Storm of the Undead

by H. L. Murphy

  “My dear Admiral,” Dr. Zhao practically purred. “As I said, I am here to help.”

  “Yeah, yourself,” Mayweather cut through Zhao’s pretense. “As always. This time it just so happens your interests coincide with mine.”

  “True, but even I can perform an altruistic act,” she smiled, “now and then. Just to balance the scales of karma.”

  “I can't imagine anything you do will ever balance those scales,” Mayweather snarled.

  “How about saving the human race?” She asked. Under no conceivable circumstances did Zhao give a damn about humanity at large, but she did harbor a place in her imagination for a new, improved strain of humanity, Homo sapiens Zhao. A new race of mankind, not injected with the purified base organism, but born with it already encoded within their genetic code. A truly superior race of Man. Of course, the first generation would comprised of those Dr. Zhao found acceptable in intelligence and genetic purity. All others could be fed to the undead for all she cared.

  “Cynthia,” Mayweather leaned in close to speak to her. “Don't believe for one moment I won't kill you. I have your data. Somewhere in the world there will be someone that can finish your work. Not as quickly, but just as completely. Try to screw me, and I will personally splatter your fantastic brain against the bulkhead.”

  “You're just flirting with me now,” she replied coyly.

  “I guess we'll see,” Mayweather stated flatly. Zhao nodded her ascent and acceptance of the Admiral’s terms.

  “Oh, Admiral, one more thing,” Zhao spoke up as Mayweather started to leave. “What about my subject, Angus Finnegan?”

  “The subject has been located within the Florida Quarantine Zone,” Mayweather answered slowly. “Whether or not he will be alive when we arrive is suspect.”

  “He will be alive, Admiral,” Zhao countered. “Of that I am quite positive.”

  Chapter Nine

  Southbound and down

  The single most incredible thing to date occurred five seconds after I closed the heavily armored door.

  Nothing.

  No attacking zombies, rednecks, or crazed mercenaries.

  Instead I actually had a full minute to take stock of the situation and determine this vehicle, barring a change of paint, was just as stock as the day it rolled out. In practical terms it meant there were no keys to lose, and since it was a military vehicle it also meant a half brain dead chimpanzee could start it. I tried hard to forget I thought that as I struggled to work out the starting sequence.

  “You plan on leaving today?” James asked.

  “Shut it,” I snarled as I spotted the starter. This model seemed to possess a two step ignition, giving the glow plugs a chance to reach optimal temperature before sparking the diesel fuel. A powerful throbbing roar shook the entire vehicle as the engine came alive. I'm not saying I popped a full blown stiffy listening to the engine idle and vibrate, but there was some definite tightness in my pants not present beforehand. A sly grin spread across my face as I waited for the vehicle to warm up and work out any kinks. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an undead face slamming itself into a window over and over again. Black, viscous fluid splattered across the inside of spider webbed glass with each blow. When the first shard of impact resistant glass fell to the ground outside the facility, I decided the MRAP had enjoyed a long enough warm up period and dropped it into drive.

  Driving the behemoth through the inner courtyard of the facility resulted in a sharp increase in my inner child’s destructive tendencies. In the sway of that vicious little fucker I may or may not have clipped a police cruiser, or two.

  Or all of them.

  Hey, what the fuck did I care? All the cops in Stuart were dead, or undead, as far as I knew, and according to current trends there weren't any replacements on the way. If the United States ever manages to reestablish a viable economy and settle on a monetary system, they can fucking bill me.

  Fortunately for us the main gate wasn't topped by razor wire, and if I had known that I would have climbed the fence there. It was fortunate because I didn't bother to slow down, quite the opposite in fact. I hit the gate at forty miles per hour, and barked a short, sharp laugh as the gate assembly launched away from the MRAP. Not a complete ass clown, I hit the brakes to keep the gate from becoming entangled in the drive train. Believe or not, I've seen that used as a plot device in a movie. Can't remember the title of the movie, but I can remember thinking to myself the driver and passengers were dumber than dogshit and deserved to be casualties of the cinema. Yes, I am the kind of movie goer that will not only pick apart the protagonists actions, but will also revel in their inevitable, well earned, in my eyes, demise.

