by H. L. Murphy
“Hmph,” I smiled. “Good news for the boat. I don't think we could survive another free range roaming by that little psycho.”
“Where are you thinking for an insertion site?” James changed the subject.
“Insertion site? You've been reading too many spy novels,” I joked. For his part, James merely shrugged. He liked his spy novels in the same way I enjoyed Tom Clancy books. A touch too ardently. “As to where I plan to land, Stuart is still at the top of my list.”
“Glutton for punishment, that's you,” James mumbled. Like me, James chose to go out today in a lovely black plate carrier, with ballistic plates securely in place. “Why not further south? Less time with boots on the ground.”
“Seriously, what have you been reading? Did you get into my goddamn Ebook files?” I demanded, sliding a cigar out of my pocket. I stripped the cellophane wrapper and band before clipping the tip.
“Of course not,” James sniffed. “Lizzy traded me a few dozen books for a box of tea.”
“Well, that makes a certain amount of sense. She can't sleep without her tea,” I conceded. “Stuart is a mostly known quantity, and I would rather walk to Miami than try to land on Palm Beach island. Even if all those Kings of Avarice aren't all infected, there's a fair chance they just open fire the moment they spot us. Won't mean so much to me, but you would be straight fucked. Still, if you want to try…”
“Skip it,” James produced his own cigar, pilfered from my stash no doubt. “Do you have a lead on a car of some kind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” a broad, devious smile split my face.
“I hate it when you smile like that,” James declared before accepting a light.
“Trust me,” I shrugged. “It'll be easy.”
Easy being a relative term, of course. Compared to making land fall in West Palm Beach, or Normandy Beach, or Iwo Jima. Our previous ‘insertion’ took place under cover of darkness, but had so thoroughly unnerved the both of us so this time we opted for early morning. And to hell with paddling several miles, exaggeration, over open ocean. This time we were using the power launch Angie and I stole from a marina.
Fifteen minutes after casting off from the freighter, James and I found ourselves tying off the launch. Whatever deity or karmic entity or plain old spirit of fate that so enjoyed toying with me must have decided my life had been entirely too quiet of late because the first available berth turned out to be the very one the launch came from. My eyes locked on the spot I had last seen the bitch Queen of the Undead, and wouldn't leave. My skin crawled remembering how the thing screamed as it was torn apart by Zombie Green. The heavy, reassuring weight of my Kalashnikov broke the spell. If I walked up to that spot, I knew I would see the remains of my nemesis. My well and truly dead nemesis.
Instead of indulging my paranoia, I swept the area for any sign of trouble. To me trouble held a broad definition, so I was on the look out for anything and everything.
I wasn't disappointed.
From the small dock I could see three distinct columns of black smoke billowing into the morning sky. Someone, or, God forbid, something, had obviously set fires across the cityscape, probably at gas stations judging by the voluminous towers of smoke. Added to that were the distant sounds of revving engines though the sounds were too faint to assign a vehicle type. The optimist in me fervently prayed those few who managed to survive were making their way out of the graveyard that was Stuart while the realist in me put serious money on the vehicles belonging to some of Bad Eddie’s crew of malignant malcontents enjoying themselves one last time before heading south. What I didn't see, and had expected to see, were buzzards. Less than a week ago I had seen the airfield practically covered in corpses. Undead as well as human remains. Come to think of it that isn't quite right. I mean, all the corpses had been human. Some corpses were those of the infected so I suppose the proper way to think of the situation would to say the field was covered in the infected as well as the uninfected. Yeah, that's better.
In any case, there weren't any buzzards circling over head. Could it be the buzzards finally discovered something too vile to eat? If that supposition were factual why didn't it stink a lot more than it actually did? With a field of, say, two hundred corpses left out in the Florida sun for about a week the air should have been rank with the bouquet of putrefaction. Outside of a little rotting fish aroma, a constant along the docks, I couldn’t really detect anything.
