by SP Durnin
“What does—”
“Dammit, fer once in yer fuckin’ life, put fuckin’ a muzzle on that fuckin’ mouth of yours and just fuckin’ listen!” He bellowed.
That caught Rae flat-footed. George looked entirely calm, so she hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic verbal slap-down. The top-heavy woman stood there with her mouth open as he pulled a soiled rag from his back pocket, wiped his face, and went on.
“Locking that system could cause some casualties fer defenders over the Rockies. Some a’ their units could get into a world a’ shit without an Eye in the Sky, right?”
“Yes! That was the whole goddamn point! I told you!”
“Would you wanna carry around knowledge that you caused them people ta’ get killed or turned inta’ maggot-heads, fer the rest of yer life?”
“Um…”
Groping another stogie from his vest pocket, George snorted a few times to test his new nose then lit up. “Didn’t think of that, did ya’? I did. And, nuthin’ against you personally, but can ya’ think of anyone else in our little group a’ numbskulls that would want somethin’ like that on their conscience? Yeah, me neither. Besides, I’m carryin’ around so much bad shit in my head anyway, what’s one more turd on the pile?”
“Is this a guy thing?” Rae’s eyes narrowed.
Foster threw his arms up momentarily. “Sweet baby Jesus on a flying fucking mountain bike, girl! Has nothin’ ta’ do with you havin’ great tits and me havin’ big, brass balls that drag the fuckin’ ground! You might be all right with killin’ the dead—even the occasional psycho ass-clown too, like them Purifiers back in Ohio—but puttin’ other folks in a shit-storm to keep your own people alive? That takes a little bit a’ cold-bloodedness. I don’t have no problems doin’ somethin’ like that fer a good reason. Keepin’ Mooney’s people and—more importantly—us breathin’? Yeah, that’s as good a reason as I can think of just now.”
Stogie clenched tightly in his molars, George brushed past her through the compartment hatch and into the second segment of the Mimi.
Surprise! Rae’s back-brain piped as she sat back down to stare at the communications console and absorb his explanation. It seems like Foster isn’t quite the uncaring curmudgeon you thought he was, doesn’t it? Maybe next time you’ll listen to me, and stop with the whole ‘feminine ego’ thing?
Rae told that little voice inside to shut up, but it didn’t listen.
When’s the last time you ran across anyone willing to basically commit treason for you? Because that’s pretty much what he just did, you know. IF—and I’m being generous with your chances here—you all get past the Rockies, and IF you make it to safety, and IF the higher ups over there ever figure out he was the one who killed their satellite capabilities? They’ll put him in front of a firing squad. Or hang him.
She felt a cold slither of worry ease up the base of her spine at that possibility.
Pulling up the clandestine HARP platform control icon on her computer, Rae entered it through a little-known back door and began breaking into its software programming. Once she’d hacked her way inside and had it splayed open before her, like a drunken co-ed on Spring Break, Rae smiled to herself then proceeded to commit digital larceny of the highest order.
Some days, life in the zombie apocalypse could be pretty satisfying.
* * *
Foster trotted down the Mimi’s boarding ramp, M4 rifle in hand.
Contrary to what he’d told Rae, destroying the Western Safe Zone’s access to the remaining satellites circling Planet Earth was going to haunt him. It was a sure bet The Powers That Be would’ve lost their shit completely when their feeds went dark, but so long as they didn’t do anything monumentally stupid—and from what George had seen of their current hierarchy prior to his group setting out on this insane trek, that didn’t seem likely—the Zone should remain secure and intact. They just wouldn’t have handy-dandy, real-time photographic data until he, Rae, and their group made it to the west.
Oh, they’d court-martial him for sure once they found out. But that was incidental.
His friends would be safe.
The old warrior would never say so, but he really liked the young people he’d been thrown together with when the damn zombies ate the world. Sometimes they made him want to pull his greying hair out from the roots, but all-in-all they were a good bunch of kids. He’d follow O’Connor’s lead, keep giving the boy advice—which Jake did sometimes ignore for the better—that Foster hoped would steer him towards certain paths and actions, but George knew Jake was determined to get their group to safety. All of them. No matter what it took.
