Casino Del Rio’s parking lot is a lot more desolate than I’d left it. But I still happen to notice more bodies than before. They’re stockstill, and not squirming, like dead cicadas.
I slide out of my car and cautiously close the door. The corpses automatically start to awaken. But how could it? I barely murmured a sound. And then I realize I forgot to turn the ignition off. Wait. The engine. That’s where it really was. The zombies get easily attracted to noise, especially coming from my guttural engine. It might explain why some of the dead ones were chasing my car down the road.
They also seem to have a knack for knowing exactly where to gather, as if they share the same dead collective thought and consciousness.
The stridulating horde starts to congregate near my car. I slice off a few rogue ones and I soar toward the lobby.
The room is almost night quiet except for the appreciable sizzling groans that hiss into the air. The lights are still dim and haunting and I’m transported into a sense of ill gloom. As if I invaded a phantom’s house and was forced to stay. The light radio music that jingles out makes it even worse. Like I’m being stabbed to death by a singsongy plastic poney.
I avoid Fabian's lifeless profile as I jut out into the activity room.
The place is nearly abandoned except for the sparse, moaning green bipeds wandering about. I end their misery by shanking their heads in and finally I make it into the lounge room. I'm completely absent sighted of any sign of the girl with the silver necklace. Then as I move closer to the bar, I’m absolutely transported with horror when I see Georgia’s stomach being chowed down by the grueling creatures.
Underneath the voracious mob, a silver glint meets my eyes from Georgia’s bloody chest.
“Hey, brain bits! Do you have eyes or what? I'm right here!” I shout, clanging my katana dangerously on the ground.
I seem to have underestimated their number because an accentuating amount of silhouettes revive themselves from the piles and earnestly join their brothers and sisters to aid my downfall. I stagger back, flashing my sword until there’s only one crippled zombie left. I end up perforating his head and step on him as I make my way toward Georgia’s mutilated corpse.
I finally grab the gleaming silver necklace and hold it victoriously in the light. I swing it around my neck and touch the heart-shaped emblem as it smears against my chest. This is for you Georgia, and Mira.
When I return to the sand-covered parking lot, I witness a black truck parked right next to my car. A sporty thin college boy is closely walking around my vehicle, examining it, clearly hounding for supplies. He has an automatic rifle strapped to his back.
“What the heck are you doing?”
“Siphoning gas,” he says. His back is turned. “What does it look like.”
“It looks like a creepy pervert breaking into my car. That's what it looks like."
The college kid cachinnates. “You know, I haven't been called a pervert before. An ax murderer? Maybe. But not a pervert. Not bad katana girl. I’m Vermeer by the way.” He turns around and shoves out his hands. I don't shake it.
I acknowledge this Vermeer character with uncertainty. He’s mixed with a frilly afro and high cheekbones. He has bright green eyes and pink lips. His attire is drab and worn out like he's been wandering a lot but lives relatively close. Another raider, it looks like, just like Iver and Hall. He seems a bit more amiable though. For now.
“I was just heading back to the motel. It’s not safe out here ya know. Especially when the military has been quarantining people.”
“The military’s already here?”
“Yeah, they called in for Marshal law about a week ago. Weren’t you paying attention to the news?”
“I don’t watch tv,” I say. It wasn't a lie. I stay on streaming services most of the time. Well, when we had streaming services.
“Wow, you’re so cool,” scolds Vermeer. He’s holding a large red tank of gas. “Anyways, I think this gas should last me about a week.”
"You can't just steal my gas!"
"I just did."
“It makes noise,” I blurt out. “The engine. If you drive too close to them in that thing they will swarm at you like a parade at Disneyworld. And then you'll be bye-bye."
“I’ll take note,” says Vermeer. And he walks away.
“Wait!” I shout back. I don’t know why I did it. And I don’t really want to understand. It was just a reflexive gesture.
“Is the cool, rebellious, Americana girl calling my name?” Vermeer puts his hands on his chest with mock confusion.
"I said wait dumbass. I wasn't calling your gay ass name."
"Ouch." He smiles. "You're a meanie."
Maybe it’s his confidence. Maybe it’s my desperate need to forget about my miseries and look toward the future. Maybe I just don’t give a damn and need to let loose.
My pussy begins to grip and tighten.
“Where d’you live?”
“Just by the-“
“I don’t care, I’m coming with you. You got a problem with that?”
I hate cute guys. They make me sweaty and waspish.
Vermeer shakes his head. “This way milady.” He points dutifully toward his black truck and I climb in.
