A Bad Day For The Apoclypse Page 7

  Nikki had done little in those five days, her term paper long forgotten. And why not? Her instructor at the community college stopped responding to her emails. Mr. McFee was probably lying across his desk in a bloody mess, his hand still grabbing his pecker. Nikki saw the way he looked at the skinny girls in class, like they were part of a harem. She figured the Outbreak came to him while he jerked off to some girl’s spring break photo album on Facebook; maybe he was still moving, jerking off with a cold, dead, gray fungus-covered hand. Nikki was glad she never had to see that letch again. She laughed as she wiped the tears away with the front of her T-shirt. At least the Outbreak was good for something. Or was it an outbreak after all? News reports shifted from a virus to Judgment Day; it did look like the dead were rising from the grave, if only to wander the streets a few days then drop to the pavement, some kind of gray fungus quickly consumed their bodies. The news channels died about the time the discussion turned to the fungus. Nikki had seen the fungus herself, sprouting from bodies in the streets like mushrooms from hell. Conspiracy bloggers had started writing about some crazy shit. Ophiocordon, linking it to some fungus in Thailand that turned ants into zombies, then they just stopped posting. Nikki could only assume the bloggers were dead.

  “I gotta stop doing this,” she said, speaking aloud for the first time in days, the sudden noise filled the room. Tears started to well again, but she pushed them back. She needed something to do, a purpose. Nikki showered and changed into clean clothing. She knew what she needed to do, no, had to do – gather everything that was important to her, truly important, pack it in the Harley’s trailer, and get the bike ready to leave. Dad was too afraid to keep the lights on at night, too afraid the survivors he called Leftovers would see, too afraid the Leftovers would be the bad people who always seem to survive a tragedy. He’d been afraid for her.

  The Harley was Dad’s pride. An Electra Glide like all the old gray-haired men drove, with built-in saddlebags and strong enough to pull the small trailer he’d bought to go with it. Gene had told Nikki for years he’d bought the trailer to take her camping, but they’d never gone. She knew why he really bought it. As soon as she graduated college, got a big girl job, and left the house, he was going to drive that thing all over North America. Gene had never seen the Rocky Mountains, and he wanted to camp by a glacier and chip chunks off the ancient ice for his gin and tonic. Nikki smiled as she stacked a box of photo albums atop a pile of winter clothes. She didn’t consider the albums frivolous; they were her life. The pup tent was next, along with a small gas stove and stainless steel cooking gear, a machete, and Dad’s box-o-stuff; Fix-A-Flat, tire punch kit, spare spark plug, oil, a can of gas, and other mechanical things Nikki hoped to figure out how to use if she needed them. The rest of the space in the trailer she left for food and water jugs, the Coleman cooler already packed, filled with a half-gallon of soon-to-be expired milk, butter, seven eggs, and a package of olive loaf.

  She walked back into the kitchen from the attached garage and opened the cabinets, pulling out what was left of the non-perishable food in the house. There wasn’t much. Two jars of peanut butter, and cans of beans, tomatoes, tuna, and pumpkin pie filling. Did anyone ever use that? She slid them all into a canvas bag, and included a few boxes of macaroni and cheese, stuffing, saltine crackers, and store brand Hamburger Helper, although she didn’t know where she would get hamburger. She laughed out loud for the first time in days, her sudden outburst caused her to laugh more, remembering Cousin Eddie telling Clark Griswold in Dad’s favorite movie, National Lampoon’s Vacation, “I don’t know why they call this stuff Hamburger Helper. It does just fine by itself.” Yeah, Cousin Eddie, it’ll have to. Nikki grabbed the handles and carried the bag to the garage, put it into the trailer, and shut the door tight. She was ready, although she didn’t know where she was going. Hooligans, first, maybe, she thought. To see if anyone was there. Then north. Some high school friends attended school about an hour north in Allenville; she could try there. After that, she didn’t know.

