Rocky Mountain Die Page 8

  “Head wounds,” Stuart says as he covers his mouth and examines the bodies. “Bite marks on the arms and legs. They took themselves out before they could turn. Ballsy.”

  He rifles through the corpses’ clothes and packs, handing Charlie a couple of hunting knives and three pistols, all revolvers.

  “Two cartridges,” Charlie says as he starts breaking open the revolvers’ cylinders. “Three in this one and five in this one.”

  “Poor bastards didn’t even get all their shots off,” Stuart says.

  “As much as I want to mourn the dead, we need to get upstairs,” Stella says.

  “Hold on,” Elsbeth says and rushes past us up the stairs to the door to the roof. “Jammed.”

  “Can you get it open?” Stuart asks.

  Elsbeth tosses the bat down the stairs and Charlie catches it. Nice. She pulls her remaining blade and kicks the roof door open. It swings out fast and several Zs try to scramble in at her. Too bad for them that is exactly what Elsbeth wanted them to do.

  Eight Z heads come tumbling down the stairs to us.

  “Clear,” Elsbeth says and keeps going.

  She’s lost from sight, leaving us to stare at the Z heads and the people corpses. Then all eyes turn to me.

  “Wheelchair,” I say.

  “Come on,” Stuart sighs. “You can get on my back. I’ll carry you up there.”

  “It’ll be easier to carry the wheelchair like you did up the escalator,” I reply. “I’ll break your back.”

  There’s a crunching sound and Charlie turns quickly, bat raised.

  “Zs coming,” he says and steps away from us.

  I twist around and watch him crack open three Z heads then kick the bodies back over the railing. He sprints back to us.

  “A couple dozen are climbing up,” he says. “We need to go now.”

  “Cover our backs,” Stuart says then crouches in front of me.

  I sigh and lean forward, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and neck. He stands slowly, grunting from my weight, but I don’t snap his spine, so that’s a plus. Slowly, he takes each step at a time. I hear Charlie grunt also as he and Stella get the stairwell door closed. There are some loud slams against the door as Zs ram it from the other side.

  “Won’t hold long,” Charlie says.

  “Neither will my back,” Stuart grumbles as he makes it the last few steps then lowers me to the landing next to the roof door. “How much do you fucking weigh, Long Pork?”

  “Fuck you,” I snap.

  “Roof is clear,” Elsbeth says as she peeks in at us. “What are you doing on the ground? Dumb place to be.”

  Then she’s gone in her enigmatic Elsbeth way.

  “Here,” Stella says as she sets the wheelchair next to me. “Your chariot.”

  “Oooh, can we have races later?” I ask. “Go all Ben-Hur on the Zs and shit?”

  “Yes, Jace, that sounds like a very practical thing to do,” Stella sighs and walks past me.

  I think she’s being sarcastic.

  “I am,” she says.

  Dammit. Out loud.

  “Uh, I’ll get him up in the chair,” Charlie says. “I got it. All by myself.”

  “Thanks, son,” I grin as he helps me to my feet and into the wheelchair. He wheels me out onto the roof and I instantly have to clamp my jaws shut to keep from chattering.

  “Fuck me,” Charlie says. “We aren’t going to last long up here.”

  “Probably why those bodies were down there,” Stuart says. “Staying warm before they figured out what they had to do.”

  Elsbeth is standing on the ledge of the roof, looking down, framed by the rising sun and a clear blue sky. At least the snow has stopped. Of course, a clear, Colorado winter day is not really much better. Clouds hold the heat in. With them gone, the air is probably ten degrees colder than when it was snowing. My temp guess? Zero. A big, whopping zero degrees Fahrenheit.

  And windy as all fuck.

  “Where’d the bodies come from?” Charlie asks. “I mean the people before they were bodies. They’re recent.”

  “If we’d had more time we could have looked for clues,” Stuart says as he holds his hand out. “Bat me.”

  “That’s my bat,” Elsbeth says, turning away from the ledge and stepping back down onto the roof proper. “I like that bat.”

  “We need to brace the door handle,” Stuart says as Charlie hands him the bat. “This fits perfectly.”

  I can see the conflict on Elsbeth’s face before she shrugs and turns away.

