Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology (40 page)

He drove over close to the tonk and used the remaining shotgun load to shoot at the neon ROSALITA’S sign. Glass tinkled onto the tonk’s roof and onto the gravel drive.

Now if he only had a dog to kick.

He drove away from there, bound for the Cadil ac Desert, and final y Law Town on the other side.

[2]

The Cadil acs stretched for miles, providing the only shade in the desert. They were buried nose down at a slant, almost to the windshields, and Wayne could see skeletons of some of the drivers in the car, either lodged behind the steering wheels or lying on the dashboards against the glass. The roof and hood guns had long since been removed and al the windows on the cars were rol ed up, except for those that had been knocked out and vandalized by travelers, or dead folks looking for goodies.

The thought of being in one of those cars with the windows rol ed up in al this heat made Wayne feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. Hot as it was, he was certain even the skeletons were sweating.

He finished pissing on the tire of the Chevy, saw the piss had almost dried. He shook the drops off, watched them fal and evaporate against the burning sand. Zipping up, he thought about Calhoun, and how when he’d pul ed over earlier to let the sonofabitch take a leak, he’d seen there was a little metal ring through the head of his dick and a Texas emblem dangling from that.

He could understand the Texas emblem, being from there himself, but he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why a fel a would do that to his general. Any idiot who would put a ring through the head of his pecker deserved to die, innocent or not.

Wayne took off his cowboy hat and rubbed the back of his neck and ran his hand over the top of his head and back again. The sweat on his fingers was thick as lube oil, and the thinning part of his hairline was tender; the heat was cooking the hel out of his scalp, even through the brown felt of his hat.

Before he put his hat on, the sweat on his fingers was dry. He broke open the shotgun, put the shel s in his pocket, opened the Chevy’s back door and tossed the shotgun on the floorboard.

He got in the front behind the wheel and the seat was hot as a griddle on his back and ass. The sun shone through the slightly tinted windows like a polished chrome hubcap; it forced him to squint.

Glancing over at Calhoun, he studied him. The fucker was asleep with his head thrown back and his black wilted hat hung precarious on his head—it looked jaunty almost. Sweat oozed down Calhoun’s red face, flowed over his eyelids and around his neck, running in riverlets down the white seat covers, drying quickly. He had his left hand between his legs, clutching his bal s, and his right was on the arm rest, which was the only place it could be since he was handcuffed to the door.

Wayne thought he ought to blow the bastard’s brains out and tel God he died. The shithead certainly needed shooting, but Wayne didn’t want to lose a thousand dol ars off his reward. He needed every penny if he was going to get that wrecking yard he wanted. The yard was the dream that went before him like a carrot before a donkey, and he didn’t want anymore delays. If he never made another trip across this goddamn desert, that would suit him fine.

Pop would let him buy the place with the money he had now, and he could pay the rest out later. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. The bounty business had final y gone sour, and he wanted to do different. It wasn’t any goddamn fun anymore. Just met the dick cheese of the earth. And when you ran the sonofabitches to ground and put the cuffs on them, you had to watch your ass til you got them turned in. Had to sleep with one eye open and a hand on your gun. It wasn’t anyway to live.

And he wanted a chance to do right by Pop. Pop had been like a father to him. When he was a kid and his mama was screwing the Mexicans across the border for the rent money, Pop would let him hang out in the yard and climb on the rusted cars and watch him fix the better ones, tune those babies so fine they purred like dick-whipped women.

When he was older, Pop would haul him to Galveston for the whores and out to the beach to take potshots at al the ugly, fucked-up critters swimming around in the Gulf. Sometimes he’d take him to Oklahoma for the Dead Roundup. It sure seemed to do the old fart good to whack those dead fuckers with a tire iron, smash their diseased brains so they’d lay down for good. And it was a chal enge. Cause if one of those dead buddies bit you, you could put your head between your legs and kiss your rosy ass goodbye.

Wayne pul ed out of his thoughts of Pop and the wrecking yard and turned on the stereo system.

One of his favorite country-and-western tunes whispered at him. It was Bil y Conteegas singing, and Wayne hummed along with the music as he drove into the welcome, if mostly ineffectual, shadows provided by the Cadil acs.

