Transformation Read online

  “Well that’s that.” Cooper said as he turned away. “I think we can easily . . . “

  “You guys find a room and get settled. I’m going to stay up here for a while.” Trevor hadn’t moved. He still looked out over the peninsula.

  Cooper shrugged. Ellen followed him across the roof to the access door. She paused and turned as if to ask Trevor a question, then turned back and followed her brother into the dark stairwell.

  Trevor stood, staring south. Once the access door clicked shut, he walked quickly across the roof to the access door opposite it. He ran all the way down the pitch black stairwell and got into the SUV they’d arrived in. He sped away, headlights off, the world around completely black to human eyes.

  As he drove a drizzle started, carried on a cold dark wind.

  11.

  Ben had the bitch in a deadly hold and she was fighting. Only problem was, the bitch was already dead and wasn’t fighting for her life, she was fighting for Ben’s.

  A split second after he grabbed her, Ben heard the hissing, felt the scalp slipping off where his face rubbed against it. He tried to pull his head back, but that only allowed the zombie room to turn her head and try to bite him. Her jaws clacked, her eyes rolled back in her skull as she tried to look back at Ben, but her arms shot forward, grasping in the direction they always had thus far. She seemed to be figuring things out as she bent her arms and dug her nails into his flesh. She scratched and tore the exposed flesh with vigor.

  Ben heard thumping and looked up to see three more zombies entering through the backdoor in single file. He thrust the female away from him, hard towards the other three. She bounced off a large male and careened sideways. Her head struck the edge of the counter and her neck snapped with an audible crack. The three newcomers continued to advance. Ben was halfway to the front door.

  Ben pulled the front door open and stopped. The streets were filled with the dead and several were already coming up the walk towards him. He turned only to see several more zombies coming in from the back of the house. He hit the stairs running, taking three at a time and didn’t stop until he was on the third floor.

  The dead on the first floor only managed a few steps by then. Ben had several minutes to do something, but his mind was a blank. He ran up and down the hallway three times before stopping to think. His options were few but there was really only one thing logical he could do. He ran to the window he had used to enter the house and climbed out and onto the ledge. He shuffled a few feet over and made it to the pipe where he held on and caught his breath. He also had a good view of the surrounding area and scanned it quickly.

  It was dark, but Ben could see the movement of hundreds of bodies in the streets below, hear the moaning and thrashing of bushes. He climbed down to the second floor and circled the house on the wider ledge. He couldn’t find an escape route.

  The windows on the second floor were all closed and curtained, but Ben could see the curtains moving as they were bumped from within. He was trapped outside. He heard a crash and a zombie came through the window a few yards away. It simply fell to the ground and had no real chance of getting to him but now Ben had a new obstacle to be mindful of. Zombies began spilling out of the window and falling to the ground but quickly they became stuck in the window as too many tried to get through at once.

  Ben turned, shuffled back to the pipe and climbed up passed the third floor and onto the roof. He found a corner on the old slate roof in the darkness and plopped down and stretched out. The moans and thumping of the dead all around would make sleeping a challenge for any normal man. It may even drive some to madness, but Ben wasn’t bothered in the slightest and fell into a deep slumber.

  §

  Rachael was driving and Everet was trying to look back into the darkness.

  “I wish you hadn’t blown the horn.” He looked scared to death. “And you left mother’s . . . the backdoor open.”

  Rachael rolled her eyes, “Evy, I explained it all.”

  Everet nodded, he intellectually understood everything she said but to attract the dead and leave mother’s backdoor open at night was so against the grain. But she was right. She was always right, so he held his tongue—for a few moments.

  “You’re sure you saw him? It was him?”

  “Yes,” Rachael learned the only way to handle nervous Everet was to just keep answering his questions. He just got more worked up if you did anything else. “Remember we both looked and confirmed it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What do you think he’ll do?”

