by H. L. Murphy
It was just as we came to a small bridge spanning a canal I saw the first indications the undead had been here before us. Bodies. Well and truly dead bodies laying in the road, enormous bullet entry wounds in their foreheads. Next to them lay the partially dismembered and devoured corpses of the too slow to escape. An individual with considerably more education than me would be needed to differentiate between male and female, let alone determine the age of the deceased at the time of death by zombie. I searched the pavement for spent cases but found none, so either the shooter used a revolver or shot these undead cannibals fucksticks from further away. Judging by the fact neither James nor I had yet been perforated by lead projectiles I took it for granted that the shooter, if still alive, had fucked off down the road.
Which I thought confirmed when he discovered another grouping of undead with cranial vaults perforated by some form of handheld howitzer. Whatever this group had eaten hadn't been sizable, and I steadfastly refused to allow my mind to go down that mental alleyway into Nightmare Town. This time I found a piece of brass laying beside the largest of the corpses. Fifty caliber, Action Express. Well no wonder the shooter was taking the time to police his brass. Must have been in a hurry to miss this beauty. I handed the casing to James, then moved forward another fifty feet. I was about to move further ahead when I glanced sideways, and laid eyes on a 1977 Pontiac Trans Am. If it hadn't been for the fact the owner was still present, more or less, I would have jumped in as soon as I spotted it. The car wasn't in the best of shape, but it was old enough I might have been able to crank it over without the key. Sshhhhhh, don't tell anyone but I know a few tricks to convince a stubborn old car to obey your commands. However, with the owner still present, though no longer one of the living, I moved ahead gradually. I drew the M9, and screwed on the suppressor. If that dead guy turned out to be a not so dead guy, I intended to end his undeath as noiselessly as possible without placing myself at risk. The moment I rubbed against the car door, blood red eyes shot open. Crimson orbs searched the darkness for the source of the living noise. If I shot him while he was still in the Trans Am we could kiss off the car. That meant opening the door to let this putrid fuck out. Oh, god, I hope he hadn't been decomposing in the drivers seat.
Carefully, I reached forward to pull the door handle. The sudden shift of the door sparked lively movement in the zombie and he flipped out of the car onto the driveway. The unmistakeable rattle of keys hitting the ground was music to my ears. A quick double tap, and I was scooping the keys up. No, this icon of a bygone era wasn't ideal for our purposes, but it didn't need to be. With this we could cover the distance to James’ house much more swiftly than walking through infested neighborhoods. I threw the keys to James, and climbed into the passenger seat. James caught the keys, looked at the legendary car, and did a quick fist pump. If there were ever a product of American automotive ingenuity that could enthrall my best friend, it was the 1977 Pontiac Trans Am.
A turn of the key brought the old girl roaring to life just as I looked up into the enormous barrel of a Desert Eagle pistol.
Interlude One
The USS Constellation led a slightly diminished carrier group out of the South China Sea, and into the North Pacific Ocean as expeditiously as good order would allow. Buried deep within the secured communications room, Admiral Mayweather reflected upon his actions in the light of a new day. The President of the United States had been hell bent on ignoring the numerous, overwhelming outbreaks. Instead, the damned fool had been fixated upon trans-goddamn-gender admittance to the women's bathroom.
“Jesus goddamn Christ,” Mayweather swore under his breath. “The outbreak to end all outbreaks, and he's worried about who pisses where.”
Well, he was, past tense, worried about it. Somehow Mayweather didn't believe the man was in any position to worry about a damned thing. Giving the order to nuke Washington D. C. had been the single most difficult action of his long life, yet as the head of the T. R. Society it was his sole responsibility to ensure the survival of the human race by any means necessary. Since 1945, those means included the nuclear option, despite Truman’s objections. Hypocritical swine.
He hadn't wanted to do it, but the President had given him no other option. The man refused to acknowledge any authority other than his own, most especially in areas explicitly denied him. While the San Juan Mandate had been penned more than a hundred years ago, it's terms were upheld by a secret meeting of the Supreme Court no less than twelve times. In a country where change is the only constant, the San Juan Mandate had stood immutable.
