Dead Man's Party

by Nathan Robert Brown

  “It’s not,” Mike said simply. “The Blazer sort of died the other day.”

  “WHAT? How did my armored, customized Blazer die? Did you fuckers drive it off a goddamn cliff or through a McDonalds or something equally retarded?”

  “You know me and machines don’t agree if I’m poking around their innards—”

  “You were poking around the Blazer’s engine? Why in the fuck would you need to do that?”

  “Chill, Hanse. Not me. Joseph did the poking around and fixing. If I followed him right, a bunch of sharp stuff, including a human bone, stabbed the radiator, and a zombie made the oil leak, and the engine kinda died. Made for an interesting morning that day, let me tell you.”

  Hanse shook his head, knowing Mike knew the exact expression on his face. “You better tell me the whole story over a bottle of Cuervo when you get here. So get your sorry ass in gear, and quit making me feel like a fucking mother hen,” Hanse said, barely taking a breath. “Your crew is welcome. And thanks for thinking to grab extra supplies; though I got plenty since only four of my guys made it.”

  “Alright,” Mike chuckled. “One bottle of Cuervo and the whole story. Listen we should be rolling outta here tomorrow or the next day. Depending on how badly the roads are fucked, it should only take us two days to get to you. I’ll call when we’re close so ya’ll can meet us at the turn off.”

  “See you at the ORP, ya dumb grunt,” Hanse said.

  “Bet your ass, you lousy grease monkey,” Mike answered.

  Hanse sat on his roof with his head down. He said a silent thanks to whatever deity happened to be listening. From the silent thanks, Hanse’s thoughts turned immediately to his list of supplies and from there to what preparations needed to be made.

  No doubt he’d have enough food and water to go around, but with two extra bodies inbound, he'd need to ready the other two bedrooms. He wondered how he would keep everyone busy, sitting idle leads to too many problems.

  Hanse popped to his feet in one motion then stalked over to the ladder. For the first time since things started going south and the dead started walking, he was, though it wouldn’t occur to him for several days, happy. He was happy his friend had so far survived the worst shit-storm either of them had ever seen.

  ***

  The inside of Hanse’s house was surprisingly comfortable despite the utilitarian nature of the design. Plenty of comfortable furniture in the common areas to seat ten to twelve people and well planned open space to match. Most of the lighting came from overhead, recessed track-lights controlled by dimmer switches and high windows to catch sun light.

  The kitchen had an island stove, two pantries, two ovens, and enough space for two people to pass without touching. Attached to the west end of the kitchen sat the formal dinning room. Ten high-backed chairs surrounded oak table. Hanse hung a single poster in the living room, dining room and den, just so all the walls weren't completely bare—a canary yellow 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, a red with black racing stripes 1967 Chevy Camaro, and a cobalt blue 1969 Chevy Impala respectively.

  All five bedrooms could have been master bedrooms of a suburban home. The two bedrooms closest to the stairs had a pair of bunk beds and four small dressers. The next two bedrooms sported two full-sized beds and two dressers. Hanse’s room held his wardrobe, a Marine-issue fold-out cot, and several weapons.

  Over dinner, Hanse told the survivors from Moto-man Transport that the bunk assignments were changing due to Mike’s anticipated arrival. Two of the men who shared a room with two full beds started to protest.

  “First off, I owe that Marine my life, so he gets the best I have to offer. Second, ya’ll don’t have that much to move. Third, I’m thinking the other room with full beds needs to become a sparring room or weight room,” Hanse said, quieting the protests. He repeated himself in Yiddish for Or’s benefit, not that Or would complain so long as he had a safe place to sleep.

  The other men stopped protesting after Hanse laid out his decision. When you owe a man your life, you take care of him like family; that was something they understood and respected. Not to mention none of them really cared to cross their former employer and now landlord.

  ***

  Joseph stopped at the front door of the three-bedroom house. The two cadets on the raiding team with Mike and he had already carted out the last of the goods the team planned to take.

