by H. L. Murphy
At the apogee of my flight the car hung for a second before it dropped from the sky, the rear quarter panel striking a section of guard rail and spinning the vehicle out into open air. I spun through the air, trapped in the vehicle by centrifugal force, sixty-five horrifying feet to crash hood first into the non too soft river.
Lucky me, my head slammed into the steering wheel and I was spared the terror of drowning. The lights went out. Again.
Interlude Five
“Holy shit, did he just fucking do that?” Hanson Briggs blurted as his weapon went dry. The big man quickly began the reload process, all the while shaking his head at the crazy son of a bitch command had ordered captured.
“Yes he fucking did,” team leader Michael Trawley confirmed from behind the wheel. He had watched as the target hauled the sheriff's deputy squad car into a collision course with the barrier. He knew nothing about the target beyond what command had briefed them, but he could definitely testify as to the targets resourcefulness and brass balls. As things stood now, Lightfoot Team was operating at thirty percent capacity and with no more ammunition after chasing that prick across the city. A ten man team chopped to ribbons by what? A lone survivor with a fucking combloc piece of shit rifle. It would have been a much better idea to just waste the fucker and collect his body. At least then his team wouldn't be in tatters, and trying like hell not to bleed out all over the place.
“Now what?” Briggs demanded, slapping his weapons receiver closed.
“We need the word from on high,” Trawley announced as he entered the private encryption code into their communication set.
“Whatever you do,” Lucas Nines called from the rear of the vehicle,” do it faster than you are now. That horde is fucking huge and they're still coming for us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Trawley mumbled. “Olympus, this Lightfoot actual.”
“Lightfoot actual, Olympus. Send traffic,” a calm, efficient female voice responded far more quickly than Trawley had expected.
“Olympus, target has evaded capture,” Trawley cut right to the point.
“Lightfoot actual, please specify,” the voice required.
“Olympus, the target drove a car right off the Roosevelt fucking Bridge,” Trawley explained. “Now Lightfoot is in rifle contact with infected grouping. Interrogative. What the fuck am I supposed to do with seventy percent casualties against a hundred thousand undead?”
“Lightfoot actual, wait one,” she voice didn't miss a beat at Trawley’s abusive language. The next voice wasn't unknown to Trawley, or the others.
“Lightfoot actual, this Olympus actual,” James Fitzpatrick announced with all the authority of Caesar passing sentence in the arena. “Withdraw from contact, but remain in the area. Target will reappear.”
“Olympus actual, target fell seventy feet to the river after impacting a concrete barrier. He's dead. How copy?” Trawley wasn't interested in losing the rest of his team on some goddamn snipe hunt.
“Negative, Lightfoot actual. Target is alive and if you want to ever leave the quarantine zone you will secure the target. Alive. How copy?” Fitzpatrick infused ever bit of menace he could into the words, doing his utmost to keep his own fear from seeping through. The good doctor was not renown for her tolerance of failure, and half a world between them did not necessarily ensure Fitzpatrick’s safety.
“Lightfoot actual copies all,” Trawley shouted into the mic. The horde was close enough the moaning and stomping of feet was beginning to overpower everything else. He threw the mic to the floor of the SUV and screamed a brief obscenity laden oath. Then stomped the accelerator, it was time to make their way into Jensen Beach.
The deck of the USS Constellation was alive with activity as the vaunted lady prepared to launch men into harms way. Marine Force Recon troops checked and double checked, then triple checked their gear. Each Marine present understood the importance of their mission, and of securing the object of the raid, Dr. Cynthia Zhao. Without the Doctor the fate of the human race lay along a path none dared consider. F/A-18 super hornets were being armed for an initial strike against the islands defenses, giving the Marines a much needed window of opportunity. While the eyes of the enemy focused on the fighter jocks, the Marines would insert onto the island from the far side, penetrate the fortress proper, secure Dr. Zhao, and exfiltrate to the helicopter PDQ.
