Storm of the Undead

by H. L. Murphy

  However, just because I was dry on ammunition, didn't mean James was. His SCAR boomed entirely too close to my ears in a short burst, then I felt myself pulled the rest of the way into the truck. The door slammed shut and off we went. If I had to guess I'd say somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty rounds of nine millimeter had chewed up my right side, including penetrating my lungs making it impossible to breath.

  Oh, joy, I got to add suffocation to my list of deaths endured.

  In the end, I wasn’t sure if it was suffocation or blood loss that did me in, only that I was a mess when I came to. Protein bar wrappers littered my chest and I glanced about, completely clueless. James sat behind the wheel, occasionally glancing into the rear view mirror.

  “What the fuck?” I tried to say around a mouthful of protein bar.

  “Not now,” James snarled. “Carroll needs first aid. Get to it. Then kill the assholes behind us.”

  Wiggling out of the slumped position I awoke in I looked behind us to spot the pair of Hummers once again chasing our ride.

  “Goddamn it,” I said, and moved back beside Carroll. I worked quickly to patch what few holes he had, sterilized his stump, dropped coagulant onto the wound, wrapped a bandage over it, and ripped off the shreds of his shirt sleeve. He needed fluids PDQ, and the fastest way meant an IV. I pulled a fluid bag from our aid kit and very damned carefully ran the needle in. This was the kind of shit most prepper paranoids forgot to learn how to do. Totally obsessed with guns and gear, they skipped over the nasty work of first aid, wound treatment, and light field surgery. All of which I was barely qualified to do even under the most optimal conditions. Guess what? These conditions? Not optimal.

  I decided to get Carroll at least partially hydrated before I hit him with a broad spectrum antibiotic. Wasn't sure if it would do any good, but this asshole wasn't about to die because I hadn't bothered trying everything.

  “Hey, asshole,” I slapped Carroll’s face before clamping his jaw in my hand. “You don't get to die today, so suck it the fuck up and deal.”

  Florence fucking Nightingale that’s me. Just oozing with caring and compassion for the sick.

  Pulling my Kalashnikov to my shoulder I moved past my friend to an armored shooting port. The barrel of my rifle poked out the port and began its counter argument to the light machine guns insistence that we die swift, bloody ends. Unlike the enormous MRAP, the Hummers appeared to be unarmored. It was easy to tell this because my rounds punched straight through the windshield, the hood, and the fenders. Blood exploded against the inside of the shattered windshield of the lead Hummer. In my limited experience that usually encouraged enemy combatants to fuck off somewhere else. These money grubbing shit stains actually kicked the door open and pushed the poor dead son of a bitch out. Ah, camaraderie.

  Unfazed by my marksmanship, the Hummers continued both pursuit and assault. Hating the mercs more with each passing moment I concentrated my fire on the driver of the lead Hummer. He was good, evaded my line of fire a good forty, fifty seconds, but he couldn't last forever. Blood and brain matter splashed the windshield, and while the surviving killers struggled to take control of the vehicle, I performed a magazine dump into the left front tire. Run flat tires don’t normally shred to pieces from a single gunshot, won't even go flat for a hundred miles or so, but if you pump thirty rounds of seven point six two into one it comes apart in a very pleasing fashion. The ruined tire radically effected the Hummers steering, so much so the vehicle swerved hard into an abandoned car.

  Sorry, no explosion. I know, disappointing right? Well, this isn't fantasy disco where just kicking a tire sets off a massive, city block leveling detonation. On the other hand, the mercs did stop chasing us. My eyes automatically lanced up at the sky, searching for that goddamn gunship. When I didn't see it I moved back up next to Carroll. He was breathing easier, but still looked, and smelled, terrible.

  “Asshole,” I said before injecting him with the aforementioned antibiotic. What can I say? I didn't want him to die before I could kill him.

