Stage 3: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (19 page)

Walker. Poor weak cowardly Walker. Yes, in hindsight, Mason realized that they should have left him behind, but the man's presence had proven useful after all. It had taught Mason an invaluable lesson. Whatever it was that was turning people into killing machines didn't have to be inhaled.

He said some woman scratched him. Said it felt like it was burning…..

A scratch was enough. A simple scratch. Walker had been as seemingly immune as Mason, but he'd been infected anyway. By a scratch. A simple mundane little scratch. So now, with half of the world trying to kill them, and the other half stumbling around as undead mannequins, it turned out that a simple scratch from any one of those creatures was a death sentence.

One side of the parking area was a solid wall of stucco. No doors and no windows. The building on the opposite side was wooden siding giving way to glass, but there was a door there. It was some kind of restaurant, but it could have opened directly into Hell and Mason wouldn't have cared. It was a way out. He'd deal with whatever was on the other side once they got through.
If
they got through.

He led Mackenzie slowly forward and watched as the two creatures stumbled drunkenly into the parking lot toward them. Mason cursed his big clumsy feet, but then he realized that there wasn't nearly as much grit here as there was in the alley. Clearly, someone took pride in his restaurant and had recently hosed-off the whole parking lot, so if he could barely hear his own footsteps, how could those mindless dead things possibly detect him from a dozen yards away? And then he had a new and intriguing thought. Perhaps those creatures in stage 3 might be following a different stimulus than those wild things tearing about in the frenzy of stage 2. After all, human hearing depended on a vibrating eardrum and fluid-filled cochlea and active neurons in a living brain to transform those vibrations into sound. A dead body, even a
reanimated
dead body, could never do that. So what in the name of all things holy manned the helm of these blind, deaf, dead things?

In his heart, Mason knew that the answer could mean the difference between life and death, but for now, it was purely academic. Whatever it was that was steering those two creatures, it was drawing them directly toward him and Mackenzie. He thought again about skirting around them in some kind of end run, but there was too little room to take the chance. With a quick, light step, he reached the glass door while the creatures were still six yards away, and he gave it a tug. Of course, it was locked. He'd expected as much. But a metal post holding a sign showing a stylized man in a wheelchair was standing at an angle directly beside the door. Apparently, someone had backed into the post at some point in the past.
Several
someones, judging by the way it had nearly been pulled from the ground. Mason grabbed the post low down and wrenched it violently back and forth, and soon enough, he'd loosened the soil around the base enough that the post came free. A tight little ball of concrete on the bottom of the post made it a formidable weapon that he briefly considered using against the Brothers Grim, but then a manic stage 2 in a short black cocktail dress raced around the corner, and Mason turned his attention back to the door.

There was no time to manufacture a neat little hole as he'd done at the coffee shop. He aimed the concrete ball at the center of the door and glass exploded in every direction. A push/pull bar split the opening in two, so Mason ducked Mackenzie's head low and shoved her through the opening, then he clambered in after her, inches ahead of the groping claws of the creature in the cocktail dress. He rammed the metal signpost down through the bar and wedged the concrete ball tight against the outer edge of the lower jamb just as the creature lunged. He saw a pretty face split open by shards of glass, then a hand reached through the gap with blood-red claws as long as daggers. The talons came within inches of his face, but he backed away just in time and grabbed the nearest large object, a narrow sideboard table, and tipped it on its side. He brought his forearm down on the groping arm and heard the elbow snap, and when the arm withdrew, he shoved the table against the door to shut out the torn face and complete the barricade. At last, he took hold of a stiff-backed chair and fit it so that the back legs were through the push bar and the front legs were wedged firmly against the table. Once done, he stepped back to assess the job. The breach was far from sealed, but one would have to be a contortionist to get through. It might not be perfect, but it would hold. For now.

At last, he fell back from the door, corralled Mackenzie into his arms, and dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

"Mace?" the girl hushed nervously. "Mace?"

