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

by H. L. Murphy

  Mayweather set the handset down, ending his communication with the president, before he punched in a number he had long prayed he would never be compelled to call. Looking around the empty comm suite, Horace blessed his foresight at clearing the room. His people understood the nature of their mission, but even the most stalwart would find it difficult to carry this new burden.

  “Hello,” a cold voice devoid of any accent said.

  “Trojan Horse,” Mayweather declared in as controlled a tone as possible. The two word code phrase, once spoken could not be rescinded. With just two words, Admiral Mayweather had sentenced an unknown number of people to a sudden, and very shocking end.

  “Confirm, Trojan Horse order,” the voice said evenly.

  “I confirm, Trojan Horse,” Mayweather repeated the order.

  “Understood,” the voice stated, then the line went dead.

  In a matter of hours the President of the United States would no longer be in a position to interfere with the San Juan Mandate.

  “Or anything else,” Mayweather whispered. “Ever again.”

  In a picturesque little suburb in Virginia, Stephen Banks pulled the shiny black cell phone apart, then smashed the individual pieces with a ball pean hammer. After he ensured there were no pieces large enough to be readily identified, Banks threw the collected debris into his incinerator. He then went into his garage to empty the trunk of his beloved 1969 Buick Riviera. It had been his pride and joy for the previous three years, since he completed its restoration. Once done, Banks went back into his two story home and into the painstakingly constructed library. There, he closed the blinds and carefully removed a two volume set entitled, ‘The Price of Patriotism’, revealing a numerical keypad. Banks entered a twelve digit numerical code which caused a very well hidden door to swing open on the opposite wall. Beyond the door sat three practically identical matte black pelican cases. Only one, though, was of interest to Stephen on this day. It was the heaviest, due to the lead lined interior not to mention the device itself. Stephen, who was not and never had been a violent man, felt a strange elation whenever he handled the device. With a simple code, Stephen could exert the ultimate expression of domination.

  The case took some work to move from the study to the trunk of his beloved car, but Stephen managed it. From another case, Stephen withdrew a Glock 17 and suppressor, both of which he secured on his person, two HE grenades, and an H&K MP7 along with two magazines. The sub machine gun he attached to a single point sling, then pulled a jacket on to conceal the weapon. The spare magazines went into an inside pocket. Armed and ready, Stephen walked out of his beautiful home for the last time.

  In a little over two hours, Stephen mused, the real estate prices are going to take a drastic hit. After all, who wanted to live in a fallout zone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fuck. Just, fuck.

  I had no sooner processed the thought of organized blockades, then red lights began to flare from the traffic ahead. The south bound lanes, which had been unusually empty, began to show signs of life. A veritable stampede of vehicles, rushed south as though the hounds of hell were at their heels. It meant nothing more than a sudden surge of fools heading the wrong way until I spotted several familiar vehicles which had passed me half an hour ago.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered hotly. “Somebody is turning the north bound traffic onto the south bound lanes.”

  “What?” Lizzy asked nervously. I say nervously, though if you didn't know the woman you wouldn't have thought it to hear her, but I knew her. She was not put at ease by my words.

  “We’ll find out what's going on, and decide our course of action then,” I said as calmly as possible. I tried my best to project a confidence I didn't necessarily feel to reassure my Lizzy everything would be alright. It might have worked because Lizzy took a deep breath and double checked her shotgun’s load out. Madalina just sat quietly in her seat, daydreaming about pulling the wings off of flies, or whatever Gypsy succubi do when they aren't ripping the souls from men. Which, I guess was planning how to rip the soul from a man. Was I being a tad bit suspicious of Madalina? You bet your bunker dwelling ass I was. She should have been covered in cuts and bruises after the gas station. Why wasn't she? Was she somehow manifesting the same ability to regenerate that had recently saved me? If so, how did she acquire that ability? I had ever growing suspicions as to how I came by it, though my theory doesn't hold up to my line of reason. Especially since Zombie Pee Wee, may he rest in pieces, had been stabbed by the same strange fleshy appendage as I thought I had been. Perhaps because he had been bitten it affected him differently than it did me?