  “Deal with this,” James said and threw the MP-5 over his shoulder. Naturally, the goddamn thing crashed into my skull. I was really starting to wonder if James was intentionally trying to hit me with every damn thing he could find just to judge my reaction. So far, my reaction had been to swear profusely. Forgoing the opportunity to pull his spleen out I left James to drive and stripped the empty magazine from the submachine gun. It looked like I could put all those confiscated Glock magazines to good use. After I stripped all the rounds free. Then loaded the weapons only magazine. Maybe I could find some more mags for the weapon in a local gun store. And maybe unicorns and fucking faeries will show up and chase away the undead, but I wouldn't hold my breath for it.

  “How's Carroll?” James demanded.

  “Somebody beat the ever living shit out of him, hung him from the rafters,” I explained, “then his dumb ass got bit.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yeah, he got bit,” I repeated. “But, I cut his hand off and maybe, just maybe beat the spread. If he was going to turn, it should have happened already. Five minute incubation. Period. No exceptions.”

  “You're a fucking exception,” he countered.

  “No, I'm a fucking guinea pig test case,” I said. “Carroll will be fine, if he doesn't die of dehydration, severe trauma, or infection from whatever was on that machete. All in all that could have gone better.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I'm sorry, is that a goddamn flying zombie?

  About twenty minutes later James pulled the MRAP up to a Walgreens and turned to me.

  “We should go inside and collect up enough medicine to keep Jabba the Hutt alive,” he said. I gave James a side long glance, knowing that ‘we’ meant me because James would have to stay in the truck with Carroll. The sigh I released could have filled a zeppelin. Checking my vest, I came up with three full rifle magazines and two pistol mags. Whatever happened next needed to be quick, quiet, and, hopefully, sans knife work. I'd done more than enough over the past few hours for my liking.

  “Want anything else while I'm shoplifting?” I asked, moving to the door.

  “Uh, I would literally kill someone for a twelve pack of Diet Coke,” James admitted. I don’t drink soda, but mineral water or maybe a six pack of beer.

  “Gotcha,” I said and opened the door. “Just don’t leave without me.”

  Across the parking lot I ran, my head turning this way and that on the look out for anything and everything. At the door I checked to see if the lock had been engaged. Luckily, whoever worked here before Outbreak Day split without securing the doors. Although, with the power out I had to force the doors apart while watching out for the undead, KnightStar, and/or Bad Eddie and the Surgeon. Slowly it dawned on me how dark it was. This was more than just the day getting late, judging by the black clouds, high winds, and the smell of water on the breeze. Staring at the storm cloud covered sky I knew my day was far from over, and far from ending the way I hoped it would. Lightning flashed between clouds, a sight my ancestors would likely have believed to have been gods battling in the clouds. Probably because they were eating the wrong kinds of mushrooms.

  Moving into the building I noticed my ability to see in the dark remained on point. Well, judging from the god awful mess in every aisle this place must have seen some action before the end. Sweeping each aisle as I moved, I couldn’t help but notice the bizarre things people in crisis will take. At first glance it escaped my logical process why anybody would take a small above ground pool, let alone a dozen or so boxed action figures. Luckily for me, the looters overlooked a simple canvas bag. Moving from aisle to aisle I realized how aggressively terrifying I must look. Covered head to toe in dried, and drying, blood, viscera, and the detritus of the convention center, toting an AK-47 and a canvas bag with goddamn palm tree painted on it.

  Cans of soda littered the floor. Brands I had never heard of dominated the mess. There was, thank god, one ragged case of Di
et Coke left, on the far side of a seemingly crippled zombie. Knowing what I knew about the undead, seeing this rotting bastard just laying there weakly flailing at me as I rounded the corner was disturbing to say the least. How many of these things had I seen absorbed and transmuted into stomping nightmares? Hundreds? Probably. The damned thing couldn’t possibly catch me, so I should have just skipped the damned soda and moved on the medicine.

  I pulled my forty-five and shot the damned thing in the top of the head.

  Hey, I promised I'd get the soda.

