Dying Days 2

by Armand Rosamilia

  Now, there was no crowd, no winner's circle, and no milk bath. There was nothing but a hangover trying to push through his drunken haze, and two and a half tons of bus that needed to be driven.

  Or did it?

  Steve stuck his head outside, hoping to see Mike hanging around, but he was long gone. There was no one on the street or sidewalk, and none of the buildings had lights on.

  "Fuck it, I'm parked." Steve, still naked, dropped his bottled water and went to the cabinet, pulled an unopened Southern Comfort out and poured a generous portion into a glass. Three ice cubes from the freezer were added and he swirled it around before sipping it. Hair of the dog and all that, he mused.

  He went back into the bedroom and found his underwear, putting them on and tossing the women's undies into his closet. He was starting to amass a collection again. He wished people in this day and age still had phones or addresses. He missed the days of getting women's numbers or addresses, for the next turn through town, written on their bras and panties.

  Somewhere back at home in Miami he had duffle bags filled with the articles of clothing.

  He propped some pillows on the bed, stretched out, and grabbed the remote control, laughing when he realized he was trying to surf through channels that no longer existed.

  Just as he turned the computer off he heard a knock at the door.

  "I knew you'd drag your sorry ass back, Mikey," he said and guzzled the Southern Comfort. He went back out but grabbed the bottle first, pouring more over the ice.

  There was another bang on the door.

  "Hold your horses, I'm almost sober."

  Steve opened the door and swung it wide. It almost smacked into the woman standing on the street. He laughed because it was funny he almost knocked her over and because everything was funnier with some hard liquor in you.

  "Can I help you, baby? Lost? Need to party with The Breeze? Come on in."

  He went back to the freezer, added four more pieces of ice to his glass, and scooped the Southern Comfort bottle off the counter as he passed.

  When he glanced back, she was face-first on the floor and struggling to rise.

  "Sloppy drunk? Normally I'd toss your sorry ass out, but I'm in the mood."

  As she slid across the floor and righted herself, another female fell into the tour bus.

  "Hey, bring a friend, that's what I always say. Back here, ladies."

  Steve slopped the liquor onto the bed when he sat down and tried to add it to his glass. "Fuck it," he muttered, and put it to his lips, relishing the heat as it slid down his throat. This is the life.

  When the two zombies finally made it to the bedroom, Steve 'The Breeze' Brack was already passed out, dreaming of his Daytona 500 win.

  He didn't stop smiling in his sleep, even when they went to work, chewing his manhood.

  * * * * *

  "You have to be kidding me," Doug Conrad spat. "This is it? This is what we did all this for, a handful of rice and some dirty water?"

  Rusty punched the wall and everyone else took a respectful step or two back, giving their leader some room.

  The stockpile of food, water, supplies and weapons in St. Augustine was a bust. Even though several rooms of the Flagler College proudly had 'line forms here' signs and masking tape on the ground, it was a magic show, a bait and switch.

  Large crates marked as food were actually empty, and sheets and blankets had been draped over tables and chairs to give the illusion of supplies.

  "Is it possible they moved it? That they knew we were coming?" Doug asked with a growl in his throat.

  No one responded and he didn't expect them to. He was sure his legendary temper had preceded him, and most of these men had been with him long enough to know when he spoke you did what you were told.

  "Where are all the people?" he finally asked, controlling his voice.

  Rusty leaned against the wall. "Most of them broke through the barrier on the bridge and ran off, dragging their tents and bags. They didn't have much. We stopped a few but they didn't clean this place out, especially that fast."

  "We could've saved ourselves time here." Doug shook his head. "These people would have starved to death soon enough. Hundreds of people living here with enough food to last three days, I think. Unbelievable. Orlando had more food."

  "As did that group in Georgia," Rusty said.

  "Load up." Doug stepped away from the boxes. He was disgusted. The plan was simple: get in, take what they could carry, grab a couple of the women, and set sail again. Then wait for the city to rebuild and re-gather supplies and keep attacking until these people were gone.

