The Red King (Wyrd Book 1) Read online

  Ash backed away, breathing heavily.

  They both looked at each other as the thing, the bedraggled woman stood up with the cleaver still stuck in her skull. She was blocking their exit. She groaned tiredly, her head hanging oddly off her neck.

  Holiday could see in Ash’s eyes what he himself was thinking. They were both out of ideas.

  The thing stood, raised its maimed hands and lunged across the room, grabbing for them.

  Holiday grabbed the pole hook from off the tiled floor.

  “Open the meat locker and get behind the door when you do!” he shouted at Ash.

  The bedraggled woman came at him, her scream a gurgling whisper. Holiday drove the pole hook into her stomach and then thrust upward, feeling the hook catch her ribs.

  Really, he thought to himself again. Really?

  Ash had the door open and he shoved the lady, hook and all into the butcher who fell over as she stumbled awkwardly toward the back of the locker.

  Ash slammed the door shut.

  They leaned on it.

  They could hear the pole distantly clattering against the side of the locker and the metal floor as the bedraggled zombie woman struggled to stand up in the frozen room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was Ash who got the truck started with a little bit of hot wiring that wasn’t smooth but did the trick nonetheless. The old flatbed belched thick black smoke, idled roughly, then settled into a somewhat odd rhythm that included a worrisome ticking sound. But it was running.

  “I’m not gonna ask where you learned to hotwire a truck,” said Holiday with a chuckle.

  Ash wiped grease from her delicate nose.

  “Probably for the best,” she replied, and laughed as she slammed the heavy steel hood shut.

  Holiday knew the laugh was a polite way of saying, “don’t go any further into my life,” so he didn’t.

  They drove out of the parking lot, slowly, as if that might keep the noise down. One block south, they turned at a large intersection where a Target dominated a large strip mall on one corner. There were still cars in the parking lot. And there were unmoving bodies among the cars and leading all the way to the entrance of the store. The front windows of the Target were smashed, and for a moment they saw movement inside the store as they crept down the street past the big box building. They coasted down the grade, Holiday’s foot barely resting on the accelerator, and crossed under the sweeping, low overpass of the wide toll road above. They turned left at the next intersection, past a gym and a gas station, which caused Holiday to throw a quick look at the gas gauge.

  Half a tank.

  One more block and they came to another immense parking lot that lay in front of the Home Depot building supply store. There were no cars in the parking lot. No bodies. It was quiet.

  They parked in front of the do-it-yourself super store, near a cavernous opening that darkly hid the depths of the warehouse beyond and shut off the engine.

  “If anyone…” Holiday paused. You keep doing that, he told himself. Every time you think about them. Whatever they were… you avoid calling them what they are now.

  Zombies.

  Are you sure about that? he asked himself, scanning the rear view and side mirrors.

  “Not anyone,” he said, taking a deep breath in the hot and heavy silence. Feeling the tension in bands around his chest. Letting it go as he always did. Not remembering ever actually learning to do that, but sure that he had at some point. “I mean… zombies. If they’re here, they’d be all over us by now,” he finished. “They’d have come out after us.”

  Ash watched the far end of the parking lot.

  “Give it a few minutes,” whispered Holiday. “Let’s see if any… zombies… turn up.”

  It was quiet. It was only nine o’clock in the morning.

  Holiday thought about the woman in the meat locker. The one with a meat cleaver stuck in her head. And now the pole with the hook stuck in her rib cage. But the cleaver… thinking about it now… he’d put that there. He could still feel what it had felt like through the handle of the blade. He rubbed sweaty palms on his T-shirt and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes from a carton he’d taken from the grocery store.

  “Weird huh?” he said once the cigarette was lit and he’d taken the first drag. He expelled white smoke out the side window. Watching the inside of the store.

  “What do you mean?” asked Ash. Her voice soft. Almost distant. As though she too was somewhere else.

  “Zombies.”

  After a long moment she said, “Yeah. I guess it is.” Then, “How long have you known Frank?”

  “Just met him. Why?”

  Ash opened the glove compartment box. Rifled through some papers, put her hand toward the back, feeling around.

  You’re searching for a gun, thought Holiday.

  She closed the glove box without finding anything of value.

  “No reason,” she said. “C’mon. Let’s roll.”

  They got out of the truck, hearing its doors screech loudly in the silence. Then a too-loud thunk as they shut them, and both Ash and Holiday knew they’d have be quieter next time. Every time. From now on until further notice.

  They walked into the cool dark of the store, their steps soft and cautious. The lights were off, but massive opaque skylights in the ceiling high above and the burning blaze of the day showed them what was there to be seen.

  Rows of building materials, plumbing supplies, and home improvement tools spread away in all directions from the front of the store.

  Somewhere a phone rang. It startled them, its suddenness erupting once and then again in the overwhelming absence of anything living.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Holiday walked toward the sound of the phone. His mind tried to conceive of who, in the middle of this global disaster, would be calling Home Depot and why. And then he had a thought as he crossed the wide concrete floor to a long counter beneath a sign that read Contractors Desk, where a phone continued to ring. Maybe this whole thing was only local. Maybe it wasn’t like this everywhere. In fact, maybe it was like this only here, in Viejo Verde. Maybe there was a cordon or a security border where things returned to normal on the other side of some yellow police tape. And whoever it was on the line, right now, was calling, trying to reach someone. Anyone. Trying to get a hold of anyone and tell them, tell me, thought Holiday, how to get to safety.

