by H. L. Murphy
The flaming toilet roll sailed through the air until it struck rotting flesh and gasoline.
The flash of flame, and the blast of super heated air that hit me lifted me off my feet. The ground rushed up to meet me even as I saw Apache as he rose up to open fire on the Things heads. A new smell had entered the air, roast pork. My face and arms felt strange, badly sun burned, but it was late night. I forced myself to look down at my arms, and threw up as the scorched, blistered skin reality sunk in. For all the swiftness of my actions I had earned severe burns, burns bad enough they almost didn't register.
Until my body began to regenerate, then my nerves lit up in nauseating detail. One of my hands swept over my face and transmitted a rough account of he extent of my injuries. Even though I was fairly certain my wounds were healing, I was still unnerved to realize most of my face had been burnt away. Seconds later, my vision, which I hadn't grasped had been cloudy, was perfectly clear. Fear spiked my heart and I ran my hands over my face to discover the nature of the regeneration. Everything seemed to be in place. I started breathing again in time to locate my rifle, about six inches from Madalina’s reaching fingers.
Jesus fuck, I did not want that weapon in her hands. I snagged the weapon just before Madalina closed her bloody fingers around the stock. Shaking my head, I ran back to fight next to Apache, who did a double take at me. I guessed I had looked done for the day.
“Later,” I shouted and fired two snap shots into an undead face. “Maybe.”
Between reports I could hear Madalina as she giggled uncontrollably, entirely too close for comfort. Definitely off the deep end, but how deep? Flaming zombie nightmare before me, insane Gypsy behind me. Not sure which was worse.
Between Apache and I, we managed to bring the Thing down. Flames spread over its body, following the streams of black fluid as it poured from wounds. Soon, a raging inferno engulfed the physical manifestation of my personal nightmares.
We stepped away from the incredible heat, and I turned to face Apache.
“Angus J. Finnegan,” I offered my left hand, my right firmly clasped around my weapon. Apache stared at me a long moment before he took my hand in his, his grip strong without being a bone crusher.
“Eduardo Hernandez,” he said, nodding his affirmation at my unspoken offer of a truce. “Until thirty minutes ago, I was an active field operative for KnightStar Solutions.”
“What happened thirty minutes ago?” I asked, half afraid to hear the answer.
“Our chopper flew away, and we heard we were expendable assets,” Eduardo said slowly.
“Maybe you ought to start at the beginning,” I suggested.
“I can give you the Reader’s Digest right now, and fill in the blanks later,” Eduardo offered. I nodded and he turned to tend to his superior. “We technically work for Homeland Security, cleaning up certain messes and dealing with threats to all mankind. Not just hajis in caves, but serious end of the world kind of stuff. Someone up the line, I don't know who, gave the order to enact quarantine on more than a dozen sites around the globe. No one in, no one out. The guys you killed, Raven Team, had been at the spearpoint of the fight too long. All the evil they saw, all the lives they were forced to take, it did something bad to their souls.”
“Going over that ground ain't helping,” I growled out harshly. Killing those men still rankled.
“I understand,” Eduardo said.
“So you're running containment against the fucking zombies?” I asked. “Why bother trying to contain it? Why not just bomb the shit out of it?”
“It's complicated, but basically it's not our call,” Eduardo shrugged as he checked Uhlanis’ vitals. “Our mission was to contain this outbreak until a decision could be made.”
“Well I wish you all the luck in the world,” I said as I rocked a fresh magazine into my rifle. It wasn't so much that I expected Hernandez to give me grief as I didn't wish to give him the opportunity to stop me. “But, I'm going home to my family. You intimated the two of you don't work for this, what's it called, KnightStar anymore. You might want to look to yourselves, and, if you're feeling generous, that hot mess of crazy and fake tits.”
“You sure that's a good idea?”
“Oh, hell yes,” I answered immediately. “She tried to kill me twice since I saved her Gypsy ass. Not giving her a third shot at ending me.”
