Dying Days 3

by Armand Rosamilia

  "Moron." Eric put down his binoculars on the roof ledge. "If he heads this way, I get your crossbow."

  "That's my baby. What if I win?"

  Eric smiled. "I have two unopened bottles of Jack Daniels Honey. I'll let you and your sweetheart have them. With Valentine's Day coming up, you and Darlene could put them to good use."

  "When is Valentine's Day?"

  "February fourteenth."

  "No shit. I mean, I don't even know what month this is," John said.

  "Neither do I. Are you going to argue with me about getting your dick in her, finally?"

  John looked away. "It's not like that."

  "Man, you can fight this feeling all you want. You know it, she definitely knows it… just get over whatever bullshit you have inside your head and do the right thing." Eric put a hand on John's shoulder. "Do it before it's too late. We don't have much to live for, you know. I'm an old man living alone. I wish I had someone as sweet and pretty as Darlene to be with." He smiled. "She has such a tight ass."

  "Watch it, old man."

  "Exactly. All I'm saying is you need to make the move before it's too late. Some stud is going to ride up on a Harley and roar away with her. Then what? She's a tough chick. She's only going to deal with so much before she splits or looks somewhere else."

  "Fine, I accept the deal. Just shut up about my love life already."

  Eric and John shook hands.

  "I'm so going to enjoy my new crossbow."

  "You can't shoot him."

  Eric nodded but he was grinning. "I get it. No touching the merchandise. My hands are in the air, except for this." He put his fingers near his mouth and whistled.

  "Dickhead."

  The zombie turned and began walking toward them.

  Chapter Eight

  Darlene stopped in the dusty road and looked at the gas station. It looked like it was about to fall in on itself. The roof was bent in places, the paint peeled off the sides. It hadn't been that long since she'd last been here, but it looked like it had been a decade.

  The chain-link fence surrounding the gas station was still intact but rusting in many places. It wouldn't be long before it collapsed. A strong storm would take it down or rend holes in it.

  "Where's the house?" Abby Millar asked.

  "Up and around the bend," Darlene said. They had encountered only a few zombies up to this point but she knew what waited inside the house; a load of supplies, as well as, a slew of undead. As they walked, Darlene remembered the last time she was here and the horde which had attacked her. If not for Madman, she would be dead right now.

  "The fence around the house is ripped in so many places. Maybe they got out of the house?" Abby asked.

  "I hope so, but I doubt it. More than likely, they are just sitting around inside and waiting for us to come knocking."

  They got to the front porch but Darlene put up her hand. "The porch steps squeak. Trust me."

  "How about the back door?"

  "I was back there when I was attacked the last time." Darlene looked at the boarded-up windows but couldn't see movement. "There are other windows on the side of the house. We might be able to get in through one of them."

  "What about the front door?" Abby asked.

  "You're full of questions." Darlene tried to remain calm but her hands were shaking. "Give me a second and I'll figure out a plan."

  Abby laughed and began climbing the stairs.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Knocking," Abby said. Each step she climbed squeaked, and, by the time she got up to the porch, something was pounding against the door from inside. She turned back to Darlene and waved her machete. "Are you ready?"

  "There might be dozens inside."

  "Then we kill them, one at a time. Are you going to stay down there or join me?"

  Darlene went up the steps and realized she was afraid. This was the third time she'd been to this house and the last two she'd walked away with nothing to show for it. She clutched her machete and made sure her Desert Eagle was ready, in the event she needed it. "Let's do this." She took up position to the left of the door with enough killing ground on the porch in front of her.

  Abby kicked the door but it didn't budge. She gave it another boot but there was something blocking it. She laughed. "They are pressed against the door. You don't see that too often."

  Darlene had to laugh as well. They wanted so badly to get out and attack, but didn't have the sense to move out of the way and let Abby open the door for them.

  "Now what?" Abby asked.

