Dying Days 2

by Armand Rosamilia

  "The difference is the zombies want to bite your dick off," Mike said.

  "Definitely mine over yours. Mine's much bigger."

  "Asshole." Once again Mike was wondering what he was doing with this guy, being his personal chauffer and his lackey. His bitch.

  Mike pulled the tour bus over to the side of the main road and put it in park.

  "What's up?" Steve looked out. "This isn't the beach."

  Mike shut it off and pulled the keys out. "I'm done driving."

  "What? The beach has to be close. Take us a couple more blocks and we'll be there." Steve said with a smile.

  "Stick a fork in me, I'm done." Mike tossed Steve the keys.

  "What am I supposed to do with these?"

  "Uh, how about you show off those racing skills and drive it yourself?"

  Steve stopped smiling. "I can't drive this."

  "Why not?"

  "My license is suspended. Drunk driving."

  "Are you shitting me? Do you think you'll get pulled over?"

  "No." Steve tried to hand the keys back. "I've never driven this thing before."

  "When I met you, weren't you driving?"

  Steve shook his head. "My regular driver skipped out on me to be with his damn family. Left me on the side of the road near that Cracker Barrel. What a jerk. I hope him and my sister are long gone."

  Mike laughed. "That's why, when I met you, you were sitting in the passenger seat drinking a beer. You were afraid to get pulled over. You weren't happy to see me, one of your biggest fans. You were happy to see anyone with a fucking license. All this talk about us sticking together, out on the open road, finding our way, it was all bullshit. It was all about you. All about what the next sucker can do for you. I'm done being that sucker."

  "Relax. We're both tired and drunk. We need to get to the beach, park and sleep for ten hours. Then we can talk this out, buddy."

  "I'm done talking."

  "I'm sorry about your small dick, I mean talking about it," Steve said.

  "Fuck you."

  "Come on, I'm just playing with you. Take a joke, man. Lighten up."

  Mike was done with joking and done taking orders. Without another word he climbed out and slammed the door behind him.

  He'd walk back to the refugee camp and see if he could share a tent with one of the nice people there that he'd cooked hot dogs for all day while Steve 'The Breeze' Brack told his stories about racing all over the world and all the famous celebrities he'd met and the ones he'd slept with, partied with, gambled with, and drank under the table.

  "Mike Ross is nobody's patsy," he said aloud and laughed. "Patsy. That's a fun word to say when you're drunk."

  Someone stepped out of the shadows across the street, in front of the abandoned convenience store, but Mike ignored them. It was probably someone coming back from the bar or getting off their patrol shift.

  "I could do that," Mike said, thinking about the patrols. "Why can't I help out around here, instead of sitting in the Taj Mahal bus and drinking all day?"

  He turned to ask the person if he had any information about guard duty but stopped. There was something wrong with the way the guy was walking, slow and jerky. "Are you alright? Drunk, too?"

  When the man crossed into the thin cone of a street light, Mike nearly pissed his pants. It was a zombie, no doubt about it. How had it gotten past all the fences and the patrols?

  "If I take this one down, they'll see what kind of hero I can be, and they'll let me join them." Mike looked around for something to hit the zombie with, like a board or something sharp to jab through it's face.

  He took his time since he was still tipsy and the thing wasn't moving too fast.

  There was a broken fence in the next lot and it was simple to yank a warped board from it. Mike hefted it in his hands like a baseball bat. He was ready.

  When he turned to confront the zombie, he finally pissed his pants.

  There were at least twenty of them coming slowly at him from down the street.

  Mike dropped the stick and ran for dear life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darlene ran back into the room she’d awoken in, checked her Desert Eagle to make sure it was loaded, and grabbed her gear.

  Russ walked in behind her and sat down. "Where are you going?"

  "We need to let St. Augustine know about this."

  "Right now?"

  "The sooner the better. We've all been sitting around, playing house, pretending they'll fall over and die without living people to eat."

  "A sound theory before my observations."

  Darlene rolled her shoulder and squirmed in pain. "This is all a lie."

  "No, this is life. It's just another 'fuck you' thrown into the system and nothing more. Zombies, aliens, the government, alligators in the sewers… it's all the same. We as human beings adapt, survive, and rise from the ashes of a destroyed world."

  "And you believe that shit?"

  Russ laughed. "Not after seeing what I just showed you. We're all royally screwed."

  "All the more reason to warn the city."

  "I agree."

  Darlene waited for him to move, but he didn't. "Aren't you going to help me? Give me a ride, or at least keys to a car?"

  "I'll give you a ride, but not right now."

  "Why?" Darlene was on the edge, excited and ready to roll.

  "On the off-chance you didn't notice, we're on the wrong end of midnight and it's very dark out. A motorcycle, breaking the silence of the night, is like a dinner bell."

  "We need to go," Darlene said.

  "Yes, but in the morning. At first light, when I can see them before they see us."

  Darlene knew he was right. "We're wasting time."

  "No, we're being smart about it. And I never said I was coming with you."

  "I never asked you to." Darlene smiled. "But you're coming with me to present your findings to the people in charge."

