by H. L. Murphy
An M249 squad automatic weapon. While I had never even held one before I was fairly certain it wouldn't be difficult to work out. Especially with the help of online videos. You can find instructional videos on anything if you know where to look. As I hefted the lovely death machine into my arms I told myself over and over the only reason to take the weapon was to protect my family and it would have nothing whatsoever to do with the painful bulge in my trousers.
Hey, don't you judge me. It's not like I cheated on my wife with the Queen of the Undead. I just happened to have a slightly unhealthy appreciation for this light machine gun.
“Oh, man,” James sighed, glancing over at the hidden vehicles. I wouldn't be surprised if he were at that very moment calculating his odds on getting his family to safety if they left that very second. Personally, I didn't put his chances all that high, not that the odds were so great here at the moment.
“I won't judge you,” I told him quietly. “This situation is severely fucked up. Hell, fucked up doesn't even scratch the surface, but there's no other way to say it. Somewhere out there is an intelligent, regenerating zombie guiding the growing horde, and they have a gargantuan hard on for me. And I haven't the faintest, foggiest fucking clue why. From the very beginning I've been asking myself why. Why aren't I dead? Why do I keep surviving when everybody else dies? I don't know. I don't know why Zombie Gypsy wants me dead. I don't know why those KnightStar assholes want my blood and DNA so badly they'll send a fucking hit squad into a quarantine zone during a zombie outbreak. I don't know that I'll ever get an answer, but I do know that we, all of us, have a better chance of survival together than we do separately.”
“You've been dying to use that speech, haven't you?” James smiled tiredly. The adrenaline rush must have worn off because James looked ready to fall over.
“I wouldn't say dying to, but it is a variation of a stock speech I came up with as an inspiration during bad times,” I admitted. “What do you think? Too cliché?”
“It could use some work, but I get the point,” he explained.
I thought he was going to add to his statement but I spotted the first of many sprinting undead, and opened up with the SAW. A friend of mine who had been in the army once explained to me how to make the most of the SAW’s rate of fire, specifically by squeezing the trigger, saying the word ‘kill’,and then release the trigger. Repeat as necessary. Told me it kept the rate of fire down and the weapon controllable. Always listen to the expert is my motto. Between bursts of fire I screamed at James to haul ass back to the ship.
Bursts of 5.56mm rounds tore into the lead zombie, ripping his body open and sending him too the ground, tangled in his own entrails.
Kill.
The next sprinter caught a short burst high in the left shoulder, the hyper cavitation separating the arm from its body.
Kill.
I fired a second burst into the still running, though now missing an arm, zombie. This time the rounds severed its spine in the middle of its back, and down it fell. It immediately began clawing its way towards me.
Kill.
Recoil from the previous burst caused the barrel to rise, something I hadn't really expected never having fired a light machine gun before, and my burst ripped the top of the zombies skull open. It stumbled from the impact only to be knocked to the ground by one of its compatriots. The second its head connected with the asphalt, out popped its diseased brain to splatter beneath the running feet of the undead.
Kill.
Overcompensating for barrel rise I managed to scythe a zombies legs off at the knees. Get a goddamn hold of yourself, Finnegan. Short, controlled bursts. You don't need to kill them, just slow them down enough to get back aboard the fucking boat.
Kill.
The immobilized zombies were beginning to assimilate one another as I put a burst dead center of the last sprinter’s chest. As I watched, corrupted flesh flowed like polluted water over the asphalt, never really alighting and not exactly not touching. Putrescent skin sloughed away as diseased muscle fused with diseased muscle, the newly unified bundles pulled shattered bones together. Bones, tendons, and cartilage were pulled into the swelling mass of pulsating corruption imparting form, if somewhat unnatural, and function, if somewhat homicidal.
“Christ on fire!” I screamed before I squeezed and held the trigger. Time to go cyclic. “Die, mother fucker, die!”
