Dying Days 2 (7 page)

"Not interested, sweetie. My heart belongs to another man. But next time you come into my place you'd better have something of value for a lady, got it?"

They all called her Kimberly, which was understandable. In truth, she was from Georgia and was on vacation with her husband and daughters when the world took a shit on their vacation.

When St. Augustine circled the wagons and secured downtown and the roads in and out, they simply stayed. Who wanted to go out there into the unknown when you had scores of armed men and women to protect you?

Ellen was hungry soon after and they forcibly opened Kimberly's in search of food. As they were firing up the grill—and her hubby pouring himself a shot of Jack—actual patrons had come in and ordered food and drink.

Thus, she became Kimberly, her daughters Trish and Tonya her waitresses, with her husband in the back working the grill.

All in all, she had quite a scam going. Last night, a group had come in with a freshly-cut deer, offering her a slab of venison in exchange for her last bottle of Jim Beam rye. It didn't matter to Ellen because she never paid for the bottle anyway.

"Tonya, come here for a second."

"Yeah, Kimberly?" Her daughter asked with a sneer. They busted her chops fiercely over the fake name but knew enough to never cross a line. If anyone found out the truth they might get tossed, or worse…

Ellen playfully slapped her daughter. The girls, in their late twenties, were the spitting image of their mom, with the same bone structure in their faces and the same curvy figures. Tonya was more of a flirt with the patrons and could be counted on to get a few more items each night than the rest.

"Go tell your dad that I'm hungry. Some of the venison would be great right about now."

"That does sound good. Be right back."

Ellen sighed as she did a quick inventory of their remaining stock. There wasn't much left, and without more alcohol the place would have to shut down. Then what? She didn't know. So far, they'd been lucky, living larger than most people and amassing a great collection of trade items. She had more watches and gold jewelry than she could ever wear or carry, but in the end, what good was it?

Maybe she should close down, gather the rest of the stock, and trade off some of the bottles for food and water. That seemed to be in short supply.

Every night, the men and women who scavenged the outlying areas came in with expensive clothing, pearl earrings or video cameras and the like.

Now, she and her family had a room filled with such items, and nothing to do with them. When they'd first taken over the place, her husband had argued to only swap alcohol for food and water. Ellen and her daughters had out-voted him, and now had nothing to show for it.

Tonya dropped a small plate of venison on the bar next to her mother and smiled.

Two patrons smiled and produced watches, ankle bracelets and women's socks still in the packaging.

Ellen sighed. "Sorry, this is my lunch. It's not for trade."

Tonight, after they closed, she'd call a family meeting. It was time to make some long-overdue changes.

*   *   *   *   *

John didn't have it in him tonight to argue with Kayla. "If you want to waste time in the bar, knock yourself out. We're here to gather supplies, not trade them for alcohol."

Kayla smiled. "One drink, come on. It will be fun." She looked to the other members of their group. When she didn't get any sympathy, she smiled. "First round on me."

"How many rounds are you expecting to have?" John asked. He was tired, worried they were running out of supplies everywhere, and feeling homesick. He missed his wife, missed normal life, missed McDonald's cheeseburgers… and wished he had Darlene here.

Kayla turned to her brother, Peter. "What do you think?"

Peter shrugged. He leaned against the wall, big arms folded across his chest. He was a big man but a bit on the simple side. He'd also agree to whatever his sister said.

John knew they were stuck here overnight no matter what, so a drink might be good. It also might help him, since he was so tense. Maybe a night to forget the world had ended would do wonders for his mood.

"Fine. One drink, and it's on you," he said to Kayla.

Kayla hugged him, kissing him on the cheek. "You know, if I wasn't a lesbian I'd be riding you like a bronco, John-John."

He laughed. "I have no doubt. Is everyone going?"

There were six of them, but the others decided to wander to the north of town and get the rooms they were given whenever they were in town. It paid to be an outpost, protecting the city and being an advanced scout. Rooms in a secured house were always waiting for them.

John, Kayla and Peter went inside to Kimberly's Bar, but there were so many customers they couldn't get near the bar.

It was standing room only for most patrons, the few tables occupied by large groups. There was at least one waitress taking orders, but she looked distraught and they couldn't catch her as she blew past.

"Can we go?" John asked. "This is ridiculous."

"Not until I get a drink," Kayla said. She leaned into her brother. "Clear me a path through this crowd, but don't be rough."