Simple. Direct. Mayweather thought the two words over and over, wondering why two words should give him such pause. Marines had always utilized such tactics, and had always succeeded with style and confidence under crushing conditions that made them envied by lesser men, like Hercules. Or Achilles. Or Genghis Khan.
It was the doctor. Like an epiphany, the truth dawned upon Mayweather in a flash. It wasn't the straight forward thinking of the Marines that bothered him. No, it was Dr. Zhao’s non linear thinking, planning, and execution that so vexed Admiral Mayweather. Her ability to view the problem from previously unconsidered view points that made Dr. Zhao able to proceed where others failed utterly. That it also made dealing with the woman difficult under the best of circumstances detracted from her value enormously. It had certainly made their professional relationship tumultuous. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility Dr. Zhao was an undiagnosed, extremely high functioning autistic.
Regardless, Mayweather doubted very much the woman's ruthless intelligence had suffered in the intervening years. The young firebrand, Vincenzo, was skilled and just experienced enough not to underestimate his target, but he lacked firsthand knowledge of anyone in Zhao’s class. The Admiral drew in a deep breath and slowly released his ten thousand doubts and concerns. Worrying was pointless until there was actually something to worry about, not to mention exhausting. The plan made sense. It was well constructed, by professionals who had been performing such clockwork actions for years. The Marines would not fail, it was as simple as that.
“Admiral Mayweather,” a young petty officer ran up to the godlike personage, snapped to attention, and delivered his message. “Incoming report from the submarine force, sir. Several Type 054A frigates, the Xuzhou and the Zhoushan, are closing on our position. They are continuing to broadcast demands for our surrender while threatening to open fire.”
“Goddamn it, that's all we need now,” Mayweather fumed as he stormed into the bowels of the aircraft carrier. The Chinese had become an absolute irritant over the South China Sea territorial issue, and it seemed the annoying pricks were using the outbreaks as an excuse to start more trouble. Well, one positive take away from nuking D.C., he didn't have to listen to that sniveling, useless would be dictator belittle the internationally recognized might of an American carrier strike group anymore. This time, the goddamn Chinese would listen, or so help him, Mayweather was going to sink those pathetic excuses for frigates. And when he finished collecting Dr. Zhao, Mayweather would give serious consideration to extinguishing the rest of the Chinese naval forces as well.
“Attention, Chinese frigates approaching carrier strike group,” Mayweather barked into the hand mic without preamble,”if you perform any action whatsoever that I choose to interpret as hostile, I will take the most carnal pleasure imaginable in sinking you both. Afterwards, I will make it my mission in this world to annihilate any and all vessels flying a PRC banner, from that half assed Russian carrier you're failing to send to sea to three planks lashed together with whatever shit stained rags you can find. This is your only warning.”
“How serious do you think they'll take your warning, sir?” Lieutenant Commander Dick Wallinsky asked carefully.
“Oh, those idiots won't listen,” Mayweather turned on his subordinate. “They'll keep coming despite any verbal warnings given, but I've satisfied myself that I've given enough of a warning. Send the following order to all ships in the group. At the first sign either frigate intends to fire anti-ship missiles, destroy them. If either frigate moves to intercept, or attempts to board, destroy them. Utterly and completely. The importance of our mission here is paramount, and overrid
es all other concerns.”
“Yes, sir,” Lt commander Wallinsky acknowledged the order, despite his concerns Beijing might not see things in quite the same light. And the last time anyone checked, the Chinese still had nuclear capability. Still, the Admiral hadn't steered them wrong yet. The old man knew what he was doing, had always known this day would come.
“Helo flight Blue One-Nine lifting off,” a voice announced from the far side of the room. “Helo flight Blue Two-Zero, lifting off. Time to target twenty minutes. Eagle flight launch in fifteen minutes. “
Mayweather sighed, long and low. In a short period of time the future would be decided, one way or another.
