Dying Days 2

by Armand Rosamilia

  Chapter Six

  Her arm was getting tired and the undead weren't stopping their attack. They didn't tire.

  Six or seven bodies littered the ground—who had time to count them during a battle?—and she now had to watch where she was stepping. She was also sure she'd sliced an arm off one and kicked it down but it was still moving and could reach up and grab her at any moment.

  "Stupid, stupid," Darlene whispered.

  She was surrounded by them, a ring of zombies all moving at once to attack. They didn't feign or dodge her chops, they simply came on. Darlene kicked suddenly to her left and was out of the circle, but it wasn't far enough because another three came around the house.

  At this point, she knew it was just a matter of time before she was overwhelmed.

  She pulled the Desert Eagle and cleared a path, shooting three in the head in quick succession. The noise startled her. The zombies made no sound, and neither had she when she was fighting, only the shuffling of rotting clothes and the nearby birds breaking the silence.

  They were slow, but she was getting slower. She kicked at the three new foes and almost lost her footing. All it would take would be a slip, a misplaced punch to lose a finger, or them piling on top of her, and she'd be done.

  Darlene shot another two at close range, the sight of their heads exploding so common that she didn't flinch. How many heads had she seen like that? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? How many bullets had she used, how many times had the machete severed a neck?

  She barreled into a dead woman in front of her. If she could get back to the gas station, she'd be safe. Dodging two undead, she jogged around the side of the house, panting and bone-weary.

  For a brief moment she had a clear view of the waiting fence surrounding the gas station. She hoped she had enough strength to scale the chain-link and drop safely to the other side.

  Then four undead shambled around the house. They were joined by three more from the trees to the right.

  Behind her, the unrelenting horde moved toward her, one slow step at a time.

  Darlene turned just as a man, tall with stringy guts dangling from his mouth and slapping her on her forehead, fell on her. His black-toothed grin locked on her left shoulder and she felt the burning pain as he clamped down on her skin with his teeth.

  Darlene managed to fight through the sting, putting the Desert Eagle to his head.

  She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger, feeling the spray of brains on her face.

  She lost consciousness, hearing gunshots through the ringing in her ears.

  Was that an explosion, or just her body dying and joining the walking dead surrounding her?

  * * * * *

  His name was Dylan James and he was a teenager, wandering around in a zombie-plagued world with a skateboard. No one was more amazed than Dylan that he was still alive, while so many others were now walking intestine-eaters. Some would argue it wasn't fair.

  "Fuck fair," he said and leaned back behind the ancient stone wall of the graveyard. He thought it fitting.

  The redhead was dangerous. She was also beautiful. His teenage mind ran several scenarios where he'd surrender to her and they'd fuck, or she'd at least give him head.

  Of course, she was chasing him but not to suck his dick. She wanted to kill him the same way she'd obviously killed the dudes on the water: with guns blazing.

  Fuck, she was hot.

  And dangerous as fuck.

  He wasn't scared, but he was damn close. Why did he volunteer for this stupid mission, anyway? There were ten other idiots on the boats better trained and better armed to do this shit. But when Doug Conrad smiled at you, and picked you for a special mission, you went.

  The guy saved my life, Dylan thought. Without him I'd be dead —fuck, I’d be undead—wandering around the sand dunes, trying to eat brains and shit. Instead, I was alive, well-fed, surrounded by armed men who watched over me, respected me, and didn't care how young I was. I was treated like an equal.

  Right now, he was getting hot with the sun beating down on him. He needed to move, to get into town, to blend in, and infiltrate. Dylan needed to bond with these pathetic people and exploit their weaknesses, report to Doug, and be a hero.

  But first… he lifted his head and froze.

  She was there, red hair curly and running across her slim shoulders, pale skin burning in the sun. She moved like a panther and he watched in awe. She was only fifty feet from him. He knew if he moved she'd blow his head off within two steps.

  He slowly lifted his skateboard. If he had to hit her, he would. If he was lucky enough to knock her out, he'd cop a feel of her tits. Maybe even feel up her tight ass.

  She stopped.

  Dylan held his breath. If she looked his way he might be seen, even with the wall blocking most of him.

  She was listening for movement. As long as he stayed still, he'd live.

  It felt like an hour passed, although it was probably just a few long minutes, but she finally walked away in the opposite direction.

  He wasn't taking any chances. He stayed in place and watched her until she disappeared around a pile of rubble. In his mind, she was tricking him, circling around to sneak up behind him and put a bullet in his head.

  Dylan decided the smart thing to do would be to run as fast as he could and hope he didn't catch a bullet in his back. That would be stupid, he thought.

  He slipped back over the wall and went to the spot she'd been standing in. He didn't see her, but she'd gone around the torched building. He decided to follow, see if he could sneak up on her, and club her with his board.

  It was too hot out here. Even with the ocean so close, the dunes blocked the light wind and his clothes stuck to his thin frame. He was shaking, and knew for all his bluster he was scared shitless right now. At any moment, she could reappear and kill him. Game over. End of the line. Dylan loses.

