Charlie Stone: Roadside Service (© Daniel Lee) This contribution is part of a series:- 1. Charlie Stone: Undertaker (Revised 14-Apr-06) (24-Feb-2006)
| In a world where the dead walk and returning them to their graves is a booming business, there's no one better than Charlie Stone. I've left it as a cliff-hanger not having a better way at the moment to end it. | 2. Charlie Stone: Some Enchanted Evening (28-Jun-2007)
| This is another Charlie Stone story - Linda Campbell and Charlie go out for a night on the town and are having a perfect evening before a couple of ghouls ruined it all. | 3. Charlie Stone: The Commission (Part One) (19-Dec-2007)
| The first half of another Charlie Stone novellette. Charlie gets a visit from an old friend whose bringing bad news. A zombie snuff director is operating out of Berry Hill and he has a score to settle with Charlie. | 4. Charlie Stone: Roadside Service (10-Aug-2011)
| A very short road trip for Charlie. Coming back from a job his hearse breaks down and the first mechanic who shows up is anything but helpful... or living. From one problem to another, he has to comfort the poor, novice wrecker driver who has never seen a zombie before today as they load up the hearse.' |
Page 1 Business had been unusually good lately.
Sure, if I was a store clerk or a salesman it would have been fine, but when
the dead won't stay dead and you decide "Forget college, I'll be an
undertaker" things have a way of becoming abysmal. The border fence out
by the city limits was thirty years old and maintained in large part by the
Corps of Engineers. Breaks were common and, thanks to this one, more than a
few visitors had found their way into town. Living along the border was
like living with a lazy roommate: no matter where you turn there's always one
mess or another to clean up and the place always stinks. Most nights you can
still smell them through the fences on the outskirts if the wind is blowing
your direction and that godless noise they make is echoes with the breeze. The
gurgling death rattle is miserable one-on-one but when a few hundred of them
start a chorus at the fence it can be a deafening nuisance. Pete and Gladys,
my associates and really the only thing close to a family that I had, were
taking shifts with me as we tried to contain the steady flood of dead bodies
shambling through our quiet town. The sheriff's office had lent a hand where
they could but they were spread as thin as almost everyone else these days. Even so, we were managing, controlling the
symptoms even as the disease was spreading. I'd been out all morning at Possum
Branch Farm out by the city limits. Herb Barrett, the owner, had told me he
thought there was a crack in the wall. When I arrived, a ten foot section of
chain link and concrete had collapsed and he and a dozen hands were fighting
off the over flow with pitch forks, axe handles and a single barrel, break
action shotgun. A few hours and a lot of bullets later the place looked like
the set of a disaster movie. We patched the fence as best we could, I filled
out my paperwork and the coroner hauled off as many of the corpses as he could
in the first trip. All I wanted was a cigarette, a beer and a shower. All I
got was more trouble. The hearse broke down on me two miles from
the funeral home thanks to a box of nails that had flown out of someone's tool
box. Both tires on the driver's side were flat and all I had was a donut spare
with a leaky valve. I called Herb and he agreed to send one of his boys with
the roll back they used to haul up stuck farm equipment but he told me it might
take a while. I made good use of my time, smoking the last cigarette in a
weathered pack of Marlboros before I set to work on the flats. The sun was baking
me, not that black cover alls and a hat are airy to begin with but the summer
heat was killing me. More and more that beer sounded nice. My shoulders were
tense and, having the vivid imagination that I have, it wasn’t too shocking
when I imagined a strong pair of hands kneading my aching muscles. Of course
every dream has to end and that’s when I noticed the smell. If you’ve ever
been around a body that’s been baking in the sun for a few days, you know it.
If you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. My stomach churned and sloshed the
handful of pretzels and RC that had been my breakfast up towards my throat.
They weren't the warm, inviting sort of hands that said help has arrived.
These were more like the hands of something that wanted to bite my face off. He was wearing a mechanic's coveralls with a
name tag that read Tinker in blue cursive over the left breast. He was
fresh... well, as fresh in the sense that he had only been dead a day or so. If
I'd seen him in passing I’d have never pegged him for a goner, at least not as
tired as I was. His teeth were chipped and worn into glistening white razors.
Judging by the looks of him, I was going to be his first. Hell of a way to
lose a cherry. His teeth scraped along my collar, catching in the Kevlar
lining as he tried to take a chunk out of my shoulder. I wriggled free and
rolled, inadvertently taking three nails into my thigh. Damned if they
hadn’t got me again! It hurt like hell too but I managed to stagger up to
my feet and draw my gun as Tink came lumbering up to me. His legs weren't
right. I couldn't quite place it as he wobbled towards me but there was
something just wrong about the way he was walking, even for a cadaver. My
first shot went wide and took him in the chest just under his name tag. He
stared down at the wound, looked at me and then bared his teeth again. Rule
one of successful undertaking: always hit the head! The next one sank in his
leg and twisted him up against the hearse still up on jacks on the shoulder of the
road. Plastic splintered and fell out of his pants as his prosthetic limb
crumbled and sent him rolling under the car. There was a groan, metal on metal
this time, as the jack came loose and the car fell on top of his head. [ Continue to page 2 ] |