Man Eaters (Book 2): The Horde

by Linda Kay Silva

  Dallas cut her eyes over to Roper. “And?”

  “And I told them that life on the swamp without the rest of us would be a much harder one. I tried to convince them that Angola is a much better choice.” He leaned between the front seats toward Roper. “It is, right?”

  “It will be, yes. Once we start drawing them to us, you’ll be amazed at how many we’ll put down. For good. It will feel really good and give us a purpose.”

  “A purpose?”

  Roper nodded. “People need a reason to get up in the morning. No one wants to just survive or just exist not knowing whether or not there will be a tomorrow. We need to take an active role in paving the way for our future. We’re making zombie extermination one of the roads to that future.”

  “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Churchill’s face lit up. “And so we go on. So, what are we going to do?”

  Roper handed him a megaphone. “Make an announcement for survivors to come out. Tell them we have a safe place, food, security, and enough ammo to keep everyone safe. If they can, raise any kind of flag and we’ll come by and get them. Do it from the turret so we don’t appear too afraid to be seen.”

  Taking the megaphone, Churchill nodded. “I can do that, but you really think people will reply? We all know those fuckers like bright lights and loud noises. Attracting them to the Beast might not be such a good idea.”

  “That depends on how long they’ve been without food or water. Those desperate enough will be on the move and will at least want a place for a moment to rest up. Those are the ones we want.”

  “And the Bubbas and the Jethros? You know all those wide bodies want our ride. What if they come a knockin’?”

  “Doesn’t really matter what they want. We’re not recruiting Jethros. We’re looking for innocent survivors who are looking for a little security, not guys who want to bully people into submission.”

  “Roger that.” Taking the megaphone, Churchill grinned at Roper on his way up the ladder. “Think I oughtta just say, Calling all fairies, trannies, dykes, and femmes?”

  He was still laughing when he opened the lid.

  “That guy’s six Sundays to crazy,” Dallas said.

  “Yes he is, but he’s all ours.”

  ****

  Einstein’s Log

  Dallas and Roper went into town to get more survivors. I am not at all sure they have a realistic image of what it is going to take to get a prison up and running. Killing everyone in there is going to take days. Then we have to burn the bodies. All while trying to keep it secure. It worries me.

  I am not alone, either. Cass thinks it’s suicide. Hey, we both read the graphic novel The Walking Dead. I played all of the Resident Evil games. We know what could happen in close quarters. Unless Dallas grabs a whole lot more people, this thing could slide sideways on us in a heartbeat.

  I surprise myself by being a naysayer, and I know why. I kinda like Cass, and the thought of something happening to her makes my heart hurt. No, I don’t think she could ever like me like that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream.

  And I do.

  I think she’s beautiful, and I watch her all the time. To be honest, I think one of those douche Jones kids has a thing for her, so I am thrilled we’re leaving them behind. They won’t last. Not without Dallas. They are too loud and too messy. If the man eaters don’t get them, the ‘gators will.

  I can’t say I am looking forward to going back out on the road. It’s uber dangerous out there, with every kind of miscreant wanting the Fuchs. Can’t blame them. We’re alive because of the Beast. It’s like its own little fortress. There was a time when I wished we could just cruise from place to place in it, but no one wants to be on the run that much.

  The road is the most dangerous place to be.

  I worry about the numbers heading toward the Military Zone. Maybe that’s been their plan all along…to do what we want to do and lure the things to them. I have no idea how many soldiers we have left. I just know that, by my mathematical calculations, there are at least two hundred million zombies in the USA, and if the military hasn’t been thinning the herd, we’ll be looking at at least a hundred million or so roaming the countryside and heading toward the MZ. I hope for their sake they have enough ammo because I’ve done the math and it doesn’t look good. To kill two hundred million of them in the next twelve months would mean they’d have to kill nearly half a million a day for a year.

  A day.

  That means they’d have to kill 22,838 an hour or almost 400 a minute.

