EAT, SLAY, LUZT: A sexy wild ride through the dark heart of the zombie apocalypse.

by Jillian Stone

  He was brash and larger than life. The sort of military man who engendered trust and confidence. The kind of man soldiers followed into battle.

  The Humvee pulled up behind the BMW, and Ahmed and his men piled out of the utility vehicle. I ran over to greet them, frantically searching the dark recesses of the interior for any sign of him. “Where’s Chris?”

  Ahmed stared at me. “We lost him in the dark—maybe a mile before the road block. He was on the Ducati and disappeared into the dust storm.”

  “Did you find Mustafa?”

  “Nothing.” Ahmed shook his head. “Chris must have seen something, perhaps Mustafa, we don’t know.”

  My brain reeled at the thought of Chris out there alone, with the zombie hordes about to descend on us.

  “Do you remember which way he headed?”

  “East…I am almost certain.”

  I pivoted on my heel. Ivan and Colonel MacMillan appeared to be absorbed in conversation. “Excuse me, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Doctor Davis?”

  “We made our escape from Jordan with these French soldiers, but we’re missing Captain Chris Oakley. He’s a Black Hawk pilot, Night Stalker—I believe he’s one of yours, sir.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I’d like permission to search for him.”

  The colonel stared at me. “Doctor Davis, the bay doors are closed until the z-storm passes over us.”

  “But you don’t have to open the big door. He’s on a motorcycle and we’re sure he’s close by.” I lied like a street vendor selling a cheap Thai watch. “There has be another way in—a side door, possibly?”

  The colonel walked me over to a couple of guards. “Open the emergency door. We’ve got a helo pilot out there on the ground, and I’m low on pilots. Let’s bring him in.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A HANDFUL OF guards assembled around me.

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Do not thank me. And this is not a favor.” Beady eyes nailed the men assembled. “Even one of those skin eaters gets past the perimeter,” he barked, “you drag her inside and lock us down.” He nodded to me. “Get going, Doctor Davis.”

  I borrowed a flashlight and ran through a narrow tunnel cut with diamond precision through the bunker wall. At the end of the passage, I was confronted with a hatch that looked more like a door to a bank vault.

  One of the soldiers, the man in charge, caught up with me. “You’ve got five minutes, then I haul your ass back inside.”

  I gave him my best girl scout salute as he moved up from behind and unlocked the door using a four digit code.

  I admit I peeked. It was a game I played mostly for my own amusement, and I was uncannily good at it. I knew all my friend’s passcodes, just from watching them unlock their phones. I didn’t get the numbers or the tones, I got the keyboard position.

  Bottom left, middle top, middle top, bottom right.

  Comes in handy. It’s how I caught my ex-boyfriend cheating on me. He had no idea I knew his passcode.

  Outside the bunker I confronted a sweeping sky filled with brownish, blackish dust. It was dawn—or even daylight—but it might as well be the middle of the night.

  What time is it?” I asked.

  “Zero six-hundred.”

  I squinted into the wind and sand. I needed camel eyelashes.

  “Ma’am—you need to wear these.” One of the soldiers handed me a pair of goggles.

  “Thank you.” I put them on and scanned the horizon. “So this is what the dawn of the dead looks like.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s a soldier out there—one of your guys. Help me bring him in.” I swept my flashlight east. The rest of the guards turned on their gun lights. Beams crossed like searchlights, sending signals through the dense fog of dust.

  Just to mix it up, I clicked mine on and off. I had no idea how far the beams would penetrate—all I could hope for is that Chris would catch a glimmer of light. A beacon in the darkness—something to head for.

  I thought about the lighthouse back home on Point Loma. The huge lamp—thousands of candles of light—and wondered, frankly, what kind of candle power these wimpy beams emitted.

  “Jeezus—we need a fog horn.” I groused.

  The young soldier standing next to me stared—then he fired his weapon in the air. I could have kissed him. “Keep it up—if he can’t see us, maybe he’ll hear the shots.”

