by H. L. Murphy
Oh, and guess what? No shock to relieve the unending report of brutality.
The report of James’ SCAR pierced the pain parade just enough to refocus my mind on the rapidly closing man mountain of impossibly strong undead murder machinery. Instead of just laying there pissing myself, I rolled off the front end of the car half a second before the bumper assembly crashed down on the hood. Finding the bottom of the dent Zombie Green put in that hood would have required spelunking gear. On his back swing, I fired three rounds at the whirling undead dervish and instantaneously regretted it. Each thunderous report felt as if someone were stabbing my brain with a plasma torch. I must have gotten Zombie Green’s undivided attention though, because he threw out a powerful back handed blow that caught my rifle just forward of the receiver. To say I was unprepared for the power behind the strike is beyond an understatement. The rifle spun away from my grip even as I flew from the front of the car from the sheer force behind the blow. If I hadn't attached my weapon to my person via a single point sling I think I could have recovered smoothly, however I had done just that. When my rifle reached the end of the semi elastic sling I was already way off balance and the added pull from my still attempting to go supersonic rifle took me off my feet. I collapsed into a heap of dizzy, brain addled, and blood covered Finnegan.
James chose this moment to go full auto on Zombie Green, who had lifted the bumper to shield his head. I did not like what this implied, although it would be a while before I worked it out. Mainly because I was laying on the ground trying not to die of a cerebral hemorrhage. I thought I would recover if I died, but since Zombie Green was right there and annoyed at my continued existence the chances of him not eating my vital organs, musculature, and then caving my brains in with a rock were non-existent. To make matters even worse, I could see my rifle’s receiver had been bent where Big Green had struck it.
“Son of an undead bitch,” I spat drunkenly. Come to think of it, I literally spat the words because my mouth had been full of blood. My vision, which I realized had been monocular, without warning returned to binocular and I could judge the shrinking distance between Zombie Green and I. Through an effort of willpower I struggled to my feet, KaBar in hand, and ducked the first swing of the bumper, dropping to one knee to slice the undead berserker’s Achilles' tendon. That done I rolled forward to escape the bastard’s back swing. I'd already seen how godawful it could be, and I wanted none of it. The giant fucking zombie roared in anger as it collapsed, and then it turned blood red orbs on me and I nearly shit myself.
“Fiiiinnnegan, eat you. Kill you. Riiiiiippp you apart,” the words came out in Danny Green’s voice. Not Madalina’s. This wasn't the Zombie Queen flexing her control over some poor bastard unfortunate enough to have been infected. Oh, no, this was something worse. An intelligent, seemingly independent zombie with the ability to heal injuries in the same manner as I.
“No thanks, I've already had that offer from your bitch queen,” I said and quick drew my forty-five. I fired the entire magazine at Zombie Green as rapidly as I could. Fast as I was though, Zombie Green was a hair faster. He threw up his tree trunk like arms to protect his head. Over the sound of my pistol firing, of the police siren around the corner, even over the cavernous roar emanating from Zombie Green was the damn near orgasmic tones of the Trans Am’s engine firing to life. I didn't stop to think, didn't consider the alternatives, I leapt to my feet and dived into the open passenger seat as I dropped the empty magazine and scrambled to ram a fresh one home. Shouldn't have bothered. James had slammed the transmission into drive and stomped the accelerator the instant he saw me diving for the seat. As I was pulling a fresh magazine from my nowhere near snazzy tactical vest, Zombie Green ripped the door from the cars frame. I mean he actually fucking ripped the door off of a moving car, the force of which made James shout and try to correct our sudden change in direction.
I turned in time to see Zombie Green launch the car door into the windshield of the fast approaching police car. We couldn't see the men within, but the sudden gout of steaming crimson from behind the shattered glass told me enough. Those within were dead, or would soon become dead because Zombie Green, deprived of his clearly preferred prey, had made due with those at hand. I watched as the undead titan pealed the roof away from the squad car to better rip apart those within. The motions reminded me entirely too much of my only real encounter with Zombie Pee Wee. Jesus fuck, what if whatever made Pee Wee into a super zombie somehow did the same to Danny Green? I dropped into my seat, useless rifle in hand, and tried not to consider the ramifications. More than anything in the world, at that moment, I never wanted to engage that enormous undead bastard in close combat ever again. Ten seconds worth of combat, if that, and he had utterly and completely kicked my ass sideways.
