Deadburbia Read online

  "Fuck this shit!" shouted Carter. Letting go of Nikki so that Hustle had to grab her before she hit the ground like a bag of wet meat, he charged the closest zombie, which had just reached the foot of the church stairs, and punched it square in the face. It stumbled back, dust as thick as sand spilling from the new, fist-sized hole in its skull. But, quickly recovering, it clumsily but effectively plunged the short, stubby sword in its left hand right through Carter's gullet and out his back. A wet gurgle escaped the boy's lips as he fell to his knees in front of his assailant as if in supplication, eyes wide, his hands scrabbling desperately at the sticky, wet point where the blade entered his body. Deftly, with a smoothness that belied its appearance, the creature pulled the sword out of Carter's chest, twirled it dramatically over its own head, and then neatly decapitated the boy. A second zombie quickly leaned in, greedily slurping at the geyser of blood pluming from Carter's unencumbered neck like a thirsty gradeschooler at a water fountain. Then the headless body toppled over, twitched once, twice, thrice, and was still.

  "You got to wake up, girl!" Hustle cried, shaking Nikki and lightly slapping her face.

  "Buh buh buh," was her only response.

  The bell stopped ringing, and the sudden silence had all the weight of a spoken death sentence. All Hustle could hear now was the sound of scraping, dragging feet closing in from all directions. Tray was gone. The white boy was dead. He could run, but he couldn't leave this girl behind, he just couldn't. "Help!" he screamed, because he couldn't think of anything else to do. "HELP!"

  15

  Kim waited until the others were a fair distance away and then leaned against the black boys' car and gave Eric her best come-hither look. "We should probably go after them..." Eric said, nervously looking back and forth from her to the others.

  "Why?" Kim asked, laying down on the hood. The stars twinkled in the sky above her. There were so many – too many – and yet it also seemed like there were fewer than before. As she watched, she was sure she saw one just vanish as if it had never been, but Eric was talking and she was more interested in paying attention to him.

  "We shouldn't split up," he was saying. "What if something happens?"

  "What could happen?" she said, just loud enough for him to hear. "There's no one here but us." She sighed wistfully. "No one in the whole world but us." Eric hesitantly put his hand on her knee, and when she didn't resist he began drawing little circles on her leg with his index finger. Closing her eyes, Kim unzipped her shorts and then took his hand by the wrist and moved it to her belly. He slipped his hand beneath her black cotton panties and began to gently explore her with his fingers.

  "I've liked you for so long," she whispered. Then she gasped, her back arching slightly. Quickly sitting up, she pulled him close and began fumbling with his belt. "You touched me there. You have to be my boyfriend!" she half demanded, half begged between hurried kisses.

  "Okay," he said, because he wasn't about to say anything else. He had no idea how he was going to explain this arrangement to his usual group of friends – who not only made fun of girls like Kim, but regularly made fun of her in particular – but he'd worry about that later. Hand in hand and falling out of their clothes, they scurried around the car, opened the rear passenger-side door, and collapsed in a tangle into the expansive back seat.

  "You're my first," Kim sighed as they reached the point of no return, and Eric wondered briefly if this were true and then decided that he didn't care. Because it was good. Very good.

  They both heard bells.

  16

  Tray had never run so fast in all his life, and he was gonna keep running too, until he was out of this bugfuck place or something caught him, and that was a fact. All around him dead people were crawling out of the woodwork – fucking dead people – and when incomprehensible shit like that went down you either started running or you started shooting. Explanations could wait until later. The zombies' heads turned as he tore down the street, following his passage with the empty black sockets where their eyes should have been and then shuffling slowly, inexorably in his general direction. That latter was the worst part. It was like they knew they didn't have to hurry. Like they knew there could be only one outcome. They were fucking with his head. But there was his car up ahead, and – thank shit – his keys were still in his pocket. He patted it twice to make sure.

  But why the hell was the back door open?

