Damn it, Moore. You couldn't have hung on...just for a little bit longer?
...
Come on man. You can do this...You can do this... Oh shit. Oh shit!
...
Work, damn you. Work...Yes! Hell yes! Now I just have to make it to the highway...
...
"Missed me that much, huh?" The conman quipped despite the pressure against his windpipe, "If you wanted to throw me up against the wall so badly, you could have done it back in that apartment building. Much more romantic that way. Believe it or not, your B.O. is less of a turn off than the stink of this zombie compost heap...But just barely."
"As sickeningly snarky as always," Francis growled as he applied even more pressure to Nick's throat, "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you back at that bridge."
"Seriously though," Nick wheezed, "Is now the best time to play your silly little vengeance game? I don't run with the Bumbling Biker Buttbuddy Brigade anymore."
In one swift motion, Francis withdrew a pistol with his free hand and used it to liberally smack the conman across the face.
"You...you pistol-whipped me..." Nick's open-mouthed disbelief quickly turned into a bemused smirk.
"There are three reasons why I'm gonna blow your fucking head off," Francis growled, "First of all, you had me stripped of rank! In the blink of an eye I went from Full-Patch back down to Prospect! It took me nearly a year to work my way back up! Not only that, but whatever God-damn puppet strings you pulled had me moved from the New York branch of the Legion back to Fairfield!" Again Francis smacked Nick across the face with his pistol.
"NYC was too good for you anyway," Nick chided, "I could have had you ousted- axed if I so fancied. After what you did to me, you should have been grateful that I didn't. No matter what your precious little rank, you were nothing but a dog. Mindless muscle. Whatever your illusions of grandeur were-"
"Illusions of grandeur? Hah! You're preaching to me about illusions of' grandeur? I was, am, one of Hell's Legion's soldiers. We got the work done- in style- riding free, while you sat on your Dolce & Gabbana ass and twiddled your manicured thumbs behind a God-damned desk in fucking New Jersey. Guess NYC was too good for you, too."
Nick brought his knee up as quickly as he could, silencing Francis as it connected with the biker's stomach. He then head-butted the larger man, knocked him off balance, and managed to break free from his grip.
"Christ, your skull is thick," Nick remarked, making a mad dash for his katana, "You know, I had you in mind when I picked out this sharp little friend, here." With a smile, he removed the embedded sword from the Charger's head and approached Francis slowly as the biker rose to his feet.
"Save it, you psychopath. Ugh..." Francis coughed and rubbed his stomach, "What kind of a fucking cheap-ass shot was that, anyway?"
"I was aiming for your crotch. Just think about that before you start bitching...and bad-mouthing Jersey." Nick flippantly wagged the katana back and forth.
"Yeah? Well I'm aiming for your God-damn mouth!" The biker shouted and raised his pistol.
"Oh, come on, now. You're not really gonna shoot me."
"Of course I am. Reason number three: You snitch, you die. I was almost arrested because you sang to the cops. 'Thou shalt not suffer a snitch to live.' It's one of our mandates. I have every right to fill your face with lead. You of all people should have known that if you want to live under the Legion's protection, then you follow the rules. But no, you thought you were special. You always did."
"So why didn't you shoot me back at the bridge?" Nick held the katana in a defensive stance and glanced at the spot on the ground where he had dropped his machine gun, "Or let Cupcake do it? She was more than ready to gun me down herself."
"Zoey and Louis were the only reason why I didn't. They don't know about my affiliation with the Legion. They're the only family I have now. What kind of impression would I have made if I shot someone that I supposedly never met?"
"So you care about them, huh? Care what they think? That's different, Francis. You've changed. Now put the God damn gun away. This is ridiculous."
Francis snorted, but placed his pistol back in his holster.
Nick lowered the sword, and with a grin, he began to slide the weapon back into its sheath, "No cops. No rules. Dream come true, huh Francis? I'll bet you've been having a grand old time, raping and pillaging in this apocalyptic shit hole."
Without warning, Francis unstrapped Ellis's sniper rifle and surged forward, swinging the butt of the weapon in a downward arch. Nick blocked the blow and deflected the rifle with the steel blade.
"Now this is the Francis I know and love. Maiming and bludgeoning was more your speed anyway," Nick grunted as he strained against the impact of the heavy rifle. Francis disengaged him and swung the rifle with even more force.
"Well, it's good to know this sword isn't some cheap knock-off," Nick observed as he managed to block the second blow. He then took a swipe at the biker.
"Which is more than can be said about you," the biker countered as he ducked beneath the blade's path.
"Touché. Now, en garde!" Nick swung the sword merrily as Francis backed away towards the enormous pile of corpses. The narrowness of the alley limited the biker's evasive options, but it also limited the path of the conman's blade.
"I'm the one who should be enjoying this. Not you," Francis snarled.
"Too bad. This is actually the most fun I've had since this zombie shit started...well almost..." the conman smiled and raised an eyebrow. A bright gleam lit up his eyes as he recalled rolling around in the racecar with the young mechanic.
"What's that supposed to mean? Wait, I recognize that sleazy grin anywhere. Now there's the Nick I know."
"And love?" The conman smirked as he held the katana up to the biker's face and used the blade to flick away a tuft of Francis's beard.
"You wish. And if anyone would be taking advantage of the chaos, it'd be you. Raising hell, literally and figuratively screwing every man, woman, and hell- zombie- you could get your filthy paws on. Speaking of screwing, tell me you haven't..."
