Badass Zombie Road Trip (28 page)

Jonah gasped and choked as he kicked the air and clawed at Dale’s hand for release.

“You listen here, you little shit,” Dale growled. “I don’t need a heartbeat to make chicks dig me. All I need is five minutes of her time, and she’ll be begging to ride my cock.” Dale grabbed at the member in question with his wounded hand. “Dead, alive, undead, it’s still bigger than yours and will always be fucking better. So unless you want me fucking the shit out of your little girlfriend in the next five minutes, you better learn to respect me. You got that?”

Through the exploding pain of slow asphyxiation, Jonah managed to find the power to nod. Dale snarled, curling his lip as he tightened his grip for one more maniacal second, then he released Jonah with a grunt. Jonah slid down the wall into a coughing pile of quivering fear. The zombie continued to tower over him, a low growl rolling from his dead throat.

“Dale,” Jonah whispered between hoarse coughs. “Please believe me. I didn’t mean it like that. I know you can get any girl you want. Jesus, I’ve said so a hundred times before.”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” Dale demanded.

Jonah rubbed at his sore neck, eyeing the zombie warily. “I think she’s catching on to you being dead.”

“And?”

“And if she catches on, it might freak her out.”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t it freak you out?” Jonah could pinpoint the exact moment that Dale understood; his dead eyes widened, his dark mouth formed a small oval.

“Oh,” the zombie said. “Her freaking out about me being dead would be a bad thing?”

“Yes,” Jonah agreed. “Yes, it would.”

And, just like that, a smile spread across the zombie’s face as Dale returned to his usual cheery self. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. As in, I’ll try to act a little more alive around Miss Thing.”

“Good. Great. So … you’re not mad at me?”

“No. Should I be?”

“I’m not sure,” Jonah said, rubbing his neck again. “I guess the whole you almost choking me to death was kind of confusing.”

“Oh, that.” Dale slapped Jonah on the back. “Forget about it. I have.”

As Jonah watched Dale carry things to the car, he supposed he should try to forget about it. But knew he wouldn’t. Knew he couldn’t. A line had just been crossed. A line that Jonah had hoped the two of them would never even look at, much less approach. The zombie, whom up until now Jonah had considered to be nothing more than a matter of inconvenience, was now officially dangerous. This changed everything.

Black and white and no moral values, and now as dangerous as fuck.

All at once, Linville Caverns seemed a million miles away.

****

Fruita, CO

126 hours: 53 minutes: 06 seconds remaining

Colorado had a certain charm the previous states lacked. For starters, it was a lot greener than Nevada and hillier than Utah. The weather was mild and pleasant. The folks seemed as nice as people seen from the window of a speeding Ford Focus could seem. But Jonah supposed the best thing about Colorado was the simple fact that by crossing into the state, the three of them were that much closer to their collective goals. Colorado, then Kansas, into Missouri, a quick jaunt through Kentucky, a slide through Tennessee, and finally, North Carolina! It all seemed so simple. So easy. And so very, very exhausting.

As Jonah approached the small town of Fruita, he thanked the heavens for the gift of hot liquid caffeine.

Once, when Jonah was thirteen, he was caught smoking cigarettes in the basement of his family home. And the only reason his father found him sucking down Camels all alone in the darkness of the basement laundry room, was because the wily and fleet-footed Dale had slipped off through the back door, leaving Jonah to take the entire rap. Jonah’s father, a progressive fellow, thought the best lesson he could teach his tobacco-hungry son was how to smoke properly. This tutorial included a whole box of the cheapest generic cigarettes money could buy, accompanied by a silver thermos filled to the brim with a bitter brew, because, as his father put it, one could not truly appreciate the flavor of burning tobacco without the occasional mouthful of coffee to accentuate it.

And so, that evening, Mr. Benton showed his son the ins and outs of smoking. Proper smoking. Real smoking. How to tamp down the tobacco just right before opening the pack. How to light a match when you had no box to strike it upon. How to blow smoke rings, to inhale by the French method, and, most importantly of all, how to start another cigarette with the dregs of your previous one. The single thing the whole experience had taught Jonah was that he never wanted to see a cigarette again, as long as he lived. And perhaps that was the whole idea.

Cigarettes, as it turned out, were not for the now-green-around-the-gills Jonah.

But the coffee … ah, the coffee was a different story.

His lifelong affair began with the magic liquid his father shared with him that fateful evening so many years ago. He started small: sneaking cups from his mother’s morning brew before anyone else could awaken, then progressed to grabbing gulps from the teachers’ mugs when they stepped away from the classroom to answer nature’s call. Soon he was spending his allowance on coffee trappings—creamers and mugs and warmers—all under the pretense of gifts for his coffee-drinking parents. By the time he hit high school, he was at three cups a day, and there was no going back.

He continued this daily grind until he was out on his own; then, the real obsession began. Not content with the same old drip, he expanded into specialty brews, flavored beans and darker roasts. Then, one fine November morning, he discovered the joys of coffee houses. Cappuccinos, espressos, lattés—Jonah found a whole new world inside of a designer styrofoam cup. Plain old coffee was never the same, and neither was Jonah. He was a connoisseur of coffee, a king of the java bean.

Jonah gulped the last of his bland convenience-store sludge and winced at the pungent aftertaste. That was a fault of being a connoisseur. Next to a real cappuccino—one made with refined beans and fresh spring water, with a rich, frothy layer of warmed milk on top—everything else pretty much tasted like a cup full of crap.

“Looks like a town called Fruita is coming up,” Candy said, as she closed the travel book and tossed it to the floor.

Jonah yawned. Again. For the millionth time.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Jonah said. “I’ll be okay.”

“You don’t look okay. You look really, really tired.”

