At this point, Mort realized just how bad his situationwas. He was trapped in a car with two madmen and a corpse that was soon to rot.He looked down at Dirty Kurt, who was still gnashing his teeth back and forthin the hopes of finding some flesh of his own to chew. If he had been alone inthe backseat, he could have laid down on his back and used his legs to kick outa window, but with Dirty Kurt taking up half of the backseat and intent onbiting whatever came near him, he only had two options... his head or his elbow,and who ever heard of someone breaking out of a police car by using their head?
He was wondering how bad it was going to hurt, whenWeasel's eyes opened.
"Aw, what the fuck?" Mort groaned.
Weasel sat up, and Arnie lost interest in his latestmeal. They both turned their attention to Mort and smashed their faces againstthe metal mesh that separated the front seat from the back. Their fingerswriggled frantically poking through the mesh as if they could reach him withjust their fingers, and when they started drooling, Mort couldn't stand itanymore.
He began hysterically bashing at the window of the policecar with his elbow. The first hit was especially painful, and the glass didn'teven crack. He hit it again and again, but the pain in his elbow was intense,and with each bash it hurt more and more. Maybe he would have to use his head.
Chapter 14: Speakerphones and 12-Gauge ShotgunShells
Zeke wasn't unconscious for long, but it had almost beenlong enough. A police siren pierced the veil of unconsciousness that he wasshrouded in. His head throbbed and each peak of the siren had made it seem asif his head was going to explode... so when the sound was completely gone, andno one was there to help him, he finally opened his eyes, only to see the deadman from the car stumbling toward him, his pants around his ankles and bloodand shreds of flesh in place of what should usually be there.
The ex-soldier propped himself up on his shoulders andcleared his parched throat, "Holy shit. I thought you were dead," heslurred, still trying to clear his throat. There was no response from the man,just more awkward stumbling as he shuffled across Zeke's front yard.
Zeke didn't like the way the man looked, so he pulledhimself to his feet, still trying to make sense of the new world around him. Atany moment, he was sure that his brain would shoot out the front of hisforehead. The pain and the pressure were intense, and he had to squint to focushis eyes. The man came closer, shreds of groin flesh jiggling with each awkwardstep.
Zeke had seen enough. He turned around and walked insidehis house. He closed the door, and turned the two extra deadbolts he hadinstalled just the other week. Inside, Zeke grabbed a cigarette from the packon the coffee table, and then he grabbed the phone. After lighting thecigarette, he held the phone in one hand and dialed the police.
A robotic voice informed him that all lines were busy andthat he should stay on the line.
"What the fuck do you mean 'all lines are fuckingbusy'?" He placed the cigarette in his mouth and with his free hand hereached into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He snapped it open byapplying pressure to the edge of the Zippo's cap. Why did it work? He didn'tknow... but it was a handy little trick when you had one hand busy holding agun on someone. It also worked when you were holding a phone in one hand. Helit the cigarette and let the smoke clear his mind.
The stumbling, bleeding bastard on his lawn finallyreached the front of his house, whereupon he immediately began banging on thedoor. The metal grate of the screen door rattled loudly, and he could onlyimagine it would be a matter of time before one of his neighbors stopped by toinvestigate.
He pressed the speakerphone button on the phone's cradleand calmly walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. He had a feeling tonight wasgoing to be a long night. With one calloused thumb, he popped the top of hisBudweiser, and took a nice long sip as the message from the police continued toloop.
Zeke put out the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray, andwalked over to his gun cabinet. He considered his options for a few secondsbefore pulling the shotgun out. He loaded it with shells and then walked to thefront window to look at the man that was banging on his door.
He was a middle-aged man, white, balding on top, andsporting an outfit that gave him the feel of a used car salesman. Theeyeglasses on his face were crooked and looked ready to fall off. His arms andknuckles looked like they were quickly becoming damaged from all of thebanging, but the most disconcerting aspect of the man, besides his shreddedgear, was the fact that there simply was no emotion in his face. Though hiswounds must have been painful as hell, there was simply nothing there.
"Hey, dumbfuck," he taunted.
The only response was that the man moved to the window hewas looking out of and resumed his banging. He was glad that he had put thebars on his windows. "What's the matter, buddy, can't get laid for freelike the rest of us?"
There was no response, and at this point, Zeke expectedas much. He pulled the shotgun up, racked home a shell and pointed the barrelat the man's face. Again there was nothing. The man didn't even blink Helowered his shotgun, and closed