  “I almost forgot,” Joseph said and turned back in to the house. Mike had his back to Joseph and turned just in time to see him duck back inside.

  Mike walked to the end of the short, divided entryway. He stopped with his back to the hallway and looked in the living room.

  “Joe, damnit! What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “Jackpot,” Joseph said, standing up. From the cabinet under the stereo, he produced a CD binder. He cracked a smile. “Sorry man, I just take anymore listening to static and wind.”

  Mike grinned back. “Come on, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  Joseph started toward Mike and stopped. He jerked his pistol awkwardly out of the holster. Over Mike’s right shoulder, he could see a pale face with dark hair matted to around it. The raid team they were part of had cleared the living room and kitchen but stayed away from the bathrooms and bedrooms.

  Mistake's about to bite us in the ass.

  The zombie’s steps were short but quiet as it was barefoot and walking down a carpeted hallway. It had its mouth open but no sound came out as something had torn away most of the young woman’s windpipe.

  Joseph leveled his pistol just over Mike’s shoulder. “Down!” he yelled, just before the zombie grabbed Mike.

  Mike threw himself to his left, toward the front door. He tried to tuck himself into a roll so he would come up on his feet or at least his knees.

  Joseph didn’t wait for Mike. As soon as he’d yelled, he started to squeeze the trigger. The shot went wide and would have killed Mike if he’d have hesitated at all. Without meaning to, Joseph popped off a second shot that zipped into the ceiling a few feet past the zombie’s head.

  The zombie grabbed at Mike and tripped on her own intestines strung out behind her like an anchor line. She took a few more staggering steps toward Joseph with her eyes still firmly locked on Mike.

  Mike heard the double pop of Joseph’s pistol as he landed on his butt. He pulled the Desert Eagle and sighted in on the zombie’s head. She’d been close, too close. He focused and put a .44 round under the zombie’s chin.

  At the same time, Joseph sighted her temple and squeezed the trigger. The round tore a four-inch hole out of the side of the zombie’s head. She fell to the floor, missing half her head.

  Joseph holstered his pistol and picked up his CD’s. He walked over to where Mike sat on the floor and helped the former Marine to his feet.

  “That was close,” Mike said.

  “Yeah. Whaddya say we go out side with the others?”

  The NMMI cadets stood back to back, one of them with his weapon aimed at the door and the other watching for movement in the street and neighboring yards.

  “We’re clear,” Joseph yelled before stepping into the doorway.

  “Clear,” the cadet watching the door echoed, lowering his weapon. Joseph and Mike exited the house as the cadets climbed aboard the bus.

  Joseph stopped at the door of the bus and faced Mike. He assumed a horse stance with his hands on his knees.

  “OK, I’m ready,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed.

  “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

  Joseph opened his eyes. “You said if I ever did the action-movie-shoot-over-your-shoulder-bullshit you’d kick me in the nuts. In the house, I figured you kicking me was better than you being bitten.”

  Mike doubled over laughing. “Joseph, man, you are too much.” He laughed some more. Between ragged breaths, he said, “Just get on the bus.”

  Joseph relaxed and climbed on to the bus. Mike dropped in to one of the open chairs, still laughing.

  “I c
an’t believe you actually remember that.” Mike took a couple of breaths. “I ain’t going to kick you. A, you warned me before you shot. B, you saved my ass.”

  Mike laughed again. When he finally calmed down, he looked at Joseph.

  “I’m glad I ran in to you, Joe. You know, if you’d have joined up, you’d have been a damn fine Marine.”

  “Glad you think so,” Joseph said. “I think that’s enough. Let’s head back.”

  One of the cadets drove the bus back to the box while Joseph started idly flipping through his new collection of CDs.

  Chapter 9

  Stranglehold

  Gunny Thorn chose a peninsula on the eastern end of Key Largo just west of a golf course to establish their beachhead. Two avenues of approach a few hundred yards wide were the only way into the neighborhoods. The Marines spent the better part of a week carving a clean zone. Seven long days of room-by-room searches punctuated by finding dropped body parts and mutilated corpses.

