Still Alive (Book 7): Zombie Perdition

by Bonds, Javan

  ☠☠☠

  My mouth was hanging open, standing a few feet from the table crowded with crewmembers. “And where the fuck were you when we were being stormed by millions of peevies?”

  My baldheaded brother broke away from a passionate kiss with his wife. “In the galley with Hammer, plotting out our route on the map to Tuscaloosa.”

  Moving on, I looked at Bradley. “And what about you? Don’t try to tell me you were below deck.”

  Gasping, he was insulted I would have the gall to ask. “I was in my cabin, changing Mary!”

  I chose not to mention that couldn’t’ve taken but a few minutes. Dejectedly, I grumbled, “Why would she wear a diaper? We’re outside.”

  There wasn’t even a point in getting a reason they didn’t help us at all. You could bet they’d all have one. Crow wouldn’t even have an excuse. Sarah didn’t care. Smokes was probably sleeping. The Man of God would probably say he was praying for us. Maybe that’s why we made it back.

  I looked over at The Phantoms and their commander. “What about the three of you?”

  “I was performing tests on infected tissue samples. My fellows were with me in the galley.” Doctor George stated calmly.

  I was bewildered. “You brought peevie meat aboard?”

  “There is no chance of spreading the virus unless it is eaten or injected into the water supply. I believe we are safe,” he spoke to me like I was mentally challenged.

  “Least y’all made it back. Somebody’s watching out for ya.”

  Dammit! Why’s Brother Williamson got to see the good in everything?

  “I guess,” or something like it was what I mumbled out.

  Suppose that’s all that matters. We made it, just like always. No reason to get mad at or accuse anyone of slacking. Even though they actually were. I oughtta just be glad to be alive and not blue. Yet, anyway.

  ☠☠☠

  Interlude 1

  “Mo. Gray Fox. Over.”

  After a few seconds of waiting, he tried again. “Mo. Gray Fox. You copy?” There was still nothing.

  Mayor Collins didn’t know the HAM-capable walkie-talkie on the Cora was on the nightstand in the empty captain’s quarters. There wasn’t anyone around to answer. He could’ve been worried, but somehow knew it was what it was post to be. Somehow, he knew everything was all right. Mo’s probably just goofing off anyway.

  Not really expecting a reply, he pressed transmit. “Well, just call me whenever you decide you have time. I’ve got a story to tell you. Gray Fox. Out”

  ☠☠☠

  23

  I’ll Sail My Ship Alone

  More than one worker loudly complained to their overseers. Billy Coley was The Hand enforcer receiving the majority of the complaints. Especially from one of the old-timers. Fucking people think they got rights or some shit. This ain’t a democracy. If they do what we say, they usually get food. That’s how it was for me back in the day. They gotta learn fast.

  “You think I give a shit? It wasn’t a complete disaster. Y’all moved up a few streets. Should be finished by tomorrow.” Billy brushed off the report.

  Motherfucker. I wouldn’t spit on you if you was on fire! Mortimer Lester looked at the ground as he returned. “Yeah, we only lost four today. It could’ve always been worse.” Agreeing with lackluster, he thought back on the events of the day.

  ☠☠☠

  Adamantly refusing to go up the ladder, Mortimer shook his head. He’d seen all types of injuries caused by the death traps. Being a senior was an excuse enough for him to stay on the ground. His feet were planted on terra firma.

  “Fine, you bloody old git. I’ll do it!” Michelle Jones, one of the tourists from across the pond, scolded.

  The geriatric looked at her with a scowl. “You one of them damn English people?”

  Her offense showed on her face as she pulled herself up the rungs of the ladder. “Well, whatever would’ve made you think that? Coffin dodger!”

  This piece of equipment just so happened to be one of the ones Nedra Sink “inspected” this morning before sunrise. Though that would never be truly known, it was about to be realized. A freestanding ladder, it was positioned on the sidewalk, pretty much at the corner created by the movable barricade and the building. At about twenty-three feet, she placed both feet on one of the steps. With a pop, it came free from both sides simultaneously.