  Darlene moved over to the covered window. "These are boarded from the inside." She gave it a shoulder and felt it move, nails pulling from the wall inside. Before the zombies had time to push up against it, she threw her shoulder against it and felt the wood splinter but not give. Then she felt the mass inside press against the board.

  Abby kicked the door again. "I guess we can rotate the windows on the porch and the door until they finally get away from one of them."

  Darlene moved to the window on the other side of the door and hit it with the handle of her machete. "They nailed these boards on pretty good."

  "Why can't this be easy?" Abby asked, before running and slamming her shoulder against the door. It shuddered and ripped the doorframe out an inch or two. "I think we're in."

  When the first arm tried to reach through the busted door but nothing else, Abby sighed and gave it another kick. The door split into two and the first zombie fell out, pushed from behind by the others.

  Three of the undead spilled out, dropping to the porch. Abby began attacking their necks, Darlene joining her on the other side. The three were quickly dispatched, just as two more stumbled out and fell over the body parts.

  "Like shooting fish in a barrel," Darlene said. She kicked a severed head out of her way so she didn't fall, herself. Another two pushed against each other and it was almost comical they couldn't just stop and let the other pass.

  Abby and Darlene stood back and watched as the two struggled for three minutes before the one on the left, with a pop of his shoulder, came first. He went down and so did his companion.

  Heads were chopped off with ease, and within ten minutes the body count mounted, the women having to keep the pile down so they could move but the zombies kept tripping.

  "Well, that wasn't so bad," Abby said.

  "I'm thinking this isn't all of them. The back room must be closed off, because I remember quite a few from my last visit." Darlene pushed the bodies out of the way and entered the house with a hand over her mouth and nose.

  It reeked of unwashed bodies and rot. The scant light penetrating from outside showed piles of debris, long since mashed underfoot to blackened soot, the walls covered in blood and guts.

  Darlene fought the urge to puke and moved across the room to the far door, which she assumed led to a hallway and the kitchen area. She stopped, listening for noises, but all was quiet.

  Making sure Abby was right next to her and ready with her machete, she opened the door. The hallway was dark, with another door at the far end. Darlene slid a pile of what she hoped wasn't human parts against the door to keep it open.

  "I'm going to walk down and gently open the door. Get ready. There are at least twenty of them in the kitchen, and they won't trip over each other." Darlene walked down the hall, her shadow from the scant sunlight behind dancing before her. She realized she was holding her breath, but it was better than having a panic attack.

  When she got to the door, she gripped the handle. Relax, take you time, be ready for the attack, she thought and slowly turned the knob. It was locked. Sonofabitch. She didn't hear any noise from the other side of the door so at least that was a good sign.

  Darlene went back to Abby and smiled. "The fucking door is locked."

  Abby returned her look. "Then get out of the way, because I'm going to do a flying kick down the hall and bust it open."

  "Why would you do something stupid like that?" Darlene asked, but she cou
ld picture Abby running down the hallway and doing it.

  "Watch out," Abby said and tried to move Darlene out of her way.

  Darlene stopped and pointed behind Abby. "Oh, shit."

  When Abby turned and looked, Darlene ran down the hall with a chuckle and picked up speed, throwing her shoulder into the door with such force she wasn't able to stop herself. She flipped over and tumbled on the floor, coming up with her machete nearly cutting her free hand off.

  "Cheater," Abby said and came running.

  Both women began laughing.

  The back door to the kitchen was wide open and they had a nice view of the overgrown backyard and the huge hole ripped in the chain-link fence where the kitchen zombies had escaped from long ago.

  "This was kind of anti-climactic," Abby said.

  "You think? At least they didn't take the supplies with them." Darlene stared at the boxes and bags of food and supplies and stacks of bottled water. This would last them several weeks, maybe even months, if they rationed it properly. "Now we have to figure out how to get all this shit back to Matanzas Inlet."

  The women high-fived.

