Ride the Serpentine (Year of the Zombie Book 7) Read online

  ‘Green-Eyed Lady’ skips and then cuts off. A skittering, whirling sound pours from the van’s speakers. Hollister angrily jabs a button with his finger.

  Hollister (re: CD player): No fucking way!

  Hollister ejects a compact disc and looks it over. He blows on one side, rubs it against his shirt, and then slides it back into the console. He pushes a button and waits. The disc skitters and whirls. Silence...

  Hollister ejects the CD and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands in a cardboard box on the floor near Jules’ feet. The box is full of discarded CDs collected from various places along the way.

  Hollister: So much for tunes, fellas.

  Graeme: Shit, man. I need something to get my mind off the girl.

  Jules (excited): Stone Show should be on.

  Hollister fingers a few buttons.

  A soothing female voice (Raven Tremble – African American, 41) fills the interior of the van. She’s the former co-host and current host of the Martin Stone Radio Show.

  Jules (V.O.): I fall under Raven’s spell as soon as I hear her voice. It’s a comforting feeling, like the warmth of a woman’s naked body on a cold night. A live woman, that is. Gramps was right there with me.

  The telethon was in full swing at the Weather. The goal was to find more virus resistant donors to grow the government’s vaccine supply. They were in the middle of a survivor story from some celebrity whose voice none of us recognized.

  Later, Raven gets choked up when a random caller mentions Martin Stone. They cut to commercial. Same fucking ads as last week. The Consortium of Able-Bodied Volunteers. Hager Portable Shelters. We quote the ZOM-B-GONE ad verbatim. Even Holly – Mr. Too-mature-for-that-kinda-shit – gets in on the fun.

  …ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE! ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE! ZOM-B-GONE STICKY BOMB PERSONAL EXPLOSIVE DEVICE!

  We have a good laugh. It’s a nice break from the tension.

  ‘We should cover that shit,’ Gramps jokes.

  Raven apologizes when the show returns from break. She makes a few statements about the search for Martin Stone, which as of this moment, has been unsuccessful. It’s been 11 months since he called in to the show. Raven plays the infamous phone call for what must be the millionth time. We listen on pins and needles… again.

  Heavy Static. Three words. ‘Raven. It’s Martin.’ Dialtone.

  Not everyone is convinced that the voice on the phone belonged to the real Martin Stone. But Raven had made up her mind. And that was all most people needed. Myself included.

  She urges people to have hope and not to believe the rumors. There were three popular rumors going around.

  Rumor #1: Martin Stone is dead, killed soon after the call.

  As much as I loved him, Martin would be the first to admit that he’s a giant pussy who wouldn’t last a minute in the trenches with the deadfucks. Maybe he’s even walking round with the rest of ’em. There are people out looking for him, if you can believe that.

  Rumor #2: Martin has been kidnapped and is currently being held hostage to use as a bargaining chip for the Lazarus vaccine.

  LZ is more valuable than gold these days. The government caravans are constantly being raided. Virus resistant donors kidnapped on their way to the Weather. But if this one was true, I think we would have heard from the kidnappers by now.

  Rumor #3: Martin is safe and sound at the Weather where he’s been since soon after the call. The government is manufacturing the ‘missing’ angle to rally support.

  There was no denying Martin Stone’s role in getting us through this thing. Who woulda thought? Radio Shock Jock Martin-fucking-Stone, savior of the human race. It was no accident that Raven and the survivors from the fall of the Brand Compound were allowed into the Weather and that the show was currently broadcast from there. The government meant to use that influence to reconnect with the nation. But as far as manufacturing the ‘missing’ angle…? Not likely.

  We didn’t know about the Stone Show until the night of the big blowout at the Grotto between Cinderella and one of the sister-wives. I mean, we had developed a good rapport with Stone from the few times we did his show in the late ’80s, early ’90s, so we obviously knew who he was, but we had no idea that he was still broadcasting. Zamora had kept us in the dark. He wouldn’t let anyone else into the communications room, so we got all our info second-hand. At the time, we had no reason not to trust him.

  The fight between the girls was over whose room they were going meet in to listen to the Stone show. I’m like, ‘Stone Show? As in Martin Stone?’

  The girls agreed to let us listen under the condition that we not reveal to Zamora that they had been ‘borrowing’ the satellite radio without his permission.

  By the time we tuned in, the show had already become a movement. We learned about the other survivors out there. Heard their stories. I had no idea there were so many. People fighting back. Forming settlements. Trying to move forward with some sense of normalcy.

  Things were going downhill fast at the Grotto, so we created the ‘gigs for food/supplies’ ads that aired on the Stone Show. The idea was that we’d secretly try to work those gigs into an extended residency (hopefully permanently) at a decent settlement. We told Zamora that we just wanted to work out some new material. He was too obsessed with his filmography to listen to the Stone Show. He let us use his equipment under two conditions.

  Condition #1: We had to let Cinderella contribute during the sessions.

  That girl was to music what granny porn was to hard cocks – unless you’re some kinda weirdo. Three failed albums – all produced by Zamora – and they still didn’t get the hint.

