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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Xombies: Apocalypse Blues
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Those balloon lips parted, croaking,
“Lulululululululu,”
until her breath ran out. Then she wheezed and continued,
“Lululululululululu,”
all the while fighting me for the door. She still had strength but no dexterity, and her grip on the handle kept slipping loose. The other two arrived beside her, crowding each other in their eagerness to worm through. Strings of black spittle fell on me, and I leaned as far away from the door as I could without losing my grip.
“Lock the door!” I screamed. “Lock the door!”
Even as I said it, the locking bolts shot home with a deliriously gratifying
ka-chunk
.
“You don’t have to wait for me, you know,” Cowper grumbled. Twisting around to face backward, one hand on the wheel, he said, “Fasten your seat belt,” and gunned the big Ford in reverse. Like magic, the three ragged creatures were left rolling in the dust. The sight of them dropping away was so sweet it was agonizing—I wasn’t ready for hope, and might never be. I was leaving my mother behind.
We kept going backward at a fast clip, swerving a little as if taking aim, until there was a jarring multiple thump, and the car bounced over something. We passed through the line of maniacs, half of them clutching hopelessly after us, the rest stretched out in the road. Once we were safely clear, Cowper stopped and turned the car around, proceeding away at a more leisurely pace.
“Do I have to tell you to close that window?” he griped. “I got the heat on.”
“Sorry,” I said, finding the button. All of a sudden I started trembling so hard I was afraid Cowper might think there was something seriously wrong with me and put me out. But he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking in the rearview mirror with grim intensity, nodding to himself.
“And
that’s
why I drive an SUV,” he said.
CHAPTER
FOUR
M
y mother didn’t believe in cars. She owned a car as a “matter of survival” but thought the world would be a better place without them. Cars figured prominently in her “Penis Patrol” theory: that most men are not mature enough to handle any extra reach, and to give the average jerk a platform by which he can increase the radius of his stupidity is asking for trouble. I found this hilarious coming from her but couldn’t argue with the logic. “Civilization is so
boring
,” she liked to say, spying some example of male profligacy, from thudding car stereos and roadside litter to mad gunmen and rogue jet-liners, “let’s break stuff.” Anytime a new atrocity occurred that illustrated her case, all Mum and I had to do was look at each other and say, “Penis Patrol,” and that explained it. Over the years, I even found myself doing it when I was alone.
As Cowper’s giant vehicle enfolded me in cream-colored leather, I realized I was muttering, “Penis Patrol” every couple of minutes, like a weird tic. I wasn’t aware of it until he said something.
He said, “You sound just like your mother.”
Shocked out of my passivity, I grunted. I didn’t want to talk about her, didn’t think I could without screaming. My placid demeanor was just the slag on a roiling cauldron—perhaps when cooled, it would crumble away, exposing tempered steel, but in the meantime, it threatened to spatter everything in sight.
“She and I didn’t really see eye to eye on a lotta things,” he continued, “but I gotta give her this: she was one tough lady. She didn’t give up, nohow, not when she wanted something. You got that in you, too, little girl, and it’s gonna get you through.”
He went on with the pep talk, but I couldn’t listen. Much easier to skate the power lines and guardrails, bodiless and afloat, muffled, in a corridor of gray winter maples. But as we ventured up the coast, my detachment began to shred. There were blue people out there.
There! By that farmhouse! That donut shop! The strip mall!
Every time I saw them, I was so repulsed my stomach muscles spasmed, causing me to double over in pain. Cringing as we swerved to avoid one, I yelled, “Don’t stop!”
“I ain’t about to stop,” he said dryly. “Don’t worry.”
His gas gauge showed less than a quarter tank. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Hopefully where there ain’t gonna be no Exes.”
It was as if I’d been pricked by something sharp. Under my breath, I said,
“Exes.”
“Exes, yeah, as in Agent X. Ex-humans. That’s the official term, if there is such a thing. I’ve also heard ’em called Xombies. With an X. Every damn thing’s gotta have an X nowadays.”
“Is that because of the women? The X chromosome?”
“Hey, maybe so,” he said. “Good thinking.”
Even in the midst of unbearable grief, his approval tickled a reaction out of my girlish pride. I stamped it down like a cockroach. “Why don’t I have it?” I asked. “Agent X?”
He became very uncomfortable. “Well, I, uh . . . from what I’ve heard, they think it’s got something to do with that time of the month . . . I don’t really know. They say little girls and, uh, older ladies don’t catch it that way, spontaneously, the way . . . menstruatin’ women do. And I know you have a . . . problem in that area.”
“You mean I’m immune because I don’t have a period?”
He winced. “Immune, no. You’re immune the way I am, the way anybody is who didn’t automatically go bad on Sadie Hawkins Day. That doesn’t make us safe from catching it off ’em. Half the things running around now are men.”
“Sadie Hawkins Day?”
“That’s what they were calling it when all the women turned, the first week of January.”
“Is that when this happened? God, we had no clue.”
“Oh yeah. They went off like they were synchronized. After that, everything went all to hell pretty quick—I’m not surprised you missed it. They say the original women carriers are different than the ones they infected, not so retahded, but I don’t know. To me it’s all the same if they’re after your ass.”
“But . . . my mother just went through menopause . . .” My voice quavered; somehow I’d blundered into facing the Gor gon. Thickly, I said, “How do those things infect you?”
“Now there’s no use going into that. I gotta pay attention to the road. You just sit tight.”
“Fred, how did you know to find me?”
He didn’t acknowledge the question for some time, giving jittery attention to his driving.
Grimly, I said, “You were home, weren’t you? You heard us.”
He scowled, nodded. He didn’t look at me. “You shouldn’t have been out there,” he said gruffly.
“We didn’t know.”
