Halfway House by Weston Ochse Page B

sparkling gold tooth, a wispy mustache, and a banker’s smile the only thing setting him apart from the other baggy shorts- and wife beater-wearing gangbanger.
    “I’m telling you, this is the guy.”
    “But he’s all drunk and shit, Blockbuster.”
    “You never been all drunk? Just get him up.” The other ran a pick through his short hair as he spoke. Tattoos enshrined his shotgun arms.
    “He better not puke on me. If he pukes on me I’m gonna kick both your asses.”
    “You can’t kick your momma’s ass, Split. Poke him again. I think he’s waking.”
    The kid named Split reached in, poked Bobby in the chest, then leapt away. “His eyes are open and he’s breathing, but he ain’t doing nothing.”
    “You should see my uncle Nestor, he sleeps with his eyes open. Scariest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t know if he’s watching you or not.”
    “This isn’t like your uncle Nestor. Cabrón reminds me of a zombie. You know, like in Dawn of the Dead .”
    “New one or old one?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Zombies are zombies.”
    “Doesn’t matter? Are you kidding me? You tell that to the poor lardass white people who can’t outrun them Olympic sprinter zombies in the remake. In the first one they were all about doing the Frankenstein with their arms out and moaning. But not in the second one. Hell, no! Them zombies looked like brothers running from the police.”
    “What I meant was that whether they’re fast or slow, zombies are all the same,” Blockbuster growled. “They eat people. Live people. And if there’s one thing that is just so fucking wrong it’s to be eaten while you’re alive.”
    “It’s okay when you’re dead, then?” Bobby sat up slowly and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Must have been past midnight and the offshore breeze had brought the temperature down into the sixties.
    “What?”
    “He asked you if it’s okay to be eaten when you’re dead.”
    “Motherfucker. What kind of question is that?” Split frowned. “Being eaten is never okay. But if I was to choose between getting eaten when I was dead and getting eaten when I was alive, of course I’d choose to be dead.”
    “One thing’s for sure. Dude ain’t a zombie.”
    “He might wish he was when all this is over.” Split made fists and jabbed at the air above Bobby.
    “What’s the deal? Are you looking for me?”
    “You Bobby Dupree?” Blockbuster asked.
    Bobby nodded.
    “Then we’re looking for you.”
    “What for?”
    “Lucy sent us. Told us to come get you. Says he knows where your missing person is.” Split shook his head. “Better get off your ass and come with us, Zombie Dupree.”
    Bobby sat up straight, ignoring the smaller man’s gestures. “How’d he get the information so soon?”
    “He went to a fortune teller. How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Split cast a look Blockbuster’s way and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, do you really fucking care about how he found out, or do you want the info?”
    “I want the info.”
    “Then get off your ass and let’s go.” Split turned and headed for a late, neon green, 1950s Chevy tricked out with chrome and lowered until it hugged the ground. “You better not get sick.”
    “I’m fine,” Bobby said as he struggled to his feet.
    “Serious. If you puke in my car, I’m tossing you into Sunken City.”
    “He said he’s fine, Split. Chill out.”
    “I am chill.”
    “Then what’s your problem?” Blockbuster asked.
    “I just wish we were doing what the others were doing.”
    “Lucy wanted us here.”
    “I know. I know. I should be happy, Blockbuster. We went on a drunken white boy scavenger hunt and came back a winner. Fucking wow. I bet this makes you proud to be a Salvadoran. I know it makes me proud to be Mexican.” He waved both hands in the air like a mock champion.
    Blockbuster held open the back door for Bobby, who had to get low to slide onto the red velour seat. Blockbuster climbed into the passenger seat