Long before they’d left his hideaway, Foster had sworn to do whatever it took to help the younger man keep them alive. Keep them safe. Even if that meant he had to keep playing the role of the “crotchety old squid.” But—at least in his mind—he’d failed the group, numerous times.
The Purifiers’ advance party had gunned poor Heather down as she’d tried to make her escape from their waste treatment plant. That stupid twat-waffle Nichole had killed Karen, for which—if there were any justice—she was currently sucking off demons while squatting in a neck-deep pool of lava in the afterlife. Donna had been overcome by the creatures, right after Jake and Kat’s rescue party turned Pool (and his band of butt-buddies, the Purifiers) into satisfyingly small chunks at the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Lake power plant. Penny had been bitten—just prior to Langley falling to Hess’s monster MATTOC—by a stray ghoul outside the barricade, which he’d overlooked…
Yer track record lately sucks, old man.
Foster snarled at the voice in his head and kept his heading for the remaining modified tour bus sitting nearby.
That doesn’t impress me, ya’ know. The voice went on. This is why you couldn’t lead yer own unit. You’re too soft. Ya’ think too much with your heart—or your Johnson, like with that Rae chick—than ya’ do with your brain-holder. I mean, come on. How long are you gonna sit in the woods here with your ass hanging out in the breeze, waiting for O’Connor and Cho to show up? If fallin’ off that dam didn’t kill them—and that’s a pretty goddamn big IF—they’ve still got near fifteen miles as the crow flies, more if they take any kind of roads, of zombie-infested ground to cover before they’d reach this location. They’re toast. Stop pussy-footin’ around, pack up, and get your ass movin’.
Silently cussing out the mental pit-bull growling at him, George ignored the persistent drizzle and stumped up to a campground picnic shelter beside the tour bus that Mooney’s people were congregating under.
They looked a bit haggard and dirty, but seemed to be holding up reasonably well. Yes, their collective diet was canned food (served cold) supplemented with a few dozen MREs supplied by the Screamin’ Mimi. Yes, their clothes were a little grungy, because washing or bating in the Neosho was a bad plan while floodwaters from the busted Pensacola Dam upstream continued to swell the river dangerously. Besides, there could be the odd maggot-head floating by beneath its surface and that could ruin your day real quick. They’d all been taking “bucket baths” via a camp shower from Rae’s now-destroyed, junkyard cache, and a pair of tarps strung up with paracord to a pair of nearby trees, while other party members stood watch. But all in all, the survivors of the now destroyed town of Langley, Oklahoma were bearing up well. As he headed for the Sunset Bar and Grill’s ex-proprietor though, Foster could tell everyone was getting decidedly antsy.
Charles Mooney was a short, scraggly-faced older man with a stocky build, large work-worn hands, and a nearly perpetual grin. He’d survived his wife’s passing some years before the apocalypse came down the pipe and, along with the Sunset, had been part owner of a construction business within Langley proper. After the zombies got up to eat the living, he’d supervised creation of the town’s two defensive barriers, then taken to making sure everyone was kept fed by preparing a pair of community meals each day with their dwindling supplies. Until the Mimi rumbled into town, that is. Afterwards, Kat and the rest of
their party went out regularly on supply runs for edibles, medications, much-coveted Angel Soft; things like that. Due to their efforts, Mooney had been able to greatly improve the community meals.
“George.”
“Chuck.” Foster nodded and took the proffered cup Mooney held out for him. “How’s the kiddies doin’?”
The shorter man’s face turned wry. “Funny you should ask.”
A group of five people approached the pair from Foster’s right, just as he took his first sip of coffee.
“Charles, have you talked to him yet?” One asked.
“No, Daniel, as a matter of fact I haven’t.” Mooney’s voice was calm, but his gaze didn’t express the same level of tranquility.
The long-haired younger man dismissed him without so much as a nod and turned to Foster. “We’ve all talked. We’ve decided we’re leaving.”
“Really?” George blew gently across the top of his coffee.
“That’s right. Sitting out here is beyond nuts. We’re just begging for a bunch of those things to come along and eat us.”
George turned to Mooney. “Who is this?”
