Zombie Drug Run

  Chapter 9: Wednesday

  When the alarm clock went off at 5:30 he groaned and slammed his hand down on the cause of the clamor. He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, tasting the filmed death curled at the back of his throat. He pried open one eye to make sure he'd not misread the time. Sure enough. His heart had him up to a pant.

  It was then he noticed his left arm was tingling.

  He turned that way, his eyes going weird at the shock of auburn hair spilling across his shoulder. A form played out its design underneath the sheets but the face was hidden. The only thing truly appalling was the very unfeminine snoring. "My God," he whispered, trying to make disjointed pieces come together.

  He managed to wiggled his arm out from underneath the snoring somebody without waking her, although she did grumble something unintelligible as she rolled away. Her hair parted momentarily and her somber, sleeping face was pretty enough. But he hadn’t the slightest idea who she was or how she’d come to be here.

  But an even biggest question, the really burning question, was why the hell had he set the alarm clock for 5:30 in the fucking morning? He almost groaned again, but stopped, not wishing to wake the girl. Right now he could barely handle his own company. He kneaded his forehead with what felt to be disembodied fingers.

  And goddammit, today was the day...or rather, tonight, to be more precise. He looked around the room to make sure it was his. At least the familiar shadows were in their right places.

  He sat up slowly, got his legs out in front of him, and staggered off to the bathroom. The image that greeted him in the mirror left him wondering whether to laugh or cry, but he felt either emotion would be far too physically taxing at the moment. He stood there swaying for several minutes, trying to get his senses together, and only when his head threatened to explode did he find the strength to rifle through the medicine cabinet above the sink. He swallowed five Tylenol with enough water to float a ship and slowly made his way back to the bedroom as spots danced before his eyes.

  He pulled the covers back before he got in bed, checking to see what he had. The young, naked woman was very thin, her skin flawless. You’d probably think she was cute even if you caught her farting. Which went even further from explaining how the hell she was here now.

  What little he did remember was grainy, out of focus like a low-budget movie, and he wondered if his four-wheel drive was still intact. Or even outside. The way he felt the fucker might be on the moon. He neither felt like nor had the balls to go check it out. He shook his head and crawled back under the sheets. Backed the alarm clock off until 10:00 and then moved into a spoon position against the girl. In her sleep she mumbled a name (not his) and ground her rump hard against his cock.

  Within minutes, and through a hazy confusion, he entered her from behind. She suddenly sucked in her breath as he went but remained, for the most part, unopposed. And with that being the case, he pushed her over on her belly and slowly moved in and out, pressing lightly against the small of her back with one hand while he steadied himself with the other. The grayness passed as he neared orgasm and just before he came he pulled out and rode his dick up through the groove of her ass. He came weakly and the nausea immediately came rushing back. He cursed himself as he faded off to sleep again, thinking just briefly on the fact that she hadn't even awakened during the whole thing. "Maybe you're losing your touch old boy," he said as he faded off to dreamless sleep.

  It wasn't the clock but the sound of a hysterical, female that ripped him awake the next time. He came up to consciousness lost in some shimmering void, and when he broke through to reality the voice was not his own. "--got to wake-up, goddammit! Oh come on, Michael, you Gotta get your ass Up! John's gonna be Off his shift Anytime now and I Gotta Get The Fuck Outta Here! You Gotta bring me back! Come on, You sonofabitch!"

  He slowly cranked his eyes open to stare at the face so close to his own. Michael? Again, he had no idea. "Well, hello, Sunshine," he said. She tore away and started throwing her clothes on. She appeared to have some everywhere. Frederick smiled as he watched her run around. He could see the dry, flaky spot at the small of her back which she obviously didn’t know was there.

  Then she turned suddenly, hair flying up and around. Her eyes wide with fright, real terror. "Why Didn't you wake Me up!? You said You would!" she yelled. At least now the alarm clock made a little more sense. "I tole You I hada be home early, and You tole me It Ain’t No Problem!"

  "Hey, hey, hey!" he exclaimed. Her erratic actions were clouding his slow-moving mind. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" He sat up in bed, scratching at his hair. At least the Tylenol seemed to be helping.

  Now he just needed to get rid of her.

