by H. L. Murphy
Fuck.
Grabbing my odiferous, liberated snazzy tactical vest I ran like only a man about to be crushed by a falling fifty foot tall zombie can run. Nothin can properly convey the absolute terror of watching as that gigantic monstrosity came closer and closer at an ever accelerating speed. Even as I recognized I was out from under it, the fear just kept ratcheting up.
The creatures impact with the blessed earth sent out waves of vibrations more than sufficient to take my feet out from under me. Then came the tidal wave of mud, blood, and the unnameable effluents which the dead release.
Oh, yeah, I'm going to need to drink this memory into oblivion.
Interlude Eight
“I am most disappointed in you, James,” a cold, calculating voice intoned from the other side of the planet. Each syllable was carefully practiced to ensure no accent of any kind shown through. It was a voice James Fitzpatrick knew only too well. It was the voice of his damnation, of the only hope of salvation his race had, and it was the voice of Dr. Cynthia Zhao. “Was I not clear enough in my instructions to you? Did I not stress the necessity of capturing Angus Finnegan alive?”
“It isn't that simple, Dr. Zhao,” Fitzpatrick began borderline panicked with fear. “The immunity granted him by the serum means he is still mostly human. He registers on all thermal scans as human so any attempt to track him as we have the Class One and Class Two beings doesn't work. He is also highly erratic, making it impossible to predict his movements. Team Lightfoot was practically annihilated during their capture attempt, and when it became clear his capture was imminent the target drove off a bridge.”
“I don't care how many of your pet killers are lost so long as the target is acquired and transported to my secondary location,” Dr. Zhao interrupted. On the other side of the planet, deep within a fortress built into the side of a mountain on a remote island, Cynthia Zhao watched closely as Fitzpatrick mopped his sweating forehead on one monitor while on another she observed Mayweather’s men scythe through her experimental soldiers like the Angel of Death made manifest and given flesh and assault weapons. “Shall I provide you another example of my ability to harm you, or your family, without ever setting eyes upon you?”
“No,” Fitzpatrick shouted into the handset. “For the love of God, Cynthia, she's only a child. Haven't you done enough? Haven't I done all you've asked?”
“Do you have Angus Finnegan?” Dr. Zhao asked, ignoring the man's use of her given name for the moment.
“No, I already…”
“Then you haven't done all I have ordered,” Cynthia Zhao interrupted harshly, though she did not raise her voice. “Ordered, James, not asked. I do not ask my servants, I order them. Never forget your place again or you will stand above the graves of your beloved children, victims of a sudden and incurable condition, while your wife suffers a most personal violation by one of my agents. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Fitzpatrick ground the word out.
“Yes, what?” Zhao demanded.
“Yes, Dr. Zhao,” Fitzpatrick forced himself to say.
“Get the target by all means at your disposal, James,” Zhao repeated a final time,”but he must be alive.”
“Yes, Dr. Zhao.”
The diminutive figure of Dr. Cynthia Zhao disconnected her satellite phone and watched as James Fitzpatrick raged in silent, impotent fury. He would produce or he would watch as all he loved was taken from him. Of all those on the Council, only Fitzpatrick had been foolish enough to communicate personal information to Zhao. The rest had understood the absolute necessity of restricting the flow of information, moreover all the others maintained separate security for their families while poor James utilized KnightStar personnel. While effective, the mercenaries of KnightStar had been easy to corrupt and their loyalties were purchased for surprisingly little.
Mayweather's men would not be motivated by petty vengeance or monetary reward. No, those men, those Marines, would be motivated by moral conviction. Which made them an order of magnitude more lethal to her than ten thousand of her augmented mercenaries. It was a foregone conclusion that Mayweather had ordered her capture, in much the same way she had ordered the capture of Angus Finnegan although her old associate likely used gentler terms and methods to enforce his will.
