Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1

by Armand Rosamilia

  "What man saves a cigar?" Ambroz said as he sat down beside Ky at the bar.

  Ky smiled. "What did you save?" he asked and spread his hands. "Your bar, but not your home?"

  "The bar is worth more."

  "You made the right choice." Ky spun the cigar in his fingers but refused to light it just yet. He wanted to savor the feel of the rich smell before he lit it and one of his last great smokes was gone. He didn't know if there'd ever be another.

  The Europa Lounge was one of the few businesses, technically, still open in European Village. The other side of the courtyard served as a makeshift refugee camp, with only The Humidor still in operation.

  On this side, Mezzaluna Pizza, next to Europa, was also open and cooking meals for the survivors, and Farley's bar was serving free water and the last of the flat soda, as well as bartering for alcohol. Mort, the owner, was even now standing outside, wiping down the outdoor tables and humming to himself.

  "Something on your mind besides your cigar?" Ambroz asked.

  "We're running out of food. There are forty-three people here and we might have enough food to last another three weeks."

  "I thought we had forty-seven?"

  Ky shook his head. "Yesterday's group never returned. Four more gone."

  "I hope they found a safe place," Ambroz said.

  "I'm sure they did," Ky said, but knew it was a lie. There had been no communication in months from other survivors, and the stray refugees had stopped trickling in. He knew of the bike gang in Daytona Beach who'd tried to overrun them six months ago, but they hadn't been around. There were rumors St. Augustine was a safe zone, but it was too far to send a group, especially when every man and woman was needed for gathering supplies.

  Ky was the unofficial leader of the haven, organizing the work and search parties, sharing information with everyone, and offering encouragement and positive reinforcement to those in need. And everyone needed something. Even Ky.

  "I hope Lisa is feeling better," he said aloud. He glanced at the ceiling above him. "She's been a little under the weather."

  Ambroz gave him a long look before nodding. "I'm sure she's going to be fine."

  "She wasn't bitten. It's just the flu," Ky said more to himself than to his friend. Whenever someone wasn't feeling well, the rumors of them being attacked were always thrown about, and there was always the small, but vocal, contingent who didn't want to take chances. They'd gladly carry the wounded or sick into the parking lot and leave them for dead.

  Ky and Lisa had been together and been through too much for her to be abandoned. She was the love of his life, the reason he got up in the morning and the only person he climbed into bed with. He wanted it no other way, but if Lisa was sick, and with no medicine to treat her…

  The two shots, just above their spot, in the abandoned restaurant next to them, jarred Ky from his dark thoughts.

  "Who is up there?"

  Ambroz shrugged. "I don't pay attention to stuff like that."

  "I told them never to shoot unless they had to." Ky stood. "I guarantee you it's the new guy, Brewski. He seems like a trigger happy hothead."

  Brewski

  The sun was hot on his shaved head and he would have killed for a nice cold beer. Instead, Brewski settled for a pull of warm—almost hot—water from the plastic bottle. It may have been like drinking panther piss, but it was wet and he had to resist the urge to take a huge swallow.

  “Gotta conserve,” he muttered, as he screwed the cap on. “Welcome to hell.”

  “You say something?” Jeff Kingdon asked in a heavy whisper.

  “Nope, just enjoying these stellar fucking working conditions,” Brewski said. “How much longer til our relief gets here?”

  Jeff looked at his watch, one of the few that still kept time. It may not have been the correct time, but it hardly mattered anymore. What was important was not spending one minute more than necessary laying on a roof in the sweltering heat watching for zombies.

  “Ky said two hour shifts, we’ve been here for 90 minutes, give or take.”

  Brewski eyed the water bottle and fantasized about a dripping can of Coors Light. 30 more minutes. He would also give his right nut for a phone so he could call Ike. This rag-tag collection of rabble needed somebody who knew his ass from first base to lead them. Not a salesman who only cared about his friggin’ cigars.