  The fuel gauge indicated three quarters of a tank. Not bad, I thought even though the behemoth only rated something like six miles to the gallon. Along the path to Bad Eddie and the Circus Minimus a little scrounging would be the order of the day. Sure, right after we stopped at Home Depot.

  “Hey, write this down so we can get in and out quickly,” I told James as I handed him my waterproof note pad and pencil. The list wasn't terribly long, but did draw a sideways glance from James when I mentioned the ten penny nails, hot glue gun, and rat poison. Look, don't give me any shit. We didn't have an attack helicopter, shit, we didn't even have a regular helicopter. The two of us were earth bound, and if we had any hope of staying alive, we needed to stop clinging to the idea of a fair fight and embrace victory at all costs. James must have already done those cognitive calculations because he continued to add to the list long after I stopped talking. Outside of a few recipes for…potentially unstable explosives my knowledge of chemistry is vague, sad, I know, so I couldn't make out his intentions right away.

  “A little something to help even the odds,” James explained, sort of, when he saw my expression. “Just in case.”

  I wanted to push the subject l, but figured I owed James some leeway for sticking with me through this. Good friends are damned hard to find.

  Home Depot had seen better days, no doubt about it.

  Between the undead, the Circus Minimus, and straight up looters the exterior and interior both reminded me of old photographs of Beirut from the eighties. Only, not quite so restrained. At least one group had been an ardent adherent to Stalin’s philosophy of slash and burn, because half the store appeared to have been set ablaze. Thankfully for my purposes, it was the half which housed lumber.

  Closer to the middle of the store we located various nearly toxic chemicals, and toxic when mixed with a laundry list of other, nearby chemicals. Instead of a shopping cart, James and I carefully loaded a rigid plastic rolling bin with every chemical useable, so long as the container hadn't been damaged. Next for me came several types of glue, including a hot glue gun I might be able to run off the MRAPs AC/DC converter.

  James ran for containers into which our various chemistry experiments could be poured. I found him after collecting a crate of ten penny nails, and, no, I am not a nice man. Neither, it seemed, was my friend. He stood there with a collection of PVC piping and plumbing fittings. To his sizable stack of vessels I added a length of galvanized pipe about four feet long. A few more finishing touches and we left the building.

  Finnegan has left the building.

  Thank you, thank you very much.

  The zombie horde, and it was a horde, currently filling the plaza parking lot wasn't my idea of gratitude, but nobody asked me. Along with their increasing presence came their increasingly unbearable aroma of decay. If a silver lining to our discover of the second MRAPs unfortunate ordeals existed it lay in the over abuse of our olfactory senses. Bad as it may have been, neither of us were capable of appreciating its true depths of putrescence.

  That being said, it was still bad enough to encourage our swift removal to less odiferous surroundings.

  Certain moments in life leave a profound impression upon us even as we struggle forward against unknown circumstances, insufficient knowledge with which cope, and delicate psyches un
suited for traumatic events.

  This wasn't that moment.

  The Cougar H MRAP barely noticed the impact of steel bumper on undead flesh as I drove through the thinnest grouping of zombies. Sludge like black fluid erupted from undead cannibals as the foot pounds per square inch force inflicted by the Cougar H exceeded the maximum structural tolerances of the human form. Moreover, rotting internal organs slapped against the windshield, hood, and fenders. Just another level of psychological trauma to deal with in the throws of night terrors so obscene it wasn't possible to put a name to their substance. Still, I had a hell of time maneuvering that titanic bastard into one zombie after another. Each impact did enough damage to prevent the target from rising again as an amalgam, but still being careful enough not to damage the truck. A delicate balance, maintained through skill, daring, and the reckless giggling of a madman.

