Purgatory

Author's Notes: See Chapter 1 for summary, disclaimer and plagiarism warning.

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No Way To Die

CHAPTER 2


--Cholo, hey, Cholo, where are you?--

The ATV followed the dirt bike over the strip of lawn and off the empty main road, pulling up in the shadow of the dark store front. The sign said ‘PA Wines & Liquor’, its colours faded and the image cracking away from the board.

Cholo was the first to dismount, killing the bike’s engine but not its lights, deliberately turning the handlebars to shine the lamp into the cloudy glass window of the building. Foxy followed suit, shutting off the idling four-wheeler but keeping the headlights burning. As the Latino swung his jean-clad leg over the seat he reached into the leather bag strapped to the side of the gas tank and drew out the crossbow from its holster, strapping it straight to the belts on his left leg like a security blanket. Nancy came off behind him, her shortened shotgun already held across her chest tightly. Dark eyes swept the store before settling onto her weapon and she cocked it loudly in the cold air.

--Cholo, we got a problem.-- his radio was persisting and with an annoyed growl he snatched the device off his belt. --The fireworks are down-- Trust Denbo to state the obvious, he thought.

“Oh yeah,” he commented in a tone as if he had not noticed until then, giving the overcast night sky above a cursory glance. “Nice and peaceful, ain’t it?”


In the jeep, Riley resisted the urge to roll his eyes or clap his radio down on the dash board hard enough to give the man on the other end a ringing in his ears he wouldn’t easily shake. His voice showed his exasperation as he depressed the button and retorted: “Cholo, where are you?”


“I’m just getting some supplies. Some essential supplies. Just like my job description entails.” Cholo answered with a half-suppressed smile. It wasn’t a lie, just stretching the truth and whatever Riley didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“But there ain’t nothing in there but booze.” The young man named Mike interjected, keeping his automatic pinned to his shoulder and displaying a worried look on his face. He shot anxious glances from the shop to the safety of the quad and back again. “Booze ain’t essential…”

“A jug of good Kentucky goes for $1,500 back in town.” Foxy corrected the boy with a grin, plucking up his gun from the side car trolley of the ATV.


Riley’s heart sunk into his stomach at those words through the static of the handheld. Damn Cholo and his idiots for being greedy! They were going to get themselves killed without the fireworks as a distraction. There were too many of the dead in the area and staying even a minute too long could see the small group surrounded in moments.

“Look, you’ve got to get out of there.” He snapped into the radio, but there was no answer.
“Cholo?”

The man in question simply glanced across at Foxy as he tossed the radio into the quad’s basket and nodded, the three of them hurrying towards the black door of the convenience store without another word, forcing the hesitant Mike to follow…


“God damn it!” Riley cursed, throwing the device down into the foot well of the jeep vehemently and taking hold of the wheel. He slapped the gear stick and floored the vehicle into drive with a look on his features that made Charlie cringe.


Foxy threw open the door first, eliciting a cheerful ring from the bell positioned over the hinge, the sound echoing throughout the silent room. Cholo came in at his back and Mike was a step behind him. Nancy stayed on the step, turning her back to the threshold and fixing her glare out into the deserted parking lot as if she were trying to stare down the headlights of their vehicles. She would cover their backs without fail.

Their breathing was heavy with expectation, loud enough to sound in the store. Foxy’s flashlight illuminated half a dozen shelves lined up down the middle of the counter area, the dull shine of dusty glass throwing the glow back at them. They were filled with a myriad of different shades, everything from brown so dark it seemed black, blood red and milky opaque.

The men fanned out in a grid pattern-- with Foxy taking the furthest walkway from the door, Mike went down the closest scanning the aisles with his muzzle, while Cholo came straight up the middle, everyone of them watching the dark corners intently. When they had all reached the rear wall of the shop without a sighting, Cholo announced it was safe by saying: “Alright, Foxy, shop til you drop, baby.”

The biker gave a pleased chuckle and his face broke out into a cunning smile as he went for the plastic baskets stacked beside a shelf end, ripping one free of the little tower and threading it onto his free arm. “You know it, brother.” he laughed. With the other hand he slung his semi-auto over his shoulder and began collecting the largest bottles he could see, laying them into the carrier like a child snatching Christmas presents.

