by H. L. Murphy
My rifle slung over my shoulder, Madalina’s cuffs unlocked I walked away from her, my guilt, the wreck, the whole nine fucking yards.
Chapter Ten
Interestingly enough, I made it two hundred feet before I came upon a pair of men on the side of the road, sitting on parked motorcycles. From their dumbfounded expressions, they had scoped out the whole scene. The arrival of the Thing, it's destruction, our attempted getaway, and Eddie’s heroic end. Both men had Glocks tucked into their waistbands, and held half empty bottles of cheap Mexican beer usually sold at my favorite gas station. In the light of the inferno still raging at the storefront I could just make out blood splatter on too expensive denim vests, and too clean boots. Wannabe biker scum, indulging in what they thought the life was, or else pledges trying to make the grade. I really didn't care. I could suddenly smell the blood on them, still fresh enough to run down their polished boots. Carried on that blood was fear, having felt a good deal of it all night I was on a first name basis with the emotion. Hell, we were practically going steady, we had seen so much of one another lately. These shitheads had killed, and had enjoyed inflicting terror on their victims before they ended the poor bastards lives.
“Who the fuck are…”one of the started too ask, but I interrupted his flow.
I shot the guy on the left, wearing a leather skull cap, a tee shirt from some titty bar in West Palm Beach, and tight leather chaps over too expensive blue jeans, because the smell of ejaculate was strong on him. Don't ask me how I could smell it, I just could. Lucky me. He had enjoyed what they had done so much the sick bastard had jizzed himself. Jizz Pants chest ruptured from the pair of forty-five rounds I pumped into his heart.
Asshole Number Two seemed to be suffering some cognitive dissonance. He knew I had just shot his buddy, but couldn't reconcile that fact with his recently reinforced self image. After all, he and Jizz Pants had just killed everybody at a gas station, men, women, children, everybody. Jizz Pants and he were bad mofos. Since they were real hardcore biker scum, there was no way I had just walked up and shot one of them like it was nothing. He had just begun shifting his addled brain into motion when I put the still hot muzzle of the 1911 against his forehead and emptied the contents of his cranial vault onto the sidewalk.
A quick frisk of the bodies turned up two sets of keys, a pair of Glock 17s, almost five hundred in cash, and a genuine pair of brass knuckles. The money and the knucks went into my pocket, while I tossed the the Glocks into the high grass. Air slid in and out of my lungs slowly while I came to terms with what I had just done. It wasn't my job in life to balance karmic scales, but the smell, dear god the smell, was too much for me. I drew in a long, deep breath and turned to pick a ride. I popped the top on the metal cigar tube and slid the wonderful gift from on high out. Somehow, the cigar had made it through all the recent action unscathed. I didn't have a cutter so I nipped the end off with my teeth, sacrilege I agree but needs must. It took no time to stoke the cigar to life, and in moments a beautiful blue smoke haze surrounded me as I considered my next course of action. My left hand actually twanged at the mere thought of climbing back onto another goddamn motorcycle. In my long ago reckless youth I tooled around Tampa on the back of an aged Honda I rebuilt. Ride cost me three hundred dollars, rebuild cost me another three hundred. Never enjoyed any vehicle as much as that old motorcycle. Lost my ride to a college kid in a half ton pick up that couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the traffic lights. Spent a week in ICU, two surgeries, and a hundred thousand dollar debt later my days astride motorcycles ended. I could have gone back, but by the time I was clear enough of debt to purchase one I had married. Lizzy wouldn't hear of it. She knew my history and wasn't about to risk losing me.
Before me sat a Harley Davidson and a genuine goddamn Indian Chief. The Harley was a late model stripped down to bare bones, an imitation of old school choppers. A streak of nostalgia a mile wide ran through my soul so I swung a leg over the Indian. If I had known exactly how beautiful this old bike would sound like, feel like, I might have found a way to squirrel one away where Lizzy would never have found it. My swelling sense of joy, ran ice cold and I turned to see Madalina standing in the road behind me. She swayed on her feet, her face streaked with fresh tears. I revved the engine, the custom exhaust pipes filled the night with a gentle rumble.