  "Really?" Russ said, clearly amused. He locked his fingers behind his head and leaned back. "Ever ridden on a bike?"

  "Yeah, a few times."

  "Ever shot a rifle from the back of one?"

  "Of course," Darlene said with a laugh.

  "Ever been to a jazz club in New York City?"

  "Several," Darlene said and laughed.

  "That's a lie, and I'm thinking the rest of your answers are as well."

  Darlene sat down on the table. "Hey, you don't know if you can do something until you do it."

  "I suppose. I've always set my sights on certain things and then done them, like computers or playing bass or doing standup."

  "You were a comedian?" Darlene asked.

  Russ smiled. "I said I did them; I never said I did them well. I'm a mean bass player, you'll never hear better."

  "Especially now, right?"

  "Well, there is that. Somewhere out there, John Paul Jones of Zeppelin is eating someone and not getting his daily practice in. What a waste."

  "Do you have a bass here?"

  "I thought you'd never ask. I soundproofed one of the classrooms. Do you play an instrument?"

  "Not even the triangle."

  "Well, too bad. It's been forever since I've jammed with someone else. I don't suppose you were planning on sleeping tonight anyway. We may as well hang out, talk, arm ourselves, fill our bellies with junk food, and then be off."

  "That sounds like a plan." Darlene hopped off the table and followed her host.

  * * * * *

  Ellen put up her hand, stopping her daughters from waking their father. "Let him sleep. He's been in this hot kitchen for fifteen hours again."

  Trish and Tonya followed Ellen back into the bar area, where they sat around a table. They'd lit some candles and placed them around the bar. On nights the lights were still on, people would bang on the door asking for a drink, regardless of the time.

  The first thing they'd do each night was lock the doors, then shut off the lights and the sign out front, and ignore the late patrons
. There'd always be tomorrow.

  Not anymore, Ellen thought. She was tired and her girls looked worn out as well. "There's going to be some changes around here."

  "Shouldn't we wake dad?" Trish asked.

  Ellen thought about it but shook her head. The man would go along with this plan, and they'd been married long enough for her to know it. He'd never suggest it himself, and he'd probably feign an argument with her to prove he could keep up this pace, but Ellen knew he'd be happy.

  "Tonight was our last night open."

  "Huh?" Tonya finally said.

  "We're killing ourselves here, fifteen hour days, and for what? We don't need any more rings or ankle bracelets. Money isn't worth the paper it's printed on."

  "What will we do?"

  Ellen smiled. "We'll do what we Harden's always do, girls. We'll adapt. I figure we can open up in the late morning and simply trade away whatever alcohol we don't want to keep in exchange for food only."

  "Then what?" Trish asked.

  "I'm thinking we should have enough to last us a few solid months. Your father can offer his help for some pay and so can you girls. I'll get a job in supplies or something since I have all this experience; and maybe you two can as well. Really, who knows what will happen? I just know living like this isn't living."

  There was a knock at the door.

  All three women laughed.

  Ellen rubbed her eyes. "I'm wiped out. It will be good to get up tomorrow and not have to do this all day."

  "Maybe we can put a sign in the window?" Tonya said.

  "That's a great idea. Let everyone know we won't be opening but we'll be looking for trades of food only for bottles of wine, beer and hard liquor."

  There was another knock at the door, this time harder.

  "Drunks never give up." Ellen was glad the bedrooms were next door so she didn't have to hear the banging. She was sure it went on at all hours of the night.

  "There's going to be some people upset, especially ones who work all day and then show up afterwards, expecting us to be open," Trish said.

  Ellen pondered that for a moment. "Maybe we simply close tomorrow, put up signs, and have everyone come back the next day or later tomorrow night?"

  "I think we'll have a riot on our hands," Tonya said.

  Suddenly the door itself shook from the pounding and someone outside was screaming to be let in.

  "This is ridiculous," Ellen said. "Get me the shotgun."

  When Trish hesitated, Ellen winked. "I promise not to shoot anyone, but you can't be busting down my door, neither."

  Now several people were banging and yelling.

  "Stand back," Ellen said to her daughters as she was handed the shotgun. She unlocked the door and pulled it open a crack.

  "What's going on?"

  There were several people outside and now she heard a gunshot, close.

  "The zombies! They're in St. Augustine," someone said in a panic. "We need help."

  Ellen swung open the door and pointed her shotgun at the floor. "Hurry up and get inside."

  She stood to the side as people started pouring into Kimberly's Bar.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The walk home had been nice and pleasant for David. He strolled through the quiet, deserted streets and took small sips from the bottle Mike had given him.

  When he got onto his block, he thought he glimpsed movement, but it was too dark to be sure. He stopped, drew his pistol, and waited. As much as he wanted to think that they'd created a utopian society, where everyone worked equally and put in equally, he wasn't stupid.

  While they technically didn’t have a leader, everyone had come to recognize David as the person to go to when there was a problem or a decision needed to be made right then and there.

