Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “First off, what peep show?” asked Dave. “Plus, if you weren’t so old, I’d get up and kick your ancient ass,” said Dave.

  Dave didn’t move, so it was pretty clear he was okay with leaving the zombie killing to his uncle, as well as his ancient ass unkicked. Dave did hold out one of his Walthers, which Bug took. He plodded to the door in bare feet, checked the peephole, and eased it open.

  “Here, zombie, zombie, zombie,” he said. He took two steps out, turned left and held out his hand. A shot sounded. Then another, followed by a thud. We saw him turn to his right, and he fired again. Another thud.

  Then he stood, his back directly against the door and fired a fourth time. This one was apparently not on the porch yet, for we did not hear the sound of a body collapsing against treated decking.

  He came back in, wiped his feet on the mat, and closed the door. “Missed the first shot.”

  “Walther’s tricky,” said Dave.

  “Yeah, I was gonna blame the gun, too,” said Bug. “Like uncle, like nephew.”

  We all settled in and I thought of Flex. I wondered if he was thinking about me.

  *****

  Chapter Five

  Because it seemed to have been the first hurricane to make landfall in the contiguous United States since the zombies arrived, Tony and I had begun to call it Hurricane George, in honor of the Godfather of zombies himself, George Romero.

  I missed Tony again. And I wondered if ol’ George had become a zombie.

  I didn’t have time to wonder shit for very long. Punch was talking but I wasn’t listening, even though he might have been touching on some important information. As it turns out, the first words I did hear were these:

  “We got company, Flex.” I guess he’d figured out I wasn’t listening before, because he also smacked me on my arm as he said it.

  I looked in the rear view and said “Jesus fuck!” I didn’t have time for this. It was like catching every light while you were driving your pregnant wife to the hospital.

  We were only twenty minutes outside of the barricade we’d broken through. The vehicle behind us was a Jeep, so its off-road capabilities would match or exceed those of my Land Cruiser if it came to that. But there was still one thing they didn’t have that I did … the roof-mounted AK-47, ala Hemp Chatsworth.

  “Spin that gun around Punch,” I said, popping the B button on the GPS screen. “Up there. Just grab the grip and watch the GPS. When they’re lined up, pull that rope and fire away.”

  “You gonna try to lose them first?” asked Punch.

  “Fuck no,” I said. “I’m haulin’ my dead buddy in the back. I’m a little short on compassion right now.”

  The rear window of the Land Cruiser shattered and a hole appeared cleanly through the front windshield.

  “You got a fuckin’ hearing problem, buddy?” I yelled, cranking the wheel side to side. “Take ‘em out!”

  The Jeep suddenly cut off to the left, bouncing through the tall grass on the side of the road.

  “Spin the gun toward him!” I shouted, cranking hard left to avoid a staggering rotter that came out of nowhere. I wasn’t able to; the front edge of my cowcatcher tore the digger’s right leg off and he spun wildly in the road like a demonic ballet dancer, his rotted left arm severing from his body, taken by the powerful wind as he twirled.

  “There’s another goddamned truck behind us!” shouted Punch.

  I heard him that time, but fuck if I could do anything about it, and he had yet to fire a shot. “Then take it out!” I shouted. “Goddamnit, Punch, fire that fucking weapon!”

  Two more zombies staggered in front of the Toyota, perhaps six car lengths ahead. Their movement, while as jerky and seemingly aimless as most of the zombies I’d ever seen before, was more ominous somehow; they were, without variation, moving in the same direction. While I hoped it was Buckfield that drew them, I had the distinct fear that it was an unwitting Isis who called to them, as inconceivable as it still was to me.

  I was able to crank the steering wheel hard left, clipping the ankles of a bone-thin male, his deteriorated face not registering even the slightest surprise. I then spun the wheel to the extreme right in time for the cow catcher to lift and throw a twenty-something female rotter up over the hood of the SUV, her gray-black, jawless face smacking the lower portion of the windshield before spinning off the Land Cruiser and falling behind us.