  400 a minute.

  And that’s in a twenty-four hour period. That means non-stop shooting. That would require fresh troops, fresh shooters, fresh ammo, fresh everything. Cut those numbers in half for a two-year attack, and you can see just how difficult it would be to eradicate two hundred million undead.

  I guess the end game for me is that I’ll go wherever Dallas takes us. She’s got a good head on her shoulders and has seldom made a wrong turn or poor decision.

  After all, we are family…but I won’t admit it out loud. In the movies, as soon as the kid gets comfortable in his environment, he’s killed off. I don’t want to be killed off. I like living too much.

  And I need at least one shot with Cass before I die.

  Just one.

  ****

  The drive took almost an hour. Even though they’d previously paved a way through to town, the roads were still a mess; there were bones that could easily puncture a normal car tire, and there were zombies still roaming in search of tender, living flesh.

  “I’m amazed at how quickly civilization done crumbled,” Churchill said, peering out the back port in the Fuchs. He had swallowed too many bugs up top, so he came down until they were closer to the city. “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  Roper chuckled. “Good old Winston. He never was at a loss for words, was he?”

  “It’s not hell, but it sure is close,” Dallas muttered. “Weeds trump cement. Water trumps wood. Roots trump steel. Every time we come to town, it looks like a nuclear bomb went off.”

  “Nature always takes back what man stole,” Roper said softly. “If we don’t fight to maintain our hold on it, we’ll have to start from scratch, and I’m not sure we have either the manpower or the resources for that.”

  “I wish there was some way to explain to all the other survivors about the gay gene and what it means to our survival as a whole now. It might give people hope.”

  Roper chuffed and shook her head. “Even in this apocalyptic world, the Bible thumpers won’t buy it. We need to throw our net out far and wide in the hopes of getting enough gays for a…garmy.”

  Churchill threw his head back and laughed. “I knew it’d catch on!”

  They drove through nearly deserted streets, seeing the occasional man eater wandering without a clue, moaning that sound they’d all come to loathe. When they finally came to a group of twelve zombies clawing at the front door of one of the many historical homes in the Garden District, Dallas stopped the Fuchs while Churchill scooted up the ladder and opened the hatch.

  “If you’re alive,” he said, his mouth to the megaphone, “put a flag out somewhere where we can see it. We will kill them zombies at your front door. When I say run for it, don’t hesitate. We will move along without you if you do not hustle it up.”

  Dallas looked over at Roper, who grabbed her machete. She looked at it, then shook her head and opted for one of a dozen aluminum baseball bats they kept in the Fuchs.

  “Time to crush some skulls.”

  “Be careful,” Dallas said quietly, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

  “You know, even after all the times they’ve never bitten me, I’m still not quite one hundred percent sure they won’t.”

  “Good. Don’t be. Stay on your toes and don’t get cocky. Kill those by the front door, but do not go in.” Dallas turned and saw a flag in the top window. “Once the last ea
ter is down, get your ass back in here.” Dallas set her rifle on her lap. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “You won’t have to. Open the ramp when you see me heading back.” Grabbing the bat, Roper waited for Churchill to join her before jumping out the passenger side door and slamming it shut.

  Roper and Churchill walked up to the moaning zombies and, from the back of the crowd, took out the first three with only three swings: Two machete slices and one well-placed baseball bat swing and the first three fell to the ground at their feet.

  Truly dead.

  When the fourth undead fell forward into the guy in front of him, several turned toward the duo.

  “This is always the hardest part for me—waiting to see if they view me as zombie chow,” Churchill mumbled. “Fucking fucks.”

  Roper nodded, squeezing the bat handle tightly before taking a full swing at the nearest head. The neck made a loud popping sound as the skull tore away from the spine. The zombie dropped like a stone.

  Less than two minutes later, every zombie lay unmoving in front of the door.