  Now they had nowhere to go, no new camp to attack. And no food to get them there.

  Doug turned to see everyone staring at him. He saw fear in their eyes, and confusion. He blinked and shook his head. "Didn't I give an order? Load up."

  Rusty grinned. "You heard the man. Let's get this back on the boats as quickly as possible. We'll start a chain of men from here to the beach."

  Doug smiled at his old friend. He put an arm around him and they walked outside. It would be light soon, and Doug wanted to be out on the water before the remaining citizens could reorganize and attack. "We need to whip them so they get this done quickly. This food will last us a few weeks and nothing more."

  "Understood."

  "We also need women to keep the men in the game."

  Rusty nodded. "I'll send a couple out door to door. Maybe they'll round up some lookers."

  "Lookers?" Doug snorted. "At this point as long as they have a hole to fill and aren't too cold they’ll do."

  Rusty laughed. "Hey, kid, come here."

  Dylan James ran up, smiling at Doug.

  "Doug, this is the kid who got off the ship and punched holes in their defenses. Dylan, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Doug put his hand out and gripped the teenager's hand, squeezing it hard and firmly. "Great work, son. You'll stick with me."

  Dylan smiled.

  Doug turned to Rusty. "That thing we just talked about? I want you to personally do it."

  Rusty frowned. "Me? Are you going to get the men back to the ships?"

  "I'm heading back now, and taking Dylan as my personal escort. You'll take another man with you to find what we really need. Dylan, you ever been with a woman?"

  Dylan blushed and looked away.

  Doug laughed. "Find a young one for my new bodyguard."

  He didn't wait for Rusty to respond. There was no need, as Doug knew his right-hand man would follow the command to the letter.

  As men began walking past with boxes and crates, Doug smiled. They'd be loaded and ready to sail in no time.

  The city of St. Augustine, with lions proudly displayed on their bridges and gates, and named on a restaurant, had gone out like a lamb.

  The firefight Doug was dreading had been avoided, which was perfect, because he didn't have enough men to go around. Every one of them, for better or worse, was needed.

  Like the young kid he was walking with. This was the future right here, the heir to Doug's eventual kingdom. Once the zombies finally died out he'd be able to reconstruct the world in his image. He'd let them bow before him, bring him food and wine, and worship him.

  And this kid would be trained to take over once Doug had built his kingdom.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The undead were everywhere. John had only a general idea about the layout of St. Augustine. He decided to get to Kimberly's Bar and take the street past it to Fort Matanzas. If the survivors were making a stand, the fort would be the logical place.

  As luck would have it, the zombies were spread out, walking in random directions, looking for the living. John skirted past most of them without getting close, only twice having to barrel past. He didn't want to shoot his pistol and draw more to him.

  He rounded the corner to the bar and stopped short. At least twenty zombies were gathered around the door, banging against it.

  Obviously, living people we
re inside, the first glimpse of such John had had since waking.

  John ran around the corner, checking doors until he found one open. He went inside and grabbed a chair, breaking it and hefting the broken leg pieces.

  "Hey, douche bags," he yelled as came close to the group. They all turned.

  John took steps backwards, making sure none had gotten behind him. He also wanted to make sure every single one of them followed so he didn't have a repeat of the survivors trapped in the car.

  Satisfied he'd gotten their full attention, he led them down the block, circled around a building, and got behind them. He was at the front door of Kimberly's Bar before they'd turned around or seen him.

  He knocked, quietly at first.

  When another zombie came down the street at him, he tapped harder. This got the attention of the back few of the group he'd led away, and they turned.

  "Let me in," John said as he pounded on the door.

  Now, new zombies were approaching.

  "Hello?" he yelled and hit the door with his forearm. "I need to get inside. I know you're in there. Please."

