The Undead World (Book 5): The Apocalypse Renegades

by Meredith, Peter

  Letting out a little grunt, he shoved the boat off the trailer and jumped in. Then it was only a matter of getting the engine going while he was surrounded by undead. With batteries being dubious after so long, he had chosen a motor with a pull starter. It took five heavy yanks and an equal number of nervous looks in the zombie’s direction before the engine caught.

  The zombies had closed to within ten feet, turning the water white as they splashed chaotically. There were so many of them.

  Wearing a grimace, Ernest gunned the boat right at them and then when he felt the first thump under the keel he killed the engine so that the props wouldn’t get hung up in twisted zombie flesh. The boat drifted over them; he could feel the thump of their heads on the metal beneath him as he went.

  Eventually, he slowed, as they clung to the boat. Long arms reached for him and grey fingernails scritched on the metal looking for purchase. He had to bring out a paddle to fend off the heartier ones to keep them from capsizing the boat. That was a real danger and could have been easily accomplished if there had been even a hint of cooperation among the undead, however the weight of a dozen zombies on one side was balanced by a dozen on the other.

  Ernest hammered at their hands until enough fingers broke for them to let go, and at the first opportunity, he re-started the engine and eased the boat forward. Although he did his best to steer clear of the zombies, there were some lurking under the black waters, bloated and foul. Twice he felt the prop glog on something unspeakable. When this happened, he’d kill the engine and drift while he poked the grey and red zombie mush from the propellers with the end of his knife.

  With the truck being such a telltale clue that a boat was in the water, Ernest rode up stream for a few miles before heading for the eastern bank. It made for a surprising long and sickening ride. He actually said, “Thank God,” when he finally pulled the boat up under a stand of low-hanging willows.

  With the drooping boughs shrouding him, he donned his battle dress uniform and then painted his face in shades of green to match the clothes—good camouflage and a slow step were the best defense against the stiffs. Once he was decked head to toe, he slipped off into the brush in search of the right vehicle. It wouldn’t take much of one. Among a mess of gear in his boat were a new car battery and four five-gallon jerry cans filled with gasoline.

  In one hand he hefted the battery by a strap and in the other he took one of the jerry cans. Grunting, he started pushing through the high river grass. There was a frontage road that ran very close to the river, barely a hundred yards away. The nearest home was a half mile further than that; by the time he reached it, his arms were in agony and sweat ran down his green-painted face in what felt like small streams.

  Plopping down his burdens, he stretched and flapped his arms about until he could again feel his fingers. He then slid the .22 from his back and approached the garage. In it he found a ratty old Subaru with saggy tires and a decomposed body behind the wheel. Judging by the rolled up windows and the hose that ran from the tailpipe to the backseat, Ernest was looking at a suicide.

  Reluctantly, he opened the driver’s door. “Oh geez,” he said, stepping back as the stench hit him like a sucker punch and drove him out into the sunshine where he gulped down air in great gasps. In desperation, he looked up and down the road hoping to catch sight of a previously overlooked stray car or even a distant farmhouse. The road was empty save for the bugs buzzing by and a couple of zombies who didn’t know what to make of the odd-acting green lump that was Ernest.

  They came to investigate.

  The pair of zombies didn’t worry Ernest all that much especially compared to the fantastically gross body in the car. It wasn’t just the smell; it was the viscous black goo that was dribbling down from every orifice in its body. The corpse was sitting in a pool of what looked like tar and what smelled like congealed shit.

  How was he supposed to deal with that? “By not having a choice,” he said, swallowing loudly. When he caught his breath he went back into the garage, looking for the right implement to use on the zombies: a baseball bat, a golf club, even a hockey stick would do. There was nothing, not even a tire iron.

  “Well that sucks,” Ernest said. He was in the habit of talking to himself when out in the wilds. It would have been a surprise to him if someone had pointed it out. “Well, I’m not going to waste a bullet on you guys,” he murmured as the zombies came lurching into the garage after him.