  “I don’t know. I assume he’ll get stuck in the swarming dead and have to hide out in a house for a while . . . Everet, we went over this. Whatever he does, we slowed him down and there’s no way for him to know where we are going or to catch up with us. Just no way.”

  Everet fidgeted. He looked out the window.

  Rachael smiled. She knew just what he was thinking and laughed at him. “Go ahead and think of a way that he can possibly follow us. Go ahead. Maybe he found a helicopter or a time machine. That’s it, he found a time machine. Oh shit Evy, he’s already there waiting for us and we don’t even know where there is yet.”

  “Shut up,” Everet smiled. He felt more at ease, a little more. But his ease was to be short lived. As they sped towards Highway 1 in the darkness, back to the luxury homes of Big Sur, a cold, misty rain began to fall.

  §

  If not for the cold mist turned drizzle, Ben would have slept on till morning. The cold droplets didn’t fully wake him but it did bring him from the deepest depths of a black slumber to a place between sleep and waking. He lay on the cold dark roof, the mist collecting on his exposed skin and gradually soaking his clothes, letting his mind drift. His thoughts drifted back in time, back before Willow, before his first murder, before his first robbery, all the way back to his childhood.

  The old cat made Benny mad. He didn’t know why but lots of things made him mad. For one he hated being called Benny and everyone fucking called him that.

  For a seven-year old, Benny spent a lot of time alone and angry, but he was in the perfect place to express that anger. He lived in one of the largest and impoverished trailer parks in the state of Oregon. He wandered the park day and night at will. His dad was a fulltime drunk on disability so he effectively lived alone. For an adult, it was usually a massively depressing place, but for Benny it was an almost endless magical adventure. He loved it there. Always a new person to meet, something good to steal, or a new undiscovered corner to explore.

  He kept his daytime wanderings around the “good part” of the park where all the retirees and handicapped lived. At night he wandered over to the “bad side” where the dangerous folk lived. On the good side and during the day he was invited in for dinner or to watch TV. There were lots of open doors and people out sitting in chairs to talk to. During the day Benny was all smiles and politeness. He did small jobs for the older folks and had an endless number of places to eat, bathe, even sleep. The oldest of the park knew what it was like for many of the residence here. The children often had it the worst as many of their parents were in dire situations and were gone most of the time, or worse, they were home all the time involved in drugs, prostitution, and all manner of criminal activity.

  At night Benny snuck around the bad side of the park. He would break into trailers and steal things. He would sometimes set fires, and as he got older he started noticing the females. They were all so high he could have a lot of fun with them.

  But that damn cat. Why did it piss him off? It had one good eye and one pink puckered dent where the other one used to be. Its tail hung limp, and its ears were both shredded from fighting. Benny saw a hundred cats a day in the park, but this one pissed him off. It always looked at him, sometimes pausing to do so. He wanted to kill it. Not just kill it, he wanted to make it scream in pain. He didn’t want to be seen doing it during the day and at night—well at night it would be just impossible to catch a cat. He would have to trap it.

  He ask
ed around the park and soon he possessed a Havahart trap. He baited the trap and waited. For days he caught everything but the cat he wanted. There were other cats, raccoons, an opossum, even a large black bird. He was getting pissed. Then the old man that loaned him the trap came by to get it back. When Benny told him about the cat, the old man had some advice for him.

  “You can’t catch a cat that knows you. He smells you a mile away. No matter what you bait that cage with ain’t no way he’s going near it. Son, you have to let some things go.”

  This type of talked pissed Benny off, but soon he was older and away from the park. He forgot all about that old cat. Didn’t mean shit to him anyways. But he had fond memories of that park.

  Ben woke up in the sunlight, soaking wet and smiling. He stood and stretched. Fuck this place, he thought. It was a ghost town anyways. Why spend a lot of time and effort chasing down a couple of losers. Dangerous hard work that is. He was inspired to return to the stomping grounds of his youth. Surely the park was still there. It was enormous but isolated at the end of a long road. It had been ten years or more since he’d been back. His old man was probably dead. But if there were a group of people to survive all this shit it was those park residents. He felt downright blissful and happy, ready to walk all the way back to the park with a smile on his face. He swore he had a change of heart. He was a man transformed.

