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

by Jillian Stone

  I settled back in my seat. “Growing up we had this neighbor, Fred Manning, one of those survivalist guys. The kind with a basement full of can goods, cases of bottled water and plenty of ammo. He was always giving us tips whether we wanted them or not.” I sighed. “I should have paid more attention.”

  “Ever been to Doha?” Chris asked.

  I shook my head. “Where’s that?”

  “Qatar.”

  “Why not look for a boat here in Bahrain?”

  “After that last dust up, I’d like to put some distance between us and them.”

  I nodded. “Apparently the military doesn’t take kindly to pilots who break hybrid zombies out of their labs, suspected terrorists out of their stockade, and steal one of their Black Hawk helicopters.”

  Ivan snorted a wheezy laugh. From the sound of it, his lung function was minimal at this point. I stared at the back of Ivan’s helmet. Infinitely better than the full frontal view. For once thing, I didn’t have to watch his eyes spin in their sockets. As he wound down from the adrenalin high, his symptoms had returned with a vengeance.

  “Ivan, what sort of treatment did you receive in the lab’s medical unit?”

  “Bags of blood. Other than that, I have no idea what they pumped into me.” With some difficulty, Ivan twisted in his co-pilot’s seat to make eye contact. “Mean anything to you?”

  “Epidemiology is not even close to my specialty, but…” I mulled over my own impressions of the z-lab in the bunker. “After we were decontaminated, the lab tested Chris and I for the virus. I tested negative and he tested positive for antibodies to the virus.

  “In almost every pandemic scenario, there are the survivors. My guess is you’re both genetic mutants. More than a decade ago, researchers found an HIV mutation called Delta-32. Very few people have it. Some scientists think it’s inherited from ancestors who survived the massive bubonic plague in Europe centuries ago. I read a WHO report indicating that one percent of people descended from Northern Europe are virtually immune to the AIDS virus.”

  “So that’s why they ran more tests and took bags of blood.” Chris’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

  “And why I became one of their lab rats,” Ivan growled.

  “Chris must be immune to the z-virus, and Ivan, you’re definitely resistant, otherwise you would have zombified weeks ago.”

  Ivan’s strange tick was back, mostly involving his head and neck. And he was showing signs of respiratory distress. With each breath, I could hear him strain for oxygen. I didn’t want to believe it, but his health seemed to be deteriorating at a faster pace then ever.

  I glanced over at Chris and read the look of concern on his face. It seemed likely we were both thinking the same thing. How long did we have before Ivan finally succumbed to the virus and turned?

  Rather than dwell on the eventuality, I changed the subject. “Gentlemen, I don’t have a bag of peanuts or a cocktail to offer you, but I could break into a few MREs and see what I can find in the way of snack items.”

  I borrowed a pocketknife from Chris, opened a carton of rations and removed a couple of unappealing beige plastic bags. MREs as it turns out, are kind of like those Russian stacking dolls. Inside the large plastic bag are a bunch of smaller plastic bags. Most of them are filled with an assortment of semi-edible food items, including condiments.

  Dutifully, I sorted through the bags in search of carbs.

  “Meal Number Nineteen—Brisket of Mystery Meat.” I pulled out a chocolate sports bar. Cheese spread and crackers. “Oh and look—” I raised a colorful bag triumphantly. “Peanut butter M&Ms!”

  The ensuing fight over the M&Ms made it clear the zombie apocalypse had turned us all into junk food junkies.

  Ivan glanced back, and eyed the Peanut butter M&Ms. “You take the M&Ms, give me the cheese and crackers.”

  “Wow, that was quite a sacrifice, Ivan.”

  “Thank you, Ivan, for being such a nice guy.” He grabbed the cheese and crackers out of my hand.

  The other MRE featured chicken and noodles. Besides another energy bar and gum, there were oatmeal cookies, and a bag of nut raisin trail mix. I held up two packets of powdered sports drink mix. “Orange and lemon-lime.”

  Chris took one of the energy bars, and a powdered drink mix. “There’s a case of bottled water in the compartment with the medical kit.”

