by H. L. Murphy
Now who would be in a position to run that kind of field test?
“KnightStar,” I growled, dark thoughts flooded my mind as I considered the mercenaries hounding my every fucking step since I escaped the factory. “Sons of bitches, I'll kill every last one of those cocksuckers.”
In time, perhaps. Before that, however, I suggest we return to the ship and tend to our family.
Well, listen to you. Our family.
As I am a part of you, my personality a reflection of yours, I cannot help but think of them as my family.
Fair enough, but just so you know I'm still not convinced you're anything more than a hypoxia induced hallucination.
I stepped out into the balmy south Florida night, and was glad I had left the shreds of my shirt behind. Down here, it isn't the heat that saps at you it's the humidity. The humidity that drops like a sodden blanket over you and just never lets go. I stomped off towards the street suddenly aware that I had no clue where I was. I wasn't entirely certain how I'd found Maxwell’s little house of heavy ordinance since I'd never actually been there before. Though I vaguely remembered talking to him once about it, but couldn't clearly recall when. It didn't matter, not in the grand scheme of things like pulp villains liked to say. All that mattered now was collecting my shit, and getting back to the boat.
I stopped walking thirty feet from Maxwell’s door as I glanced at the rusted, wreck of a Lincoln Continental parked in the drive way of a neighbor. Judging by the four permanently flat tires, and total lack of an engine, the car hadn't been moved in a long time. So, fantasy disco Silky was looking more and more like an hallucination brought on by my brain trying not to die. I wandered over to look the car a thorough visual inspection, and froze as I spotted the eviscerated remains of two bodies. Both appeared to have been dressed in quasi matching clothes. While there were no indications of steel belted armor anywhere about, I couldn't help but think these two were in someway connected to the dead men within Maxwell’s tomb.
Uh, when I got out of the water, I must have been pretty hungry.
Positively famished.
That's not helping. So if I was super out of it like I'm thinking I was, I doubt I could have managed a protein bar even if I still had one.
True enough, you could barely manage one foot in front of the other.
Don't be a dick, what the fuck did I eat?
Oh, what's wrong? Are you a shade embarrassed by the willingness to devour your own kind to survive? Come on, it isn’t as though you haven't considered the potential necessity of a little roasted long pork. Remember, Soylent Green is people.
“I fucking ate these people?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. I know my eyes had gone completely round in shock, and was glad nobody was there to see the mental breakdown I was about to suffer throw itself into overdrive.
No.
WHAT? What do you mean, no?
I'm fucking with you. Zombies ate those two. You ate three grouper, a fat squirrel, and two overly curious raccoons. Raw.
I ate…two…raccoons?
Oh, yes. I had to filter out some of the less desirable microbial elements, but other than that they were quite tasty and wholesome. Why are you so distraught at having consumed a pair of quadrupeds to restore your own health?
Maybe it's the whole thing about not being able to remember doing it. I've prided myself on my memory, and now there's this enormous gap I can't fill in.
That's because your brain was in a state of suspended animation at the time you escaped your watery grave.
Okay, less focus on the whole watery grave thing and let's just move forward from here. I think I see the bridge.
That's not the Roosevelt bridge. Not nearly tall enough.
True enough. Looks like the Veterans Memorial bridge. Christ on fire, the current must have carried me a long way.
If that is the Veteran’s Memorial, then we are southwest of our last position. With a city full of the undead between us and our family and only an antique revolver, an antique submachine gun, and a bad attitude to carry us through.
Ain't you just a ray of fucking sunshine? Leave the strategy and tactics to me, and you keep my subconscious working the Big Question.
What Big Question?
If the bitch Queen of the Undead can't use the substance in my blood to become human again, why does she want it so much?
That is a good question. See? Not nearly so clueless as you've pretended to be these many years.