We moved swiftly, but quietly through the few beach front homes to the edge of Witham airfield. Hidden eyes followed our progress, and I became increasingly nervous with each step. I can't genuinely state with authority we were being watched, but I could feel hateful eyes on us. In the beginning, I would have said the eyes must belong to the living, however given the rise of Zombie Green and the psychological evolution of the higher forms of undead…
Where the chain link fence had once separated the airfield from the rest of the city was now only shredded metal wire, the stumps of steel fence posts, and a blackened, dead circle of ground where the Zombie Queen had met her fate. Looking upon the pattern of dead earth, in my minds eye I visualized the creature’s corrupted blood splashing down upon the grass. The fluid burned the life from the vegetation, even from the very ground itself. Nothing would ever grow here, ever again. It was a fact of life I felt in the depths of my soul.
“Finn,” James whispered in my ear, goddamn near making me piss myself out of fright. I whipped my head around, ready to unleash verbal hell, but came up short when I saw my friend’s ashen face. He was starring out at the airfield, seeing something I hadn't noticed. My jaw clenched as I slowly turned to face some fresh hell destined to scar my already abused mind.
“Fuck me swinging,” I breathed. Out across the airfield where there should have been body after shattered body, there stood a small horde of abnormally large raccoons, or, as we called them, trash pandas. Dark fluid dripped from their mouths and seeped out of tear ducts. A sea of blood red eyes followed our every movement as James and I edged away from the sickly animals. Trash pandas ate anything and everything they could scrounge, the contents of garbage cans and dumpsters included, and I guessed the smorgasbord of rotting carrion had been too tempting a treat.
Oh, please tell me the virus did not just jump species.
Unlikely, those animals are probably sick from eating the contaminated flesh of the undead. Similar to a more advanced, more infectious form of rabies.
Rabies is communicable.
Yes, it is, so you should avoid being bitten.
Brilliant! There's a mere…thirty slathering trash pandas within striking distance, so naturally I should avoid being bitten. Great advice.
An argument with myself such as that could have gone on indefinitely, but the report of James’ rifle and the subsequent explosion of a fuzzy little trash panda brought the matter to a close.
I didn't bother with questions, but opened a controlled fire. Shooting zombies in the head proved difficult under the best of circumstances, but doing the same to insanely chittering, charging raccoons proved nearly impossible. Two men with modern military type rifles spent nearly sixty rounds to end thirty small targets while displacing away from the advancing threat. When my rifle ran dry, I dropped it on its sling and drew my forty-five to cover the area while James reloaded his weapon.
“The fuck was that about?” I demanded breathily. Fear still burned in my stomach, the all too fresh images of the charging trash pandas flashing behind my eyes. James brought his weapon up, so I holstered my pistol and rocked a fresh magazine into my Kalashnikov.
“Didn't you see it?” James sidestepped my question by asking his own.
“See what? All I saw was an infected raccoon explode after you shot it,” I spat. Literally spat, because I could taste bile rising in my gullet.
“They were, they were…eating the, the bodies,” James stammered, and I knew there must be more. More that disturbed my reserved friend so badly he declared a genocide against the dis
eased animals. In the best interests of a future good nights sleep, I didn't press the subject.
“Chuck it in the fuck it bucket, and let's move,” I ordered, gently shouldering my friend into motion. For my own part I tried to keep my eyes off the ruined field where once had been an unknown number of dead, including the fifty foot tall amalgam the Queen of the Undead used as a chariot. Instead I searched the far distance for more threats and for a vehicle we might liberate for our own use. At no time whatsoever did I happen to glance over and take stock of the complete lack of corpses, well, that is to say the total lack of flesh covering the scattered bones and debris. My eyes never took in the bodies James referred to. Never classified those bodies as juvenile humans, certainly didn't see one of those little bodies twitch into unlife.
Lady Luck, that clapped out, gang banged syphilitic whore, smirked down on us by delivering up a mode of transportation that only the truly desperate, or the possessors of a vagina, would drive. A bright yellow Smart Fourtwo, two door granolamobile. The keys to the oversized golf cart were hanging in the door lock, two feet above the rotting pile of flesh and bones that once sported a grand hippy beard and pseudo-vagina. I literally felt my manhood shrink as I crammed myself within the pitiful excuse for an automobile. Next to me, James rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Neither of us could be considered small men, and the interior of that vehicle had clearly been designed to seat ninety pound vegans with their boutique coffees.
