EAT, SLAY, LUZT: A sexy wild ride through the dark heart of the zombie apocalypse.

by Jillian Stone

  I watched him disappear into the strange, fake twilight of the bunker.

  “Let’s get those rations.” Ivan stepped into the corridor.

  I whisper screeched at him. “You’re going that way?”

  He lurched to a stop and pivoted. As Black Ops CIA, Ivan had very likely been in this bunker before, but his memory appeared to have faded. He cocked his head, and then gestured to me. “Lead the way, Lizzie.”

  I took off in the opposite direction. “I’m pretty sure the mess hall is this way.”

  “Great, the pretty cunt is pretty sure.”

  Less than ten hours ago, I would have cringed at his rude sarcasm. But for some inexplicable reason, I welcomed his nasty horribleness. The sarcastic, acerbic Ivan had returned, which meant he still had some fight left in him.

  He wasn’t ready to turn yet.

  Doctors are weird that way, especially when patients are in pain and fighting for their lives. “We’ve got fourteen minutes, Ivanovich.” I lengthened my stride and gave him something to concentrate on—keeping up.

  The mess hall turned out to be easy to find, but the cafeteria was closed, so we circled around back. Huge shipping containers were stacked in neat rows behind the noisy kitchen.

  I hunkered down behind a dumpster and Ivan settled in beside me. There was a frailty about him that I hadn’t noticed before—and he was easily distracted. “Get up—” He jerked me upright and stomped a scorpion to death.

  One minute he was wild eyed and vicious—the next, completely lucid. “Thanks, Ivan. And thanks for finding Chris and coming after me.”

  “Ground zero z-lab—of course they’d have security cameras. I should have known better.” He shook his head. “You were compromised—it was the least I could do.”

  A door banged open, and a kitchen worker pushed a flatbed cart over to one of the containers and began unloading boxes.

  “Those look suspiciously like boxes of MREs,” I glanced over at him.

  “That’s because they are. It’s called breakfast these days.”

  I rose, and Ivan held me back, “Give him another minute. Might as well let him do our work for us.”

  Not bad for someone with half his brain function.

  Behind the kitchen worker, further down the aisle, I detected movement. Dark shapes materialized into men with cattle prods. They appeared to be wrangling smart zombies into container units. Colonel Macmillan stood at the head of the column personally overseeing his undead cargo.

  I turned to Ivan. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’

  Restless milky-gray eyes darted back and forth. “They’re getting ready to move them.”

  I stared at him. “Where?”

  “Who knows, back to the U.S. maybe?”

  “Why do I feel like this is a blacker than black op?”

  Ivan didn’t answer, but he nodded in the direction of our kitchen helper.

  “You take the cart. I’ll take him. Act normal, walk straight up to the guy, ask for directions. Flirt with him.”

  I emerged from the shadows with a clueless look on my face. “Excuse me—hi—I’m turned around. I’m supposed to report to drone operations.”

  The chow hall worker looked me up and down. “You’re a drone pilot?”

  I placed my hands on my hips. “You got a problem with that?”

  Ivan was up behind the guy with his fingers wrapped around the kitchen help’s neck. “I said flirt with him.” Ivan glared at me.

  “He got attitude—better than flirting.”

  The chow worker’s eyes rolled back and he was gurgling. Ivan gritted his teeth. “Get going, Lizzy.”

  I pushed off and was well away from the mess hall before he caught up to me.

  “What was that back there—a Vulcan nerve pinch?” I asked.

  “It’s related to the choke hold.” The wheeze in his exhale did not sound good.

  “Climb on and I’ll ride you.” Ivan gave the cart an extra push before he jumped on and crouched between the stacks.

  I headed north—straight toward the red beacon and the helo hangar.

  I received a few curious looks as I pushed the cart past the crew of a giant osprey, but I purposely made no eye contact and kept moving.

  Ivan peeked over the top of the boxes. “Head toward the Black Hawks on the left.” I took off across an intimidating expanse of concrete.

  As we closed in on the choppers, Ahmed’s men climbed out of a sleek, dark helicopter. The French commandos loaded rations while I steadied Ivan. “Help me with him?” I caught a glimpse of Chris in the cockpit; Ahmed sat beside him talking air traffic control gibberish. Something about seeing Chris in his helmet and night vision goggles made me all hot for him again.

