by H. L. Murphy
“Shut the fuck up, you useless bitch,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Before I kneecap your dumbass and leave you for the zombies.”
I could sense him about to ask what zombies I was talking about, but he kept his own counsel the second I produced the Glock 18. He didn't know what the hell it was, beyond the obvious, but didn't feel like pushing his luck. The wind had shifted again, and with the new breeze came the subtle aroma of decay. The others hadn't picked it up yet because they didn't have their own personal healing virus correcting thirty years of olfactory abuse. Because I did, I could smell the advancing horde of undead drawing ever closer. The bitch Queen of the Undead must have realized I was still among the living and decided to correct that oversight. If I gave it some thought I could easily locate the Zombie Queen, but finding Zombie Green was basically not happening. Something about his psychological make up rendered him impossible to pinpoint.
I walked directly up to a twin cab pick up and tried the door handle, not surprised at all to find it locked. A quick check of the truck turned up no keys, but confirmed the truck was of the right age for me to persuade it to start. Using the butt stock of the ZK-383, I bashed in the drivers side window. Naturally, Simple Simon chose this moment to unflap his cock holster and start whining.
“Oh, way to go telling everyone where we are,” the words just kept falling out of his mouth until the sound of his voice became painful. In a flash, I had the old Colt out and stuffed into Simple Simons mouth. The muzzle tickled his throat, threatening to set off his gag reflex. My free hand was clamped around the back of his head, holding him in place as I spoke quietly.
“If you can't keep your man pleaser shut,” I began calmly,”I'm going to put you out of my misery right now. I don't give a fuck if you live forever, or die by my hand right now. The only person left in the world that gives a fuck about you is maybe the woman standing next to me hoping I won't get brain matter all over her spiffy outfit. Even that is questionable because I'm betting that if I can replace her soiled goods Angie will forgive me exploding your goddamn head all over the place. Even if she doesn't, can't forgive me, you make another sound and I'll end your time on this rock. Do you understand, you simple bitch?”
A decided lack of support from Angie made clear how fucked Simple Simon was. It wasn't that Simon no longer fulfilled her emotional needs, I'm sure he did, but the world was falling apart and in that situation Angie bet on the sure thing, me. I had no doubt this would swing round to bite me in the ass later on. Somewhat deflated, Simon nodded as best he could. Removing the venerable revolver from his orifice, I went to work on the truck. While I was able to unlock the steering wheel I had to pop the hood open and short the ignition coil before the engine cranked over. Lucky us, I chose a vehicle with a full tank.
“What the hell are you doing in Stuart?”I shouted to Angie, as we pulled out into the street. Her deep brown eyes turned on me with a mix of emotions I couldn't quite make out. “What? Why the fuck are you staring at me?”
“I thought you were dead,” she said finally. “Everyone thinks you're dead. It's just a shock to see you here, breathing, walking and talking.”
“Yeah, well I haven't been any of those things for a while,” I said honestly. Not that I expected her to understand. “Wait a minute, what do you mean everybody thinks I'm dead? I just went over the fucking bridge.”
“Finn, the others got back to the boat a week ago,” Angie peaked around the useless form of Simple Simon to inform me. A week. My Lizzy and Hermione had been without me for a week. Seven horrible days. Jesus fuck. “We contacted Lizzy two days ago. She's been broadcasting everyday, trying to reach you.”
“And you've just been fucking off,” Simon began, a nasty tone in his voice. Flashing neon appeared before my eyes, it's message a clear indication of what was coming next. Mistake. “They're crying over you and you don't give a f…”
My elbow connected with Simple Simons jaw with enough force I distinctly heard two of his teeth crush together. Blood ran from the left corner of his mouth and Angie let out a gasp of surprise as Simon slumped back, unconscious.
“He’ll live,” I said flatly. My thoughts were on the pain I had unintentionally given my family. More than ever I needed to leave this hellish place of undead, dystopian lunatics, and insanity. I needed to be with my family, I needed to kiss my wife and hold my daughter and tell them both how much I loved them, and that I would never leave them. I looked over and my eyes locked onto the little cigar shop that doubles as a haberdashery.