Her observation room rocked as another sortie of high ordinance detonated against her summer home. Perhaps gentle wasn't the correct term to describe Mayweather's methods. According to the instruments, he was also flooding the ocean around his strike group with sonar and conducting anti-submarine operations as though the entire Russian fleet of boomers were closing in the American coast. While she knew exactly what lay in wait, she was surprised Horace had even considered the possibility given his usual lack of insight. No matter, her aquatic pets would remain undisturbed for another occasion. She'd already seen to their care the moment she discovered the strike group was making for her island.
A part of her truly regretted the short term loss of this facility, especially the rail guns, but in the end it was merely a means to an end. She possessed all that truly mattered, the knowledge granted her by so many wondrous experiments. As the pitiful T. R. Society wished her alive and, presumably, unharmed, she would yet be presented with the opportunity to achieve her end game. Before that moment, though, the good doctor still had business to attend, such as the final disposition of some of her more untoward experiments.
Pulling on her professional white lab coat, the doctor descended the concrete staircase to the reinforced cells. Here, behind case hardened steel sliding doors, Dr. Zhao kept what she considered to be invaluable failures. Experiments which did not proceed along expected lines, but which rendered valuable data nonetheless. Among the more extreme failures was an old friend and former colleague.
“Good morning, Mr. Nelson,” Dr. Zhao spoke into an intercom in the most sickly sweet voice she could managed. The twisted, barely cognizant thing laying upon the floor threw itself at the door again and again and again, leaving a shower of gore against the inner door each time. A combination of pain induced insanity and the cruelty of the experiments Cynthia Zhao had conducted upon Bob Nelson had long ago shattered the man's mind until the only thing left was a burning desire to rend the owner of that voice to pieces, and then devour those pieces. “Oh, I know, Bob. I feel the same about you, but I am afraid we will have to draw our relationship to a close. Are those words familiar to you, Bob? Is there still, even now, some part of your mind that remembers what happened before we came here? Do you remember how you used me for your own ends, but the moment I think of myself you had me shipped to this lovely detention center. The former warden of this establishment was only too pleased to inform me of the identity of the author of my misery. It was my most fervent hope to convey to you how deeply betrayed I felt, and share with you the depth of my suffering.”
A strangled cry rose from within the cell, bringing a smile to Cynthia’s face.
“Good bye, dear Bob,” Dr. Zhao smiled coldly as her hand hovered over the incineration controls. A clawed, disfigured hand scraped across the plexiglass viewport before she slammed the emergency activation control. The doctor watched with savage glee as her one time captor was burned alive. Hoarse screams gave way to pitiable cries of agony as Cynthia Zhao recalled the beatings, the water boarding, and the continual threats of physical violation. All aimed at breaking down her personality so a more pliable one could be put in place. Both the warden and Nelson had learned to their eternal cost she was not so pitifully weak, that she and she alone would control the power of immortality.
The thing which had once been Bob Nelson died in flame and his body was cremated in a relatively short time.
“A far better ending than you deserved,”’she spat before moving along to another cell block. In this block, she quickly located Evelyn Dufrain, the former warden of the island prison. Unlike Bob Nelson, Evelyn Dufrain had taken a perverse pleasure in every attempt to withdraw information from the good doctor. In turn, Cynthia had
taken equal delight in extracting her pound of flesh. Several of the more promising gene therapies developed by the good doctor were first tested upon Evelyn Dufrain, who had insisted upon being referred to as Ms. Dufrain.
“Hello, Evie,” Cynthia Zhao repeated the sickly sweet greeting. “And how are you doing on this fine day?”
Huddled in the far corner of the cell where the light didn't reach, something covered by a blanket stirred. While the good doctor had utterly destroyed Nelson’s mind, she had taken great steps to ensure that Ms. Dufrain remained not only cognizant, but capable of speech.
“Come now, Evie,” Cynthia chided when her prisoner failed to respond. “Non responsive behavior is unacceptable from an inmate of this facility. Don't force me to employ unseemly measures to ensure compliance.”
As in the past, Cynthia cast her former jailers words back in her disfigured face.
“No,” a weak, thready voice called from beneath the blanket.