“I was actually talking about your family,” Eduardo spoke as he pulled his first aid gear. I had no earthly idea what he injected into the older man, or what the hell he had dressed with the pressure bandage. Whatever he did, it seemed to do some good as Uhlanis stirred from unconsciousness.
“Yes, I do,” I dropped each word with as much iron as I could muster. Must have gotten it right because Eduardo gave me a be cool look before going on with his ministrations.
“Need…to…get out…of this area,” Uhlanis ground out through clenched teeth. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth. “No violation…of containment…permissible. Council has…already given go ahead for…sanction. Nuclear…option.”
“Fucking what?” Eduardo and I shouted together.
Uhlanis looked up at us, me particularly, from under a blood splattered, short billed cap. His eyes were blood shot blue and carried the weight of knowledge of things I knew I didn't want to learn. Very rarely had I ever seen that look and been pleased with the secrets that came with it.
“How long until detonation?” I asked, a rising sense of dread filled my thoughts.
“Anywhere between…fifteen minutes to…three hours,” Uhlanis revealed. “Depends…on how long…agreement takes to…reach.”
“Well, in that case, I'm the fuck out of here,” I began walking backwards to the door, not trusting the mercenaries before me not to try something stupid.
“Why, sir? Why are they nuking this site?” Eduardo asked, eyes very wide.
“We lost…containment, Eddie,” Uhlanis announced. “Our readings…indicated…a Class One creature…tried to contain the thing…at the…factory. Failed…Raven…failed. Blackbird…failed. The Class One…is directing the attack…”
“Wait, you mean Pee Wee?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“I don't…who you're talking..about,” Uhlanis mumbled, his strength fading. “One of your…coworkers has become a directing force…in this invasion.”
“Has to be Pee Wee,” I said, afraid of what this man was going to say next. “Pee Wee Miller, electrician, and all around fitness obsessed athlete. I know he was infected, saw him lead a small group of zombies while I was escaping.”
“That must be…the Class One…he must…be…killed…”
Eduardo Hernandez bent down to check Uhlanis’ vitals, then slowly closed his superiors eyes. He eased the man onto his back. “Sleep tight, sir. Your watch is over.”
“Sorry about your friend,” I said, pulled my hat off, and said a short prayer. “Coming, or staying?”
“Don't much matter,” Eduardo said despondently.
“What did he mean, this site?” I asked suddenly.
“This was Site Seven,” Eduardo answered, still focused on his fallen leader. “There are thirteen outbreak sites currently. They all seemed to happen at once. KnightStar was spread too thin, it's why we could only spare three teams to contain this site.”
“Why not use the army?” I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
“Homeland directive,” he snorted. Eddie hunched down to collect extra magazines from Uhlanis, and maybe some rations. “Doesn't matter, though. The military will be out in force soon enough, but too late to prevent the beachhead from taking hold.”
“The nuke,” I suggested.
“Can't get them all,” he responded. “Not to mention I know the Class One in only five miles down the road, and closing fast. Never seen anything like that before.”
“Can't you call the gunship?” I asked.
“This is now a no fly zone,” Eddie explained.
“Then I suggest you climb
in the truck with me, and haul ass the fuck out of here before Zombie Pee Wee gets here, and before Homeland nukes the place,” I spoke with a pressing need to be down the road.
“Yeah,” he said slowly,”let's get out of here.”
“Give me a hand,” I called from one side of Madalina. Eduardo gave me a confused look. “She's nuts now, but she might come out of it later.”
Eddie “Apache” Hernandez shook his head while he took up station to one side of the poor woman. Pretty sure he thought I was just buying myself more trouble later. He was probably right. Getting out of the storefront proved to be interesting, especially as the giggling Madalina thrashed about at the most inopportune moments. As we stood by the dented truck I thought about the long ride to my house with the Gypsy sat directly behind me the entire way, murderous intentions written across her face.
“Hold her,” I told Eddie, and riffled the truck interior until I found what was needed. I turned back to find Madalina ramming her tongue down Eddie’s throat. I waited for a cessation of activities, but the Gypsy seemed to be in the warmup phase of something more…interactive.
