Said darkness came into sharp relief, as the headlamp on the Harley flickered once, twice, a third time - plunging his vision into the black before returning to functioning light. His balls crept a little farther toward his chest cavity, each time it happened, and he couldn’t help but flash onto every bad horror movie, where every idiot with a flashlight inevitably had the thing fail, right as the deranged killer loomed from behind.
The headlamp steadied. He kept riding.
The “plan,” such as it was, was for him to take the highway as far as the last town exit, then work his way back to the wharf on the surface street, letting the noise of the motorcycle attract a crowd. On the face of it, the idea was lunacy, he knew it, and he regretted saying yes to John.
They told him Ohi Place would be the last exit - based, supposedly, on an older road map the McMullen kid kept as a souvenir from a previous trip to Kauai. Gus had it tucked inside his jacket - just in case, John said, but he trusted the thing about as far as he could throw the Sassafras.
The sign for Ohi Pl 1 Mile, appeared in his headlight, like a harbinger of doom. Testicles still creeping upwards, he backed off the throttle, and kicked down the gears, slowing the bike. Last goddamned thing he needed was to catch air at the off ramp. Then again, it might end his suffering - a tempting thought, perhaps, but he resisted the urge.
Nothing about this felt right. There should be streetlights and ambient light from houses and shop windows, not pitch blackness, filled with all sorts of bad things. He kept going.
Ohi curved and looped back toward the wharf. At least the map had it right, so far. He slowed, rolling along in second gear. Zombies...Come out to plaaaaaay..., he said to himself in a bad imitation of the psycho from The Warriors. Always loved that movie. The crew used to watch it two or three times a month on the Planetree, up in Alaska. Never got old.
He did, though. He got real old, and felt every second of those years now.
Quit whining, Gus.
A zombie popped up from a stand of trees off to the right. It stared at the bike, like a small animal might gape at a big cat - confused, but wary. Didn’t atay that way, though. As if some internal switch got flipped from off, to freak the fuck out, it started to howl, loud and wild enough to be heard over the deep thrum of the Harley.
Gus’s balls crept up another couple inches. They’d be bouncing off his heart in a minute.
Two more popped up on the left, and three appeared out of nowhere ahead of him, each taking up the call, as if trying out for the Devil’s Tabernacle Choir. The harmonies sucked, but damn, it was effective.
Goose the throttle. Pick up speed. Bike don’t fail me now.
The headlamp flickered again. His testicles bypassed the heart and headed straight to his collarbone. The motor sputtered.
Three more zombies came loping around the corner to his right, stumbling like drunks at a raging kegger. He goosed the throttle, wanting more speed. The engine coughed, popped, sputtered again, then smoothed out.
A whole gang of the bastards were waiting for him at the back of the next looping curve, strung across the road like a construction barrier. Do not enter.
No choice. He gunned the bike. It choked, farted, then roared forward, heading toward them.
Any normal human beings, not driven insane by the Pomona Virus, would have scattered. No such luck. Ducking behind the wind screen, he kicked the bike into the next gear, then the next, twisting the throttle and hoping like Hell the piece of shit didn’t make him dead.
A Refrigerator Perry-sized zombie jumped right in front of him, reaching with Frisbee-sized hands for Gus’s throat. The windscreen spidered as it smashed against the giant fingers, and the bike rocked, almost tipping, as it rode through the fat fuck. Twisting the handlebars to regain balance, he gunned the engine again, and again it coughed.
His balls had left the building. He kept going, trailed by who knew how many zombies.
The left mirror, now smashed, dangled from its moorings. The right, however, showed the cavalcade of crazed assholes growing smaller, more distant. He needed to slow down. He needed to get the flying fuck out of Dodge. He needed to be sitting by a camp fire, smoking a stogie, eating beer brats and potato salad.
He slowed down. The zombies caught up.
The road came to a T-junction. Right or left? To the right shambled another, larger crowd of nightmares. Left it is!