  Or maybe he was just as high as fuck. God knows what he had swallowed from Willow’s bag.

  12.

  Ron was empty, beyond devastated, in shock and denial for the moment. He was shut down mentally and emotionally. If he didn’t, he would probably kill himself. He looked over the parking lot from the roof and just let his mind empty. It was the closest thing to peace he could find right now, but he felt the darkness pushing in. The reality of what had happened, who he lost, it was all just pushing and pushing in and soon would flood his head. He was getting scared of the impending pain and knew what he had to do. If he wasn’t going to kill himself, he had to do something to soften the blow of his loss.

  He looked at Dale’s letter again. It explained very little. He shoved it back into his pocket unfolded, a wad of paper, a symbol of just how unhinged he was becoming. The neat, fastidious, organized dentist would have folded it and placed it back into his pocket carefully but that man was gone. Ron was dead on his feet, just like the millions of zombies that currently filled the earth. He turned and started walking down to the third level to visit Weed.

  “I need to get high.” Ron said as Francis pushed his door/curtain aside.

  “Of course you do.” Weed smiled. “I’m afraid I started without you—in the sixties.” Weed laughed hard at his own joke.

  “I don’t think I can handle . . . Any of this.” Ron sat on Weed’s bed and looked at his feet. “You mind rolling me a joint?”

  What he was about to do bothered Ron on many levels. He’d avoided drugs, bad kids, and even questionable attire his entire life to keep himself safe and successful. He wanted to be a role model and prove through his success he wasn’t an Uncle Tom or “acting white.” He hated that getting an education and a career was considered acting white. He never understood the logic of it. He would argue with his friends, even many relatives, that considering education and success acting white and being an uneducated criminal acting black was extremely racist and seriously oppressive. The insanity of it was that it came from other blacks. But what he now faced required immediate and drastic actions and was no longer a role model for anyone.

  Weed raised an eyebrow, get your own shit brother man, he thought but said. “Of course. A friend with weed is a friend indeed.” In truth he was glad to give some comfort to the man. Poor fellow just lost his wife, and it was obvious he was head over heels. Shit, he himself was saddened by the loss of the lady. Then he added as almost an afterthought, prompted no doubt by his concern over his shrinking supply.

  “And if you are willing to help me, I need to replenish the supply.”

  Ron nodded, “Of course.” But he didn’t know what that meant just yet.”

  Against all his inclinations to the contrary, Weed rolled the fattest, most perfect joint he’d ever rolled. He used his good shit, his gold stash, maybe the last good weed he would ever smoke in this lifetime. He handed it over to the brother and with a click he offered the flame too.

  Weed watched as the black man inhaled deeply, coughed, and expelled all the smoke. He grimaced, gritted his teeth, and held his tongue against the waste of such a precious commodity. The brother inhaled again and held it this time around then exhaled slowly. Weed was ready with a plastic cup of the smooth shit and handed it over. He watched Ron knock it back then lay across his bed and close his eyes.

  “I don’t feel anything yet.”

  Weed laughed. “Man, you have to give it time.” He took a hard pull on his own blunt and gave Ron a look. He spoke as he exhaled, an old wizard with smoke streaming from his nostrils and puffing out of his mouth at each word.

  “I hope I’m not wasting my gold stash on you man. I got some ditch weed if you want that shit.”

  “Ditch weed?” Ron slurred a little. He chuckled. “I think I’m getting it to feel.” He laughed at his own garble. “Fuck, I’m think I’m can get it.” He kept laughing and talking in gibberish.

  I guess he’s feeling it now. Weed thought. Maybe I should’ve given him a heads up about the rock I sprinkled on. Oh well . . .

  “Yeah man, ditch weed is shitty stuff. You know, bad weed, no good.”

