for what he was—a phony and a coward.
Cleese knew it would be fine and perhaps even shut this fuckin’ idiot up once and for all.
Wolf shook his head and was about to shoot the idea down, but Cleese quickly interrupted him.
'That sounds like a swell idea, Freddie Boy and maybe, while we’re out there, we can get us some matching tee shirts. You know… his and hers.'
Wolf looked at Cleese and thought that there just might be more to the guy than what met the eye. Sure, he had the look of someone who had been in some scrapes, but his relaxed manner said there weren’t a lot of situations he felt he couldn’t handle. If nothing else, a couple of things would become apparent. First, they’d get a chance to see how well Cleese handled himself under pressure. Second, Cleese just might take Bartlett down a few notches. It sounded like a win-win to Wolf.
Wolf looked at Cleese and gave him an appraising stare.
'Listen, friend…' he said, 'right now, the Asshole-to-Good Guy ratio is at an all-time low around here. I’d like to keep it that way. Now, I don’t know you from Adam, but you strike me as someone who can handle himself and may just come in handy.'
Wolf stroked his beard and stared more intently.
'I’m going to put a modicum of trust in you in the hopes that you don’t fuck up and make me regret it. Sound fair?'
Cleese shook Wolf’s hand and said, 'Fair enough.'
Wolf nodded to him and then looked over at Bartlett.
'Go get your team ready, Fred. I’ll get Cleese a gun and have him ready in twenty.'
~ * ~
Through the binoculars, the drug store they’d come to recon sat like a monolith at the far end of the lifeless parking lot. As he sat in the passenger’s seat of a midsized Self-Haul truck, Cleese lowered the eyepiece and looked over at Bartlett. Seeing the human facial equivalent of a dial tone, he shook his head in disgust and raised the glasses back up to his eyes to get a more comprehensive look at what they were up against.
Past the trees and down the hill, the pale cement and red brick of the store’s geometrically designed facade gave the building a cold, sanitized appearance. A large blue and white sign which read 'Accinelli’s Drugs' hung from the flat face of the building, its vivid color a bright and contrasting eyesore. Across the sweltering tarmac, two buildings were set at right angles, half-framing the parking lot around the pharmacy. Their retail spaces were a mixture of small specialty shops: a beauty shop, an Indian restaurant, a sandwich joint, and a mailing store. A few cars were sporadically parked about the lot, abandoned by their owners back when things went south. Some still had their doors open from when the occupants either abandoned their vehicles or were pulled from behind the wheel, but a few—the ones toward the back of the lot—were shut tight. Near the front doors of Accinelli’s, a beat up old Honda 650 laid on its side like a horse left to die in a waterless black desert. A rainbow-hued mixture of oil, water and gasoline pooled beneath it.
Oddly, there were only a few of the dead roaming around and they were busy moving about the dumpsters at the back of the lot near the Indian restaurant. The rotting garbage drew them in as they continued their never- ending search for food.
Cleese lowered the binoculars and again looked at Bartlett.
'Looks ok to me. There are a few of them, but they’re pretty spread out or busy with that dumpster.'
'Well, then… by all means, if you say we’re good, we’re good. Let’s go check it out,' Bartlett responded and put the truck into gear. The guy acted pretty much like a dick when they first met and his mood had only gotten dourer as the day wore on. Not that Cleese gave much of a fuck. He’d pretty much written the guy off as a waste and was now only following his lead in order to secure a place in the compound. Against considerable odds, Wolf and his people had managed to pull a good thing together in the crush of it all. Cleese was willing to help out for as long as he could. Or as long as it suited him. Truth was… while things looked good now, he knew how quickly shit could go south and so he probably wouldn’t be sticking around for long. He’d help them out while he could, but he wasn’t exactly the type to go all in.
It just wasn’t how he was wired.
The truck pulled into the lot and drove around the perimeter in a wide arc, moving indirectly to the front of the drug store. Bartlett was obviously doing his best to keep them out of the sight of the few dead that were milling around. There was no sense in broadcasting their presence if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. When the truck came to a stop, the back door slowly rolled up so it made as little noise and possible and four figures jumped out. Bartlett and Cleese climbed out of the cab and the group was soon gathered at the back of the truck. All of them moved assuredly, holding their rifles tightly to their chests. Leaving the back door of the Self-Haul open, the men cautiously approached the building.
Coming back into the city from the safety of the compound was never fun nor was it ever easy. Inherently, the excursion was dangerous and, though everyone was called upon to do it, it was not an activity anyone relished.
Well, not anyone sane that is.
Cleese shouldered the heavy SIG 556 SWAT rifle Wolf gave him and directed his gaze at the spot directly in his line of fire. With every step, the weight of the 9mm in the shoulder holster he wore thumped against the soft flesh of his armpit. As he moved carefully across the sidewalk in front of the store, he took the opportunity to give Bartlett’s crew a closer look, summing them up. Cleese believed that knowing your cohorts—what their pros were, what their cons were, and being able to make a guess on which way they’d fall if a bad wind were to blow—was essential to remaining an upright and breathing member of the human race.
After giving them the once over, he was disheartened to arrive at the conclusion that these guys were all jolly-timers and were likely to get him—and themselves—killed in short order. They were total amateurs playing army. They’d been given a shot of courage after they’d come up victorious against a distinctly brain dead enemy. They were, at least to Cleese’s mind anyway, little more than walking liabilities.
As they’d geared up back at the campground, Bartlett had done the formal introductions and Cleese made it a point to take some mental shorthand on each of them. There was Hines (who, as it turned out, was a pharmacist, so he’d made a good call on that one). His beady eyes peeked out from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses which constantly slipped down his nose. His bald head reflected any offered light. Next up was Pugnowski. The guy was a goof with the big nose and a volcanic eruption of red hair coming out of the top of his head. Harrison had, once upon a time, been an executive or some shit. Now he was Rambo on a fuckin’ day pass. Finally, there was Del Castillo, a Spanish dude with a paunch and an annoying habit of calling everyone 'Bro.'
Looking them over, they reminded Cleese of a heavily armed Our Gang.
Overhead, the sun had already begun its descent from the noonday sky, but its warmth remained. The group carefully made its way to the electronic front doors, grateful to be out of the heat and in the shade. Cleese put his hand up to the glass to cut the glare and peered inside the dark of the store. Row after row of shelving extended into the blackness. Signs that hung from fine filament declaring 'Sweet Summer Sale' twisted in the air like the bodies of hanged men.
'Harrison…' Bartlett said breaking the expectant silence, 'blow the door.'
'Wait! What?' Cleese asked, turning and staring dumbfounded. 'Why?'
'We need to get inside.'
'So…?'
'Power’s been cut. We’ll smash the glass and get in.'
'Are you fucking retarded? You bust this glass and if there are any more of those things around than what we saw, they’ll hear you. You might as well stand up on the roof and ring a goddamn dinner bell.'
Bartlett looked at Cleese and sniffed in contempt.
'You got a better idea?'
'Maybe. Just let me try something before you go shootin’ the doors off the place, ok, Wyatt Earp?'
Cleese slung his rifle behind his back and stepped up to the two sliding doors. He half-expected them to open on their own once he stepped onto the activator pads. When they didn’t he raised his arms, slid the tips of his fingers into the crack between them, and gently applied increasing pressure outward. As he’d predicted, the doors weren’t locked, just closed and unable to move now that the power was shut off. With a slight squeaking sound, the two heavy panes slid in their rails and opened.
'Open says me.' Cleese said and extended a hand with a flourish toward the now open doors.