“That’s because I
am
really, really tired. But,” Jonah paused as he patted the empty thermos jammed between the seats, “that’s what this is for. We’ll stop here in a minute to fill it up again, and I’ll be fine.” He’d picked up the thermos at the last gas station with the intention of refueling it every chance he got.

Candy chewed on her lip, then asked, “And you’re sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“I’m positive. Just keep an eye out for a station. Starbucks would be better, but we need some gas, too.”

“He’s a hog with the wheel,” Dale piped up from the back seat. “He never let me drive. Even before all of this.”

“All of this?” Candy asked.

“Yeah. Before I died—”

“You’re a terrible driver,” Jonah said over Dale’s carefree confession. So much for being careful around the girl. “That’s why I don’t let you behind the wheel. When it comes to the open road, you’re a menace to others.”

“I am not. I’m an excellent driver. I even have a certificate to prove it.” Dale beamed with pride.

“You have a certificate because you were forced by the DMV to take a driving class. Because you are such a lousy driver.”

“And your point is?”

“It’s not much of a thing to brag about if it was court ordered.”

“Who here has a defensive driving certificate and who doesn’t?”

Jonah rolled his eyes at Candy, who giggled in response. Then Jonah yawned yet again.

“Looks like your coffee ain’t cutting it, darlin’,” Candy said. “You should try an energy drink. I hear they give you wings.”

“I don’t care for them,” Jonah said. “They make me want to crawl out of my skin.”

“I read somewhere that eating a small apple has the same waking effect on the body as drinking a full cup of coffee.”

Jonah thought about this. “I’d rather drink the coffee.”

“You should rub one out,” Dale said.

“Dale!” Jonah shouted, while Candy giggled again.

“What? Masturbation is relaxing. They say an orgasm is nature’s lavender.”

Jonah rubbed his temples as he shouted, “Lavender is nature’s lavender! And besides, I don’t need to relax. I need to wake up.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“It always seems to wake me up,” Candy said, then gasped as she covered her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise at her own comment.

The zombie’s ears pricked up as he leaned closer to wedge himself between the front seats, very interested in Candy’s line of discussion. “Really? Do tell.”

Candy chewed her lip for a second, then said, “What the hell. Momma always said if you were too ashamed to talk about it, you shouldn’t be doing it. Besides, I can trust you guys to keep this between us. Right?”

Dale’s lascivious grin was the most untrustworthy thing Jonah had ever had the misfortune of seeing.

“Maybe you shouldn’t …” Jonah started, but Candy was well into her confession.

“I should clarify by saying that when I give myself one, it makes me sleepier than a hound dog on a hot summer’s day. But one brought on by someone else—well, that always seems to pep me up.”

 
“Fascinating,” Dale said, his voice approaching that silky flirtatious tone that he had promised the night before not to use on her anymore. “And do you go off just once? Or are you a multiple orgasmic gal? ‘Cause you strike me as being the multiple kind.”

Candy laughed, and though the sound was wonderful, it grated on Jonah, because—once again—Dale was the source of her amusement. Jonah growled, “Don’t you think that’s a little personal?”

“No,” Dale said. “I don’t.”

“I do.” Aside from being unsuitable conversation, it bordered on unfair. Dale promised he would back off of Candy. Yet here he was, chatting her up like Jonah didn’t even exist. “I also think maybe Candy isn’t comfortable discussing her sex life with two guys.”

“And maybe if you weren’t such a prude, you’d think differently.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t kept me up all night, I wouldn’t care what you talk about.”

Dale turned his face up to the rearview mirror, meeting Jonah’s angry glare. To Jonah’s surprise, and Dale’s credit, the dead man got the hint. “Ah. Yeah. Maybe it is a little personal.”

Jonah released his breath in a slow, satisfied sigh. He didn’t even realize he had been holding it.

“But as long as we are being personal,” Dale added, “Jonah here’s only had sex three times.”

“Dale!” Jonah shouted.

“You’re the one always going on about it.” Dale turned his attention back to Candy, adding, “He says next time he fucks a chick, he wants to be in love—”

“Jesus Christ! Will you just shut up?”

“What? It’s romantic and shit.”

“I don’t care!”

“Dale’s right,” Candy said. “It
is
romantic.”

“You keep out of this!” Jonah shouted.

Candy cast her eyes to the floorboard. “Sorry.”

“Jesus, Jonah,” Dale said. “Lighten up. It’s not like I told her about how shitty all three times were for you.”

“Please,” Jonah begged, on the verge of tears. “Can we just stop talking about it?”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Thank you.”

Candy fell quiet, but her sideways glances and repressed smirk weren’t lost on Jonah. She was laughing at him. He was sure of it. Underneath her silence, she enjoyed the revelation of Jonah’s inexperience. Or did she? It was so hard to tell with women. Jonah felt it was best to never second-guess a woman. It was best, in Jonah’s experience, not to get mixed up with them in the first place.

Without warning, Candy demanded, “Pull over.”

“Why?” Jonah asked, unsure if Dale’s smartass comments had finally driven her away.

“Because you need to refuel.” She nodded at an oncoming gas station. “And, since we are being so personal, I need to visit the little girls’ room.”

Heat leapt to Jonah’s cheeks. It was hard to tell if she was teasing him. Or mocking him. Or both.

“Me, too,” Dale announced.

“You, too?” Jonah asked.

“I need to take a dump.” The zombie winked in the rearview mirror. “Because that’s what living people do.”

Jonah groaned.

“You’re just about the strangest man I’ve ever met,” Candy said.

“I’d like to meet the man stranger than Dale,” Jonah said.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Candy’s humor evaporated in a sudden, teeth-clenching tirade. “The asshole who sold me that piece of shit lemon was the strangest man I ever met. God help him, if I ever get my hands on him again, I swear I will bust his fucking balls.”