Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) (3 page)

Megan flipped to another news channel. Same thing, different reporters. She grabbed her mobile phone, punched in Chloe’s number, then put the phone to her ear.. She frowned and checked the screen. “It’s not working. I don’t have a signal.”

Sam gave her a sad nod. “They’ve been down for hours. Vegas, too.”

A chill ran through her body, making her shiver. She stared at the screen, willing the signal bars to appear, but they didn’t.

Megan took her laptop from the nightstand and opened her Instant Messenger program. Her sister wasn’t online. Switching to email, she banged out a quick message, asking her to call.

She looked at Sam. “What do we do?”

“Vegas seemed fine, at least a few hours ago.” Sam had been in Vegas the night before negotiating with a strip club owner about a promotional tie-in with the brothel. Sam shrugged and sniffled. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on. I know you have plans to fly out of Vegas this afternoon... You may want to reconsider.”

Megan got up and went to the window. She peered out, squinting into the sun. Everything appeared normal. Red dirt and rocks stretched as far as she could see. Scrub grass and tumbleweed cooked in the harsh sunlight.

Sam cleared her throat. “I’m heading back into Vegas to get some supplies. Do you want to come along?”

Megan turned around. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Sam. What if it’s reached Vegas?”

Sam leaned away and coughed into her hand, a wet, raspy sound like an old, dry chainsaw. “I know. I thought of that, but our regular delivery arrives tomorrow and we’re low on everything. If they don’t show...”

Megan understood her concerns. She shared them. Without their weekly supplies, they wouldn’t survive for long. Life in the desert was unforgiving this time of year with temperatures soaring into the 120s and no rain to speak of. She thought of her last shift and shuddered. Twelve clients in all, breathing on her, her sweat mingling with theirs.
Inside of her.
Her heart beat faster; her stomach churned. Megan took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She didn’t
feel
sick.

Sam picked up on her consternation. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Megan shook her head.

Sam patted her on the hand and got to her feet. “I’m sure it will all be fine. These things happen…” Her first step was unsteady, as if she had forgotten how to walk. Sweat poured from her brow, falling to the floor in fat drops. Giant stains blossomed from nowhere in the pits of her arms.

Megan straightened, putting a hand out to Sam. “Are you okay?”

As she watched, the color drained from Sam’s cheeks, leaving her face a pasty gray with blood vessels visibly throbbing slowly beneath translucent skin.

As if on autopilot, Sam took another step before she faltered again. She pitched face-first into the narrow gap beside the bed, swiping Megan’s alarm clock on the way down and setting it off. Megan sat in shocked silence, unable to believe what was happening in front of her. The alarm blared.
Shit!
She leaped across the room and attempted to pull Sam up, but she couldn’t get leverage. The older woman was wedged in, pinned tight at her shoulders.

Megan snaked her hand to Sam’s neck and checked for a pulse.
Nothing
. She tried the other side, but got the same result.
Oh, shit.

Five

Four o’clock. Come on, four o’clock.

Alicia had only one hour left in her shift. Her buzz had worn off a while ago, leaving her tired, cranky, and craving a nap. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the cheap digital clock attached to the top of her register, checking it every time she opened the drawer, and again when she slammed it closed. “Shitty economy,” she muttered under her breath.

“Excuse me?” her current customer, a stylish, middle-aged woman with perfect bangs and a fat glittering rock on her left hand asked.

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I’m babbling. I’ve had a bad day.”

“I understand. I was your age once.”

Alicia smiled despite herself.
This biddy has a sense of humor.
She reached for the first item on the conveyer belt, a giant bottle of Vodka. Curiosity got the better of her. “Big party?”

The woman nodded, fine strands of hair dancing on her forehead. “Yes. My son is graduating from the community college tomorrow.”

Alicia perked up. “Which one?”

“City.”

“No way.” She stopped the conveyor belt. “I know some people over there.”

“His name is Chaz. Chaz Perkins.”

