L'il Gal Al and the Zombies of Amarillo, Page 4

  *

  Later on that evening, she sat on feather cushioned chairs for dinner at the Yellow Moon. She was joined by Mabrey and Joanna’s husband, John. The man was older than his wife by about twenty years and had a bit of a bulge in his belly. He complained it was because of her good cooking. The chicken in the pot was mighty fine. John mostly liked to talk about himself and his travels to exotic islands in the south.

  Sooner than later, as was typical when men gathered around a table for a meal, it turned to business and politics.

  “With that happenin’ last night,” Berry glanced apologetically at Alma. “Stone and Sweetwater have decided to leave this area and move their businesses to the other side of town. That leaves about a dozen of us here.”

  “I can’t believe Stone would give in to his fears. One side of the town is as safe as another when it comes to the zombies. We all just have to stay together, keep aware, and remain strong in our faith.” Mabrey shook his head, finishing up the last of the honey biscuits.

  “What makes them think that one side of town is safer than the other then?” Alma questioned.

  “Well,” Berry sipped a bit of his ale to wash down his last bite. “The incidents have only happened here on Bartley Street. Yet I think it’s just really coincidence. We are closer to the fields where the animals can wander into town from. We’re also on the original site of where I founded the town and that tends to draw the dead, you see.”

  Alma gave a little shrug and a nod.

  “I just don’t understand why the zombies are so intent on destroyin’ Amarillo.” Mabrey sighed, leaning back in his chair.

  “Zombies don’ need reasons. Evil has no rationality.” Berry said in a lecturing tone.

  “I think maybe them Indians did it to us.” Joanna finally spoke up, her suggestion softly yet fervently put forth.

  “Oh please, Joanna. We’ve talked ’bout this before. The Indians can do no such things.” Her brother gently chided her but turned his head when the older man made a little noise to interrupt.

  “I’ve been thinking’ ’bout that, though. We haven’t had much trouble ’round here with the Indians. Though some of the townsfolk whisper it has to do with the accident at Sanborn’s manor, it does make more sense that we haven’t been attacked or raided by Indians because they are throwin’ their bad spirits at us.” Berry wiped his fingers, greasy from the chicken, on a napkin.

  “The Indians don’t want trouble same as we don’t want it.” Mabrey protested. “Most have gone farther west. Have either of you seen any Indians ’round here?”

  “Well, no.” Joanna obviously didn’t think that meant a thing.

  “We’re in town all the time. Of course, we haven’t.” Berry added.

  “How ’bout you, Miss Alma? When’s the last time you saw some Indians?”

  All three heads swiveled in her direction. “The only things I’ve traded gunfire with in the last year have been bandits and some drunks at a tavern. I haven’t even seen an Indian since I’ve been in Kansas. And the only time I ever killed one was when they were actin’ as bandits.”

  “An’ that’s from a well-traveled woman.” Mabrey nodded, folding his arms as if his point was proven.

  There was a scraping of boots along the front porch and the door gave a little shake as if some drunk was trying to work his hand to open it. Joanna cleaned her hands with her napkin and stood up. “I do wonder if that’s old Mr. Farrell. He likes to think he can keep up with the younger men in their drinking games, but the poor soul doesn’t know his limit these days.”

  Joanna went over and opened the door, standing to the side to let whomever it was inside. “Good eve—” Her scream rattled even the custom made chandelier on the ceiling. Then she fainted, crumbling to the ground.

  Alma and both men were on their feet. She had her Colt out first, cocked and ready to fire. She didn’t have any extra ammo on her in case she needed it, but her Pepperbox was tucked away in her boot. The sheriff was a second slower on the draw but almost dropped his weapon when seeing what stepped through the open door.

  If the stench coming off the cow the previous night had been atrocious, this was the reek of Hell itself. Berry could not contain himself, but fell to his knees, vomiting up his dinner. Alma felt her own stomach churning, but she forced it down, steeling herself against his inconceivable sight.

  It stumbled inside, ignoring the fallen body of the woman. It moved in turn slow and then preternaturally quick. Its eyes—or more correctly, its eye and hollow eye socket—were fixed upon the trembling stout figure of John Berry. Its mouth hung loosely open with the muscle rotted there as it had on most of its body. Little pieces of dirt and decayed flesh fell off onto the floor. Matted patches of wheat blond hair stuck to its skull decorated by a few maggots that crawled in and out of its brain.

  “Dear Lord God in Heaven.” Mabrey had to use both of his hands to steady his gun. “Malcolm Zeeks… it can’t be.”

  There was no recognition from the thing at the mention of the name. Its path was clear and to any sane person, its intent was as well.