  And, thankfully, from the looks of it, that wasn't going to be so hard. He glanced over to the nightstand. The clock read 8:17. She was going to cut him short a couple of hours but if it meant getting rid of this screaming menace he'd take the deprivation.

  He peeled himself out of bed, searched around the room for his own pants. Spied them crumpled by the bureau. He stood up, pointed at her. "Susan," he said. "Right?"

  Her look could have killed millions. "Michelle," she spat. "Ya know, you really seemed like a nice guy last night, drunk but nice. When I tole ya I needed to be home by 7:30 you said It Ain’t No Problem!"

  He grabbed his pants angrily from the spot on the floor. "Listen, Michelle," he said, placing careful emphasis on her name this time. "I don't remember what the fuck I told you last night."

  "But you did, you fucker. You lousy fucker," she whispered as he open a drawer and fishing out a clean T-shirt. He put it on, looked up, saw she was about to cry. "Listen," she begged. "I really gotta get the hell outta here. My boyfriend is gonna be home in less than an hour, and he probably called already..."

  "Okay, okay, Michelle. I get it." She was already fully dressed as Frederick walked over and slid his feet into the sandals at the foot of the bed.

  Twenty minutes later he was pulling up to a tiny off-shoot, low-rent, trailer park on the edge of Thibodaux. She made him stop where the asphalt gave itself up to gravel and fumbled with the door latch. Finally got it opened. As she stepped out of the four-wheel drive to the gravel he couldn’t resist one last jab. "Hey Michelle," he said. She turned to him with a hurried, exasperated look on her face.

  "What?"

  "You shouldn't go picking up bad ole men in bars if you've already got one at the house." He basked in the hate that slammed across her face and laughed aloud when she slammed the door and hurried away. He noticed she'd forgotten her shoes, she'd had them in her hand but must have put them down; there they were on the passenger floorboard.

  He drove off, leaving the girl to whatever fate awaited her.

  By 7 o'clock he'd sobered up entirely. Attempted to piece together fragments of the night but nothing really held together. He seemed to recall going to Rafferty's at the Holiday Inn for a late supper, but after that there was only the echoes of loud music, and somehow, somewhere, the girl. Whatever else she’d been talking about was Greek to him.

  He just hoped he didn't have the fucking clap.

  He checked his watch. Paul should be here soon; he was going along, and if Samuel didn't like it, fuck him. Now more than ever, he needed someone to watch his back. The kid was coming and he didn't give a shit what Samuel thought.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said, hearing the sound of rubber crawling across gravel. He walked over to the window and parted the blinds, watched as the Camaro swung into the drive. The boy pulled up next to Frederick’s four-wheel drive and rocked to a stop. Frederick pulled the blinds up, and then the window. He yelled out, “You ready?" to the young, physically imposing man. A wild grin beamed off his rugged face and he slammed the door shut.

  "Fuckin A!" Paul yelled back, hurrying around to the trunk. He fished out a couple of duffel bags and brought them around to the yard where Frederick met him. "I started thinkin you'd never call again," he said, extending his hand.
Frederick caught it and pumped it meaningfully.

  "Well, that's the way this shit goes."

  "Ain’t it the fuckin truth," Paul said. Looked around. "So where's the rich guy?"

  "He'll be here. You're early. Why don't you pack your gear in the Cherokee. She’s all ready. And the rich guy, Samuel Franklin's his name. He ought to be here soon. He made a real point of letting me know how punctual he is. We’ll give him another twenty minutes."

  "He know about me?"

  "Fuck him. It’s my show."

  "So what's the story."

  "Jelly didn't tell you...?"

  "Just bare bones, snow in Colombia, he said. You know Jelly don't like to fool around with any a this shit."

  "Didn’t know he had that much brains."

  They both laughed.

  "It should go smoothly,” Frederick said. “Five kilos on a private strip outside Bogota. According to the buyers and what I could get out of the Franklins, the place is supposed to be airtight. But you can never tell. Fucking third-world countries, you've got to be ready for anything. Regardless, we oughta be back in a couple days."

  Paul hoisted the bags over his shoulder and ambled past Frederick. "I'll stash this shit. Be back in a minute."

  "Take your time," Frederick said. "We're not in any rush...yet." And he watched Paul's back as he walked into the gathering shadows.