  The door opened a crack but John didn't wait for pleasantries. He pushed at the door and forced his way in, pushing the man out of the way and slamming the door shut.

  Three pistols appeared, pointed at his face.

  John leaned against the door and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. "Pull the trigger or get those guns out of my face."

  He opened his eyes and looked at each person in turn.

  "Need a drink?"

  John nodded. "Is this it? Are the rest at Fort Matanzas?"

  "Not that I saw. The zombies got in, and they're everywhere. Hundreds of them. I'm Mike Ross." Mike shook John's hand.

  "I'm John Murphy."

  "I'm Ellen, but everyone calls me Kimberly. You're from the southern outpost, right? I've seen you in here before."

  John nodded and took a beer from her. "Yes, and there are some companions I came with. Two of the group came in here last night. Kayla—she's a redhead, in her forties—and her brother Peter. He's a big guy."

  Ellen nodded. "They were both here last night, but that's all I know, sorry."

  A pretty redhead sat down across from John, staring at him until he looked her way. She wiped her eyes, turned back and smiled. "I'm Tosha. I remember you from last night."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah, you blew me off when I asked you to come in here and buy me a drink."

  John shrugged. At this point he didn't think any of that mattered anymore. John didn't know what actually did matter at this point.

  Tonya and Trish welcomed him.

  The banging on the door was getting louder.

  "Is there another way out of here?" Mike asked.

  "Through the back alley, between the buildings," Ellen said. "We sneak out that way to get home if there are too many people on the street out front."

  "We need to get out of here." John stood. "Do you have any weapons?"

  Trish laughed. "You'd be amazed how many people traded in guns, ammo, machetes and swords for liquor."

  "There are six of us and hundreds of them," John said.

  "This should even some of the odds," Tosha said as she grabbed a long sword from the pile. She held up her gun. "Can anyone help me find ammo for this?"

  Ellen selected a machete. "I've never killed anyone."

  "Don't worry, mom, they're already dead," Trish said. She loaded a pistol but stopped. "Where's dad?"

  "Holy shit," Ellen said. "He's been sleeping through this… as usual."

  "It wouldn't be the first time. I'll go get him," Tonya said. "Remember the trip to Virginia when we were little? There was an explosion at the hotel and he slept right through it."

  John pulled a box of ammo from the pile and handed it to Tosha. "This should do the trick."

  Tonya screamed from the kitchen.

  Mike was the first to get through the door with John close behind, but by then Mike was shooting.

  John rushed in to see three zombies and Tonya, who was bitten and had blood pumping from her neck.

  "Damn," Mike said. "Keep Kimberly and her daughter out."

  John turned and blocked the doorway, gripping Ellen by the shoulders as she tried to get past. He pulled her close despite her struggling and looked to Tosha to help with Trish.

  "Let me go, I need to get to my daughter and husband. Move, damnit!" Ellen yelled and tried to break free of John's grip.

  John frowned when Tosha simply put the gun to Trish's head and asked where she was going.

  Mike fired four shots in quick succession.

  Ellen collapsed, hitting the floor. Trish ran to her and they hugged.

  John looked at Mike when he popped his head in. "What happened?"

  Mike shrugged. "The back door was open, probably because it's so hot back here. They found the alley and have been eating and, uh, other stuff to him for a while. I peeked out and the alley is clear right now, but it won't be for long."

  John went to Ellen and her daughter. "I'm very sorry this happened, but we need to leave. Now."

  "I'm not going anywhere," Ellen said. "There's nowhere for me to go."

  John turned to Trish. "Please help me get your mother to safety."

  Trish wiped tears from her cheeks. "There isn't anywhere safe. We're staying here."

  Tosha grabbed another pistol and tucked it in her waistband. "Seriously, we need to go. Either they die or we all die."

  Mike laughed. "Wow, are you a bitch."

  "Loser, you have no idea." Tosha ran past Mike. "I'll meet you at the fort. I'll clear the way. Don't thank me or anything."