“No, what?” Cynthia demanded, enjoying the turnabout one last time.
“No, doctor,” the voice came again.
“That's better, Evie, much better,” Zhao gazed into the darkened corner, knowing exactly what lay beneath the scrap of cloth used as a blanket by Dufrain. “Today is a big day. We have company for the first time in years. Not since that freighter out of Argentina, remember? What was that, four years ago?”
“If you say so, doctor,” the voice quivered. Senior Agent Evelyn Dufrain was utterly terrified by the prospect of more visitors and the inevitable experiments which followed. If she were particularly fortunate, which she hadn't been since the arrival of Cynthia Zhao, then Evelyn wouldn’t be required to fight in the arena.
“Yes, Evie, I do,” Cynthia smiled. “Today is the day we say good bye, but I wanted you know how very helpful you've been to my research. One day, thanks to all your assistance, I will perfect my formula and long after your entire genealogical line has been erased from existence I will toast your sacrifice.”
“No…please….”
“Good bye, Evie,” Cynthia slapped the incineration control and felt her entire body shiver with excitement as her enemy roasted alive.
Chapter Seventeen
If ever the world gets back on its feet the ad men will guarantee the dominance of whichever soap company launches its campaign based entirely on cleansing oneself of the wretched stench of the undead. To be specific, I'm thinking the image of a tidal wave of liquified zombie and people juice will send previously well balanced minds screaming for crates of skin purifying soap to be liberally applied during scalding showers. I believe this because in the nanoseconds before that wave of unidentifiable, vomit inducing sludge rolled over me, it's exactly what I thought. I wanted two massive crates of Irish Spring, and a day long scalding shower in the vague hope I could one day come clean again. Or at least boil the stench from my pores.
Then I was holding a hand over my mouth and nose while I closed my eyes so tight it actually hurt. While I was only submerged a few seconds the experience was more than enough to keep me vomiting long after the wave passed. Words cannot describe the gut wrenching smell, the slimy texture of pulverized spleen sliding over your face, between your fingers, and, oh dear god, up your pants legs. I had been completely emerged and soaked to the bone in the effluents of liquified dead left out in the sun to rot for who fucking knew how long. As I hurled for the third time I could distinctly hear a voice sound off in my head, a voice disturbingly similar to Ken Watanabe.
This is what you get when you refer to the blessed St. Peter as a Galilean Twat.
I goddamn near choked to death on my vomit as I tried to both laugh and regurgitate at the exact same fucking moment. Thanks, Pete. Just what I needed. Trying to cash in on a five yard bet? Prick. No sense of sportsmanship. Always trying to handicap the frontrunner.
“Bet…you're the…one wrote…all that shit…about Mary Magdalene,” I coughed out around chunks of I didn't want to know what. I spit several times into the expanding pool of my protein spill before trying to get to my feet. For those not accustomed to involuntary stomach content expulsion, this is a very physically draining event. It sometimes takes a moment to switch ones focus from one track to anything else. One of the first things I was able to observe, beyond the fact I needed to adjust my diet away from fucking protein bars, was the slowly rising figure of the bitch Queen of the Undead. She, fortunately, seemed entirely too engrossed in reconstructing her shattered form to give me the time of day. Point for Finnegan, hooray. As I gathered my strength I watched as tendrils of ropey flesh grew from her midriff to snake out to a small irregularly shaped object, lift it gently, and draw it back to be encased by tissue until it formed a pale, black and green veined breast. Christ on fire, the bitch Queen of the Undead just went out of its way to recover a silicon breast implant. I couldn't help laughing at the sheer absurdity of the moment. Vanity was supposed to be the purview of sentient minds, wasn't it? Or was the super zombie, I don't know, programmed to return its form to its original shape at the time of infection? Very good questions, but best considered much later from the safety of the boat.