  “I’ll find another,” she says. “And more blades. Need more blades. Wonder where I can get more blades?”

  “At the blade store?” I suggest.

  “No blade stores, Long Pork,” she replies. “Gun store. They have blades. Hunting store, they have blades.”

  “Pawn shops,” Charlie suggests. “They have guns and blades. You always see katanas and shit in pawn shops.”

  “You used to,” I say. “Before the zombies showed up. Then every samurai wannabe grabbed a fucking ninja sword and got themselves killed.”

  “Martial arts studios,” Stuart says. “Or military supply shops. But those will be well-past looted by now. We find a kung fu studio and there will be swords and other weapons there.”

  “Jesus, why didn’t I ever think of that?” I ask. “Melissa didn’t think of it either back when she was in charge of the Whispering Pines scavengers. There were like six studios on Merrimon Avenue alone, plus another three over on Charlotte Street.”

  “Always good to have weapons out in the field if you need them,” Stuart says. “That’s why I didn’t mention it to her.”

  The stairwell door shudders and Stuart jumps back, holding up one of the revolvers scavenged off the corpses.

  “Not going to hold long,” he says. “Look for more materials to brace it with.”

  Charlie and Stella hurry around the roof, hunting for anything they can pry loose to use to brace the door. It takes them less than five minutes to realize there is nothing.

  I notice Elsbeth staring off to the East, watching the horizon. The sun is bright as shit, which is sending daggers of pain into my head. Nope, sorry, more like motherfucking broadswords of pain into my head. I’m getting a little nauseous from the bright light and the pain.

  “Dot,” Elsbeth says.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, closing my eyes.

  “Dot coming this way,” Elsbeth says.

  “A dot is coming this way?” I ask.

  “That’s what I said, Long Pork,” Elsbeth replies, obviously frustrated with me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I really just can’t open my eyes right now.”

  I hear the roof door shudder again and the unmistakable sounds of Z hands smacking against the other side.

  “There is a dot coming at us in the sky,” Elsbeth says. “It’s getting bigger.” She says all that like I’m a four year old.

  “Big dot? Little dot?” I ask.

  “Red dot, blue dot,” Charlie says from my side, making me jump a little. “Sorry.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Shit. I see it too.”

  “What is it?” Stella asks. Sounds like the whole gang is by me.

  “Chopper,” Stuart says from across the roof. Okay, the whole gang minus Stuart is by me. “That can’t be good. Only one group would have a chopper.”

  “My mother,” Elsbeth says. “Shit farts.”

  “True dat, homegirl,” I say. “Shit farts indeed.”

  “Do we hide?” Charlie asks. “Not that there is any place to hide.”

  “They’re coming right for us,” Stuart says. “My guess is they have spotters in the city already and we’ve been spotted.”

  “Whatcha doing over there, Stuart?” I ask.

  “Looking for a way down,” he replies.

  “Find one?”

  “Do I look like I found one?”

  “I have my eyes closed because of the sun and the brain surgery and shit,” I reply.

  �
��Do I sound like I found a way down?” he asks.

  “You do not,” I respond. “Question answered.”

  “Spot getting bigger,” Elsbeth says.

  “Thank you for the play by play, El,” I say.

  “I can shoot it down,” Elsbeth says. “Give me a pistol.”

  “You’re going to shoot a chopper down with a revolver?” I laugh. “We have two .38s and a .45. No way you can shoot a chopper down with any of those.”

  “Don’t need to shoot the chopper,” Elsbeth says and I hear her breaking the cylinder then slapping it back in place. “I just need to shoot the pilot.”

  “Gonna be a tough shot,” Stuart says, suddenly right behind me. I do not jump or pee myself a little. Shut up.

  “We need to put a bell on you,” I say.

  “Not everyone has their eyes closed, Jace,” Stuart replies.

  The roof door groans and I hear several loud pops.

  “Shit,” Stuart says. “The hinges are giving way.”

  “How close does the chopper need to be?” Charlie asks. “Because they probably have snipers in there watching us right now. You lift that pistol too soon and they’ll take us out.”

  “He’s right,” Stuart says.

