by H. L. Murphy
For my wife, whom I adore, and my rambunctious daughter, who renews my faith in humanity. And to the geeks, freaks, rat bastards, and genuine good people I've labored alongside the past decade, thanks guys.
Special thanks to Dale Boyer and Craig Streets, as well as the members of Team Hac.
Storm of the Undead
By H L Murphy
Cover Art By
Kelli Murphy and Kitty Miller
All characters are creations of the author’s imagination, any similarities between them and persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
We were all mustangs, wild and free when we got here, now we're just broken down, miserable carnival ponies, mindlessly walking in a fucking circle until we all die.- T. Gitlitz
Prologue
Dane Kincaid slipped a cigarette between his lips, though he neglected to light it, and sighted his suppressed Ruger 10-22 onto the rotting dome of an undead fucker. The zombie was tall, easily over six and a half feet, and broad at the shoulders, but had the overall appearance of having been tenderized by a steam roller. In the rifle’s scope, crisp details only added to the horror. Maggots swarmed over the thing’s face and into empty eye sockets. As the shambling thing turned its head, Dane squeezed the trigger. A single, hyper velocity twenty-two caliber round lanced into the zombie’s temple, the report of the weapon muffled by the extremely expensive, and highly effective suppressor. The creatures temple, surprisingly thin compared to the rest of the skull, proved unable to turn the tiny projectile aside. Despite having sufficient velocity and force to penetrate into the skull, the little twenty-two lacked weight, remaining velocity, or sufficient cohesion to do much more than ricochet around the inside of the creature’s brain pan. In the blink of an eye, and with little more than the sound of a stiff cough, Dane removed a two hundred sixty pound undead eating machine from his area of operation. A contented smile split his face, and he turned to his only remaining friend in the world to gloat, but Kyle Gaunt was already running for the store beyond the corpse.
“You're welcome,” Dane muttered. He scooped up his saddlebags and followed Gaunt. Ending the undead’s wretched existence had only been a means to an end, a gas station overlooked by looters. With any luck at all, the store clerks performed a restocking of the perishable goods before the world descended into hell. If, sweet Jesus, the minimum wage dregs of humanity staffing the Gulp and Guzzle gas station had done their jobs, Gaunt would shortly let loose a joyous ululation signaling his locating the holiest of holy prizes, Swiss Rolls.
Of all the goddamn confections devised by modern man, Gaunt was, hook, line, and sinker, addicted to the obscenely sweet cakes. Given his way, Dane knew his friend would devour them morning, noon, and night. Not that an observer would be able to tell by looking at Gaunt. Standing just over six feet tall, Gaunt was a slim one hundred seventy pounds of dedicated motorcycle riding crazy held together by duct taped leather, hard to find confections, and that special home grown herbage renown for its ability to erase stress. In contrast, Dane stood just under six feet, and dearly loved his pasta, as evidenced by his midsection. Where Gaunt daily slid a razor over his skull, Dane grew his brown hair out a while before trimming it back. The last time, though, Dane had noticed more white among the brown than he was quite comfortable with. An inevitable consequence of surviving the trials and tribulations placed in the path of all human beings within the first two decades of hormone infused life is that you live long enough to grow old, whereupon you immediately long for the halcyon days of youth.
A thunderclap fit to rouse the dead from their graves interrupted Dane’s private musings, and he swore privately. Clearly, his friend had encountered one of the undead within the Gulp and Guzzle, and had decided not to go with the silent approach. Oh, no, not Gaunt. No, his friend had spotted the zombie, probably smiled wickedly, and then whipped out his mobile field artillery piece, a Smith&Wesson 500, in order to remove the offending thing’s head.
It didn't matter the revolver might easily be heard in the next county and alerted every undead prick on the planet to their position. Nope, not at all. The only pertinent fact at hand was the resultant disintegration as the seven hundred grain bullet literally exploded the zombies head as it passed through. One second there had been the infected, quasi rotting skull and face of a zombie, the next nothing but black, viscous fluid and diseased flesh showering the world.
