Undead L.A. 1 (5 page)

“
Maybe that was the worst of it,” he said, trying to give himself some kind of encouragement. “Maybe it will get easier from here.”

He sped up as he took the corner, veering sharply right toward Terminal 1. He'd have to take the short cut across the bridge and past the Terminal 7 parking lot, then drive the wrong way back up toward Terminal 5 to get back to his plane. He came flying around the corner and had to jam on the brakes hard to avoid plowing into the back of a line of empty cars. The tires screeched loudly and the seat belt cut into his shoulder and chest, restraining him. He furiously slammed his fist against the wheel a few times in frustration.

“Great,” he bellowed. “That's just fucking great, man! Just what I needed.”

He noticed that his sudden stop had caused a shiny metal revolver to slide out from underneath his seat.

“Who the fuck keeps a gun under the front seat? It's like everyone in this city is fucking crazy!”

He didn't have time to work it out. A loud growl sounded from somewhere behind him. He whipped his head around just in time to see a small child with blood pouring from his torn open mouth come hurling in his direction, teeth first. Without thinking, he leaned forward and chucked a hard elbow back at the demonic brat's forehead, colliding dead on and causing him to tumble back. He could hear the pintsized nightmare scrambling on the seat, pushing himself back up to attack once more. Edgar looked in the rear view mirror and saw the terrifying child monster preparing for a fresh lunge.

“Hold on, fucker,” he said, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal and turning the wheel to the right toward the loading and unloading zone.

An unearthly roar erupted from the back seat as the SUV lurched forward again, but it wasn't going to be enough. Instead of being pinned to the creamy beige leather upholstery, the kid had collapsed into a crouch and was now inching forward. Edgar considered his options for a split second. He could reach down for the gun and hope it was loaded and working, but it was a huge risk.

It sure didn't help whoever used to own it
, he thought.

One bite was all it would take to ruin his plans of escaping this disaster. The little savage was bound to be climbing all over him like a playground jungle gym the second he stopped, chomping at anything that looked like flesh and blood. He'd come too far to give up so easily, too far to leave things to chance.

Instead, he aimed the Escalade toward the wide concrete pylon closest to him and closed his eyes, pushing down so hard on the pedal that his foot hurt. It was over in seconds. Edgar felt the car lurch forward as it collided, his seat belt locking up and digging hard into his guts until the wind was forced out of him, a spray of glass misting over his arms and face. At the same time, he heard the child scream as he flew past him out the window, kicking him in the back of the head and neck with his faddish light-up sneakers. Edgar opened his eyes and inhaled like a man drowning. The windshield was busted and the front of the SUV was smashed up with steam coming out the front grill. On the top, like a hood ornament, were the mangled remains of the kid, who'd gone head first into the pylon as well. A greasy looking stain of dark red blood was splattered where the impact had been. The body shook; the child's now shoeless foot twitched, then went still.

It looks like someone threw a huge tomato as hard as they could at the pole,
he thought absentmindedly. His head felt like it was still ringing. It hurt to think. He rubbed the back of his stinging head and neck and then checked it for blood, but he was unscathed. As he looked down at his trembling hands he saw a drop of bright red fluid fall and land on them. He felt a trickle from his nose. Looking up in the rear view mirror he was relieved to see that he had a nosebleed. He smiled at himself and saw that his mouth was bleeding as well. He'd bitten his tongue during the impact, but it was nothing serious. Once more he'd survived, even if he felt like he'd be better off dead.

“
That's what you get for not wearing your seat belt, you little asshole,” he yelled to his former passenger. “Don't you know you're not supposed to mess with the driver? Ever?”

He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. The vehicle was totaled. He'd have to find another way to his destination. He winced in pain as he stepped out. He was bruised and beaten, but still in good shape overall. He told himself to ignore the pain in his legs and arms, in his chest, and his throbbing head. There would be time to feel pain and be weak later. Now there was only time to survive.

He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands. It was the real deal, a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum, just like the kind Clint Eastwood used in the
Dirty Harry
movies. It was made out of stainless steel and gleamed in the harsh Los Angeles sunlight. He snapped open the revolver to see there were five working bullets in it and only one spent shell casing.

“
The original owner probably ate that bullet. The next guy who found it didn't have the brains or balls to use it. Instead he hid it under the seat.”

Gently he reinserted the cartridge back into place, loading it up so he could continuously fire the available five bullets he had at his disposal.

“Last thing I need today is to be playing Russian roulette out here,” he said.

A sudden thumping from behind the car at the Alaska Airlines terminal caught his attention. He looked over to see a man with sandy blonde hair and glasses wearing a tan sweater with olive green cargo shorts and black, leather sandals. He was in his mid-thirties. He had a backpack on, the kind often used by Europeans traveling around the States on short trips. It buckled under his waist. He was the picture of normality, a stranger who'd come to explore the wonders of Southern California and ended up trapped in a nightmare, except for the missing chunk torn from his right arm. Blood stained the sides of his torn sweater. Edgar slowed as he reached him, realizing it was already too late for the man.

“Thank God,” the man shouted, his voice slightly muffled through the glass. “I thought I'd never see another living soul again. You've got to help me. My wife is up in the food court. She's pregnant. She was attacked, but I fought them off for now. Please. We need help!”

Edgar slowly lifted the gun to the man's head, pointing it at the glass window. Instantly the man's face went white with fear. He babbled incoherently, raising his arms as he backed away slowly trying to wave Edgar off.

“It's for your own good,” Edgar said. “Trust me.”

He hesitated for a moment. He knew the man was a goner, knew he was doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery, but he still wasn't used to killing living people. It was part of why he'd chosen to be a pilot when he entered the service, instead of a foot soldier. He preferred that if he had to kill somebody he did it as far away from the target as possible. The look on the man’s face was like a dagger in Edgar's heart. He lowered the gun and the man stopped and panted, clutching his chest.

