Blood Soaked and Contagious (13 page)

“I’m not interested in you, so if you stay out of my way,” he growled, “you won’t get hurt.”

I’ve been menaced by thugs in the past, and I never really felt overwhelmed by it. My dad was to blame for that, having dropped me into the martial arts at a young age. I wasn’t clear on his reasons for that, because he knew I didn’t like it, even if I was surprisingly good at picking things up. Even my mother was unsure.

Deep down in the secret catacombs of my heart, I secretly suspected my father wanted to have this sort of conversation with people.

“Carl! Have I ever introduced you to my son? Carl, this is my son, Killing Machine. Killing Machine, this is Carl Businessman. Say hello, why don’t you?”

“Grrr. Grrr. ARRRR. Grr. Mister ARRRRG.”

“See? He’s a great little kneebiter, isn’t he? Carl? Where did you go?”

I left home well before I ever decided to ask him just what the Hell he was thinking. If you wanted to call my family “estranged” or “dysfunctional,” I certainly wouldn’t blame you for it, because they’re really pieces of work, every single one of them. After all, they were the main reason I set off to wander the world for a while. I needed to get away from them and see who I was without their influence. The terror that gripped me occasionally came in the form of being afraid I was more like them than I wanted to be.

Although, at this particular moment in time, my angst came in the form of a homicidal, cannibalistic, acne-ravaged, blood-soaked, Scottish teenager. While he had informed me that the menu didn’t include me, I got the distinct impression that roughing me up was part of his early-morning exercise plan. Unfortunately for me, I was not mistaken.

I slid backwards on instinct, and if I hadn’t, he would have sunk his fingernails into my stomach instead of shredding my favorite windbreaker. Fortunately, he didn’t get hung up on my zipper, which gave me time to move into him as he tried to come back with his other hand.

This time, I met his arm as he swung, caught it, and put him face on the ground in a classic Aikido arm lock. He was not happy. I also learned how insanely strong the undead are, because he was beginning to curl me over and down while I held him. Normal human beings don’t do things like that from the sort of position we were in.

You are taught, in some martial arts, that the way to end a fight is to remove your opponent’s desire to continue the altercation. I chose to try and communicate with my opponent by tightening my hold on his arm and dropping to my knees. Actions do speak louder than words.

I would have to say, my effort was successful. There was a loud pop, my opponent screamed, and I was flying through the air in the opposite direction. When I was able to raise my head, I could see him running away with one arm dangling like a noodle at his side. About the same time, I heard the distinct sound of police cars and saw the flashy blue lights through the trees.

There is an old rule of thumb that really should be passed down through the generations. If you are the only witness at the scene of a spectacularly violent crime, do not run from the police in whatever country you find yourself visiting. In this way, you go from being a witness to a suspect, and they will do their best to track you down in order to ask pointed questions. Depending on the country, the degree of unpleasantness you will experience when they find and interrogate you is variable.

In the UK, at least, you can expect some level of civilized behavior. With those things in mind, I stayed where I was, lying in the dew-wet grass, and slowly let my eyes close. They’d be here soon enough, and allowing myself the luxury of feeling as though I’d been tossed through the air twice wouldn’t hurt me. A little acting never hurt, either.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh... ”

I heard the officer approach and crouch down beside me. “Lad? Are yeh right? Laddie,” he nudged me gently, “can yeh open yer eyes?”

“Ow.” I cracked my eyelids and didn’t have to fake recoiling in horror when he flicked the flashlight on my face. “Gah!”

He spoke into the microphone that was clipped to his jacket. “We have one white male down, responsive. Contusions. Request ambulance for transport.”

“Lad, I’ve got medics on the way. Stay still, and we’ll get all this sorted out. Can yeh tell me what happened? Can yeh tell me yer name?”

I was faced with a moral choice. Continue to be the victimized witness or actually start interacting. The sooner I interacted, the less likely it would be drawn out later. Reasonable decision, I thought, so I told him my name.

“Izzat American or Canadian?”

“‘merican,” I slurred. It wasn’t hard to act like I’d been hit by a truck. Impacting the ground at speed generally shakes up your bits.

“All right, now, can you tell me wha’ happened here?”

“Uhhhh. Walking back to the hotel. Heard a woman scream an’ ran to see.” I followed up by trying to shift my position on the ground a little.

“No, lad, don’t try to move around. Just be still. Can yeh tell me wha’ yeh saw?”

“The guy was eating her. Blood everywhere. He threw me.”

“Oh, aye. Go on.”

“Got up, but he was right in front of me. Had big fingernails. Tried to gut me with them. Jacket all ripped up.”

“Did yeh tussle wi’ him? Defend yerself?”

“Yeah, got him in an arm lock. Think it broke. He threw me again.”

The EMTs appeared at about that time and started checking me over. There was another set across the way where the girl was, but they weren’t moving quickly at all. My set of law enforcement and health care professionals decided I needed to be taken to the hospital for X-rays and observation. I wasn’t going to argue.

They were a competent duo, this ambulance crew, and I even complimented them on their sterling gurney technique. It got a few laughs. Then we heard a ruckus and two gunshots. The officer who interviewed me took off at a dead run, followed by one of my Dynamic Duo: the one who had the bag of medical goodies.

I wanted to get up and haul ass after them, but it wasn’t in keeping with the image I was working on building. I heard my gurney driver get the order over his walkie-talkie to deposit me in the ambulance and come running right away. He wasted no time.

The ambulance door shut, locked, and he took off. I was left alone with my thoughts, which had only just started processing the day’s events: people coming back from the dead to eat the living—not just a good news story but something that was actually happening.

I couldn’t deny it, because I’d fought with one of them. What was the world coming to, and why?