  I washed down oatmeal cookies with lemon-lime water. “Sure you don’t want a taste?” I asked Ivan.

  “Not unless there’s booze in there.”

  Chris handed me a pair of binoculars. “As soon as we round this bend of coastline, we’ll be coming up on Doha.” He kept the chopper close to the shore and whenever we flew over a settlement of any size, we checked the marinas.

  “You’re looking for a sailing yacht—either a sloop or a ketch—in the fifty foot range. Has to have solar panels. A wind generator would be an added bonus.” Chris pointed to a long sexy cabin cruiser adrift in the bay. “That’s about the right length.”

  I adjusted focus, as we hovered overhead. “Jeezus.” Dark red smears covered the aft deck of the cruiser. Several of the bloody streaks had spread into puddles, which the sun had cooked into rusty-brown stains. I shifted the binoculars slightly. “Jeezus,” I repeated myself, and exhaled a loud sigh. The severed heads of two biters had come to a rest against the starboard side of the deck.

  “What?” Chris asked.

  “Decapitated zombie heads.”

  Ivan borrowed the binoculars. “How do you suppose they got out there?”

  “Salt water dissolves them, so they didn’t swim out to the boat.” I said.

  “Maybe those two—the boat owners—were bitten.” Ivan surmised out loud. “They tried to escape and turned on their way out of the harbor.”

  Chris glanced over at him. “Then who decapitated them?”

  Ivan’s shoulders jerked up and down. “How the hell would I know?”

  “Jerk—ass-wipe.” I grabbed the binoculars back, and resumed my search. Every so often I’d spot a skiff or two, but most of the boats in our size range were cruiser-style yachts. Those sleek party boats pictured in tabloids adorned by topless actresses and other annoying celebrity types.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to ask. “I’m guessing the problem with cabin cruisers is refueling.”

  Chris tilted the chopper and hugged the coastline. “Keep in mind that every port we visit, every pit stop we’re forced to make, puts us in danger.”

  I must have looked a little deflated. “We should probably stick with a sailboat.”

  He checked my expression. “You’re going to love sailing, control freak.”

  Okay, I admit I was intimidated. Being at the mercy of the wind and the sea…the storms at sea. “If you say so.” I raised the binoculars, and pointed them toward a cluster of spindly tall glass and steel buildings. “Doha straight ahead.”

  A great cluster of spires shot up into a pale blue sky. Qatar’s capital looked like all the major cities on the gulf—the twenty-first century equivalent of the Emerald City.

  “Oh my God, it’s surrounded by marinas.” With my heart racing, I scanned the sleek, modern docks that radiated out into the bay like spokes in a wheel. As was the case everywhere, most of the big yachts were long gone, with a few abandoned cabin cruisers scattered here and there.

  I lowered the binoculars. “I’m not finding many sailboats, not the size you want.”

  “Hold on, there’s more.” Chris descended even lower and rounded a curve in the harbor. More marinas spread out in front of luxe hotels and apartment buildings. “There!” I pointed to a narrow channel. “See the long, sporty looking boat—single mast—a sloop, I think.”

  Chris throttled back the helicopter and moved in closer. “Good eye, Lizzy.”

  We all stared at the elegant sailing yacht as if were a mirage. I raised my binoculars. “Solar panels above the cockpit canopy,” I offered, feeling hopeful.

  “See that tall pole mount
ed aft—the one with the blades?” Chris asked.

  “Is that a wind generator?” My heart beat even faster. As we had come to find out, there were few sailing ships rigged to circumnavigate the planet, at least not in this part of the global economy.

  Chris was grinning ear to ear. “Let’s kick the tires on this baby.”

  Ivan pointed to an open patch of greenery between one of the big resort hotels and what appeared to be a restaurant built on the edge of the marina. “You’ll have to set down between the date palms, but then I imagine you’ve had tighter landings.” Ivan leaned back and stretched. “These spec ops pilots can set the tail wheel down on a mountain peak—right, Rotorhead?”

  Chris shrugged. “They sent me to a high altitude flight school in Colorado to train for Afghanistan.”

