by H. L. Murphy
“I think these two cars here,” Gaunt pointed out two import sedans in primer gray, “came from the shop down the road.”
“The little import tuner shop behind the gas station?”
“Yeah, that's the one,” Gaunt nodded slowly as he closely examined an older Jeep Cherokee covered in mud, bullet holes, and dried blood. “This piece of shit look familiar to you?”
“Not really,” Dane began. “One Cherokee is pretty much the same as another.”
“True, but this one reminds me of someone,” Gaunt shook his head. “Doesn't matter right now. Let's go inside.”
“With all these cars here, you want to go inside?” Dane was incredulous. “Do you have any idea how many people could be in there? And you think they aren't going to mind us showing up to scrounge through their supplies?”
“Since most of these pieces of shit don't have engines,” Gaunt said, shoving down hard on the front end of a particularly Mad Max looking car only to have the car practically bounce up off the ground. “I don't imagine there are too many residents. And certainly not enough to argue with my big stick.”
With this Gaunt slid his Smith and Wesson from its holster and started walking for the wide open entry gate.
Sighing, Dane pulled his rifle to his shoulder and followed along. It was strange beyond words to be back at the place they'd seen their first zombies. Breathing smoke, Dane swept his weapon over the covered walkway to the right then to the left where stood several up sized aircraft stands. Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to have taken the day off. Ahead, Gaunt stood next to the steel security door that had once been the preferred entrance motioning for Dane to come up. His cigarette spent, Dane flicked the butt away and walked quietly up to the door. At the door Dane could finally see what had seized Gaunt’s attention.
Where once helicopter airframes had sat in various states of assembly now sat a long row of highly modified vehicles, modified through the introduction of aircraft parts and wiring. This much was apparent by the presence of partially installed military grade aircraft equipment as well as fully integrated items. Among the obvious equipment were the armored wings, a ballistic shield meant to protect the pilot or copilot from small arms fire. Field reports cast that claim in a dubious light, yet the devices remained unchanged for the better part of a decade.
Of all the things Dane and Gaunt were seeing the most incredible of all were the working lights and the sounds of pneumatic tools in use.
“Oh, hell no,” Gaunt mumbled plaintively. “If the goddamn zombies have started using tools I'm done, out, gone.”
“Take a deep breath, adjust your tampon, and man the fuck up,” Dane snarled. “I told you I didn't want to come in here, but now we're here we’re going to own this mother fucker like a boss. Why? Because we are total bad ass survivors, not whinging little pussies in dire need of a latte and safe space, that's why.”
Nodding enthusiastically, Gaunt cupped his free hand around the mobile field artillery piece disguised as a revolver and turned to the door where he came nose to nose with an albino covered by a soiled hoodie and proceeded half a second by the most vile aroma emanating from the albino’s mouth.
Years would pass before Gaunt ever spoke of this encounter, and in his telling Gaunt never mentioned how in that instant of utter surprise he shrieked high enough and long enough to make Jamie Lee Curtis turn a deep emerald in envy.
In response, the albino apparition let loose a long, demented giggle. A giggle made worse by the voice in which it spoke.
“Aaahh, customers at last,” it said, clasping its hands in unhinged joy. What skin could be seen was both chalk white and appeared to be molting. Wide swathes of pale flesh bubbled and fell away. “You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to get customers to come out here. It's so far off the beaten trail. Won't you please come in?”
“Wait, you sound familiar,” Dane Kincaid whispered from behind his weapon. “Who are you?”
“Oh, how terribly rude of me,” the albino lamented. “You must forgive me, I've been alone for quite some time. Not to mention my recent confinement. Nothing to worry about, gentlemen, I assure you. Merely a small case of the flu and a few side effects from the medicine. That's neither here nor there, it's my name you're interested in.”
The albino stopped to consider the men before him, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he were having difficultly focusing on something. His pink eyes lost their focus entirely as he seemed to lose himself in thought though only for a moment.
“Yes, my name,” he whispered hoarsely. “My name is Robert Jones, though you may know me better as Buttermilk Jones and this is my Body Shop.”
