Mikki pulled her arm back, took a long drag on her cigarette, blew a longer stream of smoke through a big smile, and blandly answered, “It was a special occasion.”
“Happy birthday,” Floyd responded.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Yup,” Floyd said, as he entered the roadhouse and surveyed the damage. “Mikki was here.”
“No shit, Sherlock!”
For all the mayhem Mikki had caused, one lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling remained intact, mocking her. She picked up the two pistols she had dropped earlier, loaded them with fresh ammo clips and put them back into her rear holsters. Then she led Floyd into the back room to scavenge. They briefly debated staying the night, but neither one seriously thought that was a good idea. Too much of a possibility someone else would show up, or the light streaming out of the blown windows would attract creepers or something.
They ignored the various piles of money, gold and jewelry and headed over to the boxes of ammo stacked somewhat haphazardly in the corner. What morons! Money and gold was completely worthless, but these idiots stockpiled it like they were guarding Fort Knox. No doubt they had lured anyone they could into the place with the welcome sign, then blew them away and robbed them. Well, no more.
Not that there could be too many people left to rob. No doubt business had been really slow over the past year or so, at least. The piles of money had dust on them.
“Well, these boxes of shells will fit our drum mags,” Floyd noted. “And these bullets over here will fill the empty Uzi clips. Not as much fun as Zeke’s ammo, but it’ll still pack a punch.”
“Awww! You see? You’re feelin’ better already!”
“Yeah, when I’m not getting shot in the chest by a road gang or getting blown up by you.”
Floyd checked out the kitchen and found a stockpile of serviceable food. He’d load up some of the cans and sealed meals later. There were even several cases of MREs. Floyd plugged in the chargers for his batteries, the radios, and for Mikki’s iPhone while they went to work. Sitting at a table in a couple of old folding chairs, the two pulled out all their empty ammo magazines and began the tedious process of reloading them all…one bullet or shell at a time.
“Floyd, do you believe in fate?” Mikki asked, shoving one bullet after another mindlessly into a Mini Uzi clip.
“I don’t know, Mikki. The way I see it, most folks use fate as an excuse to be lazy. They refuse to get off their asses watchin’ TV all day and then blame fate because they’re fat. Or they’re too scared to fight and too stupid to run, then blame fate when they get their asses kicked. I make my own fate.” He gently tossed a newly filled drum mag of shotgun shells onto the table for emphasis.
“Me, too. You think we woulda ever met if the world hadn’t blown all to shit?”
“Who knows? I doubt it. I was pretty happy back in my little town in Texas. I never had no great desire to travel and see the world. I woulda lived and died there. I doubt we ever woulda met.”
“But what if I blew into town, got a job at some little diner. Maybe you’d come in and maybe we’d meet that way.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Floyd had no idea what she was getting at. She was babbling again. She ought to change her name to “Brook.”
“If we did meet, do ya think you woulda liked me, Floyd?”
Floyd scoffed a little bit too loudly at that. “Ha! No way! No way in hell.”
“Why not?” Mikki asked, obviously feeling a little wounded.
“Because I woulda known you were trouble. And back then, I always avoided trouble. Still do. And after I found my fiancée in bed with my best friend, I figured all women were trouble. Nothin’ personal, Mikki. Just…life handed me a shitty deal and I didn’t feel like volunteering for more abuse.”
“You think I’m trouble now?”
Floyd laughed out loud again, “Girl, you ain’t nothin’ but trouble!”
“Then why do you hang around with me, if I’m nothin’ but trouble.”
“Because in this crazy-ass world, you’re the kind of trouble that I want by my side. Just look around this place and you’ll know why. I’d rather have you with me than against me, that’s for damn sure.”
“So…do you like me Floyd?”
Now he understood what she was getting at. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “Of course I like you, Mikki! You drive me nuts, you’re a big pain in the ass, you’re reckless, you’re completely unpredictable, you got me shot, and you even blew me up, but I like you. Tell the truth, I was surviving just fine without you, but that’s all I was doing. Surviving. There wasn’t no real purpose to it. Day in, day out, it was just boring. I sure ain’t been bored since I met you.”
