Zombie Botnet Bundle: Books 1 - 3: #zombie, Zombie 2.0, Alpha Zombie

by Al K. Line

  "Weird. The food has people's names on it. Must be some kind of freakoid place to work if people put their name on their dinner. It's like school or something."

  "Me, me, me," said Al, spluttering cheese and raising his hand. "I am knowing this. I have seen a TV program about the comedy with the man that does the silly dance and is not a good boss. And the people they are always stealing food from each other, which is a very very bad thing to do," he intoned gravely, making sure he caught the eye of Ven, Kyle and Bos Bos as he spoke. "So the men and the women that work in the offices and the 9-5 places, they put their names on their packed lunches so that no-one else would be stealing it."

  "Huh? How would putting your name on it make any difference? It's obvious it is someone's food anyway isn't it?

  Ven tried to zone out the inane chatter that droned on in the background as she tried to think seriously about what could have happened in the building. What may still be going on now. Undoubtedly there had been infected, the fact that monitors were face down or missing meant that somebody had been aware of what happens if you go Online, so had taken precautions. It would mean there had been an infection to a greater or lesser degree. Ven had the feeling that there had been some serious carnage, but that it had been resolved one way or another. Afterward somebody very much with her level of cleanliness obsessiveness had made sure to return the place to its former pristine glory.

  And what was behind the door? The infected no doubt, but how many, and why?

  "Mwaaah."

  "Sorry little man, mommy was miles away. You want some lovely milk? Here yo go buddy." Ven fed Tomas from a ready-made bottle, now was not the time for trying to find a private place for more personal feeding. Ten minutes later, after a burp, a quick cry and a few 'mom, mom-moms' Tomas gurgled happily and promptly puked up about three hundred and seventeen pints of milk all over mommy's shiny new jacket.

  "Oh Tomas, this was mommy's anti-zombie jacket. And where on earth does all this milk come from. It's like it multiplies before it comes back out."

  Al scratched his chair backwards frantically across the floor, just in case he became the next target. Ven did her best to clean up her new gear — she wasn't feeling quite so much like a movie star any more.

  "Ready then boys, break time is over. C'mon, chop chop, we haven't got all day if we are to do this and get home for some steak and vino."

  "Action stations, let's do this. I want to be eating the steak, I am very hungry."

  "Al, you just ate like ten seconds ago, actually ten seconds," said a wide-eyed Ven.

  Where does he put it all?

  "Ven, you are not doing the right understanding," instructed a very sombre Al. "A few sandwiches is not actually really eating, it is what I am calling a warming up to the real eating. And when I am feeling not quite in my happy place and get a bit funny then it is my comfort, and my way of not getting out of control with what I am doing. It is not just because I am needing the food, but because it is the focus for me, so my autism does not make me doing bonkers things like standing in a corner counting until I am feeling sick. You are knowing that lots of people they are doing much worse than I am doing with my way of being, are you not?"

  "Wow Al, I think that is the most I have ever heard you speak in one go," said Kyle. "And yes buddy, we understand, we really do. Don't we Ven?"

  "We do Al. Doesn't mean you don't eat a lot of sarnies though mister."

  Al just smiled.

  Sometimes it was hard to tell just where Al was coming from, and he kind of liked it that way.

  So You Wanna be a Gangsta?

  "Can I have an Uzi?" asked an excited Kyle. "I'm gonna be a gangsta, oh yeah."

  "Calm down, jeez, you are like little kids."

  Both Al and Kyle were hopping about excitedly, itching to get their hands on some advanced weaponry. Acting as if they stood a chance of understanding how to use anything more complicated than point and shoot.

  Ever since they had experienced firsthand the power of a loaded shotgun back at the manor house they had both realized just how effective hand weapons can be under the right circumstances. They were not so great for close range encounters, but if you could get some breathing room there was nothing like a bit of metal flying at hundreds of feet per second for taking out the infected. It saved on all that swinging of fists or clubs too. They both wondered what it would be like to actually fire something new and advanced, rather than just an old-fashioned shotgun used for taking care of the odd rat.

