Apocalypse Yesterday by Brock Adams

Author:Brock Adams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

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I’ve seen Mo a million times at Bungalow, but this is the first time I’ve been in his truck. It smells like cut grass and gasoline. Empty paper cups scattered on the floor and across the back seat represent all the fast-food chains. A crumpled pair of leather work gloves rest in the center console. I crank the window down, and the fresh smoke from outside mixes with the stale smoke that clings to the seats, the dash—saturated from years of cigarettes and two-stroke engines. The trailer clatters over the road behind us, some of the stuff shifting around at every pothole, the bigger things strapped securely. I see chainsaws, weed trimmers, three types of lawn mower. “You got an arsenal back there,” I say.

Mo glances in the rearview mirror. His long brown arms are thick and roped with muscle. One arm dangles out the window; the other grips the wheel with two fingers as he leans back in his seat. “Nah,” he says. “Too loud. Too messy.”

“Even the chainsaw?” I grin at him. “Come on. You don’t want to do Evil Dead?”

“Blood would go everywhere. It would be in your mouth, in your eyes. You’d end up catching it, and then you’d be a zombie.” He shakes his head. “No. It should be blades. Still a splat, but just one.” He puts his fists together, then spreads his fingers. “Splat. You can wear protection. But with the chainsaw, man, it would be a fountain.” He looks over at me. “You don’t have goggles?”

“Haven’t had a chance to get any.”

“But you killed some zombies?”

“A bunch, yeah.”

He pulls the truck over. We’re on Beachfront Lane, where the old colonial-style houses line up end to end, overlooking the bay, the million-dollar sunsets. Fat white columns and well-tended yards. Mo grabs my face, turns it in the sunlight. Pulls my eyelids up and stares into my eyeballs. He puts one thumb under my nose and the other on my chin and stretches my lips apart, examining my teeth like I’m a dog at the vet. After a moment, he lets go and says, “I think you’re okay. Go in the glove box. I got some more stuff you can wear.”

In the glove box I find another mask and goggles. I fold the mask and stuff it in my pocket, put the goggles on the top of my head. “I was using a blade anyway. Call her Santana.” I show him the machete. “You got a name for yours yet?”

He thinks a moment. “El decapitador. It means—”

“Oh, no. I get it.”

We stare down the empty road. A car sits half submerged in the bay a couple hundred yards ahead. Across from it, a zombie wanders into a yard, trailing salt water. Mo points. “I’m supposed to cut that house today. I don’t think I’m going to get around to it.”

“Where’s your crew?”

“Zombies.”

I nod. “They turned into zombies? Or the zombies ate them?”

“Both.”

Three guys worked for Mo. I met them a couple times at the bar.

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