"Haven't what?" Nick now had the katana nestled snuggly against Francis's jugular, but was held in check by the fact that the biker had the sniper rifle's tip up against his chest- with his finger on the trigger, "Oh...Rochelle... You've taken a fancy to her, haven't you? What if I told you I did? Would that piss you off? Change your opinion of her?"
"No, because I know you haven't gone near her. She wouldn't have let you if you tried. You couldn't handle a girl like that. You couldn't handle the last one- your ex."
"Which is why you felt the need to 'handle' her yourself?" Nick hissed, "And you wonder why I had your ass demoted. I could have done so much worse, and tipping off the cops was just me filling my goodwill quota. You behind bars meant at least one family would have their precious flat screen TV for Christmas."
Francis gritted his teeth, his temper fully lost.
"Demoted...The fact that you were able to do that makes me sick! That a manipulative psychopath was able to slither his way into an administrative position within the Legion is beyond me! A fucking disgrace is what it is! I guess the fact that you also slithered your way under the skirt of the boss' daughter helped quite a bit." Francis succeeded in striking Nick's ribs, wrenched the katana from the staggered conman, and shoved him against the pile of slaughtered infected.
"I don't know what shocks me more," Nick winced slightly as zombie blood dripped onto his shoulder, "The fact that you're kicking my ass, or that you used so many big-boy words in one sentence. 'Manipulative?' 'Administrative?' Not one, but two five-syllable words. Damn. But you seem to be painting a black and white picture here, conveniently leaving out all of the red. The 'slithering,' as you so tastefully described, took place after I courted her. Initially, I had no interest in your pathetic gang. She was the reason I joined Hell's Legion in the first place. We got married, for Christ's sake, and then I found out- from her own lips- that you were the one doing the slithering behind my back."
"Oh, please. Your relationship was in the toilet, and the two of you were already divorced before I showed her what she'd been missing."
"Barely. Just barely."
"So let me get this straight. You joined Hell's Legion to get into a woman's pants?" Francis scoffed.
"It's not that simple, asshole, and I'm not getting into it with you. Then, to add insult to injury, you introduced her to Charles. Charles! You know how much I hated that son of a bitch."
"Yeah. Enough to steal his identity and completely ruin his credit."
"Damn straight," Nick spat on the ground.
"I guess Moore never caught up to you, then. Too damn bad."
"Moore..."
"Detective Moore. Last I heard, the guy was tailing your tailored ass down the eastern seaboard."
"Moore is ancient history, now."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. This has been fun, it truly has, but shouldn't we wrap things up here?"
"I was just about to do that," Francis grinned and pulled his arm back before striking Nick's face.
"Great. Beat the shit out of the guy who saved your life," Nick coughed and squinted his eyes. The skin around his left one was already becoming dark blue.
"Now that's rich. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Think about it. You were stationed in New York until I had your ass hauled out of there, what, a year ago now?"
"So."
"Tell me getting out of Fairfield wasn't bad enough. Imagine being in New York City when the infection hit. We're talking millions of zombies, thousands of Hunters and Chargers, hundreds of Tanks. If you think for one second you would have made it out of there alive-"
"Hey Nick? Francis? Y'all okay over there?" Ellis shouted, promptly halting Nick mid-sentence.
Francis growled at the sudden interruption.
Nick closed his eyes and smiled.
Ellis couldn't see either of the men behind the decomposing wall of bodies as he and the others made it back to the mouth of the narrow alley.
"So what's it gonna be, Franny?" Nick whispered, feeling the pinch of the biker's finger nails as they dug into the skin of his neck, "You really gonna kill me?"
"Nick? Come on, man. Answer me!" Ellis shouted from behind the barricade of rancid zombie flesh.
"If your pride and blind loyalty to some long-gone gang is worth my life, well then go ahead and take it." Nick opened his eyes slightly, his expression blank, "You're going to have some explaining to do to the others, but I'm sure you'll come up with something...make it look like some zombie got me... Shit, you could even sweep me under this pile right here," the conman chuckled, but it sounded more like a cough, "Ellis thinks you're the shit and Coach...Coach doesn't fucking trust you- I think you'll fill my spot quite nicely. Hell, Rochelle likes you, which means you've got one up on me."
"There's something different about you." Francis stared at Nick's pale face, looked directly into his eyes, and squinted slightly.
"Oh yeah...now what's that?"
"Nick!" The boy's voice was strained and filled with a concern that made the conman's chest tighten.
"It's all right Ellis. I'm okay...peachy...never been better," Nick replied hoarsely with Francis's large hand still wrapped around his throat.
"You don't sound okay."
"Don't worry about me," the conman groaned, but his lips quirked slightly to form a small smile, "Francis has been taking good care of me. He's a really great guy, this one."
Francis's eye twitched. His teeth were still gritted, but his grip on Nick's neck slackened.
"I'll keep this little charade between the two of us if you will," The conman's voice was liquid velvet wrapped around crushed glass. A bright, almost cheerful gleam returned to his eyes.
"I will get you back..." Francis snarled.
"Not before I do."
"I'm comin' over ta' getcha'!" Ellis cried out.
"That won't be necessary, kid," Francis grabbed the conman and began clamoring over the pile of zombies.
Nick shot a smile at Francis, but the biker couldn't tell if the grin was sheepish or mocking. Francis huffed as he hauled the conman up to the apex of the corpse pile.
"This is real sweet of you, though...carrying me like this," Nick looked down to see Ellis beaming up at them. He barely had time to roll his eyes and salute the boy before Francis unceremoniously dropped him onto the pavement.
