APOCALYCIOUS: Satire of the Dead

by K Helms

  “Awesome, A knight!” Nan squealed with genuine delight. At eighteen years old, Nan was still very much a kid at heart. Even though Foster had trained her in hand to hand combat, first aid and how to shoot, Mick and Mia were given strict orders to make sure she stayed safely inside unless necessity dictated otherwise. “Are you staying here with us, Sir Regeliel?”

  The knight looked at Mick who nodded his approval. “That I am M’Lady. My sword is yours.”

  Mick shook his head again, Unbelievable.

  “Did anyone contact us today Nan?” asked Mick, nodding towards the short wave radio.

  “There was some chatter from the National Guard; evidently three prisoners escaped from Wright Pat. The Ohio branch notified the West Virginia branch. They seem to be pretty worried about those three for some reason. I talked to Death Wagon for a few minutes, but other than that...nothing.”

  Mick sighed with apparent concern. There had been a rash of escapes lately. Last month they had monitored a broadcast that two murderers had busted out of Waynesburg, Pennsylvania and from the last report had never been apprehended. He was always worried about being discovered by the military. He could handle being on the run and losing the luxuries of the mine, but he couldn’t bear to imagine losing his girls.

  “Can I give Sir Regeliel the grand tour, Mia?” she asked.

  Mia nodded. “Go ahead; we have to unload our supplies.”

  “Go ahead and show him his bunk too,” added Mick.

  “OK,” Nan said, then led the knight through the mine, enthusiastically showing him every room of the labyrinth.

  Mia turned to her husband and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re a good man, Mick Oswald,” she said, then kissed him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said and kissed her again, looking into her dark eyes. She had such power over him. “I love you Mia.”

  “I know you do. You have since we were kids,” she said picking up their conversation from in town. Mick rolled his eyes. “And I love you too, Mick.”

  Mia looked around the cavernous room and seeing no one, whispered in his ear, “Do you want to get a shower together?” Her face was flushed and there was urgency in her voice. Mick couldn’t help but smile like a goofy school boy as he touched her face.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, and led her from the main chamber.

  A long hot shower with his wife had done wonders for Mick’s nerves. Dressed in a comfortably worn pair of blue jeans and a black pocket tee, which he preferred over the military armor, he wandered into the library and plopped into his favorite chair and propped his feet up on a milk crate. He picked his Bible up from the table beside it and lit a candle to read by. Even though the place had generators, his Father had instructed them to make due with candles to light with because one day the fuel would run dry. Mick was a firm believer that this zombie plague had some Biblical reason for occurring; he had read plenty of history and had seen that God had plenty of reason to unleash His divine wrath upon humanity. Mia, however, was more of a scientific thinker. She believed that this had to have a reason backed by science and not some supernatural hocus-pocus. Mick rubbed his eyes and sat the Bible back down. There were just some days that he didn’t feel like reading.

  The past few years had morphed Mick from a lanky boy into a strong young man. He had grown up and filled out; he had been lucky enough to inherit his father’s genes and was one of those rare young men that didn’t even have to work out to gain an athletic physique. Even though this was true, he still worked hard to be in the best shape possible, if not out of necessity, then for Mia who loved the musculature of her man.

  “Do you mind if I peruse these magnificent tomes, Sir Mick?” asked Regeliel, startling him from his reverie. Mick hadn’t noticed him enter the library. The knight had removed his armor and wore what appeared to be a cotton tunic cut open at the neck and canvas trousers tucked into knee high leather boots.

  Mick shrugged “Go ahead, should be something in that mess to occupy you.”

  “Young Nan said that dinner would be served forthwith and she made mention of venison with carrots and potatoes. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed such a feast.”

  Mick smiled. Yeah, the dude was a little on the shell shocked side, but Mia was probably right, he did seem like a good dude.

  “Did you get settled in to your quarters alright?” Mick asked.

  “Verily, and I thank you for your kindness, M’Lord. The Lady Nan helped me gather my armaments and personal effects. She is a delightful girl,” answered Regeliel.

  “Yeah, she is…smart too. She has probably read every book in here. We try to find new books for her when we go out.”

  “How often do you go forth to slay the undead?”

