Riders of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Burning Rubber
Page 5
“Hey, you want to recruit for your garmy. I’m garmy.”
Garmy was what they had called their gay army for short.
Both Dallas and Roper turned to look at him. “That you are.”
He flashed imperfect rows of white teeth, the front left incisor sporting a chip. While not handsome, he had a cute away about him with his Popeye arms and Superman haircut. All the guys gave him a second look.
Dallas could only shake her head. “If we’re going to war, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us turning flamers into fighters.”
Churchill nodded. “The dyke squad will be much easier to train onnaccounta ya’ll are a bit on the aggressive side to begin with. But the femmelots?” He shook his head. “Are a little on the soft side.”
“You’re not,” Roper said.
“That’s because I watched those monsters make a meal out of my family. Payback’s a bitch, and I’m her queen.”
Dallas studied Churchill as the Beast warmed up. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to watch someone you loved get eaten right in front of your face. That was a wound that would never heal, a nightmare that would haunt you the rest of your life.
The one horrific moment in her post-normal life when it looked like Roper was going to be swarmed on by a horde, Dallas had done the unthinkable: she ran to her and they held each other, waiting to be attacked, waiting to be eaten right where they stood. Two hearts beating as one, they clung to each other…waiting for the pain of the first bite. Waiting to be eaten alive. When the man eaters moved right on past them, Dallas had been stunned to still be alive and unbitten.
As they met up with more and more gays and lesbians who had survived the apocalypse, the theory that the zombies would not attack them rang true, and that was the biggest game-changer of the battle. It meant they actually could take the fight to them, but to do that, they needed an army first.
A gay army.
A garmy. Yes, that was what they needed, and that was what she was creating.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here.”
Churchill ran a meaty hand over his Superman haircut. “To be honest, I can’t take one more day in the swamp. I been fidgety for a coupla months now. I want action or I’m gonna die of boredom. I don’t know what’s worse…death or perpetual boredom.”
“Who are you kidding? You’re not bored. You want retribution.”
He shrugged as he tried to roll his sleeves over his thick forearms. “Don’t matter what you call it as long as we start wiping those things out one at a time. Continuous effort – not strength or intelligence – is the key to unlocking our potential.”
“Winston?” Dallas asked, jamming the Fuchs in gear and starting off toward the closest paved road.
“You know it. The brother knows what he’s talking about.” So named because he often quoted the Prime Minister, Churchill double-checked the numerous blades he carried on him at all times.
The Fuchs was an amphibious military vehicle that made it the perfect escape vehicle in any terrain. It had a back ramp that lowered, had a seating capacity of up to fifteen, but could hold well over that. The front was a wedge so it could easily move past the many dead cars littering the freeways. On top, there was a machine gun that shot also 40 mm grenades and it came with sensors that would warn them of any biohazard attacks. It also carried with it some biochemical weapons they’d never had the courage to use. They’d stolen it from an army base overrun with eaters, and so far, it had served them well.
“What’s the word?” Roper asked. After they had initially picked Churchill up and explained to him their theory, Roper had seen a great opportunity. To keep a pulse on those living with them, Roper had Churchill report back any time there was a rumbling or dissension. For his part, Churchill loved the role of spy, or as Roper preferred, tattler.
He’d only had to report back twice in the seven months he’d been with them. The first time was when people grumbled about their work assignments, and the second was when they’d wanted to make “better” use of the yacht. Both times, Dallas had enough of a heads-up to quash anything before it began.
“I’m pretty sure the Joneses won’t come. They feel safe here. They like it,” Churchill offered. “But they keepin’ it close to their chest. What I really mean by that is that redneckgoosesteppin’sheetwearin’sob daddy a theirs is. God, I hate that man. He is a fool to think they are safe here.”
“That’s everyone’s first mistake,” Roper replied, cutting Dallas off before she could launch into her give peace a chance soliloquy. “Feeling safe anywhere. Hell, we’re not even on the menu and I never feel truly safe.”
“He tryin’ to get the Duartes and Fischers to stay, too. Gave ‘em that safety in numbers speech. Asshole.”
Dallas’s eyes cut 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 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.” 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.”
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 zombies still roamed 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.”
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 and 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 as she took her hand and kissed 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 eater is down, get your ass back in here.” She 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.” 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 crowd 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. 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,” she said tersely.
The young man shook his head and backed up. “Uh uh. No way.”
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 embroidered on his jacket 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 t
eam. 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. “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?” He 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 , but it was cut short.
“Bogeys at ten o’clock,” Dallas announced, slowing down.
Roper replaced her weapon in its holster and grabbed 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.” Roper jerked her head at Churchill and was off the ramp before it landed, at the same time he made his announcement.
When Churchill scrambled back down the ladder, he pulled his machetes out and joined