Death and Biker Gangs by S. P. Blackmore Page A

get,  I thought.
    “Then they couldn’t have gotten that far,” the first biker said.
    “Can you hear anything?”
    Silence, presumably as they listened for signs of us. I held my breath.
    “Sound carries,” the third one said. “They could have stopped a street over and killed the damn engine.”
    “Dude, I didn’t see a bike!”
    Evie growled softly.
    “Shut up,” Tony whispered to the fence. “They’ll hear…”
    Evie growled again.
    Tony swung around and made a dismayed sound.
    I turned to look behind me, and Tony’s hand landed over my mouth to stifle my yelp.
    A bow-legged ghoul rested one hand against the side of the house as it leered at us. His teeth gnashed together as he limped forward, and he had died in a checkered shirt over ratty black jeans. 
    Something had chewed his lips away before we got there.
    “What do we do?” I whispered through Tony’s fingers.
    “Ask it to come back later?”
    Oh, sure. The dead were nothing if not courteous attackers.
    “Shut the dog up,” Tony whispered to Dax. “Tape her mouth shut if you have to. Vibby, stand guard.”
    “Me?” I seemed to get nominated to a lot of posts I wasn’t qualified for.
    Dax crouched down beside the dog, pressing her jaws together to keep her from howling.
    Tony snatched up his Winchester and stormed toward the ghoul. Rather than blow its head off, he jammed the muzzle into the revenant’s mouth, effectively stifling its moans and growls. 
    Nice work, Tony, I thought. Points for inventiveness. 
    He managed to shove the dead man up against the wall of the house. The thing grabbed at him, and he slapped its hands aside. It might have been comical if it hadn’t been  real .
    Once he had the dead guy suitably restrained, I turned back to the gate.
    “We should search the houses,” one of the bikers said.
    “Blow me, bro,  you  can search them. We didn’t check all these places. Might be some dead fucks running around.”
    I glanced back at Tony. He was leaning as far away from the dead man as he could manage without actually letting the revenant go. Dax and Evie sat silently together, the dog staring at the ghoul and straining toward it.
    “What’re we gonna tell Root Canal?”
    Root Canal?  Of all the biker names one could choose…
    “We’ll tell him we saw a few strays on foot and to keep his eyes open. That’s all we can do.”
    Their voices faded away, but I stayed pinned to the gate until the engines started, revved, and howled off down the street. I lingered a little longer, waiting for one of them to come wandering back to pick up his dropped water bottle or one of the zombie books.
    “Vibeke,” Dax murmured, “turn around.”
    You can do all kinds of things with a walking dead guy, provided you move fast enough to evade its crushing embrace, but Tony seemed determined to push things to the limit, swinging the ghoul around in a staggering sort of dance. “Tony, I didn’t know you could…is that the salsa?”
    “More of a cha-cha mixed in with the electric slide, but thanks.” He pulled the Winchester out of its mouth and slid under the revenant’s arm, and the thing lurched around behind him. I guess it qualified as a twirl. 
    “They gone?” Tony asked.
    “Seems like.”
    “Praise Ezekiel.” He hurried back to us, then crouched in front of his backpack to paw through it. 
    The dead guy regained his bearings and shuffled after him, jaw hanging open. His teeth had turned brown and black, and as he got closer, I realized half his face had turned a mottled purple color. Decomposition really doesn’t do anyone any favors.
    Tony found the gun he wanted—a silenced pistol—and turned around. “Sorry, I can’t date a guy who won’t dance.”
    POP.
    Down went the dead man.
    Dax finally let go of the dog’s muzzle, and she responded by shaking her head vigorously. “How long did it take you to come up with that one-liner?”
    Tony peered at the entry wound. “Not much of a splatter on this