I picked up my pace as my ears detected the unmistakeable sounds of living people. Yells, shouts of rage and encouragement, and the wails of the dying. This time, I wasn’t about to go charging in on my steed of purest white. Fuck that shit. This time I planned to sneak in like a fucking rat, eyeball the complete situation, and then get the fuck out of there if even one thing was out of place. The noise brought me to the edge of the water, the St. Lucie River, where I could make out electrical light on one of the tiny islands in the river. Of the two nearest, one was covered in trees while the other seemed to have been shorn of all foliage and had a metal dome constructed on it. The dome was a hodge podge of ill fitting metal pieces welded together. Looking it over as best I could from the shore, the people outside the dome were cheering on something going on inside the dome. Words drifted across the water.
“Oh, that's too bad, Red Ginny. You may have won the battle, but that love bite guarantees you'll be staying here to compete against our next contestant,” a not quite familiar voice announced. From the distorted monologue I guessed the master of ceremonies was using some kind of bullhorn, probably in dire need of fresh batteries. Still, something seemed entirely, uncomfortably familiar about the speakers cadence. I just couldn’t place it. Yet. “Coming up next, sports fans, will be our returning champion…Big Bobby McAllister, and his friends, Thunder and Lightning.”
The crowds went ballistic at this, roaring with approval, with hatred, with a primal, almost carnal, desire to watch Big Bobby whosis be torn limb from bloody limb. That's when I saw the guards walking the perimeter of the encampment, thug wannabes covered in steel belted armor. Well, that explains the origin of the assholes at Maxwell’s, but not why they were there.
Across the water I spotted two impressive looking men hauling a third, smaller man between them to the domes makeshift gate. Once I laid eyes on that poor bastard I recognized Robert McAllister, electrician grade one, from the extensive red and black tribal tattoos running up both arms and across his back. Like Pee Wee, Robert had been a serious health nut. At least, as much of a health nut as required to maintain a body builder like physique. The slabs of beef to either side of Robert laughed as they neared the gate, their words were lost on me but apparently not on Robert. He flailed about, trying to get free, and succeeded only making the guards laugh deeper. A scrawny toad like man ran between the guards and the gate, hovered a moment and then pulled the gate open wide. Laughing to the high heavens, the guards hurled Robert into the dome. The toad closed the gate quickly and scuttled away.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice came through the dying bullhorn once again. Again I felt I knew the speaker but just couldn't place the voice. “Welcome our reigning champion back to the Circus Minimus. May I present to you, Big Bobby McAllister and his companions…THUNDER AND LIGHTNING. Give us a pose, Bobby, or I'll set the dogs on you. Let them chew on you a while before I throw you to the zombies.”
The crowd roared as Robert obviously complied. Shouts of approval and of derision filled the night. I finally picked out women among the throng of viewers, and was surprised to note they didn't seem to be coerced. They appeared as eager to watch Robert being ripped to pieces as the men.
“Very, very nice, Bobby my boy,” the voice’s sing song tone continued to tickle my memory tantalizingly, but only a mental brick wall greeted my minds eye. “In fact, you're entirely too pretty to waste on the ghost of Red Ginny. Take her out, we’ll find a way to enjoy her later. No, tonight, sports fans, we’re going to watch Big Bobby McAllister battle with�
��the Surgeon!”
Even from my vantage point I could hear Robert’s scream of terror, quickly eclipsed by the sound of a hundred spectators losing their shit. I had no idea who they were expecting, but I knew that when you refer to a person by a title and not their given name it's usually a sign of a bad mother fucker about to ruin your day. As I watched, Robert tried to climb the inside of the dome. Jesus, who the hell was this Surgeon guy?
“Give it up for Milo “the Surgeon” Fitzroy,” the MC bellowed without using the bullhorn.
“Christ on fire, it's old home week,” I muttered. Milo Fitzroy had been another coworker, electrician grade two, but one I hadn't seen in the days before Outbreak Day. Creepy, uptight fucker always made me feel as though he were sizing me up for a pine box somewhere out in the Everglades. That, or he was trying to locate my fucking spleen. On any other day I would have put money on Robert cleaning his clock, but from his reaction I didn't see that happening. The crowd went silent as a gate a I couldn’t see was opened and someone walked in. Robert was still coming apart at the mental seems, and now was voicing his terror born objections in nonsensical gibbering.