  Chapter Nine

  The end of the Flagler Pier was slipping slowly into the Atlantic. Unchecked, the entire thing would be a distant memory within a year. Not that there would be anyone living to witness it, or to make needed repairs. The last ten feet was dipping at a ninety degree angle and Frank walked to the end and peered down into the churning waves of the ocean.

  There were bodies down there, slamming into the pylons. Some of them moved, trying, stupidly, to grab the wooden posts and climb up. More of them to deal with, he thought. More bodies to pile until he ran out of room.

  As his senses came back, and were sharpened, better than when he was merely human, the stench became overpowering. He needed a new plan to dispose of the bodies. A huge bonfire in the middle of A1A would be the quickest but it would also alert the living to where he was, and it would alert other undead smart enough to follow the flames.

  Frank touched his face, where his goatee was beginning to grow back in. He marveled how his body was regenerating, and his nails (once split and falling out, covered in gore) were now looking long and healthy. He'd need a nail trimmer soon. Amazing. His hair on his head was growing at a prodigious rate, and even the patches, previously bald, were starting to fill in. He'd have a full head of hair, which he hadn't had since his mid-twenties. He noticed the flab of his stomach and weakling arms were getting more and more defined with each passing day, even though he wasn't doing much differently. He didn't need to sleep, he didn't grow tired, and he didn't need to eat, except for the living flesh. Frank didn't think he actually needed it anymore, but the hunger was always there.

  It just wasn't as overwhelming as it had been, and he could actually force it down and ignore it for long stretches, especially when he was keeping busy with other things, like destroying the undead or searching out the hiding places of the living. He just needed to figure out his long-term goal and put his master plan into motion now.

  He needed more living to enter into his midst, but they were few and far between, right now. He would have to either set a trap for them in town, or search them out. He decided he would do both.

  Frank suddenly thought of the perfect trap to get living and undead into Flagler Beach: a bonfire. Why not? It would be seen for miles, and he didn't fear anyone or anything, except perhaps in large numbers. And even undead would ignore him and let him walk among them and rip them to pieces without defending themselves. He was invisible to them, and he didn't understand why. Not that it mattered.

  He would begin piling any new undead directly near the street, and create a wall to block any traffic. Then he'd burn them at dusk so the glow could be seen for miles. He didn't feel like moving all the bodies already stacked under the wooden boardwalk, and he didn't know why. Apathy? Boredom? It wasn't like it would drain him of energy. He just didn't feel like doing it.

  The wooden boardwalk would add to the fire, as well. Even though they'd been sitting out in the open weather and near the ocean for many years, he was sure he could get it burning nicely. There was a gas station a block or two south of the pier, and he could create quite a spectacle with gasoline, piled bodies and the buildings in the area. He'd torch Flagler Beach and watch them come for miles, and then he'd destroy each and every one of them.

  Frank needed more undead to approach the beach town now. They were sporadically coming out of the waves, down to only three or four a day at this point. He knew, to the north and south, he would find them, but he might also find the living, and he didn’t want to battle them right now. He wanted to do it on his own terms, and in his own good time.

  Right now, he decided to go back to Java Joint and formulate the proper plans.

  He heard the motorcycle coming from the south, up A1A. He was tempted to step out and stop whoever was stupid enough to be riding in the middle of the day but decided not to. If it was an advanced scout for a large group, he would be in trouble. His superior brain, immediately, spun many scenarios, and not many of them made sense to confront the lone rider.

  Frank slipped into the doorway of the Funky Pelican restaurant, slipping past the shattered doors and into the shadows, and decided if the motorcyclist stopped, he would be killed and be the first body laid to rest on the boardwalk.

  Chapter Ten

  Jeff Hurleson rode like it was Bike Week in Daytona Beach, wind whipping his beard around as he cruised along A1A on his Harley, his bandana flapping behind his head. He'd lived in Florida for almost thirty years and the sight of the ocean to his right and an open road ahead always gave him a hard-on. There was nothing better than riding… expect for fucking. There was nothing better than a good piece of ass and his dick in some primo pussy.

