The Failed Coward Page 29

  Had Ryan and Zach been able to clear the haze of the Kush out of their fried brains, they would’ve heard Ms. Fly Tits going over how the dead were returning to life, and how they only seemed interested in destroying the living.

  By then the two cooks and Alan the counter man had assembled in the restaurant with the two stoned gangsta wannabes. They watched with their mouths agape as the footage rolled on and on, revealing nothing but horror across the globe. Before the network cut to commercial, they were rolling gory and deadly hand shot video from the east coast, not too far away. Just a few scant hours’ drive away.

  In unison the two cooks exchanged worried glances, and untied their food stained aprons. They balled them up and tossed them over their shoulder. Alan nodded in agreement at his coworkers and went to the counter where he popped the register open, dug out all the cash, and retrieved a small automatic handgun from under the counter.

  The cooks grabbed their small collection of personal items from a locker just inside the kitchen doors, and they walked directly past the two idiots who were still discussing the overall quality of the movie trailer they were watching.

  The cooks left the front door with a ding of the bell as Alan stopped to evaluate his moron customers. Neither of the men had realized the entire restaurant staff had exited right in front of their eyes. He heard one of them compare the video of a woman getting attacked in Krakow Poland to a moment in the video game Left 4 Dead.

  Alan sighed softly, let himself out of the store, and locked the door behind him.

  Fifteen minutes later, when their conversation regarding whether or not they’d fuck the newswoman with “fly tits” in the mouth or ass first ended, Zach stopped suddenly, and stood up. He looked slowly left to the kitchen, then slowly right to the counter before looking down at Ryan, sitting in the chair beside him.

  “Yo where the fuck is our food?” He asked loudly enough to offend anyone still working or eating in The Golden Palace.

  No one replied.

  Ryan stood up beside him and adjusted his cockeyed Falcons hat rapidly, surely indicating to anyone observing that shit was “about to get real.”

  “Shit yo, they left us.” Zach hit Ryan in the chest, obviously excited at being left alone in a Chinese restaurant.

  “Awwwww yeeaaaaaahhh son!” Ryan bounced up and down excitedly, and the two men took off running through the double doors into the kitchen, where their food was just about to start burning.

  *****

  “Holy shit yo, this is dank chink food homie.” Ryan exclaimed around a mouthful of greasy Lo Mein.

  “Shhh nigga. They have cameras here, don’t be racist and shit.” Zach glared at Ryan. Ryan’s response was to slowly chew the noodles like a confused cow working a cud. He carefully lifted his homemade scorpion bowl and after finding the red straw with his searching, wagging tongue, took a long drag from the alcoholic tub.

  The two young men were “fat as fuck.” Once they realized Alan and the two cooks were not coming back, they turned the sign in the door of The Golden Palace to closed, and they dug out the cook books to make more food.

  About ten minutes into the cooking process they realized all the cookbooks were in some form of “gook sign language” that looked a lot like Zach’s chest tattoo. Unfortunately, neither of them knew sign language, and they resorted to mixing various items in a wok once they’d eaten all the food the cooks had prepared for them earlier.

  The news channel was obviously glitched up when it started to get dark outside. Zach and Ryan were sick and tired of seeing the zombie movie trailer over and over again, so they changed the channel to MTV and absorbed some real entertainment; The Jersey Shore.

  They ate every ounce of the food the cooks made plus their wok concoction before the cable went out. Sitting in the neon lights of the empty and still restaurant with the last rays of the fading sun peeking through the large panes of glass the two men were at a loss of what to do next.

  They were full. In fact, both men reported to one in another in great detail that they were indeed “full as fuck.” Cooking more food didn’t seem like a solution for their boredom.

  “You got more Kush?” Ryan asked Zach, spread eagled on the floor.

  Zach sat up on top of the table that he had been lying on just a moment before. “No man, but I got sour diesel like a motherfucka.”

  “Go get that shit! Let’s smoke it in here man, they ain’t coming back. How fat would it be to say we got toe up in The Golden Palace?!” Ryan’s enthusiasm for the idea was only contained by the bowling ball sized lump in his belly. He looked about five months pregnant, perhaps six.