  “It’s so weird they never know they’re being attacked.” Churchill said, wiping both machetes off on the grass. “If you have an important point to make, don’t try to be subtle or clever. Use a pile driver. Hit the point once. Then come back and hit it again. Then hit it a third time—a tremendous whack.”

  Roper cocked her head. “Sounds like Winston was a zombie killer.”

  “Nah. Just a really smart dude who’d be trying to figure out why people’s minds are alive but they still don’t think. Sorta like the eaters.”

  “They don’t think. They don’t feel.” Roper cupped her hands together and yelled, “It’s safe to come out now.”

  She and Churchill walked backwards to the Fuchs just as the back ramp lowered.

  The living were often more dangerous than the undead, so when they returned to the Fuchs, Roper pulled out her sidearm and Churchill ran back up the ladder to make his announcement and give the all clear signal. Then he gave the two-minute warning telling the people they had two minutes to come out or they would be left behind.

  The five young men who exited the house were all wearing identical letterman jackets of purple and gold. They stood, to a one, over six feet tall and wore the fear of God on their gaunt faces.

  “Holy mother of Mary,” Churchill muttered. “We hit the jackpot.”

  When the shortest of them got to the Fuchs first, he looked at Roper, looked around, and then asked, “Where’re the guys who killed all these shitheads?”

  “You’re looking at her,” Roper said tersely.

  The young man shook his head and backed up. “Uh uh. No way.”

  Just then, Churchill came down the ladder. “No way what? No way a woman and a fairy could frag those ghouls? Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing had happened. You can accept it or hurry on, but the two of us kicked they asses in less time than it takes you to wipe yours. You don’t wanna come, then go on back in the house and let’s see how many days you got left.”

  The young man’s eyes darted here and there as he tried to figure out what to do. His name was embroidered on his jacket and said Holinbaugh. “My guys thought––”

  “Man, it don’t matter what they thought. Look around you. Look at this armored car. At our weapons. We got all these toys and ya’ll were just pinned inna house. Don’t take a rocket scientist to see who’s got it going on. We’re planning on going after these fuckers. You know, taking the fight to them. If that sounds like––”

  Suddenly, a moan came from around the corner of the house, and before the kid could make a run for it, Roper crushed the zombie’s skull with one heavy swing of her bat.

  Holinbaugh’s eyes grew wide. “Hell yeah, we’re in!” Turning to the door, he motioned for his friends to get in the Fuchs, and they were in so quickly, Roper hadn’t a chance to ask another question as she followed them into the Beast.

  When the ramp rose, Roper tucked her gun into her pants and blocked the way to the cab.

  “Churchill here will check your arms, neck and shoulders for any bite marks. If you’ve been bitten, we’ll shoot you right now unless you ask to leave the vehicle. Any of you been bitten?”

  They all shook their heads in silence.

  Roper pulled out her antiquated yet powerful .357 magnum. “Not shitting you fellas. Speak now or eat lead if you’ve been bitten.”

  “I swear, none of us have been bitten.”

  She leaned over to Holinbaugh. “So, you in charge of your little group?”

  “Sorta. I’m Tim Holinbaugh, but my friends call me Hole. We’re what’s left of the LSU basketball team.”

  “I’m Roper. This is Churchill, and the driver is Dallas. We’re moving forty people to Angola State Prison to make a stand against these things. If you wanna fight to live, or live to fight, you’re welcome to join us. Otherwise, we’ll drop you off at the next safe place we come to.”

  Hole looked at his friends who were all shaking their heads. “Well, actually, we heard about a group of survivors in the bayou and we were heading out there.”

  “Yeah,” one skinny guy said. “We heard they got a safe place and food and guns.”

  Roper almost grinned. “We do, but we’re leaving.”

  The basketball players all looked stupefied.

  “Our leader is that woman,” Churchill said flatly, jutting his chin toward Dallas. “And she’s gonna lead us to Angola and into a war against these motherfuckers. We’re in the city today looking for able-bodied fighters like yourselves.”

  Hole looked at his teammates and shrugged. “’Sup to you guys.”