Chapter Seven
Ever Seen The Movie The Last Chase?
Heavy machine gun fire burst overhead as our confiscated Jeep topped the bridge, hot brass bounced off the hood and fenders as we passed beneath the hovering attack helicopter. Since my concentration was currently split between not driving the Jeep off the bridge in surprise and not loading my boxers from sudden terror, I couldn't make out the size of the falling spent shells beyond gigantic. Behind me, James began a litany of inventive obscenities.
“What the hell?” I yelled over my shoulder. Rattling across the hood of the vehicle between the windshield wipers I spotted a gleaming brass cartridge, one I estimated to be about twenty millimeters wide. Oh, Jesus Fuck, a twenty millimeter cannon? What the fucking hell did I do to deserve this?
“That chopper is blasting the Stenchasaurus Rex to pieces,” James answered. “What the hell are they using, and where can I find one?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I swung the Jeep around the base of the bridge, and out of sight of the execution going on. “You wouldn't be able to carry it.”
“Hey, don't piss on my parade. For once in your life try being positive and supportive of other people's dreams,” James yelled over the revving of the engine.
“A twenty millimeter Gatling gun is not man portable,” I snarled, making a hard right. “You think carrying that rifle and ammo sucks ass after fifteen minutes? Well, I'm goddamn positive humping even a hundred rounds of twenty millimeter will make you thank god crying for a SCAR and half a dozen mags.”
“We could mount it on the boat,” James countered. I turned to shit on his dreams of superior firepower, but came up short when I considered how totally awesome a twenty millimeter Gatling gun mounted on the SS Churchill would be.
“Goddamn it,” I screamed, and yanked the Jeep into a hard left onto SW Murphy Road. Even over the bellowed conversation, heavy machine gun fire, and the eardrum shredding volume of my own heart pounding in my chest I could make out the unmistakable din of an approaching attack helicopter. “Why the unholy fucking hell is a goddamn attack helicopter wandering around shooting giant zombies?”
“That's what they're there for,” James sneered. “To wander around battlefields and kill the shit out of people.”
“These people are already dead,” I snapped back, cutting another sharp left. Couldn't tell you with any certainty what kind of helicopter was busy depopulating Stuart, but I was betting clear line of sight was essential for that monster cannon. “Not to mention this a quarantine zone. A straight up no fly zone as in the blockading fleet sitting off the coast will shoot you into a billion flaming pieces.”
“Well, the helicopter is marked ‘Marines’, so maybe the jarheads got bored sitting around on their asses,” James shrugged. “You know how they are. Overwhelming, crushing odds sounds like a good time to Marines.”
An argument leapt to my lips, but shriveled up and blew away in the face of the bright red light issuing from the dashboard accompanied by a high pitched buzzing alerting me to the extreme lack of fuel currently residing with the gas tank. It's more than possible that in the tumultuous moment of escape from the Stenchasaurus Rex I failed to notice how little fuel the Jeep possessed, and it's quite likely I remarked on this by screaming obscenities loud enough to cause an aneurism. Insult to injury, the all too f
amiliar voice of St. Pete began laughing at me and holding forth on how the blame for our current situation lay squarely on my shoulders for slut shaming Lady Luck and Fate both. The pair of diseased tramps had collaborated to produce a situation specifically designed to put me back in my place once and for all.
“Chopper’s climbing,” James yelled, his announcement penetrating the fog of near despair settling over my brain.
Twenty millimeter armor piercing rounds exploded through the asphalt where the Jeep had just been, the squeal of steel belted radials lost beneath the roar of the helicopter’ engines and cannon. We were now driving half on and half off the sidewalk and watching the rounds track closer and closer.
“Strap yourself down,” I screamed back to James. “Oh, and try shooting that mother fucker.”
My friend spared half a second to flip me off as he cinched his seat beat tight against his body. The exact second my ears registered the click of the seat belt engaging I jumped on the brakes and fought the steering wheel as the vehicle bucked, shuddered, and jumped. Above, the helicopter shot passed and two very different things happened.