"Dang, Nick," Ellis held a hand out to the conman, and Nick took it. After helping the older man onto his feet, the boy placed two fingers gently on the immense black and blue surrounding Nick's eye.
"Must you poke at it? It hurts, Overalls."
"What happened, Nick?"
"Eh...nothing I couldn't handle."
Francis gave a sharp snort.
"Thank God for hair ties," Rochelle muttered as they continued down the brightly lit boulevard. Coach glanced at her as she fretfully patted her rain-soaked braids with her free hand. The amount of precipitation bombarding them was rather remarkable, although October storms- even hurricanes- were not unheard of.
With the same mouth Coach used to utter a quick prayer- that they wouldn't experience a storm of Biblical proportions any time soon- he mumbled an even quieter curse as Francis made his way over to Rochelle. As he watched the biker wrap an admittedly muscular arm around the girl, Coach wrapped his fingers even more tightly around his shotgun- merely out of reflex, of course.
"Cold?" Francis asked as he rubbed Rochelle's shoulder, his hands caressing a small bruise that marred the otherwise soft, flawless skin of her arm.
Coach pumped the shotgun this time- there were zombies around after all. Best to be prepared...
The sound caused both the man and woman to turn their heads to face him. Coach could sense Rochelle's frown and sharply cocked eyebrow. He could just imagine a grin on Francis's face so idiotic that it begged to be punched off, but the older man was no longer looking at either of them, choosing instead to focus on an imaginary horde of zombies ahead of them until the pair silently turned back around and continued walking. Coach let out a sigh and tentatively held a hand to his injured eye.
Since having the bandages removed, courtesy of a Jockey, his tender eye region was now being pelted by the driving rain. Despite that, it was still a bit of a relief to have the tight bandages off for a change. He looked around to test his vision and marveled at how odd it was to see clearly from one eye and poorly from the other. It was as though the world around him was alternately sharpening and fading into and out of focus as his good and bad eye fought for dominance. The glowing patches of neon lights were especially disturbing and seemed to blur and bleed into the rainy air around him.
Coach turned to see two figures walking towards him from behind. He blinked as one of them was swallowed up in a hazy halo of neon light; the other enveloped in an unnervingly dark, almost cloud-like shadow. He covered his bad eye with his hand to see Nick and Ellis come into focus and waited for them to catch up to him.
"What's the matter, Coach?" Ellis patted the man on the back, and then playfully knocked on Coach's newly acquired armored chest plate with his fist, "Oh, your eye...as soon as we find a safe place ta' stop, we'll have that patched up all nice again."
Coach shrugged.
"Only if one of you two does the honors," he stated glumly and continued to walk.
"Okay. Sure, no problem," Ellis replied.
Nick scrunched up his brow at Coach's remark, touched his own bruised eye, and smirked slightly.
"I know we only met jus' recently, but...I can't stop thinkin' 'bout you... Can't wait ta' see you again, my darlin'..." Ellis drawled under his breath in a throaty whisper.
Nick was busying himself by envisioning how many ways he could slice and dice the mechanic with his katana.
"You are so beautiful..."
He could disembowel the boy.
"Sooo beautiful..."
Perhaps lop his head off cleanly with one swipe.
"I can't wait ta' run my hands all over your body..."
Or impale him through the God damn mouth like a shish kabob and roast him over an open flame.
"Yeah, that'll do. That'll do nicely," Nick murmured.
"You say somethin', Nick?"
"Me? Nope. You may carry on, Overalls. I didn't say a thing." The conman began to gradually slow the pace of his walk to increase the distance between himself and the others. As expected, Ellis did the same to keep in line with him.
Ellis stayed quiet for for a while before embarking on a nearly ten minute long Keith story.
"And that there was good ol' Mother Nature's way a' sayin' people an' goats ain't supposed ta'...mix...Somehow, though, I don't think Keith got the message."
"Ellis, that was one of the sickest things I've ever heard in my life- and that's saying a lot. You have so many God damn stories that I doubt you'll ever repeat one, but God help you if you repeat this one." Nick ran a hand through his hair and fidgeted with his rings as they continued down the brightly lit boulevard.
"That one's cool," the boy remarked quietly after a few moments of silence.
"Huh?"
"That ring. It looks real badass." Ellis pointed to one of the largest rings on the conman's fingers. It was gold with an intricately detailed, radially symmetrical engraving of what appeared to be eight arrows pointing outwards like a double compass. Nestled in the space between each arrow tip were eight human skulls. Their grinning faces were encircled by two serpents which, instead of scales, had runic symbols along the length of their bodies that were too tiny for Ellis to read. Had they been larger, the boy would still be unable to decipher their meaning. The entire design resembled a masonic symbol, or an occult magic circle that a sorcerer would construct to protect himself from a summoned demon.
"This was a gift from my ex-wife when we started going steady."
"Oh..." Ellis frowned, "Well I like that one more," The mechanic pointed to a different ring on Nick's right hand, "That one's really nice."
It was smaller and less gaudy than the others- gold with a central, hand-woven, silver inlay in the form of a three strand knot.
"That one's my wedding ring."
"Oh.." Ellis scratched his head, "Well, why do you still wear it? If you ain't married any more..."
"Because it looks good. You said so yourself. She wasn't going to give back the ring I gave her, so why not keep the one she gave me? Besides, it's not on the proper hand. Doesn't mean anything anymore."
"Hey do you think I could-"
"No, you can't try it on."
"Aw man. Why not?"
Because you'll get it dirty."
"No I won't."
"Or drop it."
"No I won't."
