moving feet was unsettling.
“Who gives a shit! This is one time I agree with Deneaux.”
“If they’re orange, they are grandiflora, if they’re pink they are climbers,” Gary said,
“Gary…come on, man, am I losing you?” BT asked.
“No, the orange ones were on the left side of the house and the garage was right beyond it, the climbers were on the other side.”
“I’m not going to ask right now about how you knew the names of the roses, but we’ll talk later that’s for sure. They’re the orange ones by the way,” BT said as he skirted around the bush and towards the garage.
“Gary, just start firing,” Mrs. Deneaux said to him.
“I can’t see anything clear enough,” Gary told her.
“Doesn’t matter you won’t miss,” she told him calmly.
Zombies were nearly within reach of grabbing Gary’s rifle barrel as he fired. BT had him by the waist and was steering him in the right direction as Gary watched their retreating back. “I’m out!” Gary yelled, thinking that their
It was then that Deneaux began to fire. She had strategically waited for him to expend his ammo so that she could keep them alive while he reloaded. Gary realized quickly her tactic and began to throw rounds into his magazine. Her shots were more measured than his, but even so, he only had about fifteen seconds before she was out. The signal from his brain to his fingers was getting fouled through the panic of nerves. He dropped at least three of the precious rounds, foregoing precision for haste.
“Gary?” Mrs. Deneaux asked as she was pulling the hammer back on her final shot.
“We’re at the garage!” BT said triumphantly.
Deneaux’s last shot punctuated the momentous occasion. Phantom zombies raced by in the shadows, some drawn to the sound of the gunfire others heading to unknown destinations. Gary finally drove the full cartridge home as a zombie came out of the murkiness into Mrs. Deneaux’s blindside.
He tried to pull the trigger, but it was frozen in place he had yet to chamber a round.
“Duck down!” BT bellowed as he brought his arm up. He shot the heavy caliber hunting rifle one-armed, the weapon not even braced against his shoulder. Even in the desperation of the moment Gary was able to appreciate the strength of the man as the recoil did little more than ripple his shirt.
“Get in!” BT yelled as he physically picked up Deneaux with his free hand and put her in the side door of the garage. Gary was quick to follow along with BT after two more shots.
“Twit,” Deneaux said to Gary, her hands shaking as she placed another cigarette to her mouth.
BT propped up a small step ladder against the door as zombies began to run into it.
“I’m sorry,” Gary said. “I thought I was ready to shoot.”
“You could have got me killed,” she spat.
“Would that have been so bad for us?” BT said, making sure his makeshift barricade was going to hold.
Mrs. Deneaux was silent for a moment before she began to cackle.
“Oh no.” BT turned around, confident the door would hold. It appeared that the nearby zombies had already departed for greener pastures. Why hunt when a buffet was laid out? Somewhere there were people in much more dire straits than themselves.
“What’s the matter?” Gary asked, fearful that something had found another way in or was already laying in wait.
BT pointed towards the car. “Besides the flat tire, it’s a lime green Pinto.”
“I had a servant that drove one of these,” Mrs. Deneaux said.
“Should we see if it starts before we change the tire?” Gary asked. He was afraid the engine noise would attract more zombies.
BT was thinking along the same lines. “Let’s change the tire first. It’s not like we can go anywhere if it doesn’t work, and those zombies will come back if they hear this piece of shit. I bet it idles as loud as a howler monkey.”
Gary noticed that the dome light was very dim as he opened the driver side door and popped the hatch to the rear so that he could get to the jack.
“What do you think?” BT asked as Gary placed the jack on the frame of the body.
“Well if this thing isn’t so rusted out that it could support its own weight I’ll be able to put on that spare tire that is barely better than the one I’m replacing. And once I drop the car back down and the tire seems to have some air pressure, we have to contend with a battery that may or may not give us three engine cranks before it craps out. We might need more than that because of any condensation that may or may not have got into the gas tank,” Gary told him.
“And if all of that goes our way?” BT asked further.
“Well, then at that point, the worst of all possible scenarios happens.”
“And what’s that?” BT asked, thoroughly concerned.
“We find ourselves in a lime green Pinto.”
“Should have known I was being set up, you are a Talbot. Do what you can. I’m going to see if there is anything in here that we can potentially use,” BT said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Mrs. Deneaux had found a small stool and was flicking her ashes within inches of a red gas can.
“You know that’s gas right?” BT asked grabbing the small container.
“A dehydrated ant could piss more than is in that can,” she answered as she took a pull from her smoke.
BT unscrewed the top. She was mostly right, there was at most a half gallon of fuel; and by the look and smell of it, it had some motor oil mixed in. “Must be for a weed whacker,” he said aloud, Mrs. Deneaux paid him no attention.
“Twit,” she said again looking in Gary’s direction.
***
Gary had just tightened the last lug nut and was setting the car down when the shed shook. Even the slumbering Deneaux looked up.
“What the hell was that?” BT asked, looking up from the hatch where he was placing anything that could be used as a melee weapon.
Gary quickly dropped the car, and when he was confident the tire would hold, he threw the jack in the back just as the shed again shook. He would have sworn it moved on its slab foundation. Dust and debris began to rain down from the rafters.
“Shit,” BT said looking up. Flimsy sheets of plywood held up storage boxes; some labeled, Christmas, Halloween and even one ominously named Bowling. BT didn’t want to be anywhere in this garage when those boxes began to fall.
“Get in the car!” BT urged them as the wooden garage door splintered from another assault.
“What’s going on?” Gary asked as he stared in horror at the large bay door that was beginning to buckle.
“Pretty sure it’s not the cavalry, Gary,” BT said pushing him into the car.
“Get that piece of shit started. I’ll hold off whatever it is,” BT said. His words held more conviction than the tremor in his voice.
Deneaux was already seated in the back of the car.
Gary turned the ignition and was rewarded with—at first—nothing. Then came the slow wind of an under- powered starter, then three loud clicks before Gary turned the key back to off.
“Gary?” BT asked tremulously as the garage door was rapidly becoming wood scraps.
“Trying,” Gary said as he pumped the gas and turned the ignition…this time only receiving the loud clicking noise.
“Oh, God,” BT said softly as he began to back up.
Gary looked up from the dashboard. “Oh shit,” he said as he began to furiously pump the gas in a fervent hope that the friction from the action would somehow send power to the dying battery.
“Shoot it!” the usually reserved Mrs. Deneaux shouted.
