by H. L. Murphy
“Did you shoot him in the head?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“Uh, what?” James looked askance at me, as if I'd lost my goddamn marbles. Come to think of it, maybe I had. I kept saving Madalina just so she could try to kill me again, over and over. Somehow I kept expecting her to square herself away and give up attempting to render me non-extant. Isn't that the very definition of insanity.
“Did you shoot him in the head? What part of that question is ambiguous?” I spoke the words slowly, aware that my accent gets worse the faster I spoke and the more agitated I became. Not that Fox was any gem himself. Rile that man up and his Kentucky trots itself out for everyone to hear.
“Well, no,” he began, but stopped as obscenities exploded forth from me.
“Fuck, shit, piss whore ass cunt,” I stomped around for a moment, a picture of the Thing flashed across my mind’s eye. In very sort order I brought myself under control enough to ask an important question. “Did you shoot anyone else?”
“I didn't, no.”
“You didn't? Meaning someone else did?” I asked.
“Well, the cop up the street was shooting pretty much anything that moved,” James shrugged, uncertain what I was getting at. He stopped talking and met my gaze, locking eyes with me. I had no idea what he expected to find there, but whatever it was unsettled him. His right hand dipped to his waist to locate his nickel plated forty-five. He didn't point it at me, didn't even pull it from the holster, but he also didn't take his hand from it either. “Finn, what the fuck is going on?”
“The biological agent, whatever it was,” I began, taking a deep breath,”turned everyone it infected into no shit fucking zombies. I'm talking flesh eating undead fucking zombies. Body shots don't kill them, barely even slow them down. Thing is, though, if you damage them enough they will absorb one another until they form an amalgam of several zombies, and brother, you do not want to face that steaming hot mess.”
“So all those people the cop shot…” James trailed off as the weight of the new reality settled on him.
“Probably all became one really big, stupid strong zombie,” I finished the thought for him.
I'll give him this much, when he threw up, James managed to turn away from me. It may not seem like a big deal in the zombie apocalypse, but not getting puked on when you had no idea when you'd be able to wash ranks high up on my to do list. I didn't quite understand how, but I could hear the exact moment Madalina Hurgoi opened her mouth to pronounce judgement on my best friend.
“Pussy,” she said in a low whisper. That I knew it was a whisper really had me confused. I must have lost a good ten percent of my hearing, more than enough to prevent me from having heard the Gypsy whisper from thirty feet away. I supposed it could have been the regeneration process I had been experiencing somehow corrected the deficiencies with my hearing.
I glanced back at the Gypsy, my face composed in a shut your dick holster look. She got the message, but wasn't happy about it.
“Let it out now,” I advised when James tried to curtail his involuntary ejection of stomach matter. “This will not be the only time you're going to vomit. With luck, we won't run across anymore undead, but if we do those fuckers will do something to make you upchuck your intestines.”
“Sounds like,” James started, threw up again, then began again. “Sounds like you have first hand experience.”
“Yup,” I admitted. “Threw up on a zombie after I cracked its skull. Sick fuck started licking up my vomit, and I ended up puking again. All over it. Went wild trying to catch the fresh stuff in its mouth.”
“Fuck you,” James managed before his stomach declared all traffic to be of an outbound nature. A contented smile plastered itself across my face as James heaved and shook. I was no longer alone in the zombie induced vomiting club. My best friend had now been issued his membership card, and could now enjoy the full benefits of belonging to so exclusive a society. Such as never being able to sleep soundly ever again.
“Yeah, yeah, suck it up,” I told him coldly. The next part was really going to fuck with him. “We need to get the fuck on down the road. The factory I work at? It was overrun with zombies. So much so, the government is going to nuke the site.”
“Bullshit,” James managed around a mouthful of half digested whatever. As I watched him, James actually turned green from the revelation. Not like gamma radiation green, but the color was definitely there.
“Nope. I got the word from a Homeland Security field agent just before he died,” I explained. I can't say rehashing the gas station fight was doing me much good. “We may be out of the initial blast zone, but I don't feel like taking chances. Besides, what about the zombies that aren't incinerated in the blast, but soak up radiation? I don't have a Geiger counter. Hell, I don't even know where to find a fucking Geiger counter. So my thought process revolves around just getting the fuck out of Florida until this is resolved.”
“Yeah,” James spat several times to clear his mouth. “I can see doing that.”
“Did you bring something besides that forty-five?” I asked, really hoping the answer would make me happy.
“My AR-15, but I only have a couple mags and maybe sixty rounds,” he answered. Well, that doesn't make me happy, but it could definitely be worse.
“We’ll work something out,” I told him. For the first time, James managed to focus in on my Defender.
“Who’s that in the front?” James asked, locating Lizzy in the backseat next to Hermione.
“That,” I said, turning to face the Defender,” is a problem I haven't figured out what to do with yet.”
“You, uh, you haven't been stepping out on Lizzy, have you?” He asked slowly. I snorted derisively at the thought.
“No,” I said honestly. “That's one of my coworkers. She managed to survive the outbreak, fuck, now I'm saying it, and has been following me around all night. I can't seem to get rid of her. You want her? She's house broken, as far as I know anyway.”
