ONSLAUGHT_The Zombie War Chronicles_Vol 1

by Damon Novak

  I jumped out of the captain’s chair and put my arm around Georgina’s shoulder, pullin’ her around to face forward. She didn’t need to watch any more of that than she already had.

  Nobody needed to see that.

  Georgina sobbed uncontrollably as I held her.

  The boat leveled out as we hit the dirt road leadin’ to our main drive. Lilly started to slow, but I slapped the boat again and yelled, “All the way to the gate!”

  She gassed it again, and we bounced around in the boat behind her until we hit the main drive and reached the gate.

  The second we stopped, I checked around us. It was clear. I jumped out of the boat and held out my hand. “Give me the rifle,” I said.

  She did. I held out my arm and she let me lift her out of the boat.

  “Run. Get in the truck.”

  She didn’t argue. I saw Lilly unlockin’ the gate, and I ran to the front of the boat and connected the winch strap to the eye bolt on the front of the skiff. I cranked it until the bow pressed tight against the rubber guide wheel.

  By the time I was done, Lilly had the gate swung wide. I jumped in the driver’s seat and she ran around and got in the front passenger side.

  With only the sounds of the Rover’s engine revvin’ and our own heavy breathing and sobs, I hit Alligator Alley and headed east.

  Ω

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I don’t cry much. I’d been through enough already that if I did, I’d have been dried out like an old steer skull layin’ out in the desert, under a saguaro.

  My bawlin’ wasn’t just because of Sonya, though that was the latest blow to my psyche. Tanner. Clay. My Pa. Not to mention losin’ my mama before all of it.

  But as I drove, I cried. I was like a 10-year-old boy who’d just watched his dog get hit by a car. It’s the only way I can describe it. I wiped the damned tears away with the back of my hand, but they kept on comin’.

  I wasn’t alone, either. Georgie and Lilly were equally as torn up, and I have no idea how many miles passed beneath our wheels before Georgina passed a bottle of water around to replace the moisture that had drained from us all.

  Havin’ the boat behind us made me feel good. It was just another way around if things got thick on Overseas Highway, and you could find boat ramps all along the Florida Keys to put in the water.

  As we rolled along Highway 41, which always reminded me of The Allman Brothers’ song, Ramblin’ Man, I was thankful the cars were always few and far between. I was also glad the Florida Troopers weren’t patrollin’ it like they normally did, because I’d have gone to fuckin’ jail.

  I tried to keep my arm layin’ casually across the steerin’ wheel so Lilly couldn’t see the speedometer, which was pegged near 90 miles an hour. But the way she had a death grip on the armrest, I knew she knew.

  She didn’t say a goddamned word, though. Know why? ‘Cause if she did, I’d mention how we could always drop her off at the next rest stop.

  Plus, she, like me and Georgie, was a little bit distracted by cryin’ like a baby whose bottle got taken away.

  I took advantage of the daylight and the conditions; it was isolated, and the road was in good shape, just paved a month or two earlier. Here and there, cars were pulled over, and we saw about four that had crashed through the chain link fences separatin’ us from the gator-ridden slough that ran along both sides of the road.

  And dogs. And cats. And birds. Dead ones. Everywhere.

  Before we hit Ronald Reagan Turnpike, where we’d take a southward turn toward Overseas Highway, we slowly rolled past Gator Park, another souvenir and airboat tour place. Bein’ closest to Miami, it was a busy place, normally.

  Gator Park was owned by Phil and Elina Weisberg. My folks knew ‘em, and I’ve known ‘em ever since I can remember. Good people.

  They wouldn’t care if I showed up with a rifle in my hands on any day, much less these days. Somethin’ else for the tourists to gawk over. I hoped they were okay, but I didn’t hold out much hope.

  There were still about ten cars in the driveway, but nobody outside. The license plates were from all over the eastern United States, with a couple Florida plates thrown in for good measure.

  I checked my rearview mirror, then hit the brake, slowin’ to a stop. “You guys need a pee break? I’m not gonna want to stop again until we get down to the Keys.”

