by H. L. Murphy
“We are going to push this fucking truck backwards while Angie gives the bitch gas,” I said loud enough for Angie to hear me. “Now push like your life depends on it, bitch, because it does.”
Then Simon and I threw ourselves against the front end of the truck, straining to move the fucking pig from its perch. Again and again I tried to rock the vehicle enough for the drive wheel to catch dirt and pull itself back. A glance over my shoulder informed me the bitch Queen of the Undead was currently beating Zombie Green like a bad peasant uprising. He hadn't looked so great before the explosion, and his regeneration cycle hadn't done much beyond giving him a new arm. The rest of my Glock 18 magazine did nothing to permanently dissuade the Zombie Gypsy from dismembering anyone ever again, but it gave Zombie Green a breather. A breather I really hoped he'd use to pound on the bitch Queen of the Undead, and not me.
Simple Simon was screaming again, something about the vile murder machine clutched in my bitch slappers. In response to his emotional display of intellectual infancy I offered a well thought out, properly reasoned rejoinder.
“Shut your dick holster,” I shouted as I locked a fresh magazine in place. “Or so help me I'm going to skull fuck you to death before either one of those undead fucks waltz’ over here to eat me alive.”
That being said, we returned to heaving against the truck. Whether Simon felt the shift or not, I did. A subtle shift in the truck's balance enough to tell me things were about to happen very fast. As the drive wheel touched earth, I heaved again and then let go of the truck. Bodies shifted as the vehicle shot back two feet before Angie slammed the brakes, and Simple Simon fell face first into the crushed residue of the dead. I wanted to laugh, but I could feel the undead titans entirely too close to waste the time. Instead, I pulled the steaming hot mess that was Simon from the ground and propelled his useless ass into the bed of the truck.
“Why did you put him back there?” Angie asked as she slid back to the passenger seat.
“Because that's where I always put my trash,” I quipped harshly, and dropped the truck back into drive. Across the field I could see the bitch Queen of the Undead had regained the upper hand, impaled Zombie Green against her fallen abomination with a thigh bone, and was now intent on having me for dinner. “Fuck. Take this, I'll talk you through clearing the mechanism.”
I handed her the ZK-383, and explained the field strip method while I drove away from the currently victorious monster. Thankfully, Angie didn't waste time arguing with me about doing what I needed from her. It also kept her from noticing I was headed back around towards the struggling Zombie Green. As the final part slid back into place Angie looked up to see the hulking form of Zombie Green growing ever larger.
“Get your head down, now,” I said. I braced myself for the impact, but was nowhere near prepared for when the gargantuan bastard clamped his hands down on the roof and held tight. I couldn't risk taking my hands from the wheel long enough to fire a weapon so I swerved back and forth, trying to get the undead nightmare to fall off. Determined little fucker that he was, Zombie Green just clamped down harder. Steel crumpled and his fingers punched through the roof of the truck. “Fucking hell, will you just fucking piss off?”
Rapid fire erupted less than two feet from my ear as Angie dumped the entire magazine from the ZK-383 into the area where she figured Zombie Green lay. Something of an intellectual dichotomy occurred as I was both ridiculously pleased with Angie for stepping up and homicidally enraged at her for shooting that fucking submachine gun right next to my goddamn ear. Credit where credit was due, the enormous bastard fell off the roof as I swerved to avoid another stack of bodies.
As a bonus I heard Simon slid across the bed of the truck and slam against the steel side, giving a shout of pain I couldn't hear, but sensed nonetheless. It's the little things that keep me going.
No longer concerned with Zombie Green peeling the roof back like a sardine can, I focused my efforts on dealing with the Ghost of Gypsy Past. Powerful as the undead twat waffle may have been, she was burning a lot of energy regenerating time and again. Would it be possible for me to force her withdrawal by making her expend too much of her reserves? Fuck it, sounded like a working theory to me. I hauled the truck in the opposite direction suddenly and this time I actually heard Simon cry out as he struck the other side of the truck bed. A wicked little smile played across my face briefly before I focused on not dying.