  With all my crazy turns it was no wonder Punch couldn’t line up a reliable shot at our pursuers.

  I increased my speed, seeing open road beyond the abnormals I’d just taken out.

  “Smooth sailin’, brother,” I said. “Now!”

  Punch yanked the handle, and the AK rattled to life, the ejected shells dropping into the catch bag, saving us the tiny burns of hot brass against our skin. It stopped after what I guessed was about six seconds.

  “Got ‘em!” he said. “They flipped that bastard!”

  Through the shattered rear window I saw the pursuit vehicle falling behind us as it tumbled side-over-side and slid to a stop.

  I smashed my foot on the gas pedal again, catching the bouncing Jeep off to my left, almost even with us after my last maneuver, which slowed us significantly. I reached around forty-five miles an hour, but caution was necessary; here and there, more rotters in various stages of decomposition staggered in front of us, assisted by the buffeting wind of Hurricane George.

  At my increased speed, relying on the cow catcher wouldn’t be very wise. Oh, they’d fly all right, but their mass might bend the shit out of the Land Cruiser’s frame, something that Hemp told me when he’d put it on. It was great for pushing them out of the way at around fifteen or twenty miles an hour, but I wasn’t willing to risk it at over forty miles an hour.

  I heard a machine gun sound and felt rounds whizzing inches from my nose. Then I heard our AK-47 rattle again, and watched as the head of the asshole in the Jeep’s passenger seat exploded like a watermelon. As the Jeep fell back and I saw I had open road, Punch continued firing.

  I glanced left to see the windshield turn red and the Jeep crank hard across the road behind me, smashing into a thick copse of pine trees.

  I put my attention back on the road. Punch turned in his seat and looked out the destroyed rear window.

  “Anyone else back there?” I asked.

  Punch didn’t answer right away. He stared behind us for a while, then turned back in his seat, facing forward.

  “We’re good for now,” he said.

  “For now?” I asked. “How determined you think those guys are?”

  “There’s not many of ‘em, Flex, but there’s a pretty uneven number of women to men, which ain’t good. Only six women in the bunch, and a shitload of testosterone competing for them. They like to show off, to say the least. Taking you out would be some good bragging rights.”

  I looked at him and snatched my Glock from my drop holster, pointing it at him. “You said taking you out,” I said. “Don’t you mean taking us out?”

  Punch pressed himself against the passenger side door, his hands up, palms out. “Flex, it was force of habit. I’m with you, man.”

  “You’re sure about that?” I asked.

  “I told you I was bullshitting my way through that group until I found a way out. Nobody leaves. That’s their rule. They have sentries at night, and even when I was one, there are never fewer than three, so I was fucked.”

  “You said you were in Afghanistan,” I said. “You’re savvy enough to take ‘em.” I put my gun back in the holster. I believed him, but at the same time, I wanted to hear more.

  He relaxed again. “Food was under guard. So was water. Vehicles locked down. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear enough, but I wasn’t from around there, and I didn’t have pull.”

  “Did they know you were ex-military?” I asked.

  “Another reason they didn’t like me,” I said. “These guys are punks. Any sense of order or authority and they try to put you in your place fast.
I was a threat to their perceived manhood. Particularly in front of the few women available.”

  I got what he was saying, and I believed him. I didn’t say anything, just nodded.

  “We cool?” he asked.

  “I put my Glock away, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we’re cool,” I said.

  We drove in silence for another half hour. Silence was only applicable to the two of us, because outside, a storm was again raging. The tall trees that lined the road beyond the wide, uneven gravel shoulder were nearly bent in half, and the wipers of the Land Cruiser could barely keep up with the torrential rain.

  There were several cars on the road, interspersed with rotters that we took down here and there. My first goal was to lay Tony to rest, and after that, reaching the hospital and grabbing as much of the antitoxin and other inoculation medication was paramount. In order to achieve those objectives, I had to introduce Punch to WAT-5 and ensure that neither of us was a zombie magnet along the way.