  “I’d like to stretch my legs, but not at the risk of losing them,” said Lilly.

  “I’ve had to go for about forty miles,” said Georgie. “I’ll risk it.”

  “Take your guns,” I said. “I’ll pull up as close as I can.”

  I didn’t want to have to back up in case we were leavin’ in a hurry, so I drove toward the building and swung it around, parking it sideways, the front bumper anglin’ toward the road.

  We got out and just stood there, starin’ at the buildin’. Behind us, Nokosi let out a shrill bark, and we all spun around. My heart was poundin’.

  “Guess she wants out, too,” Georgie said.

  “No leash,” I said. “I don’t want her runnin’ off.”

  I walked to the boat and took the shortest dock line I had, then used my knife to cut it off at about six feet.

  “Voila,” I said. “Leash.”

  I opened the rear door and blocked the German Shepherd with my body as I knotted the rope through the loop on her collar. She jumped out and did her business in under a minute.

  “I’ll keep her with us I think,” I said, returning to where the ladies waited, both staring at the building.

  “Are we doing this, or …” began Georgie and I swore she was pinchin’ her legs together.

  “I hate this,” said Lilly. “CB, as much as I hate to ask, would you stand outside while we go in?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Go on.” I leaned against a steel post stickin’ up from the ground.

  “No,” she said. “Outside the freaking bathroom door, idiot, not the store.”

  “Oh, shit,” I said, winkin’ at Georgie. “Then the answer’s no.”

  “Asshole,” huffed Lilly, but we were already walkin’.

  “Think Phil and Elina are okay?” asked Lilly.

  “You know the likely answer to that,” I said. “Better watch for gators inside, too.”

  Georgie looked at me like I was crazy.

  “They have full-on gator shows,” I explained. “Baby ones you can pet, stuff like that. Medium-sized ones, too, in pens with water. One of their employees kinda wrestles ‘em and teases ‘em with chunks of rotten meat. He goes by Noodle.”

  “He’s not the brightest bulb in the batch, but the kids love him,” added Lilly. “And he does know gators. Or did.”

  “I hate to talk about it, but it’s bothering me,” said Georgie.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That alligator,” she said, her eyes taking on that shadowed horror they’d held right after witnessing Sonya’s killin’. “The way it jumped! I know they can leap out from the water – everyone’s seen that – but can uninfected ones jump on land like that?”

  “Gators are strong. They’re like pure muscle. They catch deer by jumpin’ up and grabbin’ ‘em by the neck, from land or water. Hell, the bastards can run around 30 miles an hour. Not for long, but up against me or you, they wouldn’t need to do it for long at that speed.”

  “Oh, don’t let him leave out that he’s had to run from them before,” said Lilly. “Dumb decisions on his part preceded every incident, so when we get some downtime, make him tell you a few of the stories.”

  “You’re makin’ me sound like I’m Noodle or somethin’.”

  “All men are, to some degree,” said Lilly, lookin’ up at me. “And you damned sure have a little Noodle in you.”

  “I’m just glad you tagged an in you on the end of that sentence. Save yourself from lyin’,” I said, winkin’ at Georgie.

  “Oh, I know the Noodle type,” said Georgina. “I’ve worked as a trauma surgeon, and most of the trauma was
self-inflicted by acting stupid.”

  She carried her gun with her finger off the trigger and the barrel pointed toward the ground. I was impressed. She was a doctor, not a warrior.

  Or maybe she was a warrior.

  As we approached the door, I said, “Here’s hopin’ this is the dumbest thing we do all day,” I said.

  “You mean you hope it’s not the dumbest thing we do all day,” said Georgie.

  “Nope. If this goes south, which I fully expect it will, I’m hopin’ we act smarter from here on out.”

  We opened the door to Gator Park.

  Ω

  The stink hit us like a big rig diesel slammin’ into a brick wall. I mean, if you could fuckin’ chew stink, this was a mouth full of Double Bubble.