  "Kyle, do you actually know what an Uzi is?" Ven asked, knowing that Kyle was about as gun savvy as a chipmunk.

  "Um, like a Kalashnikov? Not sure really. All I know is they are gangsta, right Al?" Kyle and Al high-fived, hoping that there would be some kick-ass goodies waiting for them behind the door, if they ever got in that was.

  They found the weapons storage and sales area eventually. Just off the main corridor leading deeper into the partitioned off area that made up the administration side of the warehouse. Through a set of innocuous sliding doors they entered an ante-room that was blindingly bright after the dimness of the corridors. It seemed that the back-up power ran this part of the operation at full spec.

  Inside the spotless room were a series of gun-metal-gray doors labeled with such exciting things as 'Tactical Response', 'Side-arms', etc. There was certainly a wide range of choices, if they could get their hands on any of it, and if the contents delivered on the promises above the doors. Large mirrors were built flush into the walls, presumably to admire yourself with your new piece of hardware, or maybe it was simply an attempt to try to take the clinical chill out of the room. It failed miserably if that was the idea.

  One door led to an ante-room. Looking through a small porthole you could see it led to a seriously re-enforced door at the end of a long corridor, seemingly leading to a loading bay where weapons were transported in and out. There were five doors each side of the corridor, numbers on them, no signs. Presumably for bulk storage of the weaponry available. It didn't look like there would be much chance of getting out of the building that way though. You couldn't even get into the ante-room.

  Large stainless steel tables ran down the center of the room, spotless, gleaming, as they had come to expect. Felt pads stacked on one end along with a variety of what appeared to be tablets, face down thankfully.

  "Nobody touch them, just in case," said Ven, all too aware that they had not found any sources of an Internet signal and had no way of knowing if the Web was still live in such a place.

  "It's kind of like a mortuary in here," shivered Kyle. "It's like a slab for bodies."

  "It's to inspect the weapons, check them out and place your order. I am guessing that they get a lot of pretty serious guys coming in here, and they want to give the merchandise a quick shifty before they buy."

  All manner of people had come into this room, the outer rooms closer to the loading bays were where the volume of goods were stored, this was more of a showcase room than a stock room. The clientele was select in terms of money and power, not morals, and plenty of buyers liked to admire themselves in the mirrors holding onto their new piece, often pieces, of hardware. Nothing like a bit of vanity to encourage a sale, as the management knew all too well. Give people what they want and they will happily pay for it, and pay well. It's all about setting the right kind of atmosphere. There was even a humidor that was once very well stocked, now running low, and a drinks cabinet in one recess — cut crystal decanters sitting next to Ketel One, Bunnahabhain, Mascaró and other choice spirits.

  There were open fronted shelves in the wall opposite the entryway. Holsters, clips and all manner of gun related paraphernalia were all readily available. No good without the actual weapons though.

  Through one door that was left slightly ajar they found a large room full of what appeared to be non-lethal weapons. Stun guns, rubber bullets by the thousand, cattle prods, pepper spray, electric shock batons, Tasers, stun belts — endless variants. As well as convent
ional stun guns were more covert versions shaped like lipsticks, mobile phones, even riot shields. There were a lot of very innovative products, such as aerosol versions of electric shock guns that used liquids to carry the paralyzing jolt. Ven picked up what looked suspiciously like a water pistol, but a lot more deadly. She put it back down gently, not wanting to risk an accident in such a confined space. Some of the most cutting edge stun guns were here, items not available officially, and the new water based shock carriers were some of the newest models developed. The stun belts were a bit of a revelation. Ven could see little use for them outside of torture and long term incapacitation.

  She still put a few in the bag though.

  "Guess this will do for a start," smiled Ven. "I wonder if this kind of thing will work on the infected. I know they don't seem to actually feel pain, but don't the electric shocks actually frazzle the motor nerves or something?"