  Brewski returned his attention to the horizon. His mission was to watch the western approach while Jeff watched the east. The bridge was clogged with abandoned vehicles but zombies didn’t think to keep low between them, one thing to be thankful for. The stupid bastards walked upright, not caring if they were spotted from a mile away and that made protecting against invasion a little easier.

  He tensed up a bit when something stirred on the horizon by the toll booth. He shuffled his prone body closer to the edge of the roof and strained his eyes.

  Panther.

  The cat moved slowly across the road and into the woods out of sight. He was just scrounging for food, the same as everybody else.

  Brewski’s attention was grabbed by sudden movement on his right. Jeff snatched the rifle from between them and leveled it at something out of Brewski’s line of sight.

  “What are you doing?” Brewski asked loud enough for only Jeff to hear.

  “Shhh,” Jeff replied. “We got visitors.”

  “Where?”

  “On the bridge, near the maroon pickup.”

  Brewski spotted the two zombies shuffling north on the bridge. Before he could see if there were any more, Jeff fired a shot. One of the zombies’ heads exploded and the corpse dropped out of site behind the jersey barrier.

  “Hey, what are you…” Brewski started.

  Another shot. The other zombie dropped like a bag of dirt.

  “Jesus Christ,” Brewski said. “Hold your god-damned fire.”

  “Why?” Jeff asked. “I got them.”

  “Yeah and if there are more you also gave away our position.”

  Brewski reached for the rifle but Jeff repositioned himself.

  “Leave it,” Jeff said. “I think there’s more of them.”

  “Where?” Brewski strained to see more zombies, but saw nothing.

  Jeff tightened his grip on the rifle and pressed his eye to the scope.

  “Right there,” he said under his breath. “Behind the torched minivan…come on, let me see that fucking head.”

  Brewski followed Jeff’s line of sight to the minivan. At first he saw nothing. After a minute, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving low along the barrier.

  “Wait…” he began.

  Too late, Jeff squeezed the trigger and Brewski saw chunks of concrete fly from the jersey barrier where he had seen the movement.

  “Son of a bitch,” Brewski shuffled quickly to Jeff’s side and grabbed the rifle before Jeff could get another shot off.

  “Hey,” Jeff said. “What the hell?”

  “You fucking idiot,” Brewski hissed. “What are you shooting at?”

  “I saw them, crouched behind the minivan and sneaking along next to the barrier. I could have got it.”

  “Think, asshole,” Brewski said. “The undead don’t crouch behind cars and low-walk along the cover of concrete barriers.”

  Jeff’s blank look and non-response were enough to make Brewski feel as though he had scolded a puppy for peeing on the rug.

  He looked through the scope to the spot where Jeff had shot. He panned back and forth but saw no movement.

  “Fucking Ky is going to go ape-shit,” he said.

  “But I killed two,” Jeff said in an attempt to justify his actions.

  “Yeah, you killed two that were walking away from us. In ten minutes, they would have been across the bridge, heading north, out of our hair.”

  Jeff’s eyes went to Brewski’s shaved head, unconsciously.

  “It was a waste of ammo, something we don’t have a lot of.”

  The acrylic hatch, in the roof ten fee
t behind them, opened and Ky’s head popped through the opening like a prairie dog.

  “What the hell is going on up here?” he asked, in an unidentified Mediterranean accent. “Who is shooting?” His eyes went to Brewski, who still held the rifle.

  Brewski pointed with his head at Jeff. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “Eagle eye here thought he was playing Halo.”

  Ky walked over and stood over them, he looked at Brewski and Brewski could see the disappointment in his eyes. Ky would have loved an excuse to kick Brewski out of the compound, but it wasn’t happening today.

  “Jeff,” Ky said, moving his look from Brewski to Jeff. “I told you, no shooting unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  “I got two,” Jeff pleaded his case. “On the bridge, two of them, clean head shots.”

  Ky put his hands on his hips and gazed at the bridge. He started to speak, and pointed to the bridge with the cigar in his right hand. Instead of speaking, he let out a scream and dropped to the roof in a heap. An arrow had pierced his right leg, two inches below his groin. Brewski and Jeff looked at the blood dripping from the wound and then out to the bridge where there was no movement.

