Storm of the Undead

by H. L. Murphy

  “I'm Finnegan,” I announced with the same gravity one says His Holiness the Pope, or His Majesty, the King. Jenkins was, unsurprisingly, unimpressed. The asshole clutching a possibly ruptured testicle made a mental note of my name, most probably in the column headed ‘death by keel hauling’. “This is James. Between the two of us, there isn't much we can't do.”

  “How about showing us how to get out of here?” Jenkins asked, hyper focused on remaining in the camp of the living for as long as possible. The slow, rakish grin I allowed to spread across my face was intended to convey confidence, strength, roguish intelligence, and a singular understanding of the situation we faced. From Jenkins reaction I looked more like a serial killer with a fresh supply of fuzzy white bunny babies or one of those ‘problem’ priests the Catholic Church likes to shuffle about discussing sins with members of the boys choir. What can I say? I'm built to intimidate, not reassure.

  Of course, my wife, Lizzy, thinks it's pretty fucking reassuring to have a six foot Hooligan around to intimidate the scum bags away. Different strokes for different folks I guess.

  “Dude,” James whispered, “you look like you're going to cut out her spleen and eat it with fava beans and a nice chianti.”

  “Goddamn it, I was going for roguish competence,” I sighed and turned back to the wreck of a helicopter.

  “Hannibal Lechter was roguish,” James offered. “He just ate people on the side.”

  “Not helping,” I shouted as I climbed into the helicopter cockpit. The engines were out, but the mechanic had left the external power hooked up, probably for some avionics maintenance. Flip a few switches, punch a few buttons, and push in the right fuses and viola, the gauges flickered to life revealing copious amounts of fuel still in the aircraft. “Looks like somebody was a naughty mechanic and failed safety protocols.”

  “What do you mean?” James asked, still eyeballing the sailors.

  “The crew working this aircraft failed to pump the fuel out of the tanks before pulling it apart,” I explained. “It's basic safety. That much fuel were to suddenly be exposed to a flame or spark or, say, a goddamn grenade, and there would no longer be a helicopter, or idiot mechanics, or most of a hangar.”

  “So?” James prodded.

  “So, from my perfectly worded exposition one might get the idea that the go-go juice contained within said tanks is highly flammable,” I responded, feeling just a tad superior in my hard won knowledge. “Perhaps, even explosive.”

  “So?” James stepped back a few steps as the question slipped out. More concern than was quite required by the situation, I thought, in his voice.

  “So I plan to pump fifty or sixty pounds out of the tanks in a receptacle with which I then plan to hose the undead,” I explained while I prepped the controls. “Hey, presto chango, zombie flambé.”

  “Great, then we can have walking bonfires,” James bitched at me.

  “Yes, the undead will continue to walk around for a few minutes,” I shouted over the whine of the aircraft’s power cycling up. “But zombies don't tend to stay ambulatory for long after they catch fire. Trick is to stay out of their way until the flames do their work.”

  “So how are we supposed to hose them down in the middle of a goddamn hurricane?” James shouted, his frustration showing through at last. I wasn't the only man present worried about his family. Easy to forget James’ wife and children were right there next to mine on the Churchill.

  “Yeah, that's where things get a little…sporty,” I said, slipping out of the cockpit.

  “What does he mean?” Jenkins asked from James’ side. Apparently, on this boat at least, the Navy had been handing out stealth courses run by fucking ninjas, because Jenkins hadn't made a fucking sound walking up on us and I may have released an involuntary shout of alarm. I'm sure my asshole best friend would tell you I shrieked like a girl, but that's because he's jealous of my demeanor under pressure and remarkable ability to think clearly and concisely in the most confusing of situations. I did not shriek.

  “I'm not sure, but whatever he's thinking will probably just get him killed,” James shrugged. “Don't worry, though, it never seems to take.”

  Jenkins stared at James in a fashion similar to how she'd looked at me, though the undertone here seemed to have more to do with the concern one evinces over the possible mental disabilities of a particularly slow child. I was giggling softly as I pumped fuel from the helicopter into an enormous plastic tank. In various hangars I'd used similar tanks for temporary fuel storage and it seemed the Navy liked the notion as well. That task completed I searched for a few more things. In minutes I'd assembled everything necessary.