“Melinda would yank my testicles off like a paper towel,” he whispered softly.
“Well, if she didn't, Madalina might,” I whispered back. “Fucking bitch has tried three times to kill me, and that's just tonight. Fuck only knows what she'll try tomorrow.”
“And you're trying to unload this sociopath on me? Fuck you very much,” James laughed. He glanced over his shoulder at his family, and I knew some heavy factors were at play in his mind. “What's your plan?”
“Get to my folks in Port St. John, then head for Georgia,” I said without hesitation. “Once we’re in Georgia we should be out of the radiation zone. After that, we’ll play it by ear until a better option presents itself.”
“This is so fucked up, Finn,” James said suddenly. It was obvious, but true and maybe he took some comfort from actually saying it. “We’re going to need more food, ammunition, and gasoline. We don't have enough of any, not if this goes sideways.”
“Yeah, I was hoping you wouldn't notice that particular flaw in my master plan,” I half smiled. This was this problem with being friends with people that don't quite have the same neurosis as you. They never exert the same effort in their preparations as you do. On the other hand, anyone as batshit crazy as me I would probably have just shot before things could get ugly. “Not to worry, though, I have a few ideas.”
“Okay,” James nodded, clearly not happy but willing to trust me a while longer. “So, what? I follow behind you?”
“Unless you know the way to my parents house,” I smiled full on this time. James turned away, shaking his head and mumbled to himself. I turned and marched back to the Defender, wondering where in the hell Carroll Rivers was. Rivers had been James’ best friend nearly the length of his life. I couldn't believe James had just up and left him behind, especially since they lived in the same house. Maybe the fat bastard was asleep in the very back.
“Who was that?” Madalina asked as I opened the door. I climbed in, buckled myself in, and started the Defender back up.
“Was Carroll with them?” Lizzy asked from behind me.
“I didn't ask, honestly,” I answered evenly. “James was a little miffed with me for not telling him about the zombies.”
“Is that why he threw up?” Lizzy asked.
“No, he threw up because I told him about the zombies. All about the zombies,” I drove off the grass back onto asphalt. We picked up speed quickly, relatively speaking. Beside me I could see Madalina had gone pale with the recent memories.
“Are they really that bad?” Lizzy asked softly. My first impulse was to be a smart ass and tell my wife that, ‘no they aren't so bad, I just felt like taking a midnight drive to Port St. John and while I was at it I brought along the Gypsy too keep us company in case we got bored.’ Thankfully, years of marriage had curbed my assholish tendencies where my wife was concerned.
‘”No, babe, they're far, far worse than I can describe,” I said instead. Madalina was nodding her head with wild enthusiasm. In the rear view mirror I saw Lizzy inch closer to our gently snoring Hermione. She would do whatever was required to protect our baby, which meant I needed to do the same to protect us.
We rode in silence for a time, don't really know how long, but somewhere south of Palm Bay the Gypsy broke the silence.
“I don't know how to shoot a gun,” she practically mumbled the words, and once again I was certain I shouldn't have been able to hear her. I really wish I knew what the hell was happening to me. Barring that, I wished I knew someone that could have explained it to me in mind numbing detail.
“Yeah,” I smirked unkindly. “What do you know, there is a god.”
“Angus!” Lizzy snapped. Since I glossed over Madalina trying to off me multiple times, I understood my wife’s flare of temper. Curiously, if I told Lizzy about Madalina’s impulse control issues I wasn't certain which of us she would kill first. Madalina for trying to end me, or me for not telling her right away. Fucking women, can't win no matter what I do or why.
“It's okay,” Madalina rushed to my defense. “I haven't been very nice to Angus…”
“Don't call me Angus,” I growled as menacingly as I could. Considering the Gypsy knew I had killed seven men, I would have thought she would have known better than to press her luck. Hell, I even slugged the crazy woman in the gut for trying to skewer me with a butchers knife.
“Sorry,” Madalina said contritely. “I haven't been very nice to Finnegan since this all began, even though he has saved my life over and over.”
I literally could not believe what I was hearing, even as the words poured from Madalina’s mouth. This was not the Gypsy I knew and loathed, not even close. This all sounded like something I might have heard from someone more…human than Madalina. Listening to all this was beginning to creep me out.
“Don't worry, Angus will teach you how to defend yourself,” Lizzy volunteered my services in a typical attempt by her to help someone she viewed as needing it. My wife had been through a world of trouble, and came through the other side a stronger woman for it. Sadly, it also meant she would bend over backwards to help other women in bad spots. Such as offering to have me teach the psycho that tried to kill me how to use a firearm. Oh, that was fucking perfect.
“Yeah, I'll put that on my to do list,” I snarked. “Right after being eaten alive while burning to death after being drawn and quartered.”