  I flashed on Hans Solo engaging the warp drive and whisking Princess Leia safely off the Death Star. Chris Oakley was a solider who followed orders, but he was also a rebel. The Army would call him a deserter, but to me, he was captain of the Rebel Alliance.

  I pitched in to help Ivan and the rest of the commandos move the boxes of rations inside the cargo bay.

  A loud moan permeated the air of the hangar, along with a good deal of heavy breathing. The unmistakable sounds of red-hot sex. Every last man on the ground stopped what they were doing to listen intently. Someone was playing the audio portion of a porn video over the base PA system. A few cat calls and whistles went up from the ground crews, including the men around me, who stopped what they were doing to listen intently.

  “Oh yes-s-s-s baby—suck my nipple.”

  Something crazy familiar about the erotic audio track. My pulse elevated and my gut started to roil. An airman from a nearby helicopter yelled. “Over here, baby—Papa will take care of you.”

  “Lower,” the breathy feminine voice whispered.

  The sound of a suction release—masculine lips popping off a nipple—echoed through the hanger. “Belly button lower? Or pussy lower?” The husky male voice asked.

  “Clit lower,” the female moaned.

  A raging heat swept up my throat and over my cheeks. Fuck me. That wanton, moaning hussy was me.

  The French-Arab commandos eyed me curiously, and uncomfortably. And I didn’t dare look at Ivan. He’d just be leering anyway.

  “Please, Chris—lick my pussy and make me come.” Thankfully, at that exact moment the turbine engine fired up. Completely humiliated, I spun around and climbed into the cockpit.

  “What the fuck, Chris?” I yelled over the engines. Moments ago I was ready to worship my rebel hero rescuer. Now I just wanted to strangle him.

  Chris handed me a helmet loaded with gear—including a headset. He reached over and plugged me in. “Talk to me, Lizzy.”

  I adjusted the mouthpiece. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Pull the jump seat down behind Ahmed and strap in.”

  At this exact moment, if my eyes had been lasers they would have sliced through his fatigues and cut off his fuzzy man parts.

  I was angry, but I also wanted our escape from ground zombie to succeed. Seething, I sat and buckled up.

  Chris turned his attention to Air Traffic Control. “Z-base clearance, Kahuna leader one niner five ready to taxi.”

  “Kahuna leader one niner five, proceed to Alpha one, Charlie pad.”

  Chris took hold of the controls and the chopper rolled out of the hangar. The route remained dark, with the exception of a few reflectors and the chopper’s landing lights, which flashed underneath the body of the aircraft periodically illuminating the taxiway.

  Scowling from my seat behind Ahmed, I crossed my fingers, and blocked all negative thoughts—including revenge on Chris. We were going to beat these monsters—and I wasn’t thinking zombies.

  Chris flipped down his night vision goggles. “Z-base tower, Kahuna ready for lift-off.”

  “Kahuna one niner five, winds two eight zero at eleven, cleared for lift-off.”

  “Cleared for lift-off,” Ahmed confirmed.

  The whump-whump of the rotors s
eemed muted when compared with the roar of the massive turbine engines. And before I even realized it, we were well off the ground, and moving over the desert. I craned my neck to see out a window. We appeared to be flying over an oil field, and heading straight for the z-storm. The familiar dust cloud filled the southern horizon.

  “Mind telling me what the hell that was, Captain?”

  Nothing. No answer.

  “Since I volunteered for this duty, I believe I deserve an explanation. What the fuck was that porn show back there?”

  Finally, he spoke to me. “Just be glad the rest of the sortie is still listening, Lizzy.”

  I settled back in my seat behind Ahmed, who actually turned in his seat and winked at me. “Une bonne distraction, oui?” This Arab’s Frenchie was showing.

  Okay—I had to admit a sex tape was a clever diversion meant to give us a head start. But did it have to be our sex tape?

  “Sommes-nous à l’heure pour votre rendez-vous?” I asked. From the look on Ahmed’s face, we’d missed their rendezvous window with the submarine.