A hot flash of anger coursed through Alicia. She broke eye contact, glanced away, and tried to steady herself.

She had met Chaz a year ago at a friend’s house. He had shown up with one of Alicia’s friends and brought along a good friend of his own—a fat sack of weed. The late-spring party had started in mid-afternoon and raged into the night, providing ample time for Alicia to get way too messed up. She outdid herself, dipping into Chaz’s stash over and over, chasing the perfect high. She had awakened the next morning in the back of his Grand Cherokee.

Sun beamed on her face, making her sweat. The air stank, a toxic mixture of stale pot, beer, and rancid body odor. Worst of all, she was naked from the waist down, and her pants were missing. Her recollection of the previous night fuzzed out sometime around sunset. Looking at Chaz snoring contentedly beside her, she couldn’t fathom what she had been thinking. An oafish, clumsy boy, he had nothing going for him beyond a bottomless stash of weed.

She found her shorts wadded up on the front passenger seat and slipped into them as quietly as she could. Then she crawled out of the truck and dashed down the street to her car.

Later that day, she had gone to the drugstore and picked up two doses of the morning after pill, just in case. She was a ball of nerves as she waited in her doctor’s office a few weeks later, convinced she had caught some horrible disease from Chaz. She got lucky, though, and received a clean bill of health.

She had never spoken to him again, had almost forgotten about the incident until this moment. She tried to smile. “I don’t know him. Sorry.”

“Well, it’s going to be a big party. If you’re looking for something to do, here’s the address.” The woman tore a slip of paper from her checkbook and started scribbling.

“Thanks,” Alicia said, biting back her disgust as she took the paper to be polite. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the next customer in line glaring at her. She smiled in return.

Finally, she scanned the woman’s last item, a carton of toothbrushes, and pushed the
Total
button.

“Joan,” the woman said as she handed over her American Express.
She doesn’t give up.

Alicia swiped the card. “Nice to meet you. I’m Alicia.” She studied Joan’s face while the transaction processed. Up close, she looked like she took care of herself. Early forties, maybe forty-five, about her mom’s age, Alicia guessed. And those bangs—
just fabulous
. She had to fight the urge to ask the name of her hairdresser.

A commotion erupted near the return counter. A young man,
the cart jockey,
she thought, tore through the entrance, his feet slipping and sliding on the polished concrete floor.

“They’re coming!” People stared at him for a moment, and then returned to their business.

Alicia made eye contact.
Big mistake
. He dashed to her station, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her. “You have to get out of here! Now! They’re in the lot. They’ll be inside any minute!”

Something dripped on her upper arm. He was bleeding on her. “Eww!” She shook him off and pointed at the wound. “Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?”

“No! I’m fine. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you! They’re coming!” He turned and raced away, bumping into her next customer and spilling her cart in the process. Someone outside screamed, causing everyone to crane their heads, searching for the source.

Now Alicia was curious. She took her register keys and went to investigate. Other people, both customers and employees, were drifting in the same direction, drawn by the unexpected drama. When she rounded the corner and was able to see outside, Alicia felt her understanding of the world rip loose and slide away, a little earthquake in her mind.

Across the lot, less than thirty feet away, a man was on his knees, bent over another person, ripping and tearing at their throat. He was pulling enormous, bloody chunks of meat into his mouth and inhaling them like a wild animal.

“Is that real?” Joan asked from beside her.

Alicia had forgotten about her. She shrugged. This was Tempe after all. Anything was possible.
Where’s a damn manager when you need one?
She cast about, searching for one. A giant hand brushed her shoulder, and the next thing she knew, Big Don Harding, her supervisor, nudged her to the side and pushed past.

Her stomach knotted up. She tasted bile, as if she was going to vomit. “You can’t go outside,” she said.

He gave her a stern glare. “And why not?”