"We're okay, Mack," He managed between pants, "We're safe."

She tapped him gently on the shoulder, and her voice fell to a whisper, "Mace, someone's here."

Mason heard a muted
click!
from behind, and scrambled to his knees just as the barrel of a gun was pressed to his forehead.

CHAPTER XXIII

The face behind the gun was unremarkable. It was young and clean-shaven below a crest of heavily-gelled, blond hair. High cheekbones, aquiline nose, unexceptional brown eyes. It was ordinary. Plain, even. In every way, the face was entirely average and commonplace save for one feature; a pair of permanently arched eyebrows that lent the face a bemused aspect, as if the young punk whose attitude had shaped them saw the world around him as something of a joke.

The gun though….. the gun was as serious as it got.

Mason's immediate reaction was to swat the thing away and make the young punk eat it, but he could hardly afford to be so cavalier. Mackenzie was in his arms, and he was on his knees. Hardly a position of strength. He could toss the girl aside and make the attempt anyway, but doing so would take a precious fraction of a second he would never have. The gun in the kid's hand was a 9 millimetre automatic. Even an amateur could get off half a dozen wildly-aimed shots before he'd be able to get Mackenzie clear, and it didn't take more than a quick look at his surroundings to see that this kid was no amateur.

As he'd thought, the place was a restaurant; one of those fashionable little eateries with a front facade entirely of bevelled glass and a narrow slice of the sidewalk beyond sectioned off as a patio. Inside was all hardwood floors, quaint little tables covered in linen, and artwork that looked like they'd come from a spray can. Nearby, the body of a man in a shirt and tie lay slumped over one of those quaint little tables as if he'd fallen asleep. Beyond him, the corpse of a young man in a leather jacket lay crumpled beneath an oversized painting of a darkened cityscape recently tarnished with a garish splash of red. And against the glass facade, the naked remains of a woman lay sprawled atop a tangle of soiled linen and torn clothing.

That those bodies were the kid's handiwork was obvious, but had it been self-defence, or had a more sinister scenario played itself out in this out-of-the-way little bistro? The otherwise unremarkable condition of the man in the leather jacket was suggestive. The odd placement of the man asleep in a pool of his own blood may only have been indicative. The woman, though….. the naked body of the woman prostrate on a makeshift bed of soiled linen and torn clothing…..
that
was conclusive.

This fashionable little eatery wasn't a sanctuary, after all. It was a killing field.

Christ. …..Out of the fire and into another
goddam
fire.……

Mason displayed no emotion as he viewed the carnage, nor did he betray his anxiety when he turned back to the young man holding the gun between his eyes. He remained outwardly unperturbed and offered a humble flag of truce.

"We're not infected," he said calmly, hoping either his tone or his words might ameliorate the situation.

The kid grinned stupidly and shook his head ponderously. "I don't care."

Shit!
 

Okay, not good, but Mason kept his voice calm and cool and tried again.

"Son, we're no threat to you….….."

The kid interrupted with an impudent snort of derision. "I know,
Dad
…… I'm holding a gun to your head. If anyone's a threat, it's probably me, don'tcha think?"

Oh, I know it, kid. I know it…..
Mason said inside his head, but outwardly he offered a casual, "Well, it's hard to rate all the different threats these days. On a scale of 1 to 10, every damn thing in this world is a solid 12."

   This made the kid laugh out loud, but it was forced, and there was no humor in it. Even so, the sound brought a renewed growling and banging at the barricaded door, and out front, a teenaged girl stumbled her way into the patio area and pressed her face against the glass facade. Another lingered beyond the sidewalk, unable to comprehend the parked cars keeping it from drawing nearer, and then a wildman in a torn and bloody Armani suit suddenly charged in and slammed against the glass. As the creature banged and clawed at the window, the barrel of the gun was pressed hard against Mason's  forehead, and his attention was back on the more immediate monster.

"You scared,
Dad?"
the kid asked with an exaggerated tilt of his head.

