Zombies! (Episode 7): Conflicts of Interest (11 page)

Arrick pulled away from Shawn, who managed to find purchase against the side of the building.

"Marcus," whispered Shawn. "What are you doing?"

"Stay out of this, Shawn."

"I never called the police," Arrick said, but it was a shallow defense. He had given Abby the information knowing full well that she had a relationship with Heron. And he was the head of the zombie task force. Arrick had always known what would happen.

"I trusted you," Marcus spat. "Do you know how much money we were making?"

"Money?
Money?!
" Something inside of John Arrick snapped. In his head he replayed the events in his life about which he was most sorry. He was sorry he'd never made amends with his father. He was sorry he had never found the patience to make Suzanna a better person. He was sorry he hadn't turned himself in after being bitten and even more sorry for not doing the same after surviving the plague. But he was most sorry for breaking his promise to Malcolm. He'd told Malcolm that he'd put things right and he just simply hadn't. In fact, he'd made more of a mess of everything, gotten into bed with people who were capitalizing on the zombie plague. It was disgusting.
He
was disgusting.

"Do you see what you've done?" Arrick cried at Marcus. "How many people have just lost their lives so that you can escape the police? What kind of a monster are you?"

But Marcus was beyond moments of clarity. PJ's off handed comment about his being a super villain held more truth than he dared think. When he'd started this, he'd done it with the intention of making some money, but containing it all. As it had grown, he had recognized the possibility that a police raid would one day come. How would they then escape? If they created mass confusion, they could then slip away with nobody being any the wiser. Sure, lots of people would be hurt and killed, but so what? Marcus and his group could all anonymously slip back into their lives with no one any the wiser.

No one, that is, except Shawn. Looking at Shawn, Marcus understood that their fight had been his turning point. Up until that moment, everything he'd done had been at arm's length. Toby and Damon and PJ did all of the dirty work. Marcus just ran everything from behind the scenes. Since shooting Shawn, he'd been losing bits and bits of himself every day. That was why he had saved the boy. That was why he clung to his feelings for him.

"I love you, Shawn," he said, completely forgetting about Arrick, who stood dumbfounded. It explained a lot. Not everything. But a lot.

Clutching his middle, trying desperately to keep his feet, Shawn cocked his head so that he could look into Marcus' eyes. There was a time, not too long before, when he'd found those eyes captivating. Marcus's voice and his skin and everything about him had held Shawn in a prison he'd hoped never to leave. But the prison wasn't so attractive from the outside. There was no forgiveness. "Go to hell."

Some things that are lost. Are lost forever.

"You and me, both." He pointed the gun at Shawn.

"
No!
" Arrick shouted, charging.

At the same time, the door burst open and Heron appeared, gun in hand. Marcus was confused. He didn't know who to shoot. Batting Arrick aside with his gun hand, he took one wild shot toward the lieutenant. It ricocheted off of the building behind him. Arrick struck out with his leg in an attempt to trip him up but was unsuccessful. Marcus turned on him and fired again. The close sound of the weapon sent Arrick into a panic and he ran, covering the back of his head with his arms. Marcus took two more shots as the school teacher disappeared into the darkness. Going to one knee, Heron also fired two shots. The first hit Marcus in the chest. The second hit him in the leg. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and lay still.

"Arrick?" Heron called into the darkness. "Arrick?"

There was no response. He was long gone.

Going to Shawn's side, Heron began to inspect his wounds. There was blood leaking from the bandages around his middle. Heron took off his jacket and wrapped it around the him. The he pulled out his phone and began to call for help. He was in the middle of the call when Shawn tapped him on the shoulder. At first, he waved him away, but there was urgency in Shawn's motions and he looked to see the boy looking over his shoulder. Turning quickly, he saw shadows in the distance. They were maybe forty feet away, shambling right toward them. There were a lot of them.

Heron put his phone away. No one would get to them in time. First he went to Marcus. The man was still breathing.

"Can you walk, Shawn?"

Shawn didn't answer right away.

"I can't carry both of you," Heron said urgently.

"Then leave him," Shawn said back, with venom.

Unsatisfied with that answer, Heron lifted Marcus into a fireman's carry.

"I said
leave him!
" Shawn shouted.

Straightening up as best he could, Heron held one elbow out to Shawn. "Hang onto me."

"We'll never outrun them," Shawn answered dejectedly.

"Just hang on." Forgetting the danger for a moment, Heron's addled brain realized just how embarrassing it would be if he couldn't outrun a group of zombies.

Shawn grabbed hold of Heron's elbow and they began to move away. The going was slow as it was, but Shawn kept looking back and losing his balance.

"Come on, come on," Heron coaxed.

"What about Mr. Arrick?" Arrick had run off in that direction. He'd run straight into the zombie army.

"We can't help him," said Heron.

They began to pick up the pace after that, Heron laboring with Marcus' dead weight. Shawn's legs were weak after his extended period of inactivity. He wasn't really walking, more stumbling or lurching. He looked like one of the undead himself.

A few more steps and the zombies were close enough to smell. This time it was Heron who looked back. The undead were right on top of them. Well, it was just a couple. Those who were less damaged moved faster than the pack and had broken away. Another minute and they'd be close enough to touch.

"Damn it," Heron muttered, then shouted, "
God damn it!
"

He tossed Shawn a few paces ahead of him and ordered him to keep going. Then he dropped Marcus to the ground and drew his gun. If he used one bullet per zombie, he might have enough. But he'd have to load the spare clip from his jacket in order to do that and he wasn't sure he'd have the time. He took down the two closest with two shots. As they dropped to the ground, he thought of Linda. Poor Linda with her written plea. Were any of these zombies like her? Were they special in some way?