Yes, I was aware that the assimilation before us was my own goddamn fault, thank you very fucking much for pointing out the blatantly obvious. Just as I was aware that completely undisciplined rock and roll style shooting wasn't going to produce the desired effect. So why did I do it? Simple, I had no choice. It was either loose my shit here and now, and release the mounting psychological fuckfest taking root in my itty bitty Irish brain, or fall apart when my people needed me most. Besides, my little episode wasn't a complete waste of time and ammunition. It felt incredible to go buck wild, full auto on that thing.
I also managed to slow its progress enough for James to get on the boat and begin sharp shooting the thing. Which, as it turned out, was quite fortuitous for me because I ran through the entire belt of ammunition in a very short time.
“Fuck,” I shouted as the SAW ran dry. I know, so eloquent. Thankfully, enough of my mind was still on the task of survival I kept hold of the SAW instead of just dropping it and running. As far as I knew, there was a chance of finding more ammunition for it at some point in the future.
I had never run so much in all my life as I had during the first days of the Outbreak. Case in point, I flat out ran from my firing position to the boarding stairs, up the stairs, and to James’ position. Huffing and puffing, I dropped the SAW next to him and unslung my Kalashnikov pattern SBR. It took several seconds for me to get my breathing under control before I could fire. Between the two of us, James and I poured a withering fire into the still forming thing. Locating a head to hit was nearly impossible since the thing was still in a state of flux, it's final form not yet achieved. The heads were in a near constant state of motion as the thing’s skeletal structure shifted to accommodate more muscle, more bones, just more. I didn't stop to check on James, but I changed magazines twice trying the bring the thing down. On my third magazine change James finally punched a hole through the final head, and the thing slumped to the ground and stopped moving.
Trembling, I walked onto the bridge to call the engine room. We needed those engines, and needed then now.
“Carroll,” I said far more calmly than I felt. “Where are my goddamn engines?”
“Two minutes,” Carroll shouted over an incredible din. I really wanted to explain to him that in two minutes and one second I was going to march down to the engine room and shoot him. Instead I opted for diplomatic.
“Two minutes, or you're walking home,” I said and hung up. Outside James was lighting a cigarillo, his shaking hands making a complete mess of the job. From a pocket on my not so snazzy tactical vest I produced a small cigar case. Slowly, carefully I removed a single cigar, clipped the tip, and lit it using a cigar torch which I then offered to James. We stood silently, gazing out over the recent battlefield. For myself, I wondered how many other people were fighting similar battles across the state, though not the world. Some poor asshole on the other side of the planet facing down a horde of undead is tragic, but not as important to me as an asshole twenty miles from me. Is that petty? Is that small minded of me?i don't know, and really don't care. I can't do a goddamn thing for the asshole on the other side of the planet, but I might be able to help the guy or gal down the street.
That is, I thought harshly, if Carroll ever gets those goddamn engines started.
“Do you have anymore ammo for that beast?”
James’ question brought me out of my revery and back into the here and now. It took me a moment to organize my thoughts enough to answer him though.
“No,” I said simply, and pointed out to the KnightStar vehicle. “If there's anymore belted ammo it's probab
ly in their ride. I don't think the man carrying this was toting a spare belt.”
“Well, you should probably go get it then,” James said flatly. “Seeing as your bullet proof.”
“I wouldn't call it bullet proof,” I countered. “Especially since the rounds passed clean through me.”
“You aren't dead,” James continued. “Sounds bullet proof to me.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I sighed.
“Nope.”
“Dick,” I breathed. “Don't shoot me in the back. Or the front.”
“Of course not,” James sniffed as he shouldered the SCAR.
“Seriously,” I starred at him. “Don't fucking shoot me.”
“Okay, get going,” James agreed happily. Then whispered, “I could use some moving target practice.”
“What?” I turned back to James, my hand unconsciously gliding to my pistol.
“I'm just kidding, Finn,” James laughed at me. “Where's your sense of humor?”
“Yeah, ha hah, real funny, ha ha, bullet in the back,” I mumbled on my way down the stairs. “Fucking hilarious. Let's put a round in your ass and see how many laughs you get.”
I grumbled to the high heavens the entire trip to the KnightStar killers ride, a nondescript black SUV. Every step I fully expected a thirty caliber round in the back. Not because I had done anything to earn a bullet, but because James would want to see for himself how bullet proof I really was.