  “We have GPS locators. If they pick up our signal, they will turn around. If not,” he shrugged. “We sail home, like you and Chris.”

  I sat back and mulled over his words. We were all getting the hell out of this hell hole, and a part of me was thrilled about it. Chris was flying close to the ground, avoiding radar, but from what I could observe, both pilots appeared to be more concerned with drones. I guess that was why Chris flew us straight into the blizzard of dust.

  “Interesting cloaking device, Captain Kirk.”

  Chris glanced over at me. “Better than hellfire missiles.”

  I suppose I gave him a sullen look. And damn if he didn’t grin. “Still angry, baby?”

  “Fuck you…sir.”

  Something about his laugh made my mouth twitch. Maybe I wasn’t so angry. Maybe I’d just been caught off guard. “You should have warned me,” I huffed.

  I did an informal body count in the cargo bay, which ended with Ivan. He wore a dreamily odd grin on his face and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I still wanted to punch Chris in the arm—hard—but that singular moment of retribution would have to wait. For the next several minutes, I watched him fly the helicopter through the jagged curves of a canyon in close to zero visibility conditions.

  In the Middle East there are mighty sandstorms called haboobs. Funny name for such an intense and dangerous weather phenomenon. The z-storms looked and acted exactly like one of the desert storms.

  Ahmed kept a keen eye on the readouts, functioning as a second set of eyes and a real-time terrain map-reader. All this was of little solace, as I was now dizzy with fear.

  I admit I’m not the bravest flyer in the world. So I closed my eyes and waited for the world to stop spinning. I practiced my anti-anxiety slow breathing, inhale through one nostril, exhale out the other. Gradually, the tension eased and my body relaxed. I stopped worrying about flying into the side of a ridge or being hit by a hellfire missile or the other members of the recon patrol catching up to us.

  Even the Chris and Lizzy porn recording began to fade.

  I caught a reflection of myself in a Plexiglas window. It took a moment to realize the female warrior that gazed back at me, was me.

  I settled back in my seat and fought off sleep. There was nothing to see outside the chopper. No stars, no moon, just the heavy fog of the zombie haboob.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, just a few more minutes of choppy air as we make our final approach into Al-Jabar airbase.” Chris’s voice woke me out of an uneasy sleep.

  Half-awake, eyes still closed, I smiled. He was doing a good impression of a commercial airline pilot.

  “We’ll be on the ground for as long as it takes us to refuel. For those of you who need to make a pit stop, I suggest you do it now. Any available ground crew will most likely be there to greet and eat us. I don’t need to remind you that live survivors are potential hijackers. Stay armed and frosty.”

  The moment the helicopter touched down, the commandos were on the tarmac staking out the perimeter of the landing site. Chris had chosen a location close to a fuel truck, and helped hot wire the engine to pump the jet fuel.

  I pivoted around, suspicious but not surprised by the eerily quiet airport. Two large hangars partially blocked off most of the deserted runway, but I could see enough to know that the noise we made would draw them out soon enough.

  “I have to pee.” I set off to find a restroom or porta potty.

  “Wait up, Lizzy.” Chris jogged up beside me.

  “That’s right—I’d almost forgotten—you’re my hero.” Even I was surprised by my flat, sarcastic delivery. I chalked it up to residual anger left over from our sex tape getaway.

  Chris didn’t defend his actions, nor did he ask for forgiveness, he just walked beside and didn’t say a word.

  I understood why he’d done it. The sex tape prank had been a masterful distraction. And it probably had everything to do with us being able to get far out ahead of the rest of the squadron and disappear into the dust cloud. But the ploy had been at my expense, and I was still feeling pretty raw over it. Especially when every man on board the chopper knew who was moaning and whimpering on the tape.

  “Over there.” Chris pointed to a line up of makeshift, military-style porta potties.

  “I’ll wait out here.”

  “You do that.” I slammed the door shut. “There’s no lock.”

  “It’s just me out here.”

  “Stand in front of the door so it doesn’t open.”

  The door slammed closed, and I smiled. Something comforting bout his leaning against the flimsy plywood door.

