That peaked his interest. He sat back down and looked at me, thinking. I could see the wheels turning. If the shit I had stolen was worth more than whatever Homeland’s reward was going to be, I could be a lucrative find indeed. He popped the inevitable question. “What did you take?”
“You know, at the beginning I didn’t know what it was. I mean, I got some guns and ammo, yeah, but there was this computer hard drive, and that’s what they wanted most.”
My best line of bullshit yet. There was no friggin’ hard drive. I’m actually giggling a little as I write this.
“Where is it now?”
“Baldy Mountain in Northern Montana. I got picked up by some alphabet agency guys, they never told me which one, and they took me to Baldy. Then the place got overrun and I got out. I found Tim on the road, and then I met you wonderful people. And then you hit me in the head. A lot.” I rubbed the back of my neck for emphasis.
“Tim is the geek you were with, the one with armored truck?”
“Yeah.”
He crinkled his face a little, it wasn’t dignified. “Why didn’t the dudes at the mountain just tell the people who chucked out these flyers?” He pushed another flyer at me.
“I got the impression they didn’t get along. Something about differing opinions on how to run what’s left of the country. About who should be in charge. Apparently, they didn’t like the President’s orders.”
“President’s dead.”
“Nope. Not as of a week or so ago anyway.” I had no idea if the President was alive, eaten, or just mostly eaten, but I wanted to show as much confusion as possible.
“So do we need this prick or not?” That had come from behind me. One of the apes with guns.
“You do,” I said immediately. “The assholes looking for me don’t know the hard drive is lost at Baldy.”
Chains raised his eyebrow again. “And the guns?”
“They took ‘em. But there’s a shitload of guns at Baldy, and a hundred years-worth of ammo. Problem is there’s a shitload of dead fucks in there too.”
A gunshot sounded from down the street, then another, then another. Chains didn’t look at all disturbed. His eyes flicked from mine to one of the gorillas. “Check it. Be quick about it.” He looked from his stooge to me and back. “And check the pens.”
Pens? Writing implements? WTF was he talking about?
The guy left and the boss leaned back in his office chair and looked at me hard. “You met my lawyer. He can smell bullshit a mile off, and he says you’re on the up and up.” He folded his hands. “You also met Six-Pack. He was planted in the cell next to you,” (I knew it! Told you!) “and he says your story didn’t change.” (This was looking better for me,) “Problem is…” (Uh-oh,) “I just don’t trust you.”
Another gunshot. Chains looked at the window. The second gorilla moved toward the window, looking down at the street. “Got one down there. Where’s our guys?”
An explosion ripped through the night. It was down the road some, but still close enough to shake the building. Gorilla number two turned from the window, “That came from the west, I dunno if—” The top of his head all of a sudden ceased to exist. Actually, the sequence of events went something like this: He had said dunno if, his melon popped like an overripe grape, spraying his dome back across the floor and ceiling, the window he had been in front of blossomed a hole, then shattered, he dropped, and I leapt for his gun.
I know the hole in the window came first, I do, but I swear that’s how it looked.
I spun the weapon to get the drop on Chains, but he wasn’t there. He was on his belly on the floor, a HUGE pistol pointed at me. “Don’t. What the fuck is happening?”
“How should I know? I’m a hostage remember?”
The door opened, and three guys came running in, one was Petey. “Get down,” the boss yelled. The three of them dropped to the floor and army-crawled over to us.
“Chains,” one of the dudes (not Petey) said, “we’ve got deaders, and somebody is shooting at us!”
“So shoot back!” His giant gun was still pointing at me. “How many deaders?”
“I don’t know, but Danny and Big Red ain’t answering the radio!”
Everybody was yelling.
And then Petey dropped the bombshell: “So, this asshole shows up in his armored truck and we suddenly have people shooting at us? Why does he have a gun?”
Now everybody was quiet and looking at me.