  This section of the city, inside the fences of the safe area, looked like something off the news, like a Middle Eastern war zone. Shit that didn't interest him when there was school and news programs his lame mother would watch instead of MTV shows or some cool R-rated movie .

  He didn't see her but he heard her. She was slipping around, through the buildings, and probably right to where he was hiding.

  Dylan decided now was the perfect time to get as far away from here as possible. He walked as quickly as he could, staying off the road and making sure not to kick stones or hit anything, heading in the general direction of St. Augustine.

  * * * * *

  Tosha knew he'd been here. She could see sneaker prints behind the wall. She smiled when she saw they were also on the other side. Smart kid, she thought. Instead of running away he'd gotten behind her. Tosha casually looked around but didn't see him anywhere. No matter. She'd find him eventually, and a kid with a skateboard was far less dangerous than four men with automatic weapons.

  She needed to report back and let David know what had happened. She knew he'd be pissed that she’d opened fire, but she'd killed five of them and the only one to remain alive—for now—was some pimply-faced kid.

  The footprints were easy enough to follow. Tosha wiped the sweat from her eyes, wishing she'd brought a hair-tie with her. She couldn't wait to get back to her 'home', strip out of these dirty clothes and into something sexy, something that would make stupid men waste their precious bartering items to buy her a beer at Kimberly's in hopes of getting some action tonight.

  When she noticed the trail led not the way she'd gone but towards town, she laughed. Excellent. It would be even easier now. She'd hunt him down like a dog, slap him around, play into his teenage angst and sexual frustration, and get every ounce of information she could out of the snotty bastard.

  Then she'd take him out back like a wounded dog and put him out of his misery.

  Chapter Seven

  Kimberly's was crowded tonight, as usual. With close to two thousand people living in the small area, there was never a dull moment inside the bar. />
  Ellen Harden, owner of the establishment, was getting tired. "What can I get you tonight?" she asked a regular with a smile and a wink.

  "Shot of rum."

  She glanced back at the depleted supply. "I'm out of rum. How about vodka?"

  "Sure. How much?"

  "How much ya got?"

  The man smiled, showing crooked teeth. "How about a trade?"

  Ellen laughed. "All we're doing is trading. That's how this works. You come in, I give you a drink, and you give me something of value in return. Jewelry, food, bottled water, ammo or a good romance book."

  He grinned. "I could show you a good time, Kimberly."

  "I'm sure you think you could," she said and poured him a two-finger shot. "You owe me."

  "We could do this upstairs real quick," he said.

  "Not interested, sweetie. My heart belongs to another man. But next time you come into my place you'd better have something of value for a lady, got it?"

  They all called her Kimberly, which was understandable. In truth, she was from Georgia and was on vacation with her husband and daughters when the world took a shit on their vacation.

  When St. Augustine circled the wagons and secured downtown and the roads in and out, they simply stayed. Who wanted to go out there into the unknown when you had scores of armed men and women to protect you?

  Ellen was hungry soon after and they forcibly opened Kimberly's in search of food. As they were firing up the grill—and her hubby pouring himself a shot of Jack—actual patrons had come in and ordered food and drink.

  Thus, she became Kimberly, her daughters Trish and Tonya her waitresses, with her husband in the back working the grill.

  All in all, she had quite a scam going. Last night, a group had come in with a freshly-cut deer, offering her a slab of venison in exchange for her last bottle of Jim Beam rye. It didn't matter to Ellen because she never paid for the bottle anyway.

  "Tonya, come here for a second."

  "Yeah, Kimberly?" Her daughter asked with a sneer. They busted her chops fiercely over the fake name but knew enough to never cross a line. If anyone found out the truth they might get tossed, or worse…

  Ellen playfully slapped her daughter. The girls, in their late twenties, were the spitting image of their mom, with the same bone structure in their faces and the same curvy figures. Tonya was more of a flirt with the patrons and could be counted on to get a few more items each night than the rest.

  "Go tell your dad that I'm hungry. Some of the venison would be great right about now."

  "That does sound good. Be right back."

  Ellen sighed as she did a quick inventory of their remaining stock. There wasn't much left, and without more alcohol the place would have to shut down. Then what? She didn't know. So far, they'd been lucky, living larger than most people and amassing a great collection of trade items. She had more watches and gold jewelry than she could ever wear or carry, but in the end, what good was it?

  Maybe she should close down, gather the rest of the stock, and trade off some of the bottles for food and water. That seemed to be in short supply.

  Every night, the men and women who scavenged the outlying areas came in with expensive clothing, pearl earrings or video cameras and the like.

  Now, she and her family had a room filled with such items, and nothing to do with them. When they'd first taken over the place, her husband had argued to only swap alcohol for food and water. Ellen and her daughters had out-voted him, and now had nothing to show for it.

  Tonya dropped a small plate of venison on the bar next to her mother and smiled.

  Two patrons smiled and produced watches, ankle bracelets and women's socks still in the packaging.

  Ellen sighed. "Sorry, this is my lunch. It's not for trade."

  Tonight, after they closed, she'd call a family meeting. It was time to make some long-overdue changes.

  * * * * *

  John didn't have it in him tonight to argue with Kayla. "If you want to waste time in the bar, knock yourself out. We're here to gather supplies, not trade them for alcohol."