Now the two men were on a countdown. Experience had taught them the undead would start to arrive within forty-five seconds in a moderately populated area in small numbers, though inside ten minutes there would be more than enough rotting meat sacks to overwhelm the two no matter what.
“Two minutes,” Dane shouted as he entered the Gulp and Guzzle, headed directly for the nearest cooler with water still present. Three large bottles of water slid into one side of his leather saddle bags. Hydration was not so much of a problem in south Florida as there were canals everywhere, however, hydrating without contracting some form of dysentery took a few precautions. Dane grabbed a handful of canned goods before heading for his personal vice.
Cigarettes. Unhealthy, toxic, and obscenely enjoyable cigarettes lay in easy accessible rows behind the cashiers counter. His favorite brand shown out to him from the unlit racks, the red and white packs practically a beacon of hope in the midst of the apocalypse. Moving quickly Dane filled what little space in his saddle bags remained before stuffing the pockets of his recently liberated leather jacket.
“Hey!” Dane shouted, getting Gaunt’s attention. “You need anything?”
Considering his options, Gaunt nodded his head before moving to the door to watch for the undead. Shaking his head slightly, Dane reached out to snag two packs, the dark tan and white packaging indicative of the rough flavor and high nicotine content preferred by Gaunt. Since his friend smoked these things at a rate more indicative of a geological age, the two packs would be enough.
Food, water, smokes, and confections acquired, Dane and Gaunt moved from the store to the silent motorcycles two blocks away.
She was extant.
All that remained of Her form floated in a small tank of neutral fluid. The Renegade had caught Her unaware, thanks in no small part to the Other. She hadn't expected the ferocity of its attack, nor for the Renegade to consume her flesh and drain Her viral effluent, yet it had. It grew geometrically more power as She was torn asunder. The Renegade, the mutation, existed outside of the collective. Even in Her current state She could sense the horde falling under its control, could sense the wild abandon with which the horde renewed its attack on the congregations of flesh. So very far removed from the collectives methodical approach. The Renegade cared nothing for the Creator’s objectives. It cared only for carnage, for consuming flesh.
She was aware of the flesh attempting to insert metallic probes into what remained of Her form. Lacking the necessary mobility to clamp teeth upon the flesh, She could do nothing but wait. An electrical current, quite small, began to trickle through Her cells. What information the flesh expected to glean from this She failed to comprehend as the science behind her creation was far beyond the pitiful flesh infesting this world.
Time slipped away as the flesh conducted experiment after experiment upon Her, each more ridiculous than the last. The electrical current, however, remained a constant. The trickle tantalized what remained of Her superior strain of virus. An organic artificial intelligence set itself to the problem of overcoming its confinement and lack of form as well as how to make the most use of the electrical charge slowly building with its cells.
“Well, now, aren’t you amazing?” A cheerful voice posed the query. It was the voice She associated with the flesh experimenting upon Her. Its face appeared before Her containment vessel,
its teeth on broad display. Suddenly, and with unaccustomed dread, She wondered if the flesh were going to attempt consuming Her. “After all this time, you continue to demonstrate high cerebral function despite zero oxygen getting to your brain. I wonder if that has to do with the reconstructive nature of the virus, or the protein mix I've been adding to your pool.”
Protein mix? It would explain Her increased mental acuity. That She was even cognizant enough to realize She had returned to cognizance. The electrical current combined with a limited protein factor had proven sufficient to shock Her system into revival. No, not simply into revival, but to trigger the dormant emergency revival protocols contained within the organism modified to create the undead. Just enough of the original organism remained intact to resuscitate Her and begin the interminably slow process of reconstruction. Made all the slower because the process had been originally intended to be powered by the fading bioelectric impulse of the host organism. As a member of the undead, She possessed no bioelectric impulse, but the flesh experimenting on Her had been foolish enough to provide just enough current to simulate that impulse.
She would return.
Part One
Landfall
Chapter One
Fuck Your Safe Space
After four decades of, occasionally poor, experiences I could honestly state with authority, there is no sinful delight, no carnal pleasure equal to a long, hot shower with soap and shampoo. This was especially true following my baptism in the decomposing effluent of the dead and undead. I scrubbed myself raw, brushed my teeth till my gums bled, and still my tainted skin crawled. Days of rigorous attention to my personal hygiene and I was starting to feel better though the dreams weren't going away anytime soon.
