Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [47]
The Camaro was totaled. Besides, L.J. wasn’t drivin’ around with no airbag flappin’ out. That shit was weak.
As he got to his feet, he found himself surrounded by zombie-ass motherfuckers: the meter maid, the ho, and a whole bunch of other people.
“Oh, shit.”
He ran.
One good thing about zombie-ass motherfuckers was that they couldn’t run for shit, so L.J. had no problem making it to the intersection of Harbor and Main.
He turned onto Main to find more zombie-ass motherfuckers walkin’ down the street.
“Damn, dog, you in a motherfuckin’ Michael Jackson video.”
One building still had lights on and signs of life. Real life. Mostly Colt. L.J. knew the place—some brothers got their hardware here, but not L.J. The guy who ran it was a redneck white boy named Lance Halloran. L.J. didn’t buy his heat from no white folks.
Today, though, was no time to be fuckin’ choosy.
He ran in just as someone was trying to close the door.
“Hold up,” he cried, “hold up!”
Just as he squeezed through the door, he looked around.
Cops.
A whole room full of cops.
Worse, they were all S.T.A.R.S.
“Shee-it!”
The only two of these white folks not wearing fuckin’ S.T.A.R.S. gear were Halloran and another old white motherfucker wearin’ a tie. He had to be a cop, too.
“Maybe I was safer out there—this all looks like some white supremacist bullshit.”
They all looked at him like he was fuckin’ crazy.
Well, at this point, L.J. was fuckin’ crazy. Especially since it looked like he was holin’ up with these white folks.
“You know you ain’t inheritin’ the earth, motherfuckers, right?”
The plainclothes cop was holding a pump-action shotgun. He held it up—L.J. flinched, but then he handed it to L.J.
“Here.”
A white motherfucker giving a Negro a shotgun. Mark this day down on the fuckin’ calendar, dog!
But he didn’t need no white-folks charity. He held open his coat to show off his Uzis.
“Nigger, please—my shit is custom.”
“Damn right, L.J.,” Halloran said. “I don’t sell that shit here.”
“Yeah, Halloran, you just sell to cracker-ass white folks who blow up fuckin’ Bambi with shotguns and shit.”
The cop turned to Halloran. “You know this asshole, Lance?”
“L.J. Wayne. He’s the usual street garbage.”
Holding up one of his Uzis, L.J. said, “Watch yo’ mouth, Halloran. I’m fuckin’ exceptional street garbage, and you know why?”
“Why?” The cop was actually laughing now.
“ ’Cause I’m still breathin’ and not no zombie-ass motherfucker, that’s why.”
“Damn right,” the cop said. “I’m Captain Henderson. You want to stay here, you do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, or I’ll shoot you myself. Clear?”
“As fuckin’ mud, Captain. Let’s blow up some zombie shit.”
Henderson smiled, then turned back to Halloran. “Let’s get those shutters down.”
“No problem,” Halloran said, giving L.J. a look. “I’ll be right there.”
Just as Halloran got over to the front window and reached for the handle to start pulling the metal shutters down, L.J. said, “What the fuck is that?”
L.J.’d seen a lotta shit in his life—he’d seen a lotta shit today—but he’d never seen nothin’ like this.
A white dude who was at least nine fuckin’ feet tall. Tubes and shit goin’ in and out of his hands, muscles to make Arnold fuckin’ Schwarzeneggar look like Arnold fuckin’ Palmer.
This wasn’t no zombie.
This was worse.
And L.J. didn’t think it could get no worse than zombies.
The big dude was holding two big-ass pieces of hardware. The first was one of those guns they had on helicopters—except this motherfucker was holding it.
In his other hand was a rocket launcher.
L.J. was thinkin’ he should’ve retrieved the Rick James CD from the wrecked Camaro. He needed all the luck he could get right now.
Then the big dude started shooting the rail gun at one of the buildings next door.
“Shit, that’s