“Fine, I’ll stay,” he said as he began to look with a little more fervor through the strewn tools.
“Throwing screwdrivers would be more effective,” I said prophetically as I pulled the trigger. The lead zombie paused for a fraction of a second as it absorbed the impact and then began its forward progress again. “Are you kidding me?”
“It looks like it wrapped right around its skull,” Gary said, looking over my shoulder.
“Do not tell me this is a new version of zombie,” I said, eyeing the zombie for any sign of it stopping.
“What do you mean?” Gary asked.
“Could they be growing thicker skulls as protection?”
“That’s impossible,” Brian said. “That kind of adaptation would take thousands of years. AHA!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Not the biggest pair, but they’ll do.”
“That’s what she said,” I said, just because that’s what men do.
“Bathroom humor, Mike? Here? Mom would be so proud.”
“Sorry, it’s who I am. And anyway, he started it.”
“I’ve got what I need. Let’s get out of here,” Brian said, holding the bolt cutters up and heading quickly for the exit.
I placed a well aimed .22 center mast on the zombie’s forehead. His head snapped back a bit, I saw the gleam of white bone which became immediately coated with a brackish gel that looked a lot like congealed blood. The third bullet finally pierced through and he stopped cold. “You planning on shooting?” I asked Gary as my rifle jammed.
“I was going to save my ammo,” he told me matter-of-factly. “What’s the matter? You’re doing fine.”
“I have a jam.”
“Well, fix it. They’re deaders anyway…”
I looked up. The two shamblers on the left had been playing possum and were coming full tilt. Well, one of them was anyway. The old man was trying to get his giddy-up going, but that passed him by two decades ago.
The first zombie plowed into me. I was barely able to put my rifle up in time to keep him from biting any part of me off. “Shoot him!” I yelled.
“You guys are all entangled. I can’t,” Gary said in alarm.
“A bunch coming for the doors!” Paul yelled.
The zombie was an inch from my face, his breath was swoon-worthy, but I didn’t have the time for my inner diva to make a show. Its hands were making a clutch for the rifle. I simultaneously pushed him away with the rifle and let go. He could have the jammed piece of shit. I rolled to my right, a Philips screwdriver puncturing my side. The smell of the fresh blood got the zombie moving frantically. He let the gun go, his gray filmy eyes fixed on mine. I never took my eyes off him as my hands reached around the tools, looking for something zombie killing-worthy. I was having no luck as I first came across a rubber mallet and then a hacksaw. “Are you kidding me, God?” I shouted. And maybe he was, but then he guided me to a short-handled tool of some sort. I couldn’t tell what was on the end, but it had heft, and right now, I could deal with some blunt force trauma. The zombie had pulled himself closer, and I rolled onto my left hip and swung whatever the hell I had in my right arm as hard as I could. The safety-coated hand axe shone dully as it arced down and into the side of its head. My arm shivered from the impact, but the zombie seemed momentarily stunned. I kept rearing back and used as much leverage as I could, bringing my body up and slamming down with as much force as I could muster on each subsequent hit. I could hear his skull splinter with the first two hits, and the third finally broke through. My reward was a huge squirt of his creamy insides. I was repulsed as liquefied gray matter spilled forth. My feet were barely able to gain traction as I pushed away from the scene. Small white maggots wriggled around in the goop for a few seconds before becoming still. I might have decided to get a closer look, but Gary took this moment to put a bullet in its head.
“Little late to the dance, aren’t you?” I asked him. He put his hand out to help me up.
“Had to get rid of Papa Smurf and you looked like you were alright.”
“Kind of fits him, doesn’t it?” And it did. The old man had a white beard, was older than most craters, not to mention he had a significant blue hue to him.
“You might want to take the rubber off your axe,” Gary said as we moved back down the aisle to the doorway.
I grabbed a screwdriver and pushed the hair and bone covered material from the blade. “I wish it had a longer handle.”
“I wish it fired rounds,” Gary added.
“Well, that too.”
Paul was keeping the zombies at bay, more from the smoke screen his shots were producing than actually making a dent in their numbers. BT was down to a broom handle and was pushing the closest zombies away with it. He kept sticking it in their faces and sending them skidding backwards. They didn’t get the concept to grab the stick. Their arms were uselessly outstretched, trying to get a hold of their potential food.
“Mike! This is fun and all,” BT said with some effort. “But I really think we should get going.” A couple of zombies jostled into the broom handle, dislodging it from BT’s hands.
We had a window of escape, but it was starting to look like one of those fantastic, heavy-metal-doors-coming-to-a-close, Indiana Jones kind of escape.
And then Dirty Fucking Harry saved the day. Well, in this case, I guess it was Harriet. Mrs. Deneaux came in the front door, cigarette in mouth, cloud of smoke encircling her head, and one eye squinted. She took a quick assessment of the situation and flew through her magazine of rounds. Zombie heads whipped back before their bodies followed. Chunks of hairy, matted bone flew through the air. Eleven zombies dropped. What was going to be a narrow escape was now something we could drive a semi through.
“Thank you,” I told her breathlessly as we got to the door.
“If I were fifty years older, I’d marry you,” Gary said, kissing her on the cheek.
“I knew it!” BT shouted. “All white women are crazy!”
Mrs. Deneaux cackled loudly as we mostly carried her to the truck.
“I told you!” Paul said as we all got back in the truck.
“What happened?” Brian asked.
“Mrs. Deneaux is what happened!” I shouted. “She just might be the baddest ass person on the planet right now!”
Brian got the truck moving as a stream of zombies came flooding through the door. “Horrible customer service,” he remarked as we pulled out of the parking lot.
“Not bad,” I told him as I clapped him on the shoulder. My heart rate was finally coming down to something approaching “galloping horse.” A few more minutes, and maybe I’d get it to “hummingbird” status.