  He was so panicked that he blew past his goal and had to consciously toggle his fight-or-flight instinct, finally coming to a complete stop about twenty additional yards down the block. Breathing heavily, trying not to double over from the sudden stitch in his side, he turned back to his car and took in the whole picture. It was rocking gently, and there was definitely something in the back seat. Tray pulled his Luger out of his pants. Okay, so it didn't actually work, but who's to say zombies can't be bluffed? Zombie or no, nobody wants to get shot. "I got a gun!" he called out, slowly approaching the vehicle. It stopped rocking and the horny white girl's head popped up, eyes wide with embarrassment. "Shit, damn!" Tray exclaimed. "We gonna die, and you fuckin'!" Without waiting for a response he scrambled into the driver's seat and started the engine.

  "What the fuck is going on?" asked Eric.

  "That thing in the pool – they everywhere!"

  "What?"

  "Look around, fool!" They did, and Tray braced himself for the girl's scream. He had to admit that he was impressed when all she let out was a little gasp.

  "Holy shit, there's dozens of them," said Eric as he watched several figures reel clumsily out of doorways and clamber out of invisible hidey-holes, all of them eventually, inevitably heading towards the car.

  "Where are the others?" Kim suddenly asked. Her voice had the barest whiff of panic. Tray's first instinct was to lie. They were dead. He didn't know. He didn't know but they were probably dead. But he was emboldened now that he was firmly ensconced in the miniature proprietary universe that is one's car, so instead he set his jaw and turned back towards the church.

  "We'll get 'em," he said, flooring it. He hit the first zombie by accident. There weren't really that many, not so many that he couldn't weave in and out of them while still staying on the road, but at one point he swerved left when he should have swerved right and utterly blasted one, its body exploding like a brittle, dusty bag filled with fish guts and bone. It was counterintuitive that something so threatening could be so fragile, but once it sank in Tray began aiming for them, cheering and talking shit as he took each one out. Eric and Kim used the distraction to put most of their clothes back on.

  The church loomed into view, and Tray's newfound courage faltered as he spied the zombies from within, clad in their decayed armor and wielding their obscene medieval weapons. They were... different somehow. The majority seemed to have only a dim awareness that he and the others were here, were drawn to them solely by instinct. But these few, the ones from the church, were superior. They were aware, intelligent, openly malign. Indeed, they watched with what could only be called resentment as he slammed on the brakes and skidded, fishtailing, to a dramatic stop right next to Hustle and the other white girl. The other white boy was nowhere to be seen. Hustle pulled the front passenger-side door open and practically threw his unresponsive charge inside, and then clambered in on top of her. The sword-wielders began to spread out, a slow motion attempt to surround them, but Tray was already in the process of a K-turn, and by the time Hustle rolled over and closed the door they were already headed in the opposite direction.

  They only made it about five feet before there was a horrible metallic clank from the rear and the car fishtailed again, Tray struggling to maintain control. Something hit the road and skidded off with a dramatic rattle and from the rear passenger side came the unmistakable flapping of a shredded tire. Overcompensating, Tray jumped the opposite curb, putting them in the convenience store parking lot. Accelerating, he jerked the wheel to the right in an attempt to cut through to the far street, but there was
simply too much momentum, and the big car wobbled and skidded sideways right into the front of the store, destroying what was left of the front windows in an explosion of shimmering safety glass. Smashing sideways into the check-out counter, and permanently shifting the latter a good foot to the right, they finally came to a stop.

  "Don't this boat have no air bags?" Hustle groaned, gingerly touching the huge lump that was already visible on his forehead. Tray's side of the car was flush against the battered counter but this wasn't slowing him down – he was already climbing out the shattered car window. Eric stole a glance at the back tire as he and Kim clambered out of the back seat. The broken-off tip of a sword or something was still entangled with the shredded rubber. "Help me!" demanded Hustle. He was trying to lift Nikki out of the front seat.

  "Why why why why why...." she was monotoning.

  "What happened to her?" Kim demanded as Eric pushed past her and dashed to the back of the store.

  "She in shock or some shit!" Hustle snapped.

  "I don't understand what that means."

  "It's what happens to some people when shocking shit go down!"

  Eric returned with a bottle of what he hoped was water, tore off the top, and splashed some of the cool liquid in Nikki's face. She seemed to respond, at least a little, turning in his direction and looking at him with wild, dazed eyes.