  Into the bag the case went, and I moved on to the pharmacy. At this point in time, I wished I'd gone into the medical field like my little sister. The five foot two inch fireball I called sister had thrown herself into becoming a Pharmacist, so much so she graduated Summa Cum Laude. If she were here, she could tell me exactly which of the drugs would provide maximum benefit, but Shannon wasn't here. And if the clapped out whore, Lady Luck, would be so kind as to turn a blind eye to my sister and keep focused on me, I'd deal with whatever came.

  Still, I knew a couple antibiotics which this place was more than likely to have. The moment I hopped the counter, my heart sunk. If the store proper was a mess, the pharmacy was the scene of the worlds only miniature tornado. Drugs and drug containers were absolutely everywhere. I stared at the pill covered floor, unable to process where to begin.

  “Finn,” James called over the radio, “you want to step it up. We’re burning daylight.”

  “I'd love to, but I'm staring at a floor covered in drugs,” I snapped. “It may take me a few minutes to find anything.”

  “Uh,” James started, stopped, then continued. “Did you find the Diet Coke?”

  “If you suggest, for one fucking minute, this side trip had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with your fucking caffeine monkey, I swear to god I’ll end you,” I snarled, knowing what I'd do for coffee. On that note I hopped the counter again to locate the Tylenol, NyQuil, and such. There wasn't much left, but it all went into the bag. As pleased as I could be under the circumstances I wandered down the aisles until I found a couple vacuum packed packages of reasonably bad coffee. Now I was content, so I skipped the beer and headed for the door. A flash of lightning filled my vision, and I couldn’t see a damned thing. Complete white out. Bursts of light danced behind tightly closed eyes, pain exploded across my back as some sneaking around in the dark asshole shot me about one hundred thousand times. Quick refresher course concerning ballistic plates. A ballistic plate will stop an incoming round from passing through your tender flesh and highly critical internal organs, but they don't do much to prevent the transferral of kinetic energy. Which means when some shoots you in a ballistic plate, whether its front or rear facing, it hurts like an unholy mother fucker.

  I dropped face down, unable to scream, unable to breathe. I'd say I was unable to think, but there are already enough fucking smart asses spouting that line I don't need to add to them. Instead, I took inventory of how many of my ribs were broken, and how many merely fractured. I lost count about halfway through my first attempt to focus past the pain because a combat boot crashed into the center of what was likely a completely shattered ceramic ballistic plate. Kicking a man while he's down is generally derided as a cowardly thing to do, but, realistically, is a totally acceptable thing to do. It helps you maintain a tactical advantage over your enemy as well as being an outstanding opportunity to knock the fight out of your foe.

  Usually.

  Me, it takes me to a bad place in my life and basically dumps highly flammable rocket fuel onto the dying embers of my fire to fight. What does this soliloquy mean in practical terms? It means I stabbed the asshole in the leg, right above his ankle, with my karambit. Moreover, it means I held onto the blade as the back shooting prick flailed away. Yet more goddamn blood showered over me. Why do I bother trying to get clean?

  A body collapsed behind, a lot of profanity escaped a man’s clenched jaw as I forced myself up and around. Black BDUs, silly helmet and shield crest, and a discarded MP-5 with integral suppressor. Nice. An expensive bit of kit mere civilian mortals like me weren't likely to ever shoot, let alone own. This merc also had an eyepatch and wavey blonde hair. The presence of the eyepatch hit me the same moment I got a good solid smell of the screaming bastard.

  El Rapo, the mercenary I thought I'd killed on Outbreak Day. The same asshole who came after James and I in a goddamn Cobra gunship. His continued existence couldn't possibly bode well for any living thing on the planet, so I shot him. A lot. Then I stalked to the child care aisle and collected a package of baby wipes. As I passed the spot where I wasted El Rapo, I let out a long suffering sigh to rock the ages.

  The one eyed prick wasn’t there.

  Goddamn it.