“Please,” she whispered, the single word inaudible above the rumble of the engine. The movement of her lips told me what she said. Three times this woman had tried to kill me, why should I have given her a fourth opportunity? And on the back of a fucking motorcycle at that. The Indian edged forward as I let out the clutch. The Gypsy’s eyes followed me with mounting fear, but, oddly, without madness. More tears ran down her face, Madalina trembled suddenly and fell to her knees, her blood covered hands outstretched to me. “Please.”
If you think I was sap enough to allow this emotional display to have influenced my decision making paradigm, you'd be absolutely correct. Tears had always been a woman’s trump card in their interactions with men. Maybe, just maybe, a decent streak buried deep wouldn't let me walk away. It was also possible I still felt a little guilty for having used the Gypsy as a science experiment. Call it whatever you want. I stopped.
“Get on,” I growled against my better judgement. Madalina scrambled onto the back of the Indian, sobbing and clutched at me desperately. I pulled my rifle around, away from the Gypsy, and spoke to her. “You try to kill me again, I'll slice you open and pull your guts out.”
Still sobbing, Madalina nodded enthusiastically. Give the crazy Gypsy her due, she held tight and tried nothing. From the site of the bikers execution, that's what it was after all, to I-95 was strangely empty of traffic, pedestrians, or even fucking animals. Took me a few false tries to coordinate the clutch and gear shift, but it came back to me in short order. The upside of Madalina trying to meld into my skin was that she leaned as I leaned, when I needed her to. Merging onto the highway carried its own bundle of emotional distress, but the knowledge that a horde of goddamn undead cannibals was moving north did wonders to work through my distress.
Besides, I felt Madalina’s breath against the skin of my neck. Every time the woman exhaled I expected her to jam a knife in my ribs or claw at my eyes or any of an infinite number of options. Thankfully, traffic was light, unusually light on the north bound side. KnightStar’s people must have shut down the highway south of Jupiter. A deep sense of urgency made me want to open the throttle wide and burn up the distance, but it had been too long since I had been on a bike to go all café racer. Mile after mile fell away until Port St. Lucie loomed ahead in the night. Speed bled away as I pulled in the clutch, and coasted up the overpass. The off ramp was congested with wrecked vehicles, slowly shambling individuals stumbled from the pile up into the city.
“Fuck me,” I breathed the words slowly, the full import of the scene before me sinking in. One of my coworkers had made it out before the contractors dropped the net over the facility. Got out, but got out infected. Must have turned on the off ramp, crashed, witnesses must have tried to help, and paid for it with their lives. It was spreading, despite all the innocent people killed to prevent an outbreak, the infection was spreading.
“I would, but you're covered in blood and guts and you smell like burnt dog,” Madalina said softly, a smile in her voice.
“What?” I asked, my mind immediately replayed what had just been said. I laughed. Couldn't help it. “Sooner or later I'm going to take a shower, but don't get any ideas. I'm happily married.”
“So was I, once,” she said so quietly I didn't think she meant me to hear it. She must have been exhausted because she laid her head against my back as we rode. I genuinely did not want to alter my opinion of the Gypsy, mainly because it would complicate my outlook on life. Complications inevitably caused my life difficulties I didn't need, but I couldn't dismiss our shared experiences. So maybe I would have to suspend my opinion until I had enough time to reevaluate and calculate how this cha
nge of thought would impact my personal world.
North of Port St. Lucie I pulled off the highway, slowly, carefully. I hadn't survived the whole goddamn night just to wipe out coming off I-95. Five minutes later I shut down the Indian half a block from my house. I started, you guessed it, running toward my house, sticking to the shadows. It would be impossible to have explained to my neighbors why I was creeping through the night with an AK-47. I crossed over the street and bounded up my lawn, wishing to hell my front lawn wasn't so goddamn big. Short, rapid breaths behind me let me know Madalina was right with me. At the door I slid the key into the lock, only to have the door swing wide. Lizzy stood there, eyes ablaze with danger, and her pump shotgun in hand.
