Zombies On A Plane_Still Alive Book Three

by Javan Bonds

  She entered the office of Mayor Collins. There were a thousand questions on her mind, but she was only able to start with one.

  “Who was that MAN?’

  17

  Fraud

  DAMN, EARL THOUGHT, this is a pretty nice set up. They’ve got police, healthcare, gold, and they are even keeping their people well fed. The only things they are missing are running water and electricity. It just made sense that an island could be made completely safe twenty-four hours a day. He knew Bobbitt was going to use this enclave as his own after he killed the leadership. He decided that even if the military moved on after taking this sanctuary, he would stay here without the damn government.

  Well fed is right; that fine piece of ass that just went by looked pretty healthy. Since everything started going downhill, Earl had noticed that the attractiveness of women had been going with it. He had no problem with chicks not being insanely fat, but he was never a fan of supermodels with eating disorders.

  Hammer seemed to be reasonably fit for her age, even though she was a fucking dike. He could just imagine giving it to that stupid bitch while she bled out.

  Every woman he had seen in the past month had a malnourished, tired look about them, like they were about to drop dead from exhaustion. Well, every one of them until that fucking Sally cunt, but she had come from this island where they apparently keep their bitches healthy.

  From his conversation with that old guy–Collins or whatever the hell is name was, they were going to let him stay in a hotel room “until you can find a job.” What the fuck was wrong with these people? They just automatically trusted anyone that asked for a place to stay? He was about to show them that not every swinging dick that came in promising goodwill and hard work was inherently moral. This act of fraud was easy and it was working out even better than The Betrayer had planned.

  Sally told him Hammer had left the island recently, so nobody would know him. He was able to give the mayor his actual name; he was proud that his act of fraud had gone completely unnoticed. The Betrayer was certain he would get away cleanly.

  He planned on breaking into Bottom Dollar and stealing everything he could before setting the place on fire.

  As Earl crossed the pontoon bridge onto the island, he was escorted to a vehicle by guys in spacesuits with fucking swords on their backs! The former truck driver decided he would attempt to overpower one of these pussies when he started his mission, put the suit on, and bide his time before helping Bobbitt and his people across the causeway.

  His first goal would be to figure out the best time to take down one of the guards. The Betrayer would let the National Guard Armory in on his plans over the radio TONIGHT.

  ☠☠☠

  18

  Gluttony

  BEAUSE ROBERT COE and Mortimer Lester had opted to house together from the beginning; they were bunked in a small house surrounded by other small houses that were gradually filling with the other survivors. Robert had been one of the many people to enter a relationship with what was commonly called his “island wife.” While they could have been married by Bro. Williamson, most survivors were not dead set on a ceremony. They were ready to be part of the coming baby boom celebrations Mrs. Collins and her team had optimistically scheduled for eight to nine months out. All that was required was that the healthy citizens perform the task of fucking like rabbits to repopulate the earth.

  Mortimer hated babies, the crying little bastards. Even though he had procrastinated, staying on the island after he planned to keep moving, the thought of an entire generation of infants on the island made the geriatric decide he would be leaving as soon as possible.

  He was going to have to get out of here before these women started squirting out children. They had only been set up in this house yesterday; he had eight months to get moving.

  Still, in preparation for his road trip, he had been hoarding food in his little room, taking charity from anyone that offered. The old man was saving up to get out of this damn little town.

  Robert was denied entry; no one could know of his stash in case they wanted to be in on his great escape. He had scrounged for every one of those cans of beans, they were his! Mortimer would be damned if the stupid freeloader that had attached himself to the old man from day one thought he could tag along. He had another thing coming if he thought they were buddies. Robert had a truck in the driveway that he used for scavenging missions. The senior citizen hoped to steal it, drive over to the cattle company, attempt to convince that damned old preacher he had been ordered to take a cow for slaughter. He was a senior citizen, most people thought old folks and handicapped people were always trustworthy. He was confident that he could be convincing.

  “Mortimer, why is there so much food in your closet?”

  Shit! Dammit! Fuck! Now Robert will want to go with me, he thought “I was just holding onto it for a rainy day. What were you doing in there anyway?”

  “Crystal found a cat and it ran to your room; I was looking for it.” Robert added, “That food could be put to good use. I’m sure there are people that need to eat.”

  What the hell was wrong with this kid? Did he think this was some type of fucking hippie commune? This was his food. He earned it and Mortimer Lester didn’t give his shit away to people that did not deserve it. Robert’s stupid girlfriend had just made herself at home and thought she could go wherever she wanted in the house; well, she couldn’t.

  The older man responded, “Actually, I think I am going to do something with it. Just leave it alone and you’ll find out.” He didn’t feel that it was gluttony; it was for a purpose other than simply hoarding it, after all. Even though Mortimer might kind of miss the idiot, the senior would load the truck with every scrap of food in this powerless little shack, appeal to that ignorant old preacher’s stupid Christian goodness to get himself a cow, and then get the hell off this fucking island of MORONS.

