Invasion of the Dead (Book 2): A Fistful of Zombies

by H. L. Murphy

  As far as that goes, I really wanted a few grenades of my own.

  Displacing, there's that military term again, further from the edge I scouted for a way through the building proper to an elevated firing position. Someplace I could rain fire down on my enemies. Goddamn Tom Clancy novels. So called shatter proof glass doors proved no match for a seven-six-two double tap, and I rushed into the building with my rifle at the ready. I could have done without the open floor plan within, but beggars can't be choosers and all that bullshit. I found a stairway, far too close to the corridor of searing death demolishing the building corner. Still, I needed to be on the second floor so into the no fly zone of searing steel jacketed death I went. Peaking out a second floor window the first thing I noticed was a mercenary had dismounted the SUV and was advancing on James and the cabin cruiser. This burly, baby eating bastard seemed to have exchanged his rifle for an M240, and an intense desire to eradicate the cruiser from existence. Since I couldn't have that, he became my primary target. A bullet from my rifle took the would be murderer in the spine, ending his decathlon days forever. Too bad, so sad. That's what you get for crossing my path and trying to murder my friends.

  Unfortunately, in saving James and Co. I tipped my hand to the other gunmen and they expressed a surprisingly similar viewpoint to me. Except where I had sufficed with the use of a single bullet, those mother fuckers dropped enough ordinance into the second floor to reenact D Day. Cinder block and concrete, why use anything else in your construction projects? Across the building in a flash, I turned back to check my previous position and actually viewed the exact moment when the wall simply ceased to exist. Swallowing hard I kept the rising bile from spewing forth as the mental image of me standing there when the wall disintegrated formed. As images went, it was right up there with watching an amalgam pull itself together or listening to the President speak. Nightmare fuel. I doubted there would have been enough left of me to heal.

  I fired a few rounds through the so called shatter proof glass in the window frame, and smashed through what remained with the butt of my rifle. Once all, or at least most, of the glass was clear of the frame I slung my rifle and climbed out the window. As I hung from the frame one floor above the ground I seriously questioned my decision making paradigm. This was not a good place to be, especially in the event a mercenary tried flanking my position. The drop wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but it wasn't terribly enjoyable either. Paving stones did not make for a stable landing surface, and I ended up flat on my back staring at the night sky. If I could have, I think I might have stayed for a while to enjoy the view. With all the lights out, all across the city, maybe even the entire quarantine zone, the stars were magnificent. The small horde of men on the other side of the building trying to massacre me put any such thought away for the time being. No, instead of stargazing I leapt to my feet and sprinted to the corner nearest the mercenaries.

  Heavy, concentrated fire ripped into the building corner before I even made it part way there. The mercenaries weren't as mouth breathing stupid as I had hoped, and had anticipated my actions. Okay, so I don't hide behind a corner and snipe the scum of the earth. What can I do instead? I can try breaking into another building, or I can run, oh please no, away from the this screaming cluster fuck of a gun fight.

  The soft, almost imperceptible, impact of a baseball sized object six feet away solved my dilemma in the most explosive of fashions. Hanging out in this kill zone was flat out a bad idea, most especially since someone decided, after all, grenades were a groovy party favor. Hauling ass away from the blast zone saved me from the explosive overpressure, and most of the shrapnel. A few tiny, white hot pieces came to rest in my posterior as I bravely ran away from the gun fight. I don’t consider it running away since I took the time to shoot at the murderous scum chasing me, mostly to keep them more interested in me than in James and Co.

  It was painfully obvious by now that the kill team had entirely dismounted, and were giving chase. It was also painfully obvious these cocksuckers were doing their goddamn cardio on a regular fucking basis. To me it seemed like the pricks were trying to run me to death. Around the next corner I scored some very needed luck, and nearly ran over the driver of the second SUV as he pulled dead or injured team mates out of the vehicle. My rifle barked twice as I put him down and leapt into the still running vehicle. I dropped the transmission into reverse and stomped the accelerator. Tires squealed as steel belted radials spun into place before grabbing asphalt and propelling the SUV back onto the main streets even as the cardio gods employed by KnightStar rounded the corner and proved before all doubt they weren't short of ammunition yet. Driving in reverse at high speed had never been my strong point, and doing so with my head below the dash didn't help matters in the slightest. I may not out run these pukes, but I could out drive them. I spun the wheel hard to the right and prayed I wouldn't flip the goddamn vehicle pulling an outlaw turn. As the SUV came around I sat up long enough to judge my timing, then spun the wheel back the other way and jammed the transmission into drive. Miracle of miracles, I didn't drop the transmission out of the goddamn vehicle. The engine roared as the transmission disengaged, then growled as the transmission reengaged.

