Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology by Anthony Giangregorio Page B

complexion seemed to slide from white to greenish.
    Somebody closer to the window said, “See the second from the left? That’s ol’ Mrs. Davenport, Kevin’s grandma.”
    “The one in the center,” said Bertie Hernandez, “is my mother. Fuck her. Let’s do it.” He swung around on the counter seat and stood in one fluid motion. He slid the big .357 magnum out of its holster and checked the cylinder.
    “Nice piece,” said Miguel Espinosa.
    “Six old ladies,” said Bertie. “I figure I can handle them.”
    “You want some help?”
    Bertie shook his head. “Not unless they take a chunk out of me. Then shoot me quick.” It al sounded matter-of-fact.
    “Why don’t al of you wait for Bobby Mack?” said Martha.
    “Bobbee May-ack,” Bertie mimicked her. “Your fag cop heartthrob? Fuck him. Let him find his own zombies to blow him.”
    Nose level with Bertie’s Adam’s apple, Martha looked up at him. “Don’t say things like that. Not ever.”
    Bertie looked at her steadily for a moment. “Just watch what I do to the deadheads, darlin’. If it makes you wet enough, maybe I’l take you over to Walsenburg tonight for a movie show and then the Motel Six.”
    “Bertie,” said Henry Roybal. “There’s no cal for talk like that.” The Diner’s owner had stuck his head out of the kitchen. “And don’t get any mess on the window. I washed it just yesterday.”
    “They’re smearin’ the glass, right enough,” said Shine. “Pus, blood, al sorts of shit.”
    “Okay,” said Bertie, looking away from Martha toward the old ladies beyond the window.
    Martha stood rigid. Then she turned toward Henry, whose corpulent body was stil wedged in the kitchen doorway. “Can you get hold of Bobby Mack?”
    Henry shook his head. “Tried. Can’t raise nothing on the base station or the phone. Sheriff’s number is busy. I figure everybody’s cal ing to report a zombie or two. Sorry, muchacha .”
    “Back me up,” Bertie said to Shine. “Just in case.” The other man nodded and hefted his Remington pump. Bertie smiled at Martha. “Kiss for good luck? No?” He shrugged and cal ed to the men lined along the counter, “Somebody decoy the fuckers long enough for me to clear the door.”
    At the end of the counter, a weathered cowboy in boot-cut jeans and a pearl-snap shirt strol ed over to the front window. He stared into the faces of the zombie women for a moment, then he turned, skinned down his pants and mooned them. The zombies crowded toward the pressed ham.
    “Gross,” said Martha.
    Bertie flipped the latch on the front door and crunched out onto the gravel. Shine relocked the door. “Don’t nobody get in my way if he needs help.”
    “It’s al yours, buddy,” said Miguel Espinosa. “I don’t want none of those ladies.”
    The zombies had evidently figured out that fresher meat was now outside and within chewing distance. Stil , it took al six a few moments to lurch around vaguely and fix on Bertie Hernandez.
    Bertie held the magnum in the proper two-handed position and sighted down the barrel.
    “Bertieee—” The squeal of expel ed breath was loud enough even to hear inside the Diner.
    Bertie’s mother lunged at her son. The muzzle of the .357 belched flame and the back of Mrs.
    Hernandez’s skul exploded outward, the spray of blood and tissue coating the face of the zombie close behind her.
    Inside the Diner, Bil y said, “I didn’t think they were supposed to remember anything human.”
    Miguel shrugged. “Reflexes, I’l bet. You know, like chickens when you pul off their heads.”
    Bil y looked dubious.
    Bertie blew away the faces of the next two zombies; ducked a fourth that had the smarts to flank him; then practical y stuck the muzzle in the mouth of a fifth creature. The exiting slug nicked one front corner of the Diner’s roof.
    “ Dios! ” yel ed Henry. “Be careful!”
    Bertie had taken his eyes off the craftiest of the zombies. While he was watching the sixth go for him,