Interlude Three
Rick Felton felt the bullet slam into his right shoulder, felt his body involuntarily convulse in on itself, felt the steering wheel pulled to the right as his body collapsed in on itself, and he felt the truck run headlong into a concrete light pole. What he never felt was the impact with the steering wheel, which knocked the man for a loop. Such a loop, he couldn't understand that what remained of his left arm was broken in three places. Pain, that universal indication of injury and stupidity, was apparently taking the night off. For as Rick’s wondering, pain and fever addled mind came screaming into the present he realized a length of angle iron had penetrated his intestines to such an extent he could not remove himself from the drivers seat of the truck. RickFelton had run his course, and that course had ended less than five hundred yards from its starting point. Had poor Felton known the average human being died two hundred yards after contact with the undead, he might have taken solace from it. As it was, Felton was entirely too concerned with the remains of the hood ornament zombie, Tim MacRoy one time supervisor over both Felton and Finnegan, because the impact with the concrete light pole had driven the zombie into the cab of the truck. As a result, the zombie which had once been Tim MacRoy was now relatively free within the truck cab. Relatively because only half of the zombie had survived the entry. Yet, that half proved more than vigorous enough for the impaled Felton. For a time Felton struggled with his good right arm to keep the ravening zombie at bay, yet the greater his struggles the more ardently the undead abomination fought to sink its teeth into Felton. Finally, Rick managed to closed his fingers around the zombies throat in what he though of as a death grip, but which was, in reality, the last feeble attempt of a dying man to stave off the reaper. Closer and closer the zombie drew, it's fetid breath burned the sensitive mucus membrane within Ricks nose even as highly acidic saliva dropped from the zombie’s mouth to sizzle on the vinyl seat covering. A unique variation of the virus had wrought certain changes to Tim MacRoy before his total conversion to the ranks of the post living. Changes which improved the chances of sustaining its own existence, of processing the much needed protein in a more timely manner. Now, the zombie that had been Tim MacRoy didn't produce saliva so much as a combination of saliva and highly concentrated digestive acids. The strength of which Rick Felton learned first hand as his assailant clamped its mouth onto Felton’s shoulder. Excruciating didn't really cover the combination of teeth tearing into his flesh and acid burning through his skin, fat, and muscle to eat away at the bone beneath, but it was all Felton could think of as his life's blood ran from his wounds in rivers.
Despite the shockingly short gestation period of the virus, the zombie which had been Tim MacRoy devastated Felton's right hand side. Not that either zombie cared since the moment Felton became a full fledged zombie the two of them began the assimilation process. Adversaries in life, now eternally bonded as allies in undeath. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
The amalgam zombie which stepped from the ruined vehicle bellowed in hunger, and set off to fill its massive stomach.
They feasted upon the flesh, though not the flesh of the Other. The wretched Other had survived Their attack when all other flesh fell b
efore Them. The flesh They had once been recognized the uniforms worn by the flesh They now consumed, law enforcement officers. These flesh had been programmed to do battle to maintain order among the flesh, and yet They had slaughtered the flesh like so much cattle. How then had the Other survived? And the flesh with the Other, that annoyance had nearly rendered Them non-extant. Such a thing must never happen again. They would simply have to render the flesh non-extant before battling the Other again.
One of the flesh They had bitten but not consumed stirred, becoming extant as a Lesser. Since They had come into contact with Her, the query had arisen whether They could control Lesser brought into being By Them, or if She would command the Lesser. The moment for resolution of this query was at hand.
The broken, twisted form rose from the asphalt to stand before Them, it's lolling head coming upright as blood red eyes locked onto Them.
“You have no place here, Abomination,” She said to Them as She seized control of the Lesser. It's twitching hands grasped the projectile weapon still holstered at its waist, and pulled it free as They brought massive hands attached to tree trunk like arms down upon the Lesser’s fragile skull. Black viscous fluid, bone shards, and corrupted brain matter exploded from beneath Their clenched fists. Glass shattered as They released a rage filled sonic boom of a roar.
In Their moment of fury it did not occur to Them, They should not be feeling any emotion whatsoever, let alone such overwhelming anger. It also never surfaced within Their mind that as anything beneath the leader, it was for Them to obey Her. These thought images never made themselves known, though whether by accident or willful ignorance. Had these thought images clarified themselves in Their mind, it would have become evident that significant alterations to Their limited psychological matrix had occurred during the symbiosis of the flesh once known as Francis Miller and the Lesser once known as Danny Green. Alterations resulting in the newly formed gestalt being emerging with a strange thing unforeseen by the creators, emotional awareness.
Though They didn't know it, They had been irreparably altered from Their intended function and service life.
Chapter Seven
Luck, that most fickle and spiteful of all bitches, decided our lives weren't nearly complicated enough at the moment, because the goddamn Trans Am died a hundred yards from James’ apartment duplex. We could see both Carroll’s truck, sitting right where he had left it, and Zombie Green some three hundred yards back the way we came, busily eating people alive. More than anything, I believe that saved our pathetic little lives that day, because if Zombie Green hadn't been preoccupied with dinner I think he would have waltzed right over and popped our heads off. Especially as we were toting a fuck load of supplies from the wreck of James’ automotive wet dream to the faded red and white truck Carroll never washed.
Everything went into the bed of the truck as I slipped into the cab, where I used a flathead screw driver to snap the column mounted steering wheel locking mechanism. A safety feature on pretty much every car produce in the last forty years meant to make it harder for thieves to steal your car. All it really accomplished was to increase the retail cost of the vehicle. Once I had the steering wheel unlocked I jammed the screwdriver into the ignition and turned it. The truck sputtered, wheezed, and came to life. Talk all the shit you want, I love old trucks. The harder you beat on them, the more they like it.