Ahead, nothing; behind, death on toast with a side of get me the Hell out of here. The headlamp flickered, then went out. Hello darkness, my old friend. Fuck off and don’t come back again...
A thin wire dangled from the lamp housing. Gus knew better. Never play with shit you don’t understand. Sage advice. If only he’d taken it.
The moment his fingers touched the thin strand, the motor burped, sputtered, coughed, farted, and died. His hand jerked in surprise, brushing the wire, and the bike coughed again. It shimmied, rattled, died.
He snapped a look into the right mirror. The crowd was gaining. Another brush of fingers, another cough, then silence, as the bike kept rolling. “Fuck!” he screamed, and started twiddling that wire like mad, goosing the throttle at every cough, every sputter, every bit of mechanical flatulence. The motor caught, revved, smoothed out.
“That’s enough for me!” He shouted to the wind. The bike lurched forward. The low, rectangular warehouse at the town side of the wharf appeared at the end of the street. I am outa here!
73
Port Allen Wharf
Hanapepe Bay
“Are you sure this is gonna work?” Harold asked, staring at the fifty-five gallon barrel sitting in the middle of the vacant parking lot. What looked like a boom box sat atop it, seeming utterly out of place.
“Of course,” Dan McMullen replied.
They were standing on the roof of the warehouse nearest to Aka Ula Street, the road separating the wharf from the tank farm, containing God knew how many thousands of gallons of fuel. This would be key, Harold thought, because if McMullen’s plan didn’t work - or, rather, if it worked too well - the lot of them would soon be human barbecue.
Harold, Dan, Gary, Ms. Gordon, her Uncle John, and that new kid, Jeri Weaver, all turned at the sound of a sputtering engine. They’d been hearing it, way in the background, since Gus Perniola left them, a half-hour ago - the night being just that silent in this apocalyptic shell of what used to be a pretty cool town, from the looks of it.
Roughly twenty-five hundred people called it home, once upon a time. How many of those were now dead, how many of those were now NOT-zombies (still didn’t want to use the z-word), were questions for which Harold had no answer, but he suspected and feared they’d be finding out as soon as the motorcycle made its way back to the wharf.
This whole thing was fucked, in his not-remotely humble opinion. There could be a couple thousand of those crazy assholes heading their way, and all they had was a fifty-five gallon drum of homemade Napalm - and a fifty-caliber machine gun.
His hand rested on the weapon, which sat on a tripod. It’s presence made him feel...not exactly secure, but better about their chances, which seemed skinny as a crack whore.
The motorcycle roared into sight. Nothing followed it. No hoard of insane, homicidal, probably naked, certainly pissed off creatures lurched into view as the bike skidded to a stop at the base of the ladder leading to the roof. He watched in growing anxiety, as Gus hopped off, shoved the thing to the ground, gave it a good kick, and hopped onto the ladder.
This was not good.
74
Eleele Road
Port Allen, Kauai
Fifty - at least fifty - zombies shambled past, following the noise of the Harley. Jonesy and Duke scrunched down almost below the level of the bread truck windshield, even though it probably wasn’t necessary. They were parked, with the engine off, at the side of a large house, near the corner of Eleele and some other road with a shitload of vowels in the name. So far, the plan was working.
A bit too well, Jonesy though
t, as another, larger group of the creatures with as-yet-to-be-agreed-upon nomenclature, came down the vowel-heavy street and joined the first group, turning both into one gigantic column of walking death.
“How many Assholes are there?” Duke muttered.
“Is that the name we’re using now?” Jonesy asked. The debate over what to call the zombies had continued - primarily because Harold just refused to shut the fuck up about it. He did have a point. They weren’t technically zombies, since they weren’t dead, as such. But since the purpose of this exercise was to kill as many as they possibly could, Jonesy preferred to de-humanize them as much as possible - if only to preserve his own sanity.
“Fuck, I don’t know,” Duke grumbled. “We can call them Ass-Clowns, for all I care, just so long as we kill them all.”