My baby left me,

She left me for a cow,

But I don’t give a flying fuck,

She’s gone radioactive now,

Yeah, my baby left me,

Left me for a six-tittied cow.

Just when Conteegas was getting to the good part, doing the tril ing sound in his throat he was famous for, Calhoun opened his eyes and spoke up.

“Ain’t it bad enough I got to put up with the fucking heat and your fucking humming without having to listen to that shit? Ain’t you got no Hank Wil iams stuff, or maybe some of that nigger music they used to make? You know, where the coons harmonize and one of them sings like his nuts are cut off.”

“You just don’t know good music when you hear it, Calhoun.”

Calhoun moved his free hand to his hatband, found one of his few remaining cigarettes and a match there. He struck the match on his knee, lit the smoke and coughed a few rounds. Wayne couldn’t imagine how Calhoun could smoke in al this heat.

“Wel , I may not know good music when I hear it, capon, but I damn sure know bad music when I hear it. And that’s some bad music.”

“You ain’t got any kind of culture, Calhoun. You been too busy raping kids.”

“Reckon a man has to have a hobby,” Calhoun said, blowing smoke at Wayne. “Young pussy is mine. Besides, she wasn’t in diapers. Couldn’t find one that young. She was thirteen. You know what they say. If they’re old enough to bleed, they’re old enough to breed.”

“How old they have to be for you to kil them?”

“She got loud.”

“Change channels, Calhoun.”

“Just passing the time of day, capon. Better watch yourself bounty hunter, when you least expect it, I’l bash your head.”

“You’re gonna run your mouth one time too many, Calhoun, and when you do, you’re gonna finish this ride in the trunk with ants crawling on you. You ain’t so priceless I won’t blow you away.”

“You lucked out at the tonk, boy. But there’s always tomorrow, and every day can’t be like at Rosalita’s.”

Wayne smiled. “Trouble is, Calhoun, you’re running out of tomorrows.”

[3]

As they drove between the Cadil acs, the sky fading like a bad bulb, Wayne looked at the cars and tried to imagine what the Chevy-Cadil ac Wars had been like, and why they had been fought in this miserable desert. He had heard it was a hel of a fight, and close, but the outcome had been Chevy’s and now they were the only cars Detroit made. And as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing about Detroit that was worth a damn. Cars.

He felt that way about al cities. He’d just as soon lie down and let a diseased dog shit in his face than drive through one, let alone live in one.

Law Town being an exception. He’d go there. Not to live, but to give Calhoun to the authorities and pick up his reward. People in Law Town were always glad to see a criminal brought in. The public executions were popular and varied and brought in a steady income.

Last time he’d been to Law Town he’d bought a front-row ticket to one of the executions and watched a chronic shoplifter, a red-headed rat of a man, get pul ed apart by being chained between two souped-up tractors. The execution itself was pretty brief, but there had been plenty of buildup with clowns and bal oons and a big-tittied stripper who could swing her tits in either direction to boom-boom music.

Wayne had been put off by the whole thing. It wasn’t organized enough and the drinks and food were expensive and the front-row seats were too close to the tractors. He had gotten to see that the red-head’s insides were brighter than his hair, but some of the insides got sprinkled on his new shirt, and cold water or not, the spots hadn’t come out. He had suggested to one of the management that they put up a big plastic shield so the front row wouldn’t get splattered, but he doubted anything had come of it.

They drove until it was solid dark. Wayne stopped and fed Calhoun a stick of jerky and some water from his canteen. Then he handcuffed him to the front bumper of the Chevy.

“See any snakes, Gila monsters, scorpions, stuff like that,” Wayne said, “yel out. Maybe I can get around here in time.”

“I’d let the fuckers run up my asshole before I’d cal you,” Calhoun said.

Leaving Calhoun with his head resting on the bumper, Wayne climbed in the backseat of the Chevy and slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.

Before dawn Wayne got Calhoun loaded in the ’57 and they started out. After a few minutes of sluicing through the early morning grayness, a wind started up. One of those weird desert winds that come out of nowhere. It carried grit through the air at the speed of bul ets, hit the ’57 with a sound like rabid cats scratching.