  “We really only do that by proxy. We don’t go out to kill them since there are too many to actually make a dent in that population. We actually only go out to get supplies.”

  “Nan showed me the store rooms. They are magnificent! I believe you have every comfort known to man…” said Regeliel.

  Mick nodded. “My dad saw to it that we are prepared.”

  “He sounds like a great warrior.”

  “The greatest,” Mick said. An awkward silence fell in the room but was mercifully broken by Nan dashing into the room with the exuberance of the young.

  “Dinner Mick, dinner Sir Regeliel,” Nan said happily. Sir Regeliel stood and offered her his arm. “M’Lady,” Nan giggled and snaked her arm into the crook of his and smiled broadly.

  They settled down to dinner around the long oak table. Mick said grace as all bowed their heads, respecting his authority as head of the household. Even though Mia didn’t put much credence in religion, she still respected her husband’s beliefs.

  “Sir Regeliel, tell us all about your adventures in Parkersburg,” blurted out Nan the very second Mick was done with saying grace. She had an insatiable hunger to devour every detail about the outside world.

  Sir Regeliel raised his arms, the cloth tunic receded up toward his elbows as he did, and he revealed a patchwork of scars now that he had abandoned the suit of armor for comfort.

  “First, allow me to thank you for your hospitality. Surely, this is a feast fit for a king.” He lowered his arms and put knife and fork to the juicy deer steak. “MMMmmm, you have excellent culinary skills, M’Lady.”

  “Thank you, Sir Regeliel,” said Nan, beaming with pride and delight.

  “As for Parkersburg…the hamlet is mostly inhabited by the dead. I fear that the military has captured most, if not all, other civilians. My brothers-in-arms fought valiantly, but alas, I am all that survived.” He lapsed into a momentary silence as he remembered his fallen comrades before he continued. “Once it was a great city, I imagine, but I suppose that after the plague hit, it was verily slaughtered, although it was the West Virginia National Guard that took the final toll. They killed any who didn’t surrender, and turned those that did into slaves of one sort or other.”

  Nan was mortified. “How terrible, thank God that Uncle Foster built this home for us.”

  “Aye, ‘tis a fine castle,” said the knight with genuine regard.

  “What did you do before the zombies came, Sir Regeliel?” asked Mia.

  “Ahh… alas, I cannot remember all, my memory is hazy and mostly what I remember is when I reached that beleaguered hamlet called, Parkersburg. When I happened upon Parkersburg, I met up with a group of lads that I knighted and equipped thusly. They were good and hearty lads that taught me many things of this world. They taught me how to play a game called euchre.”

  “Can we play it tonight?” Mia asked. She had heard of the game, but had never played it and learning new things was a favorite pastime of hers and her little sister.

  Sir Regeliel laughed. “I would be delighted to demonstrate the nuances of the game. It truly is a game for those who like to think.”

  “That cancels Mick out,” cracked Nan. Mick rolled his eyes. She was like a little sister to him and he spoiled her
in many regards.

  Mia looked over to Mick. “It would be a nice diversion,” she said, giving him her doe eyes.

  Mick shook his head. “Sorry Mia, but I still have to work out tonight and check the perimeter to make sure the fence is secure” he said without much remorse. Mick was never big into games; instead he relied on routine to maintain a facsimile of normalcy.

  “As soon as I get done talking to Death Wagon, I’ll play,” said Nan excitedly.

  Sir Regeliel looked puzzled. “Who is this Death Wagon of whom you speak with such exuberance?”

  “He’s my boyfriend,” said Nan proudly with a big grin that showed her perfect white teeth.

  “Actually he just calls himself Death Wagon, Reg. I don’t know why people can’t just pick a normal name,” he said shaking his head. “Speaking of, what is your last name Reg?”

  “My full name is Sir Regeliel of Graylocke.”

  “No…I mean…never mind.”

  Nan re-entered the conversation. “Death Wagon drives a hearse and he plays the guitar and writes his own songs; most of them are about me.” She wasn’t bragging, she was just excited; she and Death Wagon had been an item since February and Mick actually liked the guy. Mick had decided that as much as he hated for little Nano to grow up there was no denying the sparks between the two of them.