"Or break out into a story about proposing to what's-her-face."
Ellis remained silent. His mouth slightly agape.
"Thought so."
"Look, Nick. I don't really-"
"Ellis, you've been talking nonstop for the last ten minutes. Literally nonstop. I've resigned myself to accept the fact that you simply can't help yourself. I deserve sainthood for sitting through that last story. So why don't you talk about something productive for a change?"
"Well, what do you mean?" Ellis stammered, knowing exactly what Nick meant.
"You've been a bad boy, Ellis. I demand answers. Lately you've been grumpy, bitchy, annoying, and you made an irrational, shit head decision that endangered my life- and everyone else's."
"So I'm actin' like you then."
"Exactly. Don't give me that look. I've been picking my brain for hours now, trying to pinpoint when you started being an asshole."
"An asshole? Are you serious, Nick?"
"It's subtle, which is why it's been so hard for me to figure out exactly when you changed. Would you stop giving me that look? I am not crazy."
"I'm sorry about the Witch thing, okay? Sorry. As far as everything else goes...I...I really don't know what you're talkin' about. I think you might actually be goin' crazy."
"That's cute, Ellis. Real cute."
"Oh, Lord..."
"I'll ignore the fact that you still didn't tell me why you charged that Witch. For now." And don't even get me started on your sudden Zoey obsession, you little shit.
After reaching Rayford's dark heart, the group of five stopped in front of a dilapidated building with a small crimson light at the top of one of its balconies. The light flickered due to the city's now compromised power grid. To the casual observer, the tiny light would not have been noticeable amidst the chaos of neon, but both Nick and Francis noticed it, and they gave each other shifty eyes.
"What's up with you two?" Rochelle asked as they walked past the building.
"Oh, nothing. I was just marveling at the fact that Rayford seems to have a red light district hidden in plain sight," Nick stated with a rather lupine grin, "This place really isn't half-bad after all."
"You're kidding." Rochelle's eyebrows were raised.
Nick motioned towards the large edifice, which now looked to all the world like a crumbling haunted house.
"What's a red light district?" Ellis inquired, shifting slightly as he had somewhat of an idea of the term's meaning. Nick shook his head and pushed the bill of the boy's hat down, covering his eyes.
"Oh ye of wide-eyed innocence. A red light district is a place where-" Nick was interrupted mid-sentence as a wad of goo came hurtling down at them from the balcony above. It splattered onto the pavement around them and they all dove in different directions to escape the corrosive substance.
The Spitter that was perched above them gave a gleeful squawk and leapt onto an adjacent balcony. Another one burst through the building's doorway, emitting the rattling hiss of a vulture. It took a swipe at Nick with its polished nails as it lunged towards him. The conman strafed nimbly before opening the creature's bloated belly with his sword. More acid sprung forth, oozing and spurting like iridescent green oil. Nick sprinted gingerly across the now sizable pool of acid, hoping that his replacement sneakers wouldn't go the way of his late great pair of dress shoes. Francis be damned, Nick had been fond of those stylish Dolce & Gabbana leather lace ups.
Francis had just picked off the Spitter lurking on the balcony when Rochelle tackled him to the ground. The biker stared at the girl now straddling his torso with utter disbelief before realizing that another stream of goo had missed him by inches and had splattered onto one of the support columns of the building of ill repute. Rochelle was back on her feet and dragging him as best she could as the acid began eating away at the column, which promptly collapsed, sending a portion of the building's facade down around them.
"Hell-o," Nick whistled as a gaggle of Spitters emerged from the debris. Eight of them in total. Their hideous, chemically burned faces and esophagi resulted in various patches of exposed muscle and bone- their skimpy wardrobes resulted in various patches of exposed flesh. Revealing metallic bras glimmered under the neon lights, soiled thongs and g-strings attempted to escape their prison of tight leather pants, and bloated ostrich feet swelled fashionable stiletto pumps to bursting. Some of the creatures shunned pants and instead wore tiny shorts and torn fishnet stockings. Some of them wore even less.
"I'm gonna be sick," Ellis moaned. His stomach had been feeling upset since last night, and the horrific sight drove him over the edge. He wretched, and the pitiful contents of his stomach joined the rapidly spreading moat of goo near his feet.
"Man up, Ellis. Is that how you're gonna react when Zoey takes her top-"
"Aw, gimme a break, Nick!" Ellis whined, interrupting the conman who ran past him.
The five survivors sprinted down the street as streams of goo shot through the air. The projectiles were nearly continuous as two or three of the beasts expelled their toxic loads at a time. Coach jumped as far as he could when a ball of goo whizzed past his head and splattered the ground in front of him. He managed to clear the puddle, but he didn't even try to support his weight as he landed. He rolled several times, which spared his weakened knee, but left him exposed on the ground as the Spitters bounded towards him like so many ravenous, flightless birds. He rolled again, avoiding another stream of goo, and fired his shotgun. The spray of pellets brought one of the monsters down and injured another.
Two of the Spitters that had fired their acid charged him, thrusting their claws and swiping at him with their enormous feet. The five remaining Spitters held back, hissing and squawking as they observed the attack. Coach grabbed onto a spindly arm that missed his face and held one of the creatures still enough for him to blow a hole through its skull. The other Spitter continued to harass him with its feet, but could not penetrate the steel armor protecting Coach's chest. The monster hissed as pistol-fire struck its neck before dropping to the ground with a shriek. Coach crawled desperately to get away from yet another puddle of goo as the dying Spitter released the contents of its stomach. Ellis was at the man's side a moment later, helping him off the ground as three of the five remaining Spitters fired at them.