Just a quick stop, then straight to the boat.
“What are you doing?” Angie demanded. I noticed she was straining to keep Simon from sliding down over her, and doing so none too kindly. His behavior during their capture hadn't been forgotten. I pulled into the parking lot before the store and dropped the truck into park. In the bed of the truck I found exactly the right tool, a demolition bar. A staple of every general contractor’s tool assortment, the demolition bar was nothing more than a six foot long steel rod with a heavy, hardened point at one end. This bar could, and often was, used for any number of odd jobs, but was intended to aid in the demolition of house interiors, poorly constructed BBQ pits, you name it. Me? I drove the tip of the bar through the glass front door and then strode in like Alexander cleaving the Gordian Knot. Immediately to my left I spotted a rack of Stetsons, and snagged a fine brown Stetson fedora with a two hundred dollar price tag. With my new hat in place I made for the walk in humidor, where I took, oh, thirty seconds to pick out two unopened boxes of my favorite brand of cigar, Perdomo Lot 23. On my way out my eye was caught by a series of light cotton button down shirts, done in Cuban style. Since I didn't have a shirt at all I gave myself a five finger discount and took an off white shirt that might fit.
I was just buttoning up the shirt when Angie came running into the shop, stunned to see the purpose of my stop. From her expression it was clear she believed I may have slipped a cog or two.
“What? I haven't had a smoke or a drink for two weeks,” I said while trying to move around her. Quick in her feet, Angie leapt in front of me her hands on my chest to stop me.
“No,” she said, vehemently shaking her head. “They’re out there.”
“Who? Who is out there?”
“Bad Eddie’s men,” she said with more than a little tremor in her voice.
“What, the Road Warrior rejects?” I asked, pushing her gently aside. She was an athletic woman that enjoyed water sports, but she hadn't been strength training for years just for occasions like this. Glancing out the window I located two idiots covered in chopped up tires. “What fuckwit thought that was a good idea?”
“I don't know, but I've seen them take on zombies and not become infected,” she informed me. From that perspective the idea didn't seem nearly so stupid.
“Okay, but that shit won't save them from my gun,” I said and hefted my sub machine gun to bear as I stepped out. The first man fell beneath a short burst of nine millimeter hate, but the second cocksucker squeezed off a round before I could shoot him. Naturally, the fucker hit me in the goddamn stomach, ruining my new shirt. A clean hit, the bullet went through me and lodged in the building façade.
“Mother fucker,”’I screamed and rushed up on the douche rocket responsible, unloading the entire magazine into his ass I did so. So fucking stupid. Precious, probably irreplaceable rounds, given my time table, wasted because I lost my temper.
“Oh my god,” Angie screamed and ran to me. She flung her arms around me to, I don't know, stop me from collapsing. Isn't that what they always do in the movies. The hero takes a bullet so everyone runs forward to keep the poor bastard standing, you know, because letting the ailing son of a bitch take a load off is un-fucking-manly or some shit.
“Angie,” I yelled over her panicked ramblings,”’please get the fuck off me. I'm not gonna die. Christ on fire, I'm not even going to pass out. If you want to help me, check those assholes for weapons and ammunition while I keep a look o
ut for more dirtbags dressed like the Michelin Man.”
Poor Angie, she didn't quite understand why I wasn't falling over dead, and just stared at me blankly for a minute. Once again, don't misunderstand me. Getting shot hurt like a mother, but my pain threshold was, god help me, getting higher so I wasn't in any danger of passing out or diving head first into the sweet oblivion of shock. Lucky me. I motioned Angie forward, and turned to scan the immediate area for threats. Since one hand was clamped over the entry wound in my gut, I let the ZK-383 hand on its sling and slid out the Glock. It wouldn't be as good as the sub gun at distance, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Freaked as she was Angie moved quickly, finding three spare magazines for, you guessed it, a pair of Glock 17s. I slid the spare magazines into the cargo pockets on my pants and stripped the pistols of what rounds they still possessed. As for the pistols themselves, I field stripped them and hurled the parts in opposite directions.