  This close, the camouflage failed completely. The two zombies charged eagerly; still he wasn’t worried. There was a door to the house at the back of the garage; he hurried to it and happily found it unlocked.

  Standing just inside the house, he beckoned to the zombies, “Come on, fellows.” He gradually backed further into the house until he saw that the zombies were hooked on the bait. He then ran through the house to the front door, shut it behind him, and hurried on tip toes back to the garage where he was in time to see the second zombie tripping across the threshold into the house. Suppressing a giggle at his cleverness, he waited until the zombie had stumbled off before rushing up and shutting the door behind it.

  “Suckers,” he said with a grin.

  With the undead trapped in the house and stumbling around making a ruckus, Ernest turned to the far more difficult task of dealing with the really, really dead. In the last minute, the suicide hadn’t gotten any less horrible.

  “Just do it,” he grumbled. With a grimace hard on his face, he reached into the Subaru and took hold of the corpse by the lapels and pulled. It was a strain; the body was glued in place and only came up slowly, grudgingly, trailing lines of the black goo behind it. If that wasn’t bad enough there was an awful sucking sound and the evil smell intensified.

  “Oh geez!” he whined. Now, the body felt like it was coming apart, as though he might rip off the torso. By the barest margins, it held together as Ernest heaved with all his might and finally dragged it out onto the overgrown lawn where it literally “sat” in the sun. The body remained contorted in a sitting position.

  Removing the body was only half the battle. The next thing he had to do to deal with was the pool of black goo the body had left behind.

  A quick check of the garage showed him there just wasn’t anything he could use to clean up the goo, which meant he would have to waste bullets after all.

  He pulled out the .22, checked the load and the safety. He then went to exterminate the zombies. The first he caught stumbling around in the kitchen. “Hey,” he said just loud enough to catch its attention. When it turned, Ernest plugged it through the right eye. By some misfortune the bullet spun, the hunk of lead exited through the thing’s ear and after only a pause it kept coming.

  Ernest made sure this time. Holding the gun one-handed, with his arm extended, he touched the muzzle to the beast’s forehead just as it came in reach and pulled the trigger. This did the trick. Hearing the gun shots, the second zombie came charging up from the sunken living room. It caught its foot on the first riser and fell at Ernest’s feet. He shot it in the top of the head and watched as the blood came out in spurts. It was disgusting, but nothing he hadn’t seen before.

  He was procrastinating.

  Anything, even watching a zombie-fountain, was better than dealing with the black goo. But it had to be done. With a sigh, he trudged into the kitchen and dug around beneath the sink, grabbing all the cleaner he could find. Next, he went to the hall closet and grabbed up a stack of towels.

  It took a combination of all the cleaning agents he could find just to make the Subaru bearable. The car smelled of Pine-Sol, bleach, and shit, which was better than just plain smelling of shit. With the interior covered in fresh clean towels, Ernest turned the key. He did so out of habit and wishful thinking; car batteries were now mostly dead, while every car within 20 miles of the base had been drained of gas long ago. And the Subaru was worse than most cars; it was the vehicle of the suicide, a murderer of one. It couldn’t have gas left as it had been left to idle forever
by the goo-maker.

  Yet, somehow the engine coughed, spluttered, and then, as Ernest kept the key turned and his foot pegged, it caught. “What the hell? How did…”A sudden influx of exhaust caused him to begin coughing. The hose! He jumped out of the Subaru and yanked away the hose from the exhaust. He then stopped to stare at the car.

  “How are you running?” he asked it.

  A glance around at the smoggy garage gave him the answer. The pollution given off by the engine, in such an enclosed space killed not only the driver, but the car as well, and for the same reason: a lack of oxygen. The car had died with nearly a full tank and fully charged battery.

  “Must be my lucky day,” he said, jumping in and throwing an arm over the passenger seat. He reversed to the street and then sped back to where he had stashed the boat. He kept the jerry can with him but left the battery.