  “Yeah yeah boi!” With extreme effort Zach slid off the table and shuffled to the door. He searched his enormous jean pockets for the keys, and once he was satisfied that he did indeed have the keys, he pushed the plunger bar and walked out into the warm summer evening.

  Zach rubbed his belly and felt slightly remorseful over eating all the food. He knew tomorrow he’d be pissed because leftover Chinese was his favorite, and there was nothing leftover. He laughed at his and Ryan’s good fortune over the Chinese people leaving. He still couldn’t figure out why they’d just leave them behind in the restaurant.

  Zach dropped his keys on the ground in front of him. His liquor addled brain swam back and forth as he assessed the depth of a bend required to pick up the exceedingly important item. Once he was satisfied with the distance, he abruptly doubled over to grab the keys, and face planted into blackness in the middle of the empty parking lot.

  *****

  “Mothafucka wake up!” Ryan poked his head out of the restaurant’s large glass door. He couldn’t leave. He knew the door would lock behind them, and shut them out for good. One of Ryan’s few lucid moments.

  Zach was face down in the middle of the parking lot, unconscious. Ryan had gotten worried after an hour of waiting. He became considerably bothered when he heard gunshots nearby.

  Ryan’s first clear thought after hearing the rapid succession of gunfire was that Biggie and Tupac had died too young. They were stolen from the world before they had a chance to truly flourish. Once he shook the drunk moron moment off, he suddenly became aware that his best friend, his homeboy, his fellow Jackson Street posse founding father Zach McDonald was still outside getting their sour diesel from the truck.

  Ryan half walked-half crawled to the door, fighting the immense power of the booze from the scorpion bowl he had downed through the evil red straw earlier. He threw it up along with what was probably three or four pounds of poorly chewed Chinese food all over a fake bamboo tree in a plastic pot right near the door. Once he purged, the world came into sharp focus, and he opened the door to holler at his collapsed friend.

  Zach’s dented weed and liquor filled skull responded sluggishly to his friend’s calls. For a dim moment he had a vision that Ryan was getting shot in a drive by reminiscent of one he had heard about from someone who may or may not have actually been a real thug. The stabbing, stinging pain in his face snapped him to reality before he had a chance to draw his dream “gat” and whup up on some bitches.

  Ryan stopped screaming his name when Zach rolled over onto his back. He felt the sharp prod of the keys jab into the small of his back right through the XXL hoodie he was wearing. His face and head felt like the time he tripped over his bong and face planted against his entertainment system.

  It felt, “fucked, yo.”

  “Yo Zach, get the fuck up man, someone is shooting out there!” Ryan screamed.

  In response Zach slowly sat up, and snagged his keys from the ground behind him. He slouched his shoulders and rubbed the tender spots on his forehead and cheekbone. They stung something fierce. It won’t make you smart, but there’s nothing quite like pain to sober the mind.

  “Ryan what the fuck happened to me man? I get jumped?” He shook his head as he hollered out to his friend inside the restaurant.

  “I dunno man, you been out here for like an hour bro! Get the fuck in h
ere 'fore you get shot up! Mothafuckas be shooting it up like… like a mothafucka!”

  As if on some ironic cue, a trio of pistol shots rang out from across the street, only a hundred feet away at most. Ryan looked up as Zach spun on his ass to face the source of the loud pops.

  Walking backwards away from the gas pumps at a small convenience store was a tall man wearing a flannel shirt, and jeans. He had a large black handgun that looked to Zach like something Seagal would use in one of his movies. The tall man grimaced as he stuck the gun in the front of his pants. He rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a circular, ragged bite wound. Crimson streams of fresh blood ran down towards his wrist as he made a fist, testing the wounded arm’s strength. He gritted his teeth in agony.

  Approaching him from the pumps was another man, also dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. The other man staggered, bent over and only barely staying upright. Losing his balance, he careened forward and slammed his shoulder into the corner of a large metal gas pump, and from across the street both Zach and Ryan heard his collar bone crack wetly. They flinched.

