Dying Days 3

by Armand Rosamilia

  As he approached an overpass, he kept watch for anyone on top of the bridge with weapons, but it was empty. He shot past and held his breath. He remembered the time he'd watched a group drop nets down on bikers and force them to stop before a dozen of their partners came out of hiding and beat them to death. That was months ago, when there were many people still alive. There were some willing to trade with you, some willing to hunt with you, and some that needed to be eliminated. Jeff had gotten rid of quite a few in his time, and he knew it was survival of the fittest.

  Trees and wild grass grew on either side of the road, encroaching and cracking the pavement. He was suddenly away from the beach and civilization, with a few dilapidated buildings buried in the fauna. This would be a perfect area for an ambush, and Jeff pulled the rifle from his side saddle bag holder and kept his finger on the trigger.

  When a zombie stepped out from behind a tree, he didn't panic. He just kept riding. There was no sense in shooting every one he saw, because the chance of actually running into this one again was minimal. If they cornered him or made it interesting, he'd waste ammo. Otherwise, he was just glad to be out riding and enjoying the sunshine.

  Now that he was north of Flagler Beach, it was like he'd driven back into the zombie apocalypse. They weren't everywhere but they were now prominent. He couldn't wrap his head around this strange occurrence, but he thought he'd like to figure it out on his way back south.

  For now… he rode and enjoyed the freedom.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Just let him pass," Murph said from his porch, watching the motorcycle as it headed up A1A and north. "He'll be stopped if he gets into Saint Augustine."

  "A lone rider? Isn't that odd?" Bri asked. She was sitting on the wooden floor next to Murph, hidden behind the partition they'd set up so they couldn't be seen from the road and the Matanzas Inlet Bridge.

  "It's not common these days." Murph looked the way the biker had come and knew, if he'd been traveling on A1A for any length of time, Eric and John would have seen him half an hour ago. If there were more following, though, there would be no real way for an advanced warning. "We need to make sure he keeps going, and then watch to see if he comes back, or heads west on 206. There aren't many people out here these days, that's for sure."

  "Why can't we wave him over and talk to him?" Bri asked.

  Murph shook his head and led her back inside his home. "We can't trust anyone these days, kid. You want some hot chocolate?"

  "Sure." Bri sat down at the kitchen table. "I just don't get it."

  "Get what?" Murph asked, scooping the last of the hot chocolate powder from the can. This was it. Unless they found more, this could be the last cup of hot chocolate any of them ever saw. How depressing.

  "The fact that actual living and breathing people are getting rarer each day, but when we see one we don't flag them down and talk to them. He might have important information for us. What if there is a bigger community than Saint Augustine? What if Daytona Beach is a rebuilt city? We'd never know. Hell, Georgia could be business as usual for all we know."

  "Did you say hell? Watch your mouth."

  "I'm fifteen. I'm a damn woman. And I don't believe in heaven and hell and all that crap."

  Murph shook his head again. "I don't know what kind of upbringing you had, young lady, but you will not take the Lord's name in vain in my house and you will not disrespect Him."

  "I don't think I believe in Him."

  "Why?"

  Bri laughed. "Look around. If there was a God, would he let all this happen? I don't think so."

  "Why wouldn't he? Is his job to coddle us, let us not make our own decisions and walk us through an easy, boring life? I think we need to learn from our own mistakes, and God shows us how to get through and survive."

  "He's never done anything for me."

  Murph put the kettle on the stove and got out a coffee mug from the kitchen cabinet. He didn't turn to look at Bri. "Hasn't he, though? Why do you think 99% of the population is dead, while you are still breathing and enjoying my company? Divine intervention."

  "I thought you said he didn't coddle us."

  "Oh, and he doesn't. He helps us, he protects us, and he guides us, gently, in the right direction. But he doesn't do the work for us. There is a reason you are alive right now, and you need to figure out what it means. Why are you so special? Why aren't you down there, on the beach, trying to bite me?"

  "Why am I so special I get to have the last hot chocolate?" Bri asked and smiled. "Did God plan this?"

  The kettle began whistling. "He might have. Who can say? I do know you're special, and I'm glad you aren't down there, on the beach, trying to get up here to bite me."

  "Do you believe in God then, Murph?"

  Murph took his time taking the kettle off the stove and pouring the scalding water into the cup. "I believe in a higher power. I believe there is a God, and he watches all of his creatures and helps us to make the right decisions, but doesn't judge us like some denominations think. I don't go to church, but my late wife did. Every Sunday morning she'd be the first inside, and she'd come out with the biggest smile on her face. I'd sit in the car and read the newspaper and listen to the radio, and I always looked forward to seeing her. Grinning. Glowing. But never stepped inside a church until John John was married. I didn't go inside when they laid my wife to rest. You know what I did during the wake and the mass inside the church? I sat in my car and read the paper and cried, waiting for her to walk outside with a look of content on her face."

  "Were you mad at God?"

  Murph smiled and put the mug on the kitchen table. "Why would I be?"

  "He took your wife."