  “Ahh... excellent, a minstrel,” bellowed Regeliel, clapping his huge hands together.

  Mia looked over to Mick and pursed her lips and blew him a kiss, with a playful wink. She knew that this was just as amusing to him as it was to her, he just, for some reason, liked to act annoyed.

  “I’m going to marry Death Wagon,” said Nan triumphantly.

  “Huzzah, M’Lady, Huzzah!” cheered Sir Regeliel, as Mick smacked himself in the forehead.

  Mick put on his Kevlar armor and took his pump shotgun and strapped his father’s bone-handled .357 Peace maker to his thigh. His machete sheathed on his other hip, he checked the monitors and saw no zombies moving about. “Be back in about thirty minutes, Nano,” he said to Mia’s little sister. He had given her the nickname years ago because of her small stature and love of science and learning. He grabbed his pack from the wall that contained tools and wire for repairs to the fence.

  “I’ve got you covered,” she said, grinning as she slid into the chair facing the closed circuit monitors. “You have your radio on?”

  “I’ve got it.” he said with a quick wink. Nan disengaged the half inch thick steel door lock and Mick disappeared down the dim hallway.

  When he walked outside the main garage he stopped suddenly; Britney was no longer chained to the tree. He immediately chambered a round in the Mossberg. When he had cracked her upside the head earlier he thought that he had heard her skull shatter before she dropped. Blunt head force trauma didn’t always punch their ticket, but he had thought that he had over-done it this time. He listened closely for any of the uncoordinated dead lumbering through the thick brush surrounding the mines. He walked to where her chain still lay in the mud. Sloughed skin and corpse cheese was packed into the heavy links. He wanted to find her, he couldn’t have the flesh eating ghoul stumbling about the grounds, but he would have to do that later. For now he had to check the perimeter. He walked to the path that led into the trees.

  “The path looks all clear, Mick,” said Nan’s voice through the static of the speaker of his radio. He walked the path and found that the concertina wire contained part of Britney’s plaid skirt and more skin with chunks of muscle and sinew. The chain link fence had been bent up from the anchors in the dirt and she must have exited through the opening. He found more of her soft tissue and another remnant of plaid sticking through the links. He dropped his bag and opened it to repair the fence when a zombie suddenly slammed into the fence in front of him. Mick fell backward and reached for his shotgun. He turned it butt end forward and jabbed at the zombie, smashing it in the face. It was recently deceased and wore the uniform of the West Virginia National Guard. It staggered back and Mick quickly crawled through the opening in the fence and smashed it in the neck before it could call for back up. It tried to scream, but its wind pipe had been crushed. Mick didn’t want to shoot and draw any undue attention either by zombies or human and commenced to smashing it with the butt of his shotgun in the skull until all that remained was a jagged mushy pulp. Satisfied, he crawled back through the fence and finished re-wiring the hole together and then hammered two new anchors into the ground.

  “That should do it,” he muttered to himself. It appeared that Britney was gone for good though. He couldn’t really blame her; he probably wouldn’t stick around if he got walloped with a frying pan every other day either. He walked methodically around the compound, checking the chain link fence for holes. He could hear deer ambling through the woods and the occasional moan of a stray zombie, but he was always careful not to attract their attention as they had some innate ability to mass together whenever the living were found. He had heard that distinctive call for reinforcements many times and it always sent a shiver up his spine. He finished his loop of the property. “I’m at the door Nan,” he said and heard the lock disengage. He glanced back at the chain once more before reentering the mine.

