Dirty Rotten Hippies and Other Stories Read online

  After climbing back down, he threaded his way through a sea of worried faces until he reached a pop-up bar under a canopy tent that was no longer being manned. Ducking behind the bar, he grabbed a cold bottle of Stella from a cooler and popped off the cap with an opener. He chugged it down fast and immediately grabbed another bottle. This one he drank more slowly as he remained behind the bar and observed as the situation inside the compound continued to deteriorate. Things weren’t quite fully out of control yet, but he had a bad feeling, even though he still had no idea what had so many people in such a state of distress.

  On a professional level, he was kind of falling down on the job. He should be out there talking to people, asking questions and trying to ascertain the exact nature of the problem. The thing holding him back was the sense of dread taking root deep in his gut. Like so many of his journalistic heroes, Oscar Perez believed in doing whatever it took to get to the real heart of a story. Sometimes that meant putting himself in some iffy settings and situations. He’d even been threatened with bodily harm a time or two in pursuit of a scoop. But he was a music correspondent, not a war reporter. The job came with no expectation of getting killed in the line of duty, and though he still had no inkling of what was going wrong here, that bad feeling was getting stronger by the minute. He feared it might get to a point soon where he’d have to start thinking about self-preservation first and the story second.

  The main question on his mind was simple—how the hell am I getting out of here?

  His employer had flown him out to a nearby city, where he’d stayed for a night in a three-star hotel before taking a rental car out to a small town closer to the festival grounds. After spending the next night in a decidedly less swanky hotel, he was flown out to the festival via helicopter. He was currently set to depart again by helicopter late tomorrow night, after the closing night’s headliner played its set.

  That would simply not do, the way things were going. He needed to get on top of things and arrange a way out of here now. Only that wasn’t possible at the moment because he couldn’t get a goddamn signal. He checked his phone again to confirm this was still the case and muttered a curse when he saw it was.

  He gasped when he saw one of the many people moaning and staggering around suddenly drop like a sack of bricks over by a champagne fountain. One second he was upright, the next he was two hundred pounds of deadweight flopping to the ground. To Oscar’s great surprise, no one rushed over to attend to him. Everyone was too consumed with their own problems. That told him all he needed to know. He couldn’t continue to wait around hoping to finally get a signal. By the time it finally happened, it might be too late.

  He’d have to try to get out on foot.

  Shit.

  It’d be a long, long walk. And it would mean having to push his way through the tens of thousands of festivalgoers camped out for the duration. Another thing he didn’t know yet was conditions out there. He had to assume they were at least as bad on the festival grounds, maybe even worse. In that case, many who’d come planning to stay the weekend would also be looking to make an early exit. There’d be a logjam of people trying to get out by the only available route. The whole endeavor would almost certainly be unpleasant in the extreme.

  A young woman clad only in tiny gold booty shorts and a matching bikini top came wobbling by the canopy tent. Despite the grim developments, Oscar couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. She was yet another of the many contradictions in play here. Out there in the mud and grass, thousands of hippie kids were wearing the same shit hippies had been wearing for generations—tie-dyed shirts and loose and flowery boho dresses. Not all of them dressed like throwbacks, of course, but a heavy percentage did. This woman in no way resembled any kind of hippie chick, stereotypical or otherwise. She looked more like an urban party girl, one who’d rather be grinding on the dance floor at a club than hanging out with a bunch of Phish fans.

  His smile slipped when she wobbled over to a trash can right outside the tent, bent over to grip the edges of the can with both hands, and began to violently puke into it. He considered approaching her to ask if she was okay, but the urge faltered when he caught a whiff of the foul odor wafting over from her general vicinity. She paused in the regurgitation process long enough to turn a sweaty face his way and weakly utter a pitiful plea: “Help . . . me.”