  “Okay, here's the plan,” I smiled wickedly, and I could almost see the moment Jenkins decided she'd backed the wrong horse. “Everybody is going to pile in the chopper, doors closed, while I open the hatch and let the zombies in. As they file in, I'm going to hose them with my makeshift flamethrower. Once I've gotten them all, I'm going to join you in the chopper where we can watch the undead fry to a crisp.”

  “That's…actually not a bad plan,” James sounded pained to admit it.

  “Yes it is,” I said. Then, in my best Austrian body building champion accent said, “now, get to the chopper! Now! Do it!”

  Jenkins was shaking her head slowly, dejectedly as she passed by, mumbling something about never meeting a guy that wasn't bat shit crazy. Her fellow sailors hustled into the cargo bay, while James climbed into the cockpit, his rifle slung, but his shiny nickel plated forty-five following Mr. Martial Law as he moved. My friend knew the score and wasn't taking chances.

  It took a surprising short time to jerry rig a flamethrower from the tools at my disposal. Really made me wonder what these guys got up to once they'd been at sea a few weeks, and the boredom started to really sink in. Yeah, you work sixteen hours a day, but that's not all there is to life at sea, is it?

  With everything in place I set myself for the task ahead, followed by the dash to safety. Releasing all but one safety latch, I sparked the flamethrower to life. A ten foot fountain of searing flames shot forth from the nozzle, and I threw the last latch, and kicked open the door.

  The undead surged as one towards the opening, moving in as close to a coordinated attack as I'd ever seen from zombies. I did not want to know what coordinated zombies could accomplish if left to their own devices. The flames reached out into night, ignoring the driving rain, to engulf the lead zombie. Rumors concerning the flammability of the naval pattern duty uniforms were proven far from groundless as the material ignited as though doused in accelerant.

  Not waiting to see how my first target fared I swept the flamethrower over the remainder of Zombie Team One. Maybe someday I can rescue a psychologist in hopes he can explain to me why I feel the need to name things the way I do. If by naming things do I somehow make them more acceptable, less overwhelming? Is that just a load of psycho babble bullshit? Maybe it's just a societal need to quantify everything in existence. Maybe I should pay the fuck attention to the small horde of undead descending on me like a politician on young female interns. Don't like that one? Okay, how about like a bum on a ham sandwich? A priest on an altar boy? The Germans on Paris? The Japanese on Nanking? Yes, I am a terrible man, but that doesn't make me wrong.

  Almost before I knew it the undead were within striking distance. How did I determine that? One of the undead tried to knock my ass down. It's fist swung out in a wild haymaker that missed only because my reflexes had been upgraded. Pre-Outbreak Day me would probably have taken it on the chin, though I wouldn't have fallen down. As it was, I shuffled back several steps just ahead of flaming knuckles. Convinced I needed to pay attention to the here and now I continued to shuffle back slowly, drawing more and more of the undead into the hangar. Of the twelve undead stumbling toward the tasty man meat that was me, nine of them were alight. The remainder were too far removed from my makeshift death dealer to reach. I could only hope they would come in contact with the others along the wa
y. Save me the hassle of shooting the bastards later.

  Flame ceased being my shield as the small reservoir serving as a tank ran dry. For a full second, the zombies and I both stared at the nozzle where a small flame burned residual fuel vapors. Then I dropped the weapon and ran like hell. My footfalls were soon drown out by the advance of the undead. Those whose throats hadn't been burnt out by the fire roared in hunger, and maybe just a little rage. As I ran, I wondered whether the differing types of zombies I'd seen in the Q-zone was a local deviation or more of a global issue. If global, then it opened possible avenues of concern for me. How different could the undead be from region to region, and how much of the difference was geographical and how much was biological?

  Good questions, but for another time.