  Erik thought with an entire company it would have gone more quickly, even taking into account an entire platoon at a time stood guard for the civilians and sweep teams. The leadership insisted on taking things slow, lots of breaks. Plus there was the matter of clearing the streets so they could safely approach a house in the first place.

  Everyone felt entirely too exposed the first few nights. The LMTVs full of civilians and National Guard lined up in the middle of the road. Hummers sporting mounted 50 cals partnered with a LMTV with a platoon of Marines took position one on each side of the convoy.

  Now, a platoon and almost half of the civilians, mostly the men and teenage boys, worked to create a double wall of cars rolled on their sides. The demo squad used explosives to quickly clear the foliage on the north side of the throat.

  In the course of clearing the neighborhoods, they lost three men to zombie bites. Erik was at once happy and sad that he didn’t know any of them. Gunny Thorn had sat with each man until the bite did its lethal work; then he'd shot the man in the head.

  Four more men killed themselves after a couple days of having to shoot child zombies and walking in to find kids had ripped their parents apart or vice-versa. Erik felt bad for the guys assigned to recover equipment and belongings from the dead soldiers. So far that was a duty he’d escaped, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He stopped thinking about it.

  The sun started arching over toward the western horizon while Eric tried to hear his favorite song in his head while he stood guard in the front door of a house near where the other crew worked to create a permanent defensive perimeter. Standing watch marked a house as “cleaning crew inside,” and he watched for zombies the sweeps had missed. This close to the perimeter there was always a stray or two who either crossed the woods (more like swamps) or managed to get out of whatever house they’d been trapped in.

  Inside two young men, three women and another Marine worked to make the house resemble livable for the refugees of the old world. Mostly, this involved putting all the dead owners’ photos and personal possessions in one room, drenching the house in disinfectants, and gathering up anything potentially useful for the community chest. The work gave people something to do so they wouldn’t have as much time to think. It also gave them purpose.

  The first house cleared and cleaned now served as the local command post and armory. It also doubled as town hall and court. The house immediately next door had been stripped of anything useful, the walls reinforced with some plywood out of the garage, and converted into a makeshift brig. It was empty, but Erik wondered for how long.

  Surely other people will start thinking like the ones who walked away from us on the bridge.

  A 10-year-old boy ran up the street from the command center and stopped in front of Erik. Erik waited for the kid to take a few breaths and give him the message. Bookie came up with the idea to use the younger kids to relay messages.

  The boy took three quick breaths and told Erik to have his team at the CP in twenty minutes by the captain’s orders. He ran to the next in-progress house and eventually to the barricade construction crew.

  Erik backed into the house he was guarding.

  “Finish up in five. We have to go,” he yelled.

  “Right. We’re about done anyway,” the other Marine answered.

  ***

  Johnny and another man, Casey, stood side by side in the door to the corner office.

  “You raped Nicole, you fucker,” Johnny growled with his fists clenched tight by his sides.

  “Shut up, boy. You’re just jealous that I did it first,” Chris snarled back. “What do you think you’re going to do about it anyway? None of you had what it took to—”

  Johnny charged. Casey hesitated only half a step. Chris waited for them to come around the desk. He let Johnny get his hands on his him. Johnny’s hands went straight for Chris’s throat. Chris laughed manically as he shoved the letter opener between Johnny’s ribs. He missed Johnny’s heart but punctured his lung. Johnny slammed Chris against the edge of the desk. Chris twisted the blade.

  Casey slapped his arm over Chris’s throat as Johnny’s hands slipped. He held Chris in a headlock, using the desk to keep him off balance. Chris flailed around trying to get some purchase or leverage. Flailing in near panic, Chris slapped a pen on the desk. He closed his fingers around it and stabbed at his assailant’s arm. The pen punched in and stuck in the man’s bicep.