First, I managed a longer, more informative look at the chopper, recognizing it as a Bell Cobra attack helicopter. Even though the design was much, much older than I was, the AH-1 Cobra remained an intensely lethal tool of war. If we hadn't been vaporized by now it solely because the chopper crew hadn't wanted to view our near instantaneous reduction from living human beings to our component atoms. In other words, they were having a good old time fucking with us.
The second, and far more important, thing to occur unfolded as the attack helicopter shot by, and the following buffet of scent laden wind slammed into the Jeep. Time dilated as scents assaulted my awareness. Fear infused sweat and earl grey tea from James, exhaust from the Jeep, aviation fuel fumes combined with spent cordite from the Cobra, fading body wash and cologne of the pilot, and hate interlaced with bone deep pain and an unnaturally dark lust slathered in bay rum cologne from the gunner.
The gunner.
It was the gunner’s scent that seized at my heart, sending up red flags. I knew that scent, knew the unholy delight the man took in indulging the darkest parts of his nature. The stench of his cologne filled my nose as I flashed upon a darkened road a mile from the wildlife enforcement cabin where I killed two assholes dressed as extras from a cheap spy film. Assholes that had casually discussed raping a young woman in the most disgusting of terms.
El Rapo, the Don Juan of Rape, was still alive. Still alive and currently pointing a twenty millimeter cannon at me. Wonder if maybe he's holding a grudge? More importantly, how the hell was he still alive? After all, I shot him in the head.
Do not sit there with your mouth hanging open, drive!
Excuse me, I'm enjoying a time dilation here. I have all the goddamn time in the world.
No, you do not.
Technically, no I don't. Sometime very soon the perceived change in the flow of time will return to normal and I'll be scrambling to get away from that flying death dealer.
That's not what I mean. Can’t you smell it? In his scent?
All I can smell is that goddamn bay rum cologne El Rapo apparently bathed in.
Focus your mind beyond that. Reach out with your mind as you did with Zombie Green.
Christ on fire, what the hell do I know about this transcendental Jedi mind trick bullsh…is that? It can't be.
Yes, it is. El Rapo has been injected with a variation of the same serum you were, then purposefully infected.
Oh, hell no! Are you telling me that storm trooper I whacked fell to the dark side and came back to life?
Stop gibbering and start acting or he will kill us all.
I'm not gibbering! I'm just having difficulty grasping the concept of having my own personal Sith Lord hunting me down from the gunners seat of a Cobra gunship. It's more than a little intimidating.
Move now, piss yourself later.
Thank you for your compassion and understanding.
My perception of time’s passage began to speed up, and I could make St. Pete’s voice as he laughed his Galilean head off.
“This is what you get for blaspheming,” St. Pete guffawed in his best Joe Pesci voice. “Not to mention you failed to double tap and confirm the kill.”
Fucking Last Word Larry descended into a giggling fit as my conscious mind dropped back into the full speed time stream. Growling like a mad dog I shoved the gear shift into first gear and popped the clutch, spinning the tires like a cinematic bad ass. Around five thousand RPMs I stomped the clutch and threw the transmission into second gear, James passionately spat uncreative obscenities.
“Hold on,” I screamed as I yanked the gear shift into third, and stomped the gas. Above and ahead, the Cobra spun in place. Having a twenty millimeter Gatling cannon pointed directly at you, not just in your general direction but directly at you is a sure fire method to induce either severe diarrhea guaranteed to empty your entire body, or cause sphincter lock sufficient to compress a fist sized piece of coal to the world's most impressive diamond. My shorts remain unstained as the Cobra tilted forward and began its attack run. The nose mounted cannon spun up and began spitting armor piercing death at us, tearing up the asphalt in a straight line aimed at me. At the last possible moment I yanked the Jeep hard to the right, taking us off the road and up a wild lawn into the corner of a building. Mass, inertia, and speed ensured the vehicle would penetrate the outer walls, though I knew, even as the first impact occurred, this Jeep was toast on an epic level. Out the other side of the structure and my swiftly narrowing view became filled with the St. Lucie River. “Deep breath!”