We came off the field and back onto tarmac, the Zombie Gypsy keeping pace with us. I don't know if zombies sweat, but it was a fair bet the undead bitch behind me wasn't. It had been so easy for her to keep up with us I worried, briefly, that my plan wouldn't work. Steel belted radials grabbed asphalt and that stress baby was put to bed with no supper. We shot away as the engine dumped power to the wheel and the limitations of its form became apparent to the Zombie Gypsy. Not that she gave up, oh no, not that undead bitch. She felt she was owed dinner from me and she was going to get it. Didn't matter I had already given her one hell of a show. Nope, she wanted the whole megillah. Some people just don't know when they're well off.
Trucks are not built for street racing, setting land speed records, or cornering like formula one cars, however they are built to take a pounding, operate under less than ideal conditions, and give rednecks something to brag about that doesn't involve frogs and batteries. The particular grade of truck we had been lucky enough to boost seemed to have been well taken care of, with the exception of an idiot trying to run over a mound of bodies three feet high. So as I watched the temperature gauge climb past the generally accepted range of safe operation, I began to worry. A quick check of the other gauges showed me that battery charge was flagging and that the oil pressure was dropping. At the very least the serpentine belt had been cut and the oil pan punctured, probably by the bones of a dead man. Our options were quickly evaporating while our potential problems continued to stack up.
“If this truck dies,” I told Angie,” run for the water. It's that way. Grab a boat, any kind of boat, and make for the open water.”
“What about you and Simon?” Angie demanded, fear creeping up into her eyes. She'd been a trooper so far, but the idea of going it alone just wasn't making her happy.
“Well, I'll be honest with you,” I smiled my best use car salesman smile. “Chances are I'm going to die a spectacularly violent death at the hands of either the bitch Queen of the Undead or Zombie Green. Doesn't matter which, they both want to crack my bones and suck out the marrow.”
“And Simon?” She asked tentatively.
“Oh, I'm going to shoot that cock gobbler in the face the moment I get out of the truck,” I said nonchalantly. “It's his fucking fault the truck is dying. No way does he walk away from this.”
“You don't have to do this,” Angie began that tired old cliché about there always being another way, but I knew better and was about to say so when she finished her thought. “You can knee cap Simon and we can run away while he's being eaten.”
“Goddamn,” I drew out the curse as I gave Angie a second appraisal. “That's something I would say.”
“He's cute and all,” she admitted reluctantly, “but you're my best friends husband. Lizzy can't live without you. Not to mention she would kill me when I explained you died saving our lives.”
“This is very true,” I nodded and smiled. My spitfire love of my life would not react well to that kind of news. “Okay, maybe I can buy us a little time.”
“How?” Angie shouted over the protesting shouts from Simon as he slid across the bed of the truck again.
“Like this,”’I said and pulled an HE grenade from one of the pockets of my utterly disgusting tactical vest. I spun the truck into a u turn, and charged towards the oncoming Zombie Gypsy. At fifty MPH we passed close to each other and the Queen of the Undead never realized the baseball sized object that struck her in the chest was a grenade before it detonated.
Chapter Eighteen
Halfway down runway Twenty-Five, the engine
seized and we ground to a halt. We'd gotten a lot further along than I thought we would, but there was still a ways to go. I turned to inquire how Angie felt about running a mini marathon and noticed the business end of the sub machine gun was pointed more or less at my midsection. As Angie was busy staring into the bed of the truck I didn't get the feeling she was making an overt threat so I eased the muzzle of the weapon away from my vital organs. Feeling the weapon being moved Angie glanced back at me, noticed the delicate area she had been aiming at, and quickly handed the ZK-383 back. Checking the magazine I discovered there were no remaining rounds so pocketed the spent magazine and searched for a fresh one. I guess fate was done fucking me for the moment because I came up with one last magazine, fully loaded. One magazine for the submachine gun, three full fun sticks for the Glock 18, and three standard Glock 17 magazines. I couldn't help notice that fate still had at least one finger planted firmly up my ass since all the magazines were dripping with the juice of the dead. Oh, Fate, you pernicious, syphilitic bitch, at least give me a reach around if your going to keep doing me dirty.