  Sounds pretty simple, doesn't it? It would have been too, if the SUV hadn't been taking enough fire to level a fucking mountain. I mean, seriously, where the fuck were these assholes keeping all that ammunition? Some kind of pocket dimension available only to ruthless fucking killers bent on splattering my fucking brains all over the surprisingly comfortable interior. Wow, was this seat leather? I'm not usually a fan of leather in the Florida heat, but I gotta say it was a nice change from time to time. Briefly, very briefly, I wondered if the local dealership had this model in a non-shot to hell edition. Hopefully, it would also be sans bloodstains. Nothing kills the atmosphere quite like dubious brownish, blackish stains all over the upholstery.

  Digressing, digressing, digressing. It's my favorite fucking past time

  In seconds I was pushing eighty down a residential street. Oh, if only Dub and Lou could have seen me do this before Outbreak Day, they'd have had my balls in a sling. Do not pass go, go directly to a police brutality video. With any luck that's where it would have ended. Today, though, I get to haul ass through here with total impunity. Except for the heavily armed assholes behind me that haven't given up trying to riddle my ass with high velocity lead. Christ on fire, Raven Team didn't give me this much trouble.

  That's because you ambushed Raven Team while they were busy being distracted by Madalina and Cooms.

  Thanks a lot. Way to be helpful. Way to instill confidence in our survival.

  I'm not a politician, so if you want somebody to lie to you you need to look elsewhere. I'm here to give you the straight dope.

  Fuck the straight dope, I need a way out of this.

  The way out is as simple as it will be painful and you will want to resist with all your natural desire to survive.

  What the hell are you talking about?

  You must die.

  WHAT? That's the best you can come up with?

  It is the only ending which will stop the current assault. You have killed at least one, though probably more, members of their teams. They will not stop until they kill you.

  Goddamn it. I hate dying. It fucking sucks.

  Just because you have to die, doesn't mean you must allow them to get hold of you.

  Oh, that's just fucking outstanding is what that is. How the fuck do I let them kill me without letting them…

  I glanced over to my right, and found my world narrowed down to the Roosevelt Bridge and what was obscured became crystal clear.

  Jesus fuck.

  No matter how this went down, it was going to hurt.

  A lot.

  The volume of Finnegan removing fire had finally slackened enough that I dared a glance over my shoulder. Industrious little shits they were, the kill team had acquire a new vehicle. Someone's ridiculously lifted, penis size compens
ation truck was devouring the distance between us while gunmen appeared to be reloading. Worse, the damaged I’d already inflicted on this SUV was coming home to roost. Specifically, the engine heat was redlined and losing power.

  “Come on! Move your fat ass down the road,” I screamed at the dying vehicle. Yeah, I yelled at the SUV as if by doing so I could coax an inanimate object into performing a superman effort to save my sorry ass from another premature death at the hands of yet more KnightStar killers. Did it work? Are you fucking kidding me? That fucking fat bitch of an SUV died directly in front of the goddamn hospital, in full fucking view of four lightly armed deputies and maybe a score or so of slave laborers. “Oh, Lady Luck, you clapped out fucking whore, I hate you.”

  Next to the nearly nonstop machine gun fire I had been ducking, the pop, pop, pop of handguns was basically anticlimactic. That doesn't mean I didn't dive out the drivers side door of the SUV to avoid being shot. Not only did I kiss the asphalt, I gave it tongue like we were at prom night. Thankfully, I remembered to bring my rifle. High velocity, steel jacketed rounds exited the barrel of my rifle as I unleashed a spray of suppressing fire. The remaining deputies may have slipped a cog or two, but they weren't stupid. Each and every one knew exactly how useless their standard issue vests would be against directed fire from my rifle, so they sought cover. Cover they hoped would protect their precious flesh against the ravages of a seven-six-two bullet.

