Zoey and the Zombies (A Mondamin Court Adventure)

Chapter Three: Scene 2

Miami, Florida

Carlos sniffed the air. He liked Miami, especially when you were close enough to the coast to smell the ocean. It almost made up for being given a shit job. Almost.

Carlos looked around the park. He felt exposed here. Selling drugs to strangers in a public goddamn park. It was a crap assignment, for junior members of the gang. You never knew when a mark would turn out to be a vice cop, and then heavy shit would go down. Even if you didn't end up busted, selling dime bags to homeless junkies hadn't made anyone rich, ever.

He'd hoped to at least get some pleasant company. Usually the park would be full of scantily clad women. A free snort of coke and they'd hang around all day, maybe even give him a little tail.

Not today. The park was nearly empty, and the people who had shown up were jumpy and irritable.

A scrawny girl with a pockmarked face approached him shakily. "Hey, mister, I'm looking for a little something for my nerves. Got anything?"

"You gonna pay?"

"Only, I am really hard up right now," she said.

"Yeah, you and me both. Say, what the hell is wrong with people today?"

"World's gone crazy, that's what," she replied. "Some crazy-ass mo-fo came into our camp last night and killed a bunch of people. You gotta look out, mister. It's happening everywhere, these crazy mo-fos. I gotta get something to take the edge off, you know? I am desperate, please. I could maybe blow you or something?"

He looked at her. She had been attractive once upon a time, but meth had done a number to her face. "I don't gotta look out for nobody," he told her. He pulled his jacket aside to reveal his .38 Special. "Crazy-ass mo-fos gotta be careful of me."

She glanced once to the side and bolted. Carlos turned. A drunk man was shambling toward him. He didn't look good. He had a grayish cast to his skin and a blank look in his eyes.

"Yo, buddy, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Carlos demanded as the man came right at him. The man let out a low moan and reached for Carlos.

Carlos pushed him back. The man caught a hold of his left arm and bit down on his hand. Pain and anger shot through Carlos. "Fuck!" he yelled. For a moment, he couldn't think through the pain. His free hand went to his belt and drew the .38 Special.

"Let go," Carlos snarled, pointing the gun at the man's forehead. The man moaned again and swung clumsily for Carlos's right hand. Carlos opened fire.

The man dropped, blood leaving a long splatter trail behind him.

Carlos looked around the park. The few people who were there all looked in his direction, drawn by the sound of his gun. Surely someone would have a cellphone and be law abiding enough to snitch. This could turn ugly fast.

He shoved the gun back in his belt and looked at his left hand. The bastard had broken the skin, but the wound wasn't bleeding too much. He could dress it later.

He jumped on his bike and revved the motor. He pulled out of the park and headed north. Dealing in public was for the birds anyway, he decided.

His cousin Tito was setting up a rave later this weekend, up in Alabama somewhere. That was the ticket. Big party, cute little white girls, stoned out of their gourds. He'd call Jack, the asshole that he was, and tell him what happened later, once he was out of town. Then he would call Tito and let him know he was on his way.

Several blocks north, a cop car flew down the street, heading for the park with its lights on. Yeah, he'd wait until he was out of town before stopping to call.