  Ky moaned through gritted teeth.

  Brewski put the scope of the rifle to his eye and surveyed the entire bridge. No movement. He set the rifle down and crawled behind Ky. Grasping the man under the armpits, he dragged him to the roof hatch.

  “Okay, Ky,” he said. “You’re gonna have to climb down the ladder. Can you handle it?”

  Ky nodded semi-convincingly.

  “Jeff,” Brewski said, “I’ll be right back. No more shooting.”

  He helped Ky onto the steel ladder inside the hatch and followed him down.

  The last rung of the ladder was four feet off the floor of the top landing of the staircase. Brewski pulled the hatch shut and looked over his shoulder. Ky was at the last rung, frozen in place.

  “Ky, you’re going to have to do it,” he said. “Try to land on your good leg and roll to the left so you don’t move the arrow.”

  Ky looked up at Brewski and nodded. Brewski could see the fear in his face. With a quick nod of his head, Ky released his grip on the steel ladder and dropped the four feet. He was successful in landing on his left foot; unfortunately, it landed in a small puddle of his own blood. His foot slipped out from underneath him and he landed on his back with a thud.

  His scream echoed in the empty stairwell.

  Brewski scrambled down the ladder and held Ky down before he moved enough to allow the arrow to do more damage than it already had. Once Ky had gained some control over his writhing, Brewski helped him up and assisted him down the stairs.

  They emerged from the stairwell on the outside of the compound and moved as quickly as they could past the sentry at the entrance and into Europa. He put Ky against the wall and pressed a hand to his chest.

  “Just stay here,” he ordered.

  He moved two of the dining tables together and covered them with the cleanest piece of linen he could find. Ambroz and a couple of others had followed them in and stood gawking at Ky’s blood-soaked leg. Brewski pointed a finger at Ambroz.

  “Go find the doc,” he ordered.

  Ambroz took another man with him and left the bistro.

  Ky’s hands hovered over the arrow as though he wanted to yank it out. Instead, he settled for pressing his hands on his leg above the wound.

  “God, this hurts like hell,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Brewski went behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey—one of the last ones in stock. He lifted Ky’s head and allowed him a couple of small swallows.

  “Just like a western,” he said, trying to elicit a laugh. “Want a bullet to bite on?”

  “A bullet? Why would I bite on a bullet?” Ky asked.

  “Never mind,” Brewski said. “I keep forgetting you didn’t grow up with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.”

  He gave Ky another swallow of the whiskey, took one for himself and set the bottle on the floor below the table.

  A small crowd of people was gathering in the dining room to see what was happening. Brewski heard Ambroz pushing his way through. Trailing him was a stocky man in his early sixties with dark hair, graying at the temples.

  “Here is Dr. Parkes,” Ambroz told Brewski.

  * * * * *

  “Okay, John,” Brewski said to the man. “Have at it.”

  John Parkes stepped to the table and examined the arrow piercing Ky’s leg.

  “It didn’t hit the femoral artery,” he said with relief. “I’ll need a pair of pliers.”

  Ky’s eyes lit up.

  “Pliers?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Parkes said. “I’ll also need a knife, scissors, something to use for a bandage—something clean and white if possible, and some clean water.”

  When he had the requested items, he cut the leg of Ky’s pants off and cleaned the affected area. He gripped the wooden shaft of the arrow on the back side of Ky’s leg with the pliers and squeezed. He rotated the pliers around the arrow and repeated the procedure until the wood was crushed and splintered. Then he clamped the pliers on the crushed wood and broke the shaft off below the pliers. Using Brewski’s lock-back knife, he carefully shaved the splinters until the broken end of the arrow was fairly smooth.

  He stood up straight, inhaled deeply and looked at Brewski.

  “Okay,” he said, “this is the fun part. I have to pull the arrow out. With no anesthesia, it’s going to hurt like hell. I’ll do it as quickly as I can, but it will seem like it takes an hour to him.”