  But the sluts were few and far between right now, and getting harder and harder to find. The ones he did encounter, in this new world, were crazy chicks, pulling guns on you or fighting you tooth and nail, even though the bitches were so damn malnourished and skinny. He needed to find some new blood, and it didn't really matter what they looked like at this point. As long as they were breathing. Or semi-breathing. Shit, it didn't matter.

  He slowed down as he entered into Flagler Beach, the pier up ahead in the distance. He could almost see it. He'd spent many nights on the boardwalk there, chasing pussy and getting a blowjob under the wood while oblivious people strolled above him.

  Most of the homes, to his left, were destroyed, street after street in disrepair and ruin. He was sure they'd been picked clean of food and supplies months ago, and if there were people hiding and living here, he wouldn't see them.

  He didn't see much of anyone, now that he thought of it. Since getting out of Ormond Beach, the lonely strip of A1A connecting to Flagler was filled with zombies, but never enough to get him to stop. As he approached the Flagler Beach water tower, they'd thinned out. Up ahead, he didn't see one.

  Not a single zombie on the road, walking through the overgrown lawns or from the dunes. He slowed and pulled over to the right, checking out the beach itself.

  Empty. Not a zombie in sight, even though Ormond and Daytona Beaches were ugly with them. You couldn't move in some spots down there, and it was a hairy ride for a few blocks, trying to get the bike through.

  The Ocean Center was dead-center in Daytona Beach, right across A1A from the Hilton and the actual boardwalk, and only a couple of blocks from Main Street, where Jeff had spent many Bike Weeks and Biketoberfests drinking and fighting and fucking. Now it was a ghost town, and the bars were ripped apart and the alcohol and sluts long gone.

  But it was his. He was holed up in the Ocean Center with his boss, and he was free to come and go, as long as he brought home the proper loot: available women, food and weapons. His search kept getting longer and longer each day, and he had to ride further out with each recon. He'd been south and west for miles, and he was beginning to think the journey north was going to be a bust. Especially with
not even a zombie in sight to shoot at and take target practice with.

  He started the Harley again and kept moving north, figuring he'd get as close to Saint Augustine as he could, until he got bored or found something. It was rare he found something shiny and new to play with, but it was always worth the effort, and it was much better than sitting around in Daytona and having the constant wrath of his boss come down on him.

  The ride through Flagler Beach was uneventful, since there was nothing left alive to be interesting to him. A1A was devoid of abandoned cars and debris in the road, and Jeff opened up the throttle and shot down the road, once again loving the wind and the sun and the perfect weather.

  He figured if he had to die and the end of the world was upon him, it might as well be in sunny Florida instead of some cold Northern state or another country he didn't care about, like Canada.

  His eyes darted back and forth across the road, as he headed north, always looking for a possible ambush from a group of zombies or living people. A week ago, in New Smyrna Beach, four men had blockaded Route 1 and tossed Molotov cocktails at him. He'd wasted six shots to kill three of them and wound the last one, but he never found where he'd crawled away to recover or die. Not that it mattered. A wounded man was as good as a dead man. And if he was part of a bigger group, they'd cast him out. It was truly a dog eat dog world. They'd strip him of weapons and anything else of value he carried.

  Jeff laughed when he thought of what was valuable these days. If he wanted to start collecting watches or jewelry, the world was filled with them. He'd ignored Rolex watches in pursuit of bread crumbs, and used hundred dollar bills to make a fire during cold nights. Gasoline and bike parts were priceless.

  Back at the Ocean Center, he had sixteen Harley's stored, but he only used the one he was on now, which he called Stacey with affection, after his bitch second wife. He liked to ride this baby hard like he'd done to her, and still hoped one day to run into her again. He also hoped she was a zombie and he could take pleasure in ripping her into pieces and let her feel some of the pain he felt. She deserved it. But he would also like one last blowjob from her, because the slut could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.