  No telling how loud the storm was even a hundred yards out. Between the rumble of that motorcycle engine, and the roar of the z-winds…

  I refused to go negative and walked further out into the thick haze, “See this light. Hear the shots…”

  “Time’s up. Fall back, and bring her in with you.”

  I spun around. A military man stood in the hatchway, obviously the boss man. “You can’t—I’ve got two more minutes.”

  “You’ve got exactly no more minutes,” he yelled.

  I swear I heard a familiar varoom-boom-boom.

  It was faint, but the Ducati’s growl cut through the noise of the coming storm. I turned to the soldier beside me. “Do you hear that? It’s him—I know it’s him—listen.”

  I gave the soldiers credit. They all stopped and listened while I flashed my light.

  Still faint, but growing stronger: Varoom-boom-boom.

  I looked up at them. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy, ma’am.”

  I ran out into the haze, and every one of the soldiers followed after, including boss man.

  One of the men raised his weapon and fired into the air.

  I stopped short of a deep ditch, with mounds of dirt piled on both sides. The kind of trench used in warfare.

  The motorcycle sounded like it was nearly on top of us.

  Bobbing figures emerged out of the haze—a shitload of fast-moving biters headed for us, or the bunker—or both.

  And then Chris was there, riding that bike, weaving in between pods of zombies.

  “Over here!” I yelled into a raging sandstorm that instantly swallowed up my voice.

  He appeared to be stuck in the middle. Ahead of the main heard, but behind this pod of front runners.

  I waved the flashlight. “Chris!”

  This time he saw me. He gunned his bike and spun around.

  “Chris!” I screamed over gunfire. “Please Chris—don’t—over here!” For a few agonizing seconds, I thought he was riding away from us.

  A barrage of bullets brought down a few undead. “Pull back!” One of the soldiers grabbed hold of me.

  “Let me go!” I yelled, wrenching away. I was quickly overpowered and dragged toward the bunker. I must have looked terrified, because one of the soldiers explained. “He’s going to jump the trench.”

  I could only guess at his next moves. Chris would race past the z-pod, and use the mound of dirt as a ramp—catapult over the trench—and connect with the mound of dirt on the other side.

  It was his only chance. And for some reason, I didn’t think it was completely insane. Chris had jumped something just as dangerous with me on the back of the bike in Ruwayshid.

  It took two men to hold onto me. All the while, I held my flashlight steady—straining to see—desperate to make sure he didn’t lose sight of us.

  Suddenly, more troops were piling out the hatch—big muscular guys with guns and spec ops beards. “Shoot the biters, not the guy on the bike!” I yelled. The trained zombie wranglers fired into the pod and quickly cleared the way for Chris to gain the escape velocity he needed for the jump.

  “Wait—” I dug my heels in. I had to see this for myself. Chis Oakley flying over a wall of dirt—the bike hanging in the air, suspended above soldiers and zombies—he soared over the pit to the opposite bank. At the top of the arc, I thought my heart would pound its way out of my chest. But he landed the jump and cleared the trench with inches to spare.

  “Did you see that?” The bug-eyed young man beside me whooped. “That was like John Connor in Termi
nator Salvation.”

  Before I could break away, I was grabbed from behind and disappeared down the secret passage. I managed to catch a glimpse of Chris as he rode up to the bunker.

  Once inside, my abductor stood me upright and apologized. “Sorry, ma’am, just following orders.”

  A squadron of soldiers piled through the shaft. I could hardly tell one man from another.

  The moment the security doors slammed shut, there was a huge commotion. Chest bumps, high and low fives. With the exception of Mustafa, who was still MIA, it was also the moment I knew everyone was accounted for—including Chris.

  I was proud of him, and he took his congratulations like a soldier. Humble, with a booyah sense of wonder. Most of the z-wranglers appeared super happy to see him, there were bro hugs all around. These guys had to be Rangers or SEALS he’d been on missions with.