Ellis shot his pistol haphazardly behind him as he and Coach closed the distance between themselves and the others, who were now embroiled in a horde fight. The mechanic slowed down and aimed carefully. Before he could shoot, one of the gangling infected had circled to his left and spat an enormous wad at him. He ducked and rolled, and from his crouched position, he took the offending creature down with a well-placed shot. With four Spitters remaining, Ellis grabbed Coach's arm and motioned towards an alley between a tattoo parlor and a psychic shop. As they ducked into it, the boy hoped that the Spitters would follow them instead of heading towards the others.
Nick was up to his neck in zombies. His machine gun needed a new clip, so he backed up against a building to keep from being blindsided as he pulled out his katana. There were too many zombies swarming about for him to rejoin Rochelle and Francis, so he stood his ground and proceeded to slash at anything and everything that approached him until his arms began to ache. He heard a deep growl from the rooftop above him and took a quick glance upward to see a hooded figure peering down over the gutters. Nick began slowly making his way along the side of the building, impaling and decapitating his attackers, mindfully aware that a Hunter was stalking him from above. He made his way around the corner of the building and over towards the side door, which wasn't locked. He ducked inside what appeared to be a storage room, slammed the door shut, and waited by the window.
He could hear the zombies scrabbling at the door, pounding aimlessly with their fists when the simple use of their opposable thumbs would have done the trick. Nick twisted the lock despite the zombies' loss of higher mental functioning and loaded his silenced submachine gun. The banging ceased, replaced by the sound of bodies crumpling to the ground and the Hunter's familiar growl. The conman crouched in front of the door as the Hunter began swiping at the wooden barrier between them. Unlike its lesser brethren, the creature would eventually tear its way inside, so Nick listened to the deep grunts, held the gun up to his best guess as to the location of the zombie's head, and fired. The machine gun pierced clean holes through the wood and messy holes through the Hunter's face.
After hearing the lifeless body slump over with a satisfying plop, Nick rushed through the storage room and into the main room of the building, which turned out to be a bar/pool hall. He raced over to one of the windows and fired with relative safety into the horde, making a definite point to provide Rochelle with more cover fire than Francis.
Two of the Spitters followed Ellis and Coach into the alley. The remaining two emitted a series of clucks and coos before circling around the tattoo parlor to attack them from behind. Coach blasted one of the pursuing Spitters to the ground before he and Ellis turned the corner and stopped behind the building.
The second Spitter vaulted over her fallen comrade without remorse. The powerful tendons in her legs propelled her through the air, and with her long arms pulled back, trailing behind her, she possessed the bizarre elegance of an ostrich or emu. She alighted onto her toes and surged forward without breaking stride. As she approached the alley's corner, the pendulous cauldron of her belly birthed a new batch of acidic goo. The substance rose from the depths of her being and into the tender lining of her esophagus, burning her throat as it made its way to the back of her mouth. She turned the corner and fired immediately. So eager was she to rid her mouth of the painful substance that she didn't bother to bring her neck forward the way the other Spitter had done- the one who now stood across from her at the other end of the building. She watched as her dazzling ball of liquid fire, born from an unholy mixture of her bile and tainted blood, sailed over the identical projectile that hurtled towards her.
It struck her chest, disintegrated her golden bra, and began destroying her flesh. She raised her head to shriek, and before crumbling to the ground, she caught sight of the two survivors she had been pursuing, perched safely atop the building's fire escape. The other Spitter, the one that had destroyed her, hadn't even been able to see the humans that outwitted them both. Her goo had struck that one in the face, sending her to the ground immediately.
Ellis let out a victory whoop as the last remaining Spitter fled, disappearing amidst the urban forest of buildings.
Everyone regrouped in the center of the street as the last of the zombies were picked off.
"I say we rest up around here," Coach spoke up.
"Aw come on," Francis grumbled, "We're barely making progress. I have the rest of my group waiting at the bridge."
"No one asked you to tag along," Coach retorted.
"Yeah, Francis. Why exactly are you here, anyway?" Nick chided knowingly.
"Why question his reasoning? He left the bridge to save my life," Rochelle stated, crossing her arms, "And he's helping us stay alive by being here."
"Whatever you say," Nick also folded his arms, "But I agree with Coach." He walked over to the older man and patted him on the shoulder. Coach raised his eyebrows in surprise and stared at Nick who continued to speak, "We need to rest up, and besides, the big guy's eye needs some new bandages. Not that any of you knuckleheads noticed."
Rochelle opened her mouth to speak, but Nick beat her to it.
"Another thing," he smirked, "I say we split up for the duration of our little break. Coach and I will take this fine bar, and you three stooges can have the tattoo shop. It suits you, Francis."
"What? That's ridiculous!" Rochelle shouted, "We're a team. We stick together."
"She's right, Nick," Ellis added.
"Let's vote on it then, Rochelle. See? We can have a 'proper' vote now that we don't have an even number of people," Nick grinned, careful to use the same logic Rochelle had presented to him back in Savannah, "And sweetheart, I have a feeling you're going to lose this time."
The girl growled in frustration.
"All in favor of splitting up?" Nick inquired as he raised his hand.
Rochelle stood flabbergasted as both Coach and Francis raised their hands.
"Coach..." The girl demanded.
"I'm sure you'll be all right with Francis," Coach stated rather coldly, "We'll regroup in two hours."
Rochelle sighed and shook her head.