  As Michelle grumbled something about rather shitting in her hands and clapping than putting up with these damn Yanks any longer, her drop started. When her feet hit the next foothold, it appeared she was safe for a split second. Heels landed flat, and she remained standing. That is before her full body weight came into play. With the rapid exchange of kilograms, the rickety aluminum ladder started to tip her onto her back. Trying to grip the sides, she attempted to regain her footing as she screamed.

  Her caterwauling mouth came into contact with the next step down, driving most of her upper teeth through the roof of it. Blood flowed freely before she could even react. It was apparent to her; she was tumbling, gravity pulling at her back. No time to call for assistance, she crashed onto the ground, dead before she knew what exactly happened.

  The back of Michelle Jones’ skull collided with the hard cement, instantly caving in to just behind her ears. Gray matter was pushed forward so forcefully; her eyeballs popped out nearly cartoonishly. Her ears and nose also squirted the devil’s silly string for several feet. It could be compared to bloodied hotdogs being ejected from a fleshy dispenser.

  Her already ejected optics were flattened when the ladder came down, slapping against her face. They exploded against the aluminum, along with her nose and sinuses.

  This was just the first of many.

  ☠☠☠

  The next scene of carnage was only a few hours later. It could be considered a three for one, seeing the demise of a trio of workers. The same chain of events caused the casualties. Even though they all saw it coming, none were able to forestall the reaping of souls. They were all utterly hapless as the chariot swung low.

  Donna Friedrich and Wayne Gallaher lifted themselves onto the scaffolding, about two stories up. The pair had been cast with this job before, simply keeping a lookout, and making sure no blunatics were charging the front lines. Though there was nothing either of them could do had there been peevies approaching, any of the times they took the station of watchmen, they provided a semblance of protection. Enforcers wouldn’t think about giving firearms to slaves. So, they, at least, understood their position was basically pointless.

  Making her way to the left-hand side of the platform, Donna joked. “They could’ve at least given us bows and arrows or something.” Before she could speak again, her actions doomed them both.

  Unseen by her, the spot she planted her foot was slick with oil. As the other leg lifted to step forward, the momentum of her planted foot shooting out from under her sent her feet flying. There was no time to do anything but shriek. As she fell, her head crashed into the far edge of the plywood the two were standing on. The screws attaching this flimsy piece of plywood to the rebar skeleton were loosened to the point that this jolt broke it free, sending the tiny bolts crashing to the ground.

  Uncushioned, the impact caused her scalp to split, exposing the skull as her hair parted. Blood started pouring as her visage continued the decline, causing her to tip forward. Unable to grab on to anything, she rolled off of the platform. As she dropped, she now faced the asphalt. Her terrified wail seemed to last for eternity for those within earshot.

  Though painful, falling from no more than twelve feet was far from fatal, even on one’s face. Under normal circumstances, that is. With a supernatural psychopath like The Screenwriter controlling the direction of events, nothing could be considered normal. Suffering would be handed out freely.

  One of those screws that had fallen from the scaffolding would end her. They hadn’t even come to rest when one of them landed on the street, headfirst. Right as it bounced, the point
still sticking up, it drove straight through the clinched eyelid of Donna Friedrich. Not even being an inch in length, it wouldn’t have done much more than poke it out.

  With her crashing into the pavement, though, it went a little further. Front teeth in her screaming mouth exploded as they contacted the blacktop. As the tip met the ground, her nose exploded into a vaporous cloud of red. Every minuscule bone in her face shattered.

  Friedrich went rigid as the road pushed the tiny screw deeper into her cranium. Irreparable damage was done when the gray matter was penetrated. Crimson leaked from a ruptured cavity that at one time housed her eyeball. Clinically brain-dead, her heart beat for the moment, pumping precious arterial fluid into and out of the broken orb.

