Dead End
Policemen returning to base from the ramp crash meet the zombies of Bodega. Meanwhile, Steve Heaton and Rankin Fyle are on their way there with their illicit load.
Written for the March Madness writing challenge. Come and join us!
“I'm on my way.” The policeman put the mic down and drove his cruiser to Bodega. It was on his way back to the station anyway. For the first three miles, all he saw were the trees and hedgerows that lined the road. As he approached the small community, he looked at his partner and back again. “Cricket, I can't believe my eyes. What can you see?”
“The same thing as you see, Dabs.” The Latino gazed at the scene, his jaw bobbing with the vehicle's motion. “I can't believe my eyes either. Let's call this in.”
“This is 2-Adam-13 at Bodega, with a 10-78.”
“Go ahead, Dabs.”
“We got a bunch of people here in a very bad way. May be hostile.”
“Please clarify.”
“They are stumbling about like the walking dead, and they look real sick.”
“And they stink something awful, too,” Cricket added. He grabbed Dabs’s arm. “Madre de Dios, ellos realmente son los muertos vivientes! Salgamos de aquí!”
Dabs could not bring himself to admit to what he saw. The stench crept right into his nostrils and slid down his throat, making him gag.
Cricket clutched harder at his arm as the zombies stumbled closer. “Let's get out of here!”
Dabs threw the cruiser into reverse.
Cricket grabbed the mic. “This is 2-Adam-13 at Bodega, with a 10-33. Get some more units here right now!”
The woman's voice dropped an octave. “Cricket, calm down. It's probably just a bunch of folks LARPing.”
Cricket fought to make himself understood. “Those folks usually smell of B.O. at worst,” he said, calmly and evenly. “These folks stink like rotten meat. And they're crawling with maggots. They're getting closer. Get out of here, get out!” He gave Dabs a sharp nudge.
“Officer Dabney,” the dispatcher said, “what is your situation?”
Dabs grabbed the mic as he steered. “Getting the hell out of here before they completely surround us.” He swung the car around and drove away, just as the other two units arrived.
A stern voice came over the radio. “Dabney and Jimenez, get back here!”
There was no arguing with sergeant Rudge. Dabs U-turned the cruiser and drove to join the others. He watched them for cues as their vehicles’ headlights picked out the ambulant figures in their bright beams. They were wandering aimlessly about, with no clear purpose, until some of them noticed the lights and moved towards them.
“Well, Sarge, what do we do?”
“Son,” the sergeant said in a tone that suggested that he dealt with situations like this all the time, “we can't go shooting civilians unless they pose a clear and present danger to us. Whatever these folks are, they're just confused. They need medical attention. I'll call for help.”
“What do we do about the dead bodies we were told about?” Dabs asked, gagging at the stench.
The sergeant gave him a hard stare. “Son, I believe we just found ‘em.”
*****
Rankin pointed at the flashing blue and red lights ahead. “That doesn't look good, Steve.”
“And if I turn around, it'll look suspicious.”
“Well, the last thing we need is cops checking out the van.”
Momentum was bringing them nearer. Steve looked at Rankin. “What'll we do?”
“There's this book I read years ago—don't tell anyone about this, it'll spoil my reputation—about a fat man trying to lose weight. So he goes to this gypsy…*”
Steve's voice had a note of panic in it. “I think they've seen us.”
“Who gives him a pill… no, a pie… no, a spell…”
Fear strained Steve's voice. “I'm not a magician.”
“Well, at one point, there's a gangster, and he wants to get away from the cops, but instead he drives towards the scene and acts like a rubbernecker, and they tell him to go away.”
Steve slowed the vehicle down and approached the police vehicles with an ingratiating grin, then stopped short. Shambling figures were wandering about, bumping into each other and falling over. Some of them had surrounded three police vehicles and were pawing at them. Since they were otherwise engaged, he drove to the other side of the gas station, then cruised down the alleyway to a tumbledown bungalow that looked like Aunt Meg's house after the tornado hit it in Twister. They backed the van down as far as they could, then went to the most intact outbuilding.
Steve switched on the light. “My, they've been busy.”
Rankin put a cold hand on his shoulder. “Don't you ever shut your doors, Steve?”
“People learned to stay out of my stuff a long time ago.”
“Then how come all your neighbors are zombies?”
“I guess it might have happened after I washed out the Florence flask.”
“The what, now?”
“That big round thing with the green liquid in it.”
“So how did stuff that got into the sewage system get into them?”
“I have absolutely no idea, but that is the least of our worries. Those cops are going to call other cops in, and some of them might come sniffing around here. Help me to load this stuff into the van. It's time to move my operation.”
“Where to?”
“You're a gangster, Rankin. I'd have thought you'd have a gang lair, or something.”
“Ahhh…”
“What?”
“My gang is much smaller than you think. It's a boutique operation.”
Steve peered over the tops of his glasses at Rankin. “What does that mean?”
“I'm the only member.”
“And you live in your mother's basement, I presume.”
Anger sharpened Rankin's tone. “I object to that.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well…” Rankin hesitated. “You can't move your operation there.”
“Why not?”
“It's my grandmother's house.”
“Then where can we move it to?”
“There's a shed at the bottom of my grandmother's garden, but you can't stay there for long. And do not turn, or attempt to turn, my grandmother into a zombie.”
The idea tickled Steve's fancy, then fixed it milk and cookies. “Why not?”
“It's disrespectful, man.”
“It would solve all our problems.”
Rankin pouted, putting his head on one side. “I don't like the idea, Steve, but you're right.”
Steve grinned. “We have a plan.”
This story follows Bobby Vee (Deceased). Read the sequel, The Gangsta Rapper's Granny.