  “This shit’s no good!” Ron laughed. “No good for nothing.”

  “OK, OK, let’s chill out a bit. Here take another bolt of the hooch.”

  “Hooch.” Ron smiled then gulped the liquor, a little dribbled down his chin. He took another hard hit on the joint and held it.

  Weed looked at the man. He felt bad for the dude. He knew the pain of loss. He’d lost his share of friends and brothers over the years even a special old lady way back in the day. He thought back to when he was a young man, new to everything in life, and that special year he was in love. When she took off, it about killed him. He never let himself get that close to a lady since. Never ever admitted he’d gone total pussy for a while, crying and wishing he were dead. He’d started riding shortly after that. Hit the road to run from his pain, and never let it catch up with him.

  He knew how Ron felt about his old lady, shit Weed himself had a fondness for her. What the fuck is that all about man? Francis are you an old soft fuck or what?

  “Hey man.” Weed spoke after a few minutes of dragging on his joint and pulling in hits of hooch.

  “Wuzzat?” Ron slurred.

  “Let’s go on an adventure. I need to replenish my stash.”

  “Course.” Ron let it float softly from his lips.

  Weed thought about it, had been rolling it around his head an awful lot. How to replenish his stash. Fuck that’s something he’s been rolling around his head for decades. He knew of numerous farms up and down the coast, a few grow houses, even a couple of high tech hydroponic farms but, for one reason or another, they were struck off his list—too small, located in a densely populated area. But more importantly, they all grew shitty weed. It took more than sticking a plant in the ground to grow good weed. In fact, it could get quite complex which is why it always amazed Weed that the best weed he’d ever found came from the dumbest motherfuckers he’d ever met.

  The numbnuts lived in an isolated area that was perfect for growing weed. Their shit was amazing and Weed purchased their stock whenever he could. Problem was he’d never actually met the folks. Probably all dead anyways, he thought so he felt safe heading over to take his fill. Maybe he’d even stick around and try to smoke all of the shit before he died. He smiled at the thought, him sitting in the middle of hundreds of acres of weed with a crate of rolling papers and a box of fire sticks. What a way to go.

  Ron, eyes closed, lying flat on his back at the foot of Weed’s bed, was already high as a kite—a kite tied
to the tail of a jet, but deep down he was still aware of his loss and the desperation to avoid what would be an incredible amount of pain. He smiled at the notion of an adventure, a distraction from the impending agony.

  “Fuh . . . let’s. Let’s do it on now.”

  Weed smiled as he stood. He wavered on his feet. Shit must be strong if it got me sidestepping. He took Ron’s hand and pulled him to a sitting position. “C’mon on man, we have an errand to run.”

  “Erron? We need bitch milk? Milk. Milk?”

  “Yeah, we need milk.” Weed smirked in amusement. “Actually my black blunt buddy, my stash is low and I know just where to go.”

  “Go low.” Ron laughed.

  Weed grabbed Ron’s hand and helped him stand. He had to walk him to the second level where he sat him down on the elevator. He started the winch on the truck bumper and ran back to the platform. In a few moments, he was driving Ron away from the structure. Ron was asleep in the passenger seat. Weed looked at the man and smiled. He really did need to go get some more stuff, from somewhere, and didn’t want to go alone.

  Fuck Francis, you are soft. You actually like these fuckers? Well, they are the only fuckers left in the world. Beggars can’t be choosy. The pig was dead, Guido’s gone . . . All things being equal maybe . . . Ah shit man, you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing!

  “No, I don’t.” Weed mumbled to himself. “Ain’t got a fucking clue.”

  He looked at the black dude passed out cold next to him and smiled. “Not a fucking clue.” Then a little louder he said. “Spade, you’re my best buddy in the world. Do you know how fucked up that is?”

  Ron didn’t stir, didn’t move a muscle. Weed smiled and goosed the gas pedal a little harder, anxious to get to where he was going.