“Come on, it's time to go,” I said. As I climbed into the truck I considered getting another shirt, but gave up on the idea. If I went through the effort, another group of shitheads would just come along and ruin it too. I needed to wear black shirts, that way nothing would ever show. I could at least pretend to have nice, clean clothes. “Remind me to lose this shirt before we get to the boat.”
“Uh, okay,” Angie whispered. I could tell she wanted to ask me something, but wasn’t sure how I'd respond.
“Spit it out, kid,” I told her. “I won't bite.”
“Does it hurt?”
“My gut? Not so much. At least, not anymore,” I said honestly. In truth the internal damage had already healed, and there was only the less critical superficial injuries to wait on now.
“That's not good,” Angie said hurriedly. “You need to pull over. We need to check you for shock.”
“No pulling over,” I said, turning the truck onto US1, northbound. “I'm fine, Angie. Really. In a few minutes you won't be able to tell I was ever shot. Hell, I'm not even bleeding anymore.”
“That's not possible,” Angie whispered the words, a none too subtle edge of fear in her voice.
“Of course it's possible,” I snapped. “How do you think I've survived this long. You've known me the better part of fifteen years. What part of my character do you think will let me stand by and do nothing as bad things happen in front of me? I've seen the unimaginable and the unconscionable since this started. We are in the midst of the zombie apocalypse and you want to drag out the ‘not possible’ card? Really? Over this?”
At that point, I lifted my blood soaked shirt to reveal my swiftly healing wound. Fear turned quickly to total confusion as the reality of what she was seeing struck Angie.
“How…”
“Don't entirely know,” I lied, but with such conviction it sounded like the truth. And from a certain point of view, it was the truth. After all, I hadn't been conscious when the change happened and wasn't entirely sure I hadn't been hallucinating the whole time I was at Maxwell’s. Taking this lull in butt mud inducing terror, I retrieved a cigar from my haul. Lacking a cutter I was forced to bite the end off. I know, I know, fucking heresy, but needs must. Thankfully I had thought to grab a box of matches so stoking the smoke to life proved the simplest part of the whole process. Now if only I had a straight bourbon to sip at, life would be tolerable. A side long glance at Angie revealed her aversion to cigar smoke remained intact. Give her credit though, instead of complaining about the smell she ran her window down.
“How did you contact Lizzy?” I turned to Angie, my thick Irish brain grinding forward enough to formulate the question that should have been first from my lips.
“We found a radio inside a fire truck that still had power,”’Angie said while waving smoke out of her face. “She said they'd be off the inlet for a few more days, but were planning to make a run for it by weeks end.”
“A run for it? What does that mean?”
“I don't know, just that it had been decided to try to run for it,” Angie answered, totally clueless why I went pale. Someone on my boat was going to try running the blockade with my wife and daughter on board. Blithering fucktard was going to get my family killed.
“Hold on tight,” I said and floored the big V8. The truck roared its compliance and we shot forward. “I'm coming baby.”
Interlude Seven
Captain Esteban Vincenzo felt the jarring impact of gigantic paws, felt the hot breath of the mutated canine on his face, and only just maneuvered his rifle into the gaping maw of dagger like teeth before the beast could remove his head. Down they both went, Vincenzo taking the worst of it, what with two hundred pounds of furiously thrashing canine planted on top of his chest. Even so, muscle memory guided his hand onto the hilt of his wickedly sharp combat knife. Out flashed the razor sharp steel, then Vincenzo thrust the blade into the beasts flank. He was, however, disappointed by the shallowness of his thrust. Following an old combat adage, Vincenzo withdrew his blade and tried again. Rinse and repeat until the desired outcome is achieved. The blade flashed in and out in a flurry of blows even while the beast continued its own assault. Massive paws ending in sharpened nails raked at Vincenzo’s gear, clothes, and flesh. Despite having a rifle jammed into its maw, the creature threw its head back and forth to drag its teeth across Vincenzo’s face.