“Damned fool,” Mayweather muttered. “It didn't have to be this way. All you had to do was obey the Mandate.”
Justification. That's what the Admiral was seeking, he knew. The weight of his order, and the ensuing deaths, rode his conscience mercilessly. It was a simple to say you would do whatever was necessary, but it was proving considerably more difficult to stomach than Mayweather ever thought possible. The weapon had killed so many innocent bystanders, try as he might he couldn't think of his own people as collateral damage. Yet, not to have detonated the weapon would have left the President free to interfere, and that might have cost the human race more than a few hundred thousand lives. When balanced against the entire human race, living and yet to be born, one city, even Washington D. C., meant nothing.
Yes, Mayweather would carry out his duty whatever the cost. Let the Pentagon, the press, the whole damn world call him a traitor, now and forever. Of course, to castigate him would mean that Mayweather would have saved their ungrateful lives. Though to do that, Mayweather still needed to acquire Dr. Zhao from the island that appeared on no charts. An island the United States had kept hidden in the age of Google Maps. If the good doctor had, in fact, been relegated to that island, it was conceivable some kind of research facility dedicated to the type of scientific research that got Dr. Zhao in trouble in the first place.
“So, an island of unspeakable horrors,” Mayweather groused to himself. What he wouldn't give for a full strike team of SEALs, but his SEALs, much like his F-35s, were reassigned by the now late President. Blessedly, the ship's captain knew a few things about hiding assets, and with a little linguistic sleight of hand cloaked a platoon of Marine Force Recon as Sewage Technicians. Force Recon troops, plus whatever the rest of the carrier group could provide, should make short work of the islands security.
“My dear, dear Cynthia,” Mayweather whispered. “You will save us all, or so help me God I will flay you alive.”
She was suddenly aware of the presence of the Other. The Other had at last left the refuge provided by this world’s enormous aquatic environment. Reaching out with the incredible power of Her will, She sought the Lesser closest to the Other. Their rudimentary minds were only just capable of differentiating the flesh from other Lesser so She was incapable of processing immediately what the Lesser had and hadn't seen. At length She straightforwardly seized control of the Lesser closest to the Other, and began a search pattern intended to cover the maximum amount of ground in the least time. Within minutes, She came across an ambulatory flesh toting a large projectile weapon in one hand, and only a bloody stump in place of the other hand. From his pale complexion and profuse sweating She believed this flesh would soon become another of the Lesser, but the positively interesting detail lay not in his approach to the Lesser. No, the interesting detail lay in the memories of the flesh She had once been. For the flesh She had once been knew this flesh, had coexisted with this flesh as She had with the Other. This flesh had been called Rick Felton. Tall, lanky, and intelligent, for flesh, Rick Felton had not held positive emotions for the flesh She had once been. Looking into the memories of the flesh She had once been, She recognized a similar lack of regard.
She was about to move on with Her search when She heard the Rick flesh vocalize.
“Goddamn thieves, goddamn thieves, goddamn thieves always stealing what don't belong to them,” Felton mumbled in a fevered haze. If he had the time and wherewithal,
which he didn't, to take his own temperature, Felton would have discovered his fever had topped one hundred degrees. The danger zone was fast approaching, and unless Rick Felton found medicine or, better yet, medical aid soon his brain would boil in his skull. Despite his appearance, Felton wasn't turning into a zombie, but merely suffering the after effects of shock and blood loss resulting from the severing of his left hand above the wrist. It was taking all his resolve not to succumb to unconsciousness and fall flat on his face, so it's possible he could be forgiven for not noticing the unmoving statue of a zombie staring at him intently. No, his entire mind was fixated on the two men trying to steal his neighbor’s car. Bob Jones had moved heaven and earth to keep that car during his divorce from Alice, wretched cheating bitch from the bowels of hell. Poor Bob, he'd finally gotten clear of that harpy only to have his face eaten off by a zombie. Rick had done the right thing by old Bob and shoved his undead ass into the Trans Am. He thought it was as fitting a resting place as any, especially after fighting so hard to keep it. Rick would be damned if some fly by night wannabe thugs were going to make off with it now. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and half staggered, half marched over to the thieves.