Keep this up, punk, and you'll get to know scared first hand.…..

"Kid," Mason sighed ponderously, "this morning, I woke up in a world gone to shit. Since then, I've had to run and hide and fight for my life more times than I can count. I've seen people torn to pieces, I've seen dead people come back to life, and I watched one guy turn into a raging animal before my very eyes. You ask me if I'm scared? Hell
yes
, I'm scared!"

"I'm scared, too," Mackenzie finally spoke up, her voice thin and frail.

The kid looked from one to other and back again, considering. Mason knew better than to let him deliberate too long on his own, so he offered the kid another out.

"Look, we were just looking for somewhere to rest. You've staked a claim on this place, and that's fine. It's your turf, and you're welcome to it. Now that we know, we'll just be on our way, no harm, no foul."

"No harm?" theThe kid scoffed, "You broke my
door!"

Christ, kid, take the deal. Make me fight for our lives and you'll regret it.……

"I'll help you seal it. We'll make it stronger than it was before, then we'll sneak out the back way and leave you in peace."

"It sounds like you're giving orders….
Dad,"
came the menacing reply.

Swear to God, kid, you don't want this… …No one's more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.…..

"Poor choice of words," Mason gritted his teeth and feigned remorse. "I apologize."

"A man with a gun to his head should choose his words more carefully. In fact," the kid narrowed his eyes menacingly, "he should choose his words
veeerrry
carefully!"

Mason had never seen this kid before in his life, but he knew him all the same. In life, he was ever the oddball. The weirdo of the group. The outsider. At best, he was ignored. At worst, he was bullied. He'd spent his days resenting and hating and plotting a revenge that he'd never have the balls to carry out. On any given day, this punk would always fade into the wallpaper, but put a gun in the hands of someone so pissed off at the world, and he became Lord of the Flies.

The gun. It all came down to the gun. Take that weapon away, and the self-appointed King Shit of Turd Mountain would revert to the pathetic little weakling he always was.

"Quite right," Mason agreed, feigning humility and biding his time.

The kid was eyeing him suspiciously, so he fought to keep his expression benign. He knew that the only way to deal with this type of cretin was by staying calm and even-tempered. Show arrogance, and the kid might take out a lifetime of frustrations at the point of a gun. Show submission, and he would be giving the idiot total control. He had to either convince the kid to let them be on their way, or he had to get that damned gun away from him. He would have preferred the former, but as every second ticked by, the more convinced he became that it would eventually come down to the latter.

The kid continued to scour Mason's face for any signs of deception, but Mackenzie spoke up again and drew his attention to her.

"Would you like a muffin?" She asked sweetly. "They're oatmeal and raisin."

"I
hate
raisins!" the kid snapped angrily.

She ignored his tone utterly and even offered, "I can pick them out for you, if you like."

The kid scoffed, but then he saw something strange in the girl's face and narrowed his eyes to regard her more closely. He looked her straight in the eyes and slowly bobbed his head from one side to the other. When she failed to follow his movements, he waved a hand in front of her face. At last, he gasped and moved the pistol to the tip of Mackenzie's nose.

"She's
blind!"
The kid fairly spat at Mason. "You said you weren't infected!"

As the kid drew back the gun's hammer, Mason readied himself. In his mind, he saw Mackenzie being tossed to one side, then a strong hand coming up to grab for the pistol. But as quickly as he might be able to cover the handful of feet, he would never be fast enough. A human body can't move as fast as a finger. The gun would go off and Mackenzie would die, and then he'd die a second later. His last awareness on earth would be of Mackenzie's brains splashing across his face, but at least they'd go out fighting. And if things happened as quickly as he assumed they would, maybe his mind wouldn't have time enough to even register the girl's death before he followed her into the abyss.

Every muscle in his body tensed, but just as he was about to make what was sure to be his last move on earth, Mackenzie lowered her face, stuck out her bottom lip and let it quiver ever so subtly.

"I was born blind," she said plainly, with just the appropriate hint of wistfulness.