  Between me and the freedom of the outside world lay fifty feet of shelving units, floor debris, and about a bazillion ambush locations. A series of light coughs began to bubble up, but soon evolved into a body wracking cough. My mouth filled with copper and I spat blood on the floor. Yup, seriously broken ribs. Shouldering my rifle, I started forward. Yes, my ribs hurt like a mother with every step, but pain is extremely temporary in the grand scheme. As I moved, I took deep breathes through my nose, searching for El Rapo’s stench. I was nearly out of the store when I heard rustling towards the rear of the building. However the little fucker survived being shot so many times he had clearly not lost his brains because I realized the moment I stepped into the doorway he'd have a perfect silhouette. Goddamn it.

  “James, kill the goddamn lights,” I whispered into the radio. The rows of high power lights on the MRAP shut off, casting the interior into deep shadow. My virus altered sight changed again, shifting from normal into something very similar to the green tinged night vision goggles I'd lost in the Circus Minimus.

  There, in the far back of the store I spotted my foe rising from behind a shelving unit, his submachine gun coming up. Day late and a dollar short, El Rapo danced as seven point six two by thirty-nine rounds punched straight through him. The moment Douchebag Man dropped I was moving to the MRAP. Later I realized James had been speaking though I couldn't remember what he said. I snagged one of the incendiary devices I'd made and headed back to the store. Igniting the device, I hurled it inside. If El Rapo had somehow become like me, then a chest full of rounds wouldn't stop him for long, but he might find it difficult to shrug off being turned into a charcoal briquette.

  I like to think screams of pain sounded from within as the MRAP pulled away, but I can't be sure as Carroll had regained consciousness and was lamenting the loss of his hand. Ignoring my own pain I shook out what medicine I collected, put together a cocktail of drugs and shoved them into Carroll’s mouth. Then I handed him a bottle of water, which he tried to suck down in its entirety. Part way through the bottle I pulled it away from him to pour the contents over his grimy face.

  “Okay, you and I are going to have a talk,” I said, sliding my karambit free. Set dressing, I promise. “And how kinetic it gets will be determined entirely by you.”

  “Kinetic? Somebody’s been playing too much scrabble,” Carroll tried to laugh.

  “Carroll, pay the fuck attention,” I snarled. “Where are the goddamn missing engine parts?”

  “What? Engine parts? Where’s Farrah?” Carroll rapid fired.

  “Carroll, answer my goddamn question. Where are the missing engine parts? The engine you were working on when I left and everybody thought I was dead,” I spat the words, and, because I was worn out and tired and scared and kind of an asshole, I slapped Carroll’s wrapped up stump with the flat of my blade. It caught his attention no doubt about it. It also showed a previously unknown talent in Carroll for creative swearing and derogatory comments about my parentage. “Where are those parts?”

  “All the goddamn parts are on the ship,” Carroll coughed as he clutched his stump to his chest. I wanted to slap the taste out of his mouth and call him a liar, but there's just so much I'm willing to do to one of my
oldest friends while he's trying to survive having been beaten to a pulp and then fucking crucified by a boatload of crazies.

  “Where on the ship?” I demanded. If he was lying, then I'd find out through the simplest means possible, outlining the details. Over the past two decades I'd listened to my friend spin one story after another, some true and some not. After a while I'd learned how to separate wheat from chaff, and I was going to apply what I'd learned.

  “They're in the machine shop,” Carroll explained, drifting ever closer to unconsciousness. “Needed to turned the camshaft. Too many gouges. Just two thousandth. Farrah found me, needed to talk. So tired…”

  “Farrah,” I all but spat as the sociopaths name passed my lips. Five will get you twenty, Farrah knew exactly where the goddamn parts were because she had likely moved them. At least this time the fucking little avatar of chaos was under guard while I was away, and when I got back to the Churchill, I was going to have a very kinetic conversation with Farrah.

  “What did he say?” James asked.

  “He said he's an asshole for making us schlep our sorry asses into the fucking Quarantine Zone over that skanky little sociopath,” I said while I moved up next to him.

  “Yeah, right,” James sneered.

  “Claims the goddamn missing parts are in the machine shop,” I shook my head.

  “The same machine shop we searched about a thousand times?”