  Oscar had been content to hang back and watch things unfold until now, but he wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t ignore a direct request for help from a woman in distress, even if he had no clue what he could possibly do for her.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

  After knocking back a big gulp of Stella, he set the bottle on the bar and heaved a big breath, psyching himself up to get closer to that horrible stench. The poor thing smelled like she’d crawled out of a sewer. Even from this distance, it made his stomach clench. He couldn’t imagine what could cause an odor that horrendous to emanate from a beautiful young lady, unless she’d ingested something apocalyptically toxic.

  “Please . . .”

  Her face looked sweatier now. Darker in color.

  He forced a tight smile. “Coming.”

  Before he could slide out from behind the bar, however, the woman abruptly collapsed, banging her chin against the edge of the trash can before flopping over onto her back.

  Oscar gaped at her in disbelief a moment before saying, “Fuck!”

  He hurried out from behind the bar and approached, holding a hand over his face as he stood over her and felt his stomach clench tighter. At such close proximity, the awful smell was close to overpowering. He wanted nothing more than to get away from her as fast as possible, but his sense of basic human decency kept him where he was for the moment. At the very least, he needed to determine whether she was still alive. She’d done a deadweight drop just like that guy by the champagne fountain and the way she’d banged her chin on the edge of the can had looked pretty bad.

  Grimacing, he knelt next to her and took hold of a slender wrist to feel for a pulse. He kept his fingers there as long as he could bear it, nearly a full minute, but he detected nothing. While he wasn’t anything close to a medical professional, he thought the woman was clearly dead. He didn’t understand it. She was young and looked like she’d been in the prime of health prior to succumbing to whatever malady had overtaken her.

  He spent the next few moments wondering what he should do next. Maybe attempt to administer CPR? It seemed possible it wasn’t too late for her if typical life-saving efforts were applied. Maybe she could be resuscitated. He tried to imagine pressing his mouth over hers and knew he wouldn’t be able to do it without becoming violently ill himself and what good would that do? This woman needed the help of a professional.

  There was a medical tent somewhere inside the compound. He’d seen it several times while wandering around throughout the day. The question was whether he’d be able to get this woman there in time. He knew her chances decreased with every second that went by. He saw no immediate sign of the medical tent when he looked up to scan the vicinity. What he needed was one of the golf carts he’d occasionally seen zipping around during the day. If he had to scoop up this woman in his arms and go around looking for the medics, he’d never get to them in time.

  Another quick scan of his immediate surroundings revealed no sign of any of the golf carts. Of course not. This was obviously one of those situations where the only luck in abundant supply was the bad kind. Something told him no matter what he tried he’d run into nothing but roadblock after roadblock.

  He was about to pick her up anyway when another gust of hot, malodorous air assailed his nostrils, making him cough and gag. Looking down, he saw that in the brief time his attention had been diverted, her flesh had turned a deep shade of bruised purple. Also, her jaw had come unhinged, letting out that last big gaseous waft of putrid air. Even without knowing exactly what had happened to her, he immediately understood it was not the result of anything of mundane origin. And it seeme
d to be happening to many other people as well.

  A belated thought came to him then, causing him to spring to his feet and reel backward in shock and terror.

  Oh shit, is this contagious?

  He continued to move backward in numb, open-mouthed horror until his back was against the bar. Tremors racked his body as he stood on the brink of nuclear meltdown-level panic for several minutes. Sweat beaded on his brow and dampened his armpits. The main thing on his mind during that time was how completely fucked he was if what he was seeing was the result of some kind of rampant, fast-spreading viral contagion. Something airborne. He’d never seen or heard of anything like the symptoms he’d observed, which meant the likelihood of there being some kind of vaccine for this was somewhere near zero percent.

  His terror of the situation kept increasing until he reminded himself his chances of getting out of here unscathed were also extremely low unless he could calm down and start thinking straight. For right now, he was physically unaffected, having manifested nothing remotely like the appalling symptoms the afflicted were exhibiting. Other than the natural queasiness he was feeling, he was okay. More or less in perfect health, in fact. After allowing this essential fact a few moments of residing in the forefront of his consciousness, he let out a big breath and felt the tremors gripping him begin to subside. There was a lot still to figure out, but he no longer felt on the edge of a total breakdown.