“Yeah, cause getting ‘em stinking drunk is the only way you’re gonna get laid.” Cholo tossed the jab back at him as he made a determined path for the fridges lining the rear wall. Foxy could only jeer a mock laugh in response.

“And when’s the last time you got laid, huh?” the larger man played along, slipping a deliberate glance over his shoulder to the girl’s shadow on the smudged glass pane outside. “You waitin’ until she’s legal or somethin’?”

Cholo’s smile dropped for a moment, unseen by his friend as he stalked over to the closest of the cooler doors. The words had hit a nerve, as Foxy knew they would, but the cocky leader would not give him anything to make of it for his fishing efforts. He knew the rumours which went on in the unit about his relationship to the girl and they’d all love for him to say something, anything, to validate their suspicions. Which was why Cholo had never set them straight.

The truth was, Cholo might have been a bastard, but he wasn’t a fucking bastard.

“Come on, Foxy, man, I don’t need that shit. I don’t care about ass. All I care about is money.” He sneered as he brushed away the thick layer of grime coating the glass door, peering in at the contents. “That’s all I want, baby.”

On the top shelf, he saw the tell-tale white cardboard carton and the cursive font printed across its label. It was his lucky day: a case of Dom Perignon stared back at him from inside. He knew just what to do with that precious find…

“Ah, yes,” he hissed triumphantly as he pulled open the lukewarm cooler and reached in to grab the box with both hands, a grin plastered across his face.

As Cholo pulled the carton free however, a roar filled the liquor store and shelves were sent flying from their brackets around him. A blur of movement came with the crash of a putrid weight lunging out of the depths of the fridge, ploughing into him like a line-backer and taking the man right off his feet.

The dead man wore the stained shirt of the store clerk who had obviously been trying to hide in the backless freezer at the time of his demise and his blackened lips were peeled back from rotted teeth in an animalistic snarl as he drove Cholo down into the last shelf behind him, sending bottles smashing to the floor.

Mike, the closest of their number, dropped the bottle of Malibu he had been looking over, the glass shattering with a wet pop over the linoleum floor. He threw himself forward, reaching to swing his automatic back around his body on the shoulder strap as he moved, but his hands fumbled. “FOXY!” he yelled in panic.

His call caused the biker to rush back through the store’s door, abandoning the basket load he had been taking out to the four-wheel in the middle of the lot. When he saw what was happening at the back of the room his features crumpled into a stricken mask and he came rushing down the aisle, gun raised. “Cholo, hang on, man! Hang on!” he bellowed.

Nancy had left her post at the door-- his name was the only thing that could make her move like that, and the five-foot-nothing girl pushed Mike aside to get to the wrestling pair.

Cholo did the only thing he could do in the meantime, which was jamming his forearm up under the rotting gullet to keep the gnashing jaws away from his face. The dead thing was raking with its hands and trying to bear down on him, drop the last few inches and tear out a hunk of his warm neck. The man grit his teeth and tried to gain purchase with his boots on the floor, to no avail.

“I can’t get a shot!” Mike cried, trying to aim high enough to take out the zombie without perforating the man underneath its soft corpse.

Cholo threw a right hook across the thing’s jaw, dislocating it completely and it gobbled hideously down at him, still trying to bite with the flopping lump of bone wobbling under its chin.

“I got him!” Foxy yelled, finally clearing the last shelf and drawing out the Firestar pistol from his back pocket. His angle was front on and from there he could put a bullet right in the top of its cranium with less chance of hitting his friend. But Cholo would not play by those rules, instead jerking them both by following with a left punch into the side of the cadaver’s head. Bone crunched under his leather-clad fist. “Cholo, man, I got him!” Foxy was still yelling, trying to get him to hold still.

“No, I got him.”

The dead man gave a long, wheezing yell which blasted the man’s face in rancid breath and in a last ditch attempt Cholo rammed the heel of his palm under that broken jaw, clapping it shut and held it there for all he was worth. His left hand took the opportunity, snaking down his side to grab the grip of the crossbow from its strap on his leg and tearing it loose.