She watched as the Felton flesh moved to engage two other flesh, one of whom was the Other. She promptly began following the Felton flesh, still not entirely certain why the Other was so important. The Other contained something, something She needed more than She could comprehend.
When the Felton flesh leveled his projectile weapon at the Other, She recognized the danger to the Other and directed the Lesser to attack.
“Rick, look out!” She heard the Other scream in the moment before the Felton flesh fired a single projectile into the front of a ground conveyance. Then the Felton flesh spun about, firing multiple rounds at the form of the Lesser. She felt the exact instance a projectile round penetrated the skull of the Lesser and destroyed the brain. The disconnect from Her puppet was sudden and disconcerting, but she had learned that which She needed most, the location of the Other in relation to Her present position. Stretching out Her awesome will, She directed the massive horde way from the enormous domed structure. The flesh within were unlikely to go anywhere. Her sense of the flesh was they were all gibbering meaningless phrases to a deity belief construct which did not exist, and thus could not aid them in the slightest. These flesh would keep until after She had taken the Other.
As one, a hundred thousand undead turned from the West Palm Beach convention center and began the march to Stuart. High above all others, Her throne of bones astride the shoulders of Her greatest Brute, She smiled.
Chapter Three
Staring into the business end of a gun is never a joyous occurrence, and it's immeasurably less fun when that gun fires fifty caliber Action Express rounds. Of some consolation was the fact the pistol itself was wobbling back and forth with the convulsing of the would be shooters hand. Forcing my eyes away from the impenetrable chasm of oblivion represented by the pistols muzzle, I tried to lock onto the face behind the weapon. Night vision goggles may be outstanding for finding your way safely through the dark, but so far as fine detail went they were still lacking. Not complaining, mind you, just saying DARPA might want to work on that. Still, as I stared in the face of my would be killer I recognized him. Short, I mean buzz cut to the scalp, blonde hair, a thin, narrow face, pencil thin lips, lanky arms and legs, ridiculously patterned shorts, Ed Hardy tee shirt, and despite having only one hand and leaking rivers of sweat I could see Rick Felton, mechanical lead. While not my team leader, Rick had been an effective lead.
“Whoa, Rick, it's me. It's Finnegan,” I said as I put my hands up where he could see them. Since he didn't seem to be firing on all cylinders, I moved as calmly as possible and in as unthreatening a manner as I could manage. Rick’s eyes blinked rapidly as though he were trying to process the information, but something just wasn't lining up. His head shook violently back and forth twice before he refocused on pointing that cannon at me. “Easy, Rick. I genuinely don't want you to shoot me. You look like you could use some help, buddy.”
“Fuck you,” Rick spat, abruptly furious. “I'm not your fucking buddy, asshole. You're just another fucking thief. Trying to take what doesn't belong to you.”
“Well, he has point there,” James whispered while he gently slid his suppressed M9 out of his lap and into position. I wasn't sure if he could get the pistol up and aimed before Rick put an enormously large hole in my favorite skin. Yes, it probably wouldn't kill me, but it also wouldn't be an orgasm inducing event either. Not to mention the thunderous report would draw the undead to us faster than a fat kid to free ice cream.
“We aren't stealing, Rick,” I tried again to disarm the situation. More than enough of my coworkers were already dead, I didn't want to add to the list. “We’re just moving the car to an air conditioned storage facility. You leave a car like this in the sun day after day it will damage the interior, not to mention the paint.”
“Yeah, completely gloss over the dead guy next to the car,” James whispered again. “Not to mention the blood, brains, and crusted on viscera.”
“Will you shut the fuck up,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. Mainly because if he kept up I would start laughing like an idiot. Which was as likely as not why my asshole of a best friend was doing it. My eyes flicked over to James then back to Rick in time to spot the goddamn zombie trying to ninja it's way up to Rick. Why out even thinking about it, I flung my arm forward to point behind Rick and shouted, “Rick, look out!”