  Especially as it seemed to me our pursuers had only been content to shamble along because I hadn't been actively attempting to evade them. Once I shifted gears from shuffle to hauling ass, these undead had followed suit. I just love these little changes in operational parameters at the last minute. Brings a sense of challenge to an otherwise boring routine.

  Thankfully the hangar was on the small side, and I leapt into the cargo bay on the run. My new pal Jenkins slid the door shut half a second after my ass passed through the space required by the door to close. Flaming hands beat against the door in a vain attempt to secure warm meat, and we watched as one by one the undead succumbed to the flame leaving only a single zombie. This survivor had avoided the fire by moving to the port side cockpit door. There the bastard ran its hands over the door in, what I guessed, was an attempt to find a way within. First coordinated movements, now an attempt at problem solving? Jesus Jones, that's all we need.

  I have read novel after novel about military types moving in and out of helicopter cockpits, especially Seahawks, with total freedom of movement. At six feet and two hundred twenty pounds, not counting my gear, I was in a unique position to call bullshit on everyone of those stories. It took me several joint wrenching, physically contorting minutes to maneuver myself into the cockpit, after which I was in no shape to do much more than pant. Catching my breath, I wondered how small a person would have to be to slip in and out of any helicopter cockpit. When I pictured the individual I realized that such a person existed in the realm of fantasy disco imagination and just let it go.

  Resolved not to obsess over non-existent commandos I popped the door open before turning to kick the inside of the door. The door flew open, sending the lone survivor stumbling back. Undead booted feet slammed against an overturned nitrogen bottle and down the creature went. I struggled out of the cockpit in time to watch as the creature’s head exploded in the same instant a weapon’s report assaulted my hearing. Spinning in place I expected to find my Russian friends back and ready to extract my liver through my asshole.

  Instead, Eric Linner stood in the open hatchway, rifle still trained on the undead creature. His single eye gleamed in the half light, the madness in his soul projecting like the beam from a lighthouse for all to see. I killed from necessity, but Linner killed because he loved it. Loved it the way a good man should love his woman, completely and with special attention given to her sensual needs. Ending a life, even the quasi life of the undead, gave this man a release of endorphins so powerful it may as well have been carnal.

  Which is why I shot him half a second after I recognized him. Of course, snap firing was never my strong suit, and the round caught him in the thigh. Still, it served to knock him from his feet long enough for me to move behind the helicopter. Flaming bodies blocked the starboard cockpit and cargo doors. So much for my brilliant idea. Slinging my rifle, I grabbed a body by its smoldering boots and nearly vomited when roasted flesh sloughed off.

  Oh, joy. Fresh nightmare fuel. Fucking sweet.

  Sucking it up, I seized the zombie by its boots and clamped down so tightly I was afraid I'd never be able to let go. One by one I pulled enough of the bodies away to let everyone out. James dropped out of the cockpit and immediately dropped to the deck to provide covering fire. The deep report of his SCAR made barking orders difficult, but since the fire remained a one sided affair, I couldn't be bothered to worry about it. The cargo door slid open, Mr. Martial Law came leaping out, hands bent into claws aimed at my face. My rifle came up though not to shoot the moron. Instead I used the rifle to redirect the man’s forward momentum. Mr. Martial Law careened headlong into a rolling toolbox, which was immediately spattered in the man’s blood. I spun around to face any other potential attackers, but only Jenkins stood there, hunched in the low ceilinged cabin. Her mouth opened to speak, but before the first word slipped out her chest lurched forward and she coughed blood. She fell onto the cabin floor and behind her I could see the shattered window through which Eric Linner had killed Jenkins.

  “You one-eyed bastard,” I shouted. “I'll fucking kill you. I'll pull your fucking eye out and skull fuck you to death.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Knife Fight In A Hurricane

  Shucky and the Streetlights.

  Confused? Don't be. Join me in the annals of music history and all will be made clear. For, you see, Shucky and the Streetlights was a little known, often lamented Glam Rock band from the United Kingdom who saw limited success and distribution in the states. It seemed their excesses, both on and off stage, was too much even for the eighties. Today, they'd hardly raise an eyebrow and would be more or less equated to the kind of pop music produced by talentless little pretty boy cunts getting by on a decent voice, feminine good looks, and a complete lack of moral fiber necessary to thrive in the music industry.