  Nikki walked through the house for one last look. One last look at her bedroom, Johnny Depp, most probably dead somewhere in France, stared at her with his smoldering eyes; her father’s bedroom, pictures of her long-dead mother still sitting exactly where she’d put them years ago. She walked down the stairs, tears began again, as she stepped into the living room and stood in front of her father’s chair, his Mustangs hat sat on the armrest. She picked up the hat, adjusted it for her head, and slid it on. “Good-bye, Dad,” she whispered. “I love you.” Nikki turned toward the kitchen and the garage door, ready to leave all she’d ever known behind. A thud sounded on the front door. Nikki turned to see a gloved hand smash through the door window and feel blindly for the lock. Nikki screamed, the piercing noise echoed throughout the house. The hand found the handle and turned. The door slammed open, and more broken glass hit the floor.

  A man stood in the doorway, a greasy man, food and beer stains soaked into his once white Megadeth T-shirt. “We-hell,” the greasy man said. “Looky, looky what we have here. A little present for Danny Boy.” He took a step into the house, Nikki’s house, a place that was supposed to be safe. “Don’t worry, porky,” Greasyman said. “I won’t hurt you too bad.”

  Nikki screamed again and ran. Living room gave way to dining room. “Oh-ho,” Greasyman shouted behind her. “I like ones with a little spunk in them.”

  Nikki tipped the dining room chairs over behind her, to slow the Leftover down, and looked around her for something, anything to grab. ‘There’s one in my red toolbox in the garage. Second drawer, behind the ratchet set,’ Gene Holleran whispered in her ear. She knew what he meant, just as she knew the voice wasn’t really her father; it was just his memory. The gun, the pistol in the toolbox. ‘Take it. And if someone comes to get you, shoot them. Shoot those bastards dead.’ Nikki shot through the garage door, slammed it and locked it behind her. Greasyman crashed into it. It didn’t budge. Nikki scrambled for the big red toolbox and pulled open the second drawer, just as the sound of glass breaking made her wince a second time.

  “Hey, hey, little lady,” Greasyman said from behind her, the door smashing open. “You’re a slick little thing. I don’t want to hurt you, baby. I just want to talk.”

  Nikki’s right hand fell on the grip of the pistol. She grabbed it hard, pulled it out of the drawer and swung around, the barrel pointed at Greasyman’s chest. She’d never fired a weapon before; her hand shook, so she grasped the gun with both hands. Greasyman stood about ten feet away. She doubted she’d miss at that range. From the look on his face, she knew he doubted it, too.

  “Whoa, now,” he said slowly. “I’m just up for a little fun and games, missy. No need to be waving that piece around.”

  Nikki pulled back the hammer with her thumb like she’d seen so many times on television, the click deafening in the small garage. “This is my house,” she said, the words coming out quietly, but sharply. “You will turn around slowly, put your hands behind your back, and leave my house. I will be behind you every step. If you run, if you try anything funny, I will blow your fucking brains out.”

  “Now, honey,” Greasyman said, holding his hands in front of him. “There’s no …”

  “Fucking do it,” she screamed.

  Greasyman turned slowly and put his arms behind his back. “Now grab your right wrist with your left hand, and walk.” She followed him on shaky legs through the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room, hoping like hell they didn’t betray her and send her to the floor. Greasyman stepped onto the front porch and walked down the steps. “Get into your car and get the hell out of my neighborhood.” Once down the steps, the man bolted toward his car, a brand-new Corvette Nikki was sure he’d driven right off the lot. Two people stood in the street, bobbing back and forth on their barely moving legs. A body lay on the sidewalk in front of Old Mr. Jennings’ house next door, a gray, bulbous knob on a stalk rising from its chest. Thailand ants? Fungus?

  Gre
asyman threw open the car door and jumped inside. “I’ll be back, little missy,” the greasy Leftover shouted through the open car window. “And you’re goin’ down. I ain’t gonna be nice about it.” Her finger squeezed the trigger out of reflex, but the gun didn’t fire. She didn’t have the strength. Greasyman fired up the engine of the stolen Corvette and tore down the street, his left hand flipped the bird through the open driver’s side window as he swerved to clip a shambling man in jeans and a T-shirt, and disappeared around a corner.

  Nikki dropped to her knees, the world swam around her, the acrid taste of vomit grew in her mouth. She swallowed.