  Chapter 26 - Cruising with the Death Wagon

  Seven months after infection

  Marietta, Ohio

  Death Wagon drove along interstate 77. His headlights were out to avoid being too visible. He didn’t worry about military aircraft; they had used up most of their jet fuel by now and resorted to driving Hummers and Five Tons. Still the going was treacherous as many rusted out hulks of wrecked vehicles still lined the highways and byways. He wanted to surprise Nan by being there in person instead of talking to her through the satellite phone he had given her. His every waking thought revolved around her. Where Mia was beautiful, Nan was even more finely sculpted. Mia had the look of her father’s race, while Nan had more of her mother’s Asian appearance in her. Both were exquisite, but to him there had never in the history of the world been one finer or sweet of spirit as Nan. He wanted to be there with her, not just from his longing to be near, but to warn her of the things he had heard and seen in the larger towns that hadn’t been nuked. In many areas the radiation levels from nuclear fallout spread like an invisible fog and a large portion of the Ohio Valley was going to be enveloped by it. The nights had been strangely colder but he was snug as the heater spewed forth like a blast furnace. He thought it was peculiar that July would be so unseasonable cool, but he thought it might have something to do with the nukes. He pulled into Marietta, Ohio, and saw a gathering of zombies feeding feverishly on an unfortunate man. He saw the man’s head turn in his direction and the man started to scream for help. He continued to beg for Death Wagon’s mercy as an arm was ripped from his shoulder socket. Death Wagon could hear the ligaments snap like rubber bands from inside the hearse and knew there was no help for him. He noticed a light flickering in a window and the silhouette of someone peeking through the drapes of a second story window. It was the same everywhere, people wanting to help, but too scared to risk their personal safety. He pushed the gas pedal and turned the corner to follow 77-south. There was wreckage blocking the road and he would have to take a detour. He turned down the heater and switched off the stereo.

  He pulled over, keeping his foot on the brake and as he was checking his maps when he heard a tapping at the side glass. A sawed-off shotgun met his gaze. Behind it stood a scraggly scarecrow wearing a t-shirt that read ‘No Fat Chicks’. The Dickees work-shirt over top of it proudly claimed that his name was Troy. Death Wagon was reasonably sure that this douche bag wouldn’t turn down anything with a heartbeat, let alone a fat chick, and the former may be optional.

  “Get out of the car, hippie,” said the scarecrow.

  Hippie, really? Death Wagon sighed and slammed the gear selector into park. This guy was a prime example of why he preferred most zombies to the vast majority of the living; you never saw a zombie carjacking anyone. He
threw open the driver’s door and stood in front of the skinny lowlife.

  “Problem?” Death Wagon asked. He watched as Troy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, as he swallowed hard.

  “Let me get straight to the pacifics,” Troy began after a moment of collecting his thoughts. “I want that sweet ride of yours.”

  “Pacifics…are you going to the ocean?” asked Death Wagon sarcastically. Troy stared at the metal head without comprehension so Death explained. “The word, I believe, you’re looking for is ‘specifics’.” Death watched Troy’s puzzled expression slacken and he half expected a line of drool to hang from his lip. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

  Death Wagon smiled at Troy as he waited for a response.

  Troy obviously had no idea what Death was talking about and he continued to stare at him with an expression that translated into Death being the dumbest bastard on the planet.

  “Better hurry up, those zombies are still looking hungry,” Death Wagon coaxed and Troy turned his head to look behind him.

  Idiot, Death Wagon thought and balled a hand into a fist that happened to be adorned with quite a few spiked silver rings. His fist shot out and connected with the scarecrow’s temple. Troy’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he fell over backward, stiff as a board, his head hitting the pavement sounding like a ripe melon being thumped. Death Wagon picked up the shotgun, cracked Troy’s skull open with the butt of it and whistled at a troop of the undead. Mostly naked, but virtually genderless in their decomposition, they lumbered slowly toward the hearse.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” Death Wagon said as he slid back behind the wheel. He had no compassion for the fool. He had known a lot of Troys in his day, they seemed to all drive beat up pick-up trucks that they considered customized because they had hung a naked lady air freshener from the rear view mirror. They normally slathered the back glass with a myriad of stickers from Bass Pro Shop, Hooker Headers, and a Dale Earnhardt number 3. Troys always bragged about getting laid, but usually smelled like onions and dirty socks. Unfailingly, they thought that they were Chuck Norris or some other icon of action cinema and always tried to pass off senior pictures of chicks from high school as all their girlfriends no matter how long ago they had graduated. Troys were generally morons that used words that weren’t even close to the one they should have used, and they drank a ton of Busch Light. Death Wagon turned the hearse around and shone the headlights on the feast. Zombies never tried to engage you in a battle of wits. Troys did and they always thought that they were the champions of said verbal throw downs.