“Fifteen fucking cup holders, but no place to put my rifle,” James bitched as he struggled to maneuver his weapon to a more comfortable position.
“Of course not, you savage,” I fake lisped. “Haven't you heard? Guns are the source of all evil. That, and capitalism.”
“That's messed up, dude,” James laughed. “Are you sure we have to take this…car?”
“It's better than walking,” I shrugged. “Don't worry, though, I have a plan. There's a much better ride not far from here.”
“Good. I'm starting to develop a craving for flannel, half caf latte, and pachouli,” he smiled.
“At least we’re boots dry,” I suggested. “Despite your questionable desires.”
“Yeah,” James sighed, starring back to the airfield. “That went well.”
Chapter Six
If You Find Yourself Going Through Hell
For all its ecological superiority, the Smart Fourtwo died on US1 a mile from the Jeep dealer. On foot again, James and I moved steadily forward with weapons raised and tracking back and forth for targets. Tension tightened across my shoulders with each step, so every twenty steps or so I would stop to shrug my muscles loose. It didn't take long for James to begin doing the same.
The gates of heaven couldn’t possibly compare to the beauty of the dealership as James and I came upon it, and the rows of brand new Jeeps waiting to be plundered. Silence pervaded every corner of the dealership as it had every corner of the city so far. We never really gave much thought to how noisy the world was before Outbreak day and the electrical grid going down, but genuine silence is unnerving. Modern man has become so accustomed to the background hum of machinery that when confronted by its absence we are afraid. It's as if the silence reminds us all of a time when our species stood precariously balanced on the edge of an ecological knife. Too far one way or the other and the human race is a less than pleasant memory in the geological record. Right now I'm inclined to agree.
Running away from my morbid thoughts I pushed into the dealership offices and began searching for the keys. Technically, you could call what I was doing stealing, but only in so far as I intended to take a vehicle that didn't belong to me and likely never return it. Since the owners of the dealership were more than probably past tense, I didn't expect them to level charges against me.
“Get the black one,” James stage whispered from the door.
“Oh, sure,” I snarled. “No problem. I'm sure some underpaid secretary labeled the keys black, red, purple, the lovely teal, and don’t forget that drop dead gorgeous royal blue.”
“Then you shouldn't have a problem finding the black one,” James retorted with gushing sarcasm.
“Shut up and watch the street,” I said, ignoring him as my search continued. In case I hadn't mentioned it, James was once again strutting about in commando chic. Black pants, black shirt, black balaclava, black boots, and black overcoat. Part of me wanted to ridicule his taste, but since I needed him watch my back out here giving him endless shit over his fashion choices struck me as a bad tactical decision. Besides, he hadn't been shot over and over again. My earth tone wearing ass, however, was everybody’s favorite target. Maybe my dumbass ought to exchange the tan and browns for midnight black.
“Ah, here we go,” I smiled as I discovered the cabinet in which a plethora of brand new microchip embedded keys were stored. Unfortunately, color coding was not the order of the day. Each key had a small numbered tag attached. It was probable the numbers matched up with a vehicle vin number, which would be all manner of logical and awesome for the two paranoid, terrified idiots wandering around in a post zombie apocalyptic cityscape in dire need of transportation. Hedging my bets, I grabbed a handful of keys and ran out into the lot. The very first Jeep I came to happened to be a lovely shade of blue. My wife would have explained it to be Royal Blue and not just a shade of blue, but since I'm inexcusably male, I see in primary colors. I understand the concept of tonal variance, I just don't bother with it.
With the rise of key fobs, keyless entry, keyless ignition, and the over complication of every aspect of vehicular function had, at least, provided one wondrous aspect. When I triggered the unlock feature on the first key fob, a Jeep Wrangler two cars over audibly unlocked and the headlights lit up.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” James demanded from directly behind me. I jumped a little not least because he hadn’t made a sound coming up behind me. “Not that one.”