Mikki smiled. Floyd said he liked her! That was good enough for now. She ain’t never had a friend before, or anyone who stayed around for very long. Floyd held the record.
“Well, I been called a lot o’ things in my life, Floyd, but ‘boring’ ain’t one of ‘em.”
“And you never will be, Mikki. You never will be.”
Floyd finished reloading his clips and opened up his backpack. He pulled out the two NVGs he had snagged from the SWAT team and put them on the table. “Aw, shit!” he said. “Musta busted this one when I landed on my back.”
“Yeah, that one ain’t gonna do you much good,” Mikki agreed.
He pulled the battery out, tossed the broken unit away, and tried attaching the other one to the Kevlar-lined motocross helmet. He tried putting it inside and he tried fitting it over. Nothing worked, unless he wanted to cut a bunch of holes and remove the faceplate, which he didn’t.
“Aw, this ain’t gonna work anyway,” he said at last.
He moved to the hallway, turned off the light, put the NVG on his head and flipped the switch. It was a little bulky, but a fairly recent model. The twin lenses gave good depth perception. He could see the dead bodies on the floor, the doors, and even the peeling wallpaper. The image quality was pretty good, too. He turned them off and removed them.
“Can’t use ‘em with the helmet, but I can drive with ‘em on. Always hated using my headlights, in case I’d attract the brain-eaters. If the moon was out and I could see the road, I’d always drive with my lights off. I’m sure I’ll find some other use for them, too, eventually.”
“I’m sure you will, too, Floyd. There! I’m done. Now what?”
“Well, we should load the extra ammo and food, and you should trade out your jacket. I don’t think that one’s gonna keep you safe much longer.”
Mikki looked down and had to admit the jacket was trashed. She was lucky nothing had made it through the lining during this last battle. Large patches of outer material were hanging in shreds and the inner lining was dangerously thin in several places. The butt end of a bullet was sticking out of the jacket in a couple of places, too. Although it looked kinda cool, the jacket was clearly no longer reliable. She still had the one unused jacket in the truck, and could go back to the first jacket with the buckshot in it, if that one got trashed. The girl was sure hard on clothes.
“At least the pants are still good,” she said. “Ain’t nobody tried shootin’ me in the legs yet.”
They stepped over the dead bodies carefully to avoid tripping, or slipping on the rather large pools of blood. That was one nice thing about killing zombies. They didn’t bleed. Usually. Unless they were fresh.
As the two exited the building, Mikki turned and shot out the one lone light bulb that had been laughing at her. Then she tagged the door with their logo in red marker and headed to the truck with Floyd. Even though the building itself was still standing, her work here was done.
Chapter Forty-Eight
After pulling out numerous boxes from the back of the cab to get to the unused jackets that weren’t battle-scarred, they reloaded the truck. They also moved the two remaining missile launchers into the cab, just in case they needed the firepower. Floyd drove for the next several hours while Mikki slept. Then it was his turn to sleep
while Mikki drove. Floyd had mapped out the route to Lake Havasu.
They had no idea how they were going to make it to Long Beach. Southern California was a maze of freeways and big cities. Even the small cities were pretty big. No doubt the highways would be clogged with smashed cars and the cities would be filled with all sorts of undead, human and otherwise.
Floyd decided the only chance they had was to head down the 210 freeway. He had only been to California once before, but he remembered that freeway had the least amount of traffic because it ran north of Los Angeles. The map confirmed that it connected to several freeways leading south that would get them to the 710. They could have tried the southern route but there was no way to avoid Interstate 5, which had always been a parking lot on the best of days.
Even with Freedom’s new plow, there would be no way to get through that many cars except on foot, and that would be one looooong walk through zombie-infested territory. They might as well hang signs on themselves saying, “Bite me!” That phrase had developed a completely different meaning since two years ago.