"It'll be fine." The biker placed a hand on her shoulder. "Besides, two hours in the same room with Nick? At this point you couldn't pay me enough to agree with that."
With the vote firmly at three against two in favor of splitting up, Nick and Coach headed across the street towards the bar. The older man stopped to glance at Rochelle once more as she and Francis stepped into their makeshift safe house.
"Don't worry Coach. I think Francis can take care of the ladies."
"Bastard," Ellis muttered before disappearing into the tattoo parlor.
"Welcome to my own little slice of Heaven- or circle of Hell. Whichever," Nick stated as he led Coach through the bar's storage room and into the pool hall.
"Nice choice." Coach wandered around the room, which was cleaner than he would have expected. There were only three or four desiccated corpses on the ground.
"Isn't it?" Nick placed his hand on one of the pool tables, "This place can kick that tattoo shop's ass."
"Gotta agree. I almost feel sorry for those three."
"Almost, huh?"
After helping Nick drag most of the pool tables across the room to barricade the windows, Coach sat down on the ground and tentatively touched his wounded eye with the back of his hand.
"It doesn't look half bad," Nick remarked as he plopped down next to the older man, "It's a little weepy, but that's to be expected- unless that's you crying," he grinned.
"Ass," Coach grunted, but returned the smile.
Nick reached into his med kit and pulled out a greatly diminished roll of bandages.
"Hold on now, Nick. I think I can manage without bein' wrapped up. At least for a little while."
"You need to protect that eye until it's fully healed."
"The bandages are gettin' uncomfortable. Besides, it ain't easy aiming with one eye covered, and don't even get me started on the blind spot issue."
"Hey, hey. Quit bitching. That's my job. Now hold still." Nick flushed out Coach's eye with the last of his saline and wrapped gauze around the man's head in the same manner in which he had done back in the apartment building.
"You really should be savin' these supplies," Coach sighed.
"Yeah, well I used up half the roll of bandages on you already. Might as well finish it off. And would it kill you to just sit still and appreciate that I'm helping you out, here? Should I be doing more? Fanning you and feeding you grapes, perhaps?"
"All right, Nick. All right. Thank you," Coach chuckled.
A violent gust of wind caused all of the windows to shake. The majority of them were broken, but the pool tables blocking them only allowed for a minimal amount of water and wind to enter the bar.
"Hell of a storm." There was reverence in the older man's tone.
"Yeah, I can't remember the time I last saw the sun," Nick muttered, "Hey, Coach?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember when I apologized to you back at the mall? Well, I didn't really mean it then...I do now, though. I'm sorry."
Coach silently stared at the ground. He still had his doubts about the conman- a lingering feeling of uneasiness concerning him. He honestly didn't know what to think of Nick, but the guy was capable of truly benevolent acts. Not once, but twice had Nick undergone the labor-intensive task of changing his eye bandages.
"I'll admit, I didn't accept your apology the fist time. I accept it now."
After a while, Nick wandered over to the only pool table that wasn't barricading the windows and began placing all of the balls within the triangular rack. The table's green surface was heavily smeared and soiled with streaks and splotches of dried blood, but that neither dampened the conman's desire to play, nor hampered his ability to sink several shots after breaking the initial setup with a sharp crack.
"Care to join me, Coach?"
"Sure."
The older man put up a valiant effort, but was no match for Nick's cue sport expertise.
"Damn it, I'm impressed," Coach huffed as he watched the eight ball meander towards the corner pocket. It stopped a hair's thickness away from the hole before plummeting into it as if by the added push of a ghostly breath, clinching the conman's victory.
"When you risk life and limb on a single shot, you learn to get good- and quick," Nick replied nonchalantly, "Rematch?"
"Hell, yeah. Gotta say, Nick, you're the last person I thought I'd want to be alone with."
"Well I've changed your world view now, haven't I? Made you see the light," One corner of Nick's mouth quirked upwards, "I guess a thank you is in order then. I knew I was doing you a favor by getting you away from Francis- and Rochelle for that matter. It would seem that our new addition has been rubbing you the wrong way," The conman was careful to keep his tone light and neutral as he racked up all of the balls with triangle once more.
Coach grunted and struck the cue ball with impressive force, sending the colorful balls careening along the table. The yellow-striped nine landed in one of the side pockets.
"He's kind of...handsy...isn't he?"
Coach's grip on the pool cue tightened as he set his sights on the green-striped fourteen.
"All over Rochelle..." Nick continued, "She seems like such a respectable young woman, too. I wonder why she would let a filthy meat head drool all over her like that."
"Fuck!" Coach snarled as he missed sinking the fourteen. He then sighed and reeled in his temper with concerted effort, "Damned if I know."
"You like her, don't you?" There wasn't a shred of mockery in Nick's voice.
The older man set the pool cue aside. His silence spoke volumes.
"Have you told her?"
"No."
"Were you planning on it?"
"I...I was kind of hoping she would get the hint," Coach stated sheepishly.
Nick shook his head, "Well, if you hadn't been moving along at a glacial pace, maybe you could have bagged her before that greasy inmate showed up. Look, you and I are tight now, right?"
Coach cocked the eyebrow above his good eye.
"Okay, maybe not tight. How about comfortably snug then? Point is, I trust you enough to let you in on some personal info," Nick set his cue stick aside and leaned against the table, "I know Francis, and buddy, if you thought I was bad news, think again. If I'm a- 'Shit, it's raining. My weekend is ruined.' Then Francis is a- 'Shit, a meteorite is about to fall on my head. My weekend is ruined.'"
