Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

"If I did that, who would get me out the next time a building collapses on me?" said Rakkim.

Moseby breathed easier with the fresh filter, his face mask clearing. His eyes fluttered.

"Get some rest," said Rakkim. "I'll wake you when we stop for burgers and fries."

"Milkshake." Moseby yawned. "I want a vanilla milkshake too."

The melonhead on the front porch thought he was a big man with that assault rifle slung in front of him, covering Gravenholtz as he pushed open the gate.

"That's far enough," said the zombie, a skinny geezer, his face raw and scaly like a steam burn. "God, mister, you're an ugly son of a bitch."

"You're not very neighborly," said Gravenholtz, his hand still on the gate.

"You ain't my neighbor," said the zombie.

"I don't want trouble." Gravenholtz knew he should smile or something, but he just couldn't be bothered. He'd been knocking on doors in Shitville for two days without success; fucking zombies all had the same suspicious attitude. No faith in their fellow man. Which Gravenholtz fully justified by kicking their brains out, but that wasn't really the point. None of them knew anything, which pissed him off even more. He checked his rad-counter. Good thing he didn't intend having kids. So much for Baby telling him he didn't need a rad-suit, and Where am I supposed to get one on short notice, Lester honey?

"You don't want trouble," said the zombie. "What do you want?"

"Just got a few questions to ask you."

"First the black, and now you." The zombie leveled the assault rifle at Gravenholtz's midsection. "I'm getting tired of you outlanders with your questions."

"Don't blame you," said Gravenholtz, pleased that he had finally found someone that had met Moseby. He walked on through the gate, stopped at the edge of the porch. "All these interruptions must cut into your jacking-off time." The zombie didn't react. For all Gravenholtz knew he had hit it right about the jacking-off time.

"You got money?" said the zombie. "I take cash or credit chips."

"Sure, I got plenty of money."

"The black give me two hundred dollars to tell him if I knew where Eldon was working the city," said the zombie. "I told him a bunch of bullshit and kept the money." He curled his finger around the trigger of the assault rifle. "How about you empty your pockets and we'll see how much bullshit you bought yourself?"

"Yes, sir," said Gravenholtz, his hands in the air. "Please don't shoot me."

The zombie jabbed the barrel of the rifle at him. "Hurry up. Price of bullshit is going up every minute."

Gravenholtz reached into his pocket, pulled out an ivory credit chip with a platinum edge. Saw the zombie's eyes widen. Gravenholtz stepped forward onto the front steps, held out the chip, trembling…dropped it.

The zombie's eyes dipped toward the falling chip for a second.

Gravenholtz grabbed the barrel of the assault rifle, swung it and slammed it into the zombie's knee, brought him down, howling. Gravenholtz beat the other knee with the rifle, the zombie screaming, gave him another few whacks for that "ugly son of a bitch" crack. Normally Gravenholtz would use his fists to break somebody up, it was more satisfying, but he didn't like the idea of touching the zombie with his bare hands.

"Jeez, mister, jeez…" blubbered the zombie as he flopped on the porch. "What did I ever do to you?"

Gravenholtz sat on the steps. Lit a cigarette. He thought of Karla Jean. He thought about her since she died. Since she tried to kill him. Strange he didn't hold it against her. Made him even sadder that she was gone. Woman like that, holding a grudge against him all that time…that was a woman worth loving. He just wished he had a chance to change her mind. Might have made a difference. He sure as shit wouldn't be sitting here with this toothless fuck.

"Mister?"

Gravenholtz blew a smoke ring over the zombie's head. Like a halo. Made him laugh.

"Mister, please. "

"You said the other fella who came around here…the black…you said he asked about a man named Eldon." Gravenholtz puffed out another smoke ring. "I want you to tell me where this Eldon lives. You can do that, can't you?" He put the cigarette out on the zombie's bare wrist, listened to him shriek. "But no bullshit. You don't even want to think about telling me anything but the gospel truth."

The front axle snapped on a smooth downhill stretch of mountain road, no reason for it, just gave out, and Rakkim fought the wheel trying to keep from ramming through the flimsy guardrail before bringing the milk truck to a stop.

Moseby struggled upright, his clothes soaked in sweat. "Are we there yet?"

"Almost." Rakkim set the emergency brake, helped Moseby out. They had gotten rid of their rad-suits about an hour ago, Rakkim balling them up and burying them so no one would find them and get contaminated. The truck itself was still hot, but the air filters in their suits were blocked, and asphyxiation was a more immediate danger. Blood from Moseby's wounds oozed from under the pressure bandages.

Moseby leaned against the milk truck, a smiling cow painted on the side. "How far?"

Rakkim coughed. "A few more miles."

"How few?"

"Quit asking so many questions." Rakkim squinted in the late-afternoon sun. "We're almost there. Hop on my back, I'll carry you halfway."

"Just get me a walking stick and try to keep up," said Moseby.

By the time Rakkim came back with a suitable stick, Moseby was lying in the road, passed out. Rakkim dragged him into some shade, then got back into the milk truck, put it into neutral and released the brake. He watched as the truck picked up speed, wobbling, then crashed through the guardrail and into the woods below. No one in their right mind would attempt to salvage it, but there were plenty of people not in their right mind. The world was full of them, more produced every minute.

Moseby opened his eyes, his face veiled with dust. "I'm tired."

"I'm hot, I'm thirsty," said Rakkim, sitting down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "And I've got a boo-boo on my hand from driving."

Moseby laughed, coughed up a bubble of blood. His face turned serious. "I want to see it, Rikki."

"You already saw-"

"I want to touch it," said Moseby.

Rakkim pulled out the rad-proof pouch, slid out the bleached-pine box.

Moseby opened the box. Stared at the piece of the cross. The flowers swayed in the breeze. He ran his fingers across the rough wood, eyes closed now.

Rakkim waited for some sudden transformation, but Moseby looked as worn and beaten as before, blood crusted on his shirt.

Moseby opened his eyes. "Thank you." He closed the box. Rakkim started to put the box into the pouch, but Moseby stopped him. "No need for that. Hardly any radiation to the box at all. None on the cross."

"I know."

"Then leave it out, " said Moseby. "Accept the miracle."

Rakkim tossed the pouch away, too tired to argue. He stood up. Offered Moseby his hand.

"I'm just going to stay here a-"

Rakkim lifted him up, threw him over his shoulder and started walking. Moseby groaned softly with every step.

"You just don't listen," said Moseby.

"I know." Rakkim staggered slightly, kicking up pebbles. "It's a character flaw."

"If something happens," said Moseby. "You know…"

"I'm not telling Annabelle your last words or anything," said Rakkim. " You tell her when you show up on her doorstep. That woman scares me."

Rakkim floated on his back in a warm sea…buoyant as a jellyfish, drifting on the tide, arms trailing. He thought of Sarah, reached for her, but she wasn't there. He couldn't remember where she was. Misplaced her. Or she had lost him…he forgot which. He tried calling her name, thought somehow she might hear him…come join him. It wasn't far. He was right over…the bridge…the mountain…just around the bend. He called louder now, his throat aching with the effort. If you can't be smart, you might as well be persistent, that's what Redbeard had said, Rakkim barely ten, new to Redbeard's house, trying to understand the rules so he could break them and still survive. Persistence. Never quit, Rikki. No one can beat you if you don't quit. So many lessons from Redbeard, but that was Rakkim's favorite. He called out to Sarah again, his voice weaker now…wondered what lessons she had learned from Redbeard. Her uncle. Blood of his blood, something Redbeard never allowed him to forget.