“Come on, princess,” I spat at Simon as I reached into the bed to grab his collar. One quick yank got the delicate little flower of a mangina moving. Through the gagging noises emitted from the cavernous hole under his nose I made out some very unkind suggestions. “Okay, you wait here in case the bitch Queen of the Undead shows up while Angie and I escape. Once we’re safely away, you can feel free to go wherever your precious little heart desires.”
With that, I let go of his collar and jogged towards the water. I knew from working at this damned airfield that there were docks all along the shoreline, pleasure craft tied up year round. Even with all the attempts to escape by boat there had to be a few remaining craft still lashed to the docks. Angie appeared at my side, her face a mask of concentration. Whatever else was going on, she was entirely focused on making it to the end of the line. After a good fifty feet I glanced back to see Simple Simon wiping his face and followed us like an angry toddler that's just pitched a fit and realizes he has to follow the grown ups or be left behind. Capitulating to the grown ups, but still maintaining a petulant streak. That worked just fine for me, let him act as our rear guard for now. And if he should get eaten, so much the better.
For nearly fifteen minutes we went on this way, and it became embarrassingly clear that Angie had engaged her cardio relentlessly because she wasn't even breathing hard when we reached the twelve foot tall chain link fence topped with barbed wire. I know what your thinking. Oh no, not barbed wire! There's no way they got over barbed wire to freedom. Let me tell you a little secret about barbed wire, it isn't nearly as good a deterrent as razor wire. Especially if you remain calm and move slowly over the fence and wire. Now, granted, if nasty unpleasant people are shooting heavy calibre machine guns at you while you're trying to get over some barbed wire then it becomes considerably more effective. However, since neither of the undead titans could operate a firearm of any kind I took my sweet ass time about getting over the fence.
My progress could best be described as a kodiak grizzly attempting Swan Lake, humorous in the execution, but otherwise a travesty. I admit it, I am not the world's most graceful human being. To further drive home the stake of personal humiliation, Angie, who crossed the distance like a gazelle out for a gentle run, leapt up and over the fence like a fucking squirrel. While I was busy hiding the pain of at least three gouges, Angie was readjusting her shirt to a more comfortable arrangement.
Dude, you need to run more. Like a lot more. Like ten thousand laps around the ship more.
Fuck off, smart ass. For all her fucking cardio and fence climbing grace, I'm the one that keeps saving everybody’s lives. Okay, maybe I don't have all the cardio induced stamina in the world, but that's just because I'm too busy shooting mother fuckers.
Yeah, that's real mature. Alright, tough guy, you're the big hero of the group. Now stop sucking at life and get your winded ass to a boat. Preferably one with a shower.
Christ on fire, you're a Grade A asshole.
Thank you, now move your fat ass.
God, you're such a dick.
Simple Simon had made it to the fence and was negotiating the barbed wire when the air was split by a primal roar that informed me half time was officially over. Really too bad, I had been looking forward to catching the half time show. Too busy staying alive. Unless watching Zombie Gypsy reassemble her ridiculously surgically enhanced breasts had been the half time show, in which case I wanted my money back. No fucking way was that anywhere near in the ballpark, in the fucking zip code of good enough to warrant being called the half time show. What happened to fireworks, venereal disease infested cheerleaders, and despicably overpaid singers howling out half assed lyrics written down during a drug induced frenzy? Yes, I hate most so-called music produced in the last five, ten years. Freddy Mercury was a god that shared the musical Olympus with people like Frank Sinatra, Jimi Hendrix, and B. B. King. Anything that escapes the lips of boy band wannabes, whether original or cover, instantly turns to shit. And not just any malodorous pile of shit either, oh no, I talking about a pile of shit so vile that it actually makes anyone passing within fifty feet up chuck their fucking kidneys. Shit so intolerable a poor bastard cuts off his own nose and digs out any and all olfactory receptors remaining so he never had to smell it ever again. I guess what I'm trying to say is I fucking hate boy bands.
