by H. L. Murphy
“That guy that had you captured, what's his name, Bad Eddy,” I explained coldly. “That mother fucker is not the worst of the survivors I've encountered since this shit started. Maybe one day I'll tell you all about Raven Team, and watch you never sleep again. The odds do not favor us encountering decent people, and I will not risk my family in the hands of less than saintly assholes one minute longer than necessary. Understand?”
Angie nodded her comprehension, but I could still sense her hesitation.
“Just stay behind me and watch my back,” I patted her shoulder gently. “I'll take care of the rest.”
“Finn, I'm not useless,” Angie flared, her fear temporarily overcome by her anger.
“I know, but I'm more at ease with this than you are,” I said calmly. “And I have a lot more skin in the game, so I'm considerably more motivated than you to get this done.”
“Okay,” Angie admitted. “Just don't worry about me, I'll help you save Lizzy and Hermione.”
I stepped outside the cabin while Angie maneuvered the smaller craft next to the freighter. The blaring lament for poor Tim Finnegan was still in full, ear splitting swing as I secured a line to the aft starboard bollard, oh, more nautical terms, aren't I so very fucking seamanlike. With the freighter barely making headway, I signaled Angie to cut the engines and join me. Once we were aboard the freighter it wouldn't fucking matter what happened to this dinky little boat. Climbing the taut line provided me an opportunity to reclaim some of my lost bravado, especially since I was the one enjoying an easy go of it this time. It seemed that while I had sacrificed cardio in my quest to be strong, Angie had sacrificed strength training in favor of cardio. I'm not saying she was weak, far from it, but she was definitely struggling to keep with up me as I shimmied up the line. Now she knew how I felt running away from the undead twins. At the gunwale, more nautical terms, aren't you proud, I paused before leaping over, pistol drawn. Whatever the deal with the goddamn music, it had clearly drawn everyone away form the stern. Funny, I felt it should have the opposite effect. Confident in our seclusion, I turned back to help Angie over the gunwale. I must have been grinning like a hyena because Angie shoved me in the chest and delivered her finest Glare of Doom, which was entirely ineffectual due to my having been killed several times over the past two weeks. What can I say? Facing the potential wrath of an angry woman loses some of its weight once you've actually been killed. Still smiling I turned to make my way to the nearest hatch.
Against my express orders, it was unsecured granting us immediate access to the passageways within. Looking around, I realized I was much closer to the engine room than the wheel house. Together, we moved down the passageway and into the engine room where I discovered why the boat wasn't moving all that fast.
The port side diesel had been partially disassembled and the parts scattered like some severely pissed off toddler had stormed through in the midst of a tantrum and taken its frustrations out on the engine. When I caught up with Carroll Rivers, I planned to have a long, knuckle cracking talk with him about maintaining his work space. This was just unacceptable on every level. Oddly, the state of disrepair made me certain nothing had been touched in here for days. If that was the case, I planned to kick Carroll’s gonads sideways for being a colossal slack ass. What? It wasn't as if he was using them.
From the engine room I led up to the crew quarters, where I discovered the first bit of unsettling news. There was a man with what I assumed to be an H&K knock off rifle painted flat dark earth seated outside one of the cabins, the dulcet tones of crying children within. Chief among the less than pleased voices was my full throated Hermione. Cold fear evaporated as blinding white hot fury seized at my heart, all my fatherly instincts ratcheting into maximum overdrive. This was, despite what you might think, a good thing. The fury gave me strength and focus, and kept my over active imagination from dwelling on the reason my daughter was crying and why her mother wasn't with her. The white hot fire coursing through my veins drove me around the passageway corner in a flash, my legs propelled me with such fervor I was upon the lazy guard before he even knew I was there. To ensure total compliance the barrel of the Colt M1917 revolver entered the bastard’s mouth through the simple expedient of knocking out several of his teeth with the butt of gun. Both the pain and the offending presence of the barrel prevented the guard from calling out. Fear may also have played its roll in keeping the man quiet, most especially after locking eyes with me. Lately, that really seemed break through all the macho bullshit and drive home the imminent danger of the situation.