"Go on," Coach urged quietly.
"Once upon a time, Francis and I...we worked for the same company. I was one of the head managers, and he...well let's just say he mopped the floors at night," Nick removed his jacket and draped it over a chair with great care, "Francis was jealous of me. Not of my position, mind you. No, Francis liked mopping the floors- and cleaning toilet bowls- and sneaking midnight snacks out of said toilet bowls when he thought no one was looking. At any rate, he had the crazy notion that he should be paid just as much to mop floors as I got paid to make sure things ran smoothly. So he kicked me in the balls- went right for my weak spot. Remember I told you I had a wife? Well, Francis was messing around with her all throughout our stressful divorce. Way to beat a guy when he's down, right?"
"That's fucked up. That shit's just not right," Coach shook his head, his fists clenched tightly.
"There's no way of proving it, but I have a feeling he was seeing her while we were still married."
"Damn..."
"You and Ro may not be together, but I can sympathize with what he's doing to you, Coach. If there's one person who deserves to be eaten alive by zombies, it would be him..." Nick allowed his words, smooth silk and thick as molasses, to permeate the air before grabbing the cue stick and taking his turn as though he had never spoken.
He strolled around the table, approached the pearly cue ball, and locked onto the ruby red three. It took more time for the crimson ball to fly into the corner pocket than it did for a Smoker's tongue to shoot through a tiny gap between a broken window and the pool table blocking it. The mucus-laden appendage wrapped around Coach's neck and dragged him half-way across the room before Nick had time to look up.
The conman heard the thud of Coach's sizable frame as he was pulled against the overturned pool table. Although the Smoker could not pull the man any further, Coach was still in very real danger. The ferocity with which the Smoker was pulling would ensure that his neck would be crushed long before he choked to death.
Nick was on him in seconds, chopping furiously at the tongue with the katana. The blade was formidable, but its edge had been dulled by repeated contact against zombie bone and Francis's sniper rifle. Finally, the python-like appendage was severed and Nick helped Coach pry the wriggling coil from his neck. The conman looked out the window to see the Smoker scurry across a rooftop and out of sight.
"Slimy bastard."
"Looks like play time's over," Coach coughed.
"Yeah, I guess so." Nick was still looking out the window and into a construction site below them. The incessant rain had turned the excavated dirt into a moat of mud, more liquid than solid. The murky substance had ensnared and partially submerged the cranes, bulldozers, and various other heavy machinery. The fluid mud was host to a slew of dismembered body parts that drifted along its surface.
Nick turned his attention to the scaffolding that was level to the window and squinted at the sight of a dead zombie with a health pack strapped to its back and a molotov nestled within a leather waist strap.
"Holy shit. Would you get a load of that? Cover me, Coach, in case that Smoker shows its warty ass again." The conman climbed onto the scaffolding and treaded slowly towards the corpse of the fallen survivor. The wood below his feet was slick and unstable, and the intensifying wind caused the entire structure to shudder and sway beneath him. By the time he reached the corpse, the scaffolding was rocking violently, and Nick slipped as he reached for the health pack.
"Oh shit! Shit! Coach help me up!" Nick screamed as he dangled over the edge of the scaffolding.
Doubting his ability to stay on his own feet, Coach crawled over to Nick with the wood creaking under the heavier weight of his body.
"Damn it Coach! I'm losing my grip!"
"Nick it ain't that far of a drop you know!" Coach yelled as he grabbed one of the conman's arms, and indeed the height of the drop was not very far.
"Yeah, but I really don't want to fall into that disgusting cesspool."
The scaffolding was shaking so intensely that it threatened to collapse, and a reverberating roar heralded the cause of the tremors.
"Fuck!" Nick snarled as he hit the mud. He scrambled on all fours to get away from the splintered wood and metal as the destroyed scaffolding rained down around him. The fallen survivor landed on his legs, pinning him to the soggy grime. He grabbed the health pack and kicked the corpse away from him as he struggled to his feet.
Coach, who had landed a couple of yards away, was sloshing through the muck with a Tank nearly on top of him. He dove into a concrete cylinder pipe and began shooting the tank from within it. The monster reached in to grab him, and Coach had to shimmy all the way to the other end of the pipe to escape the enormous arm. He fired his shotgun at the Tank's hand, sending blood and flakes of concrete flying. The beast bellowed in pain as Coach fired shot after shot into the creature's hand and arm, which continued to trash about as it reached for him.
Nick hurtled through the mud, releasing a trail of bullets from his machine gun as he approached the Tank. They struck the creature's shoulder and back. Once he was close enough, Nick unsheathed his katana. Before he could strike the Tank with the sword, the monster turned its head to face him and surged towards him. With its arm still inside the concrete cylinder, it dragged the structure through the mud. Coach rolled helplessly inside the cylinder until it slammed into a crane. He hissed from the pain as the back of his head hit the concrete.
The Tank pulled its arm out of the cylinder and pursued Nick through the muddy construction site. He ducked behind a bulldozer as the monster hurtled slabs of broken scaffolding at him. He crawled amidst the heavy machinery in an attempt to circle around and make it back to Coach when he stumbled over something partially submerged in the filthy muck.
It shuddered from the conman's impact and lifted its emaciated, heavily damaged body. Its eyes lit up like bonfires upon seeing Nick, who sat frozen as he stared into them. The conman gasped for air as he crawled backwards, desperate to get away from the ghastly thing. So too did the creature begin to breath heavily as it rose up shakily. The singed, tattered remnants of a once white gown were falling off of the skeletal body. The ebony tipped talons spasmed and a nearly bald, horrifically mutilated head twitched from severe cerebral damage.