Digressing again? Oh, you betcha. Damn near anything is better than facing down the oncoming undead juggernaut. Case in point, upon hearing the startling bellow of hate and fury, Simple Simon lost his grip on the fence and wire and collapsed onto the wire, and fall from the top of the fence in a slow motion pirouette of doom and maliciously bad luck. There was no mistaking the crunch of bone as he landed in a heap. That he hadn't broken his damn fool neck was confirmed by the howl of mind blowing agony that exploded from his mouth. At first I couldn't make out what had been broken, then I spotted his right leg was bent at an impossible angle at the knee. Looking at it, it was easy to understand the plethora of passionate obscenities issuing forth with great volume and intensity. I got it, I really did, but the whinging bitch was giving away our exact location to the two most dangerous beings on the face of the planet, neither of which seemed capable of actually dying.
“Shut the fuck up,” I demanded as calmly as a honey badger castrating a lion. In my minds eye I could see Zombie Green rise from the lake of putrescence with a specific hunger in his eyes. While the Zombie Gypsy wanted me for the substance in my blood, I finally understood what Zombie Green truly wanted. He wanted vengeance. I hadn't made him a zombie, but I'd left him in a limbo existence rather than kill him and end his suffering. I created the nightmare marching forward to devour us all.
“What do we do?” Angie asked, her inherently decent outlook on people showing through. She wanted to know how we would save Simon from being devoured. No matter how useless he’d proven himself to be she still felt he was worth saving. The problem with that little concept lay in the fact a twelve foot high fence stood between Simon and us, and the seven foot tall undead juggernaut charging across the airfield to remove my spleen through my asshole. At best, we had five seconds to think up a plan ten seconds ago. The time had come to cut our losses and keep going. While I could live with that, I wasn't sure how Angie would take it.
“We keep going,” I shook my head and started away.
“What?” Angie asked softly.
“There is about two minutes before one or both of those monsters get here,” I snapped coldly. “That means we have two minutes to get from here to a boat before one or both of those things rips us to pieces, and I'm not ready to be dinner just yet.”
“No, don't you leave me,” Simon shouted through the pain. His traumatized brain had finally twigged to the conversation concerning his eventual fate. “Don't you fucking leave me.”
“Finn,” Angie managed, her expression telling me every she couldn't force herself to say.
Simple Simon was a useless pretty boy, but he was her useless pretty boy. It wasn’t for me to put a label to what the two of them shared, it was their own business. I've known people that have made some fairly odd interpersonal arrangements, but since those arrangements usually worked out for the best I kept my opinions to myself.
I set my jaw and shook my head slowly.
“Nothing we can do, Angie,” I whispered. “We need to leave, now.”
Her face fell and she dropped her head for a moment before nodding her ascent. That simple motion broke Simon like nothing had before. His wailing and sobbing rose to a crescendo as Angie and I took off running. Deciding to leave Simon behind was easy for me, it was sticking to it that took serious willpower. I completely understood what would happen to him, just as I completely understood there was nothing I could do to stop it. That didn't stop me from feeling like shit, until the sobbing like a two year old turned malicious and the obscenities began. Simon cursed us both up, down, and sideways. Yet he reserved his true vehemence for Angie, choosing to utilize language to describe her I would have been compelled to shoot him for if we weren't running for our lives. His vitriol ended in a sudden exclamation of mind shattering terror which transformed into a scream of suffering and I knew one of the unnatural beasts had found their dinner.
Gentle sobs of regret spilled out of Angie as we ran, the complexity of her emotional state far beyond my admittedly limited skill set. I decided, in my finite wisdom, to keep my mouth shut and focus on not falling behind Angie any more than I already had.
Within a minute we could see the water, Hooker Cove, and the line of small docks at the shore. Well, Angie could see the fucking water and the docks. I couldn't see a fucking thing beyond my shoes because I was so fucking winded from trying to keep pace with her I thought I might puke again. If I could have spoken I might have dwelt on the unfairness of the situation. Yes, I weighed considerably more than Angie, and I was carrying at least forty pounds of gear and weapons, and had gone toe to toe with both zombie titans, but goddamn it I was supposed to be the hero and heroes don't get run to death by the rescued. Even if the rescued happen to be into water sports and hiking around the limitless tracks of the Florida state parks. I sucked air as deeply as I could while I worked out whether or my previous statement qualified as sexist or chauvinist. Fuck, it was probably both. Not that I really cared. I was too busy trying to force oxygen back into my body.