  Personally, I thought they were giving me way more credit than I deserved. What fire I sent their way was neither directed nor particularly accurate. Still, it was effective enough to send people scurrying while I hauled my no cardio training ass into the parking garage next to the hospital. Good thing too, since the kill crazy cock suckers from KnightStar chose that exact moment to roll up on the scene, with guns a blazing. Their fury, it seemed, had only grown in the intervening seconds from mildly enraged to kill the heretics, burn their homes, and pour salt on the ground, let nothing grow here ever after.

  I say this, not because they shot at me with intent, but because the bastards began massacring everyone. Slave laborers and deputies alike, all were grist for KnightStar’s grisly mill. Light machine guns scythed through bodies, cars, and light cover in the second most terrible display of ruthless violence I had seen in my life. It wasn't as though the shooters were screaming in savage joy, harvesting women like Raven Team had, or were even attempting to take the would be fortress for themselves. No, these men were merely performing an action, an action that meant nothing more to them than tying their boot laces. They were calm, professional, and despicably thorough. My impulse control failed me completely, and I started shooting as quickly as I could while still keeping my point of aim on target.

  Once again, as if anticipating my blatant act of stupidity, a neon sign of truly gigantic mental proportions began flashing its message just a half second too late.

  Mistake, mistake, MISTAKE.

  At least one of my shots found its mark because the mini gun went silent, although the quasi directed fire from the remaining light machine guns more than compensated for the loss of a single weapon. I was every bit as game as the next guy, unless the next was one of those KnightStar assholes in which case I needed to up stake and haul my narrow ass out of state. Much as I would have liked to be in Georgia, the best I could manage was to get to the second level with only one fresh bullet wound. The white hot, fury of a thousand stars wound in my calve stood testament to the fact I needed to be doing a LOT more cardio, specifically running everyday until I puked my lungs out. What? I don't need them, I can regenerate a fresh set.

  On the second level I found what I was hoping to be there, a fresh, clean squad car. As a matter of fact, there was a line of freshly detailed squad cars all lined up in a row. All I needed was for one schmuck to have left their keys in the car, and I would be golden. Well, let's be honest, if my situation could truly be described as golden I would be laughing my ass off on the way back to the boat and not within a parking structure trying to evade machine gun wielding psychopaths. However, that isn't my luck. No, my luck practically fucking guarantees that not only are there no keys for the squad cars, but that not one fucking vehicle in the garage has a set of keys within ten miles.

  On that day, a kind and possibly malicious deity shown fortune down on me despite my continuous efforts to earn a one way ticket to the hot place. The last car in line had keys, keys still in the ignition. Even better, it roared to life the moment I turned the engine over. Good thing too, since I could just make out KnightStar mercenaries charging up the ramp from the first floor. Well, maybe I could ruin their day in return for all the kindness they'd shown me and mine. I dropped the car into reverse, backed out of the space, and hauled ass up the ramp to the third floor. I didn't stop there either, up and up I went under the sound of the engine and squealing tires filled the parking garage. At the top, I spun the car around and hit the siren, but kept the lights off. Down I went in a flurry of sound and fury. With the windows up and barking every obscenity I ever learned, including the really foul ones in Russian that my buddy Aleksandr told me never to use, I could just hear myself over the thunderous noise. Yay reverberating sound. Yay enclosed parking garages. Yay, I just fucking ran over a KnightStar killer lugging an M-60 into position.

  All the sound and fury prevented me from hearing his screaming as I literally ran over his body, crushing his head and who knew what else. I'm guessing about the crushed head part since I didn't hang around to find out. Our meeting was more along the lines of bump and boogie, rather than a hideously protracted death scene popular in the movies. Still, it was long enough that I managed to draw some panic fire. Windows shattered and I was peppered with razor sharp fragments, but thankfully they missed the tires completely. How anticlimactic would that be? All this and those assholes blow out the tires as I'm passing and I careen into a concrete wall. That would certainly bring this whole mess to a close, just not they way I was hoping.

