Zombie Rules (Book 3): ZFINITY (42 page)

“Fuck you, Floyd! It wan’t my feet the problem! It was this ’un!”

“Floyd, this old feller never got nowhere near them bloated boats you calls feet. Now get on ’em boats, and let’s get this feller took care of.” The standing Wrangler turned and spit a thick stream of tobacco onto the road. He turned back and grinned broadly. “You idiot.”

The grounded Wrangler cursed again and turned the zombie’s foot with a sharp, businesslike twist, snapping the ankle. The standing Wrangler crouched and twisted the zombie’s other leg in a similar fashion, snapping the other ankle, splintering the fibula with a crunch. Then the Wranglers stepped back.

The zombie pushed, grunted, and gained his knees. His head dangled almost to the ground. The Wranglers crossed their arms over their burly chests and tilted their heads in observation. They were quiet, watchful. All pretense of idiocy and rambunctiousness seemed to have drained away clean.

“The collar only half popped would be my guess.”

“Yeah, mine too. Charges mighta wore out?”

“Not supposed to, not on the new models. See that blue tag there? That collar ain’t but a month old.”

“Shitfire, you’re right about that, Floyd. We’ll have to pluck that sucker offa that guy. Get the collar back to ZI so they can figure out why the poppers didn’t pop ’im.”

“Well, that’s what we’re about, Floyd, so let’s get about it. Let’s wrangle this sucker!”

The Wranglers turned to Carl. “Keep an eye on this one while we get the gear, would you, Abby? There’s a good girl.”

Carl gave them the finger, and they broke up laughing and bashing each other on the shoulder as they trotted back to their truck.

Wranglers were mystifying. They all called each other ‘Floyd’ and called everyone else–for reasons unknown–‘Abby’. They were a tight, secretive bunch, and Carl pitied the HR rep in charge of them. For years, the company had tried to move a Wrangler into management specifically for the HR job, but there were no takers amongst the Wranglers. The job was currently being handled by a young man who was rumored to be near suicidal because of it.

The Wranglers came back, one carrying a long pole with a rope on the end. A dogcatcher, it was called in the old days. Carl remembered them well. Now there were no more dogs, or at least, not many. After the plague, dogs had been drawn to the rotting zombies, drawn by the smell. It had not been uncommon to see a dog chewing the leg of a shuffling zombie or trying to roll on the less ambulatory ones. But zombie meat was poison to animals.

A lot of the ASPCA equipment had been bought up by Zombie, Inc., at pennies on the dollar. It translated well to zombie containment.

The other Wrangler carried a thin baton and a long Taser. They approached the struggling zombie like animal trainers in a zoo for the insane.

“We don’t need your help, Abby,” the Wrangler addressed Carl without looking at him. “Get back in your pussy-mobile, and wait for the report. This one’s gonna be easy!”

“You said it, Floyd,” the other Wrangler said. “Half the head gone already? I like those odds!” He swung the pole in a circle over his head, and the loop hissed and snapped. “Half the head gone; half the job done! Haw!”

“Catch hold on ’im and stop runnin’ yer mouth, Floyd. He’s gained his feet somehow.”

The zombie stood swaying on the stubs of his ankles, feet pointing off in different directions, the twisted bones of his shin poking through the skin. His head dangled against his chest, the back of his neck having been blown off by the collar. Shards of bone entangled with ribbons of rotting skin hung around his shoulders like a macabre scarf. He moaned, and it was muffled in the old corduroy jacket he wore. A substance that looked like a mix of coffee grounds and drying blood clots trailed down his back. He swayed and shuffle-hopped toward the Wranglers, leaving one foot behind. A coffee-clot about the size of an eyeball fell to the pavement with a slucking sound.

“Shit, sucker’s got a little life in ’im yet, I reckon.”

“Just get ’im looped up, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, quit yer dickin’!”

“I got ’im, I got ’im, quit yer cry babyin’, ya’ loose stool.” He swung the loop of rope and twirled it down over the zombie’s dangling head, but the zombie lurched to the left, and the rope skidded down his side.

“Aw, fucker! Hold still, ya’ oily cunt rag!” He raised the loop again–the pole was long and unwieldy–and this time, the zombie feinted backward, and the loop tripped uselessly down his front. Then the zombie lurched forward, swinging his arms and groaning as his head rocked side to side on his chest.

“Jesus! Quit fucking around, and LOOP that thing!” Carl said as he fumbled at his belt for his pistol.

“Shut up, Abby, Floyd’s got ’im! Go sit in your pussy-wagon if you can’t–”

The zombie tumbled, one of its reaching hands tangling in the Wrangler’s vest. The Wrangler roared like a surprised lion and jumped back as the other Wrangler stepped in with the Taser. “Floyd! Be careful! Sucker almost got you!” He jabbed the Taser into the zombie’s arm.

The zombie’s arm jerked up and back, flinging wildly. The Wrangler pushed closer and jammed the Taser into the open cavity at the zombie’s neck. Blue fire zizzed and flashed, and a stink of hot, rotted flesh combined with ozone made Carl gag.