As it turned out, my ill considered actions provided me with a unique lesson in ballistics. You see, when a firing pin strikes the primer and ignites the cordite, the round is forced down the barrel at extremely high speed depending on caliber, weight, and gunpowder load. From the moment the round exits the barrel, whether copper jacketed or steel jacketed, the rounds core temperature rises dramatically. So much so that the moment the round impacts a solid target, say a windshield, there arises the possibility of round fragmentation, redirection, or over penetration. Which action largely depends on calibre, weight, and powder load. Small caliber, small load rounds tend to ricochet, while high caliber, high load rounds, like say a fifty caliber Action Express, penetrate said target and proceed on a slightly altered flight vector. In this instance, a fifty caliber Action Express pistol round penetrated the windshield, altered its flight vector from my head to my right lung, passed through me like I didn't exist, and blew straight through the rear windshield.
“Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt, you fucking asshole,” is what I wanted to shout at the top of my voice. What I actually said was along the lines of, “Uuggghhhhh.”
I want to say I shrugged off the injury and returned fire, but the truth is I all but blacked out as James dropped the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator. In brief flashes I was granted the tableau of Rick Felton shooting down Zombie Ninja, Felton bouncing off the front fender, and James tearing up the street in a wild ass escape run. Pressure built up in my chest until my vision started to dimmed and I drove a clenched fist against the gaping hole in my chest. Blood erupted my chest and a second later I coughed up blood and bone chunks, scraping agony followed the sputum as my throat reported in nauseous detail exactly how much vomiting up shattered rib bones sucked. On my personal scale of Suckitude we've shot straight past IRS audit to having your wife catch you balls deep in her best friend’s ass. No good ever comes from that.
On the upside, at least the goddamn bullet didn't lodge inside me this time. Forcing myself to draw a breath, I staved off passing out for a little while longer. As I forced air in and out in a semi normal fashion, I glanced behind us hoping against hope to see a hand cannon wielding asshole being eaten alive by a Zombie Ninja. Instead, I got to watch as a hand cannon toting asshole got up and hobbled his way to a set prop from Mad Max. It had been a truck, but had been modified by additional steel plates, spikes, and some kind of bizarre harness attached to a steel beam welded
to a brush guard. Held captive in the harness appeared to be a struggling, wriggling form. Doing my best to focus on the shrinking form bound to the front of the truck, I could make out that the person was male, bald, middle aged, and most likely a zombie given the angle iron pieces that had been driven through its guts.
“Now that's some unresolved anger issues,” I wheezed around screaming lungs. I might have said more but was too busy stuffing a protein bar into my mouth.
“You know that freak?” James asked as he slid the Trans Am around a corner. Practically an antique by modern standards, it drifted that corner pretty well.
“Used to work with him, you know, before everyone fell down, got up, and started eating each other,” I answered around a mouthful of chocolate covered protein.
“Think maybe he's holding a grudge against you?” James asked, turning left down a side street.
“For what?”
“Oh, I don't know, not wasting the Queen of the Undead when you had the chance,” James snapped.
“You talking about Felton, or yourself,” I shouted over the engine. Behind us the truck was closing despite James’ best efforts, that damned zombie seemed familiar to me. “Because I'm fairly sure Felton hasn't got a fucking clue when it comes the Zombie Queen. Christ on fire, I can't even remember if he was at work when this started.”
Done talking for the time being I reached up to seize the locking lever holding the glass t-top in place, and pulled hard to release the glass. Unlocked, I shoved the glass up and away to shouted obscenities from James. I gave him the finger then stood up enough to fire my suppressed M9 at Felton. Remember what I said earlier about ricochets? Yeah, it turns out a suppressor negatively effects a bullets trajectory and penetration power. To counter this deficiency I unloaded the magazine in roughly the same spot. Just before James took another hard turn, I was rewarded with a splash of crimson. After that, of course, it was entirely about hanging on tight to prevent myself being thrown from the car.