  “You don’t have time for this, Holleran,” she said softly. “You don’t have time.” Using the porch railing, Nikki pulled herself back to her feet. The house seemed dangerous to her as she hurried through the place she had grown up, it looked alien, filthy, harmful. Nikki hurried to the garage door and heaved it up, the chain creaking like it always had. “Gotta put some WD-40 on that,” Dad had said every time he opened the door, but he never did. Nikki put the pistol back in the toolbox behind the ratchet set and slid the drawer shut; she didn’t need the gun. Nikki knew she wouldn’t shoot anyone. She couldn’t, even though she knew the Piper had done more than kill almost everyone; the rest, the Leftovers, had all gone crazy.

  July 6: Kansas City, Missouri

  Chapter 10

  Just from the few minutes he’d known Jenna, Doug could tell she was a sweet girl, and pretty. Probably pretty; it was kinda dark. He couldn’t tell much more about her because Terry wouldn’t shut the hell up. “That sucker was big,” Terry said, giggling and opening another Natty Light, foam shot onto his shirt. “I mean, I’ve seen a mountain lion before, at the zoo, but damn.” He took a long pull from his beer, and shook his head. “Whoo-wee. And it was movin’, too. Thing wasn’t dead.”

  “Terry,” Doug said.

  “It was twitchin’ like it was tryin’ to wake up.”

  “Terry.”

  “You should have seen the head on that thing.”

  “Terry,” Doug barked, his voice loud in the pickup cab. “It’s over. It’s gone. And we have a guest.”

  Terry looked at Jenna who sat between the two men. “Geez, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Terry said. “I just. It was. You know? Big.”

  Jenna smiled, her face looked like something from a Sears catalogue. Doug wondered what the rest of her looked like. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m the one who hit it, remember?”

  Terry laughed and took another drink of beer. “Hey,” he said, his face growing serious as he pointed out the windshield. “Look at that.” Nearby lights popped from between the thick growth of trees on the onramp. They glowed even brighter than the full glow of Kansas City that stretched across most of the horizon. It was something big, something close. “It’s the ballpark,” Terry said. “One of them. Kauffman and Arrowhead are just over that hill on I-70. Somebody left the lights on, man. Let’s go see.”

  No. No. No. The plan all along had been to hit I-435 and go to the shelter at Worlds of Fun. If there were any survivors, what place would be better to find them than an amusement park? Terry knew the plan. Hell, he’d come up with it. On second thought, Doug realized, maybe the plan wasn’t so good after all. What the hell? “All right, all right,” Doug said, putting on his turn signal at the sign that read ‘I-70 East: St. Louis’ only out of habit. Turn signals were important.

  “Shit yes,” Terry hooted and reached to Jenna for a high five that never came. He pulled his hand down, slowly.

  “We’ll drive by the stadium,” Doug said, turning off the pickup’s headlights. “I’m not going to promise we’ll stop.”

  “I want nachos,” Jenna said. “Oh, and a hotdog.”

  “Hell, yes,” Terry hooted, slapping the dash of Doug’s pickup.

  There weren’t any fucking nachos and there weren’t any fucking hotdogs. Doug knew that. There probably were things that looked like nachos and hotdogs, but by now they were covered in fur, like most of the bodies Doug had seen since they pulled out of Paola. “We’re going to drive by,” Doug reiterated. “And see why the lights are on.”

  Terry bounced in his seat. “Yeah, boys,” he said, giggling.

  Oh, shit. Terry’s gone past his limit. “If it looks dangerous,” Doug directed at Terry. “I’m not even turning in.”

  “But I wanna go in,” Jenna said, quietly, her face somewhat sad in the glowing green dash light. “I’ve never been to a baseball stadium before, and now I may never get the chance.”

  Damn it.

  Doug pointed the pickup up the off ramp and onto Blue Ridge Boulevard; the road curled around the Truman Sports Complex revealing the lights of Kauffman Stadium that bathed the still green baseball field in light. No one moved on the field, or in the stands, at least from what Doug could see. He knew this was wrong. This fully lighted Major League Baseball stadium in a city of mostly dead fuzzy people could only serve as one thing – a beacon.

  “We gotta get outta here,” he whispered. No one wanted to hear.

  “I want a Coke,” Jenna said, not trying to choke back her giggles. “And peanuts. I really, really want peanuts.”

  “And popcorn,” Terry shouted. “Pop fucking corn.”

  Doug pulled to the side of the road and stopped the truck, Kauffman Stadium at their right looking like a prom date.

