by H. L. Murphy
That night I chose to collect myself as best I could, and carry on to the objective. With a deep breath I slid the Defender back into gear and drove away from Execution Wall. The radio handset buzzed to life.
“Finn,” James called, his voice shaking. “What the fuck?”
“Can't say,” I managed to get out. “Just can't say.”
“You still think this is a good idea?”
“Yes,” I tried to firm up my voice. “Whoever did this thinks they killed everybody here. Why come back?”
“Christ on fire,” James spoke softly. I knew he was seeing his wife and children among the dead, because the same thought had crossed my mind.
“All right, harden the fuck up,” I spat the words. “The boats are coming up. We’re going to need to clear whichever one we pick before we load out.”
Lizzy leaned forward to gaze disbelievingly at our choices. I could feel her eyes turn from the wharf to me and back again. The best of the bunch was actually a small cargo freighter that appeared as though it could easily transport our house. The fact it also seemed to have been built before World War Two, didn't seem to be helping any. I had no idea how many people it actually took to crew the thing, but I did know we would have to make do with what we had. Besides, I had no intention of sailing across the Atlantic, maybe just up the coast a ways.
“You magnificent rat bastard,” Lizzy said into my ear, then kissed my cheek.
“Save that thought until we get the damn thing started,” I said quietly. Hermione had drifted off again, and I didn't relish waking her again. I parked the Defender a couple hundred yards from the freighter. I waved James to pull up close to my vehicle. After a quick conference it was decided that Carroll and his hand cannon would remain with the vehicles while James and I cleared the ‘boat’.
James followed me up the rusty staircase, his AR-15 at a low ready position. While James wore a magazine carrier, it wasn't nearly as snazzy as my tactical vest. That really wasn't germane to the story, but I felt a slight surge in my ego at my tactical superiority. Childish? You bet your bunker hiding ass. Doesn't change how I felt at that moment. A healthy sense of competition can do wonders for the right people.
We came over the lip on the hull, gunwale?, weapons at the ready. Having a whopping eight hours more experience in zombie fighting, I led the way. My dear old friend, adrenaline, made his presence known by coursing through my veins in gallon units of measurement. We crossed the deck at a slow walk, checking every corner before moving on. To combat professionals I'm certain the two of us looked like a pair of utterly useless fucktards, but we got the deck cleared without shooting at shadows so I called it a win.
Clearing the below decks took a lot longer. Mostly because everything was dark and shadows danced at the least provocation. Cabin to cabin we went, marking each area cleared with a spray can of day glo orange we found laying around. I tried not to glance at my watch as we went for fear of missing something important along the way.
As it was, the ship appeared deserted until we came upon the very last compartment, an auxiliary cargo room. Contained within were the remains of the crew, and the zombies which ate them. Gunshots in tightly enclosed areas do a number on the old hearing. It was several minutes before I could hear clearly again, but even so I knew we needed to get everyone on board as soon as possible in case the shot drew unwanted company.
Getting the Defender unloaded took considerably longer than getting James’ SUV emptied. It would seem that I had taken greater pains to survive the unknowable than my old friend. Hardly a surprise, especially since I had known about the zombies and he hadn't. Still, I had told him there was a biological attack under way. I would have thought it reasonable to pack more food stuffs. If we were very lucky the ships mess hall would be well stocked, and food wouldn't be an immediate issue. If we didn't make it out of this quarantine zone, sooner or later food would become scarce.
Once everyone had boarded the ‘boat’, I went about assigning cabins, choosing to keep us as close as possible. There was some grumbling at my assumption of leadership, no one had voted me into office after all. My response understanding, compassionate, and well reasoned.
“Anybody doesn't like the way I'm calling the shots,” I shouted at the assembled adults, “you're welcome to piss the fuck off and find your own boat.”
I think the strain of the past twelve hours had finally begun to show, and what my friends saw behind the cracks in my confident demeanor told them all they needed to know. The complaints that night ceased. I suggested everyone get some much needed sleep, and we would redress the issue in the morning. Lizzy led me to our cabin, where Hermione snoozed contentedly the sleep of the innocent.
Sleep overtook me the instant my head touched the pillow. I was fucking exhausted, no, I was beyond exhausted. I slept hard and deep, my body fighting to recover from so much exertion over so short a period of time. As I floated through the realms of the unconscious mind, REM sleep for the less literary minded fuckwits, I became aware of a presence not in my mind, but on the same plane of unconscious existence. It was a dark, malicious presence whose intentions were unknown, but suspicious. From the gray mists of my own subconscious came an all too familiar structure, the name insccribed upon the face of the building in ten feet high letters as familiar as my own. I found myself wandering through the empty, strangely abstract hallways being drawn to the origin of my involvement with this nightmare. As I passed to through seemingly solid objects I noticed two things I found to be unsettling. Not only were there no bodies lying about, there was no one anywhere, and along with the general lack of bodies there was a complete lack of blood stains. Even if this was a dream, my conscious mind knew the place, if it was still there, should be covered in blood and viscera.