  Kayla smiled. "One drink, come on. It will be fun." She looked to the other members of their group. When she didn't get any sympathy, she smiled. "First round on me."

  "How many rounds are you expecting to have?" John asked. He was tired, worried they were running out of supplies everywhere, and feeling homesick. He missed his wife, missed normal life, missed McDonald's cheeseburgers… and wished he had Darlene here.

  Kayla turned to her brother, Peter. "What do you think?"

  Peter shrugged. He leaned against the wall, big arms folded across his chest. He was a big man but a bit on the simple side. He'd also agree to whatever his sister said.

  John knew they were stuck here overnight no matter what, so a drink might be good. It also might help him, since he was so tense. Maybe a night to forget the world had ended would do wonders for his mood.

  "Fine. One drink, and it's on you," he said to Kayla.

  Kayla hugged him, kissing him on the cheek. "You know, if I wasn't a lesbian I'd be riding you like a bronco, John-John."

  He laughed. "I have no doubt. Is everyone going?"

  There were six of them, but the others decided to wander to the north of town and get the rooms they were given whenever they were in town. It paid to be an outpost, protecting the city and being an advanced scout. Rooms in a secured house were always waiting for them.

  John, Kayla and Peter went inside to Kimberly's Bar, but there were so many customers they couldn't get near the bar.

  It was standing room only for most patrons, the few tables occupied by large groups. There was at least one waitress taking orders, but she looked distraught and they couldn't catch her as she blew past.

  "Can we go?" John asked. "This is ridiculous."

  "Not until I get a drink," Kayla said. She leaned into her brother. "Clear me a path through this crowd, but don't be rough."

  Peter nodded and started moving his large body through, cleaving a path that Kayla and John followed. Within three minutes, they stood at one end of the bar but the bartender, Kimberly herself, was at the opposite end, serving drinks.

  "Now what?" John asked. This was becoming ridiculous; he wasn't in the mood for any of this. He wanted to rest, rise early in the morning and be done with their supply run.

  Kayla, by the grin on her face, and the look in her eye, wanted to play and have some fun. Peter simply leaned against the bar and watched his sister like he'd probably done a thousand times before.

  They'll be fine without me, John thought. She'll get into some minor trouble, Peter will step in as the heavy, and they'll both go home tomorrow with a hangover.

  And John decided he could rest tonight. He said his good-byes but Kayla wasn't listening. She was already flirting with the befuddled old man sitting next to her, making sure to show as much cleavage as possible, hoping for a free drink.

  John pushed his way to the door, amazed that even during an apocalypse some people's first priority was getting drunk. Sometimes their second and third as well.

  "Who are you?" a young girl asked John as he was leaving.

  He smiled to be nice and moved past her. "Nobody."

  "I beg to differ."

  John just wanted to get to a comfortable bed and rest. But he didn't want to piss anyone off tonight, either. "I'm John. I was just leaving."

  She grinned at him and put a hand on her hip. "Too bad, honey, because I have enough to get us both drunk tonight."

  John got a better look at her. She was a redhead, very pretty and petite, and wearing a revealing outfit: cut-off concert T-shirt, tight jeans with rips strategically placed, and high-heeled black leather boots. She was also older than he first thought, probably in her mid-twenties.

  "I'll take a rain check on that, but thank you for the offer."

  "Don't wait too long, honey. A girl like me is getting rarer and rarer these days."

  Chapter Eight

  Her eyes op
ened suddenly but she didn't move, staring at the fluorescent light banks above her. One of them intermittently blinked and made an annoying buzzing noise, like when she was in high school.

  She turned her head and realized she was in a school.

  Desks and chairs were piled in a corner, just under the green chalkboard.

  Darlene was on a large wooden table, hands and feet strapped tightly. As soon as she started to struggle she was startled by a voice from just out of sight.

  "Excellent. I knew you weren't dead. Well, dead-dead."

  "Who are you?" she asked, voice raspy. She felt like she'd swallowed a pound of sand. She tried to break free of the restraints but couldn’t budge them.

  "Holy shit, you can talk." He came into view, a man sporting long, thick wild hair and a bloodied lab coat. He smiled, his face like a child's under all that hair. "The next step in the evolution. And so soon."

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  He ignored her question, walking slowly around the table and looking like a kid about to open Christmas presents. "Excellent," he muttered, clapping his hands in excitement.

  "Let me up, motherfucker."

  He disappeared from Darlene's view again, returning seconds later with a hand-held tape recorder. He put it close to his face. "Subject is exhibiting speech, even sentences. Subject is also using profanity, which might be a neurological disorder, or may simply be a personality trait from when she was alive."

  Darlene closed her eyes. She was tired, and now some lunatic had her prisoner and thought she was a fucking zombie. Could this day get any worse?

  "The wound is still bleeding and rigor mortis has yet to set in, which I find odd. She's a fresh candidate, the freshest I've had yet."

  Darlene opened her eyes again. He was standing over her and sniffing her.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  It startled him and he fell back. She laughed when she heard him crash into something, breaking it.

  "For the last time, you fucking madman, let me go."