  I pulled the Toyota over, set the parking brake and put it in neutral, cutting the engine. “Okay, we’ve got something to do.”

  “What?”

  I reached into my shirt pocket and withdrew a baggie. I opened it up, took out the wafer and handed it to him.

  “Eat this,” I said.

  He tentatively took it from me. “What’s this? Some kind of protein wafer?”

  I looked up the road at the dead creatures zigzagging their ways toward us through the dead cars.

  “You’ll see,” I said.

  “I’d like to know what I’m taking before I take it.”

  “You are military, aren’t you?”

  “Yep,” he said.

  “It’s called WAT-5,” I said. “If you take it, it’s your best friend in Zombieland. Just trust me on that. Life has to hold some surprises, doesn’t it?”

  “Fuck it,” he said, popping the wafer in his mouth. His face scrunched. “Tastes like shit.”

  He barely got the words out before his eyelids crashed down and he slumped in his seat.

  “I’m used to the flavor,” I said to the unconscious man as I popped another wafer in my mouth and chewed it up. I’d taken one at the house less than five hours earlier, so I was in no danger of a snooze.

  I awakened him a minute later. “We’re not sure why it does that,” I said.

  “What …does what?” he asked, still groggy.

  “Never mind. Anyway, let’s get out. You can leave your gun.”

  “What?” His face said he thought I was crazy. His eyes moved from me to the rotters coming toward us in the street.

  Then I silently wondered if they were moving toward us or forging their way toward Isis. Being on the WAT-5 I’d never know. Not that they wouldn’t stop for a meal if presented with one, so the whole mental exercise was a waste of my limited brainpower.

  “Just follow me,” I said.

  “Flex, there are biters right there, man,” said Punch. “What’s the harm in being armed?” His voice was respectful, but his expression said he thought I was batshit crazy.

  “What kinda gun is that, anyway?” I asked.

  “It’s a Saiga 12 shotgun with a 30-round drum mag.”

  “Great zombie gun,” I said.

  “It is. I’m taking it,” he said.

  “It’s up to you,” I said. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t have left my weapon either. Not based on the word of a stranger.”

  That said, I left my Daewoo inside the Toyota and got out. I’m not a complete idiot, and still had my Glocks. If any more Buckfield folks came up on us, WAT-5 wouldn’t help.

  Eyeing me once more, he got out and came around the Land Cruiser to stand beside me.

  “What now?”

  “We wait,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see,” I said.

  There were five zombies within view.

  Two were within ten feet of us, and he lifted the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Just wait,” I said.

  “Sorry, man,” he said. “I can’t.”

  I grabbed the barrel and pushed it toward the ground, and his large hand jetted out and snatched my forearm. I stared at him, but didn’t let go. His grip was strong and his eyes jerked between me and the dead things, now five feet away.

  “I got this,” I said, my voice calm. I pushed his hand off of my arm and he let go. Before he could raise his weapon again, I stepped between him and the zombies and kept walking. I reached the first one, its filthy, bloody clothing hanging over its frame like a shroud, and took it by the arm. Its lips had long ago deteriorated, exposing its gnashing teeth, but it made no effort to attack, as I had known would be the case. One eye was missing, and in the dark cavern that once held it, I could see what appeared to be a black spider clinging to a well-spun web.

  I didn’t look any longer than necessary, but I pulled it toward the other one. My current charge was of an indeterminate age, its rotting so advanced, but the other one had clearly been a quite virile young man. He had no shirt on, and I could see the remnants of what might have been some very well-inked tattoos. I thought I made out a dragon on its left arm that ran from elbow to wrist.

  Which is where his arm ended. The bones jutted out from the nub, and a family of some sort of small, black bugs had made this place their home.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” said Punch.

  “Not as much as you think,” I said, now standing behind them with one on my left and one on my right. We stood there facing Punch. I backed up one step, placed a hand on the sides of each of my zombie slaves’ heads, and smashed them together with all my might.