The Witch bride hadn't been crying as she lay broken in the mud, and she didn't scream as she lunged at Nick. She had screamed with such fervor back at the gazebo that she no longer had a voice left. Nick was up and running for his life in a terror-fueled panic. He didn't aim as he fired at her- didn't even turn his head as he pressed the trigger. To do so meant slowing down, and slowing down meant death. Regardless, the demon was right behind him. The mud did nothing to slow her rabid pursuit.
The rain was striking Nick's eyes, and he was only able to see the metal railing of a staircase that led to another bar ahead of him when it reflected the gleam of a lightning bolt that ripped through the sky. He willed every fiber of his being into reaching it. His legs and lungs were on fire, he had no idea where the Tank was, and he could feel the wicked sting and a rush of air against his back from a swipe of the Witch's claws that tore open his dress shirt and grazed his flesh. The earth shook as a lambasted bulldozer careened through the mud like a Tonka toy. The roar of twisted metal was deafening and drowned out the roar of the enraged behemoth that had sent it flying. The mud churned and rippled from the impact, nearly sending him to the ground. He reached out for the railing of the staircase and as soon as he felt the damp, icy-cold metal in his palm, he lifted his feet off the ground. So great was Nick's momentum as he vaulted over the railing that he slammed his back into the side of the bar. He lost his katana as he tumbled down the stairs. Reaching wildly for the handle of the door, he grabbed it to stop his fall, swung it open, and whipped around to close it.
The Witch annihilated the door as soon as he slammed it shut, sending him hurtling backwards in an explosion of wooden slivers. Nick didn't even have time to think as the she-demon descended upon him.
Coach's head was spinning, and his legs shook as he leaned against his golf club for support. He had watched the Witch chase Nick into the bar when he had crawled out of the concrete cylinder and knew that he had no hope of reaching the conman in time to help. He could see the Tank rampaging ahead of him- a monstrous child tossing its play things about in a tantrum- and Coach felt utterly helpless in the face of it. He could feel the fear rising up within him as the monster surged towards him, but something kept that fear from completely consuming him.
He could see it.
Water may have been streaming in torrents from a tombstone-gray sky, but he was still able to see it.
The Tank was moving with the speed of a freight train, but he was still able to see it.
He only had the use of one God damn eye, but still, he was able to see it.
It was subtle, an almost imperceptible limp in the monster's step, but it was there. That Tank was in pain, and he had caused it.
Coach smiled. Perhaps he could cause a little bit more pain before it took him down.
"You were right, Ro. We should have stuck together. I'm sorry."
The ex-football player was able to fire once before a blood-soaked fist hammered his chest and sent him soaring backwards into a chain-link fence.
The Witch thrashed about as her feet left the ground. The gleaming, soulless eyes whirled about in their sockets, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth as she emitted a death rattle. Her intestines spilled onto the linoleum tiles with a sickening plop as her body was torn in half. Her legs and pelvis were flung against the wall, leaving an enormous smear of black blood that dribbled like sludge onto tables and chairs. Her head and torso was heaved into the bar, causing a fulmination of green and amber shards to ricochet across the room.
Nick's heart nearly stopped as he witnessed the nightmarish scene, wishing- praying- that he would wake up as he dragged himself away from the door. His mind was screaming because his throat could not.
The teeth. There were so many of them aligned in double rows in the upper and lower jaw. Shark teeth. Perfectly, hideously symmetrical within the pointed jaws. As terrible as they were, Nick kept his wide-eyed stare on them. So indescribably horrible was the rest of the face that to focus on anything else meant losing his mind.
Zombie. Monster. Demon. It didn't matter what it was.
It had followed him from Savannah. Stalked him.
His monster. His demon.
It was on him before he could fully lift his gun. It plucked him off the floor as though he were weightless, surged across the bar, and into a tiny alcove with a single pool table. It slammed him against the wall. For a few brief moments, Nick struggled. He moved his arm to aim his gun, but it pinned both his arms against the wall. He kicked with his feet, striking it in several places, but it didn't flinch. Its face was pressed against his cheek. He closed his eyes. His brain would not allow him to see the abomination. He could feel the breath. It was as cold as a cloudless, winter midnight and reeked with the stench of a desecrated cemetery. His body swiveled, and his eyes snapped open as his face and chest scraped against the surface of the pool table. Suddenly his back was on fire. He screamed in agony as a single nail pierced his right shoulder blade and traveled downward in a diagonal path, crossing over his spine in the center of his back. The feeling of absolute terror was worse than the pain. It had to stop. He was being pressed against the table- pressed into the table. The air was wrenched from his lungs. He couldn't see. Couldn't smell. Couldn't taste. Couldn't touch. Couldn't...
"OH, GOD! NICK!"
"Ellis...stay away...Don't...Don't come...in here..."
Sights, sounds, smells- they all blurred together as Coach lay on the ground. So too did his thoughts and memories flicker, blend, and bleed.
A murderous roar and a child's sweet laughter.
The stench of burning rubber and the aroma of blessed peach cobbler.
A Tank's wretched face and the familiar visage of his noble brother.
At the corner of his vision, a light became visible- white and ever increasing in its brightness.
Then there were shapes, figures, drifting about and encircling him- reaching out to grab him.
Angels. Demons. Something in between.
Something clicked in his confused mind. The dark figures.
"Rochelle...I see 'em, Ro. Those things you were ta-"
Coach closed his unbandaged eye.