“Nice rifle,” I whispered. “I'll hold onto it for a while. No, don't move. Movement makes my trigger finger itch, and you don't want me to scratch.”
Sweat was beading up on the guards face as I unclipped his weapons sling and removed it from temptation. He was royally screwed on a galactic level, and he knew it. Even if he survived this encounter he had to be thinking his boss would kill him. His best chance for continued existence would be in cozying up, giving me whatever I asked for times ten. No matter what he gave me, though, I was going to enjoy killing him. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later I planned to revisit this individual with a sharp knife and a clear conscience. And possibly a plastic jumpsuit. You know, to keep the blood off.
The rifle secured, I motioned the lanky man up and led him to an empty cabin. Angie followed close behind, concern etched on her face. At the moment I couldn't tell if her concern was for the man I would eventually kill or for me, the poor bastard who's sanity was slipping by the second. I pushed the guard into a chair, then used zip ties to secure him in place. The mercenary suck hole I took my slightly snazzy tactical vest from had apparently believed in using the right tool for the right job because an entire pocket was dedicated to large, thick zip ties used for restraining people. I used them all to maximum advantage, which was to say I immobilized the prick by utilizing eighteen zip ties to secure him. It was also entirely within the realm of possibility I cut circulation to his extremities.
“Now, we're going to have a little question and answer session,” I whispered, slowly searching the bastards pockets before continuing. “And if you fail to answer fully and completely, I will remove pieces of you, you will miss immediately. Do you understand? Just nod your comprehension, that's good. First, how many of you are there?”
Rather than remove the barrel of the old Colt entirely, I merely pulled the revolver out of his throat and allowed him enough room to speak more or less intelligibly.
“Five,” he mumbled around the weapon, fear permeated the atmosphere. Oh, wait, that's not fear. It's the expanding puddle of piss running down his leg.
“Second, why are you here?”
“We need to go, man,” he answered slowly. “Just need to get out of here, man.”
“You want to leave? Then why are you guarding a room full of children?” I demanded. “Why not just go?”
“Look, man, we need this tub, everything on it will keep us alive,” he snapped, regaining lost bravado as he recounted some ridiculous line of bullshit fed to him by someone way more together than this idiot. “Fucking people here wouldn't follow orders, man, so we made ‘em follow orders.”
That particular statement doesn't put my heart at ease. I'd seen recently some people's ideas on forced compliance.
“Last question, where are your buddies?” I asked, death in my eyes and ice in my voice.
“No, fuck you, man,” he spat, his lost courage returning. I could sense the bastard trying to struggle out of his bonds. Apparently, a lesson of lasting impression was required to ensure continued pliability. If, at this moment, you are wondering how this will make me any better than the scum that seemed to have taken over my boat, all I can say is that I did not invade someone else’s home and seize their children to force compliance. I fight men head on, when necessary, and never threaten women and children. Using the wickedly curved karambit knife I took from my prisoner, I sliced off his left ear. It required the removal o
f my revolver from his mouth, but he was a touch too surprised to react immediately. Naturally, after the blade sliced cleanly through skin, cartilage, and tendon, the little fucker had quite the response. Wailing, spitting, crying, and a whole lot of bleeding. However, my point had been made abundantly clear.
“Where are your buddies?” I repeated, one hand clamped on his remaining ear and the other tauntingly displaying the razor sharp karambit. Tears welled and ran down his face as he finally accepted that he would betray his friends, that he wasn't the super tough guy his mental image had always projected. The psychological trauma associated with the utter destruction of ones self image would eventually send the one eared prick into a tailspin of depression and self destructive behavior. Provided I didn't kill him before then.
“The fore deck,” he wept openly now. “They're trying to convince everyone some fucking asshole called Finnegan is dead so there's no need to hang around anymore. If we run for open water we can slip through the blockade and get away. LaVoe says the only real hold out is this Finnegan guys bitch, says she won't let go. He says if she don't give it up tonight, he'll beat some sense into her.”
