Black Treacle Magazine (March/April 2013, Issue 2) (3 page)

Terror
fractured along my spine.

As franchisee
of a government-subsidized Zombie Food Services Outlet, Chief
Johanson was well within his legal right to sacrifice any parolee
to keep the zombies at bay should the need arise. He’d already
proved his willingness to uphold the law when Kenny Chan forgot the
brain order. That’s how I got promoted.

“Of course,
Chief.” I forced a tight smile.

Johanson’s
bushy eyebrows raised in exaggerated surprise. “Then tell me,
peckerhead, where the fuck are my brains?”

Tommy Leblanc
who’d just closed the door to the walk-in refrigerator,
snorted.

Turning on his
heel, Johanson drew his pistol. A single deafening crack boomed
through the one-time doughnut shop. Inches below Leblanc’s crotch,
smoke trailed from a small, black hole in the refrigerator’s
stainless steel skin. A wet stain blackened Leblanc’s already dark
uniform pants and a small puddle formed around the heel of his
shoes.

“Find
something funny, pukeface?” Johanson raised the barrel to Leblanc’s
chest level.

“N-n-no, I
j-j-just came from the fridge is all. My nose is runny.” He sniffed
as if to prove his point, but I was sure the newbie was trying not
to cry.

Johanson
re-holstered his firearm and returned his attention to me. “Go get
‘em.”

I frowned.
“Chief?”

“The brains,
dipshit. If you made the call like you said, then they must be
dee-layed.” Johanson smiled, stretching out the word as though
enjoying how the syllables rolled off his tongue. “So, get to the
morgue and un-dee-lay them.”

I nearly
smiled myself before realizing Johanson actually meant to send me
out into the Zombie Zone. Desperation-fuelled synapses fired within
my fully-human-and-hoping-to-keep-it-that-way brain. I needed to
convince this lunatic not to--

“Can’t I just
call Sam Epstein, Chief?” I snatched the cellphone from the cradle.
“I’m sure I can clear this whole thing up in a few minutes.”
Including a kickback I probably couldn’t afford.

“You think I’m
stupid, peckerhead?” Johanson rested his hand on the pistol butt.
“Do you think we share the same level of intelligence, you
miserable shit?” He bared yellowed teeth ground flat, a rabid dog
daring me to answer. “I already tried Epstein. There’s no answer.
Now, get your ass in the van and start driving.”

“Uh, Ch-Chief.
C-can I go along, too?” Leblanc gripped the mop handle like a life
preserver. “I-I mean, Bucky might need some h-help, and, and--” His
brown eyes danced left and right as though searching for another
reason to go.

I understood.
The last thing Leblanc wanted was to be alone with the man who took
a shot at his balls. “He’s right,” I said, more surprised than
Leblanc that I’d spoken at all. “Besides, he has to learn the
route.”

Johanson’s
eyes narrowed in devious contemplation. “All right. Show pukeface
the ropes.” He glanced at Leblanc. “Clean up your piss first. Then
get me those brains.”

I nearly
pissed my own pants. Driving through the ZZ with a trainee in tow
was insane. I needed to come clean with Johanson--or maybe just
half-clean. Wasn’t there no answer at the morgue? Why not say the
same had happened the night before and I was too afraid to admit
the truth? The lunatic could hardly blame me if Epstein was too
drunk to answer the phone.

Reality
crashed through my reasoning. Johanson would likely kill me anyway
and feed my brains to the zombies while Leblanc drove alone to the
morgue. Without me the idiot would get his ass chewed off before he
went a kilometre. At least together we would have a chance.

Challenging
Chief Johanson’s ugly smile with one of my own, I said, “No
problem.”

“Glad to hear
it,” said Johanson, though I saw little of the sentiment in his
beady dark eyes. Before my bravado faded completely, I held out my
hand and asked for the keys to the delivery van.

The Chief
looked as if he might spit into my palm. “Better bring it back in
one piece.” He slapped the single key into my hand.

Or what? My
fist closed around the key and leather fob. You’ll shoot me? Call
the Parole Office? I headed for the loading bay. If the van didn’t
come back in one piece it was because I was dead already, or
worse.

Leblanc
mumbled something about changing his pants and shuffled off to the
staff room. Johanson marched to his office, probably to prepare
another parolee requisition form.