  All very good questions for another time. I needed to focus on getting us the hell out of immediate danger.

  With traffic at a dead stop I decided to have a look around. The Defender went into neutral, I pulled the hand brake, and stepped out onto the highway. It was kind of a thrill to put shoe leather to highway asphalt, since at any other time you would likely have been run over by some asshole doing ninety in a seventy mile per hour zone. Not wanting to cause a panic, I tried to keep my Kalashnikov out of sight. Yeah, I took it with me. Zombie apocalypse, remember? At the rear of my vehicle I climbed the access ladder to the aftermarket roof rack I had installed. My initial thought process for the roof rack was as an additional place to pack Lizzy’s many, many vacation purchases, but soon discovered it was rated to withstand considerably more weight than Lizzy could buy. I know, I was tempting fate. If Lizzy ever read this she may have taken it as a challenge. On the roof of the Defender, I slid a small pair of binoculars from my less snazzy tactical vest.

  What I found made my blood run cold.

  “Goddamn ruthless cocksuckers,” I said to no one in particular. Half a mile up the highway, cargo containers had been stacked straight across the highway, at least three high and two deep. Worse, the line of containers continued in an east-west direction, as far as I could see. Stationed at irregular intervals were machine gun nests with fucking black clad assholes pointing weapons at the oncoming people. I spotted some shithead with a bullhorn gesticulating to emphasize his shouted orders.

  It was this exact moment I knew everyone of us south of the Line had been fucked over. Not the normal, the promotion I expected went to the boss’ favorite lackey fucked over. No, I was talking completely, royally, universally fucked over. How did I come to this conclusion? The simplest of deductions, oh Bunker Bunny.

  There was no fucking way in hell anyone in the world had put up that line of containers in the two, three hours since Commander Uhlanis told me containment had been lost. Nope, this had been in the works for hours, maybe days. We were trapped in a quarantine zone with a growing number of undead, flesh eating cannibals capable of absorbing one another, thus becoming a far more fearsome nightmare.

  I think I may have been shaking, from rage or just crying futile tears I didn't know, when James stepped up next to me. I didn't say a word as I passed him the binoculars. The sound of my best friend as he swallowed against the sudden coating of his throat with saliva could be heard over the noise of hundreds of engines.

  “Thoughts?” I asked to buy myself time to pull myself back together. Like I said, we were fucked beyond belief and I knew it, but I wanted to hear James’ take on the situation.

  “We need to get off the highway,” James said, not taking his eyes from the binoculars. “Zombies catch up to us here, it will be a slaughter.”

  “Goddamn it,” I whispered, my shell shocked brain fighting fatigue, shock, and a general denial of the situation to develop a plan that might work. “They're following SR60 out of Vero Beach. I don't know if they could actually blockade the entire stretch of road with these containers, but I wouldn't be surprised in the least if they had.”

  “If it's containment they're going for,” James lowered the binoculars to face me, they'll have to try. Otherwise they're just delaying the inevitable.”

  “I'd like to follow Sixty across the state,” I bega
n, thinking the idea through. “But if they aren't done building the wall it might enter their little heads to shoot us all. Certainly have enough fucking machine guns.”

  “I noticed that,” James agreed. While James wasn't an ardent fan of all things that went bang, he appreciated the light machine guns in evidence. “How much ammunition do you think they have up there?”

  “Enough,” I said calmly. “Enough to make their will felt. Wouldn't take more than a couple thousand rounds to kill enough of us to convince the rest to tow the company line.”

  “Company line?”

  “You know,” I smiled, “I'm more than happy to be devoured by zombies in order to preserve the fucking national secret. Oh, no, I don't take it personally at all. More than happy to sacrifice my family so you can vacation in fucking Italy.”

  “Dude,” James put a hand on my shoulder, drawing me out of my revery.

  “Sorry,” I said, “losing my shit a little helps me deal with fucked up situations.”

  “No, that's cool,” James said. “I understand, but who goes to Italy when you can go to Bora Bora?”

  “Point,”. I said.

