Before the round collided with the face of the blue nudist, three more bumbled out of the door. Understanding in which general direction the uninfected meat lay, they stumbled around and screeched an earsplitting squeal akin to that of bats or monkeys. Fighting through the pain, one was able to keep its eyes up for a fraction longer than the others. It moved more fluidly than the other two stragglers. Unfortunately for Diego, it was not one of the first recipients of high velocity metal.
Out of the three, D sent a burst low at enemy number one. Four shots made contact with the area of the right knee. Kneecap seemed to invert before shattering into uncountable pieces. Every vein transporting blood from the upper body to the lower leg had to be ruptured. As the creature collapsed onto its side, it was apparent the only connection that remained to the calf was stringy tendons and some ragged skin. All the animal could do was scream in unimaginable pain and violently squirted something akin to baby diarrhea from its rectum.
Third in this lineup of peevie received the next burst. A couple rounds punctured the top of the left shoulder. Three more bullets destroyed the collarbone and punctured life-sustaining arteries in the neck. D didn’t know if it was the jugular or carotid, but blood definitely shot like a geyser from the burst throat. Even if the animal was technically in the fight, it would be technically dead in just a few minutes. Impossible gallons of black sewage rocketed from the blue ass.
It’s said two out of three ain’t bad. Whoever coined that phrase never dealt with three rampaging cannibals at the same time. Luckier and much more agile, the still attacking peevie charged blindly in the direction of Diego. By the time the other two bodies dropped in their own steaming pools of feces, the comer was closer than anticipated.
Shouting in surprise, D sprayed a wild burst of automatic fire at the charging monster. The right pectoral muscle was ripped into shreds; nipple bounced away and seemed to disappear. Before pain could be understood, tip of the tiny, erect penis was impacted by a metrically calibered piece of lead. Blood freely ran from the shaft as the head launched between the legs and disappeared into the chunky liquid seeping from the anus.
Clearly, the beast wouldn’t be alive more than a few torturous moments. The demonic former human was entirely unable to stop its own forward momentum. All it wanted was to curl up on the roof to seek a fraction of comfort, burying its face in the gravel to keep the UV rays away from its yellow eyes. Basically plummeting straight ahead, the thing collided with D.
A horrified spectator, Smokes was only able to regretfully survey. Wishing he could reach out to grab his friend, The Oracle could do nothing but watch what was supposed to be. Could he have changed the outcome in the slightest? Maybe I just aint tryin’ hard nuff.
Going airborne, Diego Diego was about to impact the concrete below. Smokes looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry!” he mouthed.
Toppling to his catastrophic end, D held eye contact with his amigo for that fraction of a second that seemed to last forever. In that brief instant, Smokes knew that he knew. Diego understood, Smokes had somehow already seen this. The fading light in comprehending eyes seemed, at least to The Oracle, to shout out. “You could’ve prevented this!”
I do dat? This had not been foreseen. The Oracle was unsure if he had chosen to mouth that. Of course, he wanted to, but he was beginning to understand choice meant very little in this new world. Or perhaps, maybe there never was a choice in anything.
Since his friend was seconds from death, would it have made a difference if D suddenly gained understanding? Maybe it was a choice! Did it matter? If that was his choice, was there any choosing at any other point? This inner debate could go on for ages. Would the truth ever be discovered?
Looking down now at the unmoving corpse of his friend on the sidewalk, it seemed, at first, Diego remained totally unharmed. A blue, naked, shit covered body lay on top of him, but he appeared to be nothing more than asleep at first glance.
A growing, crimson halo told the predestined truth. Morbidly angelic, twistedly sainted, disturbingly beatific, bloody cherub. The only living person he’d seen in days had now fulfilled his role.
The Sacrifice.
“It is finished. Now, the script must move forward.”
Turning to face the South side of the roof, he noticed D’s machine pistol lying on the gravel to his side. Conveniently, he reached down picked it up and placed it in his waistband, like it was supposed to be there. As he made his way across the top of the building to climb down the ladder, he was already being prepared for what was to come.
Walking north, straight up southbound Gunter Avenue, The Oracle noticed the occasional unlit but reflective taillights of stopped or parked northbound vehicles. His thoughts were interrupted by nothing.
Just my thoughts? His consciousness was continually assaulted by the ever present voice. Human camaraderie would be needed soon; this deluge of impossible information was unbearable. Infeasible prevision would drive the most adept mind into the bowels of insanity.
Unsure what the reason was, he began moving up the road toward the northbound bridge. But dis bridge got a hole in it! I guess it post to be. Putting one foot in front of the other, he had just reached the totally concrete section of Highway.
One foot in front of da otha. The thought made him glance down, noticing his shoe had somehow come untied. After bending down to fasten the bands, he began to stand. Da gat in my hand? Strange. He didn’t remember pulling it from his waistband.
As he raised, he forcefully smacked his elbow on the driver side rear view mirror on the closest vehicle. “Mufuckin’ piece of bitch!” Dropping back down, he rubbed his impacted funny bone.
Holy shit! He knew what was coming. His actions had been destined. Had I seen dis befo?