  His greatest fear was the population finding out—and sooner than later they would—that the storerooms were nearly empty. Too many people eating too much food, and the people out daily foraging having to go further and further to find anything edible.

  Soon, the house of cards would topple, and David didn't want to be in the line of fire when it happened. Unfortunately, he thought he would be the focal point when it all came crashing down, and he didn't know how he would handle that.

  Three people were on the other side of the street as he passed another house. He gripped his pistol. He didn't want to kill anyone and hoped they were just people heading home after a long day and not looters or thieves.

  David was stunned when the first one came into the weak moonlight. It wasn't alive, and clearly neither were his companions.

  Swearing, he shot the first one in the head and watched it fall. From the shadows, another three replaced it.

  He turned to run to his house but there were ten more coming down the street.

  "Honey! Honey! Everyone, wake up! We're under attack!" he yelled and moved forward, shooting as he went.

  David ran out of bullets quickly, and still the zombies came on. His initial impulse was to pull back, go find help or ammo, and then return.

  That was when his wife appeared, disheveled, in the doorway of their home, the house they'd set up here together, a new start in this horrible world, to live the rest of their lives together.

  David rolled up his sleeves and started fighting his way to his wife, yelling at her to get back inside the house.

  He punched one zombie in the face and kicked at another, but more appeared.

  He wanted to cry when she got back inside but two zombies slammed into the door and shattered it.

  "No!" he yelled, throwing his fists and shoulder-blocking to get to her.

  David Monsour, defacto leader of St. Augustine, went down with a fight, bitten and ripped apart, the screams of his wife the last sounds he heard.

  * * * * *

  Someone was up and about in the house. John, who felt like he'd just fallen asleep, rolled over and tried to bury his face back in his pillow.

  Another bang, like a pot falling to the floor in the kitchen, pissed him off. That's just rude, he thought. Can't people be quiet?

  He was about to yell when he heard the table or chairs break.

  We're being robbed? Maybe I was followed here by some drunken asshole who wants to grab our stuff before we can trade it, John thought.

  He couldn't use his crossbow in such close quarters so he pulled his handgun and slipped his clothes and boots back on, waiting for someone to bust into his room at any moment.

  John wondered why no one else in the house had stirred yet, although he hoped they were gathering their weapons and being quiet like him.

  The door opened without a squeak, which he was thankful for. The hallway was dark but his eyes were already adjusted to the gloom, and he didn't see movement.

  He took a step, and then another, putting his back to the hall wall so nothing could get behind him. In the dark, with the silence and the tight quarters, he was feeling claustrophobic.

  He reached the bedroom next to his with another step and he tried the doorknob. It opened. He slipped inside but the bed was unused. Back into the hall, gun drawn before him, he continued down the hallway.

  John checked the other two bedrooms on the floor and found them empty, but only recently. The beds had been slept in, and clothes and the occupants’ supplies were still in both rooms.

  As he stepped into the main living area, he froze. Someone was standing near the front door, which was opened. There was movement outside as well.

  "Hello?" he finally said. He didn't want to shoot Kayla or anyone else.

  When the figure moved awkwardly towards him, he pulled his pen flashlight and shined it at the person's face. What stared back at John didn't blink. Its eyes were milky white and dead.

  "Shit," John said and shot it in the face, the noise deafening in the house.

  He ran to the front door as two more zombies came up the walkway. The street was dotted with undead.

  "What the heck happened?" He decided not to stick around and figure it out. Obviously, th
e defenses had failed, and in a major way.

  They were coming at him now, and he decided to put as much distance between them as possible before he was surrounded.

  John shot the two closest zombies in the face but before he ran he hesitated. All of the supplies, as well as his gear and his crossbow and bolts, were back in the room.

  He took a step back but had to dodge a hand as it reached for him. Without thought he pointed and pulled the trigger, closing his eyes as gore splattered on his face and arms.

  There were too many, and the circle was tightening around him. His indecision might cost him his life.

  He screamed in frustration. He wanted to kick himself in the ass for not realizing that nowhere was safe and nowhere would ever be free of these monsters, and he should've grabbed his gear and moved when he’d had the chance.

  Now he was down to a couple bullets and whatever shells he had in his pockets, knowing he was leaving behind a full box of ammo with his gear.

  The street was crowded with the dead, and John, frustrated, began punching his way through them, tossing bodies into other bodies and cursing as he went.

  He didn't know what had happened to the others but he hoped they'd escaped. John pushed away the thought they'd left him there to die, but he was angry. He decided to use that emotion to get him through this pack and to safety.

  Safety? Where would that be? If they broke through the fences, got past the patrols, and no general alarm had been sounded, the city could be overrun already.

  His only bet was a familiar area. He decided to get to the center of town and hope the remaining survivors were making a stand, because to run to an outlying area might be suicide. At least inside a building with other survivors he had some small chance of surviving.

  John Murphy hoped it was enough.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Do you know who I am?" Steve asked the imaginary crowds surrounding the tour bus. He could hear the roar of the crowd as they cheered him on, and he remembered all the times he stood on the roof of his lucky number 75 car and raised his arms in victory.