The beer may have done it, or it could have been two major encounters with Mother Earth, but I nodded off in the ambulance. An indeterminate amount of time later, the EMTs came back, checked me over, and off to the hospital we did go.

“Hey,” I said, giving the fellow who was riding in the back a tug on the sleeve of his jacket. “What happened back there with the gunshots?”

“Oh, you’re awake then. I think I can tell you, you’re not a suspect anymore, so you needn’t worry about that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The fella that did that girl tried to attack an officer who cornered him over by the Sheep’s Heid. Our lad’s partner shot the guy once in the leg, but he kept comin’ and didn’t listen when he was ordered to stop.”

“So the partner shot him again?”

“Aye, right between the eyes.”

Maybe I was a little more sideways than I thought I was, because that didn’t seem to give them a reason to rule me out as a suspect. Not that I wasn’t grateful, but I couldn’t follow things and wanted very badly to be brought up to speed. “Why does that not make me a suspect?”

“It probably has somethin’ to do with your clothes not being sopping wet with blood. You also didn’t have the victim’s cell phone and clutch purse in your possession. I’ll also add that you don’t have bits of her titties stuck between your teeth.”

“Oh.”

The rest of the trip to the hospital passed in silence. X-rays were taken, viewed, and the requisite prodding was accomplished. It was declared, in blunt Scottish fashion, “I don’ see why they brought yeh here. Nothin’ wrong wi’ yeh tha’ a cuppa tea will na fix. G’ home.”

Before I got terribly far, the officer who met me in the field walked up to me. I gave him my contact information, was assured that I was simply a witness in a case that will never see a courtroom, and exchanged pleasantries. He was entirely pleasant, but I could tell that we shared quite a bit of the same distress at having been a part of such a “singular event,” as he put it.

I left the hospital, and it was near 7 am if my memory serves me correctly. There was the start of commuting madness, but it was a mere trickle in Morningside, compared to what it would be on the highways or deeper into the city. I noticed a Cafe Brutus on the corner of Falcon Road, and strolled over in hopes of a quad espresso that might keep me awake long enough to get back to my hotel over in Old Town.

The bell on the door rang when I opened it and I lumbered in. My brain was sending me feeble signals that something was a little off, so I looked at the people who were enjoying their morning beverages and snacks. They were all looking back at me with some form of alarm. That wasn’t good.

There was an upright refrigerator, stocked with juice and whatnot, and I glanced at my reflection in the glass. Oh.

“Pardon me,” I spoke in a tiny voice, “but is there a restroom? I’d like to splash my face before I have brekkie.”

The girl behind the counter pointed across the room, and I scooted over as quickly, yet calmly, as I could.

My face was not a comforting sight; neither were the remains of my jacket. I ran wet fingers through my hair in an effort to get it to lay down, but it resisted, leaving me with “Sex Pistols” spikes. I couldn’t do anything about my eyes.

I looked like I’d seen bad things, hadn’t slept at all, and been roughed up badly. I didn’t remove the hospital wristband, but I did take off the jacket. Hopefully, no one would call the police because this coffee shop was close enough to the hospital that you’d think accident victims would wander in periodically.

I tried to smile in the mirror. It wasn’t convincing. At least I could be an example of truth in advertising if I did nothing else.

The television was on in the shop, and most of the locals had given up looking at me in favor of the news. Then I heard what was on the news, namely the events I’d been involved in.

The girl who had been killed was Lois Griffin of Leith, an 18-year-old university student. Her photo was plastered on the screen and looked so different from what I’d seen. Vibrant eyes, winning smile, a little stud in her nose, and lavender-colored hair.

Her killer was Marty Andrews, 21, also from Leith. They had been dating for two years before he was killed in a drunk-driving accident three weeks prior. His family had not reported that he had returned to the family home two days ago. They were just so happy he “had not really died” in the collision, even if they’d been the ones who identified his body at the morgue.

Police shot and killed Andrews after he resisted arrest, assaulted an officer, and attempted to flee.

The news nailed me to the floor, and it took a Herculean effort of will to turn around and order that quad espresso. I managed.

The barista spent a good amount of time giving me something approaching the “evil eye,” and I didn’t particularly feel as if I deserved it. I didn’t know her. I certainly had never gone out with her and generally preferred women who didn’t have enough piercings to be dangerous in thunderstorms. The young woman doing cashier duty was much friendlier, with a tasteful amount of metallic decoration, and someone I would have gone out with.

I sat down with my drink and did my best to put my brain back together. The caffeine and heat of the drink woke me up a little, but I couldn’t really kick-start my thought processes or make sense of anything. There was a huge sense of the world going awry and not being able to do anything about it. From the looks on the faces of the other customers, they were feeling something very similar.

Twenty minutes later, I killed my first zombie.

My stomach started growling halfway though the drink, so I got back up, ordered one of their larger breakfast plates, and returned to my seat. A little bit later, my sausage and eggs showed up with an apology for only being able to give me a steak knife for the meat, rather than a normal table knife. It didn’t bother me, I said so, and mere minutes later would be thanking God for the cafe’s horrible dishwashing system.

The shop door opened, and a girl walked through it. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard the conversation that started shortly thereafter.

“Mary! There you are! I knew I’d find you at work in this stinking little hole. Come here and give us a kiss, you whore.” This came from the mouth of the girl who had walked in.

Metalface, who must’ve been Mary, screamed.

“Oh no, girly! Don’t be screaming at me like that unless we’re fucking,” she said as she prowled into the shop. “Nice people like this lot don’t want to hear your freaky little cum screams.”

Mary joined in with, “Tess! Don’t come any closer. You died, Tess! Last week! You overdosed. You’re not really here!” There was the bright crystal twang of Mary’s mind snapping.

“But, baby, I’ve come all the way back because I love you! You smell so good!”