“Daniel Harbart. Used to work for the Department of Parks and Recreation.” Mooney rolled his eyes so the younger man couldn’t see. “He was on the city council for a while, but got kicked off after he assaulted a tourist a few years back.”
Harbart scowled. “That was total crap. That guy started it anyway.”
“You hit him eight times in the back with a pool cue. Nearly cost him a kidney, and Langley lost the huge lawsuit he filed against the town.” Mooney stared back. “You also had six friends with you and they took turns kicking him once he was down, if I recall.”
“The police report says different,” Daniel insisted.
Mooney snorted. “That’s because the Sheriff—before his cowardly ass got turned into tartar—used to be your favorite receiver when you played football back in high school.”
Harbart waved one hand at the comment. “Whatever. That doesn’t change anything. We’re still leaving first thing in the morning, and we’re not asking for permission.”
The fact that hot, holy, liquid java-bean squeezings hit his tongue prior to their chosen spokesman opening his mouth was the only thing that kept George from snapping the pushy cretin in half like a dry twig. “Good fer you. How do the rest of yer people feel about the idea, Chuck?”
“Honestly?” Mooney’s gaze flicked to Harbart then back to George. “They’re scared. Most haven’t been outside Langley’s walls since we built them, once all this started. The overall consensus is leaning strongly towards getting on the move.”
“I can understand that. It’s not every day Armageddon comes down from on high. While I can’t say I blame them really, we can’t go with ya’. So long as you all just stay on the bus an’ keep to the back roads, you should be safe. We’ll only be a few days behind ya’. When we got ta’ Langley, our group decided on this as our fallback location, just in case everything went all pear shaped. That’s why I blew the bridge over Route 20 weeks back.” Foster gestured over his right shoulder with one thick finger, towards the missing roadway. “We’re gonna hold out here fer a bit, give O’Connor and Cho more time. If nothing else, we can—”
Shaking his head and folding his arms, Harbart cut George off. “That’s not going to work. You and your people, and that ugly, rolling fortress of yours, need to run interference for us. We’ve already lost half of our number when the second bus went missing. Any other way is too big of a risk.”
That was one of the reasons Foster wanted to hold their position. Not just for O’Connor and Cho, but in the hopes Henry Sampson and the Langley survivors on Bus Two—which he’d volunteered to ride shotgun on—would show up too. Bus Two’s driver had panicked after the horde had moved into their town. He’d started out before Jake urged George and the rest to leave, assuring them that they’d catch up with Elle and Leo in the modified Humvee Rae had provided him. The man had maneuvered the bus past Langley’s western barricade, swerved to miss most of the straggling dead outside, and headed south at speed.
Bus Two hadn’t been seen since.
Foster began chuckling. In a few moments, he was letting loose with full-throated guffaws that would have done Bigfoot proud. Harbart was clueless, but not so Mooney. The stocky man covered his face with one hand and sighed. He knew what was coming.
“Ah! Oh! Oh man… I needed that. Reasons ta’ laugh have been a little thin on the ground just lately.” Finally gaining control of himself, George wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and turned his face back to Daniel’s little group. “Ya need to take that on the road. You hit Vegas with an act like that? Shit, you’ll be a millionaire.”
Daniel frowned slightly. “This is serious. We’ve taken a vote among the refugees, and nearly everyone agrees we should leave today. It’s still early, and we could make it almost—”
“Oh, nearly everyone, huh?” George asked mildly. “Tell me did nearly everyone take the fact that the Mimi is mine into consideration? Is nearly everyone under the impression that I’d be all right leaving our folks—some a’ the ones who’ve been making sure you people ate for over a month now—out here on their own? Most importantly, is nearly everyone under the mistaken impression that I fucking answer ta’ them?”
Harbart didn’t realize how close he was to becoming part of the aging fixer’s ever-increasing body count.