  Condition #2: We had to change our name to AntiRot.

  Zamora thought it was so fucking clever. ‘You need a name people can get behind,’ he goes. We fought him on it, but it was obvious that short of killing him – which we considered – we would have to give in.

  Before anything could pan out from the ads, things came to a head between Zamora and the Star 80 boyfriend. Shots were fired. People took sides, which only made things worse. Dumb fucks never learn. There was only one side at the Grotto.

  We came up with a plan. Gramps would take one for the team with one of the sister-wives. She was the worse one, too. This chick looked like she literally ate cigarettes. Gramps got her to slip Zamora a Mickey so they could be together. Then he was to get the codes to the freezer, garage, and the weapons room from her, and we’d be outta there lickety-split. Turned out Zamora was so paranoid that his wives didn’t even know the code to the weapons room. So we had to settle for two-outta-three. We left that night while everyone slept. We left that shitty name behind, too.

  The deadfucks were out in droves. It was a diverse crossroads of folks wandering around like awestruck tourists without an itinerary. Holly made a joke about racial harmony coming at a price, and another about the van’s off-road grille guards being the great equalizer or something. We moved through Jersey on slow steamroll, making forced conversation to distract from the constant bumpity-bump of soft bodies against the grille guards, the squishy crackling when the tires rolled them over, the pounding of hundreds of fists against the sides of the van, and the sound of as many voices grunting, and growling, and moaning, and wailing, and sounding all kinds of pissed that a hearty meal was very slowly getting away.

  The windshield wipers couldn’t move fast enough to clear away the blood before another coat darkened the glass. We could barely see through. We chartered a course with each sway of the wiper-arm, our faces pressed together like a ‘Three Stooges’ bit, waiting for a peek through the temporary triangle of clarity, past the swell of deadfucks, at the road beneath their feet. The damn things were so tightly packed that it was hard to tell where the road ended and the dirt-shoulder began. That was when we first saw her; our number one fan. She was hanging out with the stragglers a few layers into the woods up ahead where the road curved hard left. She appeared to be looking right a
t us, which, at the time, fit right in with the general deadfuck groupthink.

  If it weren’t for her groupie digs, and the concert Tee, we might’ve looked right past her. Just another deadfuck, albeit one who maintained a certain degree of beauty, even in death. A glimpse was all we could afford as there were far more pressing matters to attend to.

  We were so slogged down with bodies… the under carriage, and wheel-well so mucked up with loose flesh and shattered bone and tangled in guts that, for a moment there, it seemed like we might not make it. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I worried that I might actually experience what it’s like to be eaten alive. You can’t imagine the rush of unholy terror that thought brings about. Not unless you’ve been there.

  No sooner did things clear up than we stopped to help some ‘injured’ couple on the side of the road and nearly got ambushed by a group of scavengers.

  Shoulda known… Shoulda fucking known...

  Gramps was halfway outta the van when Holly stepped on the gas. The fuckers appeared from the trees seconds later. Like ninjas. Or is it ninja? It must’ve been a dozen of ’em, armed with automatic weapons. Gramps had to hang on for dear life as they fired at the van. Thank God for Spectra Shield, Ballistic Nylon, and bulletproof glass. We laugh about it now. At the time we seriously considered returning to the Grotto.

  We ultimately decided to head to my place in Chestnut Hill where I had a considerable gun collection stored in a safe behind a fake wall in my bedroom closest. It was nothing compared to Zamora’s arsenal, but I’ve been shooting since I was a kid, so I had my share.

  The place was completely ransacked. It broke my heart to see it that way. This was my home. It looked like someone had gone through it with a sledgehammer and then celebrated with the party to end all parties. Graffiti everywhere. Broken glass. Holes kicked or punched in the walls throughout the house. A few bodies. Thank God they hadn’t found the safe. We grabbed the guns, and a few other things, and booked.

  Thanks to the Stone show, we had the latest settlement list from the emergency broadcast system. So we headed toward the nearest settlement and crossed our fingers. We came across those scavengers again. Someone had left their heads on sticks on the side of Township Line Road. What goes around comes around, I guess.

  The thing about celebrity is that people feel like they know you. And familiarity carries a lotta weight these days. It allowed us to sidestep that initial period of mistrust people talk about when you arrive at a new settlement. Sometimes they’d ask us to play, and we would gladly oblige with an acoustic set. Nine times outta ten they’d invite us to stay, and for a while things would go smoothly.

  But then we’d eventually end up on the wrong end of a deadly weapon, usually in the hands of some rightly pissed-off boyfriend or husband out for blood because his lady fell under Gramps’ spell. Most of the time the kid wasn’t even trying. It’s like a bonafide superpower, that fucking charm-a-his. Even at 48. And it ain’t just the groupie types that fall victim. I’ve seen it work on educated women. Doctors. Corporate CEOs. Assistant District Attorneys. The kinds-a-chicks you’d think would consider themselves above spreadin’ for a rock star. Once he works that serpentine swagger, flips that hair-a-his, and flashes that crooked smile, they all drop their drawers. It’s the damndest thing. Even the dead ones…

  Nah. I’m just fucking around. But damned if Gramps didn’t occasionally spot some chick he’d bagged wandering around post mortem. I shit you not. That boy got around.