Peter nodded and started moving his large body through, cleaving a path that Kayla and John followed. Within three minutes, they stood at one end of the bar but the bartender, Kimberly herself, was at the opposite end, serving drinks.

"Now what?" John asked. This was becoming ridiculous; he wasn't in the mood for any of this. He wanted to rest, rise early in the morning and be done with their supply run.

Kayla, by the grin on her face, and the look in her eye, wanted to play and have some fun. Peter simply leaned against the bar and watched his sister like he'd probably done a thousand times before.

They'll be fine without me, John thought. She'll get into some minor trouble, Peter will step in as the heavy, and they'll both go home tomorrow with a hangover.

And John decided he could rest tonight. He said his good-byes but Kayla wasn't listening. She was already flirting with the befuddled old man sitting next to her, making sure to show as much cleavage as possible, hoping for a free drink.

John pushed his way to the door, amazed that even during an apocalypse some people's first priority was getting drunk. Sometimes their second and third as well.

"Who are you?" a young girl asked John as he was leaving.

He smiled to be nice and moved past her. "Nobody."

"I beg to differ."

John just wanted to get to a comfortable bed and rest. But he didn't want to piss anyone off tonight, either. "I'm John. I was just leaving."

She grinned at him and put a hand on her hip. "Too bad, honey, because I have enough to get us both drunk tonight."

John got a better look at her. She was a redhead, very pretty and petite, and wearing a revealing outfit: cut-off concert T-shirt, tight jeans with rips strategically placed, and high-heeled black leather boots. She was also older than he first thought, probably in her mid-twenties.

"I'll take a rain check on that, but thank you for the offer."

"Don't wait too long, honey. A girl like me is getting rarer and rarer these days."

Chapter Eight

Her eyes opened suddenly but she didn't move, staring at the fluorescent light banks above her. One of them intermittently blinked and made an annoying buzzing noise, like when she was in high school.

She turned her head and realized she was in a school.

Desks and chairs were piled in a corner, just under the green chalkboard.

Darlene was on a large wooden table, hands and feet strapped tightly. As soon as she started to struggle she was startled by a voice from just out of sight.

"Excellent. I knew you weren't dead. Well, dead-dead."

"Who are you?" she asked, voice raspy. She felt like she'd swallowed a pound of sand. She tried to break free of the restraints but couldn’t budge them.

"Holy shit, you can talk." He came into view, a man sporting long, thick wild hair and a bloodied lab coat. He smiled, his face like a child's under all that hair. "The next step in the evolution. And so soon."

"Who the fuck are you?"

He ignored her question, walking slowly around the table and looking like a kid about to open Christmas presents. "Excellent," he muttered, clapping his hands in excitement.

"Let me up, motherfucker."

He disappeared from Darlene's view again, returning seconds later with a hand-held tape recorder. He put it close to his face. "Subject is exhibiting speech, even sentences. Subject is also using profanity, which might be a neurological disorder, or may simply be a personality trait from when she was alive."

Darlene closed her eyes. She was tired, and now some lunatic had her prisoner and thought she was a fucking zombie. Could this day get any worse?

"The wound is still bleeding and rigor mortis has yet to set in, which I find odd. She's a fresh candidate, the freshest I've had yet."

Darlene opened her eyes again. He was standing over her and sniffing her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

It startled him and he fell back. She laughed when she heard him crash into something, breaking it.

"For the last time, you fucking madman, let me go."

He stood over her, his mouth open. "You called me madman."

"No shit. Untie me."

"You can communicate?" he asked.

"I'm not dead. Look at my chest. I'm breathing. I'm talking. I need to pee."

He put his hand to his face and stroked his thin beard.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"I have some questions before I let you go. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough?" she asked incredulously. "You have me strapped to a fucking chair."

"Do you suffer from Tourette syndrome?"

Darlene laughed and relaxed. "No, I just find the need to curse like a trucker when some madman straps me to a table. Weird, I know."

"I'm Madman."

"I know."

"No, no, you don't understand. My nickname is Madman."

"Should I even ask why?"

He leaned on the table near her right side and smiled. "It was back in high school, during chemistry class. The teacher handed out contact information sheets, things like that. One of the questions was your nickname. I put Madman."

"Why?"

He laughed. "Why not? It was funny; I was a kid and the name followed me for years. Everyone from high school still calls me Madman."

"Did you legally change your name?"

He looked confused. "No."

"Then what's your real fucking name? And when the fuck are you going to get me off this table?"