My entry into the river this time was less traumatic than my previous experience though only because I hadn't been shot yet. A state of affairs I wished to remain the Status quo, especially given the underslung armored vehicle killing cannon masquerading as a helicopter shooting at me.
“When we get out, stay under the water and swim for that pier,” I yelled, and pointed out a small pier with several expensive looking sail boats tied up.
“Does this shit happen every time you go out? If so, I don't want to be your friend anymore,” James declared, cutting away the jammed seatbelt. Free of the restraint, James began sucking down lungfuls of oxygen, but barely exhaling, oxygenating his blood as much as humanly possible before the long swim. A coworker once told me it was an old free divers trick.
“Suck it up, snowflake,” I responded as the water covered my chest, ”at least you won't die of boredom around me.”
If James had a rejoinder, I couldn't make it out as I was hauling my sorry ass out of the sinking Jeep through a submerged door. While I may have become practically unkillable, I hadn't become any better a swimmer than I had been before. What did that mean in real world terms? It took me almost twice as long as James to reach the relative safety of the pier, and then only because I was able to make use of a submerged line. As I surfaced next to him, James slapped a hand over my mouth and pointed to the Cobra, currently sweeping the crash area with twenty millimeter rounds.
“What the fuck did you do to this asshole?” James placed his mouth uncomfortably close to ear, like totally homo suspicion close, to hiss those words. He, like me, knew what personal business looked like, and after twenty years of friendship would know if I tried lying to him.
Instead, I went with the unvarnished truth.
“I shot him in the back,” I admitted with a casual shrug. “And then I thought I put a bullet through his skull. I was still pretty woozy from the crash, and being shot to death, so maybe my aim wasn't so hot.”
My friend stared at me for a long time, astonishment plastered across his bearded face. It was a look I was used to getting from people that hadn't known me for decades. I would recount a story from my turbulent youth to a new acquaintance and then the look would blossom. To see my oldest living friend staring at me so was both unnerving and invigorating. It pleased me no end to discover I still posses
sed the capacity to surprise.
“It doesn't surprise me some asshole has come looking to even the score, Angus,“ James intoned flatly. “What surprises me most is it's taken this long, and that the line of aggrieved parties isn't backed up to Miami.”
Ouch, that kind of stung. It was true, but it still didn't need to be said.
“Dude,” I whispered, giving my best Et Tu, Brutè impression. For his part, James bobbed his head back and forth in as much of an act of contrition as I was likely to get. Above us the helicopter ceased its useless assault on the water and pivoted to pour fire onto the nearest remaining boats. “Time to go. Edge along the bank until we're under the bridge.”
As James and I made our semi-stealthy, scared shitless way along the edge I came to the startling realization that it was one thing to be shot at by men on the ground, but a completely different matter to be assault by a flying chariot of death we had no chance in hell of stopping. To say it was disheartening would be the understatement of the century. I think I gained a much deeper understanding that day of what soldiers, real soldiers not fucking scumbag terrorists, have endured since the first biplane strafed the trenches in World War One. Respect had always been there, but now I empathized with the poor bastards that just had to take cover and tough it out.
The cannon went silent, the sudden quiet oppressive in its way until the whoosh of a rocket filled the air between the Cobra and a fifty foot yacht. Without thinking I grabbed James and drug him beneath the surface. Fire, shrapnel, and death filled the spaces we had occupied half a second previous. It's entirely possible one, or both, of us lost bladder control, but since we were both in the river and entirely preoccupied with more important matters at the time, I can't assert that with any authority.
James turned from me began swimming for the bridge, powerful strokes drove him forward like a runaway torpedo. Given the nature of the events transpiring above the surface that was, possibly, not the best comparison that could have been made. A transitory image passed through my brain of James contacting the edge of the bridge pier and exploding into a billion molecules. Just going to let that slip away from my conscious mind, and into the dark recesses of the subconscious where the interface construct would probably file it away to torture my dreams with later.
