Invasion of the Dead (Book 1): Treasure Coast Zombies

by H. L. Murphy

  Such was my mental state as I passed the guard house and pulled onto a twenty mile stretch of road named after my employer. Hell of a deal when the state not only granted you tax incentives, but named an entire section of state road after you. Cold air blasted me in the face, rivers of sweat instantly went icy. I hadn't noticed how hot I was until the AC kicked in and brought the temperature down. A rustling noise drew my eyes over to my bag, and my right hand digging around within it. I couldn't recall wanting to locate anything in particular in the canvas bag, but then my hand came out wrapped around another protein bar.

  “Why the fuck not?” I mumbled and unwrapped the bar. Comprised of nuts, dried fruit, and unidentifiable food stuffs, the protein bar disappeared much faster than usual. My teeth crushed the bar into barely swallowable chunks before I gulped them down. The more of the bar I managed to get down, the less fucking horrible I felt. The aches and strains of my escape released their strangle hold on me. Deprived of oxygen as I ate, my lungs reminded me in no uncertain terms that I needed to breathe. As I took a hard left, my lungs started pulling in blessed cold air to revitalize my body.

  Normally, I proceeded home at a sedate pace, unwilling to draw too much negative attention from law enforcement or run headlong into the freakishly large wild pigs that lived in the area. Tonight, all bets were off and I jammed the accelerator to the floor.

  Fifty.

  Sixty.

  Seventy.

  Eighty miles per hour. Not as fast as my Jeep could go, but the fastest I was willing to go at night while surrounded by woods and nocturnal animals. Interesting side note, I actually purchased that vehicle after I ran head long into a nine foot alligator. Totaled my old Escort. Shut up, that car was awesome. Mainly because of all the sex I enjoyed in it, but it was awesome right up to the moment it became a gator battering ram.

  Wrapped up in my sense of nostalgia I didn't hear the approaching helicopter until it was far too late to do anything useful. It was too dark to tell exactly which model was above me, but I'd spent the better part of a decade working on Blackhawks, and the sound was wrong. As if to balance my inability to identify choppers by the sound of their rotors beating the air into submission, I readily identified the M-240 being fired at my ass by a door gunner.

  I swerved this way and that, but short, well aimed bursts tracked my movements. Rounds punctured the thin sheet metal skin of my vehicle in a dozen places. I wanted to shoot back even thought the absurdity of blasting away at a helicopter with a 1911A1 was readily apparent to me. For a moment, I genuinely thought I was going to piss myself when the passing image of an extremely irate Zombie Pee Wee at the controls of the chopper with his zombie buddies shooting at me flitted through my overtaxed brain. That's even more fucked up than Archangels laying bets on how I kicked the bucket. Wager, a wager, sorry Pete.

  Fire bloomed in my back a second before my windshield was covered in some kind of red mist. My hands involuntarily fell away from the wheel, and I watched as the Jeep careened off the road into a shallow irrigation canal. I felt warm, slime coated water seep in to the cab, into my boots, and soak my crotch. Or maybe I finally pissed myself and in my last moments in this life my mind was trying to preserve a measure of dignity for my ego.

  I tried to laugh, but the lights go out.

  Again.

  Chapter Six

  “You sure he's dead?” a harsh, ragged voice called from the darkness. The voice is full of suspicion, probably belonged to a cop, or an FAA inspector.

  “Dude, he took three in the back,” a lighter, more easy going voice responded from unsettlingly close by. “Dixon did his job like a pro. This poor fool is toast.”

  “Better put a few in his head, just to be sure,” the first voice stated with a decided lack of compassion. I would very much like Mr. Gravel Voice to go fuck himself with a cheese grater.

  “Fuck that, Jace,” the second voice practically whined. I could see me and Mr. Second Dude becoming bosom buds. We could share a beer or twelve at the local watering hole and share a few laughs about that time I didn't die from being machine gunned. “Putting a hole in this assholes head will splatter brains everywhere, and brains always kills my hard on.”

  Eh, what? What the fuck was this dipshit talking about? Why the fuck did he have a hard on while checking my fucking corpse? Alright, Pete, I may have smarted off a bit, but that doesn't mean I deserved to be a necrophiliacs fuck toy.