  “I’ll wait to the last minute,” Elsbeth says.

  The door groans again and metal begins to tear. I wrench my eyes open and glance at the door. There is a distinct gap between the door and the jamb.

  “I think we may need those bullets for something else, y’all,” I say.

  “Not enough bullets,” Elsbeth says. “I can take the Zs with my blade.”

  “Sure, you can,” I say. “But the rest of us can’t. This roof is wide open, giving the Zs lots of space to surround us. No bottleneck up here.”

  “What if they aren’t coming to kill us?” Stella asks. “Camille has said the one thing she wants is her daughter back.”

  “She also wants world domination,” I say.

  “She never said that,” Stella replies.

  “Every bigger than life bad guy wants world domination,” I say. “That’s how it works.”

  “They are in range to kill us if they want,” Stuart says.

  I shield my eyes and look at the incoming helicopter. It’s a big one. A Huey? Is that what they’re called? No, those were in Vietnam. This thing is a…

  “Blackhawk,” Stuart says. “No rockets, which is good. Looks pretty stripped down.” He pauses. “El, don’t shoot.”

  “Not going to,” Elsbeth responds. “That’s not my mother.”

  “No, it’s not,” Stuart says.

  Then the roof door gives way. Oh, fuckety fuck.

  The Zs come at us fast. Really fast. Fast, fast, fast.

  These are the new ones, the strange ones, the ones that don’t act like they are supposed to. They hit the roof and it is on like Donkey Kong.

  Man, I miss Donkey Kong. Fuck PlayStation. I want to play some old school ColecoVision and shit.

  “Dad! No one cares about your video game nostalgia!” Charlie yells as he braces for the attack.

  Elsbeth, not one for bracing, dives right into the swarm that comes at us. She stabs and slices, moving from foot to foot, spinning and pivoting back and forth, cutting off arms and taking Zs out at the legs. The undead fall around her, but there are so many I know she won’t be able to keep up.

  Stuart jumps in. He drops three Zs with the rounds left in one of the revolvers then clubs two more in the skulls, sending putrid brains spilling everywhere. Four try to jump him at once, but Charlie shows up with the bat that had been holding the door closed. I am going to say the bat failed. I know, I’m going out on a limb with this statement.

  Charlie takes a couple heads off with the bat then impales two together through their rotted bellies with it. They twist and yank the bat from his hands. My son is now weaponless which is not what a father wants to see when a crazed horde of Zs is running at him.

  “Down!” Stella yells.

  She fires one of the revolvers and two Zs crumple. Charlie quickly retreats next to her as she fires until the revolver is empty and clicking. She missed twice, but took out two more Zs. That only leaves an ass load to kill.

  Never slowing, still spinning like a whirling Dervish, Elsbeth hacks her way through the swarm of Zs until she reaches the two impaled Zs. She takes the Zs’ heads off with her blade in one swipe, sending them to the ground. She kneels, grabs up the fallen baseball bat, and comes up so fast it’s a good thing I didn’t blink or I would have missed everything.

  Armed with two weapons, Elsbeth works her way back through the swarm, shouting and yelling the whole time so the Zs focus on her. She’s crushing skulls and lopping off heads, never slowing, never resting, barely looking like she’s even breaking a sweat. Not that a person could sweat out in this cold.

  Everyone is fighting their asses off except me. I’m just sitting here in my wheelchair, useless, pointless, a pitiful— Oh, fuck here comes a Z! What do I do? What do I do?

  I grab one wheel and start pushing as hard as I can. Hey...my arm works again! Awesome! Except a one-armed man pushing a wheelchair is not exactly an efficient way to move. It is, however, a very efficient way to turn in a circle.

  I’ve spun myself halfway around before I get my panic under control. Unfortunately, that means my back is to the Z coming at me. Fuck.

  I do see the chopper getting closer, though. Like really close.

  I barely register the gunshot before I feel something splatter against my neck and scalp. The Z collapses at my side, half of its head missing.

  While I’m grateful the Z is dead, I also have to wonder if maybe the shot was intended for me and not the zombie. Maybe the guy in the chopper is a shitty shot?