  I waited as calmly as I could, for the moment when he’d pivot and see me. I imagined him turning his head. Crystalline blue eyes, searching the bunker, then finding me.

  Chris smiled, and I ran into his arms.

  “Oh, baby.” He held on tight as I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Don’t ever do that again,” I whispered breathlessly. “You scared the living shit out me.”

  He laughed in the face of my frown. And when the whistles and hoots started he held me even tighter. Wrapped in his arms, I was whole and safe. I could breathe again.

  He let me slip to the floor. “Did you see that jump?”

  “You are one badass motorcycle pilot, Captain Oakley.”

  We clung to each other, reluctant to let go, even a little. We were also making a spectacle of ourselves and we didn’t care. We were together and alive.

  I sensed someone move up beside us. “We have an intruder,” I whispered, aching to nibble on his earlobe. Whoever it was coughed uncomfortably, and Chris eased away.

  “You both need to report to decontamination.”

  We turned toward the voice of the woman speaking. “All visitors and military personnel need to be certified virus-free or have the requisite number of antibodies.” The Anglo-Asian woman was all business, and she was wearing a hazmat suit. A surgical mask hung around her neck. “The process can be somewhat uncomfortable, but not painful.” She smiled perfunctorily. “Come with me?”

  “What does she mean—uncomfortable but not painful?” I spoke softly as we followed her into something called the wash tub. This had to be payback for all the times I’d told a patient ‘this will only hurt a little’.”

  The glint in Chris’s eyes was pure beastie boy. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got to get naked to go through decontamination.”

  The hazmat suit lady ushered us into a stainless steel chamber. Hose lines hung from ceiling tracks, and a number of workers in full hazmat apparel stood by ready to blast us.

  I stared at her. “Unisex decontamination?” Z-wranglers piled into the room and began to undress. “With these guys?”

  “Close your eyes and pretend they’re not there.” She shrugged. “That’s what I do.”

  Fatigued and trembling, I tried to rip Velcro fasteners, but my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. “Just because I flashed Ivan, doesn’t mean…”

  Chris moved up close and helped remove my body armor. “Hey—hey,” His voice sheltered me, made me feel safer. “As long as I’m here—none of these guys will lay a hand on you.”

  I removed my T-shirt, and dared to look around. Several of the men were already naked, penises at half-mast or better.

  Instinctively, my eyes narrowed. “Take a picture, why—”

  Chris jumped in. “Guys—she’s not a pole dancer—she’s a doctor. Give her a little privacy.”

  I wanted to jump into his arms, and kiss him senseless, but this crowd might get ideas. So, I stripped quickly and tossed my clothes into the yellow bin marked with a hazardous waste icon.

  Further inside the wash tub, I was motioned toward two footprint markers on the floor. The moment I was in position, I was blasted with the fire hose and scrubbed with sponges and floor mops. They left me standing there, covered in a yellow-green foam that smelled suspiciously like PineSol.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, and the suds stung even more.

  “Lift your arms, ma’am.” A mop moved under and around my breasts, and between my legs. We were being scrubbed again—this time the intimate bits, without the abrasive chemicals. If I let myself relax, there was something weirdly stimulating about this decontamination. My nipples couldn’t get any harder—and my clit throbbed with every stroke of the foamy, soothing sponge.

  I turned toward Chris and made the mistake of opening my eyes.

  Giant erections here, there and everywhere.

  A trickle of fear ran through me. Then I thought about what I must look like—naked with foamy white stuff dripping down my torso.

  I understood the attraction. Men and women were both visual creatures. Women liked to look at great pecs and hard abs as much as men enjoyed looking at breasts and ass.

  The fire hose rinse blasted me out of my semi-erotic reverie, but this time the water was comfortably warm. I closed my eyes and imagined I was alone in a shower.

  Heavenly.

  Horny.

  Squeaky clean.

  A buzzer rang, and someone called out, “Spin dry.” A whirlwind of air buffeted me to and fro. Dry in seconds, I raked fingers though a tangle of hair, and hoped for a brush or comb in my future.