  “You think with your dick too much,” Mr. Gravel Voice commented. Yeah, what he said you fucking pervert.

  “Come on, did you see the tits on that one?” Mr. Second asked. Since I lacked tits of any kind, spectacular or not, I simultaneously felt relieved, and much, much worse. These assholes had at least one well endowed female hostage they planned to do unspeakable things to. “I want to get back there before Avi has a chance to do his thing. That boy is just seriously fucked up.”

  “You're no prize either,” Mr. Gravel Voice sneered. I got the distinct impression he didn't approve of what was going to happen. Not that he planned to do anything to prevent it. He merely wished to pass judgement upon the players on stage. “Remember Singapore? The billionaire’s daughter? The one you carved Shakespeare sonnets onto her back? The girl is still in a coma.”

  Shit, I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing that.

  “What can I say? I love the classics,” Mr. Second said with an inflection in his voice that made my skin crawl. At first, I was worried these guys might have been military, but after hearing this conversation I just didn't care. Good, bad, military, or just some fucking whack jobs from Okeechobee, it didn't matter. If I wanted to see my family again, those psychopaths had to go. From the way their voices were becoming softer I could tell those pricks were walking away. I very slowly opened my eyes and spotted the retreating men. Mr. Gravel Voice was tall and built like a ’54 Buick, while the Don Juan of Rape was maybe five feet four inches in lifts. Fucking short guys, always with the little man syndrome.

  Wondering how I was still alive if the door gunner shot me? So was I. A few ideas were starting to form in the back of my mind, especially after the wound in my side just healed itself in seconds after I pulled the tubing out. Still, there are two, well, one rape happy slug and one apathetic slug headed out to violate some poor chick. Yeah, I said chick, deal with it. If you're more upset over my use of language than the fact a G.I. Joe wannabe was about to rape and disfigure someone, you really need to bang your head against a wall until you die.

  My forty-five slid out of its holster without making a sound, the weight of the weapon was welcome after what I'd just heard. When it came to defensive ammunition, I didn't screw around. The specialized ammunition produced in the modern age had, in my opinion, only improved the functionality of the revered design. The two assholes walking away would likely have had a different opinion, provided the Cor Bon rounds I pumped into their spines hadn't killed them.

  Firing my big automatic within the confines of my vehicle, windows up, was maybe in the top ten dumbest things I had ever done in my life. It didn't blow out the windows like in the movies, but I was pretty sure I was screaming my head off even though the only thing I could hear was a ringing in my ears. Let us not forget the excruciating pain that lanced through my brain. It was bad enough I didn't stop to consider the presence of several spent rounds as they rose up my throat to be vomited into a waiting hand. Compared to the last twenty minutes, throwing up spent thirty caliber rounds after having been shot to death was fairly tame.

  Getting out of the wrecked Jeep was much easier than I thought it was going to be. The walk to the still breathing shitheads, however, wasn't. It took the whole walk to the bodies for whatever was putting me back together to finish doing its thing. I was fit as a fiddle the moment I put a bullet into the head of each man. These guys were dressed in black fatigues with tactical vests and brand new M-4s. Briefly, I considered taking their rifles, but I'd never fired fired a fully automatic weapon in my life so the supe
r bang-bangs stayed with the shitheads. Their sidearms, though, were fair game.

  Once I had a Beretta M9 in my hand, I rethought keeping the pistol. It had no markings of any kind on it, anywhere. The Don Juan of Rape had a flashlight on his belt that I used to double check the handgun, then looked over his rifle. No manufacturers logos, inspection proofs, or serial numbers. Yup, not taking those rolling felonies anywhere with me.

  A gunshot from up the road, near the wildlife management station, drew me back into the real world. Even from a mile away I could hear a woman as she shrieked to shatter what was left of my hearing. Beneath the backseat of my recently departed Jeep, I had stored spare magazines for my pistol as well as something a little more…aggressive.

  The short barreled Kalashnikov rifle I pulled out was a little more my speed. I rocked a full magazine into the rifle, and chambered a round.