  "No. God gave me forty years to share with my best friend. He gave me her laughter, her love, her cooking, and her fire. God let me see I might be a lapsed Roman Catholic, but I still had core beliefs within myself. I still followed the rules and His path without realizing it. I might not set foot in a church, but I was still following the right path. What did he take from me? Nothing. He gave me everything I'd ever need and so much more."

  "I'll never find that."

  "You'll find what you need. Trust in it."

  "I'm not going to find a mate."

  Murph laughed. "You're fifteen."

  "Exactly. In this day and age, I'm a woman." She sipped her hot chocolate. "But there's no one my age, or even close. I'm not able to date or go to the mall or sneak a kiss under the bleachers. Nothing. I'll die an old maid, burying the rest of you in the sand and then looking around and realizing I am truly alone."

  "Honey, you can't be so negative."

  "Why not? It's not like a cute boy is asking me to go out on Friday night. All the cute ones are trying to bite me," she said with a snort.

  Chapter Twelve

  John and Eric stood on the deck of Murph's stilt house and waited until Darlene and Abby joined them. Murph was inside, probably entertaining Bri or watching another John Wayne movie.

  "We have two pickup trucks filled with supplies," Darlene said proudly. "While you two were getting a suntan on a roof in Flagler, we were working our asses off." She leaned against the rail in satisfaction. "I'm thinking our job is done. You boys need to separate the goods and pass them out."

  "Listen to you with the commands," John said. "Eric and I are exhausted. We've been working all day, too."

  "Doing what?" Abby asked.

  "I won his bow," Eric said and smiled. "And we saw a guy on a motorcycle."

  "Wow, you have been busy," Darlene said sarcastically. "We fought off a group of zombies and then walked two pickup truck's worth of supplies across the waterway. Then drove back and had to dodge more zombies and do it on two empty gas tanks. But I'm glad you two were having stupid contests again, and Eric screwed you out of your prized bow. Seems like you two were way too busy."

  "I'm amazed you had time to come back here," Abby added.

  "Laugh it up, ladies. Just be happy we were out there, covering your asses, w
hile you got to play with boxes of stale cookies," John said.

  "Who was the motorcycle guy?" Abby asked. "Did he stop?"

  “Murph says he kept going north. Maybe he was heading to St. Augustine. I'm not sure where he was coming from, though. It could be an advanced scout for whoever is killing the zombies in Flagler Beach."

  "Where do you think they are hiding out?" Darlene asked.

  John shrugged. "They could be anywhere. Flagler might only be a couple of blocks in width but it runs over fifty blocks in length, with the pier in the center. They would have hundreds of houses to hole up in, and we'd never see them. If they've survived this long, it's because they know what they are doing. You can only survive for so long with luck. It's like being an athlete. The cream of the crop goes on from high school to college, but the best of that bunch moves onto the pros. A small percentage of them actually make it. It's the same with life now. Only the strong survive."

  "Nice analogy," Eric said.

  "You two want us to leave so you can kiss?" Darlene asked with a grin. "What do you think we need to do about the guy on the bike and Flagler Beach?"

  "Sitting on a rooftop isn't the answer. We don't have enough people to watch anything but A1A, in and out, from the north. Plus, it's a twenty minute car ride down there, and anyone with eyes also on the road can see us coming for miles. Not to mention, hear us. I think we need to get a group together and do another house to house search of the town, but do it quietly. The zombies don't seem to be a threat in any number at this point, anyway. One good thing: whoever these people are, they've taken the threat of zombies off the table for us. We can handle one or two of them." Eric looked down at the pickup trucks below. "I guess we need to get this food and water inside, quickly, before the rider comes back south."

  "You think he would have stopped when he saw the stilt houses." Darlene led them down the stairs. They'd gotten several people because of the obvious height of the stilt houses, survivors that wandered over thinking they were empty and would make a perfect sanctuary, up in the air and away from the zombies. Some of the stilt houses, especially those closest to the street entryway on A1A, were low to the ground in the front. Those were never in use unless they had a sudden overflow of the living on their pilgrimage to St. Augustine. The windows and doors were boarded up, and the back steps or through the garage were the only means to get to the main part of the house.

  These homes were most likely about two million dollars a piece, and none of the current residents could have afforded to live in this luxury before, and most never even knew this area (actually known as Summer Haven) existed unless they had glanced over, doing sixty miles an hour, heading north or south to the tourist areas.

  They began lugging the items into the garage of Murph's house, and soon others came out to help and take their share. A couple of people stood guard, getting rid of two zombies who wandered too close.

  "We need more food," Abby said. "That was split up way too quickly."

  If they were lucky, they each had an extra three day's worth of food now. But it was getting scarcer. After the attack on St. Augustine, they'd lost a steady amount of grown and salvaged products. They hadn't seen an airplane coming up from the south in weeks, which was unusual. They left unspoken the fact no plane dropping or picking up supplies, in trade, meant another community had perished. They hoped it was just running out of fuel.

  Once everything was unloaded, they parked the pickup trucks at the end of the road where pavement turned to sand, and Darlene and Abby went with John and Eric into Murph's house to discuss their next moves.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frank, despite all the growth he was making physically as well as mentally, was still unable to get rid of one base emotion: he was bored. He stood on the ramp leading up to the Java Joint and sighed. He had no real need for pretty sights like the ocean and beach right in front of him. He just didn't need to be oohed and aahed by the scenery. He needed to keep busy and productive, especially since he no longer needed sleep.