“I shouldn't watch this,” I mumbled. I knew I should move on, but something kept my focus on the dome. Incredibly tall, Milo strode across the domes interior with blinding speed before he reached up to drive something small and metal into Robert’s back. The scream that came out chilled me to the bone. It was a cry of unendurable agony, torn from Robert’s soul. Whatever Milo had done to Robert, I never wanted done to me. If I had a rifle, I'd ensure that by shooting the closet psychopath now. Fuck the Circus Minimus, these freaks could find their pleasure elsewhere. I considered hosing the lot of them with the ZK-383, but I barely had enough ammunition to complete my escape. A flash of color caught my attention and I watched Robert fall to the ground. I'll give him this, the second he hit the ground Robert lashed out at Milo with a kick that drove the gaunt figure the far side of the dome. Yet, even as Robert struggled to his feet Milo was up and attacking. Light glinted off something small and metallic in Milo’s hand. Then crimson spurted into the air as Milo swept his hand across Robert’s face.
Scalpel, I decided. He fought using a pair or more of scalpels. No wonder the Surgeon moniker stuck. Milo was just the kind of weirdo that would have gone through a Grey’s Anatomy text, memorizing key points to inflict maximum pain or damage. I had a bet going at work as to how many people were buried in Milo’s backyard. Personally, I put the number no lower than twelve, but no higher than twenty.
Again the scalpels flashed, and again blood cascaded through the air in a macabre display of cruel skill. I found myself rooting for Robert even as I knew he would die, and die badly. Anybody so confident in their skill to take you to pieces they didn't bother to fight with anything but a pair of scalpels was probably so skilled they could draw out the fight anyway they wanted. This fight was over before the MC even announced it.
I was turning away, intent on walking away from the entire mess, when I noticed a small group of people moving towards a speed boat run aground less than one hundred yards away. I had been entirely too preoccupied by the Circus Minimus to notice. Not wanting a fight if I could avoid it, I scrunched down a little further. As they drew closer I could make out the sounds of struggling, cursing, and crying. Four demented refugees from the absolute worst post apocalyptic movies ever made were herding two normal looking people, a man, bawling his eyes out, and a woman, spitting and cursing up a storm. Kind of interesting to watch the whole reversal of roles in action. Especially as the man looked to be about six foot two inches, six foot three inches something in that neighborhood, while the woman couldn't have topped off more than five foot nine. Stress affects people differently, I understand, but this guy was all but pissing his pants. One of the dystopian thugs slapped the crying man across the back of his head and told him to, “shut your bitch ass before you taste real pain.”
Now I had a choice, I could walk away and leave these two to the tender mercy of the MC of the Circus Minimus, of which I doubted the existence, or I could try to rescue them. Any rescue attempt would place my mission in jeopardy, and reduce the chances of seeing my wife and daughter ever again. That pretty much decided the issue for me, right until the woman came into the light and I froze.
Angelica Devaigne, my wife's best friend in all the world next to yours truly.
Which meant the weeping ball of cat piss behind her was her boyfriend, Simple Simon. Well, his actual name was Simon Petrowsky, but to me he would always be Simple Simon. In almost every way possible, we were polar opposites. His continued existence would likely be as a result of Angelica’s efforts and not his own.
From what I could see, Angelica had seen little in the way of rough treatment. That was good, especially for her sanity. Angelica could list horticulturalist, equestrian enthusiast, and semi professional model amongst her accomplishments, but I’d known her long enough to realize there would be some PTSD filled nightmares ahead. Presuming I freed her, and, only as necessary, Simple Simon.
“I said shut the fuck up, you twat waffle,” one of the dystopian wannabes screamed right before the back of his hand met the side of Angelica’s face. Simple Simon pissed himself. I flicked the sub gun’s happy switch from full to semi and lined up my first shot. The second I pulled the trigger, the world would close in on us. “Jesus Christ, I've had enough of this bitch. Hold him, I'm gonna teach her some fucking manners.”
“Eddie didn't give you…”
“Eddie isn't here,” the rather large thug grabbed his compatriot by the back of his head and spat into his face. “And you ain't gonna tell him anything, are you?”