  Okay, maybe it's time that I explained that I wasn't so much a closet commando, as much as I was more a flavor of survivalist. You couldn't spend almost a decade working with military veterans without developing a few eccentricities. Such as keeping a short barreled rifle with a collapsible stock under the back seat of my vehicle. I was more of a Russia or China, who I fervently hoped were both enjoying their own special brand of undead hell, were going to lose their shit and invade survivalist than a zombie apocalypse crazy. You know what? I don't need your fucking judgement, alright? Just because the Russian and Chinese hadn't invaded, yet, didn't mean my preparations were invalid to preserve my family against the undead. I had a sidearm, a high powered rifle, ammunition for both, and a snazzy coyote tan tactical vest. Look upon me with all the envy of a high school nerd as he watched the cool guy score with a cheer leader, and, no, I didn't mean from the bushes outside her window. Fucking freaks.

  I took a moment to check for a vehicle, but Mr. Gravel Voice and Don Rapenstein must have been dropped off because I didn't find one. So I deduced they must have walked here from the wildlife management station, where at least one person had just been shot. I was seriously hoping it wasn't the girl El Rapo wanted to introduce to Shakespeare. I was about leave when I spotted something super awesome strapped to dipshit number one’s belt, night vision goggles, and not the old monocular style either. Those babies had four light drawing ocular units. I'd never used this model before, but every article I'd ever read praised this model as vastly superior.

  “Mine now,” I whispered to El Rapo. I'd seen too many movies because I was sorely tempted to put another round in his brain pan. Instead, I just spat in his face. What? He carved Shakespeare's sonnets onto the back of what I assumed to have been an innocent woman. If I hadn't known better, I could have sworn El Rapo twitched when my spit hit his face.

  Nah. It's my imagination. Fucker is toast.

  Oh, boy, now I got to run some more, fuck me swinging. I fucking hated running, always did. Having to do so to stay alive didn't change my outlook at all. Running towards what I assumed were heavily armed wannabe soldiers while I carried a rifle, pistol, lots of ammunition for both, and in construction work boots sucked on an entirely new and suck ass level.

  My respect for genuine military types had gone up dramatically in the previous ten minutes. I told myself to slow to a walk about a hundred yards from the turn off to the wildlife station so I wouldn't alert anyone to my approach, but the truth was I could barely breath without gasping air in and out. I told you I didn't like to run, did you think I was kidding?

  My panting was under control by the time I snuck up to the turn off, so I managed not to alert the three black clad commandos who stood before two people forced to kneel on the ground, a third person lay bleeding next to them. One of the men stepped to one side and Cooms and Madalina came into view. Both had seen rough handling, though Cooms seemed to have taken the brunt of the beating. Cooms knew what was coming and had resigned himself to it as best he could.

  “Fuck you, cocksucker,” Cooms shouted and spat at the commando before him. I heard the commando laugh before he shot Cooms right between the eyes. My friend fell back as Madalina let loose a scream that I swear to God caused blood to flow from my ears. Son of a goddamned bitch. My rifle came up, but I didn't fire because the shrieking Gypsy was in the line of fire. What kind of good guy shot the hostage while he took out the bad guys?

  Keanu Reeves, that s who. After the third Matrix film I didn't want to be Keanu Reeves, although his work on John Wick went a long way to redeem him in my eyes. So maybe I could be a post-Matrix, John Wick Reeves.

  Yeah, I was losing my shit.

  The unmistakeable sound of cheap, quasi see thru material being torn drew me away from the Great Keanu Debate, and back to reality. One of the commandos had taken hold of Madalina’s shirt and ripped it from her body. Tanned breasts, barely contained within a lace bra drew whistles and catcalls. Tears and abject terror transformed Madalina’s haughty, semi angelic features into a truly pathetic sight, revealed was the scared little girl she had always been. All three men laughed harshly as Madalina attempted to cover herself with the remnants of her tee shirt. The asshole in charge stepped forward to backhand the shit out of Madalina. Her cries of pain served only to enflame the shitheads twisted desires. Captain Rapey, I needed to call him something and it fit, lunged at his victim then came away with her brassiere.

  It was a well documented fact that Madalina had surgically augmented breasts, but until that moment I never really appreciated the surgeons excellent craftsmanship. Yes, I took the time to admire a pair of fantastic fake tits, fuck off. I, like all breathing men, will stop whatever we were doing to check out bare breasts when presented, it didn't make me unfaithful. It just made me male.

