Free Zombie Bitches From Hell by Zoot Campbell Page B

says.
    As I’m about to drive away, I see the cellar
window and there’s a dude looking out with duct tape on his mouth
and a please-don’t-leave-us-here expression.
    “Tim. Those prisoners. Whatdya think?,” I
say. It was his idea to look for any living men inside.
    “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the
time,” says Tim as he puts his foot on top of mine and jams the gas
pedal to the floor, crashing us through the fence toward the
balloon. “Appeal denied.”
     

CHAPTER 11
     
    The wind had finally tapered off and the
moon’s silver face shone through the clouds which scudded across
the sky like rats following the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Tim was
staring at the GPS and MG was asleep, curled up against the side of
the basket out of our way, a position he learned worked best for
his lazy self.
    “It says we’re in northern Ohio, near the
border,” said Tim.
    “Shit. I guess we’re lucky it’s not worse.
The fuel looks okay but we need to stop for water.”
    “Let’s ride at three hundred feet and keep
your eyes sharp for someplace we can get some…and land safe.”
    The balloon glided on a smooth breeze that
followed us, the tops of tall pines aimed up like arrows in a huge
quiver. The forest we were over spread in every direction and after
an hour or so of moving slowly we saw the shimmer of a huge lake
below, its silver edges like the scales of a fish.
    “Lake Minooka,” said Tim.
    “Water, water fucking everywhere but not a
drop to drink,” I said. “We can’t land anywhere.”
    “Where there’s a lake there are lake houses.
Where there are lake houses, there are roads and all we need is a
two- lane with a straight stretch and we’ll be all right. Keep
looking for a roof or a dock or something that says, ‘This is my
fancy fucking cabin on this fancy fucking lake.’”
    Staring down at the lake, I could see the
lapping of small waves, edging white in the full moonlight as they
lapped at a long dock stuck out into the water.
    “There’s one…a boat dock. Look…I can see the
shine on the metal roof.”
    Tim peered over the edge of the basket right
next to me with his arm extended down as he guided the balloon
lower and lower, his finger pointing like a divining rod,
mind-reading his way to a driveway, then a road. Like a flare, at
least to me, I saw the glint of a double yellow line between the
trees.
    “There’s a road. Check the GPS.”
    “Nothing here,” said Tim. “The fucking thing
is telling us we’re ‘off-road.’”
    “Let’s just follow the goddamned yellow line.
There’s got to be a break in these trees somewhere,” I said. MG
grunted in his sleep.
    Within minutes, we were close enough to the
tops of the pines to reach out and touch them.
    “Take it easy, Timmy me boy. We don’t want to
get skewered on these things.” There below us, the trees parted and
a parking lot almost as big as a football field unrolled beneath
us, its criss-cross grid of parking spaces illuminated by the
moon.
    “Damn. Finally. Bring ’er down…lean
right…lean right…lean…” The basket bottom dragged on the loose
gravel and ground the macadam, making us lurch forward where we
came to a sudden stop, one of our lines wrapped around a “Parking
By Permit Only” sign.
    “Remind me to get a permit before we come
here again,” I said. MG had jumped up startled by the tipping of
the basket. “It’s okay, boy.” I patted his grizzled head. Tim had
his rifle out and I snapped the release on my holster. I never
thought I’d be the type to find the handle of a pistol so
comforting and so sub-consciously re-assuring. Tim powered down the
jets.
    “Let’s sit a spell. Make sure no one spotted
us,” said Tim.
    I let five minutes pass on my watch. No sound
but the gentle breeze rustling the pines. Sounded like the beach, a
distant surf breaking far away.
    “Let’s go,” I said. “Looks fine.”
    MG was the first out by way of my hands on
his hairy dog ass, nimbler than anyone would