It wasn’t the words he said, wasn't the idea of some asshole putting his hands on Lizzy. It was the smile in his voice when he said it that set me off. That smile that told of past exploits enjoyed to the most perverse extreme. This fuck stick and everybody with him had done terrible things, and enjoyed doing them together.
Angie turned away, thankfully, and didn't see what I did to the nameless fuck. Blood ran over my hands, and splattered my recently cleaned shirt and close to snazzy tactical vest.
Goddamn it, can I ever get through the day without being covered in some kind of bodily fluid?
It would help if you weren't forced into killing people and zombies on a daily basis.
That would be a lot easier if my world wasn't populated by an overwhelming number of complete dickbags.
And breathing underwater would be so much easier if you had gills, but you don't so there's no point in bitching about it.
You trying to tell me something?
Yeah, quit your bitching and get the job done, then you can piss and moan like a little girl.
Jesus, my old man really drilled that into my head, didn't he?
Dad knows his stuff. Now get moving.
I took the time to strip the blades sheath from the dead man before turning back to Angie.
“Stay with me, Angie,” I said, trying very hard to counter what must be an absolutely terrifying visage. “There are four left, and it will get messy before the end. You get a clear shot at a bad guy, open fire.”
“Okay,” Angie stammered slightly, “who are the bad guys?”
“About now, I'm thinking the only ones carrying guns are the bad guys,” I explained, checking my new rifle. “Mostly, you need to stay behind me and let me do the shooting.”
“Okay, that sounds much better,” Angie said, clutching the ZK-383 tightly.
I wasn't terribly fond of the H&K pattern of rifle, but it was a well respected design used all over the world. All I needed was for the weapon to get me through the next few minutes, then I could chuck it in the water. Not that I would. A functioning weapon was still a functioning weapon even if it wasn't my beloved Kalashnikov.
The passageways remained clear all the way from the crew quarters to the foredeck hatchway, though the goddamn volume on that fucking song was filling the ship. There is no way I will ever be able to stomach that song, especially after having it blared at maximum decibel levels. I wish I could travel back in time and nut shot the originator of the fucking tune. Worse, some fucking asshole had it on repeat. It wasn't bad enough some dickless wonder had played me a dirge, but they felt it was a great idea to repeat it ad nauseum.
As I stood against the steel bulkhead, ears ringing from the music, I peaked around the edge to look upon the cluster fuck of four armed assholes watching over a group of unarmed seated people. The bottle of booze being passed back and forth between the armed jerkwads didn't instill confidence in their continued good manners. Two were men I'd never seen before, but the other two were known to me. Dennis Lavoe and Bill Trimbly had spent most of the past decade building helicopters with me, although neither had spent a lot of time in my company. Enough by far to remember my name and realize how gargantuan a mistake they’d made by threatening my family. In the space between heart beats, my sight filled with the image of Dennis Lavoe. Tall, slim with black hair cut into the latest spikey fad with a matching beard and mustache. The intervening weeks since we last met hadn't been all that kind to him. There was evidence of violence having been done on his body, bandages and such. Though nothing that compared to what I would do to him, and not entirely for threatening my family. As it turned out, the mother fucker was wearing a ragged, nowhere near snazzy tactical vest with an all too familiar M1911A1 with custom grips and carried Kalashnikov pattern rifle. This rotgut guzzling ass clown looted my fucking body while I was dead and left me to fend for myself. Is nothing fucking sacred anymore?
Okay, you gotta help me here.
What now? Isn't it enough I keep bringing you back from the dead?
No, asshole, it's not. I need you to help me speed up like before. I'm good, I'm just not shoot four bad guys dead before being shot myself good.
That's going to hurt, you need to know that.
A little pain for the safety of my family? I'll live with it.
I'll remember you said that when your entire nervous system feels like it's on fire.
That's sounds…pleasant.
There is no such thing as a free lunch. You got to pay to play.