  Next, he drove straightaway to the now mostly destroyed bridge. The middle span was still standing with its three trucks abandoned and looking toy-like with the distance. The span wouldn’t be up for long. There was a sound coming from the bridge like a low groan, and there were cracks all up the nearer support. They were like spider veins on an aging woman’s thighs, soon they’d be varicose, and then they would spawn the terminal fissures that would drop it all into a watery grave.

  “But how? How’d you do it, Jillybean? I bet you didn’t do it by yourself, not alone. Hmmm,” Ernest muttered, eyeing the destruction; it had been exceedingly precise. Had there been someone with military experience with her? A friend of the cage fighter? He had been in the military that was obvious. He had the look.

  Ernest brought out his binoculars and scanned the structure. Hanging from the remains was a length of rope that dangled into the water. The only conclusion: the prisoners must have shimmied down it and straight into the water. “Which is crazy.” He knew there hadn’t been a boat; one that could have held 60 people would have been spotted from the shore, and no one had seen a boat.

  As far as everyone knew, the renegade prisoners had just disappeared into the river.

  “Crazy, crazy,” Ernest said. Who would even consider trying to swim to safety with hundreds of zombies clogging up the river? And yet they had, which meant they had to have exited the river somewhere downstream.

  “They had to have come out on the eastern bank.” His reasoning: if they had come out on the western bank they would’ve been caught by now. Ernest slogged along the riverbank for more than two miles before he found his first clue. Just on the water’s edge, a sheet hung listlessly from a branch, its lower edge trailing in the river. It was damp but still pristinely white as if it had been in someone’s closet only two days before.

  “Which I’m betting it was,” he whispered.

  The second clue to the whereabouts of the escapees he found in the mud beneath the sheet. Footprints, many, many footprints had been formed by people coming up out of the water at this point. This didn’t explain how they survived against the roiling mass of zombies in the river, but he didn’t need it to. He just needed to know that he was on the right track.

  The third clue came in the form of a poncho that had been cut with a pair of rusting scissors. It had been trimmed down to fit a little girl. Ernest held it up to his chest and grinned. “First precisely set bombs and now a military poncho. Only one place around here you could have gotten both, Jillybean. Fort Campbell.”

  Fort Campbell was the closest military base to Cape Girardeau. It made sense that if they had come from there they would go back, at least to lay low for a while. And it made sense for him to go there as well.

  Ernest Smith pulled up to the western gate of the base with the sun setting behind him, and within an hour he caught the first smell of cooking meat and minutes after that, spied just a glimpse of light from an upper floor barracks window.

  “Hello, Jillybean,” he said very quietly.

  Chapter 4

  Deanna Russell

  She liked Neil and thought of him as a competent leader—just as long as their biggest worry was where they were going to spend the night or who was going to be cooking breakfast. He was great for such things, but the predicament they were in was much, much different and it called for a different sort of leader. Someone who could fight and lead others in battle. She felt sure Captain Grey was that leader and their only hope.

  “We should call a meeting,” Deanna had insisted.

  “Please do,” Neil had replied. “As soon as possible.”

  Deanna thought she’d use a majority of the group to force Neil into going back for Captain Grey in a rescue attempt. She had very much misread the mood of the people however.

  Neil had their pulse and was so sure of himself that he was the first to bring up the notion of a rescue. The renegades had gathered in a mess hall one building over from the barracks they were staying in. Jillybean had used her remote controlled toy car. “Jazzy Blue” as bait to make the walk between the buildings safe and then Neil, Michael, and Big Bill Jacobs—the largest of the ex-prisoners, had cleared out the building of its remaining zombies. There had been just four of them; they were quickly dealt with by way of Neil’s bat, Michael’s spear, and Bill’s hammer.

  Now, the 58 renegades were gathered in the darkened cafeteria sitting in cliques like high schoolers; all the ex-prostitutes sat at one long table, the freed prisoners at another, and finally Michael’s clan at the third. Neil and Jillybean sat alone with every eye on them.