Whether or not this had been foreseen, it now became immediately familiar. Everything happened exactly as it had so this event could take place. Occurrences laid out far into the distant future in his mind. Though major happenings in the hereafter were now foreseen, The Oracle was to continue to appear entirely clueless. A gracious smile beaming down from The Screenwriter could be felt.
Far to his right, he heard the halting command he expected to hear. “Freeze and put up your hands!”
Fingers opened to drop the MAC 10. Raising his hands before standing, he wiped away his smile. The Oracle mumbled to himself the mantra that had kept him sane for the past week.
“You’s always at da place you is always post to be.”
THE BEGINNING…
About Javan Bonds
Javan Bonds is the Amazon Best Selling author of the Zompoc series, Still Alive. This series includes Book One: Zombie Lake, Book Two: Zombie Island, Book Three: Zombies On A Plane, Book Four: Zombie Oasis, and now Book Five: Zombie River Run.
The Still Alive series follows a small group of survivors in a small southern town as they try to keep their wits about them and make a new life in a world overrun by naked, blue-skinned, yellow-eyed zombies that are nocturnal and spew shit on everything. Not to mention that they are intent on chomping all the uninfected in an attempt to infect or devour every last piece of flesh on their bones. Fun times!?! Think WW Z, Zombieland, and Shaun Of The Dead, only better.
Bonds has had to overcome numerous obstacles in writing as well as living his daily life. Diagnosed at the age of eleven with Friedreich’s Ataxia (FA), (a progressively degenerative neuromuscular disease under the umbrella of the Muscular Dystrophy Association), he has slowly been robbed of his physical abilities through the years. Bonds became wheelchair bound in 1999 but that was only the beginning of his setbacks. His sight began to diminish in 2010 to the point he is now legally blind and his hearing began failing to the point he now can’t hear individual voices in a noisy room. In spite of all of this, he continues work tirelessly seven days a week on his writing.
Bonds never let his disability rule him and has lived, loved, and laughed often.
In late 2015 at only 28 years old Bonds was told he may have only a sho
rt time left due to the ravages of FA on his heart. After learning this he has been hard at work to complete his other novels and have them finished before his time in this world runs out.
In mid-2016 Bonds published his first novel FREE STATE OF DODGE, the first book in a dystopian series about America in decline and its rebirth.
Javan has these words of wisdom to offer for others stricken by a life-shortening illness:
Live your life. Light your candle on both ends and let it burn. It may burn out faster but your flame will burn brighter than some who live much longer.
Keep an eye on his flame, watch it burn!
Bonds hopes you enjoy the Still Alive series with its humor, pop culture references and excessive zombie killing action. Oh, and there is a pirate ship too.
16
Picking it up in the Middle
by E.E. Isherwood
1
“So. Is this your idea of a first date?” Melissa whispered as if she were in church. “If it is, I’d say this was a dud.”
“I’m not sure. It isn’t how I imagined it, though. I thought there’d be fewer zombies. Less sweating. A lot less screaming.” Phil chanced a look out of the thick blood-splattered window of the mine-resistant ambush protected, or MRAP, military truck he shared with the pretty blonde he often called Mel. They’d already survived for almost two weeks since the zombie plague swept over St. Louis, and they’d just helped most of their party escape onto a plane, but the two of them had chosen to stay behind.
“What have I done?” she asked in a hollow voice.
A pair of tilt-winged Marine Corps V-22 Ospreys had landed inside Busch Stadium, but only one of them managed to clear the chaos on the field and fly to freedom. The other was overwhelmed with zombies as it took off. It hovered twenty feet above third base but then veered into the lower seats where it split open and was fed upon like a bloated carcass on the high savanna.
His young friend Liam had gotten his great-grandma onto the first plane, which was cause for celebration because she apparently carried the cure, but both Ospreys and a lot more survivors would have made it to safety if Melissa hadn’t driven through the outfield gate in the first place. The Boy Scouts riding with them had tried to close the gate after they entered, but when that failed the whole city of zombies followed the truck into the stadium. Things fell apart with the speed of a lightning strike, and Melissa took responsibility for it all.
She remained seated halfway down the bench of the rear cargo hold, well out of the line of sight of any zombies looking in through the front windows.
“You want to talk about it?” He scooted next to her and put her sweat-drenched hand in his. She braced a semi-automatic pistol on her far leg, probably to hide the fact she was shaking uncontrollably.
Since the day they’d met, Melissa seemed like the kind of woman who always knew what she was doing. At first glance, she appeared to be a soccer mom with refined tastes in clothing. She wore tight khaki shorts, a white long-sleeved shirt, and name brand hiking boots, like she was on safari. However, she was more than a suburban mom taking kids to the game. She’d driven the six-wheeled MRAP like she’d been doing it her whole life. He’d navigated for her from the passenger seat, so he saw her expertise first hand. Everything about her impressed the hell out of him, but he couldn’t ignore what just happened.
“Which part? I’ve had ten disasters in a row. The TV station? The drive out there in the streets? The gate? The plane crash?” She laughed quietly but she sounded near hysterical.
“It’s okay,” he said in a comforting voice. “All this isn’t our fault.”