As I drove, more and more I began to see people on the run. It was little things which drew my notice, such as suitcases strapped to roofs, little econobox cars stuffed to overflowing, RVs of every make and model from the beginning of time to yesterday had taken to the highway. All of us were fleeing north, away from what I could only assume was a growing horde of undead. How many of those people were already infected, and had no conception they would turn on their loved ones? How many just didn't care? Suddenly, I understood the KnightStar containment protocols, still thought they could get fucked, but I understood them. Any number of people could be infected, though in the throes of abject terror they may not have cared whether or not they could spread the outbreak. Fuck, I was saying it again. It wasn't the fucking flu. It was the dead rising to feast upon the living.
Yes, yes, I knew the dead wouldn't be wandering about without the aid of some virus. In case it escaped your notice, I was having some difficulty adjusting to the Age of the Zombie so cut me some fucking slack.
An unpleasant thought sprang to life, fully formed, from the coldly logical core of my brain that asked what surprises awaited us up the road. It would make all kinds of sense for KnightStar or Homeland Security or whoever the fuck else was stage managing this farce to have placed blocks against the fleeing infected. Some days I just wanted to beat myself about the head and shoulders with a sledge hammer for having been so goddamn slow. I was absolutely sure that John Q. Public, better known as John the complete Booger Eating Moron, would have thought that little logic train out about two thousand years ago.
Fuck me.
Interlude Six
Admiral Horace Mayweather pulled an aged, bent, and faded photograph from his pocket, his eyes searched the image for the thousandth time as he picked up the handset. The voice on the other end of the connection was well known to him, perhaps too well known of late. The smug, self righteous tones turned Mayweather’s stomach. His sole consolation was his father had passed on before having to witness his son branded a traitor.
“No, Mr. President,” Admiral Mayweather spoke firmly. “I must respectfully disagree with you. The situation is clear cut, and the San Juan Mandate applies whether or not you wish it to.”
The President of the United States exploded at Mayweather, nearly inarticulate with rage. How dare this pitiful little man disobey his orders? Who the hell did he think he was? The San Juan Mandate? A crusty old piece of paper written by a stupid, fat white man a century ago was not binding in the modern world. In the new America the President had worked so tirelessly to build, the shackles of the past were going to be cast off and that most definitely included the decisions of war mongering extremists. Admiral Mayweather was to return to his assigned station where an officer would be waiting to relieve the Admiral of his command. Following that moment, Mayweather could kiss his career, and freedom, good bye. By forcing the location of Dr. Zhao from the CIA, Mayweather had made himself a terrorist, and would be treated accordingly.
The old Admiral listened impassively as the President went on another of his infamous tirades about the evils of the past, of men he knew nothing about, and blasphemed the sacrifices of better men than he. All the while, Mayweather stared at the old photograph of his father standing next to his grandfather, behind them the farm house they had been born in. His father had been a Marine, and carried that honor in his bearing the length of his days. The old man swore up and down a man wasn't a man until he had served his country, that a man owed it to his country. Service to something higher than ones own desire imbued a man with self respect no racial slur could ever take away. Powerful words for a young black man growing up in the Deep South. Words Horace Mayweather wrapped his heart in as he steeled himself to fulfill his duty, not to a single man, but to his country.
“Mr. President,” Mayweather broke in on the man’s monologue. “Shut your goddamn mouth. The authority of the San Juan Mandate has been upheld by the Supreme Court of the United States. Furthermore, the Senate committee charged with oversight has repeatedly explained to you the nature of the Mandate. You simply do not have the authority to stand in my way, nor, in truth, do you have the power to subcontract the sterilization
of the outbreak zones to mercenaries. You have, once again, exceeded your position. I am asking you, out of the respect I hold for the Office of the President, to go back into your office and dedicate your efforts to something within your understanding. Try a coloring book.”
Obscene suggestions assaulted the Admiral’s ears at the final words. Mayweather admitted to himself it had been unnecessarily disrespectful, but his patience with the would be dictator was at an end.
“Mr. President,” Mayweather all but shouted. “Please do not force me to take drastic action. Your inability to accept the nature of the threat before us does not negate its existence. The threat is real, and so to is my authority to deal with it. If you continue to violate the San Juan Mandate I will be forced to take action I would deplore, but make no mistake Mr. President, I will do whatever I have to in order to preserve not only the human race, but the United States particularly. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
Across the electronic, coded ether Mayweather could picture the latest in a long line of temporary custodians of his beloved nation struggling to form agitated grunts and inarticulate spitting and growling into actual words. When they came, it was much as Mayweather had suspected they would be. An intellectually bereft character assassination long on invective, but unsurprisingly light on resolve. No, the President instead made it quite clear that in violation of a far more recent secret directive, the continued existence of the U.S.S. Constellation would be revealed, and labeled a rogue vessel to be sunk on sight no questions asked. It didn't occur to the man that revealing the existence of the Connie long after her supposed decommissioning could prove damaging to national security. No, the President merely cared for getting his way by whatever means possible.
“Mr. President,” Mayweather interrupted again. “The Constellation battle group, diminished though it may be, is more than a match for any carrier group in this theatre. Moreover, sir, your continued refusal to comply with the San Juan Mandate, even to the point of setting military forces against me, has left me no other choice. May god have mercy on my soul.”