“What do you care? We aren't keeping it any longer than it takes to locate the Martin County Sheriff’s MRAPs,” I teased. He wanted to argue. I could see it in his eyes and read it in his body language. Whatever other indignities James Fox might be forced to endure, riding around in a Pepto Bismol pink Jeep Wrangler was simply a bridge too far.
“Just try another key,” James pleaded.
The roar, when it came, physically stunned the both of us as we fucked about instead of getting our jobs done. Nerves jangled up and down my back and I came damn close to urinating myself as the million year old survival instinct passed down through evolution
kicked into high gear at the recognition of some unseen predatory force determined to rip and tear my flesh asunder. The owner of that roar would not only eat me alive, but enjoy every scream filled second.
“Get in the goddamn Jeep,” I yelled, dropping the rest of the keys. “Pink is a fucking man’s color. Two hundred years ago all the manliest men wore pink.”
“So what?” James yelled from the passenger door.
“So I'm bringing it back into fashion,” I bellowed, adrenaline rushed through my body making it difficult to fit the damned key into the ignition. Panic was edging up on me as I missed the ignition slot again and again. Finally, I took a deep breath, thought of my wedding night, and slid the key into the ignition with confidence and authority. The engine purred to life as James and I spotted the monstrosity crashing through the parking lot of the restaurant next door.
In the breadth of my life I have still failed to convey the horror of the amalgams to any that have never seen one. All the digitally created demons of Hollywood pale in comparison to the unliving abominations birthed by the virus. All I had seen lacked skin, disturbing on its own, but this thing lacked skin, seemed to have displaced its accumulated internal organs across its torso, stared out at us from a dozen blood red eyes situated upon a single malformed skull, and exuded an overpowering stench of such olfactory destructiveness James and I began retching uncontrollably. Its fetid aroma genuinely seemed to cause my
lungs to burn and ache. Beside me, James began gagging and clawing at his throat. This damned thing was going to kill us without ever laying a finger on either one of us and then take its precious time peeling us out of the Jeep like sardines.
Jeep?
Were we in a Jeep?
Yes, we were in a Jeep. A brand new Jeep with a brand new engine purring along gently.
Watering eyes focused long enough for a shaking hand to fumble at the gear shift while a foot I thought to be mine stomped on the clutch with just enough dexterity to shove the gearshift into first. Size ten and a half boot stomped on the accelerator, rocketing the new vehicle forward. The uncontrolled acceleration produced the unexpected side effect of limited flight when the Jeep impacted the curb and leapt into the air. Between stolen gasps and retching coughs I watched the Jeep hurtling toward the earth and the loose thought that I might wish to be in positive control of the steering wheel before impact floated to the front of my addled brain. Trembling fingers curled around the steering wheel half a second before touchdown. This allowed me to keep the vehicle pointed in more or less the correct direction, not to mention upright on all four wheels.
The creature bellowed again as its prey, James and I, sped away. Distance lessened the gagging, retching, and mental inability so my hind brain survival drive figured the better part of fight or flight this time would be to run away like a terrified field mouse praying to a non existent deity that a circling bird of prey wouldn't descend upon us. Subconsciously, I spun the wheel and pointed the Jeep north on US1, bouncing up and over the concrete median to avoid a series of abandoned cars which hadn't been present two weeks ago. Most seemed to have been crushed by an inhumanly large fist or foot, followed by the roof being pulled back and the tasty bits within scooped out.
Next to me James began to convulse gently as his body prepared to vacate its stomach. Thinking more clearly I punched the window control, rolling the passenger window down, and pulled him up by the collar and shoved his face through the open window. Liquid noises confirmed his oral ejaculations were fully underway as I turned left onto southeast Monterey Road. Geysers of stomach refuse sailed out onto the asphalt, and the gathering undead as zombies of every description poured forth from the shelter of homes, storefronts, and a once prized movie theatre. A brief debate raged in my head as to whether or not it was worth keeping James’ ejecta outside of the vehicle if it meant placing him in danger of coming in contact with the increasingly large mass of undead. As I had told him, we didn't plan to keep the Peptomobile so it really shouldn't have mattered, however no plan of mine had ever survived contact with the real world…