  “Guys,” he said, turning to face Jenna and Terry. “We’re alone, right?” They nodded their heads. “The people who protect us, like cops, and the military, are probably all dead, right?” They nodded again. “And we know there are people out there, probably crazy as shit, who might fuck us, or kill us, or fuck us while they kill us, or kill us while they fuck us, right?”

  “Yeah, man,” Terry said. “It’s all true, Doug. What’s that have to do with me eating a hotdog?”

  “And peanuts,” Jenna chirped.

  Doug shook his head and put the truck back into drive. “I’m going to regret this.” The pickup rolled down the asphalt lane toward the stadium, past an abandoned commuter bus, the back half blackened by fire, and through a line of empty booths, the signs of “Parking: $20” rolled by, the lack of people in blue and white uniforms waving him toward the parking lot obvious. Doug stopped the truck in the middle of the road; the three stepped out, and walked toward the stadium.

  “That guy was my dad’s hero,” Terry said as they walked beneath the bronze statue of three-time hitting champion George Brett, the only Kansas City Royal in the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame; like that meant anything now.

  “I was little, but I saw him play,” Doug said softly, not out of respect, but out of fear. The lights of the stadium were bright, but black patches of shadow loomed everywhere. They could be packed with monsters that looked like people. “It was in his last years, but he still played balls out.” Doug paused for a moment. “Sorry, Jenna. I’m used to talking to Terry.”

  She giggled, the sound raked against Doug’s nerves. Whoa, that laugh was painful.

  “Let’s go eat,” she said, way too loudly for Doug, and dashed toward the gate.

  “Jen…” Doug started to call, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. He could already tell she was stubborn. He jogged after her, Terry behind him. Doug found her in front of a concession stand, the lights on, the TV above the spot where the lines would form showed a baseball game. The uniforms were archaic. Must be on a loop, Doug thought.

  “Shit, yes,” Terry hooted, and slid over the stainless-steel counter like he hadn’t drunk eight beers in the past hour and a half. He leaned toward them and raised an eyebrow. “What can I get you?”

  Jenna giggled again. Damn, girl, Doug thought. We’re going to have to watch Titanic or something to sadden you up a bit. That giggle’s going to kill me. “I want a hotdog, good sir,” she said flatly, then giggled again. Terry pulled open the shiny metal lid to the hotdog tray and steam rolled out.

  “Whoo-we,” he said. “There be hotdogs here.”

 
“I wouldn’t eat those,” Doug warned.

  Terry grabbed a pair of plastic tongs; “Armour” stamped on the side, and pulled a hotdog-shaped, foil-wrapped lump from the tray. “Why not?” Terry asked. “It says July 6. It’s written right on the foil in Sharpie.”

  “What’s today,” Jenna asked.

  Doug looked at his wristwatch. “July 6.”

  Terry grinned and tossed Jenna a warm hotdog in a bun. She giggled as she caught it. Terry pulled mustard and ketchup from the refrigerator and put them on the counter, then took the last two hotdogs from the warming tray. “Want one?” he asked, looking at Doug.

  No. No. No. We can’t eat those, ran through Doug’s head. Who’s here? Whose hotdogs are these? Why the hell are they even here? WE CAN’T EAT THESE. But, damn, he could smell the one Jenna was gobbling at like a porn star, and couldn’t help it anymore. This might be the last fresh hotdog on Earth. A grin slowly crawled across Doug’s face. “Sure do, buddy.” Terry didn’t hear him; he was busy pouring Jenna a Coke, the soda foaming quite nicely. Doug reached onto the counter and grabbed the last hotdog himself. “Get me a beer while you’re back there, Terry.”

  They walked around the corner from the concession stand, the stadium spread out before them. Rows of royal blue seats, enough to hold the butts of 40,000 screaming fans, sat empty; although after the Royals won the World Series in 1985 and the team forgot how to win, since then it had been more like 16,000 indifferent people eating expensive peanuts. Sure, they finally won the World Series again in 2015, but attendance might be a little down this year.

  “This is pretty cool,” Jenna said, taking a sip of Coke. “But this is going to get really boring, really fast.”

  “It might not,” Doug said. He held up his right hand, and took a step forward. Images ran across the Jumbotron; a baseball game. The same old uniforms that were on the television at the concession stand. He looked across the field; the grass that should have been knee-high by now was neatly trimmed. “Somebody’s here.”