  "We got to get outta here!" Tray, already halfway across the parking lot, pleaded with them. "Come on! Leave her if you got to!" All around them, from every direction, the dead were closing in.

  "We're not leaving Nikki!" Kim snapped.

  "Maybe we can get onto the roof!" Eric said. "They'll never be able to get to us up there!"

  "You crazy?" Tray said. "Why white people always wanna climb shit when they bein' chased? Fool, we got to run."

  "Maybe we can make it to Carter's car?" Kim suggested.

  "But he's got the keys," said Eric. "Where is Carter anyway?" He looked to Hustle for the answer, and the bigger boy just shook his head.

  "He dead."

  "Can you hot-wire a car?" Kim asked Hustle.

  "What, you think 'cause I'm black I can hot-wire a car?" Hustle shook his head disapprovingly. "Shit."

  "Damn it!" Tray shouted. "We got to run while they still spread out! Come on!"

  "Eric Brady? What are you doing in my dream?" Nikki mumbled.

  "Tray, listen to me," Hustle said, locking eyes with his cousin. "I know you scared, but we can't run forever. Man, you got to think."

  "There ain't no time for that," Tray said, shaking his head. He began to jog away from the store, stealing hurried glances at the shambling forms closing in from all sides. "I'll send help, I promise!" he called back before breaking into a full sprint.

  17

  There was an extendable ladder mounted on the side of the store that granted access to the roof, but it was locked in its uppermost position, too high to reach. So they hurriedly made for the nearest house, Eric, Hustle, and Kim dodging the widely spaced, slow-moving zombies that reached longingly for them as they passed, Hustle dragging Nikki along behind. Nikki seemed almost catatonic, a zombie herself, and yet she followed without protest if someone took her hand and led her. Hustle boosted Eric up onto the relatively low-hanging roof of the house and he reached back down to pull Nikki up when Kim slapped away his hand. "I'm your girlfriend!" she demanded. "Help me first!" He stared at her. Yesterday he would have laughed in her face, but now he found himself taking her hand and helping her scramble up. Hustle lifted Nikki up to him next, and then Eric, with some difficulty, helped the other boy up.

  "Sorry," Hustle said sheepishly. "I'm a big guy. I shoulda gone first."

  "It's okay," said Eric, breathing heavily. "Least now we can relax for a second and recoup."

  "For sure," Hustle agreed. He paused. "Man, I hope Tray okay."

  Nikki whimpered. There were at least a hundred zombies surrounding the house, all moving inexorably towards it. The closest were already reaching for the lowest points of the roof, their grasping fingers closing around empty air.

  "What if they can climb?" asked Kim, panic creeping into her voice.

  "We'll find out," Eric said, frowning.

  "If they can," Hustle said, pointing, "we just relocate." Following his gaze, Eric realized, for the first time, how close together the houses really were. They could just make the leap from one roof to the other. For the moment, though, it didn't seem necessary – the zombies seemed incapable of climbing up to their perch, although their scrabbling fingers did manage to dislodge the eaves trough at the roof's lowest point, pulling it down with a muffled rattle. Beyond that, the night remained eerily silent. The zombies didn't moan or groan or hiss. They just kept coming, and, having come, they waited.

  "Nikki?" Kim asked, crouching down next to her and brushing some of the redhead's hair out of her face. She'd always been jealous of Nikki's hair. It was the perfect shade of red, with no attendant freckles. Nikki's mother was so proud of her daughter's hair that she forbade her to dye it.

  "We're in so much trouble, Kim," Nikki said plaintively. "Don't you see? We're in so much trouble."

  "Elvira's the Mistress of the Dark, she the Mistress of the Obvious," Hustle said.

  "Leave her alone!" snapped Kim.

  "Look," Eric said, pointing diagonally across the intersection to the foot of the church. They could see Carter's body, the fleshy parts and innards gone, two or three zombies clumsily gnawing at the few scraps of tattered meat that still clung to the bones. One of his fibula broke under the assault with a crisp snap.

  "Je-zus Christ," Hustle said. "They et him."