“Jesus, man,” he shouted. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

Just then a group of mutilated-looking TSA personal came from behind the ticketing counter. There were three of them, all in uniform, their faces contorted with sickness and hunger. Blood poured from their eyes and their skin looked bubbled from some kind of radiation poisoning. The man turned around and let out a high-pitched scream as they lunged for him with unnatural speed. The first TSA agent tore into his jugular while the second agent bit at his face. Soon they were all covered in the man's free flowing blood, slipping and falling down into a pile of screams and snarls. Edgar felt sick as he watched, powerless to do anything to help. The man's screams fell to a low whistle as they feasted on his steaming hot guts. They were on him like hunters on prey, devouring what they could in greedy bites. Edgar cursed himself for being so weak.

If you'd have done what you were supposed to do he wouldn't have had to suffer any more
, he thought.
Instead your cowardice and mercy have now made you a new enemy to fight off.

He turned back around and saw that there was a stalled BMW on the bridge blocking the rest of the cars. Holding up his shiny long barreled gun he charged toward it, moving quickly past a hotel shuttle and a series of blue vans by the curb. He felt pain in his hip as he ran, but he told his mind to ignore it. He couldn't afford anything else slowing him down now.

There was a black Jaguar smashed into the back of a white Honda Accord in his path. With a running start he jumped onto the hood and slide all the way across, just like the
Dukes of Hazard
. He landed on his feet clean on the other side.

“
Always wanted to try that,” he said as he sauntered up to the BMW. It was still running. “Must be my lucky day.”

There was another kid in the passenger seat. Unable to unbuckle himself, the angry boy thrashed and growled as Edgar approached.

“What's with all these kids today?”

The boy snapped at him over and over. Edgar leveled the long barrel of the gun at the boy’s face and pulled the trigger. The kid's face imploded into a mess of stinking, decaying brain matter, drooling puss, and coagulated blood. He fell against the restraint and lay still. The gun kicked back hard, almost causing Edgar to drop it. He stared at it in wonder, his ears still ringing from the deafening sound of the shot going off. All around him he saw signs of movement. More of the creatures were stirring now, brought to life by the sound of the gun.

“Time to go,” he said, sliding into the BMW. He shut and locked the door, then put on his seat belt once more, just in case. He put the car in drive and headed over the short bridge toward his terminal. A woman in a long dress stumbled toward him; she had blonde flowing hair and the bloody face of a demon. He swerved around her easily in the M3.

“
Sorry honey,” he said as she roared at him, “I've got a flight to catch.”

He punched it over the bridge and out onto the road, turning right into the narrow path where passengers generally said their tearful goodbyes while exchanging long hugs. A line of blood-smeared, empty cabs stood there now. The image of them sent a cold sensation through him, but he forced his mind to stay focused. He was so close now, but there was still work to do.

The BMW covered the remaining distance to the front of ticketing at Terminal 5 in under a minute. A former motorcycle cop stood near the plate glass windows. His eyes were solid black. He chewed mindlessly on his own arm which drooled a bubbly black gunk – like used motor oil – down the front of him.

“
Fuck this shit,” Edgar laughed.

He turned the wheel hard at the last second and slammed the front of the M3 into the cop at full force. A look of surprise crossed the man's face as his body went through the airport glass, right along with the front of the car. Razor sharp shards of the window noisily rained down on the car for what felt like a small eternity. The cop squirmed but remained firmly pinned under the front of what remained of the luxury vehicle.

Edgar threw the door open and took off at a run for the escalators, glass crunching noisily under his feet. He held the gun high in his right hand. He was going to make it no matter what the cost. There was no other choice in his mind.

I've come too far to give up
, he thought.

At the security gates he saw another TSA agent, a big Mexican guy. His barrel chest had been pried open by a scrawny twenty-year-old skater punk who leaned over him and gnawed on his lifeless bones. He looked up and snarled as Edgar raced toward him. Edgar had time to see that the young man's nose was pierced in the middle, like a bull’s nose.

“Toro motherfucker,” Edgar screamed.

He pointed the gun straight at the monster as he ran toward him and squeezed the trigger. This time he was ready for the recoil and it didn't throw him off. The kid's head exploded as the bullet tore through it. Bits of brain matter and skull fragments flew in every direction. A fine mist of spoiled blood lingered momentarily in the air. Edgar gracefully leaped over his body like an Olympic runner jumping a hurdle. His gate was no more than a few minutes away now. All around him a sea of monsters stirred; former people who'd been transformed into demon hellspawn, hungry for living flesh and blood. They'd been packed against the windows, ramming their heads into the glass that looked out onto the runways. Over and over they banged their bodies fruitlessly into the invisible barrier, like stubborn flies stuck in a screen window on a hot summer’s day.

They turned toward him in unison, drawn by the sound of the gun blast. Edgar could feel himself slowing despite his will power to ignore his pain. It wasn't just his libido that had been affected by the ravages of time. He'd atrophied significantly since his time in the service as well, despite regular trips to the gym. He felt panic rising in him. He could feel it coming, feel himself blacking out, but he fought it with everything he had.

“
Don't stop,” he shouted at himself, raising the gun at the zombie closest to him and obliterating it's face with one squeeze. He used the remaining bullets to clear his path, taking down three more attackers before getting tangled in the ropes at his gate. A man in a trucker hat and a shirt that said HUSTLER HOLLYWOOD caught his foot and began trying desperately to pull it into his wretched, open mouth. There were blisters all over his face. Edgar kicked at the man, popping one on his right cheek, which oozed slimy green discharge onto his chin, looking like he was wearing a goatee.