  ☠☠☠

  Interlude 2

  THE LONER AND my brother seemed extremely glad to see one another again, each assuming the other was lost when Easy and Aka left the dorm building with several other survivors. Both men pointedly skipped over talking about those students that left the dorm building with Easy back in May; they could only guess at their fates.

  My brother told me of some of the untimely demises later, privately. Jason, Sam, Amber, and a few of his remaining classmates whom he had not been particularly close to had died stupidly on the trip to the prison. A couple of his best friends, Josh and Andy, had sacrificed themselves to save the rest of the group. Only he, his fiancée, and a few other insignificant characters had made it to their supposed sanctuary.

  The two began telling us a particularly funny story involving some of my brother’s extremely inebriated classmates, a freshly mopped hallway, and a fire alarm. Each man interjected comments into the entertaining commentary. Out of nowhere, Hammer jumped up as if she just took a cattle prod to the ass and politely excused herself to go potty.

  Before the conversation could reignite, Smokes gave a cryptic prophecy. “She be back, foos.”

  I kind of expected her to leave the bathroom at some point. I could not understand why The Oracle felt the need to inform us of this. As she walked into the bathroom, was she expecting someone in the group to shout out, “Have a nice life?”And, sure enough, within moments she emerged from the restroom with a walkie-talkie in her hand. It took me longer than it should have to realize the significance. When we had been captured and interrogated all of our valuables had been confiscated: firearms, grenades, knives, and communication devices, we were left with nothing more than the armor on our backs. I looked at the radio questioningly and was about to ask how she smuggled it past our initial search. Suddenly, my eyes grew wide with understanding. Oh dear God, I hope it had been in a condom or a plastic baggie or something.

  I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, the handset is not that bulky, but counting the antenna the thing was probably a foot-long. That could not have been hidden co
mfortably for the several hours she was stowing it away.

  She held it out to me. “Your daddy gave me a buzz.”

  That would have been pretty funny if she had not been ready to hand over something that could be covered in her bodily fluids. I’m not really a germ-a-phobe, but I had to close my eyes and turn my head as I reached for it.

  “Daddy?” I tried not to move my hand as I gingerly held the warm-to-the-touch device.

  A sigh that told me I was a failure of a son for not sticking to radio etiquette came back. “Mo, Gray Fox. Any word on your brother? Over.”

  Easy stood up and crossed the room in record time. “Let me talk to him.”

  My dad’s voice almost broke with the statement. “Easy.”

  I am normally unemotional and prefer to keep a polite, but cordial, distance between my male family members and myself. But I felt a pang of momentary jealousy when I heard the relief from the other side of the radio. I was glad my father didn’t start bawling when my brother spoke, but I was betting he had to wipe his eyes. And that’s perfectly okay.

  There are only three instances in a man’s life when it is acceptable for him to cry in the presence of others. Tears of joy is not really the same thing.

  Reason 1: When the man is drunk. I’m not talking about when you are tipsy or just slightly intoxicated. If you get emotional after a few beers, someone will probably beat the shit out of you. You need to be a shot away from alcohol poisoning to earn the right to cry in public. If you have downed a half-gallon of Jim Beam in the past thirty minutes, no one is going to question your manhood over blubbering about your girlfriend who just left you because you are an alcoholic loser.

  Reason 2: Death is before you. I don’t mean losing your shit at your great grandmother’s funeral; I mean painful death needs to be imminent. This really does not need explanation. If you are on your deathbed or if a family member is dying in front of you, you get a free pass to bawl like a baby.

  Reason 3: When you are going away and possibly never returning. If you are being drafted to go fight in a foreign war, it’s okay to shed a tear when telling your best friend you may never see him again.

  It does not mean that you will lose the right to call yourself a man for crying, just don’t start whimpering in front of me when you get fired from McDonald’s. There’s nothing wrong with crying; the dog I had for nearly fifteen years died the day before my twenty-first birthday, I sat in the backyard for hours screaming and crying. My defense, it was private.

  Sure, I suppose my parents in the house, nearby neighbors, or people traveling by heard me wailing like a little girl, but I did not go to anyone with teary eyes and ask for comfort. Hank Hill is my philosophical role model; he would agree with me on this.

  The fact that my father just discovered his perfect son was not lost was a pretty good excuse for him to get his eyes wet. I’m just a reject without a college degree that has been dubbed The Hero and could possibly be one of the saviors of the human race. I really didn’t expect any more of an exclamation from him than he gave on our initial reunion: “Mo,” followed by a handshake.

  I was not surprised to hear my mother wail, “Ezekiel!” She almost tackled my dad as she charged into the room. After she affirmed it was truly Easy, she asked something typical of a mother, “Why haven’t you called?”