Lake Havasu was about two hours south of Interstate 40. The road had never been very wide or modern, and it had deteriorated extensively over the past two years. A few cars and motor homes littered the road or the surrounding flat area. An assortment of small buildings popped up occasionally as well, but there were no signs of life, and the two saw no reason to stop.
The town on the edge of the lake had become a mini tourist attraction in the 1970s, when the entire London Bridge was transported brick by brick and rebuilt at its new resting place. London Bridge hadn’t been “falling down,” as much as it was sinking into the river it was supposed to cross, so Arizona made a bid for it and the English jumped at the offer. Who else would pay good money for a bridge that was sinking and falling apart? A lot of British bankers no doubt snickered behind closed doors over that deal. And British bankers generally do not snicker.
But it wasn’t the bridge that brought Floyd and Mikki to the area. In 1992, the Lake Havasu Fisheries Improvement Program began constructing fish habitat structures in 42 coves throughout the lake, to increase and sustain the game fish population. Completed in 2002, it was one of the largest and most successful US fish habitat improvement projects ever. One of the few things the government had actually done right. In the absence of tourist fisherman, there was sure to be a ton of fish in the lake. If any humans remained in the area, they would have a steady source of food.
As they drove down London Bridge Road, however, they saw nothing to give them hope that anyone was left alive. No people, no zombies, no undead dogs or cats…nothing moving at all. They passed a couple of parking lots that had a number of cars in them, but even those were empty. The bridge itself was wide enough for three lanes of traffic. There were a handful of brain-eaters loitering about, so Floyd played Bowling for Zombies again, as he crossed over and down into the tourist area.
The locals had built a faux London village, complete with red British telephone boxes, winding streets, and little shops selling fish and chips or other themed sundries. Surprisingly, the entire place was deserted. A few brain-eaters were stuck safely inside some of the shops, unable to open a door, but other than them and the few on the bridge, this area was clear.
Tattered flags and faded banners fluttered above on numerous poles. They had once added a colorful festive atmosphere to the little town. Now they were only a sad reminder of Humanity’s demise. Like flags left on a grave.
“Mikki, did you leave the boom box on in the truck?” Floyd asked.
“No. I hear it, too. Not sure where that music’s comin’ from.”
As they made it down to the shore of the lake, they found a paddleboat rental place. About 10 plastic boats were tied up, most of which seemed in workable shape. Another shop was loaded with fishing rods for rent. Since business was slow at the moment, there was no line. Floyd suggested they get a few rods and jars of pickled bait and head out fishing. Might be relaxing to sit in a boat and not have to worry about some undead monster jumping out at you, for a while.
The music seemed a little louder around here, but there was still no way to know where it was coming from. The town didn’t seem to have any electricity.
“Floyd, what’s out there?” Mikki asked, as they loaded a couple of rods into one of the paddleboats.
Floyd raised his binoculars to scan the middle of the lake where Mikki was pointing. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, before passing the binoculars to Mikki.
Off in the distance, in the center of the lake, was a flotilla of about 30 boats roped together in a sort of makeshift floating city. Not just boats, houseboats! Mikki zoomed in to see solar panels on the roof and…people! People walking about. People talking to each other. Even…people laying on deck chairs wearing swimsuits, getting a tan? Floyd took the binocs back and scanned the area again, but he couldn’t see any sign of Rod Serling anywhere.
Chapter Forty-Nine
As they paddled their way out to the Waterworld township, the music they had heard grew louder. Some kind of smooth jazz. A man on the roof waved at them and pointed to a dock on the side. Floyd and Mikki couldn’t help but notice the hunting rifle with a scope he was holding, but it wasn’t pointed at them and didn’t seem to pose any threat. The man waved again as he saw them heading in the right direction, then jumped down off the roof and disappeared.