  “And you got deployed to Iraq,” Ivan’s wheezy snort annoyed me, so I set him straight. “After his tour in Afghanistan.”

  Chris hovered over the landing spot, checking for obstacles and talking over possible approaches. Our descent was very slow and controlled. “I’m going to need surveillance and obstacle clearance. Ivan you take the right and Lizzy—hang that pretty ass out the other window and call out trees, debris—anything that we could hit or might hit us.”

  “Did you just say hang that pretty ass out the window?” Not sure which part of that remark I disliked more—the pretty ass remark or the hang out the window part. “Fine.” I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want us to crash, either.

  Ivan took the right window near the crew chief’s station. He motioned for me to do the same on the other side.

  A blast of hot, dry air nearly took my breath away.

  “Within obvious obstacle avoidance limitations,” Ivan growled, “you’ve got about ten feet to play with on your right. If you’ve got more on your left, take it.”

  The minute I hung ass out the window I realized how tight this landing was going to be. “You’ve got maybe twenty feet over here,” I advised. As we descended, the downwash from the chopper’s blades sent tables and chairs flying—mostly into an iron railing that ran along the quay. “You just bounced a patio chair off a plate glass window, other than that you’re good to go.”

  With a great deal of care and skill, Chris set the Black Hawk down in front of the hotel without injuring a leaf on a palm frond. Can’t say the same for the patio furniture.

  The moment we touched ground, I was ready to roll. He caught hold of my hand. “Get back here.” He pulled me gently, then not so gently, onto his lap.

  “Sorry about the cute ass remark. It just kinda slipped out.” His gaze lowered as his hands moved over my torso. “I’ve missed this—”

  “Would you mind not feeling her up in front of me?” Ivan shrugged. “It makes me cranky.”

  I tried to wiggle out of his arms, but Chris kept me on his lap. “Sit tight, Lizzy. Let’s give the greeters a chance to come out.”

  As the chopper’s blades wound down, we all scanned the marina and surroundings, but the walking dead never showed. No half-eaten corpses. No tell-tale bloodstains. With the exception of a mangle of patio furniture, the place appeared to be in pristine condition. Even the lagoon swimming pool looked inviting. It was a picture straight out of Expedia—gorgeous hotel, waterways, an eatery overlooking the marina—only no people. “It’s like the entire population of Doha just deserted the city.” I murmured more to myself than anyone.

  Pretty but spooky.

  “The hotel doors are wide open.” Chris noted. “You think people could be hiding somewhere?”

  “Where would they go?” I wondered out loud.

  Ivan exhaled a breath. “They’d find a place they think is safe—like a room with no windows. Then they lock themselves in. It only takes one or two injured to turn the crowd. Pretty soon, you’ve got a room full of undead.”

  “We found a storage space like that in Ruwayshid at the black site,” I said. We both studied Ivan’s reaction. The vibrating zombie eyes were back, along with the twitches.

  I pushed further. “You’re the one who tied them up in there.”

  “I was trying to stop a feeding frenzy and got bit in the process.” Ivan shrugged. “And I was also trying to save my own neck—okay?”

  At least the zombie lord owned it.

  A meandering path hugged the private waterway and disappeared into an enclave of expensive residences, each with its own boat slip. The place where our watercraft awaited.

  “So can we just get the hell out of here?” I asked.

  I got no argument from either Chris or Ivan, who helped me organize our stuff into piles. We’d carry backpacks, arms, ammo and medical supplies over first, and come back for the rations.

  “Okay, let’s check her out.” Chris and I jumped out of the cargo bay and helped Ivan down from the chopper. Stiff as board, the zombie man arched back to take in the height of the Four Seasons Doha. “Most of the big hotels serve alcohol. Think they might have some tequila in there?”

  “Maybe ask the concierge?” Chris gibed.

  “Fuck you, Rotorhead.”

  Chris snorted a laugh and ducked back inside the cargo bay. He came out with an M4 and two pistols. He handed one of the handguns to me, and the other to Ivan. “You know where to find us.”

  Ivan veered off in the direction of the hotel, shuffling sideways like a crab.

  “I don’t like the way he’s walking.”