  “Darryl you get the fuck away from me now. I already shot you once, I’ll shoot you again goddamn it,” the tall man hollered out as he aimed the large black pistol again.

  Ryan and Zach had never seen anything like this before. Boyz N the Hood, New Jack City, Steven Seagal movies, and Chuck Norris had nothing on the sheer terror of watching a man draw a weapon on a maniac within shouting distance.

  Zach peed a little.

  “Answer me goddamn it!” The tall man hollered out, leveling the gun at the chest of the man with the newly busted shoulder. Seconds painfully ticked by with the two punks watching, fixated on reality for a change. The broken and bleeding man took another step, threatening the tall man.

  “God forgive me,” the tall man muttered softly.

  His pistol boomed twice, sending two lead missiles into the chest of the other man. His forward progress halted with the impact of the heavy slugs, he staggered back and pressed against the same pump he broke himself on just seconds before. When the beaten, bloodied, and now shot man regained his forward angle, he took one plodding step forward, and the tall man pulled the trigger a final time.

  The massive pistol round exploded the man’s head just like the time Zach and Ryan put a M80 in a cantaloupe. Well to be honest, this was a hell of a lot bloodier, and a shitload more bowel wrenching.

  Ryan peed some.

  Zach threw up on his lap.

  The tall man took a few steps back and came to a rest against the back of the station wagon parked at the pump. He clutched suddenly at his wounded arm. Even the two stoners were with it enough to realize he was in pain. They were far too self absorbed to go help the man however.

  The tall man surveyed the area around him, and made eye contact with Zach, then with Ryan. He drew the handgun again, swapped out the magazine deftly even with his hurt arm, and walked around to the driver’s side of the wagon. He started it, and frozen in shock Zach and Ryan watched as he pulled out of the gas station, and drove straight up to where Zach sat in the parking lot.

  Both of the boys licked their lips in sync as the tall man got out of the seat of the car, wincing as he tried to use his damaged arm. Once he reached his full height, he towered over the sitting form of Zach.

  Zach stared at the grip of the gun in the man’s waistband as he slowly walked right up to his feet. The gun looked big enough to take down an elephant this close.

  The man stood silently for a moment, then in a calm, resonating voice, addressed the vomit and pee soaked idiot slouched in lazy fear on the ground in front of him, “you saw that huh?”

  All Zach could manage was a weak nod. From the restaurant door Ryan watched in abject horror, expecting the tall man to blow his friend’s head off at any moment.

  “He was dead already you see. You saw me shoot him in the chest right? And he didn’t die. I had to blow Darryl’s gourd off to do him proper.” The tall man’s lip trembled slightly at the thought of having just shot someone he obviously knew well.

  Once again Zach’s chemically damaged brain only allowed him to nod in agreement.

  “We just got back from Moore’s down the way there, getting more guns and ammo to last through all this shit. Of course some assholes had to get uppity and try and take what we already had. Things got ugly and Darryl took one to the belly. Killed him too, but it took a bit. I got those fuckers though. Gave it to them good.” The tall man slid the smooth black pistol menacingly from his belt and gripped it tightly in anger. He noticed the fear on Zach’s face immediately, and put the pistol away with a faint look of regret.

  “You boys ain’t hurt right? You ain’t gonna be dying right?” The tall man asked them impulsively, fearfully. Had they any sense they would’ve realized an answer of yes would’ve fetched them one of the tall man’s bullets to the forehead. Fortunately they had no wounds, and their shaking heads saved them from a fast end at the tall man’s hand.

  “Well good. You got food in that restaurant?” He asked in as close to a friendly tone as he could manage.

  “Yeah, we got plenty of Chinese food,” Zach answered him meekly.

  “No shit Sherlock. It’s The Golden Palace. It’s a fucking Chinese restaurant.” The tall man shook his head at Zach in disbelief.

  Zach was too afraid to act indignant, as he normally would.