“Angus!” Lizzy yelled, she swung an arm around me, gripped me tight. I knew Lizzy wanted to stand there hugging me, then rip me a new one, but we needed to move so I picked her up and walked into the house. Around my wife’s active lips I managed to tell Madalina to close and lock the door. My dearest wife ceased slobbering on my face to lock onto the Gypsy with the intensity of a polar bear about to eat a baby seal. Her eyes narrowed at the overall form of Madalina, and if Lizzy had seen as much of the Gypsy as I had I imagine my wife would have torn out the Gypsy’s throat. The love of my life is highly territorial. “Who is this?”
“Madalina Hurgoi,” I said slowly. “She works with me down south.”
“What is she doing here?” Frost formed on every single syllable.
“She and I are probably the only survivors of the whole damn facility,” I said. Lizzy turned to gaze at me. “There was an incident at the facility, and I think everybody else is dead. Or at least, they died and then got back up. Then started eating everyone around them.”
“What?” Lizzy stepped forward to throw her arms back around me. “What are you talking about, baby?”
“I'm saying the zombie fucking apocalypse has started,” I said calmly. “And so far, Madalina and I are the only survivors. I need to take a shower, you probably should too, and then we need to get the fuck out of here before they make their way up here.”
“Go? Go where?” Lizzy asked, her fear rising slowly. I took hold of my wife’s arms and looked into her eyes.
“Yes, we have to go,” I repeated. “First we go to my parents house, then up to Georgia. I need you to gather Hermione’s food while I get cleaned up. Then you need to bathe, and pack a few things. If we're lucky, we’ll be coming back after a few days.”
“Okay,” Lizzy nodded nervously before she changed gears. She turned to walk into the kitchen, shotgun in tow. “Where's your goddamn cell phone?”
“It broke in a pretty big fall,” I said. I gazed at Madalina intensely as I spoke. “It's okay, though, because I have a couple spares lying around.”
“Go get cleaned up,” Lizzy stuck her head out from the kitchen to remind me of my manners. “Oh, and while you're at it show Madalina to the guest bathroom so she can wash off whatever the hell is all over you both.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That would be zombie guts, blood, lot of it mine, and the rest is just burnt debris from the gas station I mostly blew up.”
Lizzy stared at me as though I had sprouted a second head. A hand came up to point to the stairs. I nodded resignedly, there would be a long explanation needed before Lizzy believed me. The Gypsy’s presence wasn't helping nearly as much as I had hoped. My overall appearance of having had my ass kicked sideways by an army of Mike Tyson clones not withstanding.
I went up the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake my sleeping daughter, and led Madalina to the guest bathroom. A fresh, clean towel from the linen closet and some froo-froo scented body wash should be all the Gypsy required.
“Towel and soap,” I pointed to the supplies I had collected. “Keep it down, my daughter is sleeping. I'll try to find you something to wear. As far as under things go you're out of luck.”
As I explained, Madalina steeped up to me and planted a kiss on me that my wife would have killed us both for. I didn't ask for it, and wasn't super happy about it either. That kind of thing complicates dangerous situations. She stepped back into the guest bathroom and began stripping off her blood caked clothes. I turned and walked away as quietly as possible before I remembered to close the bathroom door. By then, Madalina was mother naked. I understood exactly what she was offering me, and attempting to do at the same time. It was an offer of thanks, and an attempt to gain a hold over me at the same time. Slick, but not slick enough to make me betray my wonderful woman.
In the master bedroom, I stripped as quickly as possible and climbed into the shower. It was only beneath the blessed shower head, that it occurred to me that Madalina should have been covered in a thousand tiny cuts from going through the walk in cooler door. Yet, she had been completely, spectacularly naked before me and her body had shown not a scratch. Truly hot water poured over my body and I scrubbed viciously at my skin until it gleamed red from my efforts. When I got to my legs I noticed a small circular puckering on my right leg. It was something new, something that hadn't been there at the start of this fucking day. I ran my fingers over it slowly, wondering where the fuck it came from. The thought that this scar might be connected with how I've managed to evade the Reaper’s grasp all night formed slowly, but without a solid basis in fact.
I stepped from the shower, my mind still focused on the lack of cuts or even bruising on Madalina. Given all she had gone through tonight, the woman should have been nothing but one enormous, swelling bruise.