“Jesus fuck, what the fuck is wrong with you? You just fucking met,” I scolded intensely. The two broke up clumsily. “Are you looking to catch something? Do you want something you can't scrub off with acid?”
“You aren't my father,” Madalina shrilled, a semblance of her former bitch self shown through. Her indignation rose by the second.
“I'm talking to Eddie,” I countered harshly. The Gypsy’s eyes went wide, her teeth snapped together, and she sputtered when Eddie stifled a laugh. “Come on, man, didn't you ever learn not to get involved with crazy Gypsies?”
Between giggling fits, and groping Eddie’s crotch, the Gypsy suggested a course of action to me which I found hostile and anatomically impossible. Out of patience, I spun the Gypsy around and slapped handcuffs on her boney wrists. She may well have been resourceful enough to cause trouble without her hands, but cuffing her was the best I could do at that moment.
“Oh, kinky,” Madalina giggled briefly, then her mood became darker, more feral. “What now, tough guy? You finally gonna take your turn?”
“Christ on fire,” I mumbled softly as I hefted the Gypsy into the cab. I think I liked it better when she had just been giggling maniacally.
Battered, but still operable, the truck started up with a satisfying roar of the engine. The echo of the engine hadn't died away before I dropped the vehicle into drive, and pulled out of the gas station. The still burning remains of the Thing lit up the night, oddly it gave me hope that I might just survive this madness long enough to see my family again. In retrospect, the zombies, even the Thing, weren't all that dangerous. Their danger lay almost entirely in the initial shock value, that was all, and once that wore off it was a ridiculously easy matter to dispose of them. If, as you read this in the safety of your sealed bunker, everything I just said sounds like so much bullshit, that's only because it was.
The undead fucking terrified me. Anyone that wasn't pissing themselves at the prospect of facing a horde of zombies was as squirrel bait as the Gypsy fruitcake slowly coming unglued in the backseat. To make an impossibly horrifying nightmare worse, the undead didn't just fall down and moan when the fuckers were shot to ribbons, oh, no, they fucking assimilated one another into some kind of super zombie. How fucking sphincter puckering was that? I coughed out laughter, not that I really wanted to but I needed the release from my own dark thoughts. An idea struck me and I turned to speak to Eduardo…and froze.
“Fuck me,” I managed in the second before a late model sedan slammed into the side of our truck. Bells rang long and hard in my head, what passed for my thoughts were scrambled. Glass shattered, metal squealed as it bent and tore, and through it all, Madalina giggled incessantly. What the holy hell did the Gypsy find so goddamn funny.
The images before me were blurred and without clarifying context, only the sudden, unnaturally jerky movement penetrated the fog settled upon my brain. Eduardo “Apache” Hernandez had been next to me before we were hit.
Hit? We were hit?
Yes, stupid, a car just broadsided us.
Right, that's right, a newish Ford…driven by Zombie Pee Wee. Wait, back up, Zombie Pee Wee was driving a car?
Yup. See what happens when you don't keep up with the class?
Fucking smart ass.
You should know, you're talking to yourself.
Oh, right. I should probably wrap this up and get back to the here and now of whatever is happening.
Only if you don't want to be zombie chow.
I wonder, would I be name brand or generic?
What? What the hell are you babbling about?
Would I be counted as name brand zombie chow, vastly superior quality, or would I be rated as plain generic?
What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop babbling and wake up. Fucking name brand…Nibbles and Noses…no filler, all human. Great, now you have me doing it.
My vision finally cleared in time to see Eddie pulled from the cab onto the crumpled hood of the sedan. Standing over Eddie, looking improbably taller, broader, and far more intimidating than Louisa May’s father after he caught me banging his not so innocent daughter, was Zombie Pee Wee. It may be that Louisa May’s father was less intimidating than the double barreled twelve gauge he kept firing at me as I ran through his backyard into the field beyond. Still, I think the point was valid, old man or shotgun really wasn't important. Zombie Pee Wee appeared out of thin air, behind the wheel of a moving car, then pulled super commando Apache from the truck while I had an argument with myself was more inherently frightening than a pissed off father trying to put buckshot in my naked, fleeing ass.