  The big Lincoln slid in on the mark. Paul was still fiddling around in the hangar while Frederick sat in the lawn chair, delivering the final drag to his cigarette. He flipped it away and walked over to the car as the door opened. This time a scuffed pair of work boots appeared, followed by Samuel in a short-sleeved T-shirt with Jimi Hendrix emblazoned across the front. Blue jeans worn pale from many trips through the drier completed his attire. "Evening," Frederick said.

  "Yeah," Samuel answered, seemingly disinterested. He leaned back into the car and reached below the steering wheel, popped the latch for the trunk. The two men walked around and Frederick saw two duffel bags stuffed back there.

  "Need a hand?" he said.

  "Sure."

  Frederick grabbed the closest and Samuel hefted the other. Just like two old buddies getting ready for a fishing trip, Frederick thought. What a crock. Nothing could be further from the truth. "Who's the other car?" Samuel asked.

  "My man Paul."

  Samuel stopped short. "I thought I was coming because you needed somebody. What’s all this?" Anger edged into his voice but Frederick was on it like a guard dog on a pork chop.

  "Now hold on just a goddamn minute,” he said. “This ain't a we situation. It's my fucking plane and I'm in charge from this fucking moment on. I don't take orders from anybody about what I do on my own goddamn plane. You're along for the ride, and if you don't like the way I do it, you're not. Paul's my man and he's coming.” He paused only for a moment. “Because I damn well say so." Frederick braced himself for the confrontation. There'd been too many nights lately, worrying for unknown reasons about this man, and he'd decided earlier in the day that all that shit stopped today.

  Mute amazement rained down on Samuel's face. For the first time he was not only silent, but dumbfounded; he'd surely not expected this from a man who'd appeared so leery, but at least, level-headed up right up until now. The monster began to swell inside but Samuel bit it back. He would not be played with, not by any man, but there were also times for discretion and this was one of them.

  "Hey now," he said in a controlled voice. "No need to get your fucking ass in a bind. You said you needed a man, and I thought I was it."

  "I said one of my men." Frederick swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.

  "He the only one?" Samuel said, looking toward the hangar.

  "Yeah. I trust him."

  Samuel smiled back at him and shuffled past in the hangar's direction. Evidently he was still going.

  "Go ahead and pull the Lincoln around back,” Frederick said. Samuel turned around slowly, his face dead of expression now. “We're not gonna be gone long but a strange car could call attention. Park it behind the hangar, near the John Deer. Nobody's going to fuck with it."

  Samuel dug in his pants pocket with the same dull expression and tossed the keys through the darkness. They landed a few feet away from Frederick's boots and skidded to a stop. "You're the boss," he said before turning back, hitching the pack up higher as he continued towards the hangar.

  The night turned out to be perfect for illegal flying. The moon threw crystal-sharp glimmering sparks across the vast Gulf, all of which darted quickly away before the human eye could set on any one, and the thick clouds hovering low to the horizon, draped themselves like an angelic host amid a backdrop of heat-filled emptiness. Frederick kept the sound system low and the only outside noise came from the muffled rush of wind against metal and the dull, droning hum of the twin engines.

  He flew with the tenderness of touch that came with complete intimacy, anticipating every dip and rise of random wind shears and other unpredictable gusts with uncanny accuracy which seemed to hinge on precognition. Paul rode shotgun, gazing out the side window as Samuel reduced himself to a ghostly presence in the row seat behind them. No one spoke for the better part of the first hour. Then Frederick broke the monotony.

  "I've flown over Bogota several times in the past and it's rough terrain," he said. "This strip is supposed to be lighted up or we've got to hunt it down in the dark?"

  In the faint glow from the console he felt Samuel's shadow encroach on him from the back seat. He heard the man fidgeting in his pockets, and moments later he was handed a small scrap of paper over his shoulder. He held it up to the cabin light. The scrap bore a frequency on the FM band and one word: Santiago.

  "There’s the deal," Samuel explained from behind him. "When we get within two hundred miles, tune to that band and radio ahead. There'll be someone expecting our signal tonight. The strip's about halfway between Bogota and Tadosito, but you already know that..."

  "Right. I do know that much.” Frederick could almost feel the other man smiling back there in the dark.