  “You’ve pissed yourself son.” The tall man pointed at Zach’s wet crotch.

  Zach looked down at the dark wet stain, and nodded meekly.

  “I’m hungry. I’m going in.”

  After the tall man pushed his way past Ryan to get inside, Zach got to his feet and schlepped slowly to the door where his friend held it open for him. The sudden disappearance of the gun wielding man allowed Zach’s true asshole nature to return in force.

  “Dude you’re a bitch, where were you? I was gonna blast that fool when he rolled up on us.” Zach menaced Ryan with a sneer.

  “I had your back from here homie, death before dishonor.” Ryan could not have looked more serious.

  “Let’s see what this tall bitch has to say for hisself. Walking up into our restaurant like he owns the place. Bitch please.”

  *****

  Zach and Ryan sat there until midnight, saying nothing, watching the tall man eat, then bandage his arm, then eat some more, then drink a few stiff cocktails, and then sit down in a half circle booth to finally relax.

  The tall man assessed their value, and immediately told them how he felt, “You two are worthless fucks aren’t you?”

  Zach and Ryan were sitting on a table across from the booth when he said it. They looked sheepishly at each other, then back at the grip of the big pistol in the man’s waistband. There was an almost moment when Zach sort of had the courage to say something smart assed back, but the heavy pistol stopped that cold.

  “Yep,” they said in defeated unison.

  “Thought so. You don’t even have guns do you?” The tall man used a teriyaki skewer to pick at something lodged in his teeth.

  The boys shook their heads, obviously ashamed at their lack of proper gangsta accoutrement. The tall man shook his head, clearly disappointed at the two.

  “You have any fucking idea what’s happening out there now?” The tall man spat the fleck of food that had been stuck in his teeth. He seemed satisfied with it gone.

  “We don’t know man. The television’s been out forever,” Ryan answered him.

  The tall man nodded before replying, “The end of times boys. The dead walk the earth. Madness and insanity have set upon us, and we have been judged unworthy. I suspect you two will be the next to go from here.”

  The religious explanation flew so high over the two kid’s heads they literally had no response whatsoever. They waited for him to continue, as if that was just the prologue of a much longer story.

  Seeing their obvious lost demeanor the tall man let slip a long frustrated sigh. “Boys we got zombies. Dead folk
walking around eating living folk.”

  “HOLY SHIT FOR REAL YO!?” Zach leapt from the table as if he’d been electrocuted in the anus forcefully. He dropped flat on his stomach and scuttled under the table that Ryan still sat on.

  The tall man watched Zach’s behavior with a sad look on his face. He solemnly nodded, realizing he had to use the smallest words possible to convey anything that’d stick. “Yes. Shoot them in the head, eat you alive zombies.”

  “HOLY SHIT FOR REAL YO!?” Ryan’s second shift brain responded to that. Just like his only slightly more gifted idiot friend he scrambled off the table with a nut busting thud and crawled underneath it next to Zach. Apparently hiding under a table was a surefire way to protect one’s self from the undead. That and idiots love company.

  “Yes, for real, yo,” the tall man answered them sarcastically. He shook his head. Maybe the end of times had started when idiots like these two started being born in bulk.

  “What the fuck are we gonna do? We can’t go out there. Them shits will bite us bro! I don’t wanna be bitten by no zombie and shit,” Zach blubbered.

  “Son I’ve been bitten and I’m fine. That’s all movie garbage. We will be fine. Tomorrow morning we will take our cars, and we will head up and out of town to the hills where my house is, and we’ll hunker down until this all blows over, God willing,” the tall man assured the two men.

  That seemed to appease them.

  “I’m taking last watch, you two watch that damn door, and don’t let no one inside, not your mom, not your pop, and certainly no one that looks deader than you two numb nuts. Wake me at four in the morning.” The tall man evaluated the cushions of the booth, and lay down in the circular seat, resting his head on his good arm. He scratched at the burning emanating from the oozing bite wound.

  Much like the rest of reality that went over their heads, they missed out on his pale skin tone, clammy, sickly appearance, and sunken cheeks.