“Yeah, it’s the fucking SEAL team I had hidden in the glove compartment, asshole. They were stashed next to the zombies that are hitting us. Airstrikes are next, you douchecrust.” I rolled my eyes, perhaps a little overdramatically. “I was gonna help you pricks, but screw, take your gun.” I slid it across the floor to Chains, who stared at it for a second.
I had thrown the “us” in there to see if I could buy some trust. Fat chance, I know, but still. If Remo and the Jarheads…holy crap, awesome band name…were here, lots of folks were going to die. Hopefully, Tim and I weren’t about to be lumped into that group.
I felt as if I were actually on fire from the look that Petey was giving me, but if I was about to die, I wouldn’t go down without a fight. Even if it was only verbal in nature. One of the guys got on his knees and looked toward the window. He crawled over to it and used the reflection in a piece of broken glass he picked up to see out the window while keeping his head down. Smart.
A bullet came through the plywood, sheetrock, muscle and bone, skipping off the floor and shattering a glass something across the room. The guy slumped forward chin on chest. Not smart.
Motorcycle engines were roaring up and down the street, gunfire was roaring from several directions, and my ears were roaring from the fear and tension. Another round came into the room, and it was way closer than I would have liked. Petey looked up at me, eyes wide, and began backing up. He rolled over next to the guy who had just bought it, his shotgun pointing at the ceiling. I didn’t think this was overly smart, but I also didn’t think Petey was overly smart, and I didn’t like him either. A third round hit the desk, and Chains yelled something.
I heard a bike crash and then more screaming, as the remaining douche belly-crawled over to Chains, who was now talking into a radio, “Danny! Red! Where are you two assholes? If you’re high, I’m gonna kill both of you, I swear to Christ!” Chains continued to yell obscenities into the walkie-talkie until screaming began from inside the building. The last guy suddenly rose quickly bringing the desk with him, standing it up on its end. It was a big desk, but this was a big dude, hopped up on adrenaline and who knows what else. He began shoving shells into his shotgun, but he only got two before he was out of ammo.
“Nobody’s answering.” The boss looked at the radio. “They’re either dead or they’re going to be. Sonny, Petey, let’s get the hell out of here and figure out what’s happening.”
“What about him?” Petey demanded, looking at me.
“Take him, and if he gets out of line, fuck the reward, do him.”
Petey actually looked like a nice guy when he smiled. Granted that smile meant he was absolutely going to shoot me. No matter what happened, I would get blasted trying to escape, or trying to get the gun from him or whatever, so that’s exactly what I planned to do.
The smart guy, the one with the big hole in his chest, opened his eyes and expectorated a large gout of blood. His next move was to grab for Petey, but the live guy was having none of the dead one, and deftly brought the butt of his shotgun up under Mr. Holy’s chin. The dead guy’s teeth clacked together, and he bit off half of his tongue. Petey quickly reversed the weapon and turned the deceased biker’s head into mist.
What with bullets flying from an unseen enemy, bikers shooting dead bikers, and undead moving about in their secure town, Chains looked only mildly annoyed. “Out the door, down the stairs, out the back.”
Oh, and explosions, forgot the explosions. Another large blast came from somewhere close. Dust fell from the ceiling,
as did some of Gorilla Number Two’s gray matter, and Chains was the only one of us who didn’t look around like his ass was on fire. He reminded me of every tough military guy I had met since leaving prison. He reminded me of Remo. He reminded me of Lynch. I had to wonder if he was military trained, and probably would have if gunfire, screams, and a few more smaller explosions didn’t scare me. I didn’t hear moans, so I was hoping that whatever undead force was on the hunt wasn’t sizeable. A few dozen infected would cause chaos and I might be able to escape in the ensuing confusion. A few hundred and I was most likely chow.
The four of us inched our way to the stairs then made our way down. The back door was made of wood with a glass window taking up most of the top of it. The shade was drawn, and Sonny, the bigger of Chains’ two goons, moved forward and peeked out past the shade. He backed up quickly, two sets of arms bursting through the glass to grab a snack.
Petey fired his shotgun into the two pus bags trying to gain entry and to his credit, he got both with his buckshot. Zombie A and Zombie B tumbled backwards, and nothing else came in. Sonny looked out the window, and looked back at us.