Yeah, that's my best friend.
The obviously government issue SUV proved to be a treasure trove. Among the goodies in the rear of the vehicle were more spare magazines for the SCAR, two boxed belts of ammo for the SAW, and, my personal favorite, grenades. Muck like the SAW itself, I had never used a grenade before in my life, but the moment I laid eyes on them I knew I couldn't bear to be parted from them except in the natural course of battle. Disturbing? Yup. Slightly unhealthy? You betcha. Still going to keep them? Oh, fuck yeah.
A sudden, painful pressure at the back of my mind told me the time for foolishness had passed. Zombie Gypsy, Queen of the Undead, had arrived, or was so close as made no difference. I stuffed my pockets as full as possible, dumped everything I could into a canvas bag I found in the SUV, and then decided to liquidate the remainder. This I did by parting with one of my beloved grenades. I yanked the pin, dropped the grenade into the SUV, and hauled my sorry ass the hell away from the inevitable detonation.
Over the roaring explosion I heard two distinct sounds. The first was the inhuman call of Zombie Gypsy directing her horde to fall upon me. Later, much later, I would discover I comprehended the substance of the command within the roar. As it happened, though, I didn't stop to consider how I knew the horde was swarming towards us. It was coming, and that I knew they were coming was the important thing.
The second, nearly as beautiful to my ears as a chorus of archangels, was the low rumble of what I took to be the ship’s engines. The closer I got to the ship, and consequently the further I moved away from Zombie Gypsy, the less pressure assaulted my mind. In fact, my thoughts cleared enough for me to realize there hadn't actually been a need to detonate the SUV. Zombies can't, please dear God don't take that as a challenge, use guns. Zombie Gypsy had used our psychic link to push my paranoia button hard enough to nudge me into a foolish action. I'd need to pay close attention to that from then on.
I ran not to the ship, but to the power shack in order to disconnect the cables running from the ship to the shore. I pulled the doors open to view a collection of switches, dials, and readouts that meant absolutely nothing to me. Following the principle that it's damned hard to get electrocuted by anything that's been powered down I turned every switch and dial I could to the off position before disconnecting the ship’s cable. Did I get it right? I must have because I didn't receive a brain frying electrical shock.
I had just mounted the boarding stairs when I felt her presence. Not simply the mental pressure from before, but her physical presence. I turned to see the Zombie Gypsy standing astride some kind of cobbled together howdah strapped across the shoulders of the largest fucking amalgam zombie I had seen to date. Dozens of shamblers had been fed into this…Thing to end all Things, adding impossible mass, height, and strength until it must have stood fifty feet tall. The howdah, look it up you uneducated apes, appeared to have been assembled from the remains of several hundred large animals. For as I stared at the approaching Thing my sight focused upon the howdah with startling clarity. I could see hundreds of bones lashed together by sinew, until the parts became the whole. Seated within the howdah upon a throne of skulls sat the Zombie Gypsy, Queen of the Undead. Some part of Madalina’s mind must have survived her transformation because how else would the Zombie Gypsy have known to employ theatrics?
Zombie Gypsy was no longer mother naked, but barely concealed beneath strips of human skin, and adorned with a necklace of tiny fingers and toes.
“Jesus wept,” I whispered, goddamn near pissing myself as I watched Zombie Gypsy’s lips form the exact same words.
“Finn,” James screamed from the bridge. “Finn, let's go. I need your help, now.”
My face turned, though I couldn't break eye contact with the evil blossoming within what had been Madalina Hurgoi.
“What the fuck are you?” We both seemed to say. Something very sharp, and very painful, struck my right arm. I winced and brought my arm up to see a blade sticking straight through my forearm. “Jesus fuck! Why the fuck did you do that?”
James was at my side, pulling me away from the gunwale, side of the boat, whatever that cocksucker Davy Jones would have called it. I couldn't remember moving to the edge, but now wasn't the time for questions.
“That really fucking hurt you asshole,”. I shouted at James as I pulled the knife, my own fucking Ka-Bar, out of my forearm. Safely within the bridge, I punched James in the belly for sticking me with my own knife.