“Loop ’im, Floyd! Loop the fucker!”

“Can’t! The head’s too far over! Loop won’t catch! Fuck!”

The zombie lunged again, the Wranglers jumped back in perfect synchronicity, and then a black bolt appeared in the zombie’s head as if by magic.

It collapsed forward over itself and crumbled onto the pavement.

Carl stopped fumbling for his pistol and stared open-mouthed. The Wranglers looked at each other, frozen, and then turned slowly to look behind them.

Dill stood ten feet away with her crossbow at shoulder level.

The Wranglers blinked at Dill, then blinked at Carl, and then turned their attention back to Dill.

“Thanks, Abby,” the first Wrangler said, “but we’re supposed to bring them back kickin’.”

Dill’s face, already very white, became whiter still. “Oh,” she said and lowered her shaking bow. Her shoulders fell in dejection. “Well…fuck.”

The Wranglers blinked at her again and then burst out laughing. “Don’t you worry about it, Abby! Haw haw! Yer a good little Abby!”

“Better a dead deadie than a dead Wrangler! Haw!”

They clapped her on the shoulders, nearly flattening her, but Dill managed a grin. They hawed harder and commenced to slapping her on the back. She nearly went to her knees.

“Yer a good one, Abby! Yer a good assessment man!”

“You call us anytime, Abby! We’re your wranglers!”

“Thanks–guys, thanks–oof, thanks, I–” She stepped away from their good-natured pounding. They continued to grin at her. “My name’s Dill, though.”

“Aw! Right you are, Abby!” the first Wrangler said and caught her up in a bear hug that took her breath away. “Grrr…yer a good man!”

“Jesus,” Dill said, her voice a squeezed squeak, “put me down!”

The Wrangler dropped her all at once, and her teeth clicked together when her feet hit the pavement. The Wranglers leaned in, and once again, all traces of buffoonery had dropped from their features. Dell gazed into two pairs of brown eyes as warm and intense as any pit bull pup’s had ever been. The first Wrangler said, “We mean it; anything you need–”

“–you call us first, Abby,” the second Wrangler finished.

*

Dill and Carl watched from the SUV as the Wranglers sawed away at the zombie’s neck in order to retrieve the unpopped collar. They laughed and yelled and occasionally gave the Assessment SUV either the finger or a thumbs-up and then broke up again, seemingly unaffected by their brush with death and unconcerned with the charges on the collar that hadn’t fired. Of course, many Wranglers were missing fingers. It seemed a mark of honor among them.

“Weird. They’re so weird!” Dill said and shook her head. Her voice was still shaky, and her face very white. Her wide eyes prismed with carefully unshed tears.

“You made a good impression, though,” Carl said. His tone was halfway between admiration and irritation. “You seem to know how to handle yourself, especially considering you’ve just started. Most people aren’t quite as confident their first time out.”

Dill sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not EA, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Carl glanced at her and away. “If you say so,” he said and shrugged.

She turned to him. “I mean it. I’m not Employee Assessment. I promise I’m not.”

Carl nodded, seemingly disinterested, and watched the Wranglers.

“I’m not, Carl, and anyway, it’s company policy that I have to say I am if someone asks.”

Carl snorted. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t know, I mean, it’s just something people say. It’s just known.”

“Dill, think about it–how could that possibly be a policy? How could they possibly enforce it?” He shook his head. “That’s why I like being on the outside. Too much yapping and information cannibalism in the office.”

The Wranglers had the zombie head removed, and the collar was in the truck. Now they stood at the sewer grate, where gore was flung across the road and sidewalk in wide arcs. They moved methodically, back to back, blinking and turning in quarter turns.

“What are they doing? Why are they blinking like that?” Dill asked.

“They’re recording the scene. Wranglers have camera implants along with the scanner implants.”

“Jeez,” Dill breathed, “that’s got to be expensive!” Her fingers went unconsciously to the call code scanner embedded near her eyelid, but she didn’t touch it. It was smaller than half a grain of rice and activated by pressing. The laser scanned a series of squares and connected you to your party via the tiny phone implanted near your ear. The scanners and implant procedure weren’t that expensive; it was the plans that really got you. Luckily, when she’d joined ZI, they took over her plan and deducted personal calls from her pay.

Camera eyes were usually only for richies like government workers.

“Company pays for it, obviously,” Carl said. “Wranglers are far from rich. Same as the rest of us.”

“Do you have an eye camera?”

“No way,” Carl said. “No company plan combined scanner, either.”

“How do you call anyone?” Dill asked. Her voice was almost breathless with befuddlement. He might as well have said he didn’t have a brain.

“I have my personal,” he indicated his left side, “and a company one,” he indicated his right. “I won’t have them controlling my plan.”

“Why not, though? They make it so easy! They filter out all the personal calls and take it right from my check. I never have to pay a single thing.”

He gazed at her, eyebrows raised. “You’re paying,” he said, “believe me, Dill. You’re paying.”

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