My thoughts had wandered so far when I focused on the sight before me it surprised me to see an empty parts crib. Empty except for a small wooden crate with unusual markings. I was irresistibly drawn to the crate, my hands reaching out to grasp the plywood top. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest even though I seemed to be contained within the dream world created by my own mind. My eyes took in the image before me, my brain utterly denying what my eyes told it.
I tossed the lid from the crate and stared in equal measures awe and disgust.
“What the fuck,” I whispered as more an exclamation than an interrogative. Even as my brain was forced to admit what I was seeing I fought to place it in perspective, to understand its part in the grand scheme of things.
“Remarkable, isn't it?” A familiar voice asked from behind me. I spun to see Madalina Hurgoi, dressed thankfully, standing not ten feet away, her head bowed in reverence to the thing in the crate.
“What are you doing in my dreams?” I said before I thought it through. Her loss and subsequent conversion to Zombie Overlord hadn't really been that far from my mind. I felt guilty I had failed to save her admittedly suspect life.
“I am looking for you, of course,” she spoke the words with an emphasis only she could fathom. “You possess something that belongs to me. I want it, I hunger for it.”
Madalina, or whatever psychological manifestation this image represented, undulated as she spoke, her hips swayed more than normal as she moved towards me while her hands danced across her still clothed body. Her hair, which had been put up into a frumpy bun, was not only down, but long flowing locks of hair were blowing about in a non existent breeze. She was the very picture of seduction, her attire no longer the bland work clothes of old but a midriff white button down shirt with billowing sleeves and a turquoise skirt which road just below her waistline.
“Give it to me,” dreamtime Gypsy breathed the words huskily, thrusting her ample, though still fake, bosoms at me. Her every movement was calculated to relieve me of my higher reasoning skills and produce a more basic response. This strangely altered image of the Gypsy gyrated closer and closer, thrusting her hips towards me, grunting softly in time to her motions. Despite the overtly sexual display
, which wasn't displeasing to certain parts of my anatomy, I found myself wanting nothing more than to run away. It almost seemed to me that Madalina wasn't so much trying to seduce me as lure me into her clutches. “Give it to me. Give it to me. It's mine, and I want it back.”
That was interesting.
“What's yours?” I asked, sliding a foot back. She moaned and practically howled in ecstasy, but did not answer. “Madalina, what the fuck are you babbling about?”
“Give it to me,” she moaned, the nails of her fingers slowly dragging across the linen of her shirt. Whoever her nails went the linen parted cleanly, revealing tanned flesh beneath. The revelations made in such a manner were designed to draw the eyes and attention to not only what had been revealed, but to what had not. To give Madalina her due, she knew exactly how to play this for everything it was worth. However, since I had already seen nearly every square inch of the woman, I managed to keep my eyes locked with hers. I honestly can't say if that made my life better, or far, far worse.
By not responding to her demon Gypsy vagina magic, I infuriated Madalina. Her gesticulating hands clenched into fists, fists she drove at me again and again. Black rage had replaced wanton lust, but her exaltation remained as vocal as before. Her ululations still bordered upon the full throated exclamations of a woman about to achieve mind shattering sexual climax, but now they carried a more sinister tone. At first I thought my imagination had finally gone off the deep end, but Madalina's voice was actually becoming deeper, more aggressive. Until it settled in an octave just above my own, though still distinctly Madalina's.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, her eyes falling into shadows that hadn't been there half a second ago. The woman had stopped moving towards me, but her hair continued to dance as though before a stiff breeze. The turquoise, floor length skirt tossed in the imaginary wind as well. I felt so very strange, as though she were actually dragging her razor sharp nails through my thoughts. “I can feel it in you, growing with each passing cycle. It should belong to me, it is mine. Give it to me. Give it to me and I will allow you to have this form. You may rut as all flesh ruts, though it will not produce offspring for you. This flesh no longer follows the cycles of the extant.”
“Seriously, what the fuck are you babbling about?” I mumbled as my thoughts became heavy, unfocused, confused. Something was very wrong.
Why was Madalina talking like that?
Did she even know what extant meant?
Rutting? What was this, Nat Geo?
Am I talking to myself again?
Yup.
Great.
Trust me, it's no picnic for me either. You come up with some fucked up thoughts.
What the hell is going on?
Zombie Gypsy would seem to be skull fucking you. Might want to do something about that.
Love to, you have some idea as to what the hell I’m supposed to do?
What? You want me to hold your hand through this?
Look, I know I'm a little difficult sometimes, but do you have to be such a complete asshole at this precise moment?
No, it's just more fun for me this way.
You are such an asshole.
True, but I'm the asshole that hasn't forgotten you are talking to yourself in your own dream. A dream ongoing in your own mind. Is that enough of a hint, Bright Boy?
Oh, yeah.
Finally! Momma always said you were smart. Smart, but lazy.
Shut the fuck up.
As advice goes you might want to take it yourself.
Huh? Why?
Because Madalina isn't Madalina anymore. Madalina is Zombie Gypsy, the Zombie Overlord, and she wants to rip your psyche out of your head and eat it whole. Then…
Then she uses me to kill my family.
Yup.
Well then, this bitch has got to go.