“I…”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, Alicia. I’m sure it’s some kind of movie promotion or something. Whatever it is, they can’t do it here. Not without getting approval from Corporate.” He started for the exit.

Alicia turned her attention back to the men in the parking lot. The first man was standing and staring at the people clustered around the door. Blood and gore dripped from his face, coating his chest in Technicolor-red. He chewed intently and swallowed the last bits of his meal.

She glanced behind him at the body on the ground.
It twitched.
Alicia did a double take. She could have sworn the man on the ground had just moved.
That’s impossible
. As she stared in disbelief, one of his feet kicked out. Then, with a groan, he rolled over and struggled to his feet.

Alicia swallowed hard. The man’s throat was in tatters, the fleshy parts chewed to the point where his vertebrae showed through, glistening white, slick, and greasy. His head tilted at an odd angle, the destroyed muscles of his neck barely supporting the weight of his head.

Customers began backing from the open door, slowly at first, but then with a rising sense of urgency. Alicia sensed the fear sweeping through the crowd; it was an electric current triggering a full-blown panic in the blink of an eye.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “I think you should close up.”

Don was paralyzed, seemingly torn between his duty to the store and his instinct for self-preservation. The man with no throat turned his head, tracking slowly across the front of the building. He stopped and focused on Alicia, his empty gaze boring into her. He began to moan, the sound increasing in intensity until it became a full-fledged roar. He took a shaky step toward her. The other man licked his lips and followed.

 Alicia screamed, “Close the fucking doors, Don!”

Six

Cesar smiled, recalling his first journey north—the heat, the people, the sense of hope laced with desperation. What he remembered most vividly was the overwhelming satisfaction of embarking on a grand adventure, of shrugging off his old life and gambling everything on his ability to survive the wilderness and avoid the
patrulla fronteriza
, the border patrol.

The path undulated like an angry serpent, shattered red and brown rocks fading away to smooth desert floor before abruptly returning. Pebble-filled arroyos crisscrossed the landscape at random intervals, torturing him with constant reminders of nonexistent water.

He got a small sense of comfort from being on this path again, from knowing he wasn’t alone in his quest for a better life. The mental image of thousands of feet marching north on this trail helped put him at ease despite the monumental task ahead.

The sun rode low in the eastern sky. Already blazing, Cesar knew the day would be long and brutal. He figured they had covered twenty-five or thirty kilometers since exiting the old Chevy on the Mexican side of the border. They were well inside the United States by now, far past the point of no return.

The going was slow. His ragtag group consisted of three men like himself, young, fit, and accustomed to working in the hot afternoon sun. However, unlike his first crossing, four women and two small children had also chosen to make the trip.

Cesar was prepared for the journey, had been for as long as he could remember. Ever since his deportation a year earlier following an Immigration and Customs Enforcement raid in Kansas City, he had focused every waking moment on preparations for his return. He had worked three jobs to raise enough cash to pay his
coyotero
and yet, he had fallen short. A five-hundred-dollar loan from his uncle had carried him over the top.

But the others?
He knew little about whether they would survive the heat, the blistering pace, and the abject brutality of the Sonoran desert in the middle of the summer. He hoped so. He felt responsible for them, as if his previous experience north of the border had bestowed some sort of divine responsibility, an unseen burden he dared not abandon.

He took a sip of water and hitched up his jeans. At five-foot-four, with shoulder-length black hair tied in a loose ponytail, Cesar looked like a million other brown men toiling in the American service economy. His most distinguishing feature was his easy grin, an infectious, toothy smile that instantly put people at ease.

He started to spit, and then thought better of it, swallowing his saliva instead.
Need to conserve water out here
, he chastised himself.
Every drop counts…

He took another step and kicked a rock to the side. His thoughts shifted to his family in Mexico. His mother, always overprotective of her youngest son, had gotten hysterical when he told her he was going north again. She had begged and pleaded with him, trying to convince him the Americans would put him in jail this time, lock him away for the rest of his life if he was caught.