Dead Hunger V: The Road To California (21 page)

“Like gas cans?” asked Nelson.

“Yeah,” I said, “but it doesn’t matter whether they’re made for gas.  Just the largest tanks we can find.  What was the capacity on that Eurocopter, Serena?”

“Almost 250 gallons according to the spec sheet,” she said.

“We’ll need an open bed truck then,” I said.  “And big tanks.”

“How we going to power the pumps at the Conoco?” asked Nelson.

Luckily I’d already thought of that, so I didn’t have to scramble for words.  “We grab some sort of siphon kit at the auto parts store, like we had before.  I don’t think this is a big farming area, so they won’t likely have the hand-crank tank pumps, but if they do, we grab one.  We’ll get a length of hose and pump directly from the in-ground tanks.”

“I’m crossing my fingers, dude!” said Nelson. 

“Ready?” I said.

Three rotters were coming at us from two sides.  “I got this one,” I said, and I raised my arm, aimed and fired.  The dead stinker in torn jeans and one Nike collapsed five feet from me.

By the time I looked back, Nelson’s arm was drawn back like he was skipping a rock.  When he spun it away from him, the big, sharp star entered the bald digger through the right eye socket and ended up sticking out of the back of its head.  As it began its topple backward, I realized it was devoid of clothing and so deteriorated that it was impossible to tell the sex.  Where its genitals had been looked like rotted meat, so knowing if it had been an innie or an outie was not apparent, nor was it important.

Nelson walked toward it and with two fingers, yanked on the tip of the star until it popped free with a sucking sound.  He wiped it on the shirt of my zombie and tucked it back in his jacket pocket.

I had initially wondered why I hadn’t heard a gunshot from Serena, but she apparently had decided to save her rounds.  Instead, because the creature that approached her did not have any arms at all, she just conked it in the noggin with the butt of the Walther, and it dropped like a water balloon that had come untied.

“We are really stupid,” said Nelson.  “We have those damned bottles of urushiol in the helicopter.”

“Double stupid,” I said.  “We don’t have near what we started with, but there’s still some WAT-5.”

“No use in wasting it,” said Serena.  “We don’t know what we’ll run into at your Uncle’s place.”

“Let’s go.”

Stragglers came at us from here and there, but as they did so, we took them out easily.  We ended up getting a Dodge Ram Pickup with a half a tank full of fuel.  It was a 2011, and the battery still had enough to crank the motor, though it was a grueling first couple of cranks until the motor loosened up and the engine fired.

“Yes!” shouted Serena, shooting another male abnormal, this one pumping some significant pink vapor from his eyes.

“That one had been feeding,” she said.  “Let’s get in.”

We climbed inside the truck.  I was in the driver’s seat, but motioned to Serena.  “Here, let’s swap.  You go over.”

I slid across the seat and she crawled over me.  “Why?” she asked.

I pointed.  “See that down there, near the station?”

“What?”

“Tanker,” I said. 

“You know how to drive it?”

“No fucking clue,” I said.

“So?” asked Serena.

“I know how to drive it!” said Nelson

I turned around and stared at him.  “You do?”

“Heck yes,” he said.  “My pops made me go to trucker school.”

I shot a glance at Serena.  “Trucker school?” she asked.

“He said there’d always be work,” said Nelson with a shrug.

I had to ask the obvious question.  “So, were you ever a trucker?” I asked.

“Heck no!” he said.  “Me?  Blowing out that pollution?  Never gonna happen.  I did it to make my pops happy.”

“You have to tell us about that later,” said Serena.  “You still remember how to drive one?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you guys this, but I have kind of a photographic memory.”

My mouth fell open and I tried to close it.  “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, I know.  Seems kinda far out with me enjoying the herb like I do.  But I find that it actually improves my ability.”

I shook my head.  “Nelson, you are like Forest Gump’s box of chocolates.”

“You never know what you’re gonna get, right?” he said.

“Right,” I said.  “Serena, get us over to that tanker, babe.”

“Nope,” she said.  “I’d feel better if we go to the Pawn & Gun first.”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” I said.

“I’d rather have a half dozen AK-47s or Uzis,” said Serena, putting the Dodge into gear.

She drove.  I felt good.  Like I was doing what needed to be done.

WWFD?

Just what I was doing, I was pretty sure.

*****

Missouri Boulevard Pawn & Gun was closed.  I could tell because of the closed sign on the outside.

The door was locked, too.

“Wish Hemp was here,” I said.  “He could pick this lock.”

“So could I,” said Nelson.  “If I had a lock pick kit.”

“How?”

“Hemp taught me,” said Nelson.  “Photographic memory, remember?”

“Now I do.  Mine isn’t what yours is,” I said.

“He showed me another trick that might work, though.”  Nelson looked around.

You have to understand that in a world like the one in which we now lived, there were certain, everyday fixtures that we’d gotten used to and that we don’t necessarily write about in these chronicles.  They were so commonplace that to read about them again and again would become monotonous.  They were the dead uninfecteds that pretty much littered the streets.

When I say this, I now mean skeletons.  Animals had begun venturing into the asphalt jungle shortly after the infection had begun to spread and fresh bodies were everywhere.  The zombies ate their share, but the sharp teeth of wild animals were better suited for really cleaning the bones.

Anyway, to make this long story short, the skeletons were still there.  They still wore pants, and those pants pockets often had keys in them.

Nelson knew what he was doing when he held out his hand and said, “Gun.”

I pulled it from my drop holster and put it in his hand.  He trotted about twenty feet away on the sidewalk and bent down over a body, patting the pocket.  Then he patted the other.

He stood up and shook his head, and looked around.

“There’s another right there,” he called.  Serena and I nodded, and he ran another fifteen feet and bent over another body.  After patting, he reached down and just tore the material open with his fingers, removing the set of keys.  He held them up, inspecting them.