  I spin my chair back again so I’m facing my peeps. Dammit! I hate saying peeps! I blame fucking Barfly, that asshole canny gang leader back in Knoxville, for getting that stuck in my head. Next time Stenkler is rummaging around in my brainpan, I’ll ask if he can remove that word from my vocabulary permanently. That’s how brain surgery works, right?

  Elsbeth is fucking crushing it and Charlie isn’t doing so bad himself. Stuart has a hunting knife in his hand and is stabbing the Zs through their skulls at close range. Not the safest of strategies, but highly effective if you don’t get a nasty little love bite from one of the zombies. Those Zs do like their love bites.

  The wind picks up and I’m having a hard time staying in my wheelchair. Before I can call out for help, I’ve collapsed on to the roof, dirt and grit flying all about me.

  It’s a twister! It’s a twister!

  Oh, shit, and a couple more Zs!

  ***

  Rotor wash. That’s what it’s called. I don’t think I’ve ever felt rotor wash before. Have I? Fuck if I know anymore.

  It’s rotor wash, not wind that is whipping about me. I realize this as I lie here on the roof and look up to see the chopper hovering over us. Two men are leaning out, rifles in hands, firing down at the Zs, dropping them quickly. The ones coming for me become headless in seconds and black blood starts to whirl around everywhere as the rotor wash turns the air into a Z fluid rinse cycle.

  “Grab the rope!” someone yells down at us through a bullhorn.

  How do I know it’s a bullhorn? Puh-lease, this is the apocalypse. Half the assholes that have tried to kill me have used a bullhorn. It must be in the apocalyptic asshole manual or something.

  Which means I need to figure out if these assholes are going to try to kill me. Are they even assholes? They have a bullhorn, so that goes in the Yes column, but they also blew the heads off the Zs coming to get me Barbara.

  “Come on,” Charlie says as he hooks an arm under me and gets me to my feet.

  The roof swims and swirls, not because of the rotor wash, but because of the dental surgery to my brain. I wonder if Stenkler and Dr. FuckerDeShitfarts gave my cerebellum a nice fluoride rinse? I probably should have waited forty-five minutes before thinking. Dammit! Now I’ll have brai
n plaque!

  Wait, that’s not funny. You can actually get plaque on your brain. Or in your brain. Close to the general vicinity of your brain. Brain plaque is bad.

  “Dad!” Charles shouts. “Pay attention! Fucking shut up about the brain plaque!”

  “I miss it when all I could say was aaayyy!”

  “That was out loud!” Charlie replies.

  “I know!” I yell back. “I wanted it to be!”

  Several lines of black rope drop next to us and Charlie wraps one around my waist then up under my shoulders. I only have the one hand, which isn’t even close to being at full strength, but I think it’s enough to hang on with.

  We both look up at the men with the rifles. One looks close to Charlie’s age, more a teenager than a man, with dark, curly hair and black skin crisscrossed with lots of white scars. A second teenager is right by his side, just as scarred, but he has thick dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. The two boys look exactly alike except for their hairstyle choices.

  And speaking of look alikes, the third man could be Stuart’s twin, except he’s not a man, but a woman and she is glaring at us like we totally fucked up her apocalypse. So, by looking like Stuart’s twin, I mean she could be ex-military and I have zero plans on calling her Jimmy unless I want to eat smoothies the rest of my life.

  Man, I miss smoothies.

  The rope goes taught and I’m pulled off my feet. I squint into the bright sunlight and see a heavy-duty winch struggling to pull my ass up into the chopper. Don’t know why it’s struggling, I’m not that heavy.

  Then I get parallel with the Scar Boys and Ms. Glare and see why the winch is struggling. It’s old and rusty. So is the rest of the helicopter. This does not bode well.

  “Sit your ass down and do not move!” Ms. Glare shouts over the deafening sound of the rotors. “You move, you get tossed out the doors!”

  “Not moving!” I yell back as I’m shoved into the center of the chopper’s hold.

  Is it called a hold? I don’t know. There are three more people with rifles inside the chopper and one of them shoves me into a seat and straps me in while the other two cover me with their rifles. You know, just in case the one-armed man who is obviously bleeding a lot from his scalp tries to hijack this here fine specimen of aerial machinery.