  I guess that’s enough analogies. Lilly says I use ‘em too much. We went inside, but now all our barrels were up and pointed at all the cheap crap they were sellin’ inside.

  When you walked into the store, it was all the merchandise; shirts, visors, caps, plastic shit from China that’d break the minute you got a half mile away.

  The usual.

  The normal sounds of the splashing fountains of water they always ran to keep the gator pens circulatin’, was gone. But the hiss-croaks I heard from the back told me two things.

  One: that the display pens held. Two: that the gators weren’t dead in the traditional sense, which means they could be dead in the new sense.

  Which made no sense.

  My mind went back to Climbin’ Fox Wattana. Then my mind immediately left him. There was no way in the world all this crap was started by some goddamned witch doctor in a postage-stamp-sized reservation in northern California.

  “I’m gonna pee my pants!” said Lilly in a hushed voice. I followed her around to the left, toward the restrooms. I noticed we all kinda instinctively pushed to the other side of the aisle when we passed the shellacked gator heads.

  When we reached the doors to the bathrooms, Georgie watched while Lilly put her ear to the door and knocked. She knocked again.

  Nobody answered. She turned to Georgie. “Here goes nothing.” She pushed the door inward.

  “Wait here,” said Lilly, and disappeared inside. A moment later she emerged. “It’s clear. Come on.”

  I heard something that sounded like a man chokin’. Well, not exactly chokin’, but like he was tryin’ to cough a hair out of his throat. We’ve all been there, right gents?

  Only thing is, the 70s are long gone, and I didn’t have the pleasure of all that free love. But on the other hand, I had slept with a Democrat chick or two, and … well, I digress.

  And I don’t digress often.

  So, I followed the chokin’ sound over to the tank/pit where Noodle normally did his thing.

  With my bootheels knockin’ on the linoleum floor, I must’ve kicked up some interest, because somethin’ started knockin’ on the inside of the tank wall.

  I got to within five feet and stopped, thinkin’ I could just tiptoe and lean forward to see inside.

  After great efforts at cranin’ my decidedly un-giraffe-like neck, I admitted to myself it wasn’t happenin’. I pulled out my .45 and leaned the rifle against a rack filled with snow globes that looked like they were filled with swamp water.

  I chambered a round. That Kimber has a hell of an easy trigger pull, so I don’t keep a round in the chamber normally. It stays on my bedside table at night, and I don’t need to chance blowin’ my dick off in the dark while I’m half asleep.

  Just as an aside, if you do plan on blowin’ your own cock off with a .45, half-asleep’s the best way to do it.

  I have it on good authority from a bud of mine who goes by ‘Half-Dick Rick’.

  I took one step toward the tank. Then another.

  “First off, you said you’d wait outside the damned door, CB!” shouted Lilly, who had to have been a foot behind me.

  I must’ve jumped three feet in the air. Both those ladies laughed so hard, it was good they’d already peed.

  I was pissed, though. I hadn’t heard anything. If they’d have been goddamned zombies, both would’ve had their teeth clamped on my arm or my neck before I even knew they were there.

  Talk about dumb. I turned to face the two women. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot. Jeez, were you sneakin’?”

  “Not one bit,” said Georgie. “I think we were even talking while we walked over.”

  “What’s got your attention? The tank?” asked Lilly, walking forward fast.

  “Wait!” I said, but she didn’t. She reached the tank, looked inside, and turned to look at me and Georgie, her face pale white. At the same time as her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor in the most graceful fainting spell I’d ever seen.

  Hell, when I fall, it’s best for someone to yell, Timber!

  “Lilly!” I said, runnin’ to where she lay, motionless. Georgie was right beside me, but as I dropped down to scoop up my sister, Georgie looked inside the tank.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I think we’ve found Noodle.”

  I didn’t even want to look. “Stay back from it,” I said. I softly slapped Lilly’s cheeks, and she started to moan.

  “What happened?” she moaned.

  “You saw … what Georgie’s lookin’ at and passed out.”

  Lilly looked at Dr. Lake, who was lookin’ in the tank.