“Big if,” Jonesy replied. “Because if we can’t...”
“That would suck.”
“You think?”
“I always got my hammers,” Duke said, tapping his preferred weapons.
Jonesy looked at him. “I worry about you.”
75
USCGC Sassafras
Hanapepe Bay
“I’m worried about them,” Samantha Gordon said, picking up the binoculars and looking toward the wharf for about the ten thousandth time - and with the same result: nothing. They couldn’t see the vacant lot from their position on the Bridge - herself and Lane Keely, who’d stayed aboard while the others went to...? What, exactly, they were doing, Samantha did not know, because her ever-protective (over-protective) father made sure she didn’t know.
She thought of getting Mr. Keely to tell her, but the odds of that happening were approximately the same as her odds of ever having a life: zilch. Negative zilch. Negative zilch to the negative power, minus a million, billion.
“They’ll be alright,” Mr. Keely said. He was a nice enough guy - old, like her father, of course, but that was okay. At least he wasn’t a jerk like the Nutty Professor.
Socrates Jones was over there, too, and he definitely wasn’t a jerk. He was probably being all brave, and that’s what had her worried. Sure, she cared what happened to her Dad, and her cousin, and everybody else, but Jonesy - sweet Jonesy - always seemed to be right in the thick of things. Of course he was. On top of being gorgeous and sweet, and the object of her unrequited love, he was a hero. Even her Dad thought so. But he never acted like it, never seemed to be like those idiots in High School, the jocks, the Quarterbacks, the Big Man on Campus, those ever-so popular freaks of nature who’d never given her the time of day - let alone acknowledged her existence, or stooped to actually speak words in her general direction.
Assholes, She whispered the word, even inside her own head.
Not Jonesy, she thought, with a swelling, secret heart. He was over there rescuing people, being kind, and noble, and just the nicest guy ever.
76
Residential Neighborhood
Port Allen, Kauai
“Move you fucking idiot!” Jonesy shouted at the tall blonde woman, standing in the middle of the street, staring vapidly into the open back doors of the bread truck.
They’d found seven survivors, so far, and most came willingly - enthusiastically. Two of them gave him rib-cracking hugs. But this stupid bitch, with her bleached hair and clearly fake tits, just stood there, as if waiting for an engraved invitation.
The street seemed empty, but after seeing the zombie parade marching toward the wharf, Jonesy found himself disinclined to trust it to stay that way. Now, if only the idiot in high heels would get moving...
Who wore high heels to an apocalypse, anyway? This wasn’t rocket science. This was survival, at its most basic level, and it looked like Social Darwinism wasn’t working. “What’s the problem?” He demanded of her.
“It’s dirty in there,” she squeaked - actually squeaked - her voice sounding like a mouse breathing helium. “And I don’t particularly like your attitude.”
Jonesy stared at her with a combination of frustration and a strong desire to be violent - again - for a moment, before suggesting: “If you’d rather stay here and get eaten by zombies...”
She stared back at him, the flush in her Botox-flattened face indicating her continued displeasure. He was about to go grab the bitch and toss her in, when they heard a howl, coming from down the street.
She got in the truck.
77
Seaplane Wallbanger
Johnston Atoll
“Get in the damned plane,” Jim barked. Clarence Duprovnik, the man on the radio, the man with the bad aim, was being uncooperative. Still.
“I don’t trust that bastard,” the Representative of US Fish and Wildlife said, indicating Harvey Walton, who sat, placidly smiling, in the pilot’s seat. The two of them had been arguing all goddamned night long, and Jim was sick and tired of listening.
“I don’t trust him, either,” Jim admitted. “But unless you can fly the plane...?” They’d decided to spend the night on Johnston Atoll, rather than risk flying blind, in the dark, without any real way to navigate. Jim supposed he could have taken a star fix, if he’d thought to bring a sextant, calculator, sight reduction tables, and air and nautical almanacs, but - what a shock - he hadn’t. So they spent the night.