  Alma fired off two shots into its torso. It stumbled and slowed, righting itself again. “What the hell is that?”

  “Malcolm Zeeks.” Mabrey swallowed hard, his eyes watering. “He came here with us when we first settled in Amarillo. Jesus Christ. He’s dead. He’s been dead fer over a year.” He seemed momentarily frozen to the spot with his gun in his hands and his eyes fixed upon the zombie.

  Berry had managed to crawl back against the wall. He had left his puddle of puke but was making another of urine. All the color had drained from his face, and it seemed like any second his was about to join his wife in unconscious bliss.

  “The dead don’t walk.” Alma fired a third shot. This time into the head of the thing. What little was left of the gray matter splattered out the back along with some plump white maggots. It teetered as if it were going to fall backwards, impossibly holding on to an angle with one booted foot off the floor. Making some sort of gurgling groan, it straightened itself to stumble on forward.

  She emptied the rest of her bullets into the creature, but it only seemed to lighten its load. “Shit!” If she had her shotgun, she could rid the monster of its head completely, but she guessed by the time she got up to her room, loaded it, and came back again, it would already have Berry.

  Alma gave the sheriff a shove to try to wake him from his nightmarish reverie. “Get Joanna out of the way! I ain’t gonna play ’round with this bastard anymore.” Her hand went automatically to get her Pepperbox, but if the Colt didn’t do anything, the littler gun would be useless.

  Will stumbled to the side with the shove, but it was enough to get him moving. He took a wide circle around the zombie to make his way to his sister. “What are ya gonna do, Miss Alma? There’s no way to stop it!”

  “It ain’t goin’ anywhere if it can’t walk.” She marched around to the side, giving the grotesque thing a clear path to Berry now. Alma grabbed a chair by its top and made sure not to let herself hesitate as she came up from the blind side of it. Her stomach was still roiling and fear was making her cold, but her instincts were honed well. Only those who worked through their terror survived, and no matter how scrawny she might be, she was a survivor.

  With one fluid motion, she swung the chair at the zombie’s knees and put all her strength behind it. She was not very physically strong. Yet, as Alma suspected, neither were the rotted legs of the intruder. It made a sickening crunch as the wood connected with old bone.

  The zombie was lightning fast, hissing and striking out at her. It might have gotten a few scratches to the side of her face, but it fell to the floor. One of the lower legs had detached and the other jutted out at an unnatural angle. With unwavering tenacity, it continued forward by pulling itself with its arms.

  Alma raised the chair and smashed it down on the head and shoulders of the thing. It stopped moving.

  She stood there for a moment, breathing hea
vily through her mouth. She dared not intake any air in her nose lest she smell that awful stench. Assured that it was no longer moving, she dropped the chair and stepped back to lean against the banister.

  Mabrey carried his sister into her rear bedroom. When he came back out, his hands still trembled. He paused a moment to stare down at the corpse and then hurried over to his brother-in-law’s side. “You’re okay, John. Let me help ya up here and I’ll take ya in the kitchen to clean up.”

  Berry blinked those buggy eyes of his and mumbled something, nodding his head. With Will’s help, he rose up to his feet and dragged himself back without even looking over his shoulder at his dead friend.

  Alma went back over to the dinner table and picked up her mug of ale, downing the rest of it. It certainly did not feel like enough to quench her dry throat or drive the queasy feeling out of her stomach. She might have been able to pass off everything else that had happened as nothing, but a walking dead man was not so easily tossed aside by common sense.

  She didn’t know how long she was standing there, but the sheriff came back into the room carrying something bundled under his arm. He stopped, cringing a little again as he regarded the corpse. “You okay, Miss Alma?”

  “All right as one can be after seein’ a dead man up and walkin’.”

  “I know what ya mean.” Mabrey started to unfold his bundle. “Do ya think ya could help me with this? You don’t have to, if you don’t want. I’m just gonna put… Malcolm on this old canvas and bring him out back to burn him. I think it’s the only way to make sure that the spirits are gone and give him some rest.”

  “I’ll help.” She was not going to disagree with the burning part. He tossed her a pair of old leather gloves. Alma caught them deftly and muttered her thanks before hefting the corpse onto the canvas.

  “I want to get him out of here before anyone else comes in. No one else needs to see this.” Mabrey shook his head and gagged once as they loaded the body up. He folded the ends over to hide it from sight, but it did nothing for the stench. “Malcolm Zeeks was a good man. He had worked hard and died too young. He didn’t deserve this to happen to him. No one deserves somethin’ like this.”

  Alma was not a religious woman, but she found herself saying, “Amen to that.”