  Chis held out his hand and I took it. “He’s turning, Lizzy.”

  I bit my lip and tried to think of something pleasant, like the sailboat that would carry us away from all this heartsick madness and brutality.

  An eerie stillness hung thick in the air.

  We didn’t see a single biter on the way over to the boat slip. Occasionally, the silence was broken by the rustle of date palm leaves, or the lap of seawater against the quay. We followed the meandering walkway into a stately neighborhood built along a man-made channel.

  We both stopped in our tracks and took a moment to admire the magnificent sailing yacht.

  Chris read her name off the bow. “Zephyr.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  WE WALKED THE length of the boat slip several times. “Looks to be a fifty-foot Jeanneau—these ships are built for comfort and speed.”

  “Yeah, but can she make the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs?” I looked over the impressive vessel. “To quote Hans Solo.”

  Chris climbed aboard. “She sure as shit will make Hawaii in forty days or less.” He gave me a hand up, and I followed him around the teak wood deck as he surveyed the equipment. “High-strength upgraded rigging, in-mast furling, and a large traveler. This is going to be an easy boat to single-hand.”

  “So does that mean I still get to come along for the ride?”

  He snaked an arm around my waist and yanked me close. “You should be glad—pressure’s off—gives you a chance to relax and get your sea legs.” He stepped down into the cockpit and positioned me behind the wheel. “Check this out—state-of-the-art auto-pilot, chart plotter, furling in and out, power and manual winches, compass, cockpit light.” He pointed from one electronic gadget to the next. “Everything is redundant—even the auto pilot.”

  I pointed to a flat round button below one of the read-outs.

  “Go ahead, press it.”

  I pushed and nearly jumped out my skin.

  He chuckled. “That would be the air horn.”

  “And what’s this?” I asked, We made the rounds again, me doing the asking and him answering patiently. Turns out, sailing was way more complicated that I ever imagined.

  Chris could sometimes read me so accurately it was scary. “You’re going to get the basics down fast. There’s just a lot of jargon and gear to get used to.”

  I stared down into the salon of the cabin from one of the skylights. “Can we get inside?” Chris dug in his pants pocket and retrieved more paperclips. He spent a good deal of time modifying the shape of the wires.

  I plopped myse
lf down on a bench seat and eased back on my elbows. “If we were back home, and happened to stroll into a yacht dealership…” The sun felt wonderful on the bridge of my nose and cheeks. “Would this sailboat be in our price range?”

  “You mean our six hundred thousand dollar luxury sailing yacht budget?” The lock clicked, and Chris reached up and pushed open the roof hatch. A low pitched alarm warning went off. We had a few seconds before the air horn sounded.

  “After you, Lizzy.”

  I climbed down into the salon of the ship with Chris right behind me. He quickly moved to a desk with a radio and a stack of books and charts. He opened a drawer and shuffled papers around. I peeked over his shoulder. An index card had been taped to the bottom of the drawer. “Star, seventeen, twenty-two,” I read aloud. Chris plugged the numbers into the alarm box on the inside of the hatchway and the beeping stopped.

  I stared at him. “That was almost too easy.”

  Chris nodded. “Security can be pretty lax in marinas.”

  “Probably not a lot of sloop hijackers.” I made my way toward the kitchen or galley, as Chris corrected me. “Stainless steel appliances.” I opened cabinets and discovered dishes, a microwave, and a coffeemaker. I slid back part of a counter top and found an icemaker. “Jeezus, this is an amazing kitch—I mean galley.”

  “Let’s check out the master berth.” He opened doors and cabinets on our way aft. “Electrical, batteries…still looking for the water maker.”

  We found the cabin behind the navigation station. A gorgeous bed, complete with duvet and pillows. I sat down at a small vanity and stared in the mirror. I didn’t look quite as bad I thought I would. My hair was a mess, of course.

  Chris opened up the door to the bathroom. “Sink, toilet and separate shower.”

  I pulled out a built-in drawer. “Clean sheets.” I inhaled the scent of lavender. “This feels more like a luxury hotel suite than a berth on a yacht.”