  "Yup, it hurts like hell but it also messes with muscle contractions. Makes you fall to the ground even if you don't feel the zap," confirmed Kyle. He had seen it on some budget show about kids and gang inductions. It seemed like they used it to prove their worth — the longer you could handle being zapped the better your chances of getting in.

  "Let's have 'em then, bag 'em up boys," Ven said excitedly, as she began loading a selection into one of the bags on the trolley. The temperature in the room was chilly, yet Ven felt herself warming from the exertion. Everything was so much harder when you had a little man strapped to your front, it made bending awkward and played havoc with her back.

  "Shh. I think I hear something," whispered Kyle.

  Nobody moved, they knew better than to ignore the feelings or senses of Kyle. He was always right.

  "I don't hear anyth—"

  The door burst open. Before they had a chance to react, before Al could storm the pair at the door, guns were trained, and there was nothing to do but hope they were good guys. They didn't look it though, they looked like bad news motherfuckers.

  "Afternoon," said a serious looking man whose face appeared to have been chiseled out of granite rather than made of skin like the rest of humanity. He even had muscles on his muscles by the looks of it.

  "So, wanna be gangstas do we?" said a pale and very scrawny teenager who was the opposite of the man who was obviously the leader of the pair. He smiled wickedly as he threw a pack of stun belts in front of them, right before Bos Bos, who had been sat in the corner and gone unnoticed until now, jumped at him and bit a finger clean off. In a move too fast to register he was smashed over the head by the larger man with the butt of his gun. Bos Bos yelped and fell to the floor, looking very dead.

  "My finger, my fucking finger. That bloody dog bit off my finger."

  "Shut up Nopad, it's just a flesh wound. Put them on," said the immaculately dressed man, pointing at the belts still on the sparkling floor in front of them.

  "Babies too?"

  "Don't get fucking clever, I'll take the baby."

  "Like fuck you will, nobody takes my son," spat Kyle, moving forward in front of Ven and Tomas.

  Joe pointed his gun at Kyle's face.

  "You ain't got a choice son, not the one."

  Bos Bos Bites Back

  Boscoe, a.k.a Bos Bos to his friends, was finding this whole zombie apocalypse a real drain on his energy. He was used to being alone with Ven all day; hanging out in his nice warm bed in the office, stealing sandwiches Ven forgot to eat, and generally having a great but lazy time of it. In the morning and evenings he would be taken for a walk, proudly wearing his red designer collar and being a good boy. There were comfy carpets, lots of snacks, central heating, and Paul came home from work and rubbed his belly.

  Things were now somewhat different. Paul was gone. His Bos Bos senses kept getting overloaded with the scent of fear. For the last few weeks he had little in the way of routine. He kept getting attacked, kept having to go to new places, and he was often not a happy chappy.

  What happened to a pee and a poo at eight in the morning and another one at six in the evening?

  Now it was often just an opportune evacuation as and when he could. Thankfully the last few days had seen some kind of a return to a routine, he was enjoying it immensely and even managed to relax for more than a few hours at a time. He loved it on the bus. He got to see lots of different things and he got to eat lots of food. The big man called Al seemed to enjoy eating even more than him, so Bos Bos decided this was to be his very bestest of friends. If he sat quietly next to Al, put on his saddest puppy dog face, opened his eyes wide and lifted his paw up, then sooner or later he would be rewarded with something yummy.

  The spot next to where Al usually sat thus always had a puddle on the floor. Bos Bos drooled like it was going out of fashion, he couldn't help himself, he just needed food and his salivation was his only way of expressing just how empty this poor little doggy's belly was. Signaling he would probably keel over, and actually genuinely die of hunger, if he didn't get at least a little bite of the cheese sandwich which was so near yet always so far from his delicate doggy mouth.

  At least, this was the situation from Boscoe's point of view. Other opinions were rather different. Nicknamed Senor Portly by Al, Bos Bos was what you would call ever so slightly rotund. He was a six year old Labrador who had fallen on hard times until he was rescued from the pound by Ven — ever since then it had been easy street all the way.