Now Chains looked a little nervous. “Is it clear?”
“No.”
“How many?”
“Looks like a Raiders game just ended and everybody’s heading for the parking lot.”
Holy shit. I mean holy shit what a fantastic analogy. Why did these bikers have to be evil bikers? Why couldn’t they be bikers that brought you cake? With analogies like that, Sonny and I could hang, we could be buds. Petey had that adoring smile, and Chains with his nonchalant attitude to his world falling apart…well these guys were akin to people I liked to be around.
Don’t get me wrong, I was going to have to kill them all, but still, the point is valid.
“Well, we can’t stay here, they’ll tear this place down around us.” Chains moved past us and out the door. He looked right and shook his head. “Not that way.” We all exited the building and ran left. We were in kind of an open alley with a Harley on its side. That drag mark you’ve seen countless times came from under the bike and moved off into the bushes. Why some infected just hoark a guy down where he falls, and others like to drag their victims off is still a mystery to me. Maybe they like to eat in privacy? Regardless, we could hear that wet ripping sound, and we knew what that meant. The sounds of chewing, multiple chewers actually, spurred us into action.
We jogged down the alley-thing and turned a corner, right into a band of undead that were shuffling in our direction. Either we were in amongst them or they us, it didn’t really matter once the biting started. Sonny was bitten almost immediately, but he still fought well. He fired four shots from his shotgun, and it clicked empty. There were probably ten plus a baker’s dozen infected, and he had killed five before one caught his shotgun club and another got in close and tore his throat out.
Petey was jacking shells and firing at noggins as fast as he could, and Chains was using his massive revolver. Both were crazy loud, but neither was effective enough, and I realized the dead were going to reach us if I didn’t act. I reached over and pulled the little automatic pistol out of the back of Chains’ belt, the one that I had slid to him earlier. He didn’t even turn around. Stepping between the douches, I began firing as well, and I didn’t miss a single shot. When I ran out of targets, I turned to see Chains hand to hand with two dead bastards, and I shot one in the dome, while Chains broke the neck of the other. He looked at me, then at himself, then back at me. We had gotten them all, but more were on the way. Petey was loading his shotgun with shells from a bandolier across his chest. He looked up at me briefly, then back at his weapon, “I really thought you were an asshole. Maybe—” I shot him in the face, spun to shoot Chains, but he was already pointing his gun at me.
He lowered it. “You know, I really don’t like you.” He clicked the hammer back on his cannon. “Why do the alphabets really want you?”
“I told you—”
He held his left arm out. That circular mark of doom, just starting to bleed was on his forearm. I felt bad for a split second. “I’m immune.”
He raised his eyebrows like we had been beer-buddies for twenty years. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
He sighed. “Then don’t fuckin’ die.” He put his weapon under his chin and blew his head off. Seriously, the top of his head came off.
I heard crunching behind me, spun, and saw two dead bastards coming for me across some gravel. I shot one, and the slide on the automatic stayed back. I discarded the weapon and went for Chains’ gun. It too was empty, so I opted for Petey’s shotgun, and did this super-cool roll to get away from the dead thing that was reaching for me while at the same time grabbing the gun. I brought it up quickly and only had time for a chest shot on the first one. It flew back out of my immediate field of vision, as I had to adjust for the second one. The shotgun’s kick was again substantial, but so was its damage as the head of the infected on the business end of the weapon ceased to exist. The lifeless form collapsed and I swung the barrel of the gun toward the one I had shot in the torso. I pumped out an expended shell, a fresh one entering the chamber. I remember hearing the casing hit the ground, and thought it was odd that I could hear it over the din of the carnage near me. It was at that point I was hit by a freight train.
All teeth and claws, this thing tore at me like it was a tiger and I was a…a…well, something that a tiger would eat. My weapon clattered to my left, and it was all I could do to fight the thing off. It was strong. I heard screaming, and realized that it was both the infected on top of me, and me. I took a nasty punch to the nose, becoming stunned for a half second, and the thing wrapped both of its disease-ridden hands around my throat and squeezed. Fucker was choking me out.