I came out of my momentary lapse clear of mind and purpose. Zombie Gypsy stood way too close for my personal comfort, all pretense of it being a living, breathing, sexually compliant Madalina had been dropped. It's skin was pale, it's eyes blood red, but it's outfit was still there and still shredded to reveal a mostly uncorrupted form. An interesting fact, though what it meant I hadn't a clue so I filed it away.
Zombie Gypsy reached for my face, her hands curled into claws when I decided to have a little fun of my own.
“I told you,”I said quietly, “I'm married.”
It’s face altered to reflect confusion as I stepped back to heft an eight gauge double barreled shotgun. For just a moment it seemed Zombie Gypsy couldn't process the sudden shift in the flow of the narrative. Then the Zombie Overlord was flying through the air as I psychically gave it both barrels.
Since this was taking place in my mind, obviously the gun wasn't anything more than an expression of my will. My mind, my advantage, but I was still surprised by the force of the reaction. My dream world, which had been, by degrees, losing focus and clarity as it was slowly being swallowed by Zombie Gypsy snapped back into sharp detail. I didn't understand how the thing using Madalina could entered my mind, but it had. It had, and nearly defeated me before the fight even began.
One thing remained painfully present in the corner of my eye, the small crate. And the thing within. I remembered the thing now. It had been trying to infect Pee Wee when I crushed it with a crow bar. Or rather, I thought I had killed it.
I hadn't.
It had still been alive.
It had still been alive because it had infected me. It was the reason I didn't die when Madalina kicked me from the r afters, when KnightStar machine gunned me, and why I hadn't died when I tried to barbecue the amalgam zombie. Something that was supposed to go to Zombie Pee Wee ended up in my body instead.
That sounds pretty fucking thin.
That is pretty fucking thin, but it's all I've got so I'm going to hold onto it for now.
While you're holding onto that comforting thought how about you go over there and club Zombie Gypsy about the metaphysical head and face until it fucks off out of our head.
Work, work, work. Am I ever going to enjoy another perverted dream about Lizzy, me, and an Oktoberfest beer maid dress?
No, you don't have the legs for it.
Asshole.
Zombie Gypsy rose screaming an inhuman call, no not just a battlecry, but actual words spoken in a language not even remotely human. Whatever it was saying shot straight over my head, but I knew the tone. Thugs, criminals, and bullies all over the world perfect the use of that kind of voice. It's essential to their line of endeavor. That tone is intended to strike fear into a victim’s heart, fear of the consequences of noncompliance. I have, more than a few times, learned first hand what those consequences were, and been happy to face them rather than live as a coward. I've been beat up, beat down, kicked around, stabbed, cut, and generally abused because I just won't be pushed around. If that's a flaw in my character, then I gladly accept it and proudly hold it high.
I struck with all the self righteous fury of the wronged striking out with the power of an archangel smiting the fallen. When the blow landed, I wasn't merely attacking Zombie Gypsy but all those in my life who thought it their place to trod upon me. The results were spectacular.
Zombie Gypsy exploded, eyes and fingers and fake tits flew in every direction. More than a little imaginary gore coated me, head to fucking foot. Even in a dream zombie innards stink to high heavens. Thankfully, the internal organs of Madalina Hurgoi began to dissolve into immaterial wisps not long after they stained my dream clothes, but before the black viscous fluid that passed for zombie blood could soak through to my junk. That was so horrifying an idea I felt certain I would never have another erection in my life. Too personal? Shit happens.
Was I merely dreaming, or had I actually engaged Zombie Gypsy in some kind of psychic struggle for the fate of my existence? I honestly didn't know then, and I still haven't worked it out to this day. I do know that I woke suddenly, my body covered in a fine layer of sweat. Hermione knelt beside me, slap
ping my chest repeatedly and whispering, “daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy”, over and over again. I reached up and took her trembling hand gently in mine.
“Daddy is right here, sweetie,” I whispered. My daughter leaned over me, trying to wrap her little arms around me. I heard her draw in a deep breath while she patted my ribs in a placating manner. My heart rate slowed as I lay there stroking Hermione’s curly, perfect hair. The content of my nightmare encounter with Zombie Gypsy was beginning to fade as dreams faded in the light of day. Right up to the moment I realized I could still sense her presence, not so much in my mind. I could sense her presence in the world around me. She was near, drawing closer with every passing minute. My mouth ran dry with certain knowledge that if Zombie Gypsy was close, her horde of undead eating machines would be close as well.
I looked down at the cherubic face of my pride and joy to discover, unsurprisingly, that she had gone back to sleep. Despite the mounting sense of urgency within me, I lay quietly for a few more minutes. The silent joy of my daughter curled upon my chest blocking out all other things. Fear does not exist in this cuddle time. Eventually, I slid my precious bundle onto the bed next to Lizzy. Both mother and daughter were deep into dreamland as I rose from the bed. I dressed as silently as possible, a trick I had much practice in.
Out of our cabin I made my way onto the deck, hoping I was wrong, that maybe I had slipped the tenuous bonds of sanity, and there would be no horde at the gate.