  ☠☠☠

  When Donna’s head collided with the landing, only connected to the scaffolding by gravity, with such force that it caused it to bounce, tilting the opposite side up. Not having his feet planted securely, Gallaher toppled to his side. Having always been afraid of heights, he shakily crawled over to the ladder. He decided the best idea was to get on the ground as quickly as possible and check on his fallen comrade.

  In his hurry to get down, his feet must’ve passed one of the rungs. Maybe it just wasn’t his lucky day. Two people had already climbed up this ladder once today. For some reason, that one bar now decided to come loose. More blood was about to be spilled by yet another inanimate object.

  ☠☠☠

  JoAnne Gillson had quickly started up the ladder when she saw Donna fall, to see how she could assist. But Friedrich’s slip was the beginning of a cascade of problems to make the trifecta of agonizing death complete. JoAnne was already up the ladder a few feet when Donna fell to the pavement. She froze in horror seeing her friend’s end come so quickly. Only a few rungs up from the bottom, she looked up, just in time to see Wayne begin his tumble.

  Another series of unfortunate events took place when Gallaher’s right hand took a firm grip on one of the tiny, horizontal, metal shafts used for rungs. The bar came loose from the ladder on both sides, and he began his fall. Starting the decline, he automatically stiffened his legs, catching on either foothold they were planted on, causing him to rotate. Next, he inadvertently clutched both fists against his chest, right hand under left. The detached rung still in his favored hand’s grasp.

  As he plummeted like a rock, his full weight landed on JoAnne. Though the impact crushed her nose and loosened her front teeth, those weren’t the worst of her injuries. Since she was looking up, the body crashing against her face bent her neck back past the limit, paralyzing her instantly as her spine folded. Dropping in tormented confusion, she was no longer able to feel her extremities.

  Having lost all control of her limbs, she dropped the few feet to the pavement not feeling the impact. Worst part was the fact she couldn’t breath. JoAnne Gillson would lay there and suffocate experiencing the horrifying terror of being cut off from the rest of her body while conscious. The Screenwriter must have found it excruciatingly enjoyable!

  Unintentionally murdering JoAnne by kicking her in the face, Wayne toppled over her head and crashed into the pavement. Hands still clenched against his body, the force of the blow pulverized each up to the elbows. Still clinging to the ladder rung, the impact pushed it up through his left forearm. Surviving with a destroyed face and broken arms was possible. Gripping the bar, though, is what ended his life.

  The blunt end of the steel drove through dermis and muscle as it scraped the ulna. It came out the other side, only a couple inches from the crook of the elbow. Wayne Gallaher lay there awake, arterial veins severed, unable to lift his picassoed visage from the wet spot on the asphalt. It was pointless, and Wayne knew the dark red fluid pumping from his shattered arm told him the truth. Though he imagined himself to be invincible, The Screenwriter proved yet again that no one is safe.

  ☠☠☠

  Besides a few minor, superficial injuries, those were the only losses of the day. At least, that Mortimer knew of, until returning to the slave quarters that night. Overall, it could be considered a fairly successful day with minimal casualties. And it would, the workers rejoiced, be one of the last days of moving the barricades up.

  Tomorrow, we’ll be done with this shit. Next block up a Hooters and after that, not enough to block on either side of the street. This pathway’ll be blocked off. If they ain’t caught up, the others shouldn’t be very far behind.

  Guess that means I need to start planning my breakout. No way am I sticking around to find out how the Masters deal with the servants when we ain’t useful no more. I think I’ll head back home. And no, I don’t mean that damn nursing home! I still got a house; If my damn kids ain’t sold it or lost it to probate. I’m ditching this damn city. But I can’t do it alone. But I’ll be damned if I’m taking any of these sorry fuckers back with me!

  ☠☠☠

  Reaca and Nedra were soon going to have to start finding new ways for workers to “accidentally” die. Or, perhaps, other tribes could be discovered. They would need to start reaching out and looking for humans to start a war with or aid in some humanitarian fashion. Either way, they could keep fat and comfortable on their leftovers... for a few days!