Please shut up and make with the altered biochemistry or alien hoodoo, whatever he fuck it is that you do to make me faster.
Hey, don't rush the magic or you get shitty magic.
Alright, alright, Christ on fire you can be a grumpy bastard.
Shut. Up. I'm adjusting your biochemistry.
Thanks.
My heart rate spiked, then slowed as time seemed to dilate. Even that wretched fucking ballad twisted out of recognizable shape as I stepped out onto the foredeck, rifle not only at the ready but tracking my first target. As the first of three rounds exited the barrel of my weapon I was able to note the exact moment my presence became known. Eyes went wide as one man’s chest geysered blood, and I triggered more rounds at the next man. His head exploded as three, five point five six bullets penetrated his cranial vault. For personal reasons I skipped Lavoe and massacred the fourth man, before I refocused on Lavoe. Confused, scared eyes locked onto the whiskey blurred motion that was me, precious seconds ticking away as his addled brain processed what he was seeing. Understanding blossomed into stark terror as a dead man stood there pointing a rifle at him. I dropped the rifle and quick drew my new forty-five even as Lavoe’s hand fumbled for a pistol.
“No, wait…” He started, but his words trailed off as the bullet caught him in the throat. Hands clutched at the gaping wound in his neck as Lavoe fell to his knees. As I approached I could see his hands making reflexive motions towards a weapon before he realized he didn't dare let go of his neck. Holstering my shiny new forty-five, I withdrew the karambit. There just wasn't enough time left to make the mutt scream, but I sure as hell aimed to give it a shot.
Chapter Twenty
Rising from Lavoe’s still twitching corpse, I walked directly to the portable MP3 player jacked into the PA system and smashed the fucking thing to bits. Not content with just crushing the diminutive device I hurled its remains over the side and gave voice to my thoughts.
“I FUCKING HATE THAT SONG,” I screamed to the heavens.
“Angus?” A tremulous voice queried from behind me. Slowly, my face streaked with blood, I turned to see my beautiful Lizzy, a little dirty around the edges but seemingly unharmed. I don't remember crossing the distance to my beloved, but there I was gathering her into my arms and holding her close as a dozen people shouted questions, statements, exp
licatives, and general fuckery. Our lips met and the world faded away for just a minute as Lizzy and I shared a singular moment of relief, released fear, and a grief long repressed.
“Ain't nothing in heaven or hell can keep from you,” I whispered to Lizzy, holding her while she tried not to sob. Or maybe she was keeping me from crying like a little girl. On that thought I separated myself from Lizzy and led her away. “Come on, baby girl is screaming up a storm.”
“Wait a fucking minute,” a voice sounded off from the seated group. Glancing around I locked eyes with a balding, slightly over weight and under muscled man that looked familiar. “You need to take your hands off of her, right now.”
“Who the fuck is this?” I asked the assembled group. Melinda was too preoccupied with unbinding James’ hands to answer, and the only other person I recognized was the Buffalo. Jerry “Buffalo” Hayes had been a top notch rigging technician with the same company as me, and a grade a motorcycle mechanic besides. I could see he’d disagreed with someone, likely several someone's, and come out on the bad side of it. Still, his wife was there with him which meant some of the locked up children were likely his.
“I'm not going to say it again,” the whinging mutt shouted, suddenly the picture of masculine courage. It dawned on me I knew this person from a long time ago, only then the smarmy little sleaze had sported a ridiculously long pony tail and paraded around like an extra from a bad, leather clad vampire movie. Francis Muldune had been laughable then, now he was just pitiful in the extreme. I guess he hadn't been paying attention when I carved my name into dipshit Lavoe. A long, tired sigh escaped my lips just before I drew the Colt revolver and thumbed back the hammer. Whatever the ballsy fuck had been smoking, snorting, or injecting to work up his courage deserted him in the face of the total oblivion promised by the gaping, pitch black muzzle of my weapon.
“You shouldn't have said it the first time,” the words came out like a benediction.