  “Just do it,” Ky moaned.

  “You heard the man,” Brewski said to Parkes.

  Brewski picked up the whiskey bottle and gave Ky another healthy swallow.

  “Let’s get it on,” he said to Parkes.

  “Alright,” Parkes said. “I want you to hold his leg as still as possible.”

  Brewski set himself in position to restrict the movement of Ky’s leg. Then he motioned for two men in the crowd to come to the table.

  “You two hold him down,” he said.

  The two men placed their weight on Ky’s upper body and nodded. Brewski looked at Parkes.

  “You’re on,” he said.

  Parkes placed his left hand next to the entry point and gripped the shaft with his right. With a deep breath, he began pulling slowly. Ky’s head went back and he moaned. The two men holding his torso stiffened against his spasms.

  For the longest 30 seconds any of them could remember, Parkes slowly withdrew the arrow from Ky’s leg. When it was removed, he cleaned the wound again and bandaged it with a torn tee-shirt. Both Parkes and Ky were covered with sweat.

  Brewski gave Ky another shot of whiskey and returned the bottle to the bar.

  “I better get back up there and keep an eye on the rifleman,” he said.

  Ky nodded.

  “Maybe it would be best if you held the rifle. I want look-outs…not trigger-happy commando wannabes.”

  As though it had been scripted for a sitcom, the words had no sooner left Ky’s mouth than a shot rang out from the roof.

  Ky dropped his head on the table and pressed his hands to his face.

  “I don’t believe it,” he yelled.

  “I got this,” Brewski said as he sprinted for the stairs.

  Ike

  Ike could feel Angel shifting and moving behind him as the Harley roared down A1A, approaching Palm Coast. He imagined she was trying to absorb and process the bizarre view from the backseat of the bike.

  The normally picturesque ocean views and beautifully maintained homes were replaced with a landscape of neglect and death. Under ordinary circumstances he would have enjoyed the feeling of her hands around his waist…damn zombies.

  Ike slowed and turned right onto the connector road which would take him to Hammock Dunes Parkway and another bridge. He pulled the bike into the shade before he made the turn onto the parkway.

  “Is eve
rything okay?” Angel asked.

  “Okay is a relative term these days, but right now I just want to be ready. We have to cross the Hammock Dunes bridge, on the other side is a cluster of buildings called European Village. Hopefully, I’ll find a friend there. In the meantime, we still have to get across the bridge, alive.”

  “Alive?” Angel asked. “Are we in danger?”

  “On a bridge, there’s always a chance. It’s too easy to get boxed in and we only have so much ammo.”

  Ike made sure his .45 was full, then opened one of his saddlebags and retrieved a small green canister.

  “What’s that?” Angel asked.

  “Smoke bomb,” he said. “In case we’re seen by the wrong eyes.”

  Angel looked around as though she expected somebody, or something to be watching.

  Ike scrambled up a tree and scouted the scene.

  “Okay,” he said to Angel when he came down. “The bridge is pretty clear. A few cars, but nothing we can’t navigate through. There’s a chain link fence across the approach, but it’s got a hole in it big enough for the bike. I just wish Betty here didn’t make so much noise.”

  “Betty?” Angel said.

  Ike patted the seat of the Harley. “Betty,” he said. “The most faithful woman I’ve ever known.”

  He didn’t know her at all, but he thought her face indicated a small amount of pain at his remark.

  “Of course, I don’t know them all yet,” he said, with a wink.

  His recovery netted him a smile and he noticed for the first time how beautiful she was, even under the current circumstances.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She nodded, showing an increase in confidence from when they had met just thirty minutes earlier.

  The Harley announced its approach, loudly. Ike kept his speed slow enough to allow him to keep his eyes out for potential threats. He maneuvered the bike through the hole in the fence and onto the bridge. He felt no movement from Angel. Once they were on the bridge, Ike turned to Angel.

  “If you see anything, let me know.”