  Behind us, I could hear raised voices in heated argument. Tempers were flaring, hardly a surprise really. Media savvy politicians would have you believe we've progressed beyond the less civilized actions of our forefathers, but the truth was we were all one bad situation away from throwing punches, kicking groins, and gouging out eyes. Toss in the growing horde of undead following the exodus and I was surprised shots hadn't been exchanged yet.

  Below James and I, a prototypical alpha male was moving from car to car slamming his clenched fist against the vehicle’s window. This he followed with shouted demands, though his tough guy accent was so terrible I couldn't make out what he was demanding. The knuckle dragger wore tight blue jeans, a sleeveless skin tight black tee shirt, and clean white sneakers that probably cost more than my rifle. As he came closer a scent wafted to me, a scent I had become too familiar with. The singular aroma of pain, suffering, and a most unpleasant death.

  Wandering along behind the muscle headed thug were two smaller, less intimidating figures who each carried a large canvas duffle bag. James and I watched as the thug pounded on the window of a late model import half the size of a golf cart. This time I could make out his shouted demands.

  “Open the fucking window and give to me your food, your water, and every other fucking thing you got,” his accent was hard to place, and so thick it made the words he spoke into another language similar to, but not quite English. “Don't to make me wait, or I will take your ass too. Fuck you right on the hood of this piece of shit. Make your bitch man suck my dick.”

  “Well,” I laughed, “at least he's an equal opportunity degenerate piece of shit.”

  In the days and weeks to come, I realized I deliberately spoke the words loud enough to be heard in Miami. Perhaps it was simply too soon a reminder of Raven Team, and the casual way in which they murdered and raped as they wished. Could be I just didn't like unintelligible Guido wannabes. However you want to look at it, I drew the lead thugs attention. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shrieked something at me, though I couldn't sat what he wanted with any certainty. Thankfully, his minions, Ig and Ook, translated for me.

  “You fucking heard him, fuckstick,” the taller of the two lackeys shouted. “Get the fuck down here.”

  “Why would I do that?” I asked sweetly. James moved behind me, the scrape of metal on leather letting me know he wouldn't leave my crazy ass hanging in the breeze. All three simply gawked at me for a moment, completely stunned someone would dare fail to obey. When the moment passed, the lead thug pulled an enormous hand cannon of a revolver from the small of his back. The thing looked big enough to mount on an armored vehicle, or be used as field artillery. Naturally, the idiot pointed it at me ‘gangsta’ style, which meant that unless he were two feet from me he had a better chance of shooting his friends than me.

  “Get the fuck down here,” Thug Number One yelled more understandably. “Get the fuck down here, open this piece of shit up. You gonna watch me fuck your bitches before I kill your sorry ass.”

  “I don't think so,” I shook my head, then shouldered my SBR. Over the very simple iron sights I watched as Thug Number One processed his change of circumstances. His pep squad spat obscenities, hands groped at their waists, I assumed for pistols and not their dicks. They were probably thrilled at the prospect of watching their icon shoot it out with me, but I didn't think they were that stoked.

  My father always told me you can talk to a man until you're blue in the face, but unless you have his attention he won't hear a word you say. It's essential to gain that persons attention immediately so he will listen.

  “How do I get his attention?” I had asked my father.

  “A quick punch in the face usually works for me,” my father answered, then explained that pain would reinforce the need to pay attention.

  Thug Number One wasn't listening to me, so neither were his cronies.

  “You aren't listening,” I said just loud enough for James to hear me. His response was succinct and to the point.

  “Aw, shit, Finn,” James breathed the words like a benediction.

  The rifle bucked against my shoulder and crimson blossomed from Thug Number One’s left thigh. A shriek pitched so high I almost couldn't hear it rocketed forth as Thug Number One collapsed to the ground, his mobile artillery piece impacted the asphalt with enough force to leave a small crater.