  John tried to lift Ellen but she pushed him away.

  "Go and do what you have to do." Ellen stared at John and smiled. "I belong here, in my bar, with my family. I need you to respect that."

  "This is insane," John said.

  "Get out. When this is all over, come see me. I owe you a free drink." Ellen kissed John on the cheek. "We'll be fine."

  Mike stamped his foot. "John, we really have to go."

  * * * * *

  "I see light," Darlene said impatiently.

  Russ squinted, making an exaggerated face. "Ah, false dawn."

  "We need to move." Darlene made sure her machete was strapped to her back, her Desert Eagle was in its holster, and her latest additions—a pair of matching 9mm Browning L9A1's—were in their shoulder holsters.

  Russ handed her a motorcycle helmet but she refused.

  "Don't want helmet hair?" he asked.

  She smiled. "I need to be able to see what's around us just in case I need to shoot something."

  "Fair enough." Russ put his helmet on. "I hope you're wrong about us needing to get there so quickly. You're starting to freak me out."

  "I'm freaking myself out, believe me. I hope you're bringing enough weapons."

  "Nope, going light." Russ started the motorcycle. "Two rifles strapped to the saddlebags, four pistols and ammo in them, and eighteen grenades. And that's not counting what I'm carrying on my person."

  Darlene got on the back of the bike.

  "Oh, and I brought my last two Twinkies."

  "I hate Twinkies."

  "Good, because they're not for you. They're hard as a rock but I still love them."

  "How long will this ride take?"

  "As long as I don't get a ticket, we should be there in twenty-five minutes. The problem is this damn Palm Coast traffic. All these old drivers drive like they’re going to a funeral."

  Darlene held on as he took off. He drove like a madman.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. At his mention of a traffic ticket she was reminded of John Murphy. Up until now, she hadn't thought too much about what John’s reaction would be when she showed up in St. Augustine, wounded, riding the bitch seat of the guy everyone thought was trying to kill them.

  Her excitement over seeing him again was now crushed, because she knew he'd yell at her for leaving Murph alone. John woul
d be angry for the stupid move of going back to the gas station, almost getting killed…

  "Do they have any doctors in St. Augustine?" Russ yelled to her.

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "I didn't forget about the two bites you've received and the fact you're still alive. I think I need some blood-work from you when we get there."

  "Fair enough."

  At this point, she didn't care. She was alive and she wanted to stay that way.

  As Russ pushed the motorcycle past seventy miles per hour, she closed her eyes again and hoped she'd make it in one piece to see a doctor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tosha, despite being in great shape, was out of breath by the time she got to the Huguenot Cemetery wall. She hunkered down and cleaned the machete blade in the grass. She'd only had to use it once on the way here.

  Before her was Fort Matanzas but there were at least thirty undead between her and the main gate. With the coming of dawn, she could see a stream of zombies coming over the Bridge of Lions, but what really bothered her was the men walking down the sidewalk past the Ripley's Museum with boxes of goods.

  She was about to start shooting when she heard running from the way she'd come. Mike and John were heading towards her at full speed. Tosha stood up and waved to them to slow down, duck, and come to her.

  "Glad to see I'm not the only one out of breath," she said as the two men fell next to her on the lawn. "We have company of the living variety."

  "Who are they?" John asked.

  "No idea. I've never seen them before. There's no way they just happened by, saw the zombies attacking us, and decided to waltz in and steal our stored supplies."

  "I'm counting at least twelve," Mike said.

  "They seem to be moving the supplies down the road to either a transport or… wait." Tosha turned and frowned. "To their boats. It's the motherfuckers we chased away."

  "How can you be sure?" John asked.

  "That guy right there on the sidewalk, giving orders. He's not the boss, but I saw him on the boat with the other guy. He's obviously important." Tosha leaned on the cemetery wall.

  "If we follow them, we might be able to surprise them," Mike said.