They weren't afraid of guns. That, at least was certain. A few more came into range and he fired on them. One got close enough to reach out and touch him. Panicking, Heron misfired. The bullet took the zombie in the shoulder, knocking it backwards. It gave him enough time to take aim and fire at the head.

I didn't count the shots
, Heron suddenly realized. He tried to play it over in his mind. Did he have one bullet left or five? Either way, he didn't have options. The next wave was big, ten at least. He pulled out the old cartridge and slipped in the one from his jacket. If he had the opportunity, he would return to the old one. He was betting that he wouldn't have the opportunity.

"Lieutenant?" came a distant voice. Another cop? Too good to be true.

"Here!" cried Heron. "Hurry!" He started firing again.

From behind him, he heard rushing footsteps. Three officers came up beside him and began firing at the zombies with their rifles. Before long, there wasn't even one still standing. Heron sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

"Are you all right?" one of the officers asked.

Heron shook his head. He was tired and weak and frightened out of his mind. All he wanted was to be in his home and in his bed, curled up next to Alicia. Even if she hated him, it would be a far far better place for him.

***

CULPH
went to the first office he could find and began rooting around inside. There was a locker that held a pair of baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. They were both a little bit big but they would do. He stripped off his light pants quickly and redressed himself. He still needed money and was determined to find some. If it was in a safe, he'd be out of luck. He didn't have the time or the expertise to go safecracking. When he finished tearing apart that office, he went on to the next. This was Marcus' office and he found just what he was looking for. Inside one of the deep desk drawers was a strongbox. When he shook it he heard the sound of paper being jostled around. Bingo. There wasn't time to pick the lock or search for a key so he just took it. As he came out of the room, he came face to face with Greg Smith. Smith was moving carefully along the upper walk with a handgun held out in front of him. When Culph appeared, he immediately trained his gun on him.

"How you doing, Greg?" Culph said.

"Frank," Smith answered. "You okay?"

Culph nodded. "Just need to go is all."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

Culph had to hand it to the man. He was as calm as can be. Smith was a good cop. He was honest. He was a family man. He didn't shy away in the face of confrontation. Culph respected that. "Don't make me hurt you, Greg."

"Are you trying to intimidate me? You should know that's not going to work."

With one hand, Culph threw the strongbox. Smith was too well trained to fire his gun wildly, but he couldn't avoid the box without sacrificing his aim and his concentration. Culph used the advantage wisely. He came in underneath Smith's gun and delivered two punches to the man's unprotected belly. To his credit, Smith didn't drop his gun but Culph was larger and stronger and was able to just take the weapon away. Having removed the threat, Culph backed off quickly and started for the stairs.

Smith took two steps toward him before Culph raised the gun. "Don't test me, Greg."

From Smith's perspective, Culph was a murderer without boundaries. So he froze in place, petrified at the thought of his wife and children having to go on without him. In truth, if he would have charged Culph, it would have been a fist fight rather than a shooting. Whatever had driven Culph to beat Rose and kill Wilma was missing from him at that moment. He could no more have fired on Smith than he could have allowed Heron to be eaten by those zombies earlier. But it served him better that Smith didn't know that. Backpeddling all the way to the stairs, Culph kept the gun trained on his former colleague. Once there, he turned and took them two at a time. Smith didn't even bother to pursue.

***

IT
was difficult for Melissa to drag Peter out of the bleachers and down onto the floor. Those few men who hadn’t panicked and ran when the zombies started attacking looked at her queerly but not a one of them interfered. Better for them. She had a taser and she wasn’t afraid to use it. She grabbed Peter by the arms so that he wouldn’t bang his head on the way down. At one point, she caught his foot on one of the bleacher benches and winced as it seemed to turn the wrong way. But he didn’t move. How could he? He was tased into oblivion. She hoped she hadn’t overdone it. She needed him awake for what was to come next. If he wasn’t awake. Well… This was her best opportunity and she was damned well going to make the most of it.

The floor of the arena was littered with bodies. A couple of zombies were floating around, feasting on the freshly killed. The air was thick with the smell of blood. With all of the living people having evacuated the place, the cold air had started to seep in and she could see the steam rising off of the entrails of the dead. It was thoroughly revolting, but Melissa was past the point of squeamishness. One zombie got a little too close and a little too curious and she shoved the taser into its ruined face. The thing's arms and legs went useless and it jerked as if on a tether. When she pulled it away and it collapsed to the floor, she spat on it. Melissa was so consumed by hate that nothing would stand in her way. The hate was all she had left and she would nurture it and protect it until it was a force all its own.

Ideally, she’d have liked to drag Peter into the ring. It was a good spot where she could lay him but there were a couple of problems. The first was the locked cage. None of the dead men around looked as if they had been workers at the warehouse so she didn’t figure to find a key. The second was the three zombie competitors still inside. Sure, two of them were incapacitated, but that didn’t preclude them as obstacles. Still, she admired St. Francis’ work.

So the ring was out.

Clearing away the chairs from the front few rows, she made a nice open area. And she didn’t just clear away the chairs. She tossed them and screamed as she did it. Breathing heavily, hair a mess, she turned back to Peter. He was beginning to moan. That was good, but she’d have to hurry. She didn’t want him fully awake until she’d gotten everything set up. Quickly looking around, she spotted the perfect specimen. Just killed, not yet turned. She smiled an evil smile. After all this time, Melissa Benford would have her revenge.