  He took his glasses off to wipe away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes. When he put them on again, he saw someone else coming into the pop-up bar. He was taken aback when he realized who it was.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Kyle Bile chuckled as he went behind the bar and took a tall can of Boddingtons Pub Ale out of the cooler. He cracked the can open and a bit of foam gushed out of the opening. “Same thing you are, I reckon.” After blowing the foam away, he chugged down a few big gulps of beer, then gestured with the can. “Watching the shit-show unfold and having a cold one.”

  Oscar had forgotten about the open bottle of Stella he’d left sitting on the bar until that moment. Now he grabbed it and followed the singer’s lead by gulping down most of it in one go.

  Then he shook his head and said, “That’s not what I meant. What I meant is, what’s a sleaze metal relic like you doing at a jam band festival?”

  Even as he asked the question, Oscar realized Kyle being here wasn’t really so odd at all, not in context with the many other things he’d seen inside the compound that ran counter to the vibe and supposed message of the festival.

  Kyle shrugged and took another gulp of beer. “I’m good friends with one of the organizers. He invited me down for the weekend to hang out and party.”

  The heavily-tattooed old rocker looked in better shape than a lot of his peers from back in the day, many of whom had gone badly to seed in the years and decades that’d passed since their time in the limelight ended. He was somehow able to wear tight black leather pants and a black vest over an otherwise bare torso without looking completely ridiculous. Oscar was reasonably fit, but the singer’s chiseled build nonetheless made him feel a touch self-conscious about his appearance, mainly because the old bastard was more than a quarter-century his senior.

  If I ever get out of this, I seriously need to start hitting the gym again.

  His gaze flicked back in the direction of the woman lying on her back just outside the tent. Still no detectable signs of life there. He didn’t need to feel for her pulse a second time to know her heart hadn’t spontaneously started beating again. Not only that, but the time he’d spent in the grip of panic had sealed her fate. There could be no bringing her back now, surely. The knowledge brought with it a twinge of guilt and regret. In his fear, he’d failed to render any kind of substantive aid to the woman. Taking her to the medical tent, wherever the goddamn thing was, was the very least he could’ve done, but he hadn’t even been able to do that. He knew he wasn’t entirely to blame for her death. That was the fault of whatever had sickened her. But his inaction had been a contributing factor.

  Or had it?

  For all he knew, the woman had been beyond help. The visual evidence strongly suggested this might be the case, which should’ve been at least mildly comforting, but it was not.

  I should’ve at least fucking tried, damn it.

  Kyle had come out from behind the bar and was squinting at him as he popped open a second tall can of Boddingtons. “You look troubled, young scribe. What about?”

  Oscar grunted and glanced again at the dead woman before focusing on the singer. “You mean aside from the shit-show out there?”

  Kyle smiled and sipped from his beer. “Yeah. Aside from that.”

  Oscar sighed and told him about failing the woman.

  Kyle craned his head about and tilted his chin in the general direction of the corpse. “You mean that lady over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kyle snorted and waved his beer can around in a dismissive gesture. “Not a damn thing you could’ve done for her, man. You know the prevailing theory about what’s happening here, right? About Delight?”

  Oscar frowned. “Delight? What is that?”

  “A new party drug. Kind of like ecstasy, but more intense. A hardcore empathy experience. Made a big splash as the big show was getting underway. Shit was everywhere.” Kyle rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Not really my thing. I’m more of an old school cocaine and amphetamines kind of guy. You know, the rock and roll drugs. I was offered this Delight shit so many fuckin’ times I lost count. Turned it down every time. Good thing, too, from the looks of it.”

  Oscar grunted. “I’m not really into drugs at all. Kind of hate them, actually. Drinking a beer or two is about as far as I go.”

