Part 11 (1/2)

”I hear a h.e.l.luva a lot of nothin' but static-”

”Ssh. Turn that thing off. Listen.” Shaun put the crossword puzzle book on the counter, but sat riveted with the blue pen and chain still dangling from his clenched fist.

A low moan emanated from above.

CHAPTER 17.

Dejah and Shaun looked upward, holding their breath. Something in the ceiling sc.r.a.ped around like cinder blocks over cardboard. Whatever was up there, above the water-stained tiles, was a lot bigger than a rat.

One of the brownish ceiling tiles sagged under weight.

”How'd it get in?” Shaun whispered.

”I don't know.” Dejah scanned the room for something to use as a weapon. Frank had all the guns in the back room where he was sleeping. From the sounds of his snoring, a freight train could barrel through the Bocadomart and he'd never hear it.

Shaun inched toward the broom propped in the corner and wrapped his fingers around the stick. Dejah nodded. Nearby a metal display stand was stuck between plastic packages of toilet paper. She grabbed it and turned it over. Two metal p.r.o.ngs stuck out vertically. She smiled. Shaun gave her a weak thumbs-up.

The next moan they heard was followed closely by hoa.r.s.e gagging: a sound like a cat trying to rid itself of one ma.s.sive, phlegm-engorged hairball. The raspy choking-cough rattled the ceiling tile. Dust and bits of insulation peppered the floor beneath.

Shaun's eyes widened as the ceiling tile bent further. The underneath side began to split. Dejah gripped the metal sign with new intensity.

With a burst of dust and a cloud of pink and yellow insulation, a gore-smeared zombie sprawled from the ceiling in a heavy thud. Decades of rat t.u.r.ds and debris rained from the s.p.a.ce, leaving Dejah and Shaun sputtering to maintain a defensive position.

The thing scrambled onto all fours. It shoved itself from the floor, snarling and snapping like some rabid beast. It sc.r.a.ped the air with broken fingernails, gray and jagged. Thick, globular saliva trailed from its mouth, over its chest. Blood, bits of flesh, and thick, congealing brain matter coated the infected zombie's face and arms.

It walked toward Shaun, mumbling incoherently in something akin to Spanish, but slurred, muddled. Dejah paced slowly, not wanting to alarm the fiend, not wanting it to propel itself forward onto Shaun. She s.n.a.t.c.hed a candy bar from the shelf and pegged the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the back of the head. ”Hey, over here!”

It gave a low, pained noise and spun toward Dejah.

Shaun took a swing at the zombie's head, using the broomstick like a baseball bat. The broom handle struck its mark, but bounced from the back of the thing's head like it was made of rubber.

”d.a.m.n!” Shaun shouted.

The zombie jumped Dejah, knocking her backward. She worked the metal p.r.o.ngs of the sign up toward the zombie's face, but the monster was too strong. Wrapping its ashen fingers around the metal, the sign was yanked from Dejah's grasp and slung across the store. The thing hovered over Dejah's face, s...o...b..r drooling over her hair and head. She pushed at its chest, but her hands only slipped and slid in the caked-on remnants of someone's innards. The smell of s.h.i.+t and rotting meat clung to the zombie's clothes. Dejah gagged.

”Uhhhhhhhhhh,” the thing moaned, teeth only centimeters from Dejah's face.

She vomited. Vomited in an upward exploding fountain of Snickers, Doritos, and brown soda. The force of the vomit splashed against the face of the zombie and the infected man awkwardly pulled himself up using the metal shelving beside him as an anchor. It went berserk as if it were suddenly caged, trying to wipe the puke from its eyes and nose.

”Get out of the way!” It was Frank. He stood in the doorway of the backroom, shotgun ready for action.

Dejah used her legs to push herself backward along the vomit-slicked floor. She grabbed the same shelving the zombie had used, and scrambled to her feet, slipping in her regurgitated meal, finally getting to the other side of the store.

The zombie wailed, smearing vomit and gore around on its face.

Boom! Boom!

The room reverberated with cannon blasts as Frank unloaded the shotgun into the face of the zombie.

”f.u.c.king Sickie!” Frank racked the gun and fired off one more sh.e.l.l.

The thing dropped like a bag of sand, landing on the floor a few feet from Shaun.

Everyone was quiet. All that could be heard was a dull ringing from the gunshots and their heavy breathing as they stood there processing what just happened. Frank stood with the gun smoking in his hand, looking at Dejah with an expression of anger and disgust. Behind his eyes the dream of drinking beer in Bocadomart till the National Guard showed up just died. His face said it all: the place wasn't the virtual fortress he imagined it to be.

”Get yerself cleaned up. Me and the boy will start packing supplies. If one of those f.u.c.kers got in, more of them will follow. There might already be more up there for all we know.”

Frank looked into the dark cavity above them.

Dejah grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-s.h.i.+rt like the ones Shaun wore and hurried to the restroom. She locked herself inside. She leaned against the door, head back, wiping her hair away from her face. Chunks of partially digested food clung to her fingers. She looked sideways into the cracked mirror hanging askance above the sink that stuck out too far from the plastered wall. ”Oh, G.o.d,” she moaned, peeling off her clothes. She tossed them into a heap in the corner and used a wad of paper towels to sponge herself. Sticking her head as far under the grimy tap as she could, she let the warm water run over her hair and face. It felt good. Refres.h.i.+ng. Using the hand soap as shampoo, she squirted the green stuff into her hands and scrubbed the vomit and zombie spit from her hair.

When she'd done all she could, she turned off the creaky spigot. A beach towel hung from the hook on the back of the door, and she wrapped it around her wet hair. Already she felt better as she tugged on the sweatpants and s.h.i.+rt.

Someone rapped on the outside of the door.

”Yeah?”

”You bout done in there?” It was Frank.

”Yeah,” she said, opening the door.

”We've packed up the ammo, moved the guns and gas cans to the front of the store. We've packed up food and water in boxes we found in the backroom. It's all ready to be loaded into the Hummer.”

Dejah looked over at Shaun who was chugging a root beer, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

”That was fast,” she said.

”We're not packing for Prom night, sister,” Frank said with a grin.

”Suppose not,” Dejah said, returning the grin. She held out Shaun's socks, now dried. ”Here's your socks. You'll need to put your tennis shoes back on. Can't run far in flip flops.”

Shaun took the socks. ”Hope I don't have to do much running.”

Frank frowned. ”Me either, son. I'm afraid I don't have much get up and go left in these old legs.”

”I'm a.s.suming you have a plan?” Dejah hoped Frank had figured out how to manage their escape while she was was.h.i.+ng in the restroom.

Shaun was watching the surveillance monitor with a new interest. ”Uhm, guys, we've got more company.”

”d.a.m.n,” Dejah and Frank said in unison.

Lumbering Sickies gathered around the front of the store.