  There wasn't a zombie in sight, and there hadn't been in hours. They were too mindless to steer clear of Flagler Beach, but there had been more a few days ago when he started destroying them. Frank didn't want to go too far in search of them, but what choice did he have?

  He decided Palm Coast would get a cleaning. He'd pile up the bodies like a highway litter patrol, and come back for them later. He had all the time in the world.

  The only bad part would be if the motorcycle guy came back through, since it was now obvious he was a loner. And, definitely, food. It was getting rarer and rarer to find it right now. He hoped an enclave of living was living in Palm Coast and he could root them out and crack them open like clams.

  Frank wondered if he could eat clams now. He seemed to remember liking them when he was alive, although, it was still a distant memory. He couldn't remember what they tasted like. The only taste he knew and liked was flesh and drinking blood.

  He stopped and closed his eyes as the wave of hunger swept over him. He literally saw red, and his brain seemed to shut down as the gnawing began in his gut. He wanted to find a living person and bite into their neck, savoring the juices and the pain and the life, as it drained from its body…

  It was dark. Frank stopped and blinked, unsure where he was. His naked feet were on pavement but he didn't recognize the road. There were trees and businesses around him but he couldn't hear the pounding of the surf. He'd wandered away but he didn't know how far.

  There were zombies near him, and he counted nine in his immediate sight. He stood and watched as they moved in random paths, with a McDonald’s restaurant on his right and Burger King across the street, both gutted and blackened from previous fires.

  A couple more appeared from behind the gas station together, but started moving in different directions. Frank could see another one wandering above, on the I-95 overpass.

  He figured he was somewhere in Palm Coast and had blacked out with the hunger and began the mindless walk like those before him. Now that he was back in full control of his body and mind, he had some work to do. He started walking toward the closest one when he realized his eyesight was superior, even in the dark, with only a half moon in the clear sky above and no other lighting. He wondered how long before he would be able to see in the dark like a cat, and, instinctively, knew it would happen.

  There were going to be other wondrous powers he would discover as he grew and changed, and he looked forward to each and every one of them. Frank decided to spend the next few days wandering this area until every last undead threat was taken care of.

  "Hello, my name is Frank. I'm going to break your neck, unless you have a problem with it?" When the zombie didn’t respond and kept shuffling past him, Frank got it in a headlock and felt the rotting muscle and tissue give way easily in his death grip. He almost tore the head off the zombie before he felt the body stop moving.

  Frank remembered when he was in college and his roommate, Mike, had a large fish tank filled with piranha. Not the cheesy fake ones you can buy in the pet store, but the actual ones he'd purchased illegally from a company in Brazil. They were pretty wild to watch. You could jab your hand in the tank to move things or pull out leftover fish carcasses and scare them, before they swam over to investigate and try to take a finger.

  Mike had a second tank filled with goldfish. He'd stop feeding the piranha for a couple of days (there were three of them), and then toss a dozen goldfish into their tank. Frank had assumed, at first, they would go on a feeding frenzy and eat all the goldfish, but they were very methodical. The first thing the piranha did was to bite off the fins of the goldfish so they couldn't swim anymore. Then they would each eat one or two a day, picking them off as they floated around defenseless.

  Frank decided to do the same thing because, as more zombies appeared, he didn’t want to let any escape. He began singing a song he remembered from junior high by a Canadian band called Rush. The zombies in the area stopped and began moving to
him, drawn to the sound like Frank was the Pied Piper.

  He was amused at their reaction once they got to him: they almost seemed confused. They stepped right up to him and got as close as they could, but didn't attack.

  Frank began snapping necks with ease, stepping a foot or two in any direction as he eliminated them. Once he finished off the few near him, he went to work, jogging around the parking lots and kicking out at kneecaps, shattering legs and dropping the zombies. He'd come back to finish them off when he had time. Just like goldfish.

  The run up the ramp to I-95 brought a smile to his lips. He could see a large group of zombies surrounding a yellow Hummer H3, trying to get inside and at the living. Frank could see the silhouettes in the H3 with his superior sight, even though it was so dark outside.

  Satisfied they weren't going anywhere and the zombies weren't going to be able to get inside the H3, he went to work on those nearest him, breaking legs and snapping necks when it was convenient. He made a beeline to the vehicle, destroying two dozen zombies in the process. Frank was enjoying this. It was like stalking prey, which, he decided, was exactly what he was doing. They couldn't escape, and they had no idea real death was literally at their door.

  The zombies were three deep in places, pushing forward on all sides like idiots, trying in vain to get inside the H3. None had bothered to break a window and batter in a door. They simply kept pressing against it, hands clawing at the glass, making noises without any real threat. That was about to change.

  Frank started going through the ranks, getting the ones on the outskirts in headlocks and crushing necks. There were more stumbling up even as he went to work, and he was glad he never tired. He hoped, before this was done, he could count on fifty bodies piled on the highway.