Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [56]
Then he blinked—he saw something in the damn window!
Sheeee-it.
L.J.’s first instinct was to get his ass out of there, but then he stopped.
He’d survived the cop house being turned into Night of the Living Dead.
He’d survived almost getting eaten by Rashonda-the-zombie-ass-ho.
He’d survived a car crash.
And best of all, he’d survived the big-ass motherfucker shooting up a room full of cops.
So he could survive this shit, no problem.
He walked up to the door.
Put his hand on the handle.
Took his hand off the handle.
Resisted the urge to run away again.
Finally yanked opened the door, raising his custom Uzi, ready to bust a cap right in that zombie’s ass!
On the other side of the door was a skeleton. One of those jive-ass plastic skeletons hanging from a hook like the ones L.J. used to dress up in pimp outfits when he was in school.
Sheeee-it.
L.J. was pissed off and glad at the same time. Yeah, sure, he didn’t have to face off against one of those zombie-ass motherfuckers—on the other hand, he didn’t get to face off against one of those zombie-ass motherfuckers, he just got to look like an asshole.
At least Terri didn’t see him be no fool.
Lowering his Uzi, he turned around—
—and bumped right into a zombie-ass motherfucker!
He tried to raise his Uzi again. The zombie was a white dude with a nasty rug on his head and a butt-fuckin’-ugly moustache—probably a teacher, based on how the motherfucker was dressed—and he grabbed L.J.’s Uzi before he could do shit with it.
Then the zombie teacher went to bite L.J. just like Rashonda had. L.J. was trapped by the skeleton on one side and the zombie on the other.
For the second time today—shit, for the second time in his life—L.J. prayed.
Somebody grabbed the zombie from behind and snapped its neck.
It fell to the floor.
L.J. blinked. Some spic in a black uniform had just killed the zombie! Hot shit!
The uniform had a name tag that read OLIVERA.
Olivera bent over, picked up L.J.’s Uzi, and held it out.
“I think this belongs to you.”
Stunned, L.J. took the gun. He also got a good look at this Olivera dude, and he looked like pure Grade-A USDA-approved shit. He was sweating like a motherfucker, and his eyes were all bloodshot. Looked like Rondell did after he got busted and went through the d.t.’s.
“You got the call as well?” Olivera asked.
“What?”
“You’re here for the girl?”
L.J. nodded. “Yeah, yeah—we be lookin’ for the Ashford girl. Gonna get us outta here.”
“Ashford didn’t say he’d made a deal with anyone else. But I guess we’re partners.”
“Whoa!” L.J. didn’t like the sound of that. He was a bad mother all on his own, he didn’t need no help. “Easy on the partners shit!”
Olivera stared at him.
Rondell never could stare at nobody like that when he had the d.t.’s. Shit, if the RCPD detectives could stare like that, they’d get more confessions.
L.J. said, “A’right, fine. Partners. Listen, just don’t tell anyone about the gun, okay?”
“My lips are sealed,” Olivera said. “Let’s go.”
Twenty-Five
“Point, pull, repeat.”
This was all D.J. McInerney’s fault.
“Point, pull, repeat.”
It was D.J. who’d supplied Terri Morales with the footage of Councilman Miller. It was D.J. who’d assured her that it was authentic. It was D.J. who’d told her that corroboration wasn’t necessary.
“Point, pull, repeat.”
If he hadn’t pulled that crap on Terri, she’d still be doing the news. Hell, she’d probably have moved on to a real city instead of this backwater dump, doing investigative reporting somewhere interesting like Baltimore or San Francisco or Dallas. Maybe even New York or Chicago.
“Point, pull, repeat.”
Or L.A.
“Point, pull, repeat.”
That was her real dream, of course. Los Angeles, city of lights.
“Point, pull, repeat.”
Or was that Paris?
Whatever, if it hadn’t been for D.J.’s trick, she’d be in a real city reporting news right now instead of wandering the halls of an abandoned school in a city full of zombies looking for a little kid while saying “Point, pull, repeat” like it was some