“Goddamn it, will you fucking die already,” Vincenzo screamed as he gave up on the canines ribcage and drove the blade into the flailing animals neck. Rapidly moving forelegs knocked Vincenzo’s arm from the precious blade, now buried in the creatures throat where dark, almost black blood oozed slowly forth. The Marine tried to withdraw his M9 from its drop down leg holster, but found his arm was numb from the impact of the canines leg. I'm going to die at the teeth of somebodies fucking science project, Vincenzo thought as the creature finally dislodged his rifle.
“Cover up,” one of Vincenzo’s Marines yelled as he let loose a full auto salvo of thirty calibre steel jacketed, armor piercing death. The M240 chattered a long stream of death, rupturing the seemingly indestructible creatures head, throat, and chest cavity. Vincenzo, long used to trusting shouted commands in battle, had covered his head as best he could. Still, black fluid showered over him in a torrential down pour. Strangely, the liquid ran across his skin in rivulets of ice. Eyes clamped shut, Vincenzo covered his mouth and nose with a gloved hand. Well and truly dead, the body of the great beast dropped atop Vincenzo, driving the wind from his lungs. In seconds, hands were grasping for him, desperately trying to pull him from under the beast and out of the line of fire.
Shrapnel from exploding trees showered the Marines as the inhumanly large island defenders unleashed an irresistible volume of fire. In good order the Marines withdrew to a point they considered more defensible. Vincenzo scrambled to his feet, to increase the rapidity of their displacement. Yet, as swiftly as the Marines fell back the defenders advanced just as quickly.
“First squad, second squad,” Vincenzo shouted into the unit comm net. “Concentrate fire on the HMG, bring that fucker down. Third squad, fourth squad provide suppressing fire. Right this goddamn second.”
With his rifle lost, Vincenzo yanked his M9 free and pumped rounds at the enemy. Behind the closest tree to him, Vincenzo watched as Corporeal Diaz was ripped apart by a fusillade of fifty calibre BMG rounds. In response, the M240 opened up in several brief bursts of hate driven fire. As soon as his Beretta ran dry, Vincenzo was already cycling a fresh magazine into his weapon in a long practiced display of skill. In the next instance, the Marines lines of fire concentrated in accordance with Vincenzo’s orders. Round after round impacted the striding giant of a man, little geysers of blackish blood spattered the jungle foliage as he passed. On a hunch, Vincenzo dropped his sights over the giant’s face and squeezed off five rounds. When the final round found the man’s left eye his forward progress came to an abrupt halt, the devastating fire from the massive heavy machine gun sputtered and stopped.
“First squad, secon
d squad,” Vincenzo yelled into the comm net,” concentrate your fire on that fuckers head. I repeat, head shots. Make your point of aim his giant melon.”
Again the lines of fire adjusted, and the M240 let out a long burst of hate aimed at exploding the freakishly large man’s skull. The results were spectacular, and horrific.
“Adjust fire to tango at three o'clock,” Vincenzo ordered, aiming his pistol at the communications gear equipped giant hunched down and yelling into a handset. From the look of the man, he was having little success reporting their engagement due to the volume of fire. An absolute torrent of rounds shredded the comm gear on the man's back, though the man himself ducked back behind a clump of tree stumps.
“Frag out,” a voice behind Vincenzo yelled, and a baseball shaped fragmentation grenade rocketed past in a fair imitation of a major league pitch. The Captain ducked back as the grenade struck the clump of tree stumps, bounced into the air, and dropped behind the makeshift cover. Half a second later the crump of the detonating grenade was eclipsed by the screams of a severely wounded man, or whatever the hell those giants were.
“Fourth squad, move up,” Vincenzo ordered, falling back on years of training that explicitly warned of the fate of all static defenders. “First squad, second squad, suppressing fire. Third squad, get ready your up next.”
“Captain,” Sergeant Hursley ran up next to Vincenzo, an M4 outstretched. “Tallenby bought the farm. We're down three men total.”
“Damn,” Vincenzo spat. Tallenby had been three weeks from rotating home. He took the rifle, holstered his sidearm, and relayed his plan. “There should only be two, maybe three men left. If we press them hard enough, they should fall back. So once fourth squad is in position, third squad will advance and throw fragmentation grenades. When they're out, fourth squad will rinse and repeat while first and second squads move up and attempt to flank.”