  If it wasn’t Gramps’ charm, then we’d wind up in the middle of some internal squabble that turned violent and/or led to some act of sabotage, and we’d have to book on a moment’s notice. It never failed. Ever.

  Altogether we had been asked to leave, thrown out of, or escaped from seven settlements. It became obvious to us that we needed our own place.

  We had our instruments, a few guns, a 5lb bag of Idaho Russets and a case of outdated Spaghettios to our name. The food was compliments of our last place of residency. A real shithole group in Somerset, Pa.

  ‘Looks like liquid shits on the horizon for us,’ I joked.

  Holly gets all pissy, goes, ‘At least we have food.’

  We took a vote and decided that our best option was to head back to the Grotto. It was two-to-one; Holly being the odd man out.

  It had been roughly six months since we left the place. In that time, there was no way in hell that band of fucktards hadn’t killed each other or, in some way, gotten themselves killed. No fucking way. It was a statistical impossibility.

  Holly was butthurt about finding our ‘friends’ – and I use the term lightly – walking around all deadfucked.

  I kept busting his balls on the ride there. ‘No gig is too small,’ I go. It used to be our motto when we were starting out. Now it means any fucked up, shitball situation where we’re faced with less than favorable odds.

  Holly had a point, actually. It’s always worse when it’s someone you know behind that deadfuck gaze. Especially when you have to waste ’em. It messes with your head in the way that you never get used to. I don’t give a fuck how desensitized you think you are. You start to second guess yourself as you lock them in your sights. It may have only been hours ago that you were having a conversation with this person. And now they want to eat you. And not in the good way.

  You wonder. ‘Was that just recognition I saw in their eyes? Is there some hint of the person I knew just hours, minutes, seconds ago, begging me not to shoot?’

  Everyone hears the voice. But again, I would hardly call anyone at the Grotto a friend. Maybe Zamora, in the beginning. Maybe... But even he had an agenda, which was…

  To promote his girls. We stocked all our early videos with the bimbos.

  To jam with us. Zamora had rock-star aspirations without a lick of talent in that regard.

  ‘And what if they did survive?’ Holly goes on to say. ‘You think Zamora’s just gonna welcome us back? You think he’s gonna let it slide that we stole his van or that we took food from the freezer? And let’s say he’s in a forgiving mood… Would you honestly want to live with those junkie, psychos again? What’s your solution then? Huh? We just gonna ask them to leave? Er kick ’em out? Er kill them if they don’t? You prepared for all that?’

  Holly has a knack for the dramatics, if you haven’t noticed.

  We held out hope that whatever had gone down at the Grotto after we left, that they hadn’t completely destroyed the place. Between the three of us, we were handy enough to make it livable as long as the damage wasn’t too severe.

  The generator was still running when we got there. Zamora kept it hidden under a row of fake shrubs on the northeast side of the estate. Solar panels posed as skylights above the kitchenette. The front door to the main house had been left wide open. No sign of forced entry. Not good. Inside a few deadfucks wandering like prospective buyers at an open house. No sweat.

  The entrance to the Grotto was locked from the inside, which meant they were still down there. The door was located underneath the fireplace. We knocked, but got no answer.

  There was a back entrance upstairs in the master bedroom; a fake wall inside the armoire. It opened onto a stairwell that led to Zamora’s room in the bunker. He let mention of it slip one night when the alcohol/oxycontin cocktail had him tripping balls.

  Actually, that was every night.

  It was a long trip down that staircase. We wet some towels and held them over our faces to block out the smell. It was so fucking bad that it stung your eyes. If you think you’re immune to deadfuck b.o., try to imagine it after being sealed in an enclosed area for three months. It gets in your clothes. Your hair. Up your nose. And it haunts you for days. Just the thought of it makes me wanna heave.

  I found myself reexamining my feelings toward the Grotto group on the way down. If we weren’t friends then why was my stomach all knotted up at the thought of seeing them deadfucked?

  ‘Having second thoughts?’ Holly goes. I must�
��ve had a look on my face.

  The smell was even worse in Zamora’s room. Thicker. Like it had weight to it, if that makes any sense. ‘Fruiting shit wrapped in rotten cold cuts,’ was Gramps’ take on it. And he wasn’t far off. It was the kinda thing you had to prepare yourself for. You couldn’t just run in. Even with the towels over our faces.

  It took a second to register that the thing squeezed into Zamora’s throne was even human, let alone the man himself. The Goddamned thing had to be three, maybe four times his size, and swollen from a mixture of food and death-bloat. His face was like an unflattering caricature made into a mask and pressed against the front of a much bigger head. There was a column of rolls as wide as his fattened head where his neck used to be. Loose fat pushed through open spaces in the chair and spilled over the arms like rising dough.

  The throne was surrounded by an altar of garbage. Empty cans. Plastic wrappers. Water bottles. Half-eaten meals on plates. Several of the plates were broken from the slide down the garbage slope.

  We approached him from behind. Holly goes, ‘That you, Alex?’