Cruising down a forgotten backroad from Florida to Georgia was a beat up old '56 Chevy the color of pigeon poop. She wasn't pretty to look with at but she was something underneath the hood.
Almost all original parts or close to it. It may have cost a few full paychecks, an empty stomach a time or two, and a few lucky hands of poker but Susan was worth it.
Cranking down the driver's side window with bruised knuckles sat a 'woman of disreputable proportions', according to Nick from Singer and Sons., Towing Company. From her disheveled waves to her tattered shoes and snarky attitude she was a devil woman.
That is, if you are Nick Singer, Jr., the self-titled ladies' man and harasser of women in the podunk Floridan town of Misery, where some idiot back in the day thought it'd be hilarious to name a town in Florida after an established state. Due to the inbred fool's lack of intelligence, Missouri became Misery. Which isn't a misnomer after all.
Back in that exact podunk town sat Nick, who was nursing a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder while his father looks on with a dark scowl at an empty headed son and an empty register.
Now don't get me wrong, I know stealing is bad, before you get to cursing my name and praying for my soul I'll tell you that I only took what was owed. You may or may not feel sorry for poor old Nick Sr. but he was sexist, not to mention a tad bit racist. Like any other person of his repute, he was cheap as hell.
Back on that gravelly, pot-hole covered road was a twenty-one year old me, Zia Faraday. Blasé as heck in the ways of life for an aged-out foster kid from New Mexico.
As sob stories go, mine is pretty tame. Dumped at a social worker's house outside of Roswell with no name. I guess someone got fed up with that and slapped me with the name Abernathy Marie. Try growing up with that gut-puncher of a name.
A few homes I learned to be loved, to be forgotten, to be bruised and broken, to know that some people aren't worth saving. Those that are, you hang onto them as long as you can.
Once I hit eighteen and got my diploma, I hightailed it and never looked back. Changing my name was a piece of cake once I met up with a Craigslister who sold fake legit looking information for eighty bucks . A little bit of home and access to the nerdy side of Google I became Zia Faraday.
A woman on her way to hot and spicy Atlanta to get Susan her new paint job in the color Frosty Pine. A metallic forest green with black detailing on the side, worth around eight hundred dollars including labor. A discount from my previous foster brother José, who runs his own shop.
Daydreaming about Susan's makeover and the beloved reunion of family I failed to see a discombobulated man in the road.
Splat!
Black guts and grey bone cover the entire front of my baby. I break immediately, nearly giving myself whiplash to look in the review mirror when I see a lump of something twitch. My shaking hand pulls open the door latch, when the smell finally hit me. Gagging, I cover my nose.
That nasty pile of oozing gunk held the scent of death, made worse by the summer sun practically baking it. Feeling lightheaded and weak kneed I plop down beside my truck. My lunch decided to make a comeback worthy of a Gore Award as I spot drops of dead goo litter my shirt sleeve. My adrenaline fueled blood making me jittery as fuck.
I sat there on that deserted road for a few hours, the mid-afternoon blue sky slowly turning to a pink sunset. The body, what's left of it, finally stopped twitching. Not a soul came by. Not knowing what to do or if I should call someone. Because what could I say?
'Sorry I think I ran over a dead man?!? Send help!' That'd go over well, the nearest town was four hours away.
No, what I did was flat out dumb. Like running into the clutches of evil dumb. It's in our nature as humans to be curious. How else are things invented? By taking that curiosity and doing something stupid with it. Such as creating zombies. Or going to look for them.
Scrambling to get up I hop back into Susan shifting to first, parking under a low hanging willow tree on the side of the road. Covering her with scraps of brush I take off in the direction the zombie came from.
How did I know it was a zombie? I spent the majority of my childhood sneaking into horror movies at the theatre. I know a zombie when I see someone staggering, reeking of death, and gnashing it's teeth. It wasn't a tweaked out meth-head, those guys just get back up and run, this guy was actually deceased. As in 'RIP', six feet under, 'hasta la vista' dead.
Fetching the crowbar and flashlight from behind the seat I scan the area for stragglers. These things always travel in packs. Thick brush and low branches fill my vision. Not a sound was made, no bird calls, no wildlife, or wind blew. It was silent.
Three minutes in I spot a trail of broken twigs and disturbed underbrush of leaves and dirt heading deeper into the patch of woods. Keeping my senses on high alert I make my way to a fenced-in area half a mile from my truck. It was at least ten acres of fencing guarding a rundown warehouse with an oddly neat gravel road leading out.
Purple hues light up the evening sky, showing me just how long I have left until complete darkness. Crouching low I make my way towards a hole dug up under the fence. Bits of cloth and strips of flesh dangle from the barbs. Nail marks scour the rich brown earth covered in blood. Tufts of grey fur are snagged on thorny bushes leading out to the main road. I guess that's how it got out. A little snack made it spaz out of its hidey-hole.
Carefully stepping around the scene I hear an alarm blare from loudspeakers at each corner of the fence. Throwing myself into the bushes I spot three groups of black and white clad figures flow from inside the warehouse to come to a halt once the reached the outside. The alarm ceases to sound, when a commanding voice cuts through the air belonging to a bulky, bald headed figure.
"Listen up! Subject Z2-09 has escaped. Apparently in the midst of disposing of the asset, someone forgot to fully terminate and secure it." Mr. Walker Texas Ranger drawls out. "Lt. Stevens," at this a lanky redhead startles, pale faced and wide eyed, "you're a liability." Quick as a flash a single gunshot is fired. I gasp into my hands, heart pounding wildly. I notice that no one else moves or screams.
"Let this be a lesson for those of you who deem it necessary to screw up! Lt. Stevens failed to mention he was bitten, putting us at risk of exposure and contamination. Hence his elimination." At that moment floodlights bathe the area in white light. Illuminating the pooling blood at Lt. Stevens head. I barely make out his prone figure as I back away as quickly as I can, hearing the tail end of "search and destroy."