As if in response to my unspoken admittance of fear, Zombie Pee Wee opened his mouth, distending his jaw to a degree I hadn't thought the human frame could sustain. His jaw seemed to break apart in order to spread further open until I knew Zombie Pee Wee intended to close his mouth over Apache’s head.
The big forty-five was still on my hip, so I pulled the Beretta from my, not so snazzy anymore, tactical vest and emptied the magazine at Zombie Pee Wee. Fifteen rounds of rapidly fired, but poorly aimed nine millimeter accomplished two things. First, it kept Apache from having his head engulfed by Zombie Pee Wee, and probably bitten off. Second, it drew Zombie Pee Wee’s undivided attention to me. That impossibly wide goddamn jaw still hung open like the maw of some ancient monster from mythology. Starring into that gaping hole I knew I was going to die. Zombie Pee Wee let go of Apache, took two steps towards me, and drove his fingers through the roof of the truck. With deceptive ease, he pealed the sheet metal back, exposing both Madalina and I to that mouth. The fucking Gypsy giggled louder as Zombie Pee Wee reached for me. For my part, I didn't see anything at all fucking funny about this situation.
Don't think I just sat there getting ready to die, not my style, but scramble as I might I couldn't get my 1911 clear and my rifle was fuck only knew where. Was Zombie Pee Wee smiling at me? He was, he was fucking smiling at me.
“What the fuck are you?” I screamed at the top of my voice. Where bullets had failed to stop him, my words brought Zombie Pee Wee up short. He cocked his head to the left, and spoke to me.
“The…end…of…you,” he ground out in an inhuman voice. Why did I ask? Why do I always have to tempt fate? It wasn't bad enough that I was about to be eaten alive by a super zombie, I had to ask it a question. I had to give the thing an opportunity to speak to me before it ate me alive. Now that I'd heard him speak in that voice I wished he would get on with it. The voice he used wasn't Pee Wee’s, and struck some kind of instinctual revulsion. A bone deep, no, a revulsion sparked within my very genetic coding. Everything that I was absolutely recoiled at the caress of that voice
Eduardo “Apache” Hernandez leapt onto Zombie Pee Wee’s back, one arm under its jaw while the other wrapped around to deposit a grenade into the thing’s gullet. A wild gleam had entered Eddie’s eyes, one l
ast act of insane courage before being collected by the reaper. Over the insane giggles of the Gypsy I could hear Apache yelling for me to get down. I slid as far down as I could beneath the steering wheel, just as the high explosive grenade blew Zombie Pee Wee and Eduardo Hernandez to bloody pieces. Scarlet debris rained down upon the still giggling idiot, how the hell was she still alive, and me.
My eyes opened to find part of a lung laying three inches before my face. Don't think I had ever moved so fast in my life as when I struggled to get out of the totaled truck. The very moment my fingers touched asphalt, I vomited furiously. I knelt there, beside the ruined truck, covered in hot, bloody chunks vomiting for a long while. When nothing remained in my stomach, I clumsily pawed debris from my body, until I felt relatively free of dead men. Very slowly, I rose to my feet, my 1911 in hand, and gazed upon the face of horror. Whatever caused this, whatever Homeland had in mind, I was done with all of it. I just wanted to go home, bathe in boiling water, and hold my family…for five minutes before I loaded them into my project car and left Florida forever.
I located my Kalashnikov SBR in the back seat of the truck, right next to Madalina, who had finally, blessedly, passed out. Looking at the Gypsy now, an unpleasant truth revealed itself to me. The only reason I kept saving her was to find out whether or not my new, altered state was the culprit behind Madalina’s mental decline. In my heart, I was afraid whatever had done this to me might afflict my family, but the truth was the Gypsy fell apart because she had been faced with the unimaginable not just once, or twice, but multiple times within one night. The Gypsy lost her shit, and that was on her not me.