Chapter Eleven
The following is, as far as I know, a completely accurate recounting of events after I hit the St. Lucie River. That doesn't mean, however, that I wholeheartedly believe what I saw and heard, but I offer these ‘memories’ as an example of how far gone I was at the time. I don't know for certain what could have happened while I was seeing things, but I get the soul tingling feeling I'm better off not knowing. As you read this, try to remember I had been shot, been in a car accident, fell from a bridge, and possibly drown so if it don't make sense to you, fuck off now you know how I felt.
I stood beneath the Roosevelt Bridge, leaning against a support pylon like I hadn't a care in the world, never mind I had just fallen sixty-five feet to my doom after being chased through Stuart by a pack of hired killers while an immense horde of undead surged forth with a singular desire to devour all in their path, but me. No, none of that seemed terribly pertinent to my current situation. That situation being that I was in desperate need of a ride the hell out of this run down ocean front trailer park. My eyes fell on a chain link fence so rusted that even the tetanus had tetanus, and I could just about feel my joints locking up from gazing upon it. The longer I stared the more strange what I saw became, until caricature virus bugs began crawling out from behind the fencing. To further enhance my suddenly unbalanced mind, the virus bugs were all dressed like greasers from the 1950s. The creepy little bastards even sported ducks ass haircuts for Christ’s sakes.
“What chu lookin’ at, boy?” One of the tougher looking virus bugs flicked open a switchblade in my direction. Obviously the leader, the greaser virus bug edged towards me while his cronies seems to slide along the ground after him. “Gonna cut chu, boy.”
I lifted my arms to placate the creepy little guy, and was confronted by the ridiculously oversized cannon I was apparently lugging around the underside of the bridge.
“Oh, oh, chu think chu tough,” the greaser virus bug shouted, suddenly becoming angry at the mere suggestion I might defend myself. Well, if he was mad now he'd be apoplectic in moment. “Chu gonna eat that roscoe…”
The rest of his sentence was cut off as a pitch black 1969 Lincoln Continental dropped out of the sky to crush the greaser virus bug like, well, a bug. Sand flew into my face, and I lost track of the car and virus bug gang for a moment. By the time my vision cleared, only the car remained. The virus bug gang had relocated somewhere with fewer cars dropping out of the sky, and my cartoonesque cannon had also vanished. I now stood before the beautiful, and untouched by the drop, classic ride. For a minute, I hesitated to knock on the window given what I had already seen, but I needed a ride the hell away before…what, before what?
I had barely tapped the glass before a window blacker than night rolled down to reveal a vision of color and confusion to totally eclipse all I had ever seen. The interior of the car wasn't so much that of a car, per se, but a seemingly endless rolling landscape of rich, tooled leather enveloping all surfaces not overgrown by Kentucky bluegrass and the purest white roses imaginable by the mind of man. The roof of the car wasn't to be out done, and seemed not to exist at all. Instead, I could see a star filled night sky as I hadn't seen since I was a boy in Texas. In all, the vehicles interior was an impossibly wonderful dream to counter balance the undying nightmare of what I thought of as reality.
The driver of the dream machine slid the door open, and stepped out into the night air. I was barely able to tear my eyes from the inside of the car long enough to behold the six foot black man standing before me in an immaculately pressed white suit and vest, with a shirt the same all consuming black tones as that of a black hole. Crowning his thin face was the most impressive afro I had ever seen. It must have stood out a foot from his skull in every direction, but was well combed and as immaculate as his suit. If there were one thing which could be said to be disturbing about the driver, it would have been his smile. For when he smiled at my gawking ass, his smile literally went from ear to ear revealing far, far too many gleaming white, canine teeth.
“Ow, yeah, did I hear correctly that somebody in this immediate vicinity required a ride?”
The effect of his speech completed the single most bizarre sight I had ever, or likely would ever, seen. It were as if the Cheshire Cat borrowed a white polyester suit from John Travolta to drive around the zombie apocalypse offering idiot Irishmen cab service.
My mouth opened and closed several times before sounds that could be thought of as words came out.