  I stepped out of the stainless steel chamber and was handed a paper robe, toothbrush and a tiny tube of paste. Chris joined me at a large communal basin, where we brushed and rinsed, twice.

  Per instructions, we tossed brushes and paste in a hazardous waste bin and followed a trail of footsteps painted on the concrete floor. The nondescript corridor ended in a T with two signs. The left route was marked Exchange, and the other LAB. Chris and I were motioned into a room guarded by MPs. A phlebotomist took blood samples and then pointed to a row of molded plastic chairs, where we waited.

  And waited.

  Chris leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. He hip-bumped me in a cute way. “If they toss me in the zombie tank, just shoot me.”

  I couldn’t go there. I’d come too close to losing him tonight. “If that happens, we’ll just have to make a break for it.” I bumped him back.

  Crystal blue eyes sparked to life. “Do you know where they took Ahmed and his men?

  “Haven’t a clue—what about Mustafa?” I asked, trying to look hopeful.

  Chis shook his head. “Nothing—no sign of him.”

  A lab technician entered the room. “Doctor Davis?”

  I sat up straight.

  “You’re clear.”

  Before I exhaled a sigh of relief, I needed to hear how Chris tested.

  The tech guy studied the soldier sitting next to me with considerable interest. “Captain Oakley, your tests show sufficient protective antibodies to the z-virus, so the good news is, you’re not quarantined.”

  Chris arched a brow. “And the bad news?”

  “We’d like to take a closer look at those levels, run a few more tests.” The technician ripped off a piece of paper. “Report back here by oh-nine hundred.”

  One of the guards pointed us toward the exchange, where we found stacks of uniforms sized by chest, waist and inseam. Shoes were all men’s sizes. I tried to remember what an eight and a half women’s was in men’s.

  Most of the clothes were used, having been decontaminated many times over. I was handed a stack of soft, frayed fatigues, new skivvies, T-shirt, and socks. And a pair of scrubbed to death, well-worn boots.

  Our hazmat lady greeted us as we exited the dressing area. “Captain Oakley—your debrief is at fifteen hundred with Major Harris.” She gave a nod to the young man standing beside her. “Corporal Stendhal will show you to your rooms.” She shuffled off and we were escorted down a zigzag of corridors.

  At one point we passed a giant communications complex. Hundreds of men and a fe
w women sat at terminals, monitoring z-storms all over the globe.

  Chris stopped at an open door and pulled me back with him.

  A giant war games map of the globe covered the back wall. Every continent was speckled with millions of dots—population centers. Some of the dots were red—in fact most of the dots were red. There were smaller clusters of other colors—mostly white and blue dots. They appeared to be tracking the spread of the virus, as well as the z-storms.

  Lights flickered, accompanied by a rumble, and something that sounded like a hailstorm overhead.

  “We’re starting to feel the storm now,” one of the technicians narrated as a section of map enlarged. I stared, mesmerized, as the screen refreshed every few seconds. Tens of thousands of animated dots swarmed over Northern Iraq, heading for the Persian Gulf.

  “Sir—we need to move on.”

  Chris pulled me away from the door and we hurried after the corporal.

  Six to eight hours from now, I would be human again. All I needed was some sort of bed or cot to lay my head on. And yet, as exhausted as I was, I was still keyed up. And the thought of being alone right now sent a shiver through me.

  Our young guide walked us through a kind of café. Blue neon lit up the back wall—Ground Z Open 24 hours.

  “This is the canteen—open twenty-four seven, just like sign says. The mess hall is further west—ask anyone for directions. Meal times are posted in your quarters.” I grabbed a banana, an orange, and two waters as we passed through the snack bar.

  Numb from battle fatigue, I did my best to take in the icicle strands hanging from the buffet table, and the artificial tree pre-lit with hundreds of multicolored lights. The idea of Christmas bounced around in my head, but the word barely registered.