I rose to my feet and made for the aircraft wreckage. I hadn't seen Zombie Green yet and damn sure didn't intend on being caught at the impact end of one of his charges. Thinking about it, it seemed the undead bastard had grown a foot in height and width. That really wasn't fair. Danny Green had been all but unstoppable alive, now he was undead he'd only gotten bigger, stronger, and, if possible, more unstoppable. Before long I'd need a fucking tank to take him out, and even then the bastard might recover.
Crouching down behind the shattered fuselage of a puddle jumper I slid the disgusting tactical vest on, and slid the forty-five out to check its function. It, along with probably everything else I was carrying, would need a thorough cleaning before I could use it. Away went the forty-five, and, reluctantly, I slid the Glock 18 out to look it over. It wasn't much better, but I estimated it would fire reliably. Goddamn it.
The high pitched whine of an internal combustion engine revving into the high thousands of RPMs caught my attention, and I spotted the no longer able to flee from the scene of my slaughter truck. The driver had managed to high center the fucker on a stack of bodies I never would have attempted to run over. From my position I could see Simple Simon coming apart at the seams as he tried and failed utterly to move the truck a single inch. Now I will neither confirm or deny that the temptation to open fire on the gutless weasel passed through my brain like the Allies passed through Dresden, google it, but maybe I was tempted. As evidenced by the fact I leveled the machine pistol at the flailing coward, but ultimately I decided it wasn't possible to shoot the prick without risking Angie. It wasn't her fault the prick was who he was, nor was it strictly necessary to end his useless, to me, life. As far as I knew, away from the madness of the Q zone he was all roses and daffodils for Angie. Maybe once we got back to the boat the whinging little shit would make himself useful. Hell, maybe he knew something about marine diesels or electrical systems. In any case, I owed it to Angie not to kill him right away.
Squaring my gear away I sprinted out of the cover of the fuselage wreckage in time to see Zombie Green rise from the ashes, so to speak, and let loose a roar of primal rage that caused my testicles to withdraw into my chest. There is a tone that every living being on the planet knows on a subconscious level, maybe it's passed on through genetic memory. It is a tone used by a predator, and it lets everything within the sound of its voice know they are no longer safe, they shall no longer rest easy, that they are tonight's fucking dinner and it will give the predator great pleasure to devour them alive. That was the sound which slipped forth from Zombie Green as I ran.
When I reached the truck I turned to see the undead man mountain drop into his rolling gait as he built up speed, pointed directly at the bitch Queen of the Undead. Hating both undead fucksticks equally, I fired half a magazine at Zombie Green's legs. With any luck at all, the unstoppable juggernaut wou
ld stumble as a round or two blew out his knee caps. From the cab of the truck came the less than manly sounds of Simple Simon freaking out at the pistols discharge.
“Seriously?” I shouted as I stepped up next to the openly weeping man. “How have you stayed alive this long?”
Not giving the delicate flower the chance to piss me off further through a recitation of his trials and tribulations, I pulled him from the cab. Unceremoniously, the twit fell to his knees, still crying up a storm, and I looked to Angie.
“Before this whinging little bitch tries to blow me you need to get behind the wheel and throw it in reverse,” I explained. Honestly, looking back, it was way less of an explanation than me showing up and throwing out orders I expected to be obeyed on pain of death. My wife had mentioned from time to time I can be a tad demanding when shit has to get done. For her part, Angie just nodded hurriedly and slid over behind the wheel. “Get up, little bitch, time to unfuck what you did to this truck.”
Deep within his magical safe space world of fluffy bunnies and no trigger words Simon was pretending I didn't exist. To convince him I did in fact exist, I reached down quickly and took a firm grip on his left ear. A not a so gentle twist and I had Simon’s full attention.
“It only takes about eight pounds per square inch to remove an ear,” I said gently. “Meaning that if you don't get the fuck on your feet and help me I'm going to tear your fucking ear off.”
To emphasize my point, I gave his ear a slight twist. Simon sprang to his feet like somebody had just offered free manny peddies and pumpkin spice lattes. Still gripping his ear I directed the too tall douche rocket to the front of the truck.