  Like a shell from a cannon, the squad car exploded from the garage headed directly into the grill of the SUV. A hard pull on the steering wheel and panicked application of the brakes allows me to miss a head on collision and just scrape down the side of the vehicle. Along the way my car lost the front right fender, the side view mirror, the passenger door, and I somehow ended up with a severed, profusely bleeding arm in my lap. In the second and a half I have to contemplate the arm after coming to a halt, the goddamn omnipresent machine gun fire begins tracking towards me again. Since I don't want anything to do with that steaming hot mess I jam my foot on the accelerator and chuck the arm out the open passenger door area. In seconds I'm speeding away from the massacre on Osceola Street. Maybe I don't need to head for the bridge, maybe this will buy me enough time to escape. I kill the siren, and the instant my finger comes off the switch I can hear it. The moaning of an innumerable horde of the undead.

  Worse yet, I can feel Her on the very edge of my consciousness probing my mental defenses. She wants in my mind. Wants to cloud my mind enough so that Her minions can lay their disgusting, putrefying hands upon me. Without realizing I'm doing it my hand strays to the KaBar on my absolutely nowhere near snazzy tactical vest. In a flash the blade is in my hand and plunges into my thigh.

  Yes. Yes, I just fucking stabbed myself. If that surprised you, you should have been me.

  “Jesus H. fucking Christ,” I screamed in agony, the blade having struck bone. “Why the fuck did I do that?”

  You were succumbing to the Zombie Queen

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” My shaking, traitorous hand released the KaBar and I stared at the vile thing as though it belonged to someone else.

  You were referring to the bitch queen of the undead as Her. Only the infected think that way, if they can be said to think at all.

  Goddamn it, ever think maybe a good slapping would have done the trick? There was a whole litany of options between doing nothing and stabbing me in the goddamn leg.

  You are al
so under assault from Zombie Green. A slapping, while personally rewarding, wouldn’t have gotten the job done.

  “Christ on fire,” I bellowed as I yanked the KaBar out of my leg. Surprisingly, it didn't begin spouting geysers of blood. For that, at least, I could be grateful. Unfortunately, in the time it took me to sort out what was going on, the murderous thugs from KnightStar had collected their individual shit together and leapt into a working vehicle and were bearing down on me once again. My foot found the accelerator with authority, and off I went. My other self was correct, I could feel the tendrils of dark thought being driven from my psyche and back to the Queen of the Undead. Less subtle in intent were the thundering blows of Zombie Green, but those were far easier to resist than the creeping, sly advances that had always been a hallmark of Madalina Hurgoi.

  A sharp, tire screeching right and I turned onto Roosevelt Bridge, a hail of bullets penetrated the rear of the squad car letting me know my pursuers still cared. For some unfathomable reason I glanced into my rear view mirror, and immediately wished I could pull my eyes out so I could scrub the sight which greeted me from my brain. Thousands, tens of thousands, of zombies were swarming up US1, not quite running, but definitely not shuffling along. Interspersed among the run of the mill undead were twisted amalgams whose forms seem to have been crafted for specific purposes. What those purposes might have been I couldn't begin to guess at, and really didn't want to. I was afraid, afraid that if I could work out what that twisted mountain of muscle, bone, and sinew were made to do I would really and truly lose my sanity and become something entirely too dangerous to those I loved.

  Then a fresh SUV carrying my bosom buddies from KnightStar filled the view, and I snapped back to the here and now and the task before me. My speed jumped to eighty-five as bullets impacted the vehicle in what I think was intended to be a Finnegan killing shower of lead. It wasn't until I felt the hot flow of blood over my lips as I coughed that I understood I had, once again, been machine gunned while trying to escape. Near the crest of the bridge, more than seventy feet over the St. Lucie River, I pulled hard on the wheel and shot across three lanes of traffic into the angled guard rail. I hit the concrete barrier doing one hundred miles per hour, at what I hoped to be the proper angle, and in the space of a heart beat found myself staring straight up as the car launched nearly vertical into the air.