  ☠☠☠

  24

  Will Pay Off

  The pale ones are gathered atop the construct once more. Like is common of such animals, they have again entered into primitive, verbal communication. Their guttural chittering can almost be understood. Perhaps, at some point, their noisemaking will be translated into understandable language.

  Regardless, not today... and it will not benefit this one. If as stupid as so many fallen fellows, this one could attempt to attack or board the floating structure. Too many kin have been systematically annihilated to contemplate such a foolish act.

  For now, aggression would not be wise. Hostility though, will always be the one thing felt between our two kinds. With incoming cycles, the opportunity will present itself. The pale one known as Ezekiel Collins will be laid out before this one, as a feast!

  The peevie formerly known as Warden Slice wasn’t as unthinking as other infected. Though yearning to get a taste of the smooth headed target was strong, waiting for the right moment would pay off.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Staying prepared.

  ☠☠☠

  25

  Look What

  Love Gave

  Us

  Rising from a day of fitful sleep, Sargent Salzman drags himself toward the dingy hotel bathroom to prepare for another nightshift.

  Whore’s bath. Shave. Not enough hair left to worry about a fucking comb. Throw on a shirt not ringed in fucking sweat. Grab a protein bar. Make my way to the station. Same shit, different day!

  Cherie hated the job, and this is why. “You care more about being a fucking cop then you do me!” Well, no shit, asshole. Looking at her, who wouldn’t? That’s one reason I was married to the fucking job. Now that her ass is gone, with the kids, focusing on work’s the only thing keeping me from eating my gun.

  Being rid of her was a fucking dream come true. It just hurt that she took the kids, and I didn’t even get weekends.

  She never did love me. That’s okay. Because I fucking hate the bitch now! My life is policing and will be until the end.

  I’m a twenty year...thirty, well shit! I’ve been here for-fucking-ever-man. There’s a duty to serve, nothing else matters! Friends are a thing of the long fucking past. Haven’t had a family in recent memory. Protecting and serving is my life! The reason I’m alive!

  Just going to wait tonight and see if Sako turns up. No hoping. No wishing. I stopped praying a long fucking time ago cause I figured out nobody answers. Just gonna do my job like I do every damn night. Whatever happens, just fucking happens.

  Wish I could pay a visit to our friendly neighborhood fucking man of God. Wonder if he’s got any young, blonde guests locked in his basement; The sick fuck. It won’t be long now; justice will be coming
. Your time’s running out, Mikey!

  ☠☠☠

  26

  Precautionary

  Measures

  We had to have roast tonight. Fucking beef! It’s like we are in some Third World country. Can’t have decent food. Scraps from fucking filthy animals. We should have been eating some nice, fatty slices of meat... from a juicy, succulent, tender, blonde...

  Pausing in his movement, Brother Brown realized he was going to have to stop having such tantalizing thoughts. If I keep thinking about the marbled meat that’s gonna be on my plate... and how it got there... Goddamn! I gotta go see Lauren.

  ☠☠☠

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs to the basement, a tad more bowlegged than he was when he climbed the stairs, he made his way to the closed exit to the garage. Beside the portal, propped against the wall, was a cattle prod. Lifting it, he counted down the seconds it would take him to rush over to where it would be used. Only if I need it! Without his stunner, he might need a way to immobilize fighters or silence rowdy game.

  Just in case, I’ll keep some tasers or something over there on the workbench. Don’t want to keep the stuff visible. Might make them panic! I’ll do it just like always, just have to make some... alterations.

  ☠☠☠

  27

  Wait for the

  Light

  to Shine

  Paul’s eyes fluttered open. Darkness. He saw the same darkness with his eyes open or closed. He closed them and rolled over.

  Gotta be midnight, if not later. Gonna be trapped in this damn lorry until daybreak, I suppose. At least I’ll get a full night’s sleep. That is, as long as they leave me alone for a few more bloody hours.