  He quickened his step on the last ring. Sure that it was the last ring. That it must be the last ring. Because that’s how it is in nightmares, he told himself as he reached for the cradled phone. He would never know where safety was. Is.

  The phone rang again as his hand landed on the receiver.

  What if this is like Walmart? What if it’s another lunatic enjoying the end of the world via closed circuit television? Playing games while everything goes to hell.

  “Hello,” said Holiday. “Hello?”

  Dull fuzz on the line. As if the connection was from overseas. Then a dull click.

  “Don’t hang up!” It was a woman’s voice. A girl’s voice.

  “Don’t hang up please!” She began to cry. “Please… just… don’t hang up!”

  “I won’t. I’m here,” said Holiday. “I’m here.”

  “Good.” She was out of control. Sobbing hysterically. But she kept repeating the word “good”.

  “I’m here,” said Holiday again. “What do you want me to do… I mean… where are you?”

  Silence.

  The line went fuzzy again.

  “You’re not Ronny,” the woman said flatly. There was no sobbing. No hysterics. Her voice was flat. Dull, emotionless. Almost accusatory.

  “No,” replied Holiday. “I’m not.”

  Silence.

  The dull hum of the line.
A pop and then a quiet hiss.

  “No, you’re not. Not at all.” Her voice was cold now. Like it came from the depths of a frozen pond.

  “What’re you trying to pull?” she spat out with anger and icy vindictiveness.

  “Nothing. Listen, are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? Am I okay?” she shrieked and then laughed. “Am I okay? Oh, I’m just fine, mister. Real fine. What’d you do with Ronny?”

  Holiday held the phone away from his ear.

  She’s crazy, he thought. Crazy.

  “I don’t know any Ronny,” he said, putting the phone back to his ear.

  “You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die!” she repeated over and over and then, “You’re gonna die and that ain’t no lie. You’re gonna die and no one’s gonna cry. You’re gonna die and your brains’ll taste like cherry pie…”

  “Listen,” Holiday tried to interrupt. “Listen…”

  But she wouldn’t listen.

  And finally, silence.

  Then, “Ain’t that right, Holiday?”

  He felt like he’d been suddenly pulled into that ice cold pond the voice had come from. That’s what it felt like when she said his name.

  “Ain’t that right, Holiday!” she repeated.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You’re gonna die and that’s no lie. Holiday gon’ be Holi-dead!” And then she cackled.

  Cackled.

  Like a witch.

  Holiday took the phone away from his ear and just before he hung up, he heard her distant, tinny voice sing, “It’s coming for you!”

  He hung up the phone.

  “You’re sweating,” said Ash.

  Holiday remained staring at a nearby advertisement for an aboveground pool. A tan, smiling woman, a smiling, muscular man and two kids laughing frolicked in crystal clear water.

  Holiday fumbled for a cigarette.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Ash. “Who was it?”

  “Some crazy person,” he said numbly, flicked his lighter and inhaled. “Someone who’s… just lost it.”

  “C’mon,” said Ash, pulling him away from the phone. “C’mon. Forget about it.”

  Holiday tried to push the whole episode back. But he couldn’t. She’d been more than just crazy, he thought to himself. There was something… something evil about the voice.

  Evil, he sounded like some… rube. Like someone who believed in evil spirits and bad moons. Or, someone who believed in good and evil.

  But he couldn’t. He couldn’t get the woman’s voice out of his head as Ash pulled him deeper and deeper into the store in search of the things they needed.

  They found the fencing supplies after walking the entire length of the store, hearing only the rubbery thump of their boots against the polished concrete floor. The only sound in the silence. There was no one else in the massive store. No zombies either.

  They drove the truck around to the nursery and loaded the metal poles and wire fencing rolls onto the truck’s open flatbed. Holiday’s hands were soon bleeding.

  “Get some gloves,” said Ash. “There’s an entire store full.”

  Holiday walked back into the store and found some heavy duty work gloves.

  “You’re waiting for that phone to ring,” he said to himself, sure that it would as he stood there trying on work gloves. Then, “Great, and now I’m talking to myself.”

  He walked back out through the nursery.

  The phone didn’t ring.

  They drove to the Vineyards, slowly. Along the way they passed one.

  A zombie.

  They both looked at each other as they drove by the thing.

  “Maybe we’ll lose him by the time we get back,” said Holiday. They drove on, watching the zombie in the dirty side mirrors as he lumbered after them. Soon, he fell away out of sight and the curve of the road hid him from them.

  Or maybe it’s the other way around, thought Holiday. Maybe we need to be hidden from him.

  Back at the Vineyards they met Frank coming out of his condo.

  “We’ll start up near the front of the complex once we’ve had a little lunch. Do you kids like tunafish sandwiches?”