  "I'm more worried about those guys." Hustle turned his attention to the zombies Eric was indicating. There were at least twenty of them, blackened with age and rot like the others and yet, somehow, different, and not just because the vast majority of them were wearing armor like knights of old and carried tarnished, rusty weapons to match. They seemed more... aware somehow. And they were all staring at the kids on the roof.

  "They can see us," Hustle said. "They got no eyes but they can see us."

  "They hate us," Nikki whispered. "The others are just hungry but they hate us. This is their place, but they hate it, too, and they blame us for bringing them here."

  Kim took Eric's hand.

  "What is she talkin' about?" Hustle asked. Eric shook his head in the negative.

  "They're smart too," Nikki continued. "Not like the others. They'll wait to see if we screw up – they can wait a long, long time – but if we don't they'll just pull the house down around us or set it on fire. Whatever it takes. But first they'll wait. They can wait a long, long time..."

  "What are we going to do?" Kim asked, a single tear running down her left cheek.

  "We gonna die," Hustle said quietly. Nikki looked right at him and favored him with a beatific smile.

  "Oh, we're not going to die," she said. "That's the worst part of all. That we're not going to die."

  18

  Tray ran. He dodged. He weaved. He had no trouble keeping away from them, out of their grasp. But the others had been right. He'd have to stop to rest sometime, and, eventually, to sleep. He needed to find a place where he could barricade himself in so they couldn't get him. He wondered how strong they were, or if they were smart enough to use tools. The ones outside the church had swords and shit, but did they really know how to use them or were they just carrying them around out of habit or some shit? Exhausted, he slowed to a brisk walk. He was still on the same damn block – there was the phone booth, and the bus stop, and the mailboxes – but there were fewer zombies now so maybe he had made some progress. Maybe if he just kept going he would get out of this place. Maybe it was all a state of mind or some shit. He took a moment to examine his surroundings, carefully this time. Bus stop. Mailboxes. Phone booth. Well, he didn't see no bus, and he sure as shit wasn't gonna write nobody no letter. But that girl, Kim, she said she got through to her old man when she tried the phone. Mayb
e he could get through to someone, too. Hell, even 9-1-1 didn't seem like such a bad idea now. Approaching the phone booth, he slowly reached for the receiver and then nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone suddenly rang.

  "Damn near shit myself," he mumbled, snatching it up.

  "Hello?" he began automatically. "We need help! Send the damn Marines..."

  "Have you eaten?" asked an insistent, dismal voice. It wavered, like the connection was bad.

  "What?"

  "There are no outside lines," said the disappointed voice, as if realizing this for the first time. "Odd's wounds. Odd wounds. Do not toss. May carry forward. Refer to pog." Gibberish. Tray dropped the receiver, stepped away, and quickly looked around. He didn't want some zombie sneaking up on him and trapping his ass in no damn phone booth. He remembered what his Ma always said when she knew he could do better: I raised me a stinker, but I didn't raise no fool. Damn straight. But what should he...

  There was a peripheral sense of motion, and as he turned in its direction the first arrow hit him square in the chest. "Gaah!" he cried out, more in surprise than anything. He backpedaled until he bumped into the bus stop shelter, then grabbed the arrow by the shaft and, gritting his teeth, pulled it out. The pain hit him then, sharp and intense, and a bubbling, hissing stream of red liquid began to flow from the wound, instantly soaking the front of his shirt. A second arrow hit the heavy Plexiglas next to his head with a dull thunk, bounced off, and fell to the ground. "What the fuck?!?" he screamed, tasting blood. It was the goddamned twenty-first century, almost, and some bat-crazy fucker was shooting at him with arrows. Sliding down the Plexiglas wall he used the bus shelter for cover as he crawled away, making for one of the houses across the street. I ain't gonna die like no chump in a cowboy movie, he thought. He was surprised at the enormous amount of blood he seemed to be losing. He was getting light-headed. "Fuck you!" he challenged no one in particular. "Fuck you, you dead fucks!" He kept going, one hand, one knee, in front of the other. He was on the front lawn now, the perfectly manicured front lawn of this perfect little house in perfect-ass deadburbia. He'd get inside. He'd barricade himself in. They'd never get him. He was a stinker, but he was no fool.