  “Petey!” Thug Number Two squealed, pissed himself, and dropped down next to his bleeding buddy. The two began leaking tears about the same moment as Thug Number Three managed to produce his pistol, another fucking Glock. In the movies, every asshole and his brother are toting shotguns, pump or semi-automatic doesn't matter, but aside from Lizzy’s Mossberg I hadn't spotted a single fucking twelve gauge. Glocks, yes. I couldn't kick over a fucking rock without half a dozen of the wonder pistols popping up. The end of the world as you knew it brought to you by Glock, the polymer wonder weapon.

  “Lose the pistol,” I shouted at Thug Number Three, “or lose your life.”

  James moved up beside me, his nickel plated forty-five leveled at Thug Number Three. General racket increased as more and more people climbed from vehicles to find out what was going on. Thug Number One, or Petey if you like, continued to thrash, wail in agony, and scream obscenities in a suddenly clear, concise manner devoid of any accent whatsoever. Only the thug knelt down by Petey actually seemed interested in preventing Petey from bleeding to death.

  “Mitch, help me man,” he shouted at Thug Number Three. Thug Number Two had pulled off his own tee shirt and was busy ripping it apart to use as a bandage. “Goddamn it, Mitch, help me. Petey’s gonna bleed to death.”

  “After I whack this fuck,” Mitch said the words as though it was what he thought people in this position said. As if the words would shield him from the 7.62x39mm steel jacketed rounds my rifle fired. Not having learned much from Petey, Mitch also canted his pistol ‘gangsta’ style. “Then we fix up Petey and fuck this assholes bitches…”

  “Your buddy said the same thing,” I interrupted. “Shot him for it. You want the same, finish that sentence.”

  I dropped the sights over Mitch’s heart, my finger already applying the necessary pressure to the trigger. In the moment of decision it seemed that time actually slowed down. Not just that my perception of time altered, but that time actually slowed down. I could hear James breathing in, the rustle of air into his too oft broken nose. The contraction of tendons in his finger as he began to draw on the trigger. Metal groaning as the passenger door opened, the expansion of springs as Madalina slid from the seat. I could see the sudden expansion of Mitch’s eyes as he realized he was about to die in the middle of I-95, over something he probably felt wasn't his fault. Muscles crackled in his neck as he began to shake his head vigorously, his fingers straining to release the previously clenched weapon.

  �
��Fuck this scene, man,” Mitch practically whined. All pretense of being a tough guy melted away in the uncompromising glare of the rifle muzzle. “I just hooked up with these assholes yesterday, man. Safety in numbers, man.”

  “Fuck you, Mitch,” Thug Number Two shrieked, his voice a little too high, too hysterical for my taste. “You fucking chickenshit little bitch. If it wasn't for Petey those Dominicans would have cut your fucking balls off.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Carl,” Mitch barked. “At least I faced up to them. You were too busy blowing your boyfriend to even noticed they weren't Dominicans, they were Cubans.”

  “Hey!” I shouted over the three of them. “How about you all shut the fuck up. Except Petey there, who can keep on crying like a little bitch since I shot him.”

  Carl and Mitch reluctantly went silent as I slowly climbed down the access ladder. I had noticed the two of them had dropped the canvas duffle bags the moment I capped ole Petey. Although, the bags were less important at the moment than disarming these three. I stripped the magazine from the Glock, then tossed it into the high grass along the highway. The nine millimeter ammunition might come in handy later. Carl, it seemed, was a big believer in field artillery as well, he was carrying a Desert Eagle .50, in a shoulder rig beneath a flimsy button down shirt. How the fucking idiot ever expected to be able to draw the weapon if he needed it escaped me. I decided to hang on to the Desert Eagle in case I needed to bring down a rampaging bull elephant.

  As far as Petey’s artillery piece, it was, I swear to god, a 45-70 revolver. The revolver weighed more than my Kalashnikov, and would likely put a hole through an engine block.

  “What the fuck?” I said in awe as I hefted the man portable artillery piece. I didn't even want to think about the recoil if you were insane enough to fire the thing. The moment I reached for the larger of the two duffle bags, Petey ceased his shrieking and lunged convulsively towards me. His partners in crime seemed to shrink away from the bag and me. “James, you have these shitheels covered?”