept sentry duty, her eyes fixed on the road, trying to deny the screaming in her brain that kept telling her to run like the wind, get out of there,
pronto!
  It was like watching an army invade a city; a thousand zombies marching toward them, chanting
brainsss, brainsss, brainsss
.  The faster zombies had taken the lead, jogging at first, but now that they had caught the scent of brains again, they began to run.

“Hurry up!” she said, bringing up her gun, ready to fire if they got too close.

Ryan handed Fred another canister.  They taped it up as close to the first one as they could.  They did the same with the third.  “That’s as good as it’s going to get.”

Fred stepped down from the concrete block, his boot coming down on one of the pig brains, smooshing it under his heel.

The snow was blowing in crazy blinding swirls.  Becky fired the gun.  Ryan turned around in time to see a zombie six feet away drop to the ground.  More were coming.  The slower zombies trailed behind, but the handful of faster ones had already reached them.

“I can’t see!” Becky yelled.

“Get to the truck!” Ryan shouted, firing at another zombie.  “
Go!
”

Becky broke into a run toward the truck, Fred following behind her.  Ryan waited a moment, squeezed off three more shots, and then made a run for it.  Becky reached the truck first, diving into the back.  Fred was a second behind her, climbing in, starting to pull the back door closed when it was suddenly yanked opened, and in a flash he felt his left hand explode with white hot pain as a zombie sank its teeth into it.  Becky scrambled over, kicked the zombie in the head and fired.  The zombie’s brains painted the snow, its body following an instant later.  She grabbed the door and slammed it closed.

Ryan was already in the driver’s seat, starting the truck.  “What happened?”

“It bit him!”

Fred struggled to his feet and looked at his hand.  A ring of bloody teeth marks formed a crescent on the side of it, just below his pinky finger.  He didn’t waste any time.  He glanced at Becky as he stumbled over to the side window and said, “Get the first aid kit.  This is gonna get bloody.”

Becky rummaged through one of the remaining backpacks, pulling out the first aid kit they had picked up during their heist at Darnell’s.

Fred slapped his injured hand palm down onto the flat surface of the side window’s serving table.  He unsheathed the machete and lifted it above his head.

“What are you doing?” Becky said, fumbling with the first aid kit’s metal latch.

When Fred did it, he didn’t hesitate.  He brought the machete singing down with everything he had, the blade sinking in just below his left wrist.  Fred screamed.  He pulled his arm away, and when he did his hand was still on the serving table, looking like a balding tarantula.  His vision clouded and he sank to the floor.

“What’s going on back there?”  Ryan shifted the truck into drive as something struck the driver’s side window and shattered the glass.  He stomped on the accelerator, propelling them forward.

The rest of the zombies had reached them.

“Fred cut off his own hand!”

Becky moved swiftly, wrapping gauze around the bloody stump where Fred’s left hand had been.  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confessed.

Fred’s eyes fluttered opened.  He smiled weakly.  “You’re doing fine,” he said.  “Think I got rid of it in time?  Before the infection could spread?”

“I hope so,” Becky said, wrapping the gauze until the blood no longer seeped through.

Fred’s face was pale, but he remained conscious.  He lifted his bandaged stump.  “Look at me.  I look like a goddamn mummy.”

Ryan was doing tight donuts, trying to avoid the zombies, but looking for a clear line of sight so they could shoot the canisters.

“You’re going to have to do it,” he said, glancing around at Becky.

“What?”

“You’re going to have to blow it up.  And it’s gotta be now, while we’re close enough.”

Becky hesitated.  She wanted to protest; to whine and complain, to shout at the top of her lungs.  What was he asking her to do?  Hadn’t she just finished playing doctor on Fred’s massive injury?  Wasn’t that enough?  Couldn’t someone else take over for Christ’s sake?  “
Me?”

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said.  “But, yeah, it’s down to you.”

Becky picked up a rifle from the floor.  “What do I do?”

“You’re going to have to open one of the back doors.  I’ll get you a clear shot at those canisters.  You only need to hit one of them.”

Becky opened one of the back doors.  The truck was bouncing all over the place as Ryan drove erratically to avoid the zombies.  She sat down, one foot against the closed door for support, the other holding open the other door the way Fred had done when he was leaving the trail of brains for the zombies.  She raised the rifle, brought the scope to her eye.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“You’re ready.  I’m going to come around one more time, and then I’ll straighten out and get us onto the road.  We need to put enough distance between us and the refinery so we don’t fry along with them.”

Ryan cranked the wheel hard to the left.  The truck’s back end skidded around in the snow and mud, and above the zombies, Becky had a clear view of the rusty metal tank with the propane canisters taped to it.  She aimed the rifle, peered through the scope, and tried to get the point where the crosshairs intersected to line up with the canisters.  The truck rocked and bumped over the ground.  She held the rifle steady, sucked in a breath, and squeezed the trigger.  The shot went high and wide, putting a small hole in the upper right corner of the rusty tank.

She tried again and missed again, feeling the truck speed up as Ryan jammed down the accelerator.  When she missed a third time, she yelled, “I can’t hit it.”

Ryan let up on the accelerator slightly.  If they put anymore distance between themselves and the refinery, there was no hope of hitting one of the canisters.  There were too many zombies to risk doubling back.  “You can do this.  You
have to do this!
  Try again!”  He realized he was yelling; a high pitched sound that didn’t sound anything like his own voice at all. 
Why didn’t I do it myself?  What the hell was I thinking?  She’s never shot a rifle in her life, and it wouldn’t be the easiest shot in the best of conditions, let alone from a moving truck with a fuck ton of zombies chasing after us.

Becky ignored her nerves, her shaking hands, and put her eye to the scope again.  She fired…and missed.

“Let me,” a voice said from beside her, and when she swiveled her head, Fred had pulled himself into a sitting position, the crossbow in his lap.  He looked pale as death, his lips almost white, and Becky found it astonishing that he hadn’t lost consciousness.  Through the bandages, she could see the first signs of blood staining the white cloth.

Becky scooted over, making room for Fred.

“Be ready to close that door quick,” Fred said, picking up the crossbow.  “We’re gonna be a little too close for comfort when that thing explodes, and I don’t want the heat melting our faces off.”

Becky nodded, her mind uncomprehending, but acting on some primal level that could still interpret orders.  She leaned out and grabbed the door handle, ready to pull it shut.

Fred’s quiver was on the floor.  He dug into it, selected a bolt, knocked it.  He brought the crossbow up, aimed for the canisters, tilting the bow upward to account for the distance.

Fred squeezed the trigger.  A second later, there was a loud
ding
and the tank exploded.  Becky slammed the truck’s door closed just as flames mushroomed out toward them.