  Excited hoots and whoops accentuated Madalina’s sobs and indecipherable gibberish. She must have been speaking in some slavic language, although since I didn't speak the language I had no fucking idea what she was using. As far as I knew she could have been babbling on in Swahili about the goddamn weather. It wasn't likely, but it could have happened. The safe bet, though, was that a young woman in the midst of being abused and highly traumatized might have reverted to her native language. I couldn't understand a word she was screaming, but I knew the tone. It was laced with fear and dread of the imminent violation.

  It wasn't until Captain Rapey gave her another backhand and grabbed her by the hair that I was faced with a moral dilemma. On one side I couldn't possibly stand by and allow these animals to rape at will, but on the other was the fact that Madalina did her best to kill me not so very long ago. I mean, on a karmic scale this might have been her comeuppance for having tried to murder me, but these assholes weren't going to just cut her throat, were they? No, these shitbirds intended to violate her in ways that didn't bear thinking on if you valued sleeping ever again.

  Goddamned moral compass.

  Captain Rapey dragged Madalina into the shitty cabin that passed as a check in station for hunters. The other two commandos slapped each other on the back and laughed like Hannibal Lechter about to enjoy a three course meal. You wouldn't believe it, but music, fucking music, started to blare inside the cabin. Guns and fucking Roses, Welcome to the Jungle. Oh, Jesus fuck, really? Captain Rapey needed a soundtrack?

  It took a little doing, but I managed to creep up on the remaining commandos. Mostly, I managed it because they were too busy discussing the unpleasant things they wanted to inflict upon Madalina. I could hear screams as they emanated from the cabin. They made my blood run cold as I took aim. Axl Rose hit a particularly aggressive section, and I fired two shots. It took everything I had to fire those shots without giving in to the flood of adrenaline rampaging through my veins. The shots struck each man in the spine, dropping them where they stood. I crouched in the brush, waiting for Captain Rapey to burst out with his pants around his ankles, guns a blazing. When nothing happened, I moved up on the dying men. Rapey Commando number one passed into the next world about the time the 7.62x39 round penetrated his spine, heart, and sternum. The other fuckwit, however, lingered
as his right lung filled with blood.

  “W,w,w,w,why?” Asshole number two gasped out in shocked surprise I felt wasn't really warranted. He gasped several times as his brain came to the inescapable conclusion that it's body was drowning in blood as each second passed. Panic began to register in Asshole number two while I plundered his body. A momentary pang of conscience struck me as I listened to the man drown in his own blood, but a fresh shriek from the cabin squashed any such sentiment. I left the man to die a slow, painful death, and moved on the cabin.

  Having made it this far was close to a miracle, but abject terror reared its ugly head as I desperately gathered what courage I actually possessed for breaching the cabin door. I mean, I'd attended dozens of handgun courses, but nothing that covered breaching an enemy stronghold. What was there to it? Boot in the door and shoot any asshole with a gun. Just one problem, I'd never had to kick in a door before.

  Maybe try the knob?

  Good idea.

  Slowly, I crept up to the door, my hand trembled as it closed around the door knob. A single deep breath, and before I could talk myself out of it I turned the knob and rushed in, rifle at the ready. Captain Rapey had a handful of Madalina’s hair in one hand, and himself in the other. The Gypsy seemed to have suffered a number of strikes to the face in order to soften her up before the main event. Whatever else Captain Rapey had in mind, the prick took the time to strip Madalina completely before he indulged himself. The sight was, honestly, something to see. Madalina Hurgoi may have been a soulless, man eating Gypsy Succubus fucking her way through life, but she certainly took good care of herself.

  Captain Rapey’s eyes went wide as I burst in, his hands too occupied to reach for a weapon. Not that his M4 was anywhere nearby, for feared of his victim getting hold of it. My face told the Captain everything he needed to know. I guess my intentions were clear enough because the Captain released Madalina’s hair so he could stand tall before his killer. Fucking asshole wanted to stand tall before me, but thought it was acceptable to violate Madalina. Why didn't you stand tall against the men that wanted to rape a defenseless woman?