And the two of them had argued all fucking night long. Somebody was about ot get his ass kicked, and Jim wasn’t particularly choosy about which one it would be.
“No, I can’t but...”
“Then shut the fuck up and get on the plane,”: Jim growled.
The eastern horizon glowed, a lighter shade than the deep indigo of night, the sun not quite rising. Wouldn’t take long, this close to the Equator. It’d be full light in less than half an hour. He and Walton had motored over to the tiny island where Harvey stashed his fuel, filled the plane, then gathered the three survivors. Two of them were now on board. And the third...?
Jim didn’t know and didn’t care about the source of their feud, didn’t care if the two of them bitch-slapped each other like a couple of little girls, as long as the asshole got on board, so they could get off this pestilential atoll. “Get on board, or I’ll hogtie you and throw you on board,” he said, in his best, most intimidating voice. It worked.
He dropped into the co-pilot’s seat and strapped in. With a game show model wave of his hand, he invited Walton to fly the plane. The two engines on the wings overhead, which had already been running, revved, as the throttles were pushed. They began to taxi.
The radio crackled in Jim’s ear.
“...ar...this...OMSTA...”
“COMMSTA Honolulu, this is Polar Star. Go ahead, over.” The signal from the ship came through loud and clear. They were close - at least closer than the COMMSTA.
Jim and Harvey looked at each other. Harvey shrugged.
Their original mission was to find Polar Star. Now, it appeared, they had. Jim turned on the Radio Direction Finder.
78
USCGC Polar Star
14.770208N 176.077880W
“Now, set Flight Quarters Condition One, secure all outside doors and hatches. The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship. Starboard Section on deck. Set Flight Quarters Condition One.” BM3/OPS Greg Reilly unkeyed the 1-MC, and hit the piercing Chemical Alarm, its wail shattering the early morning silence even more than his pipe had.
“That ought to wake everybody up,” the Master Chief grinned. He seemed to take great pleasure in such things as early wake-up calls - as long as he wasn’t the recipient. Horror stories of BMOW’s getting verbally skinned alive when called upon to wake him were both legion and legend.
LT Steven Wheeler grinned back at him. He kind of enjoyed it, too, in a misery loves company sort of way. He picked up the binoculars and scanned the horizon to the East. The sun had just turned from red to orange, and would soon be bright yellow and impossible to look at without shades. He tapped the bill of his ball cap to make sure his were in their proper place.
The Captain ordered a helo launch, so they
were launching the helo. Didn’t make much sense. COMMSTA Honolulu lay some eight hundred miles distant - well beyond the range of an HH-65 helicopter. They hadn’t seen anybody or anything in well over a week, and then it was only a derelict sailboat with a clearly dead body out on deck. Birds had been perched upon it, eating. The subject of investigating was broached, then rejected. They were not infected. The sailboat was.
What, exactly, they would do if the helo found something or someone remained a mystery. The Captain wanted a forward screen to scout the way. Wheeler felt certain the resulting report would turn out to be something along the lines of: Lots of water, really wet water, maybe a few dolphin, but Hall wanted them to launch, so...
The airedales were getting stir crazy, anyway. So was the whole crew, comes to that. But the pilots needed minimum hours in the air, and sitting on their butts in the hanger wasn’t getting it done.
Maybe it came down to finally being able to do something. Definitive communication with the outside world breathed new life into the crew. He could see it in their faces, in the way they moved, in the way they walked and talked and carried out their daily routine. Other people had survived. The world wasn’t dead, yet.
Of course, the question of what they would do when they got to Honolulu hung over every meeting in the Wardroom, every meal, every watch. They weren’t infected. The rest of the world was. MOPP Level 4 would only get them so far.
He heard a door opening, then Reilly’s voice: “Captain on the Bridge!”
He turned and faced the CO. “Morning, sir.”
“Let’s get them airborne, Lieutenant.”
79
Port Allen Wharf
Hanapepe Bay
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 19