The sand tires crunched on through, and Wayne turned on the windshield blower, the sand wipers, and the headbeams, and kept on keeping on.

When it was time for the sun to come up, they couldn’t see it. Too much sand. It was blowing harder than ever and the blowers and wipers couldn’t handle it. It was piling up. Wayne couldn’t even make out the Cadil acs anymore.

He was about to stop when a shadowy, whalelike shape crossed in front of him and he slammed on the brakes, giving the sand tires a workout. But it wasn’t enough.

The ’57 spun around and rammed the shape on Calhoun’s side. Wayne heard Calhoun yel , then felt himself thrown against the door and his head smacked metal and the outside darkness was nothing compared to the darkness into which he descended.

[4]

Wayne rose out of it as quickly as he had gone down. Blood was trickling into his eyes from a slight forehead wound. He used his sleeve to wipe it away.

His first clear sight was of a face at the window on his side; a sal ow, moon-terrain face with bulging eyes and an expression like an idiot contemplating sandscrit. On the man’s head was a strange, black hat with big round ears, and in the center of the hat, like a silver tumor, was the head of a large screw. Sand lashed at the face, embedded in it, struck the unblinking eyes and made the round-eared hat flap. The man paid no attention. Though stil dazed, Wayne knew why. The man was one of the dead folks.

Wayne looked in Calhoun’s direction. Calhoun’s door had been mashed in and the bending metal had pinched the handcuff attached to the arm rest in two. The blow had knocked Calhoun to the center of the seat. He was holding his hand in front of him, looking at the dangling cuff and chain as if it were a silver bracelet and a line of pearls.

Leaning over the hood, cleaning the sand away from the windshield with his hands, was another of the dead folks. He too was wearing one of the round-eared hats. He pressed a wrecked face to the clean spot and looked in at Calhoun. A string of snot-green saliva ran out of his mouth and onto the glass.

More sand was wiped away by others. Soon al the car’s glass showed the pal id and rotting faces of the dead folks. They stared at Wayne and Calhoun as if they were two rare fish in an aquarium.

Wayne cocked back the hammer of the .38.

“What about me,” Calhoun said. “What am I supposed to use.”

“Your charm,” Wayne said, and at that moment, as if by signal, the dead folk faded away from the glass, leaving one man standing on the hood holding a basebal bat. He hit the glass and it went into a thousand little stars. The bat came again and the heavens fel and the stars rained down and the sand storm screamed in on Wayne and Calhoun.

The dead folks reappeared in ful force. The one with the bat started through the hole in the windshield, unheeding of the jags of glass that ripped his ragged clothes and tore his flesh like damp cardboard.

Wayne shot the batter through the head, and the man, finished, fel through, pinning Wayne’s arm with his body.

Before Wayne could pul his gun free, a woman’s hand reached through the hole and got hold of Wayne’s col ar. Other dead folks took to the glass and hammered it out with their feet and fist.

Hands were al over Wayne; they felt dry and cool like leather seat covers. They pul ed him over the steering wheel and dash and outside. The sand worked at his flesh like a cheese grater. He could hear Calhoun yel ing, “Eat me, motherfuckers, eat me and choke.”

They tossed Wayne on the hood of the ’57. Faces leaned over him. Yel ow teeth and toothless gums were very near. A road kil odor washed through his nostrils. He thought: now the feeding frenzy begins. His only consolation was that there were so many dead folks there wouldn’t be enough of him left to come back from the dead. They’d probably have his brain for dessert.

But no. They picked him up and carried him off. Next thing he knew was a clearer view of the whale-shape the ’57 had hit. It was a yel ow school bus.

The door to the bus hissed open. The dead folks dumped Wayne inside on his bel y and tossed his hat after him. They stepped back and the door closed, just missing Wayne’s foot.

Wayne looked up and saw a man in the driver’s seat smiling at him. It wasn’t a dead man. Just fat and ugly. He was probably five feet tal and bald except for a fringe of hair around his shiny bald head the color of a shit ring in a toilet bowl. He had a nose so long and dark and malignant looking it appeared as if it might fal off his face at any moment, like an overripe banana. He was wearing what Wayne first thought was a bathrobe, but proved to be a robe like that of a monk.