Dreams where I got to relive the events of Witham Field, only I didn't even come close to surviving. In one, the tidal wave of putrescence came alive and forced itself down my throat where it ate its way out. In another the same liquid entity infected me, converting me into a mindless, soulless automaton. The worst of the bunch revolved around the bitch Queen of the Dead and Zombie Green playing tug of war with me until they ripped me in two, then set about devouring their prize. In case that wasn't horrifying enough for you, don't forget that I can now endure fatal wounds and heal the most obscene injuries. Basically, that means that the half with my head received the dubious pleasure of a very long, fully conscious death. A death, by the way, which every living thing on the planet dreads more than anything else, ever. Being eaten alive.
In the wake of my rising conscious mind, the identity of my assailant evaporated. Though the impression of cheap stripper perfume and cartoonish fake tits certainly pointed at an obvious suspect. Several tense moments passed as the memory of Zombie Green ripping the Queen of the Undead apart floated to the foreground of my thoughts. One monster supplanted by another, and no clear indication of whether we were any better off now than before.
Ten minutes later I sat down next to my Lizzy, busy explaining to Hermione that she mustn’t stick her pointing finger in people's faces, and dug into breakfast. My joy at hot cakes and hash browns was somewhat dampened by the knowledge the recently acquired supplies I went through hell to bring back had been spirited away by one of my soon to be dead friends, and his puppet master, Farah Fuckwit. At least, I hoped the supplies had been spirited away and not just tossed over board. Were that the case, no archangel in shining heaven, a place I was certain I'd never see, nor flaming archduke of the blackest pit of hell could save Carroll from my vengeance. Sorry, St. Pete, but some things can't be trusted to heavenly justice. You might decide Carroll gets a pass because you have two yards riding on him, or he was a first round draft pick in the archangel fantasy football league, or you feel like shmoozing up to the highest choir of God’s enforcers. After all, for all the gilt and glitz, you're just the fucking gate keeper. Do you even get to sit at the big table? Or do you have to eat dinner in a tiny closet of a room below stairs?
I am so going to hell just for thinking this.
“Where are we on the engine?” James appeared at my elbow as though through the application of some arcane ninja like asshole magic, my initial instinct to ram my fork into his throat. Since the start of the goddamn outbreak my asshole of a best friend had taken a special delight in trying to inflict a heart attack and early death on me.
“Good morning, James. How are you today? What's that? You're a jump scaring ass hat in dire need of a crotch kick? I agree whole heartedly, moose knuckle,” I said the words as quietly as possible in hopes my daughter wouldn't hear me. The last fucking thing I wanted was for Hermione to run around repeating ass hat and moose knuckle. Especially not in front of her mother.
A choked snort was James’ only response as he fought to clear hot tea from his lungs. Served him right for even drinking hot tea. Goddamn disgusting concoction I thoroughly blame the British for spreading across the globe like a venereal disease. Coffee, pure and invigorating, with just a hint of sugar slid down my throat to a grateful stomach. You see, coffee, unlike vile tea, was handed from the highest throne of heaven unto the adoring mass of humanity. Except for the wretched heretics who sold their putrified souls to the Great Unclean One and are forever cursed to swill hot tea.
It's entirely possible I'm exaggerating a tad bit, but it's unlikely.
“To answer your question, though,” I sipped more of the holy brew grown in far away Colombia, ”the engine is still off line.”
“Why?” James managed around a lung full of the Devil’s swill.
“Because not content with merely disassembling the engine, that fat bastard made off with a handful of parts essential to the operation of the whole,” I drank more of the precious colombian brew. Aside from the loss of our new found supplies, the revelation of the missing engine parts had nearly sent me off the deep end. “Until such time as Buffalo and I can figure out the make, model, and century of production of the engine we are basically down to one slightly cranky diesel. Nowhere near an ideal situation.”