Yeah, that was as far as that conversation ever got. Behavior of that sort never ends well for anyone involved so instead of allowing this action to follow through to its illogical conclusion, I shot the knuckle dragging douche nozzle in the back of the head. Since I was already lining up my second shot I had the delightful pleasure of observing the look of total confusion on thug number two’s face before a nine millimeter parabellum round violated his cranial vault.
“Fuck! Get down, Jackie,” the swifter of the two holding Simple Simon yelled, then dropped behind an abandoned car. I wonder, is the car considered abandoned if the owner was eaten by zombies or converted to the ranks of the undead? Abandoned usually indicates a willful action, but nobody I knew ever wanted to become a zombie. Oh, well, back on track. Jackie, witless wonder he was, ran for Angelica, who was busy trying to dig something from the knuckle dragging douche nozzles belt. Whatever it was, she wasn't making progress so I riddled Jackie with bullets. Somehow, the fun switch found its way back to fully, incredibly automatic. “Jackie!”
“Jackie’s dead, fuck stick,” I shouted, trying to keep the last man focused on me and not concerned about whatever the fuck Angelica was doing. “Piss off, or I'll send your narrow ass to join the mother fucker in hell.”
“This is hell and I can do whatever I want,” the man screamed even as he rose, a sawed off shotgun pointed my way. His head literally exploded as Angelica emptied a Taurus Judge into his skull. Goddamn, I could have skipped seeing that.
“Angie, don't shoot me,” I yelled and slowly rose to my feet. “It's Finnegan. I'm here to rescue you. You know, if you're not busy.”
Chapter Fourteen
For a long moment, I wondered whether Angelica would try shooting me, empty revolver not withstanding. Her eyes were enormous orbs of fear and panic and that special knowledge that comes of killing your first human being. Air ran in and out of her lungs in too short gasps, if she didn't slow down she was going to hyperventilate. Which would make moving her along fucking impossible. I could carry her, but not long enough or fast enough to get us out of the impending shit storm.
“Angie, we need to go. We need to go now, before those assholes on the island get in their boats and come eat us alive,” I said gently, or as gently as I'm capable of. I had been slowly walking towards the two of them, my sub mac
hine gun stowed on my back.
“Don't call her that,” Simon mumbled from near my left shoe. For professional reasons Angie had decided to go by Angelica. Sounds better for a model, right? Of course it does, no question. However, Simple Simon had taken to giving anyone that still called Angie by her original name a severe ration of shit. Amazing what stirs this little shit weasel up. With a not so gentle kick of my foot, I settled the issue for the moment.
“Angie, it's Finnegan,” I repeated, letting her get a good look at my face.
“Finn,” the name came out shakily, but with sanity behind it. We had passed the critical point of shooting me in the chest and running off into the night giggling like an idiot.
“You got it, kid,” I said and gently took what I hoped was an empty revolver from her. “Let's see about more shells for this cannon.”
“What are you doing here?” Angie demanded. “How did you find us?”
“I'm trying not to get shot again,” I answered the first question while I rummaged through the douche nozzles kit. I located spare shells just as the alarm went up on the island. “The rest has just kind of been my luck running true to form.”
Spent four-ten shotgun shells rained upon the ground as I reloaded the hand cannon. Handing back to Angie I turned to spray the first boat leaving the island with nine millimeter searing death.
“Let's go shall we,” I said and led by example. We ran, Christ I hate running, from the bank of the river almost directly onto SR 76. Not twenty yards from the blood encrusted wreck of a sheriff's deputy patrol car. That was not what I would have called a good omen. “There. The gas station.”
“Those cars won't start, they've been there too long,” Simple Simon whinged from behind me. Crap on toast, he followed us. I liked Angie, I did, but her taste in men left a lot to be desired. Well, to me it did. As far as I knew, Simple Simon did all kinds of wonderful emotional fulfillment things for Angie. Far be it from me to judge their dynamic. I'll stick to judging Simple Simon for being a simple, useless bitch.
