with vehicles, he turned around and retraced his path, moving even faster, laughing out loud and feeling good for the first time in a long time.
Nothing came for him. Nothing attacked.
The sun approached its zenith overhead, and Gus grew impatient. An idea popped into his head, and he quickly altered course, heading back to the Home Hardware superstore where he had picked up the building supplies and the Christmas lights. After having driven for a couple of hours and getting a feel for the handling, Gus felt confident enough to whip the machine around in a doughnut, stopping only a dozen strides from the opening of the store.
Swearing loudly and hooting, he got off the machine and adjusted his gear. All set, he marched into the store with bat at the ready. He rooted around in the dark aisles, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight until he finally located one with a working battery. It was a long watchman’s light coated in rubber, the kind that could also double as a club if needed. Gus thumbed it on and continued his search.
Noise. He wanted to be noisy.
He found what he wanted.
He wanted the dead fuckers to know that he wasn’t about to stand down without raising some hell. That he was through being scared. That he was going on the offensive.
He emerged from the store and sounded the air horn, delighting in its heavy blare.
“That’s right, cocksuckers. The fuckin’ Loveboat just pulled into port.”
He blasted the horn again, his cheeks aching from the size of the grin on his face.
“Wooo!” Gus threw his arms wide and howled. He felt like a gladiator, ready to take on all comers. “All aboard!”
He went to the snowmobile and rummaged through the saddle bag once more. Finding the rum, he steeled himself with whatever was left. He finished the bottle with a ferocious yell and dumped the empty back into the bag, intending on converting it into a firebomb. Seeing as he was in town, he figured he’d scoot on over to the pop-shop and get some more beverages. He wanted more rum––or anything else––to keep his own motor running.
Gus, the self-proclaimed Loveboat, left the store and cruised toward sunnier ports of call, goosing the air of Annapolis with deep prodding toots of the new found horn.
8
He hunted.
The snowmobile’s thunder echoed harshly through the city of Annapolis, announcing the hunt in grunge fashion. The air horn blasted the already stirred-up stillness, causing the dead not fully frozen to move mindlessly toward the bleating sound. Just as Gus wanted them to do.
Feeling better than he had in a long time, Gus zipped along roadways, avoiding the close confines of snow-choked alleys and narrow streets. Sometimes the dead wandered directly into his path, causing him to steer around them. He would park a short distance away, dismount, and lay into the corpses with aluminium fury. Gus had no problem dodging near-skeletal hands or slow-moving limbs, bobbing and weaving through several deadheads with half-drunken grace. It was more than easy to dispatch the things. His counterattack became a massacre the likes he hadn’t seen since the initial outbreak of zombieness or the siege at his walls. His mind warned him of the creatures’ one weapon—mass attack—but the weather was his ally. Whatever evil powered the dead’s icy bodies into motion had been crippled by two months of sub-zero temperatures. For the first time in a very long time, the living had the edge over the dead.
Gus killed more than two hundred of the shambling creatures that day. Actually, he had lost count, but he believed that over two hundred was a fair estimation. He retreated to his home in the waning hours and celebrated modestly that night. He didn’t want to be so hungover that he was immobilized the next day, which would allow the dead a brief respite. He didn’t want them to regroup in any way, if such a thing were possible. The thrill of the hunt excited him, and he looked forward to
Nothing came for him. Nothing attacked.
The sun approached its zenith overhead, and Gus grew impatient. An idea popped into his head, and he quickly altered course, heading back to the Home Hardware superstore where he had picked up the building supplies and the Christmas lights. After having driven for a couple of hours and getting a feel for the handling, Gus felt confident enough to whip the machine around in a doughnut, stopping only a dozen strides from the opening of the store.
Swearing loudly and hooting, he got off the machine and adjusted his gear. All set, he marched into the store with bat at the ready. He rooted around in the dark aisles, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight until he finally located one with a working battery. It was a long watchman’s light coated in rubber, the kind that could also double as a club if needed. Gus thumbed it on and continued his search.
Noise. He wanted to be noisy.
He found what he wanted.
He wanted the dead fuckers to know that he wasn’t about to stand down without raising some hell. That he was through being scared. That he was going on the offensive.
He emerged from the store and sounded the air horn, delighting in its heavy blare.
“That’s right, cocksuckers. The fuckin’ Loveboat just pulled into port.”
He blasted the horn again, his cheeks aching from the size of the grin on his face.
“Wooo!” Gus threw his arms wide and howled. He felt like a gladiator, ready to take on all comers. “All aboard!”
He went to the snowmobile and rummaged through the saddle bag once more. Finding the rum, he steeled himself with whatever was left. He finished the bottle with a ferocious yell and dumped the empty back into the bag, intending on converting it into a firebomb. Seeing as he was in town, he figured he’d scoot on over to the pop-shop and get some more beverages. He wanted more rum––or anything else––to keep his own motor running.
Gus, the self-proclaimed Loveboat, left the store and cruised toward sunnier ports of call, goosing the air of Annapolis with deep prodding toots of the new found horn.
8
He hunted.
The snowmobile’s thunder echoed harshly through the city of Annapolis, announcing the hunt in grunge fashion. The air horn blasted the already stirred-up stillness, causing the dead not fully frozen to move mindlessly toward the bleating sound. Just as Gus wanted them to do.
Feeling better than he had in a long time, Gus zipped along roadways, avoiding the close confines of snow-choked alleys and narrow streets. Sometimes the dead wandered directly into his path, causing him to steer around them. He would park a short distance away, dismount, and lay into the corpses with aluminium fury. Gus had no problem dodging near-skeletal hands or slow-moving limbs, bobbing and weaving through several deadheads with half-drunken grace. It was more than easy to dispatch the things. His counterattack became a massacre the likes he hadn’t seen since the initial outbreak of zombieness or the siege at his walls. His mind warned him of the creatures’ one weapon—mass attack—but the weather was his ally. Whatever evil powered the dead’s icy bodies into motion had been crippled by two months of sub-zero temperatures. For the first time in a very long time, the living had the edge over the dead.
Gus killed more than two hundred of the shambling creatures that day. Actually, he had lost count, but he believed that over two hundred was a fair estimation. He retreated to his home in the waning hours and celebrated modestly that night. He didn’t want to be so hungover that he was immobilized the next day, which would allow the dead a brief respite. He didn’t want them to regroup in any way, if such a thing were possible. The thrill of the hunt excited him, and he looked forward to
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