Cool went right out the proverbial window and I began to panic. Air had taken a vacation from my windpipe, my lungs burning after just a moment or two. Where the hell was my adrenaline buddy now? I’m sure my eyes were bulging too. They must have been about eight feet out of the sockets, because that’s the only way I could have possibly seen a zombie with ragged hole in its chest cavity staggering toward us, its entrails dragging behind it.
This was not the first time I had had a Runner atop me shrieking, but it was the first time one of them was trying to compress my esophagus to the thickness of a credit card. It leaned in to bite my nose off, so I felt it prudent to jam a forearm between us. I was starting to see stars (no shit), and the diseased prick astride me began to look like he was falling away down a long green tunnel. Or maybe I was. Either way seconds were critical here, so I didn’t delay.
The last time this had happened to me, I had done something truly spectacular. This time I was in worse shape, so I brought my left hand around, grabbed the side of the prick’s noggin and jammed my thumb in his eye. It was my turn to squeeze, (not that this asshole had let up) and I felt the eyeball go under the onslaught of my digit, goo squirting down on my face. Aqueous humor, if you remember from Baldy Mountain.
Dickhead could have cared less, and actually squeezed harder if it were possible. I noticed the dead one had gotten close enough to get down on his knees and was looking at me like an entrée, when everything went black.
Pain
Ow.
Thud, thud, thud.
Ow.
Thud, thud.
Ow, dammit.
Thud. Thud, thud.
For fuck’s sake OUCH!
“Is he bitten?”
“I don’t know, but he’s damn heavy.”
“Pussy.”
“Screw you! You carry him, he’s dead weight.”
“I can carry me…”
“What?”
“That was him, put him down.”
The guy that had been running with me over his shoulder put me down. I was ecstatic to see that it was Kinga. I looked left, and through my haze and the darkness I could see Brick. Well, two Bricks, I was seeing double. That shit can happen.
I put my palms over my throbbing eyes. My head was throbbing too. Hell, everything was throbbing. My neck was sore and my throat dry.
I tried to clear my head by blinking, and realized that I couldn’t see out of my right eye. That was unsettling, so I reached up to probe it with my fingers. I found it was crusted with blood, which is when the cuts on my face started to sting.
Not for nothing, but the damn zombie apocalypse really sucks.
“What the hell took you assholes so long?”
The two MARSOC guys looked at each other. Brick thumbed at me and spoke to Kinga, “This fuckin’ guy.” He looked at me smiling. They were both smiling. “We ain’t the ones who got our asses handed to us by a teenage girl.”
Nope. No. I did not battle a girl. It was a man infected with the most horrible disease ever. This particular man was the exceptionally massive mutant spawn of a couple of Lees. Bruce and Mohammad Ah. OK, OK, so you didn’t get that. Bruce Lee and Mohammad Ali. It was funny, you’re just dumb. Bottom line is that the infected ass wipe that had tried to make me dead was not a ninety pound chick.
Both of those dicknoses pointed to my left. I glanced over at an overturned fifty-five gallon drum that had been being used as a lamp-post. Around it, drenched in gore and full of holes were the zombies and bikers that I had just battled against, battled with, and subsequently killed.
One had been, in fact, a young, blonde girl.
Crap.
The fight felt like it was five years ago and five thousand miles from here, but the carnage was a mere fifty feet away, and the proximity spoke as to the time as well.
“We can’t stay here,” Brick said, and pointed. Shadowy forms were stumbling their way toward us. “Can you stand?”
“Damn right I can stand.” I stood. Well, halfway. I promptly fell back on my ass. I dry heaved, sending tendrils of agony through my head and into my shoulders.
“Shit, help me get him up.” Brick looked at his watch. “We need to be at high two in five.” They helped me up, and I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t like it. I would probably have enjoyed being eaten less, but this still sucked.
The Zombie Theories (Book 2): Conspiracy Theory Page 16