  “It’s … Noodle, CB.” She shuddered, unable to continue.

  “Can you stand?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  I put her down and she steadied herself on me for a bit. “He’s alive. I mean, he’s dead. He’s one of them.”

  “Why aren’t the alligators eating him?” asked Georgina. “They like rotten meat, right?”

  “How can you look at that and talk to me like we’re discussin’ whether you like wheat or rye bread?”

  Georgie gave me a tentative shrug. “I’ve seen horrible injuries before. Once I accepted that these are dead people coming back to some state of life, nothing else has been as challenging to accept. Now I’m studying things; trying to learn what I can.”

  “Dr. Georgina Lake is what you might call analytical,” said Lilly. “I’d call myself queasy.”

  “Stand here and lean against this rack,” I said. I leaned down and snatched a snow globe from the rack and gave it to her. “Welcome to Florida.”

  Ω

  When I finally looked inside that damned tank and demo pen, I almost lost my lunch. There was dark, dried blood smeared from one end to the other; it was on the floor, the five-foot high walls, and any place within splatter range.

  But the myriad of chunks of meaty gore scattered everywhere is what really made me sick. Aside from Noodle The Torso, who I’ll get to in a minute.

  One of Noodle’s arms was layin’ just at the edge of the dried-up pool, right where the stainin’ told me the water line once was. His right leg – I’m only pretty sure, ‘cause the foot was gone – was just below us on the concrete, lookin’ absolutely mummified.

  I felt Georgie followin’ my gaze around the pen, takin’ it all in again as I saw it with her. I found his other severed arm and the left leg, which confirmed my right-legged guess a second before.

  There were small gator skeletons in the middle of what would have been the deepest part of the concrete-formed pond, the bones all broken into random-sized splinters. It was the crushed skulls that told the story of why they didn’t change into zomgators like their big daddy did.

  And big, bad daddy was layin’ on top of Noodle’s remains, lettin’ out a nasty hiss that sounded like a leaky air hose.

  Now, I’d studied lots of alligators. Since I was a young boy, I’d been around ‘em. The bony plates that serve as their armor are called osteoderms. On this dead-but-alive specimen, the thick skin coverin’ them had started to wear away, exposin’ the bone beneath.

  When it opened its nasty mouth and hissed, I spotted a couple teeth that should’ve been replace
d by now. They were well-worn, and not worth much to a carnivore like him.

  Okay, a quick lesson. Gators have right between 75 and 80 teeth, but as they get worn down to nubs, they’re replaced. In its lifetime, a typical gator can work through three thousand teeth.

  Not that anyone would be less damaged if this bastard got hold of ‘em. Hell, they can crack a turtle shell with those jaws. Dull teeth or not, one of ‘em gets you, you’re gonna be broken as shit.

  Like Noodle.

  About him: Noodle’s face had disintegrated. The skin, despite the Florida Humidity, had cracked and fallen from his facial bones. His teeth looked impossibly long without gums to frame ‘em, and he snapped and growled and clawed at the ground with his one bony hand.

  He was still wearin’ his chambray shirt with The Gator Park – Everglades, Florida! logo on the back.

  “I think I might be sick,” I said.

  “I believe,” said Georgina, now in full-on Dr. Lake mode, “that the reason he’s still intact at all is, they severed his arms and legs. You can see that either this alligator or some of these smaller ones, when they were alive, fed on some of his extremities.” She pointed. “That arm there. And see? That foot is gone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it already,” I said, turning away from the tank, feelin’ the bile rise in my throat.

  “No, this is important, Cole. These living dead alligators ate Mr. Noodle until he changed. Then they stopped eating him. Now, why they stopped eating the arms and legs, I’ve no idea. It seems that if they were severed prior to him becoming a zombie, they would just be raw meat.”

  Oh, man. When she said that, I didn’t hear another word after. My brain was workin’ on a joke that I knew would be worthless later. I smiled, then tried to hide it.

  Georgina glared at me, and I didn’t like it.

  “Mind telling me what’s funny about any of this?” she asked.