“Well, goddammit, you
should have
known!” Suddenly he was spitting with exasperation. “Don’t you think I’d’ve let you in if I hadn’t known the bastids were out there? They were there the whole time, and you two standing on my porch like there’s nothing funny!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry!” His temper abruptly dwindled, and he shook his head, saying, “I was gonna let her in. After you left, I was gonna take a chance and let her in.” The old man’s face contracted as if squinting into a high wind. “But
they
came first. They came running like a pack of hyenas, and she saw ’em before I did. Before I could do anything, she was gone—”
“Okay,” I said sharply, not ready to hear everything.
“That was when I got it in me to go. Take Sandoval up on his offer—why not?” His cactus-bristled cheek quivered. “I figured maybe I could get to you before . . . uh . . .”
He was very upset. It scared me and took me out of my panic. Trying to sound strong, I said, “And you did. You did it, Mr. Cowper. You saved me.” I started to cry.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said.
 
 
Suburban sprawl gave way to industrial blight. Fenced-off tracts of land were posted, PROPERTY OF U.S. NAVY—KEEP OUT and WARNING—RESTRICTED AREA—USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED. It was reassuring in a way, though there was no sign of life. Any authority, however brutal, sounded pretty good. I craved the sight of men with guns the way a person lost in the desert craves a drink. For that matter, I was thirsty, too.
Coming to a dusty crossroads jammed with abandoned vehicles, Cowper was forced to slow down to a reluctant stop.
“Don’t
stop
,” I said shrilly.
“I have to,” he said.
“What about that median strip?”
“It’s too narrow. Hush up!”
There were no Exes (it was too awful to think of them as Xombies) in sight, but adrenaline lanced through my veins like quicksilver as I scanned the myriad hiding places. I tried to remind myself of how much time my mother and I had spent out in the open without knowing the risk, but that only alarmed me more. Cowper, too, showed nervousness as he bounced us through a rough three-point turn, squealing the tires. Finally, we were on our way. It was a short respite: after backtracking a couple of miles, he stopped the car between two empty pastures and got out.
I thought he was angry, but he leaned in, and said, “You want a bite to eat?”
Surprising myself, I opened the door without hesitation. My legs supported me. It was late in the day, but enough light penetrated the hills on either side to give ample warning of any threat . . . I hoped. Skittish as a rabbit, I joined Cowper at the rear. He was making a great deal of noise manhandling some devices of wood and chain link—they looked like screens for sifting clams. Leaning them against the bumper, he took out two small coolers and a rolled-up blanket.
“Spread this out on the grass, will you?” he said, handing me the picnic items. Seeing my disbelief, he added, “Go on, I’ll be right with you.” Then he began placing the screens on the car, and I realized they conformed to the shapes of the windows. He had devised them to belt across the top and fasten by hooks beneath the fenders. When the job was complete, the SUV resembled some kind of demolition-derby hot rod. “Should’ve really had these on the whole time,” he said. “Looks like a damn lobster trap, but at least they fit like I hoped.”
The daredevil look of it scared me, as if we were going to attempt a stunt. I wanted no contact with those creatures, however protected. As he came up the embankment to join me, I said, “Won’t they just hang on to those?”
“Nah . . . Well, as long as they don’t get in. Hey, it’s better than nothing. It was all I had to work with.”
“No, it’s good. It’s great.”
Less reassured than I would’ve wished, I kept my peace as we shared a meal of Rhode Island delicacies: cheeseless slabs of cold pizza, stuffed quahogs, pickled snail salad with yellow peppers and mozzarella balls, and gritty little cornmeal patties called jonnycakes. Once I got the first few bites down, I found I could eat, though I kept crying all over everything. To drink there was bottled lemonade—“For scurvy,” he said—and a Thermos of coffeemilk. It was chilly to be outside in the dead of winter, but as we sat and ate, I could feel my dread loosen its grip. In shock or not, I could breathe again.
“Thank you,” I said.
He replied offhandedly, “Might be our last meal. Oughta make the most of it.”
I stopped chewing, feeling the food like a brick in my stomach. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”
Just as the sun began to set, moving figures appeared in the distance, and we packed up and got under way.
Returning to the traffic jam, Cowper slowed to bump the car up onto the highway divider as per my earlier suggestion. But as soon as we were on that narrow island, I realized why he had taken the extra measure with the screens: the median was scarcely wider than the car itself, hemmed in on both sides by bumper-to-bumper traffic. Driving along that cramped passage was unnerving—there could be no U-turns, no reversing at any speed. And the soft, grassy track seemed to go on forever.
Cowper didn’t seem unduly concerned. “Once we turn right at the intersection, should be clear sailing,” he said. “Long as we don’t get stuck in the mud.”
I put my faith in the elderly gent, though as we neared the end I didn’t like the look of things. This was no mere traffic jam, but an abandoned military roadblock. Through the misting windshield I could see relics of recent violence: shoes, broken glass, bullet holes, and spent shells everywhere. But no bodies.
Shadows flitted between the cars. I drew up my legs under me.
“Here they come,” I said.
They came in droves, like paparazzi. One minute our path appeared to be clear, the next it was choked with rushing bodies that hurled themselves at us willy-nilly. Cowper accelerated, trying to mow them down, but even the most brutal impact did not seem to prevent many of them from clinging parasitically to the window cages. In minutes it became pitch-black inside the car, the windows draped with writhing, naked monsters. All credit to the driver for keeping us moving—I don’t know how he did it.
“How can you see?” I yelled over the pounding.
He ignored me, scrunching up his gnome face to peer between the cracks. Absorbed in his futile task, Cowper was bottoming out, hitting the horn again and again like a cranky old codger. I wouldn’t have minded, except his horn played the festive strains of “
La Cucaracha
” and seemed to energize them.

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