  Closing my eyes at impact, their fragile heads crushed into one another, and whatever brains remained in their noggins pulverized as sharp-edged, shattered skull slivers pierced and destroyed them.

  I took another step back as the formerly reanimated corpses collapsed to the ground for the final time.

  “Flex!” shouted Punch, his shotgun barrel quickly in position. I spun around and saw two rotters within five feet of me.

  They continued to advance, but not as though they didn’t know what I was; not like that at all. Their arms reached out, their pale, bloodied fingers clawing. The walkers gnashed and snarled and advanced as though they knew damned well that I was living human flesh chocked full of delicious meat and blood.

  I staggered backward, confused. The WAT-5 wasn’t working.

  “Drop!” shouted Punch, and I did.

  He fired twice in rapid succession and in the time it took to clap your hands, the attacking creatures became headless cadavers sprawled on the asphalt.

  Something farther behind them caught my eye. Fast movement. Deliberate. Too deliberate for a typical rotter. It disappeared behind a dilapidated Ford Ranger with four flat tires.

  It could only mean one thing.

  I yanked my Glocks from the drop holsters and ran toward the pickup where I’d last seen it.

  In an instant, it was in the air and on top of the Ranger, staring down at me, its bright red eyes – even in the light of day – boring into my own.

  It registered in my subconscious that I could see the roiling bump in her stomach where her zombie baby lived, now and forever. I raised both Glocks and fired, but she was already gone. My eyes searched.

  Somehow she reappeared on the hood of the Ranger, then she dropped down and was gone yet again.

  A split-second later I heard a swishing-scraping sound, and as I looked down, she was right in front of me, on her stomach and crawling forward fast. I fired downward, blowing two holes in her back, but her claw-like hands had wrapped around my ankles and gripped tight.

  I fell backward, dropping the handguns to keep from smacking my head when I landed. As my hands hit the pavement, followed by my back, I saw Punch knee the creature in the head and knock her away.

  Her clutched claws did not release my ankles. She was determined, and I was dragged the two feet her momentu
m carried her. Punch raised the shotgun again, put the barrel against her face and pulled the trigger.

  The black-red blood and skull flew from her prone form as her body stopped moving.

  Still her hands clutched my ankles, even in death. I jerked my legs and her fingers fell away. I grunted back to my feet and took stock of my condition.

  The jeans had kept her from scratching my ankles. I had some road rash on my back from the fall and the slide, but other than that, I’d live.

  Punch stared at her, at the other rotters moving toward us up the street, and back at me.

  “I thought you said they wouldn’t bother us,” he said. “So much for that theory.”

  I tried to catch my breath and shook my head. “They won’t, normally. I can explain.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t listen to you,” he said. “Brought this.” He held up his Saiga.

  I nodded. “Yep,” I said. “You got a knife on you?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Buckfield management controlled all the knives. Said people could kill quietly and get away.”

  “And you would have, right?”

  “Damned straight,” said Punch.

  “Roll her over and pull up her top,” I said. “I have a knife in the truck.”

  “Is that necessary?” he asked.

  “It is,” I said.

  I went to the truck and opened the back hatch, pushing the shattered glass off Tony’s body and our supplies. I found the knife.

  It was a Bowie knife with a ten inch blade, a solid wood handle and a brass guard that Hemp had sharpened to a fillet-worthy edge. I carried it over to the red-eye, who was now in a supine position.

  Punch stared at her bulbous stomach, his eyes displaying the horror of her condition. Every few moments the impression of a hand or foot would appear from beneath the skin and disappear again.

  “She’s why the others came after us,” I said.

  “She’s why the others came after us?” said Punch.

  I looked at her, then at Punch. “There’s lots you don’t know.”

  “I guess,” he said.

  I knelt down, cringing at the pain of my shirt rubbing over my skinned back, and jabbed the knife just below her sternum. I cut to one side, then removed the knife and cut to the other. Then I cut downward on both sides. I wasn’t a doctor, but fuck if I didn’t play one on TV.