  “You kidding us?” A dark-eyed player with fifties style sideburns asked. “Did you see her whack that dude’s head off? Give me a bat and I’ll fucking smoke these guys. I shoulda been a baseballer anyhow.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Yeah. Make it unan, captain. We need to go kick the shit outta those things, and if these two women can do it, I’m all in.”

  “I’m with Stilts. I’m tired of running. Fuck it. I’m just plain tired.”

  The others looked to one another.

  “What do we need to do?” Hole asked.

  “You need to be able to kill or dig ditches, or do whatever needs to be done. There are no divas on our team. Everyone does the shit work. Everyone.”

  “Like a team,” Churchill added. “Loners or rebels need not apply. Play the game for more than you can afford to lose… only then will you learn the game. We’re willing to teach you the game.”

  “Can I have a second with my guys?” asked Hole.

  Roper laid the magnum across her chest, the silver reflecting the sunlight. “But let’s be really clear here, fellas. You even think about trying to take this vehicle from us and you’ll all be dead before you hit the floor. Capisce?”

  All five stared at the gun for a moment before nodding.

  “You have two minutes, then we’re outta here. We’re burning daylight as it is.”

  “Trust me, guys, she’s not bluffing.” Churchill stood in the space vacated by Roper, who joined Dallas in the cab. “Bigger, badder asses than you have tried to take their ride, and they’re all dead meat, know what I mean?” Churchill stood by the ramp as it lowered and the five young men exited the Fuchs.

  Hole was back in less than thirty. “We’re in.”

  Once the ramp shut, the Fuchs started back into the city.

  “Good find?” Dallas asked, steering in and out of abandoned cars when Roper returned to the passenger seat.

  “Don’t know yet. Strong, healthy boys are always a plus, right?”

  “I imagine Churchill thinks so, yes.”

  “I can hear you!”

  Dallas and Roper laughed a laugh that was cut short.

  “Bogeys at ten o’clock,” Dallas announced, slowing down.

  Roper replaced her weapon in its holster before gra
bbing her bat. “Pull your gun out in case those boys do something stupid.”

  Dallas did so as she pressed the button releasing the ramp. “Be quick about it.”

  “Roger that. You guys just sit still,” Roper said. “Just watch and learn.” Jerking her head at Churchill, Roper was off the ramp before it landed, at the same time Churchill made his announcement.

  When Churchill scrambled back down the ladder, he pulled his machetes out and joined Roper, who was facing a boarded up house with peeling blue paint that had probably been that way since Katrina or Sandy. “They’re in serious moan mode, Roper. Wonder how many they have in there?”

  Roper looked up at the third story window and saw a flag. “Third floor. Let’s clean these out and see what we’ve got.”

  “After you.”

  Roper killed the first five zombies she came to with only five swings of her bat. None of the man eaters even looked at her or Churchill even as they decapitated and smashed skulls.

  One minute later, when all the undead were finally truly dead, Roper pounded on the front door.

  Nothing.

  Churchill yelled, “Open the door!”

  Someone yelled down, “We can’t, we’re barricaded in!”

  Churchill looked to Roper, who shrugged. “Easiest way in is through that window.” Churchill shook his head. “I’m not getting cut to shreds for anyone.”

  Suddenly, they heard an upper window slide open. “Don’t leave us! We’re here! Up here!” It was a woman’s voice, but she was too far away for Roper to tell how old she was. “I think we can move everything out of our way, just don’t leave!”

  “How many of you?” Roper called up.

  “Three, with one injured. We can’t move her, though, without help.”

  “Remove the barricades and we’ll come up. How badly injured?”

  “We think she has a broken arm. It’s hard to tell.”

  Churchill and Roper stepped back from the door to dispatch four more zombies who’d heard the yelling and came to investigate.

  When the front door finally opened, Roper realized the woman was in her late forties, early fifties, had a large gash across her forehead, and dark, tired eyes that said she lacked sleep.