George had stopped keeping track of how many people he’d sent to meet their just rewards at the Pearly Gates long ago. While he hadn’t “officially” been assigned to perform fieldwork in over a decade, that hadn’t stopped him from keeping a hand in the game. Occasionally (read: yearly) he’d get that itch, assign another long-time ex-navy friend to maintain the apartment block Jake and the absent Gertrude had resided in for a week or two, then unbeknownst to his tenants—or his superiors—go on safari. Oh, not in Africa. Nowhere so boring as that. He’d usually “vacation” in places like Iran, the Kurdish Republic, even Korea a few times. Though he’d never managed to get within a thousand yards of Kim Jong-Il prior to his death. George had always regretted that. If he’d just been able to lay scope on that slippery, little bastard… Well, there would’ve been a lot fewer statues of short, fat men with ridiculous haircuts around the countryside of North Korea, that’s for sure.
Now, taking apart a self-important shithead like Harbart wouldn’t make up for losing such a quarry, but it would be a healthy little bit of fun.
“We’re too exposed out here,” Daniel insisted, pointing one index finger far-too-near Foster’s newly broken nose. “And those people who attacked us could be circling north around Langley right now to come after us! Now, are you going to be reasonable, or are we going to have a problem? Because I’ll tell you now, it wouldn’t be difficult to take that vehicle of yours and—”
Whatever else Harbart intended to say turned into nothing more than a frog-like croak when Foster punched him square in the larynx. The once-jock’s eyes went wide as he realized there was no way he’d be drawing any air into his lungs for the moment, and his hands flew up to grasp his spasming throat as he sat down on his ass right there. George didn’t stop with him. Even as Mr. Motor-mouth hit the ground he’d moved in close and hit one of the man’s friends across the temple with a ham-sized fist. The blow sent the crony spinning away to bounce off one of their shelter’s support columns, before dropping senseless to the floor as George swept another man’s feet out from under him. Hefting the third man as he fell earthward, Foster picked him up over his head, and then sent his unlucky victim over one of the nearby picnic tables.
About then most of the nearby survivors realized what was occurring and began drawing away from the fight, but they needn’t have bothered. All but one of Harbart’s friends lay littered across the floor, either unconscious or moaning, and the last member of his circle threw up his palms as he stepped back.
“I’m good with staying! Really! Please don’t hurt me!”
Foster gave the retreating man a thoughtful look, but didn’t pursue him as he fled back towards the bus. Instead, he took a knee in front of the red-faced Harbart and spoke very calmly for someone who just wiped the floor with three other men.
“I take it you’ve come ta’ realize trying ta’ ‘take my vehicle’ as ya’ phrase it, wouldn’t go well, yeah?” Harbart nodded mutely, still concentrating on getting minute amounts of air into his lungs through his bruised throat. “Out-fucking-standing. See now, how’d you put it, Bee? We’re ‘engaging in meaningful, mutual communication,’ right?”
His green-haired niece Beatrix (Bee to her friends) stepped out from behind a nearby support column to Harbart’s rear, where she’d taken position during the man’s initial tirade. She held one of her uncle’s suppressed AR-15s in a competent, business-like grip. She’d been at Wright State on a full scholarship—which she’d earned by placing first in the teen category at the National Shooting Championships—when the zombies rose, after all, and had received yearly instruction from her favorite uncle when it came to firearms since she was six. It drove her mother crazy, but Foster was damn glad he’d endured his sister-in-law’s carping and whining and bitching every time he flew out to California now.
“That’s the phrase Uncle George,” she told him, watching as Harbart’s cronies began pulling themselves back together. “But I think one of yours fits the bill more. The one that goes ‘Never give an asshole an even break’? Yeah, that’s way better.”
He smiled widely. “You make me so proud, girl. Really ya’ do.”
Bee winked at him, blew an impressively large bubble with her Hubba-Bubba, and struck a relaxed pose as she kept watch on Daniel’s friends. Her long, green, Anime-style ponytails wafted slightly in the warm July breeze over her appealing form—that Leo couldn’t believe was anything but 36-23-32—as she leaned comfortably against the pillar.
“Glad we had the chance ta’ have this little meeting of the minds. Now. You clowns pick up your buddy here, then go spread the word that anyone who wants ta’ take a walk is welcome to do so. And get the fuck out of my face.” George turned away from Harbart to Mooney. The man’s friends managed to pull themselves together long enough to heft his still wheezing form and virtually carry him back onto the bus. “Were those dickheads telling the truth? Are your people that ready to leave?”