Of course, the same should have held true from me as well. Well, not quite the same. I should have been a splatter mark on the floor of the WIP crib.
Dried and dressed, I pulled three large packs from my closet and took them downstairs to the garage. Back up the stairs, Madalina stuck her freshly washed head out the door to ask where her new clothes were. I brought her a pair of pants and a tee shirt, stuff I kept on hand for Lizzy’s best friend. Why did I have clothes for my wife’s best friend? Because she sometimes came over to garden with Lizzy, and preferred to clean up here. What the fuck did you think I had them for, you fucking perverts? This time the Gypsy just smiled and took the clothes without exposing herself. Back to my closet, I humped ammo box after ammo box downstairs to the garage.
“Lizzy, go shower and pack a few things,” I kissed my wife, took the supplies she collected and took it to the garage. I took a few minutes to strip and clean my rifle while Lizzy showered and Madalina pulled on her shoes again. I offered the Gypsy a bottle of water, which she drained in a few swallows. Nah, too easy a shot to take. In the garage I loaded my project vehicle, a Land Rover Defender Santana edition I bought a year back as a just in case the world went to shit vehicle.
When Lizzy came down I told her everything. Except the parts about seeing Madalina stark naked, or the part about the Gypsy slapping a lip lock on me, or the part about the Gypsy having tried to kill me. I may have also omitted the fact my body regenerated at an accelerated rate. Those parts weren't really relevant to the point. The point, after all, was entirely centered around the risen undead.
“Jesus fuck,”. Lizzy gasped. That's my girl, succinct and totally classy. “Can we get away before the nuke hits?”
“I think so,” I said confidently. “I have the Defender packed and ready to go. We just need to fuck off. Keep your shotgun handy, those contractors have been showing up all over the place.”
“What can we do if they try to stop us?” Lizzy asked.
“Kill them,” I said coldly. “They will fucking A try to kill us.”
“Oh, God,” Lizzy breathed deeply.
“The only thing that matters now is getting you and Hermione the unholy fuck away from this nightmare. If that means putting buckshot to murdering scum, do not hesitate. Kill those fucks, because they will kill us all if they can. All of us, Hermione included.”
That did it. Lizzy’s resolve hardened on the spot. I knew without a doubt my Lizzy would protect her daughter come hell or high water. Our beauti
ful little girl would survive, even if I didn't.
“Get Hermione, it's time to go,” I said, and pulled out a throw away cell phone. The only numbers in the cell were Lizzy’s and my best friend. Our conversation was brief, I glossed over most everything, but conveyed a biological attack had begun.
Loading my daughter was easy compared to the nightmare the rest of the night had been. My garage opener clicked on, and I started the old Defender. The diesel engine purred gently as I pulled out. As soon as we were out, I closed the garage. Just in case this event actually did blow over I wanted to be able to come back to our home. In the back seat, Lizzy sat protectively next to Hermione, shotgun across her lap. The Gypsy sat up front where I could keep an eye on the twitchy bitch. All I had to do now was get to my parents home in Port St. John, evade a possible nuclear detonation, prevent Madalina from climbing onto my dick, and keep an eye out for KnightStar Solutions.
Piece of cake.
Interlude Five
Blackbird, a heavily modified UH-1D, circled KnightStar’s base of operations for the outbreak in Florida, impatiently waiting clearance to land, and offload the critical condition operative. The man had taken two shots, one in the back and one to the head, but utterly refused to die. The pilot, retired Captain Nils Johansen, glanced over his shoulder at the bloody mess that had once been Eric Linner. Instead of killing the man outright, the bullet to the head had instead exploded Linner's left eye, shattered his cheek, and forever ruined the man’s good looks.
“I repeat,” Nils tried the comm system again. “Blackbird requesting emergency landing clearance. We have wounded, and critical intelligence. Copy?”
“This is bullshit, Nils,” Carl Knox yelled from the crew compartment. From the very moment Blackbird had evacuated Linner, the medic had been hard put to keep him alive. This airborne delay wasn't helping matters. “Uhlanis and Hernandez bought us time to evac, and these assholes are jerking us around.”