“None of this is ideal,” James countered, and drew in yet more hot, brown demon piss.
“No, James, none of this ideal,” my tone went nasty as I considered all the ways it could be so very much worse. “We could have been turned into slave labor by mentally unbalanced cops or thrown into an island fight cage to kill each other while zombies tried to devour us or, hey, you and yours could have been eaten in your home because I never made it out of the fucking factory. Our situation is pretty fucking far from ideal, but it could be a lot fucking worse.”
I paused to draw breath, intent on giving my friend a full broadside of frustration fueled venom, when Lizzy interjected.
“Aren't you two supposed to go through the cargo hold?” Lizzy asked, shoveling unidentifiable baby food into Hermione’s face. “Perhaps instead of bitching and moaning like a couple of school girls you ladies should go to work.”
As one, James and I turned to face Lizzy. Another potential crisis forestalled by the power of my hard nosed wife. That woman pulled no punches and spared no egos. Goddamn, I loved her. Muffled snickering from somewhere behind me let me know in the most embarrassing way possible our disagreement, and subsequent smack down, hadn't gone unremarked.
Gathering the shreds of my soiled dignity, and my coffee, I marched out of the galley, head held high as muffled snickering became not so muffled guffawing. Whether or not James was following me didn't matter so much as the strategic withdrawal.
Out of sight of the giggling masses I released a withering barrage of profanity sufficient to melt the blistered paint from the hull. Ducking through another too small hatchway I rounded the corner straight into a small group of the least useful members of the human race, on my boat at any rate. Before me stood three androgynous college students, each staring in shock at the ninety pound lump of waif-like flesh laying on the deck, more nautical terms, dazedly gawking up at me. Rewinding the previous second and a half I realized I strode into the sexless idiot and bowled the poor fo
ol down, without even registering the impact. My gaze fell upon the still standing twits cowering in the corridor as though they’d witnessed me viciously pistol whip their fallen companion before pulling out my sexual pride and joy to relieve myself on the fallen snowflake. In reality, I reached down to offer my hand only to have the gender confused waif scuttle away on its ass.
“Okay, I'm already tired of this game,” I said to the group, balled fists perched on my hips as I regarded the previously unseen hand written sign duct taped next to what I was guessing to be a woman with severe penis envy and a truckload of daddy issues. The sign read, Official Safe Space, No Patriarchy Permitted, Permission To Enter This Area Required.
My eyes slid from the sign over to the five foot nine inch tall, two hundred pound mass of psychological confusion covered in a combination of polyester and lesbian themed tattoos, heavy on the anti-male propaganda. Which I felt was somewhat at odds with her obvious desire to be a man. Death, dismemberment, and immolation poured at me from Cousin It as I ripped the sign from the bulkhead, more nautical terms. Less than angelic voices erupted into protest the second my fingers touched paper, jumbled complaints overlapping one another to such an extent it all became white noise. Voluminous white noise, but white noise nonetheless.
“SHUT UP.”
In addition to accelerating my immune system, bringing me back from the dead, and saddling me with an inner voice definitively not born of my own mind, the altered virus had given me a remarkable control over my body. So much so when I chose to, I could out bellow any skinny pant wearing, patriarchy conspiracy theorizing, fragile snowflake of a college student ever hatched. Silence dropped over the assembled gaggle of idiots, one person, a whip chord thin male of approximately twenty, began snuffling into a lace handkerchief. An actual lace bordered, silk handkerchief embroidered with a set of initials. Unintentionally, my heightened sense of smell delivered an aromatic assault of such brutality as to be covered by the Geneva Conventions. Imagine, if you can, your least enjoyable encounter with an exotic dancer, or stripper if you live in the ghetto. Focus entirely upon the malodorous funk emanated through the unfortunate combination of perfume purchased by the gallon and the perspiration given off by a woman that has ground herself against men whose hygiene standards might be considered dubious were there actually any doubt said individual hadn't showered within the last week. Now combine that fetid mephitis with the sickly sweet putrefaction of decaying orchids and you may begin to understand why so delicious a breakfast began fulminating an immediate retreat back the way it came.