In the next instant the muzzle of the weapon was planted under the zombie’s throat and the trigger was snapped, sending the metal bolt rupturing up through the top of its skull to bury in the ceiling, accompanied by a geyser of old, black blood.

Cholo tossed the expired zombie to the side and off him, disgusted at it and lay there on his back, breathing hard for a long, quiet moment. He could still feel his heart thudding in his chest and bile rose to scald the back of his throat as he caught a lungful of that stench again. Beside him, Mike lowered his gun and let out a shaking breath of relief. Foxy did the same, pointing the pistol to the floor and rolling his broad shoulders to ease the tension there.

Cholo sat himself up off the glass strewn floor with a groan for his bruised back, batting at the arms of his jacket and finding no rips in the leather thankfully. A heartbeat later and Nancy’s small, pale hand was there in front of him, waiting for him to take it. He looked up at her for a beat, then pushed the help away and rose to his feet. She said nothing and she did not step away from him.

“Bro, do me a favour, will ya? Next time, just let me take the fucking shot.” Foxy scolded him with a wide smile, his eyes still filled with the dread of moments ago. Heartily, he clapped the man on the back and turned away to finish his loading. “Fucking cowboy.”

“Yeah, stop being a pussy, man.” Cholo joked back, feeling the tension ebb out of the air. He bent to collect the case of champagne from the floor where it had fallen in the attack, turning it over in his arms and was pleased to find that nothing was broken inside. Mike watched him with a surreal sense, his face a shade too pale.

All of them headed for outside, Cholo tossing the box to Foxy through the front door to load with the other items. “I got what I need.” he muttered, lifting his leg to plant his boot on the counter with a thud. Mike watched as the man thrust his empty crossbow back into the quiver strapped to his jeans and the sound of hissing metal sliding together filled the quiet shop. The click of the spring latching back into place told him another bolt had been loaded onto the slide, the entire process quick and practiced.

Cholo re-holstered his weapon and lowered his leg back down, stepping up to inspect the display stand of cigars beside him with a critical gaze. “And maybe a lil’ something extra too…” he mused to no one in particular. Opening up the back and reaching inside he plucked a wooden case of Cubans off the bottom shelf with minimal fumbling, dropping it onto the counter with a smile.
“Nice.”

The man turned to hand his discovery to Nancy, who took it outside without needing to be told, before Cholo picked up the whole little cabinet and up-ended it, causing the dozens of individual sticks inside to fall to the floor behind the bench. Seeing nothing else of worth he tossed the box down after it with a sneer, the glass shattering on the ground.

When he turned, the still sallow face of Mike greeted him, watching him too intently for Cholo’s taste. This was why he had never had a particularly patient spot for rookie’s-- they see one zombie get wasted and they loose their nerve.

“Snap out of it, kid,” he jeered, turning for the door. “Come on.”

Mike blinked at the waste of the cigars strew across the dark floor and then turned his head to watch the Latino man making his way across the parking lot towards the bikes. He contemplated a moment too long as the blood-smeared and bony hand reached over the edge of the counter…

The dead policeman latched its soggy grip around the boy’s arm, jerking it across the counter and slamming him down onto the surface in the process. Mike came face to face with the leathery, rotted features, a nose caved in and scratched, aviator sunglasses throwing his own horrified reflection back at him. He screamed as the undead cop sunk its teeth into the supple flesh of his wrist and tore away a chunk of stringy muscle and arteries. His other arm flailed, trying to drag the muzzle of his automatic over the lip of the counter to save himself.

“AAUUUUAAAGGHHHH!!”

Outside in the lot, all heads turned to watch the store at their backs as the young man’s scream ripped open the silent night. Cholo re-drew his crossbow and Foxy took one, two steps across the gravel in an attempt to go back inside. They all saw a shadow stagger just inside the threshold and a second later Mike came stumbling out, collapsing to his knees against the window while clutching his gushing arm to his chest. A jerking silhouette was stumbling out in his wake and a moment later the headlights caught the figure of the uniformed corpse emerging into the night. Mottled with old blood and severely decayed to the point it had lost much of its features, the horrible thing was still munching black jaws, chewing leisurely on the piece of the boy it had managed to rip loose.