The car drives us under the milky twilight sky until it arrives at a rusty abandoned motel. There’s a sheen of orange light on it from the dying evening and there’s a lazy attendance of smashed rusty cars parked in front of the building. I hear chopping noises overhead and see about a dozen helicopters zooming toward downtown Phoenix.
Vermeer gestures me into the front door. We enter his bedroom and start to unravel our clothes. The next thing I know the bed rocking back and forth like a ship in a ferocious storm. His dick is so huge and deep inside me. I almost cum but he ends up pulling out and spraying cum on my ass. I fall back on his pillow and everything turns to black.
Before I already know it, it’s already the next morning. Vermeer is sitting upright, staring at me.
“What?” I yawn.
“Nothing,” Vermeer admits, smiling. “You’re just beautiful when you’re asleep.”
Urgh! I hope that’s a genuine remark and not just some soiled attempt to get me in bed with him a second time. Who the hell looks good when they sleep? I feel like curdled milk.
I'm starting to regret the events that unfolded last night.
“So what’s your story? Did your family make it?” I mutter tenderly.
“Well, the Eaters never got to them before they left. So I think they should be ok.”
“Eaters?”
“Yeah, that’s what they’re calling them now. Eaters, cuz you know, they eat people a lot. Even their own kind, I've seen them do it."
I coil uncomfortably. I didn’t need to be reminded of what they eat.
“Ok, so then what? The Eaters let your parents live? They don’t get infected like everyone else? Why didn’t you join them?”
Vermeer winced. “Ouch. You’re quite the bitter one-I couldn’t. I was off at university. I was only just visiting when I realized they were gone.”
He was giving me that same stare again. The same one from when I woke up. It was callous and unreadable.
I get up furiously and settle into my clothes. “Well if you can’t be honest with me, I don’t see—”
Vermeer’s soft caramel hands touch mine. “I am telling the truth. I have no other words to tell you, Cara.”
My insides melt and my ovaries harden. He just called me Cara. I try not to look too pleased about it though. No, I really need to leave. This was all a mistake. A horny mistake. And I feel like I owe Georgia an irrevocable apology.
“Stay at least for one more night,” Vermeer pleads. “It’s not every day a nerdy college boy makes a friend.”
I sigh and fall back onto the bed, allowing my patience to incriminate me. It’s just for one more night Georgia. No sex this time. I promise.
Vermeer and I talk and dance through the fledgling daylight. We talk about our lives, ambitions, desires, everything. I even tell him how I almost got killed by a group of rich white boys. His eyes widen but I'm not sure if he's actually impressed. At least I saw his mouth twitch.
Suddenly, the darkness sneaks in like a thief in the night. Just as I’m sleeping, I hear whispers across from me. It’s coming from the thin silhouette of Vermeer. He’s whispering in a tongue I have never heard before and it’s toward a closet.
“Vermeer?” I ask timidly, inching closer. Vermeer whips toward me. His eyes are milky white but he’s still perfectly human.
“He's has been waiting for you," he hisses.
“Who?" I ask. My heart is pattering.
Vermeer grins ravenously slinging open the closet door. Swaths of bodies come limping out. Bodies that seem way too convenient to be stored in a closet. I start to realize that Vermeer’s family never fleed. He had simply preserved them in his little minion hole. The other zombies must’ve been his sex victims.
“But I don’t get it,” I shout, fumbling backward for my katanas. “They're dead. How can they even hear you?”
Vermeer smirks to himself. “I’m a Deathspeaker Cara. I’m able to communicate and summon Eaters at will. You should’ve known this from the beginning. You should've ran when you still could."
I reach for my katanas and begin my dance of sword slashing. All the Eaters bobble down until it’s only Vermeer left. Why doesn't he run yet? Why is he so calm?
“Kiss your final goodbyes Vermeer,” I pant, pointing my sword accusingly at the juvenile murderer.
“What you gonna do, kill me? Father knows where you are. He will find you.”
Father?
Vermeer starts to whisper again and I hear an extra zombie struggling to get out of the closet.
Panicking, I take my clothes and leave. Somewhere in the misty distance, I hear Vermeer cackle vehemently. “This isn’t over Cara! You can’t avoid us forever! He will be watching you.”
The roads are pretty vacuous with damaged cars and lingering car horns. The outline of the city is resplendent and after what feels like twenty minutes, I come across a huge sign, about the size of a billboard. It has a huge black arrow imprinted on it and below it reads The X Zone.
“What the hell?”
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