  Inside Frank’s condo they found dark hardwood floors, two deep cigar leather chairs and a large matching ‘L’ shaped couch. The walls were a dusty pink accented with maroon paint on the mantle and a ledge where a large mirrored wall seemed to double the size of the room. A beautiful impressionist watercolor occupied the only wall space.

  The sandwiches were piled on a plate, an artistic ziggurat of half-sandwiches, each with a tooth-picked sweet pickle stuck in it. There was also a bowl of salty potato chips and large pitcher of iced tea.

  “Got any beer?” asked Holiday.

  There was a look on Frank’s face. Then it was gone.

  “Sure, buddy. Unless you want to save it for after work. Got some more steaks we’d better barbecue tonight. I don’t think there’ll be much store-bought meat in our immediate future.”

  Holiday poured himself some iced tea.

  They ate.

  Halfway through the meal, Frank cleared his throat. “I never caught where you were from, Ash. Is that short for Ashley?”

  “No, it’s always just been Ash.” They were all aware she’d neglected to answer the part about where she was from, but Frank let it go. He nodded and picked up the sandwich plate, holding it out in front of Holiday. “Eat more. You’re too thin.”

  “I’ve eaten three already. They’re great. Where’d you learn to make such great sandwiches? Are you like a chef or something?”

  “A cook. I was a cook for a little while. Worked in a few diners. That sort of thing.”

  “Where was that at?” asked Ash, taking a big drink of the perfectly made sweet tea.

  Frank smiled. “Chicago and a few other places.”

  Then, “How about you?”

  Ash took a bite of her sandwich, looked out the window, then smiled as she chewed.

  “Europe. I was in Europe.”

  “Europe’s nice,” said Frank.

  Ash finished chewing.

  She looked out the window again.

  She’s somewhere else, thought Holiday. She does that a lot.

  “Not where I was,” she said, and continued to stare out the window at the hazy summer day and perfect garden just beyond the window.

  That afternoon they worked hard. They managed to do three walkways before it got completely dark. It wasn’t the best job but Frank was convinced it would keep the zombies out. At least for now. He put down the shovel he’d been using and said, “It’s a start. We’ll get better as we go.”

  They parted ways in the twilight to shower and clean up.

  An hour later as Holiday walked down the street in his cleanest shirt and jeans, shaved and showered, with a bourbon in his belly, he could smell Frank’s grill in the garage courtyard.

  Frank was staring into the flames above the glowing coals, oblivious to Holiday’s quiet arrival. The older man’s face was sad. Tired. Deeply lined.

  Holiday cleared his throat. “I’ll take that beer now.”

  Frank’s face immediately changed, illuminating from within. A broad instant smile. “Sure thing, buddy. Kept some on ice just for you. These steaks tonight are Porterhouses. Best of both worlds. You get a filet and a New York strip. Dry aged and prime. I get ‘em from a friend who has a restaurant up in the valley.”

  “Meat,” said Holiday and cracked his beer.

  They both drank.

  “We’re gonna need some more things from the Home Depot before we get started tomorrow. We need a post hole digger, some more concrete, and a bunch of axes and crowbars.”

  Holiday took a drink. He watched the coals.

  “Axes and crowbars?”
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br />   Frank reached down into the ice chest. Holiday could hear that sudden crash of ice being disturbed. Ice that had gone slushy with water. He heard cans connect with each other. Frank came out with another beer.

  “You drink pretty fast. Here’s another.”

  Holiday killed the last of the one he was holding and took the wet ice-cold can from Frank’s hand.

  “Yeah. I do,” said Holiday.

  “Listen, I’m not gonna be the old man. That’s not my job anymore. But this is a crisis situation. You understand that, right?”

  Holiday nodded.

  “So drink as much as you want. But just keep this in mind… okay, buddy?”

  Holiday drank and watched the coals.

  “Whatever this is, we’re in it together,” said Frank as he looked directly into Holiday’s eyes. “I’ll watch your back as best I can and I’m counting on you to watch mine.”

  Holiday nodded.

  “Do my best. I won’t let you down, Frank.”

  Frank smiled.

  “I’ll get the steaks.”

  A few minutes later, Ash came out from the garage. She was wearing a light cotton skirt and a tank top.

  Holiday offered her a beer from the fridge. She took it, pulling the tab awkwardly.

  “Long day,” she said after the first breathy drink.

  Frank came out through the garage holding a tray of steaks.

  He stopped when he saw Ash.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m outta of clothes. I found these in the closet.”

  Frank smiled.

  He moved forward, his back toward them, taking up tongs, placing the steaks on the grill and busying himself with the meat. A moment later, the steaks began to sizzle.

  “No,” said Frank. “It’s fine. You look very beautiful.”

  The steaks came off the grill, and while Ash and Holiday sat at the picnic table watching the steaks on their paper plates, Frank went back into the condo to get a potato gratin and a tomato salad. He came out with a nice bottle of cabernet tucked under one arm. Three glasses later they sat under the stars, satiated.

  “I wonder if the steaks tasted better knowing there won’t be any more for some time. I mean, the meat in the store’s got about a week left. After that, it’s canned food, frozen for however long the power stays on, and whatever we can hunt.”