  “FUCK!” Casey yelled and let go of Chris.

  Chris gasped for air and punched Casey in the throat. He grabbed the monitor off the desk and smashed it over Casey’s head. He went limp and blood poured from his nose.

  Johnny tried to scream in pain but only managed to gurgle when Chris ripped the knife from his chest. Chris wrapped his hands around Johnny’s throat and squeezed. He watched as Johnny struggled for air and choked on his own blood.

  Suddenly, he hauled the dying young man to his feet and shoved him into one of the windows along the wall. Johnny bounced off of the window. Chris shoved him again. And again, until the safety glass gave, and Johnny fell out the window, already mostly dead.

  Chris watched the speck that was Johnny shrink and slam into the gray sidewalk below.

  He dragged Casey's body to the window. Careful not to get too aggressive and let the body carry him out the window, Chris swung the body into a sitting position with its legs dangling over the edge. He was about to push the body over the edge when he felt it twitch. The dead eyes opened and looked at Chris. He shoved hard and sent the body out the window before it could try to bite him. Down the body tumbled through the air and landed on another speck on the ground.

  Chris Taylor stepped away from the broken-out forty-seventh story window of his office. He’d spent the last twenty minutes staring absently down at the street below, running the seven-inch letter opener coated in drying blood up and down his left forearm.

  Countless hours of staring at the chaos and bludgeoning a former co-worker to death finished awakening something long dormant. He’d buried it once before, when he was younger. It had been a challenge but the Strong Voice was weaker then. Now it had control, and it liked the sharp sensation that threatened to draw blood from his arm. It liked what it had done to Nicole, Johnny and Casey. The Strong Voice liked what it was about to do. Chris Taylor liked what he was about to do.

  He waited in the dark for one of the men to wander away from the group. The plan was simple: knock the man out, drag him back to the corner office, and make an example of him. He shifted the three-hole punch in his hand. It had become an increasingly comforting weight in his hands. After several hours of waiting, crouched in the shadows, he saw Lou Alexander walk around the corner to the new bathroom. Lou was perfect for what Chris had in mind. The man’s spirit was broken, he was as dazed as a zombie, and he’d been Johnny’s friend.

  When Lou’s hand touched the doorknob to the bathroom, Chris moved. Despite the lack of food, Chris was strong and quiet. He hit Lou once in the back of the head wit
h the hole-punch. The shot bounced Lou’s head off the wooden door in front of him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

  Chris dragged him back to the corner office. It took some doing to get the unconscious man in the big boss’s rolling chair and over to the window. He had no idea how long Lou would be out, so he called the others into the room. For a moment, Chris was worried that the others wouldn’t obey, that he would have to physically bring them in, one by one.

  To the Strong Voice’s relief, they gathered at the door, though they refused to enter the office.

  That’s fine. It’ll make this all the easier if no one is ready to interfere.

  He heard a few mutterings. “What happened to the window?” “Why is he bleeding?” “Oh my God, it’s Lou.”

  “Listen good. You don’t fuck with me. And you sure as hell don’t try to kill me. Johnny and Casey learned that the hard way. What you need to know is simple: If you fuck with me, I’ll kill you—”

  He looked at Lou, still unconscious in the chair.

  I really wish he was awake for this part. It’s exciting to see it in their eyes.

  Chris kicked the chair out the window.

  “Then I’ll kill someone else. Don’t fuck with me.” Chris crossed the room in six strides and slammed the door in everyone’s face.

  ***

  Most of the Marines and the civilians sat assembled on the front lawn of the command post. Gunny Thorn walked out of the command post, and the crowd jumped to its feet. The Marines naturally landed at attention; the civilians stood at a close approximation.

  “People, for once I have good news,” he said. The ship that originally dropped us off, will be landing shortly after sunrise day after tomorrow.”

  The crowd cheered. The Marines cheered because they knew what the ship carried. The civilians cheered because the Marines did, and that had to be a good sign.

  ***