  Taking a chance, I turned the big truck onto Indian St. and made for State Road Seventy-Six. Once there I turned left onto SR 76, and headed for I-95. Any attempt to travel through Stuart along US 1 would likely end in futility and the massive claws of an amalgam. The last time I'd seen the highway the northbound lanes were choked solid with abandoned or soon to be abandoned cars, but, as always, almost no one thought to cross over to the southbound side. I was betting the lanes were clear, or clear enough for our purposes.

  Protected against most small arms, and built to resist IED explosions the MRAP was, but speed was not in its repertoire. Thinking about it, the truck didn't need to be fast. Especially since we didn't need to be anywhere in minutes. Not a lot of call for Ferraris during the zombie apocalypse. I say that, but if there had been a 1979 Ferrari 308 GTS anywhere within fifty fucking miles my mean little prick of an inner child would have had my ass plastered into the driver’s seat while I tried to break the light speed barrier. In my head a voice suggested that since we were traveling to West Palm Beach, it wouldn't be too far out of the way to cross the bridge to Palm Beach. There were, after all, entirely too many overly monied, overly privileged shitheads with beautiful toys…

  Nice idea, but that would probably go even worse than my last trip into Stuart.

  That was a train of thought that hadn't occurred to me before. Was anybody left alive on Palm Beach Island? Having lived here so long I knew just as much about the deep, deep pockets that lived on the island, and just how self important the population had been going back before the Kennedy’s built their little palace. Generation after generation, the wealthy of Palm Beach Island had gone to great lengths to separate themselves from the riffraff that infested the mainland. So much so the only route onto the island lead over draw bridges, which were cycled into the open position whenever there was trouble.

  Not only that, but it was an open secret that several of the more embarrassingly rich families maintained, I shit you not, a private army on the island to protect their interests. ‘Protecting their interests’, was a catch all term that seemed to cover a great many sins. Complainants, witnesses, and too curious journalists had all learnt the same lesson concerning the inadvisability of high speed impacts whilst not wearing their seat belts.

  Reflecting on the matter I decided the worst of the vipers were likely alive and hiding in their armored safe rooms, or bunkers, behind armed killers, I mean security men, and ridiculously high hedges so thick it would take an army of men with chainsaws and flamethrowers to get through.

  Yeah, so I guess we’ll stick to West Palm so as to avoid pissing off another set of cock juggling, crotch sniffing mercenaries. As I'd hoped, the southbound lanes were mostly empty. Only the lone, abandoned vehicle littered the way, more frightening, in its fashion, than if there had been a massive pile up stretching into the horizon.

  What the fucking hell happened to make a driver stop in the middle of the highway, place their vehicle in park, exit said vehicle, and then disappear off the face of the fucking planet like some modern day Mary Celeste on wheels? More than once my curiosity compelled me to stop long enough to gaze down into one of these silent markers, only to find the interior pristine. No tears, no dried streaks of blood, no decaying viscera, nothing.

  Empty.

  Clean.

  Unnerving.

  The nearly complete lack of sound wasn't helping matters. Sitting within the rumbling MRAP seemed natural enough, but outside the machine ruled a silence so profound it was disturbing. Rolling down the highway my conscious mind expected to hear the long ingrained sounds of cars rushing over asphalt. Mechanical sounds that had become so much a part of everyday life that their absence was regarded as abnormal.

  Rather than spend too much time dwelling on the root cause of the crushing silence, I focused my efforts on working out a decent plan to rescue Carroll, during which my booted foot would mysteriously find its way to impact with his groin, escape the Circus Minimus, and return to the Churchill, where I would likely kick my friend in the groin again for leaving the boat before rebuilding the fucking engine. A small question sounded in the very back of my mind.

  What if Carroll doesn't want to go back?

  After all, he expended considerable effort to not only leave the boat, but to abscond with the freshly acquired supplies. Now maybe that was for Farah Fuckwit, and maybe he was too stupid from finally getting some wild, break the furniture, seek first aid for the claw marks on your back type sex, but he still made a choice.

  What then?

  I’ll tell you what then, asshole. He comes back, whether he wants to or not, and he fixes the engine, whether he wants to or not. He wanted to leave, fine. He didn't have to fuck us on the way out. After the engine is repaired, he wants to leave again, fine. I'll throw his blubbery ass over the gunwale, nautical term used correctly, and then he can be on his merry way. But, he doesn't get anything until my family is safe.