“You…were going to…jump off the…ship,” James gasped. “That super zombie did some kind of hoodoo voodoo shit to you. You didn't listen to anything I said.”
“Okay. You did right, but I'm still pissed you used my own knife,” I spat, my hands running over the controls. I was desperate to get away from Zombie Gypsy and her inexplicable mental hold over me. Losing my cool I began jamming switches, turning knobs, and coursing profusely until the ship shifted suddenly and I felt its immense mass begin to shift forward. I took hold of the wheel and slowly turned it out to sea. A glance at the last set of controls to suffer at my hands I found the throttle control. I picked up the handset and called the engine room. “Carroll, I'm going to try to bring up our speed so keep your eyes open.”
I changed the setting on the handset and addressed the boat.
“Attention, this is your Captain speaking,” I tried to impart my voice with a light hearted sense of frivolity I didn't feel. “The S.S. Get the Fuck Outta Town will be departing the docks momentarily so we ask that you hold the fuck on to something as we boogie out.”
I brought the boats speed up slowly, and spared a glance out the shattered wheel house viewport. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of undead were pouring into the port, swarming for our little haven. Beyond the horde I could see the Thing to End All Things, and the Queen of the Undead astride it. This time I didn't succumb to whatever influence she possessed, but I could still feel its presence, it's will, and its desire to consume all life, most especially mine.
“You, whatever you are, picked the wrong man to play this game with,” I told the Zombie Gypsy. Her lips did not move this time, though her eyes did seem to narrow. Wow, did I just throw down a gauntlet to a Queen of the Undead? Awesome. “James, reload the SAW and hose that swarm.”
Just a little going away present so you don't forget me, your Undead Majesty. The old freighter moved away from the dock and into deeper water, though I made goddamn sure to stay inside the half mile quarantine zone. After all that I was damned if I would die under the guns of my own nations navy. The
rattle of the SAW spitting cyclic death at the undead became soothing in a way, though James’ repeated grunts of almost carnal joy ended that soon enough.
Out here, away from the undead, we would be safe, for a time. Perhaps long enough to figure out how to save out collective butts. Perhaps long enough for me to figure out what's happened to me.
Epilogue
Michael Hathaway sat quite comfortably in his custom leather chair, watching with chilling objectivity as hundreds of thousands of human beings were consumed, converted, and in turn consumed and converted the uninfected. The actions of this particular outbreak were significantly different than the other recorded occurrences. The construction of the platform, for instance, stumped Hathaway until the creature it was to be strapped to was brought into being. It was a chariot for the Class One being, from which it would presumably guide its horde.
On an intellectual level, it was fascinating to watch the enemy prepare its forces. This latest iteration of Class One being introduced several entirely new types of undead. Types whose purpose could only be guessed at by menials less concerned with the rebirth of Hathaway’s beloved America.
On a practical level though, it didn't matter a hill of beans. The incident had provided the President the impetus necessary to declare a state of emergency and declare martial law. Before long the United States would once again be set upon the path to global dominance, and the culture of self indulgence and moral perversion would be swept away by force. Intellectual accomplishment would once again be impressed upon the youth of the nation. Respect for one’s elders, the sanctity of marriage would be observed, and the gender bending deviants would receive a much needed bullet to the brain. In short, the moral fiber of the nation of his youth would return.
Regardless of the current President’s plan of action. Hathaway had always known the President was, beneath his charming smile and easy manner, little more than a closeted adherent of Marxism Leninism who actually believed that the American people deserved to have their liberty and freedoms taken away from them as their hard earned fortunes were redistributed to the miserable inhabitants of third world shitholes whose nations had never, and would never, amount to one tenth the glory of the United States. In time, Hathaway’s agent would move to…redefine the President’s health status. Probably the Vice President’s as well considering the grinning idiot was every bit as anti-American as his chief. Worse, at least the President had brains and to spare. The Vice President lacked imagination, a basic understanding of how to manipulate the people, and the instinct to know when to keep his mouth shut.