  Why do I bring this up? Good question. I mention it because as I glared daggers at Eric Linner the opening chords to Rump Ranger began playing over the address system. For those who don't know, Rump Ranger was the bands hottest single in nineteen eighty-one. Despite its potentially derogatory title, the song was not derisive of homosexuals. In fact, it was the tale of a good catholic girl on a quest to preserve her virtue in the eyes of the church by engaging in a little Greek action. Moreover, in her adventures the girl becomes something of a fan of paramours knocking at her back door. Just the sort of good, clean entertainment that drove the Moral Minority to frenzied heights of censorship. Unfortunately for the band, their visas were not renewed and they were forced to return to the United Kingdom where I heard the band limped along for a few years before the members said fuck it and got real jobs. Lead singer, Shucky Montrose, became a mathematics teacher, eventually gaining a position as professor of mathematics at one the more prestigious universities. Obviously the staff never watched the music video for Rump Ranger. Yes, it was every bit as tacky as you think it was.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I spat, recognizing the song.

  “What?” James asked before firing another burst.

  “The fucking music,” I answered.

  “What about it?” James shouted. “Besides it being fucking weird to have music playing due in a gun fight.”

  “It's Shucky and the Streetlights,” I explained, firing several rounds through the cabin of the helicopter.

  James stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.

  “What? Shoot asshole,” I yelled, emphasizing my words with a nudge from my boot.

  “I'm judging you for knowing that,” he said, edging away from me as though I'd just announced I had crabs and he was afraid they'd jump on him.

  “Piss off,” I said harshly.

  “Not for knowing the name of the band,” James continued. “Anybody might know the name. Anybody interested in walking around with nipple clamps, ball gags, and butt plugs hanging around their necks.”

  “Oh, so you and your heterosexual life mate,” I shouted.

  “But to recognize the song by the opening chords,” James continued, twisting the knife as it slid home. “Only the most dedicated fans of the band’s music would be able to do that.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I shouted, now thoroughly embarrassed to know anything about the
band, its music, and the eventual fate of the band.

  “Oh, god, you're a fan,” James accused in the same tone one uses to say ‘are you fucking a goat?’ “What's their song? Captain Cornhole? Booty Bandit?”

  “Alright, fuck you,” I said and kicked him in the leg hard enough to let him know I wasn't happy. “When I give you the word, get these fucktards out of here while I deal with our uninvited guest.”

  “Yeah, I bet you'll deal with him,” James said. “Gonna compare your butt plug collections?”

  “One more fucking word and you can fight him while I head for the boat,” I shouted.

  “Oh, no, I wouldn't deprive you of the opportunity to discuss the ins and outs of homo erotic Glam Rock with your new best friend,” James said as he climbed to his feet.

  “Asshole,” I said. In a flash I ran around the nose of the aircraft and opened fire. “Run!”

  My rifle bucked against my shoulder again and again as I walked forward, closing on my enemy while James and our rescues ran for the door. Seemingly unafraid of my fire, Eric Linner leapt to his feet, M-4 in hand. He roared out a challenge and charged me. I watched rounds graze the smaller man as he moved with surprising speed, his hands releasing the rifle and moving for the wicked looking blades sheathed at his waist. Only very dangerous, or very crazy, people forego guns for knives and either way I wasn't interested in playing. Instead, at the last possible moment I dropped into a slide. My feet found Linner’s ankles and the mercenary flipped up and over me as I slid past.

  I bounced up like a Jack in the Box, discovering on the way that non skid surfaces can shred clothes and skin with equal ease. My rifle spat death at Linner as he rose, just a heartbeat slower than me. A pair of rounds slammed into his chest, likely stopped by a ballistic plate. He stumbled back from the impact so I fired again, adding to his momentum. A boot struck the fallen nitrogen bottle, and down the mercenary went. Without giving it the least thought I fired a single round into the nitrogen bottle.