  Actually, Bos Bos was nowhere near as rotund as he had once been. He was slowly leaning out and he was none too thrilled about this turn of events. Labs are known for their box shaped bottoms, and Boscoe liked his that way. It was padding for sitting waiting for sandwich based sustenance. Now, horror of horrors, it seemed that the excess weight was beginning to firm up and be turning to muscle. It left our little black haired chap in a bit of a quandary.

  Should he carry on chasing the stinky people, or should he leave it to the others in the pack he was part of?

  He felt it was a waste of a perfectly good sandwich if all he did was to burn off the energy it gave him by chasing after people who couldn't be bothered to squat down to do their business. If he could manage it then so could they. The issue he had was that he was obsessively protective about this little family. Although at first he had been too scared to really lend a helping paw, as time wore on he realized that being under attack was kind of just the way it was going to be from now on. Understanding dawned that he better get his act together and protect those that made sure he had the sliced bread and cheese in the first place. It was a bit of a catch 22 for Boscoe, but he knew which side his bread was buttered, and it wasn't going to be in anyone's interest to pool resources with the flesh eating stinkers.

  So six year old Boscoe, with his slightly overly fluffy tail, his ears that bounced like they were on springs when he ran — one of which had a chink out of it from a bit of bother when he lived in the pound, his big bum wobbling, plus a very slight case of dandruff, was turning into a lean, mean, zombie menacing machine. Now, any time there was what he liked to think of as a 'lunch break', not a break for lunch you understand — rather, a break between lunches, he found it somehow his duty to try to attack anything that seemed a likely candidate if the opportunity arose.

  Whenever they stopped, Bos Bos the Zombie Worrier could be seen scampering as fast as possible, legs akimbo and belly bouncing, chasing after the undead and grabbing hold of any bits he could snag.

  It actually didn't usually help in the slightest. All it did was to make it harder for anyone else to get a good swing with an axe, a sword or a mace. Or fire off a few rounds from a shotgun, as they had to wait for the damn dog to get out of the way. Nobody told him this though, it was good to see the little fella at least trying.

  As his prowess grew though, and he honed his zombie menacing skills, he was getting better at it, and just this morning he had shown remarkable aptitude when dealing with the attack by the river. He was still feeling the glow from his good deed, and was pretty hyped when he managed to
bite off a bit of the young man just encountered.

  Once Boscoe had brought his foe to a halt, or dragged them down to the ground because of his considerable weight, he would then let go, go trotting over to the nearest person, and sit there obediently waiting for the reward that he was most certainly due. So he did his training, got his food, and began to build his muscle.

  Let's not go so far as to call him svelte as of yet, but if he sticks around for a few more adventures, and everyone hopes he will as they love him, then it won't be long before he is going to be as streamlined as a Greyhound and as muscular as a Tiger.

  Just you watch him roar.

  Grr.

  It's Just a Pinkie

  "Look Nopad, it's just a little pinkie, and it's your left hand too, so stop whining and just man up." Joe was just tired, tired of Nopad and his damn juvenile energy — definitely his taste in music. He did feel for the lad really, he just couldn't let on in case he took it as a sign of weakness and tried to walk all over him.

  "It really bloody hurts," sulked Nopad, giving Bos Bos the daggers.

  Bos Bos pretended not to notice, and licked his nether regions slowly and slurpily — the best insult he could think of on short notice.

  "Is he okay?" asked Joe, nodding at Bos Bos.

  "Yeah, he's tougher than he looks, aren't you Bos Bos? Good boy," said Ven, deciding to scratch his ear later. Once he had finished with his business.

  Joe was bouncing baby Tomas on his knee. The little guy was gurgling happily and staring wide-eyed at the wall. Apparently it was a brilliant wall.

  "Look guys, I'm sorry about earlier, I was just being cautious. This place is a bit of a magnet for nutters to be honest, and we, well I, have had to deal with a few madmen over the last couple of weeks. Not to mention the day everyone freaked and went fucking schizo. And um, starting eating each other." Joe was smiling away as he talked, not at all the kind of guy he appeared to be after their first impression just a few hours earlier.