  “We needed a distraction, Lizzy. I stole the idea from M*A*S*H—not the TV show—the movie,” Chris explained quietly. “There’s this scene where Radar lifts up the bottom of Margaret’s tent and places the microphone to the camp’s PA system under her bed…”

  I had a hard time believing my ears. The only reason I didn’t haul off and punch him hard in the arm, was that I was sitting behind the plywood door of an outhouse taking a pee. “Real clever, Chris.”

  “We’re never going back there, so who the fuck cares?”

  I buttoned up when I heard someone else laughing. Actually, the laugh was more like a cackle. Apparently Ivan was taking a piss in the outhouse next to mine.

  “Let me out!” I banged on the door, and would have fallen out of the stall, if Chris hadn’t grabbed hold of me. I glared at Ivan as he exited the other porta potty.

  Ivan’s shifty eyes actually sparkled. “I promise not to call you Hot Lips.”

  “Fuck you, Ivan.”

  Chris scanned the pale pink horizon. “We need to move out.”

  As we walked back to the fuel truck a barrage of shots rang out. Chris and Ivan ran up ahead of me, M4s at the low ready. When they reached the hangar and rounded the corner, they raised their rifles.

  “Holy crap. Where did they come from?” I gasped. Ahmed and his men were hunkered down around the helicopter facing a crowd of biters. Instinctively, I reached for my machete, only to remember that my weapons had been confiscated back on the base.

  Chris looked back. “Take cover, Lizzy.”

  “Hold your fire!” he called out, signaling for Ahmed’s men to move out of the way of the crossfire.

  Once everyone was safe, he drew a few biters off and shot them thorough the head. Calmly and methodically, Chris, Ivan, and the commandos picked them off. When it was over, a small horde of bodies lay scattered across the tarmac.

  More biters dressed in combat fatigues continued to stumble out of a nearby hangar. Chris signaled for two of Ahmed’s men to help him close the massive rolling doors.

  “Jeezus,” Ivan remarked, “I’ve never met a pilot who could shoot like that.”

  I crossed my arms under my chest. “He’s fucking amazing at everything.”

  Ivan stared at me. “Like making you come si
x different ways.”

  “You and the whole fucking base heard it.” I could only imagine the serial sex offender look on his face—creepy and yet weirdly poignant. “Let’s not ruin a beautiful friendship, Ivan.” Chris waved us over and we both hightailed it across the tarmac.

  “Everyone in the helo—now!” Chris yelled.

  Ahmed stayed behind to check one of the fuel cells. He’d be the last one back inside the chopper. Seconds later, we all heard the blood-curdling yelp.

  Several men jumped out, and dragged Ahmed out of the jaws of a biter. As they lifted the injured lieutenant into the cargo bay, a handful of zombies threw themselves into the chopper. Ivan shoved me toward the cockpit as commando bullets cut the biters down. When the skirmish was over, they rolled the bodies out of the open doors.

  Ahmed looked fearful, wide-eyed. “I was bitten.”

  I looked down at his hand, dripping red. “Aidez-moi à son armure.”

  I sat him down on one of the medevac stretchers, and peeled off his armor and shirt.

  It was a savage bite. A flap of torn flesh hung off his forearm, and he was bleeding profusely, which meant an artery was involved.

  “Merde.” Ahmed winced. “Perhaps you should shoot me.”

  “Nonsense, you’re going to be fine.”

  Ivan stuck a helmet on my head. “Talk to your captain, he wants to know if we need to find a hospital.”

  I wrapped Ahmed’s shirt around the bite and signaled to one of his men. “Keep pressure on the wound. Try to find something to use as a tourniquet—utiliser comme un garrot.”

  Chris’s voice came through my headset loud and clear. “Talk to me, Doc.”

  “I’ve got this. Just keep her steady.”

  “Roger that.”

  I glanced up front. Good God, Ivan had climbed into the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Any emergency surgical supplies on board?” I asked Chris.

  “Try the cabinet behind me.”

  I quickly recruited a surgical team and then went scrounging for tools. I found a fairly impressive first aid kit and unpacked a few drugs from the cold bag in my backpack.

  “This will make you more comfortable.” I numbed the wound and gave Ahmed a dose of morphine to ease the shock of injury as well as the pain.