“This soup isn’t so bad,” Chino said, taking a big gulp. “I think I’ll—What the fuck!”
Mendoza jumped back as the window above his head exploded, raining down glass and wood chips. A huge man, covered with blood clots, was trying to get through the hole. At the same time, two women and a girl appeared at the back door. Footfalls on the front porch alerted them that at least one Undead was coming in that way too.
We’re trapped. Mendoza cursed himself for being so careless. They’d let their guard down as they warmed up that damn soup. Now Undead surrounded the store.
Chino drew his gun and blew away the man in the window with the cold eye of a professional killer; before the Apocalypse, he’d been a hit man for the Tijuana Cartel. Then he turned to face the women staggering around in the middle of the room. When one of them stepped into their campfire, flames engulfed her fungus-covered leg, but she didn’t seem to notice. Chino fired off three rounds before his Beretta jammed.
“¡Chinga tu madre!” he yelled as he cocked the hammer. Those were his last words.
A couple of Undead reached through the shattered window and grabbed Chino from behind. Before Mendoza could react, his compañero was dragged halfway through the window. There was a muffled scream, then a thud like a wet rag hitting the floor. Chino’s legs stopped moving as a dark spot spread across his crotch.
Mendoza didn’t have time to dwell on the gunman’s fate; he had problems of his own. He fired his last two rounds at an Undead who’d stuck his head through the window. Meanwhile, that female Undead was practically on top of him, her leg ablaze.
Mendoza swung his rifle like a club and split the woman’s head open. He squeezed his eyes shut a second before impact to keep her brains and blood from getting in his eyes. One of his buddies got infected that way, and they’d had to finish him off, on the spot, despite his pleas.
A jet of cold, sticky blood splashed on his face; a couple of clots slid down his nose. Carlos closed his mouth and exhaled, trying to keep his nose clear. A cold panic washed over him and his balls shrank to the size of marbles. He didn’t want to die in the middle of that carnival of death in some no-name town.
Son of a bitch, Carlitos, you’re done for if that rotten blood comes in contact with your eyes or nose. Keep your eyes closed tight till you wash off all that infected shit. You’re fighting those fucking monsters blind. You can’t even breathe. Could you be any more fucked, compadre?
Carlos threw himself on the ground and slithered blindly over Undead legs. Clumsy hands grabbed at his back, trying to get ahold of his clothes. Mendoza shook them off like a rabid dog. His hands swept the floor, feeling for the canteen he’d left with his backpack.
Gotta wash my face, gotta wash my face, gotta—FUCK!
Carlos screamed as he set his hand on a hot ember from the fire that had spread across the floor. Then his fingers found the soup. He didn’t think twice; he threw it on his face.
The thick soup seared his skin, but it cut through the muck that had spewed out of the woman’s brain. Mendoza howled in pain as he furiously rubbed off every bit of gray matter. He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. Burning Woman was now a pyre; the fire had spread across half the room. Embers floated onto a stack of old newspapers that went up like kindling. Smoke filled the room as flames licked the ceiling.
This place is going to burn to the ground.
His charred face throbbed. Out of his mind with pain, he retreated to the door. In the smoke, Mendoza ran into another monster. He shoved the thing and it stumbled backward with a grunt. The flickering fire lit up the door.
I’m gonna make it.
That hope vanished in a second. If he’d started out the door an instant later, the Undead standing there (a charming old guy named Charles Richmond, beloved by the children in town, a Korean War veteran and Bronze Star recipient) would’ve been outside, running from the flames. But when Carlos Mendoza poked his head out of the building, he was still within arms’ reach of the former Mr. Richmond, who bit down hard on Mendoza’s shoulder with his few remaining teeth.
Carlos shouted in pain, fear, and anger. He grabbed the old codger by the shoulders, lifted him up, and heaved him into the burning store with ease. Carlos was tall, muscular, and pumped full of adrenalin; even when Mr. Richmond was still human, he weighed barely a hundred pounds.
The Mexican examined his wound. It was small but deep. One of Mr. Richmond’s rotten teeth was lodged in Mendoza’s skin. He pulled it out and threw it on the ground.
I’m done for. This is the end.
Carlos Mendoza collapsed on the dusty street. He’d outlived his buddies, but now he was exhausted—and doomed. He hoped they’d finish him off ASAP. Better that than changing into one of them.
The burning building crackled as flames devoured it. Small explosions punctuated Carlos’s dream as he lost consciousness. They sounded like gunshots.
Carlos Mendoza tried to sit up, but he was too weak. A shadow fell across his face. An Undead, backlit by the fire, studied him, about to pounce.
Alright. This is the end.
But the Undead leaned over, felt his body all over, and clucked his tongue. To Mendoza’s surprise, the Undead shouted, “We got a live one over here!”
“Damn! He ran out of that burning store!” said another voice.
The first guy brought a canteen filled with a thick liquid to Mendoza’s mouth. “Yeah, and the street’s full of Undead he blew away. This bastard put up a helluva fight.”
The other guy laughed. “If he can survive all that, he’s got more lives than a cat.”
24
Mendoza bolted upright in his rickety cot, drenched in sweat. For a second, as the cobwebs of sleep cleared, he didn’t know where he was. I was dreaming about that place again. He got to his feet and made his way to a washbasin, careful not to step on anyone. He plunged his head into the water, then straightened up, tossing his hair back.
Night after night, he dreamed about the helot patrol that had found him in agony and brought him to Bluefont. The memory of that night never left him. It was his private monster, his shadow of sin. It’s just a dream, but the memory’ll be with me as long as I live. Got to get used to it.
Carlos Mendoza’s hatred for Gulfport and everything it represented burned in him like a flame. That anger kept him alive. He’d been addicted to Cladoxpan since the day that old Undead man bit him. He wasn’t alone. Almost everyone in Bluefont needed that strange drink to survive. Carlos couldn’t live without it, but he hated living like a slave almost as much as he hated the raids on the ghetto.
He put on a flak jacket, laced up his boots, and braided his long wet hair. He eased out of the room he shared with seven other people, all of them asleep on mattresses on the floor. As a group leader, he was entitled to the only real bed in the room, but that night he’d given it to a Brazilian guy and his pregnant wife. He didn’t even know their names. How the hell did those two end up so far from home? Any Brazilian beach, even one packed with Undead, had to be better than this godforsaken hole.
He ran down the stairs and across the street. The rain was coming down hard, washing over the pavement. Bluefont had once been a high-end neighborhood, but no longer. The huge potholes became small lakes when it rained. Mendoza carefully sidestepped them to get to the Red Rooster, one of the ghetto’s secret bars.