  Easy looked at me and I shrugged as if to ask, “What were you expecting?” He answered, “Well, I haven’t really had a phone. Or service.”

  From anyone else, I would have seen this as an obvious joke, but my younger brother was deadpan as usual. She continued berating him with motherly questions and he answered to the best of his ability. I was surprised he did not inform my parents of his fiancée, but it really wouldn’t make a difference right now anyway.

  Daddy cut in, “So they’re keeping you imprisoned in the prison?”

  My dad could see the humor in the statement and I can imagine him making this statement, “Really, how?” The youngest Collins returned, “Pretty much; it’s been this way since we got here.”

  “I guess that means your brother is stuck with you.”

  Well shit, I had not thought of that and apparently neither had Easy, who shrugged. We were both trapped by an insane tyrant that was surely a Democrat. We heard from across the room, “Fo now mufuckas.”

  If I had not seen him do this shit countless times, I probably would have resigned myself to never going home again. Strangely, my huge friend’s creepy line bolstered my resolve. I didn’t even know I had resolve.

  “We’re working on it, Daddy,” I spoke as Easy held the radio.

  “All right, let me know if you need anything on that.” He was basically telling us to have fun during our ill-planned escape from a maximum security prison manned by insane murderers armed with machine guns and led by a vicious dictator with a God complex.

  He continued, “Oh Mo, I wanted to tell you Dr. George turned out to be some kind of super Indian Navy SEAL. He brought his commando unit to the island.” He somehow knew what I was thinking from over the radio and added, “And no, they’re not taking over, they’re just using the island as a base for their research mission.”

  My brother raised his eyebrows to ask a question and I narrowed mine, telling him I would explain later. “Well, at least he’s one of the good guys,” I told my dad.

  “Of course he is, he’s The Medicine Man,” he confidently shot back, and I just knew The Oracle was fist-pumping. My father continued more casually, “And we still gotta find somebody to run the dam.”

  Aka spoke quietly to the two of us huddled around the radio. “I might be able to help with that.”

  I was a little stunned that the first words from Aka were not that her future brother-in-law was an evil deviant. I could detect no definite accent–come on, I’m not the only one that expects every African to sound like Idi Amin. She explained that she was part of the Chewa ethnic group from eastern Zambia and that her brother had worked in the local Kariba hydroelectric dam; she’d spent a lot of time observing the operation of the dam and had some clue of how to open and close one.

  News to me as well: black people divide themselves into even smaller ethnic groups. If I were to state that I was ethnically Irish and British I would just sound like a pasty white boy attempting to appear cultured, but it seemed reasonable coming from the ebony goddess that was my brother’s woman.

  Smokes looked like a fully clothed Buddha sporting an all-knowing grin; I guess this was another example of things that are “post to be.” Now our only obstacle in getting back home was the insane prison warden, but I expect everything will turn out just like The Oracle has foreseen–actually, I will probably stay strong in my faith in The Oracle until something horrible happens and I almost die.

  The one-eyed Captain casually mentioned to me, “Oh, that warden lady told me that we need to go see her in the morning to be assigned quarters and work orders.” The silence was nearly deafening as I stared at her. She continued, “Don’t worry, she said that we could just stay in the empty room next door tonight!”

  What the fuck? When did The Dictator give these orders to The Expert and why is she just telling me now? It might not really make a difference, but I would like to have known the details of my slavery up front.

  I guess it’s a perk from our benefactors to be granted one night free from forced labor. I turned to my bodybuilder sibling. “So are we going to split rocks?”

  “Why would you split–” he started to ask. He quickly clarified, “Well, no. You will probably be on farming detail like everybody else is to start out with.”

  He looked at Hammer. “They might make some of you guards or office staff in a week or so–”

  I defiantly interrupted, “We ain’t staying here that long.” I was surprised he was willing to lay down for a despot. “And neither are you, dumbass.”

  His nostrils flared as I explained that we would discuss our escape plans in the morning. That’s right, it was obvious that we wer
e going to break out of a maximum-security prison in the next couple of days.

  My dad rudely interrupted our conversation. He reminded us, “Hey, I’m still here!” He could then be heard speaking to someone in the room with him. He came back, “Mo, I’ve got someone here that wants to talk to you.”

  I cocked my head and was about to ask who it was. I was baffled that anyone would make a concerted effort to speak to me. A voice came over the radio, “I miss you Mo-Mo, when are you coming home?”

  The Oracle chuckled silently. He incredulously mouthed “Mo-Mo?” I only scowled, telling him to make fun of me later.

  I mumbled in reply, “I miss you too.” I then added, “How are you?”

  For my entire life, I’ve been nothing but a bumbling teenager when trying to converse with the opposite sex. Talking to The Love Interest, I could barely form a damn sentence. My goofiness is especially apparent over the phone or radio.