  Regardless at which table they sat, everyone except Deanna and Jillybean was dressed in ill-fitting battle dress uniforms; Big Bill, who stood well over six and a half feet tall, was the most ludicrous appearing of them, as the cuffs of his camouflage pants sat three inches above his ankles. Neil swam in his BDUs. He seemed extra small and boyish and his voice was soft as he started the meeting, “First off, I’d like to thank Jillybean and Deanna for enacting such a daring and risky rescue. Let’s give them a round of applause.”

  The clapping was quiet but heartfelt. Jillybean went pink in the cheeks and Deanna had her back and shoulders slapped by her friends; Joslyn even went so far as to kiss her on the top of the head.

  “Yes, they were very brave,” Neil said in a louder voice to quiet the room. “But so too was Captain Grey. He risked his life for all of us and there is a question on the table of whether or not to rescue him, despite not knowing if he is even alive. There is a good chance that he isn’t.”

  This silenced the room…all except for Jillybean. She had been sitting in a chair, swinging her legs. When she stood to speak she held her zebra in front of her like a shield. “But we don’t know that, Mister Neil. That’s con-jecture and that’s what means Ipes thinks he’s alive and so do I.”

  “And if he is alive?” Neil asked. “We both know he’d be the last to suggest a rescue.”

  Fred Trigg, his hair plastered down with some long dead soldier’s gel, stood quickly. “Who’s talking of a rescue? It’s one thing to blow up a bridge; it’s another to assault a fortified base with only a couple of weapons among us.”

  Deanna was on her feet before she knew it. “You think that it was easy blowing up that bridge?” she demanded. “You act like it was simply a matter of pressing a couple of buttons.”

  Fred shook his greased head. “You misunderstand me, or maybe I misspoke. I was trying to say that if it was difficult to rescue us from the bridge, then it will be infinitely harder to go at a base that’s got to be buzzing like a hive of angry bees.”

  “Well, um, well…” Deanna stuttered, suddenly unsure of herself. “I’m sure Jillybean has a plan.”

  “Huh?” the little girl said when everyone turned in her direction—this struck Deanna as darkly comical; most of them were such sheep that they acted as though they were spectators in their own lives.

  In the silence that followed Neil said, “The question on the table, Jillybean, is do you have a plan to take on hundreds of very angry soldiers in an attempt to rescue Captain Grey.”

  She
swallowed loudly but, before she could answer, Fred Trigg jumped in. “Now hold on! We haven’t even voted on the whole concept of a rescue. That should be settled before anyone starts making plans.”

  “Wrong,” Neil snapped. “We don’t vote on anything anymore. I am the leader here. What I say goes.” He was so forceful that Trigg gave a little step backwards and produced a guilty smile. Neil nodded at it. “That’s better. I just wanted to know if there was a plan on the table.”

  Jillybean glanced at Deanna with a look of panic. Deanna stepped forward saying, “That’s not really fair. She just rescued you and… and these sorts of things take time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Neil replied, calmly. “The River King’s men will be swarming all over the place soon. I believe our only chance is to strike now. We either go after Grey and Sadie now, or we get across the river and head west.”

  Jillybean shook her head. “No, uh-uh. Those are not the only choices we have, and really, going west right now is silly. Ipes says so because that’s what they’ll think we’ll do. What’s more smarter is we should stay put for a few days and, I don’t know, figure things out.”

  “Sit around and wait to get caught?” Fred asked. “I’m with Neil; I say we go west as soon as possible.”

  Neil looked around as if gauging the room; it was hard to tell what the group was thinking. To Deanna, most looked nervous and still had the sheep-like quality about them she had seen before. It was her guess that they would follow the most forceful personality, which just happened to be Neil’s.

  With a little cough, Neil said, “Without a working plan to save Captain Grey and Sadie, I think we need to move forward with gathering supplies and making the river crossing. I’d like to make the attempt tonight.” Jillybean’s hand shot up. Neil looked at it wearily.

  “Amember I just said that’s what they’ll think we’re gonna do,” she said breathlessly. “If all the River King’s soldiers are searching it’ll be now, not a week from now.”