Then he ran back.  When he arrived, he was not winded at all.  “Got it.  Hemp showed me another trick.  It’s called bumping.”

I’d heard of it, and had even tried it, but after several tries, I had begun to believe it was just some stupid joke meant to make guys like me look lame.

“Have you tried it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Nelson.  “I had it down.  Not sure if one of these keys will work, but if I can put it in, I can probably get it open.  I need a screwdriver or something else to hit the key with.”

Serena looked around.  There was a rock sitting against the curb.  “Will that work?” she asked, pointing.

Nelson nodded.  “Sure.  Anything hard and a little heavy.  Grab it.”

Serena did, and Nelson trotted up to the door.  He tried one key, but it would not slide into the lock at all.  “This is a Schlage key,” he said.  “The lock is a Kwikset.”  He flipped.  “This should work.”  He smiled and gave me the gun back.

Fucking Hemp Junior
, I thought. 
Love it.

Serena gave him the stone.  Nelson took it and slid the key in the lock.  He tried to turn it, and it wouldn’t budge.  Then he tapped the key five or six times and tried again.  Nothing.  He jiggled the key and tapped simultaneously, and to my surprise, the key turned and I heard the deadbolt retract.

“Seriously,” I said.

“Totally,” he said.

Nelson tried to pull the door, but the bottom knob was locked.  “Gun,” he said, holding out his hand.

I assumed he was going to use the butt of the gun as his rock, but instead, Nelson raised the Walther and fired right behind the jamb, splintering the wood.

I jumped, not expecting it.  I might have screamed a little.  “What the hell, Nelson!” I scolded.

He laughed.  “I might have gotten lucky a second ago, and I didn’t want to screw up my perfect lock bumping record.”

“Why didn’t you just do that to the top?” I asked.  Serena was laughing, and I knew why.  I had jumped like a foot off the ground, and she didn’t even twitch. 

“You can’t just shoot  a deadbolt,” he said.  “Knobs are easy.  They just latch onto the jamb plate.”

“More Hemp teachings?”

“Sure.  Who else?” he asked, handing me the gun.  “Here.  Shooting bullets at moving things are your department.”

I shook my head and stepped aside, pulling the door open.  Serena stayed to the left of the door, and Nelson got behind me.

“Hello!  Is anyone there?” I called.

Nothing. 

“No damned headlights, either,” I said.  “We have to hit a pharmacy next.”

“We should have made a list.”

“You don’t need a list.  You got me.”

“Oh yeah,” I said.  “Mr. photographic memory.”

“Make fun, dude,” he said.  “It comes in handy.”

I wasn’t making fun.  If anything, I was jealous.  I’d heard of people with that gift, and I always wished I had it.

I squeezed his shoulder and smiled.  He knew what I meant.  I moved inside, the light from the late afternoon illuminating the interior of the store.  From the looks of the place, nobody had been inside since this thing began.  There were no windows from outside that weren’t barred, and the metal door looked imposing.  The locks just weren’t as good as they apparently needed to be.

“Guitars!” said Nelson, and rushed over to pull one down.  He turned it over, smiling.  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“A guitar?” Serena said, pulling the door closed to within a foot, still allowing light to stream inside the large room.

“It’s an Elvis Costello signature model!  This thing’s almost five grand!”

“You play?”

“Since I was a punk,” said Nelson.  “I’m taking it.  How long’s it been since you heard live music?” he asked.

Serena smiled, big and genuine.  “Too long, Nelson.  You sing, too?”

“I do,” he said.  “You?”

“She does,” I said.  “Didn’t you ever hear her at karaoke over at Three Sisters Bar?”

“Never did,” said Nelson.  “I’d remember that.”

“Ha ha,” I said.  “Gun time, then go time.  We’ve been gone forty minutes already.”

“Jesus,” I said.  There were tons of what appeared to be automatic weapons, but I only knew what I knew.  I supposed I could figure them out.  I moved along the wall and pulled three identical guns down that looked pretty military.  I held one up to catch the light of the door. 

“AR-15,” I said.  “Hell yes, we’ll take all of them.”

Serena came behind the counter with me and moved along the case, looking down at the stock.  She leaned down to slide open the back door.  “Shit.”

“What?” I asked.

Too late.  She turned away from the case, raised her boot and kicked the glass.  It shattered.

“There,” she said, leaning inside to remove a very cool looking, engraved stainless steel handgun.

“Nice little Sig Sauer,” she said.  “.380 ACP.”

“Grab as many as you can carry,” I said. 

Nelson leaned against the door and was busy tuning the guitar.  I wanted to say something, but the kid needed a moment or two of peace.  He wouldn’t know what guns to grab anyway.  I let him be.

“I’m running these out to the truck,” I said.  “Serena, would you help me grab some of this ammo?”

“I got it, dude,” said Nelson.  He slung the guitar over his back and double-armed a bunch of the ammo boxes.   “This .223 stuff?”

“Yeah,” I said.  “And the .380 ACP.  And the 7.65 mm for the Walthers.”

We loaded up and hit the truck.  Two more straggler rotters saw us and headed over, so we had to wait for them to make their way up before Serena and I took them out with double double-taps.  Nelson was putting his guitar in the truck and was preoccupied.

“Okay, let’s get back in there and see what’s what.  Serena, if there are any more of the .380s, let’s grab as many as we can carry.  They’re an easy little gun for anyone to handle.  A few of the .22 revolvers, too.  Ammo’s everywhere, plus they hold a bunch of rounds.  Some speed loaders, too.”

“You learned a lot in a few runs to the store with Flex and Gem, didn’t you?” asked Serena.

“Shitloads, to quote them,” I said.