  Kyle gulped down more beer. “Normally I’d say that makes you kind of square, but today it makes you one of the lucky ones.”

  Oscar’s frown deepened as he thought about it a moment. “Huh. I don’t get it, though. What’s the connection to Delight? Wait . . . the only people getting sick are the ones who tried it. Right?’

  Kyle tipped his beer can at Oscar. “Bingo.”

  Oscar shook his head. “Jesus. We need to do something. Get help for these people somehow. Is your phone working?”

  “Cell phone? No. Nobody’s cell phone is working. Something’s blocking them.”

  The possibility that the lack of service was the result of a deliberate action by some nefarious group had crossed Oscar’s mind more than once. This carried with it an even more sinister implication, that the sick people staggering around and collapsing inside (and probably outside) the compound were all victims of a mass-poisoning attempt. A terrorist attack.

  His panic level began to elevate significantly again.

  “Fuck!”

  Kyle nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s some dire shit. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve got—”

  Before Kyle could let Oscar in on the so-called “secret” he was harboring, both men were distracted by a loud hacking and coughing sound. The coughing soon ceased and was replaced by a steady moan. The men made eye contact for a moment, then their heads turned slowly in the direction of the moaning.

  Oscar gasped and actually jumped back a step. “Holy shit!”

  Kyle grunted, nodding again. “About sums it up.”

  The woman Oscar had assumed was dead was sitting up again. The whites of her eyes had turned a bright blood-red and she was looking right at him. Her skin had continued to change in color and texture. She looked like a corpse rapidly and unnaturally progressing through the stages of decomposition, only that couldn’t be because she was up and miraculously alive again. As she awkwardly flailed about in what resembled a toddler’s uncoordinated attempt to stand, the moaning sound she was making got louder and louder.

  Kyle’s beer can slipped from his fingers. “Goddamn, man. Chick is a fucking zombie now.”

  The z-word took Oscar by surprise. His initial instinct was to scoff, but t
hat passed as he watched the woman continue to struggle to her feet. The herky-jerky movements of her head and the way she snarled and hissed when she looked at him was enough to convince him. That shit wasn’t natural. That she’d been dead seemed an incontrovertible fact, based on what he knew, yet now she was up and moving around again. That, too, was not open for debate. It was happening right in front of him right fucking now. He didn’t know how to explain it, but seeing was believing. He also felt certain the woman’s mortality status wasn’t as simple as dead versus not dead. She was dead. She’d died. In death, however, something had transformed and animated her corpse, making her into this . . . thing.

  This zombie.

  Screams rang out throughout the compound as others who’d recently succumbed to the lethal latter-stage effects of Delight began to rise. Some of what they were hearing was a result of shock and terror, but there was a different, more distressing quality to some of those screams. It was the kind of shrill, nerve-shredding sound made only by people in excruciating physical pain.

  At first Oscar found this puzzling, but then the woman who died outside the tent regained her feet and came sprinting toward him. He shrieked in surprise and fright and stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and toppling to the ground. Then she was on top of him and he felt her hot, foul-smelling breath on his face. He braced his hands against her shoulders and tried with all his might to shove her off him, but death had transformed her in another way, investing her animated corpse with an unnatural degree of strength. Her teeth repeatedly snapped at him in a way that made it clear she wanted to take bites out of his flesh. The muscles in his arms strained close to the breaking point as he struggled to keep that from happening.

  He was on the brink of despair when he heard a loud clang as something smashed against the side of the dead woman’s head. The sound repeated mere seconds later and the dead woman rolled away from him. She was on her feet again almost immediately, still hissing and snarling as her attention shifted to Kyle. She ran at him like something shot from a cannon, so swiftly she was almost a blur as she blazed across the space between them. Fortunately for Kyle, he was able to get the fire extinguisher he’d found somewhere up in time to slam its bottom end straight into her face. The impact occurred with enough force to stagger Kyle backward a few steps, but he managed to stay on his feet.