“Yeah, um, need ride,” I finally slurred the words out. I didn't feel drunk, but I damn sure sounded it. Christ on fire, I was even drooling on myself. The disco cat had not failed to notice my inability to contain my own saliva. His face twitched to one side in a semi nervous tick, and his made the strangest sound by sucking on his teeth while clucking his tongue. Long, thin fingers slipped within the jacket to produce a silken handkerchief that shimmered in the moonlight.
“Here you are my friend, you might wish to employ this in making yourself more presentable,” the tall man offered me the handkerchief, and I hesitantly accepted. Stiff, barely functioning fingers closed over the material, which I couldn't feel, and I drug it across my mouth in what I hoped was a successful attempt to curtail the flow of spittle from my slack pie hole. “Yeeeeaaaahhh, that's the general idea my friend, but maybe you should expand the territory you intend to clean from just your pale visage to encompass the remainder of your soiled personage.”
As I glanced down at myself, it struck me that I was the most disgusting looking and repugnant smelling thing on the face of the earth. For a moment shame filled my being, but as the handkerchief slid over my person the vile material coating me simply disappeared. In its place remained a sense of not quite contentment, but something close. I was clean, I was not unpleasant to smell, and I was no longer being hunted by KnightStar or the undead. At least, not at present.
“Oh, yes, that is much more presentable,” the man said as he looked me over. I noticed as he did so he wore sunglasses, sunglasses with lenses that didn't so much seem to be dark as to project darkness into the world. I made to hand the wondrous square of material back, but the stranger wouldn't take it. “Oh, no, you hold onto that. It's far more karmically advantageous to give than to covet a possession. Even a former possession. Now, if you are sufficiently recovered from the trials and tribulations visited upon you by a cruel and pernicious fate, may I have the privilege of your name?”
“Finn,” I managed to say without hurling spittle everywhere. Encouraged, I tried something more complicated. “Angus Finnegan, and you?”
Whatever this guy was or wanted, he had been polite so it couldn't hurt to be polite in return.
“Angus Finnegan? Well that name sounds familiar to me for some reason,” the stranger raised a long finger to tap against his bottom lip as he thought. Then snapped his fingers faster than my eyes could follow. “I have it. Was I not just speaking of cruel and pernicious fate? It was that particularly malicious bitch that happened to be discoursing about you just the other day. She was ranting and raving about how Angus Finnegan had slipped loose her carefully constructed harness of pain and misery to defy predestination and rescue all those whom she had personally assigned a most grisly death. Moreover, you have thwarted Fate multiple times. To do so once is amazing, but to fling yourself again
st her machinations consistently…I salute you, my friend.”
With this he gave a dramatic flourish and a bow.
“Uh, thanks,” ah, yes, ever the eloquent speaker. At least I didn't scratch my balls and break wind. “May I know your name, sir?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. How terribly rude of me,” that unnerving smile split his face again. “I am known far and wide by many aliases, though every lady calls me by the same name. Silky. I am Silky.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Silky,” I said carefully, offering my hand in case he wanted to shake it. If he kissed it, I was going to run away fast and not stop till I hit the Bahamas.
“Well, thank you,” Silky kept smiling, I really wished he'd stop that, as he shook the offered hand. His grip was frighteningly strong for a man so thin, and his hand was dry and warm with the sensation of silk on bare skin. “Now perhaps we should relocate ourselves within my conveyance. The darkness closes in, and I perceive you have a new found aversion to the darkness.”
“Yeah, that's fair to say,” I agreed. Silky swung his door open and glided within in a single fluid motion I could never replicate in a million years. No, I stomped around the front of the car to clumsily drop into the leather and growing things interior. My ass slid onto what can only be described as a leather wrapped throne designed by someone that fully understood how to work and stuff wingback chairs, but also integrated the spectrum of rose species into the sides of the throne like seat. All on its own, the door clicked close with the merest whisper of noise. Shades unlike any ever imagined by sober minds dropped onto the marble dash and I turned to lock eyes with Silky.