My ankle
itched at the thought. The Electronic Monitor Anklet had been
locked in place the first day of my parole. But unlike older models
that merely tracked my movement using GPS, the EMA around my ankle
was lined with Semtex. Should I decide to end my parole
prematurely, a signal from the Parole Office triggered the plastic
explosive, blowing off my foot, effectively ending my service to
the Ministry of Zombie Food Service.

Feeling like a
dead man walking, I headed to the garage, a hastily constructed
cinderblock addition to the shop with stumpy utility lockers lining
the far wall.

Leblanc
hurried into the garage. “Sorry,” he said under his breath.

“No problem.”
I shrugged, unsure if he was sorry about taking so long, or about
going in the first place. I headed for a row of stumpy metal
utility lockers and opened the nearest door. Inside was a row of
giant yellow plastic BBQ forks with thick handles at one end and
nub-like tongs at the other.

“Cattle
prods?” Leblanc chuckled as he examined the electric baton. “I
haven’t seen one of these since I spent a summer on my uncle’s
farm.”

I took a prod
for myself as well as a leather bandoleer laden with battery packs.
“Zombies are easy to kill if you got a gun and a shit-load of
bullets. We’ve got neither. What we do have are these hotshots.
Zombies might be mindless, but they were once human. Electric
current paralyzes their muscles just the same, hopefully stunning
the bastards long enough to escape--somewhere.”

Leblanc took a
hotshot for himself, gripping the weapon as tightly as he’d gripped
his mop handle.

Opening the
next door, I handed the newbie a leather collar and gauntlets.
“They like to go for the arms and neck.” I slipped on my own armour
and headed for the van’s cab. Once in the driver’s seat, I jammed
the key into the ignition. The cab smelled of stale cigarettes,
sickly-sweet dough, and formaldehyde.

After a few
seconds Leblanc opened the passenger door and slid into the empty
seat.

“Lock the
doors, keep the windows closed, and buckle up.” I pressed the
remote control on the sun visor. The van shook as the protective
corrugated metal door rumbled open to reveal a broken Toronto at
night.

Switching on
the headlights, I eased the van into the nightmare that was the ZZ
and pressed the button to close the garage. I nodded at a shambling
zombie dressed in a postman’s uniform, adjusted my heading and
accelerated.

“Wh-what are
you doing?” Leblanc braced himself against the filthy
dashboard.

“Chumming the
water.” The creature bounced off the crash bars welded to the van’s
front end and sailed through the air, sliding to a messy stop a
dozen meters away.

The undead
mailman lay still for a moment then flopped his broken arm aside
and tried to stand.

“If there’s
one around, there’s twenty more nearby. And they’re never too picky
about supper.”

True to their
mindless nature, zombies materialized form the shadows like actors
around a black curtain. They ignored the van, preferring to feed
upon their wounded brother.

“That should
make some of the way easier.” I motored down the main drag thankful
Leblanc couldn’t tell just how tightly I clenched my sphincter.

“What were you
in for?” I asked, more to calm my nerves than any real
interest.

“Uh, dealing,”
said Leblanc, distracted. “You?”

I gave Leblanc
a sideways glance. Thin, with greasy black hair and haunted eyes,
Leblanc looked like a junky in perpetual need of a fix. “I hacked
the wrong computer.” I said.

“Cool.”
Leblanc’s head whipped back as we sped through another
intersection. “Is this Dundas? Why are we still on Dundas?”

“The morgue is
on Grenville, north side of the ZZ.” I swerved around the husk of a
burned out SUV, a fossil of what had once been a thriving
metropolis. “Taking the long way along the fence-line up Bathurst
then along College might seem safer because of the tighter security
near the Living Zones, but it leaves us outside that much longer.
Too much chance something could go wrong. Dundas to Bay is
quicker.” I winked.

My assessment
held true, and we turned onto Grenville without incident. Entrance
to the morgue was through a parking garage door at the end of a
shallow incline. While long abandoned as the official office of the
Toronto Coroner, the morgue was kept open as a conduit of fresh
supplies for the small chain of Tim Hornets franchises operating
within the LZ. The only entrance was a large black roll-up garage
door at the base of a shallow incline.

I eased up to
the door, pressed the intercom and waited. The doors remained
closed. “Nobody home.” I shifted the van into reverse. “Guess we
can go back.”