Floyd jumped out of the boat and used a rope hanging off the dock to tie up the little dinghy. Then he reached down to help Mikki up, just as a rather tall, older lady approached. She wore a white cotton sun dress with a big white floppy hat and a large, obnoxious pair of dark sunglasses. Her perfectly pedicured and polished toes were adorned with strappy white leather sandals, and she carried some kind of iced drink in a glass in her left hand.
The man from the roof arrived (still holding the rifle) and smiled at them. He was somewhat short in stature, a little pudgy, and obviously from some Latin country. He had a little wisp of a moustache, like a high school kid desperately trying to look older.
“My, my!” the lady exclaimed in a sugary honey tone. “When Raul said we had new guests arriving, I could scarcely believe it. We never get visitors out here. I’m Adelaide Brooks.”
Her accent was something of a cross between refined Southern Belle and Beverly Hills snob. She extended her right hand, palm down and fingers limp, as Floyd and Mikki removed their helmets. Floyd shook her hand like a truck driver and Mikki just looked at it.
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Floyd said politely. “My name is Floyd, and this here is Mikki.”
“Nice to see more people who ain’t turned into zombies,” Mikki added.
“Oh, we don’t mention those filthy creatures! We live out here so we don’t need to worry about them. Why, I wouldn’t be caught dead around one of those horrid things! Raul takes care of any that might wander into sight. Isn’t that right, Raul?”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Adelaide.”
“Would you like some lemonade? Iced tea, perhaps?”
“That would be nice. Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Floyd stammered. He wondered if he was having one of his weird dreams again. He half expected to wake up in his truck with Mikki slapping the crap out of his face at any moment. But no, this seemed pretty real.
“Raul can take your…guns and things, if you like.”
“Like hell!” Mikki shouted, taking a tighter grip on Bonnie.
“Um, what Mikki means is, we been out in the world there fightin’ for our lives nearly every day. We don’t feel right without our…guns and things. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Ah, well, I suppose so,” Adelaide responded coolly. She clearly did not understand—or care to—but her veneer of pleasantry was her prison, and couldn’t find a polite way to disagree. “Well, let’s sit outside on the veranda, then. We don’t allow instruments of violence into our home,” she said with a big, forced smile. She gave a curt nod to Raul who ran off, then pointed to a round table
with six chairs near the water.
Floyd and Mikki were just sitting down as a few other residents showed up to check out the new arrivals. It was like a day at Club Med. Everyone was white, older, and decked out in assorted expensive beachwear and hats. Floyd laid his shotgun on the table and stood up politely to greet them. A couple of the females wore bikini tops with towels wrapped around their waists, and each was holding a fluted glass filled with white wine.
Adelaide introduced Floyd and Mikki, who were soon the center of a flurry of activity. One of the men recognized the brand of clothing they were wearing and commented. “Robbie Nostromo? Boy, you two have good taste in clothing. Those are expensive!” Adelaide was moved off to the side, desperately seeking a way to regain everyone’s attention.
“Have you two met Bob yet?” one voice called out.
“Oh, yeah, you gotta meet Bob!”
Seizing the opportunity, Adelaide stepped forward to explain, “Oh, yes. Bob is my husband. You simply must meet him. He’s out golfing at the moment, but he should be back any moment now.”
“Golfing?” Floyd asked, incredulous.
“Oh, yes! We have one of the finest golf courses in the United States. It’s been a little harder to maintain lately with the lack of help, but we manage. Bob and I actually own the golf course.”
“And half the town,” one of the men joked.
“Well, the other half isn’t worth owning,” Adelaide countered, cheerfully, which sent a roar of laughter through the crowd.
Raul showed up, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and glasses filled with ice cubes on a silver tray. “Over here, Raul! Well, if you all will excuse us, we have things to discuss.”
The little crowd all gave various comments of understanding and politely excused themselves. After a few said things like, “Nice to meet you, Floyd,” or “Welcome, Vikky,” they headed back to the rigors of leisure. Raul set the tray down and began pouring lemonade into the glasses.
Floyd & Mikki (Book 1): Zombie Hunters (Love Should Be Explosive!) Page 23