  So, you understand your motivations in this?

  Of course I understand my motivations. What the hell are you talking about?

  Just wondering where a Ferrari fit into the stated goals.

  Nowhere. It was just a passing thought. That's all.

  Good, because you need to focus your mind on the task at hand. Including the return of your nemesis.

  I don't have a nemesis. I'm not a superhero. Only superheroes have a nemesis. That cocksucker is just another walking dead man.

  Might I suggest that you adjust your train of thought to encompass the reality you are one of the only people behaving in not merely a proactive fashion, but in a, mostly, positive one as well?

  I believe Francis’ kneecap might have something to say about that.

  That little shit got exactly what he had coming.

  Wow! ‘That little shit’, huh? Not very gentlemanly of you to say.

  Don’t change the subject. Your nemesis is alive, well, and hunting you with the intensity of a zealot. Perhaps you would care to put a touch more thought into how you plan to lure him onto ground of your choosing.

  Easy. This is the second time we've run up against the Circus Minimus, and they've only prospered in the intervening time. I don't intend to give that band of raving psychotics another opportunity to increase their numbers or better their situation. I'm going to burn their house down, piss on the ashes, and then set that mixture aflame. I think that will get his attention. And anyone willing to fire that much ordinance just to scrag little old me will definitely crawl inside the convention center to finish the job.

  And by then you will have prepared the ground to your advantage. This is a good plan. Well done.

  Its only a good plan if everything falls just so between here and me dancing a jig on El Rapo’s testicles as he coughs up bloody chunks of perforated lungs. Otherwise, it's a waste of time and effort.

  Is the glass ever half full to you?

  The goddamn glass has water in it that's all that matters to me. I generally don't bother worrying about how much is there.

  Rolling along the deserted highway, arguing with an interface construct I was more or less certain was nothing mor
e than a manifestation of a psychotic break, I deconstructed the approach to the convention center. Unfortunately, the center had decent line of sight on three quarters of the streets leading to it. Smart money said eyes would be watching the blind side, but in our previous meeting the kill crazy minions of Bad Eddie hadn't struck me as terribly bright. At that time they had been far more interested in watching some poor schmo fight it out with the undead, or die at the hands of the Surgeon.

  The image of Milo Fitzroy and his damned scalpels slicing their way through living flesh and sinew sent a tingle of fear through my body. A foe didn't need to be enormous or undead to prove lethal. Mostly it was the will to do what others wouldn't combined with a certain level of skill. Skill Milo had clearly spent considerable time building judging by the ease with which he took apart his opponents. I couldn't have done half as well with a sword as Milo did with those damned scalpels. Briefly, I wondered if he still wore that coat of tanned human flesh.

  “Under no circumstances is the sick son of a bitch called the Surgeon to leave there alive,” I said suddenly. James turned to stare at me, shocked out of his own thoughts. I described Milo Fitzroy as closely as my memory and limited vocabulary would allow. I may have dwelt on the coat a little more than strictly necessary, but I felt the faces stitched into the lining deserved special recognition. It dawned on me then. The ease with which Milo had made the transition from normal to abnormal conditions. His knowledge of tanning, anatomy, and the fluid way in which he wielded his chosen weapons did not come in the span of time since Outbreak Day. No, Milo had been compiling his knowledge and, worse, his experience level prior to that black day.

  Essentially, a long, drawn out way of saying I thought I had discovered in Milo a previously hidden serial killer.

  Before the rise of the undead as the dominant threat on the globe, I think I might just have pissed myself a little at the realization I had been working alongside a serial killer for years without a clue. How many times had Milo sized me up for a place on his coat? How many of our coworkers were a part of it now? Several employees had simply stopped coming to work over the years, drugs were always the suspected culprit in those disappearances. What if cocaine or heroin hadn't been responsible? What if the cause behind the missing people was a six foot three inch, lanky scalpel wielding fruit cup answering to the name Milo Fitzroy?