Melissa had gotten the MRAP onto the baseball field right up next to the open ramp of the giant plane, but when it came time to open her door and get out with the others she panicked worse than a rookie officer at their first bar fight.
“I—I just couldn’t move, Phil.” She squeezed his hand. “I saw the Marines get slaughtered by the zombies. I saw Liam slide down the windshield and fall over the side because of all the blood out there. I thought our whole party was going to get eaten on the AstroTurf. I couldn’t make myself go out there and die, even after all he did for me.”
She released a few sobs.
Of all the people he’d met since the world ended almost two weeks ago, she was one of the strongest. They’d talked about their pasts in the extended periods of tedium during that time, but the most he could get out of her was that yes, she did serve in the military and no, she didn’t want to talk about it. He’d seen her do some amazing things recently, not the least of which was drive the MRAP like a race car. Pretty hard to do with a vehicle that handles like a freight train.
“You know, I was in the same spot as you not long ago.”
He gently tugged at her hand to get her to turn to him.
Phil continued. “It was the first time I met Liam, Victoria, and Grandma Marty. After I, uh, talked to my dead wife through Marty, I got them all across that bridge. Liam asked me to get them home. Practically begged me. I figured I owed ‘em one, so I gave them a ride in my patrol car. His house wasn’t that far, and I intended to drop them off at the first opportunity I had, but the town was in full on train wreck mode. Those sirens sent the world into a tailspin, and everyone from St. Louis flooded my little town.”
It was his turn to get choked up. Melissa knew the backstory well because she was in his town when it happened, but he’d never told her the next part.
“That’s when my partner Billy was shot dead in my front seat,” he said with finality. “I pulled over a few minutes later and made a big deal about dragging him into the woods to give him a safe resting place. I made sure I was alone. I’d like to say I stood there and saluted like a proper color guard, but I more or less blubbered over his body because I couldn’t hold it together.”
He let that sit for half a minute. Melissa sniffled and glanced down toward the blood stains on the floor. The tears wanted to come out for him, too, but he had to bite his lip to keep them at bay.
“I almost gave up, Mel,” he said with a wobbly voice. “I had the gun in my hand.” She turned back and looked him in the eyes, which didn’t help his emotions.
“I seriously thought about it for the longest minute of my life, but I came to accept something larger is at work here. If it’s God I don’t know, but somehow Beth talked to me through Grandma Marty on the bridge, and she didn’t tell me there was no hope. I’m never going to give up. Not on myself. Not on you. Not on the world.”
He made a valiant effort at fighting the tears, but one escaped down his cheek. It merged easily with the beads of sweat and fell off his face before she saw it.
“What’s done is done, Mel.” He thought of the woman in front of him, but also, he was ashamed to realize, of how he wasn’t there to protect his wife when she slid off that road six months ago. “You did good getting us here. You helped our friends escape. Be proud of your successes, not ashamed of what else you could have done.”
She leaned in, and the floodgates opened as they hugged.
2
Later, as Melissa’s confidence replenished her empty reservoirs, she sat next to him with no tears or shaking. She holstered her pistol without further incident and they listened to the endless shooting spree outside the metal walls of their 120-degree sauna on wheels. They took turns nursing their last bottle of water.
“I’d love to air this thing out,” she said as a suggestion.
“Me too, but we can’t risk a stray bullet coming in a cracked window.”
“A/C?” she said hopefully.
“If we start using equipment, it may bring the wrong crowd to us.” It was almost worth the risk, because he desperately wanted to cool off, too, but the zombies were relentless once they had a target. The virus burned through the living and made them bleed through their eyes, ears, and noses a lot like Ebola, but it could only be transmitted through biting. That was the only piece of good luck about them, however, because every zombie and everything
they touched ended up covered in the red stuff. If they were discovered in the truck, the zombies would crawl all over it and probably drip blood right through the open windows. For now, he preferred heat over blood.
Phil craned his neck to see out the front.
He’d been waiting for survivors to fight their way out to them, but the zombies on the field never seemed to clear away. Starting the engine or internal systems might make the infected stick around. On the other hand, the longer they stayed quiet and hidden in the truck, the less likely anyone would try to get to them.
It had been over an hour since the plane took off, and he spent most of that time coaxing Mel back from the edge. Every so often a metallic, “ping,” would indicate they’d taken fire from impatient or inaccurate shooters in the stands.
“That’s a .22 round. Very small.” Phil tried to keep the discussion light and topical, and not dwell on the fact there were still survivors fighting zombies in the stadium or that they had no way to help them.
A moment later a series of hard clangs hit the truck.
“Probably an AR or Mini-14. Sounds intentional.” Over the past two weeks, people shot at the MRAP everywhere they drove. It was probably a desperate way to get their attention, but it happened so much it became simple background noise. He hated the new reality, but he stopped feeling guilty after the fiftieth time.
A blast a few minutes later had to be from a shotgun. The little pellets sounded like a handful of gravel had been thrown at them.
When he mentioned this to her, she came out of her shell and laughed a bit.
“So, this is definitely a first date,” she said as she leaned against his shoulder. “You’re giving me a wonderful play-by-play of our meetup here in the romantic city.”
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