By now, Mason shouldn't have been surprised at the girl's shrewdness, but he still had to consciously hold himself in check to not betray the lie. The kid appeared unconvinced by the girl's words, but at least he stayed his hand long enough to offer a dimwitted, "Huh?"

At that point Mason picked up the ball and ran with it.

"It's called Congenital Retinopathy," he stated matter-of-factly, "Maybe you've heard of it."

The words were made up, but they sounded good to Mason. He just hoped they sounded as good to the man with the gun. The kid looked from him to the girl and back again, muttered a suspicious, "Hmm…..", and finally came to a conclusion. He didn't remove the pistol from Mackenzie's nose, but he did ease the hammer back down and harrumph to himself.

"Never heard of it," he grunted, then the sly grin was back, "I guess Jerry never had a telethon for that one, huh?"

Mackenzie made a convincing show of steadying her quivering lip and raising her chin stoically.

"It's very rare," she said in a stifled sigh.

Her performance was damn near Oscar-worthy. If Mason didn't know better, he would have believed the tale himself. He watched the kid's face and detected just the subtlest of changes. The expression was certainly nowhere near sympathy or compassion, but gone was the malicious glint in the eyes, replaced instead by a general air of cold indifference.

"Well," he said crassly, directing a derisive snort at the girl, "Sucks to be you, huh?"

At last, he pointed the gun back in Mason's general direction and guardedly backed away to grab a nearby chair. He pulled it to within a few yards of the pair and perched himself on its very edge, then he lowered the gun at last and dangled it casually between his knees as he studied them both closely. His eyes lingered on Mackenzie's body a moment longer than was appropriate, so Mason recklessly grunted and shifted his weight from one knee to the other, and as expected, the gun came back up, but at least the monster's eyes were back on him and away from the girl.

"Easy there,
Dad,"
the kid cautioned Mason with a sneer.

"Sorry," Mason faked a wince and made a grand display of awkwardly shifting Mackenzie's weight  so he could free up a hand to massage his knee. As he kneaded the joint, he moaned and groaned and screwed up his face into an expression of sheer agony, grumbling, "I'm just not used to so much physical activity. I've spent most of my life behind a desk."

The kid's chin jutted out, and he glared at Mason angrily.

"Oh yeah? A desk, huh? So, what, you're some kind of …..
executive?"

Even if Mason hadn't already sized up the kid by now, the way he spat out that last word would have spoken volumes.

"Hell, no!" He lied emphatically, "I
worked
for a living! Not like those douchebags with their expense accounts and their monkey suits and their company cars!"

It was worth a shot trying to find common ground with the kid, but in reality the sentiment was only half-faked. He'd had enough idiot supervisors over the years to know how it felt to be a cog in the machine. Still, it didn't look like the kid was buying it. Maybe he was laying it on too thick.

"Oh yeah?" The kid glared suspiciously. "So, what did you do.
Exactly."

Not surprisingly, Mason went with the first thing that popped into his mind.

"Insurance."

The kid rolled his eyes, "Gee,
Dad
, that sounds exciting.…."

Now that Mason had created the outline of a character, he decided to go whole hog and fill it in with purpose, even if he poured it on too heavily. If portraying himself as nothing more than an office drudge with a bad knee didn't win him any favor, at least the kid was likely to underestimate him. Either way, it was an edge, and he was sure to need one when the time came.

"It was hell!" Mason acted his heart out, playing the odds to include one more burr undoubtedly under the kid's saddle. "I worked 9 to 5 every day under the thumb of a dried-up old bitch that treated every man like shit because no one was desperate enough to give her a lay. And then, on any given day, while I was busy dealing with whatever shit the wicked old witch piled on me, some idiot would come in all pissed off that he had to take time out of his oh-so-precious schedule to get his frickin' Mercedes insured, and I'd have to smile and say
yes sir
and
no sir
  when all I really wanted to do was reach across the counter and strangle the prissy fucker with his own tie."