“No.” Leblanc
grabbed my arm. “I mean, try again.” He quickly released his grip
at my hostile glower. “Johanson won’t like it if we come back
without his brains, and I don’t want to get shot at again.”

“Relax.” I
concentrated on backing up; the way was tight and I didn’t want to
scratch the sides of the van. “Anyway, what can Johanson do? The
place is closed. And watch the way you’re holding that hotshot.
You’re gonna zap me if you’re not careful.”

Too late, I
realized Leblanc meant to do exactly that. Only unconsciousness
relieved the currents of electrified agony.

* * *

I awoke to
blinding white light and a piercing headache.

“He’s up,” I
heard Leblanc say. “Told you I didn’t fry his brain.”

Tensing my
muscles to charge the sound of his voice, I discovered my arms and
legs were bound.

“Take it easy,
my friend.” This new voice, a woman’s, came from my left, opposite
Leblanc the prick.

“What’s going
on?” I squinted into the light. “Where’s the coroner? Where’s Sam
Epstein?”

“Old Sammy’s
kind of retired,” she answered in low, even tones. “For the sake of
convenience he’s still collecting his paycheck, but he’s left me in
charge.”

Was this even
possible? Sam Epstein was more butcher than coroner. The city
morgue had become the new Potter’s Field for the homeless and
unwanted. Sam removed the brains and packed them on ice for
distribution. What he did with the rest of the bodies I didn’t want
to know. But Old Sammy wasn’t that old, no more than thirty, far
too young for retirement. Something smelled funky and I didn’t like
it. “Just who the fuck are you?”

“Marion
Rotundo.”

I wanted to
puke. The Rotundo crew made zombies look like missionaries.

“You’ve heard
of me.”

I swallowed,
nodded.

“Good, then
enough of the foul language. Treat me with respect, and I’ll treat
you the same.”

“Yes, ah. . .”
I paused unsure how to address her.

“Call me
Marion. And your name is Bucky, right?”

My vision
cleared enough to see more clearly. We were in a staff lounge, with
a refrigerator, microwave, coffeemaker, and message-laden bulletin
board. Rotundo stood to the right. Bantam-sized with hard blue
eyes, Marion Rotundo could’ve been Chief Johanson’s long lost
sister, except for the immaculate double-breasted power suit and
perfectly styled hair.

“Carmine.” She
looked passed me and for the first time I noticed the goon standing
behind me. “Untie our friend here. Now that he knows the situation
he’s not gonna do anything stupid. Isn’t that right, Bucky?”

Carmine was
more of what I expected from a goon, essentially a block of flesh
barely squeezed into a cheap suit. He chuffed garlic into my face
as he untied the constraining bonds.

I rubbed
feeling back into my wrists and ankles. My fingers brushed the EMA
and I pulled them back like they’d been burned.

“I know what
you’re thinking, Bucky.” Rotundo smiled like my high school
guidance counselor. “You’re wondering how long you’ve been
unconscious. Maybe Chief Johanson called the Parole Board. Maybe
they’re using that little GPS to search for you right now. Or not.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small box with a
stubby antenna. “Jammer. You’re invisible to everyone except those
in this room. More importantly, your leg won’t go boom.” She smiled
as though expecting me to thank her.

I didn’t.
“What do you want?”

“Direct.
Terrified, but direct. I like that.” Rotundo’s laugh was like
peanut brittle, sweet but nutty. “What I want, Bucky, is for you to
deliver a message to Chief Johanson. Tell him he’s got a new
business partner, and, if I might borrow from Shakespeare, he must
now pay for his pounds of flesh.”

I frowned.
“Pay?”

“Please, don’t
insult my intelligence. The jewellery Johanson collects from the
zombies. He’s found a nice gold-laying goose, and since I’ve become
his only supplier, I want my cut. Some golden yolk, if you
will.”

Of course. The
box of trinkets collected at the drive-thru window. The swag was
supposed to go to the Ministry to help offset operating costs.
Johanson must be skimming off the top. Sammy Epstein must have been
on the scam, too.

And parolees
like me, what did we get out this? Johanson shot Kenny, and sent me
out on this ludicrous hunt for brains.

My heart
hammered in my chest. The bastard.

“What’s in it
for me?” I asked.

Rotundo
flashed teeth too perfect to be real. “I do like you much better
than your friend, here.”