As Riley braked the jeep into the lot his gut plummeted at the sight. For that instant he did not see the fresh blood, only the dead thing staggering to bear down on the crumpled Mike and his gun was drawn in a heartbeat. The man jerked to his feet in the driver’s seat, stretching his arm out over the roll bar and fired: the shot hit home, burrowing a neat hole in the side of the cadaver’s skull and spraying the dusty window with thick ichor. It folded up without a sound, sprawling across the lot in front of the shaking man.

Denbo was jumping out of the jeep in a split second and his eyes went from the bright red vitae which was caked over the zombie’s rotted face to the fount now soaking into the front of the young raider’s jacket. The terrible realisation that he was too late hit him, making the fair-haired man moan aloud into the cold night as he went to his side.

“I’m bit.” Mike told him, his voice shaking.

“Yeah, you’re bit.” Riley agreed grimly, stuffing his Browning back into the holster at his hip and laying a hand on the other’s arm. Up close the wound was not as deep as it seemed but there were still arteries involved because the blood was clearly pumping out in time with a pulse. The edges of the mess were ridged, marked with the tiny crescents of a human dental set and the sight made his insides roil. Superficial or not, there was the stark evidence of just what kind of creature had made the bite-- one that needed only a scratch to kill.

“Not gonna leave you here. Gonna get you out of here, okay?” Denbo could hear himself saying the reassuring words, even as his mind came to the brutal conclusion that Mike was going to die in that parking lot. The lies tasted sour but he could not bring himself to turn his back on the rookie.

“I don’t wanna become one of those things!” Mike begged, reaching up with his good arm to clasp a fistful of the other man’s coat.

“Riley, step aside.”

Those dark emerald depths, wide and shell-shocked turned up into the glare of the headlamps and the man made out the stance of Cholo cradling his crossbow in both hands, finger resting on the trigger. The decisiveness in that pose told Denbo that the Latino had already made up his mind how the next ten seconds would go. But it would not be he who ended it. If that was the case, that weapon would have already been levelled at them and the bolt loosed from the slide.

There, beside the man, was the executioner.

Nancy was pointing the sawn-off at him. No, he corrected himself, not at him. She was aiming past his body and if he didn’t move quickly enough the girl would end up blowing a hole straight through him. Cholo’s words had merely been a warning.

“You put that thing away.” Riley ordered, stabbing his finger at her as if it could shield off the shot.

“Riley, come on, step aside.” Cholo said again and this time his eyes flicked over to the silent young woman as she took three steps towards the pair huddled on the cold ground. The mouth of the shotgun shifted with her movement, keeping aim the entire time.

Now her shadow fell over them and she was backlit by the lights of the vehicles. Riley glared up at her, noticing outside of the moment that in the glow the tint of her hair was more auburn than simply dull dark brown. That shut-down gaze did not meet him: Nancy’s eyes were all for the oozing tear pressed to the man’s chest.

What Riley Denbo saw in the next moment made him wish he did not have a front row seat. The look on that girl’s face was irredeemable. There was no malice, hatred or fear. No excitement, pleasure or spark of interest. It was simply nothing, a black, empty nothing. If the eyes truly were the windows to the soul, Nancy was damned, because there was no one home. She pulled the trigger less then a foot off him and there was not even a flinch.

The sound of the shot deafened him, drowning out Mike’s scream as he realised he was going to die. The force shuddered his body so hard it ripped his arm out of Denbo’s grasp and his corpse fell over sideways onto the ground with a hole in his chest all the way to the backbone…

As the blood cooled on his cheek and the ringing faded in his ears Riley heard a soft voice say:

“…Everyone becomes one of them.”


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Last Word: Now the deviation begins to pull away from the screenplay. I expect this scene will gather mixed reviews on Nancy’s character, so let me state she was never intended to be a ‘heroine’ or even a likable person. She is what she needs to be.