Since my rifle was now just an interesting paperweight, I pulled the magazine and dumped the weapon in the truck bed with everything else. I'd have to hope I could find a replacement soon. Even though I had six magazines, loaded with thirty rounds each, strapped to my chest, without my rifle they were all useless. As far as my forty-five went, I had only brought four eight round magazines. It wasn't nothing, but it also wasn't a Kalashnikov pattern rifle backed by one hundred eighty rounds.
Not waiting around for the ebony murder machine to wander down the street and pull my spine out I backed away from James’ duplex and turned left onto state road seventy-six. I drove to Cove Road, where I turned left again. This time I drove all the way to A1A where I turned left again, and headed north.
“Would you care to tell me where the hell we’re going?” James asked, slightly perplexed by my actions. Not excitable by nature, James was nonetheless on edge given the intensity of our latest interactions with the world at large.
“Gun shop,” I said. “Need a new rifle.”
“Uh, we have weapons on the boat,” James responded looking at me the way you might a not particularly bright dog you've just caught aggravating a skunk. You know the poor dumb thing isn't smart enough to leave it alone, but you don't want to interfere in case the spraying commences.
“That's later,” I answered. “Need a rifle now.”
“What makes you think the sheriff’s deputies haven't ransacked the place?” James asked, trying another line of reasoning.
“Because Dub and Lou were packing standard issue law enforcement firearms, and Dub, at least, seemed to know what he was doing,” I explained my thought process. “Not to mention the look out that dimed us out didn't hose us with rifle fire that moment they saw us.”
“Okay,” James nodded, clearly unhappy with the idea of being sniper bait. “You know where to get a new AK?”
“Yup, so do you,” I said as we turned onto a side street, and I pulled up in front of a small, nondescript building. The name Freedom Incorporated was stenciled onto a reinforced door. “The gun range.”
“Are you kidding me?” James looked askance at me. “This place is locked up tight, and the last time I checked neither one of us could pick locks or thought to bring plastic explosives to breach the door with. Come to that, neither of us knows how the fuck to use plastic explosives in any way whatsoever. Goddamn it, I guess I should have put a little more effort into this whole survivalist thing.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I shrugged and walked over to the shop next to the gun range. “I can't do either of those things either, but I'd say we’ve done fine so far. Besides, it's not like anybody with a license offered that kind of training to yahoos like us. This situation makes me wish I had joined the national guard like my cousin, though.”
“Finn, where are you going now?” James asked.
“The outer walls and the range itself are reinforced,” I explained even as I used the steel toe of my right boot to shatter the plain glass window of the shop next to the range. “However, these shops all share the same roof structure. Just so happens I know how to slip from this side to the next.”
“Jesus, you scouted this place out for one of your goddamn survival plans, didn't you?” James shook his head slowly, unable to believe the depths of my paranoia.
“Don't knock my psychosis, they are what's kept us alive,” I snapped. The shop I entered had been somebody’s idea of a happy retirement. It was filled with about ten thousand different bolts of material and lace, most in varying states of being sewn together. Flyers told of the next class date, and how the subject covered would be Renaissance corsets and how to make one. My first instinct was to be dismissive until I really thought about my own plans for retirement, and decided it wasn't for me to judge what this person had chosen to do. Hell, whoever it was had earned the right to do whatever they fucking wanted to. James followed me in, stopping long enough to slip a roll of extravagant lace into his pack. I gave him a questioning look and he shrugged and said,”for Melinda.”
Son of bitch, that's not a bad idea. I picked up a couple more rolls and slid them into my pack. Lizzy wasn't the biggest fan of lace, but she would appreciate having it as accents for our painfully average pillow cases and bed linen. A snorted laugh behind me told me James had seen me mimic his action. Against the far wall someone had placed a folding table, upon which bolts of cloth had been placed. I slid the bolts onto the floor and clambered on top of the table, which, thankfully, brought me into reach of the ceiling tiles. Carefully, I slid a tile out of its frame and allowed it to fall to the floor. My flashlight illuminated the abs
olute black hole of the ceiling crawl space, revealing the simple sheet rock wall separating James and I from the wonderful bang-bangs on the other side. Well, well, what ever shall I do now?
I jumped up into the crawl space and barely manuevered my frame into a position where I could swing my trusty KaBar. A few quick probing knocks and I could tell exactly where the studs were, and between each stud just enough room to slip through. The butt of my KaBar acted as a hammer as I drove the butt of the knife into the drywall over and over and over. It wasn't quick, and it wasn't easy, but I removed enough of the material to see through into the gun range next door. With the power out, every interior situation on the face of the planet resembled a horror movie about ten seconds before the psychotic murdering monster demon eats your fucking face off and turns your soul into a cock sock. I was, suffice to say, a little nervous. There could be absolutely anything on the other side of the wall, including an irate gun range owner.
