by H. L. Murphy
Acknowledgements
To my beloved wife, Kelli, who is too terrified of zombies to ever read this, but whose support and kindness I need more than the air I breath. And to the the motley collection of weirdos, maniacs, and rat bastards of 2nd shift I’ve shared a significant portion of the past eight years. You freaks help keep it interesting.
Treasure Coast Zombies
Invasion of the Dead Book One
By H. L. Murphy
Copyright 2016
Any similarity between persons living or dead and the characters of this novel is purely coincidental.
Prologue
The name on the man’s shirt read “Thomas Smith”, though it was not the name given to him by his parents. It would, however, serve him far better in the current instance. As the man turned the delivery truck into the restricted manufacturing facility he plastered a tired, but congenial look on his face.
“Can I help you?” The guard, obviously ex-military, asked Smith. His eyes ran over Smith’s face, the truck, and didn't care for what he saw.
“Delivery,” Smith said simply, and handed over the forged paperwork. All but snatching the forms from Smith, the guard went through the motions of reviewing them. Not that the man knew what to look for specifically, but he made a show of it because it was expected.
“I don't have a delivery scheduled on the board,” the guard growled, annoyed that once again supervision in receiving hadn't thought to alert him of an unexpected delivery.
“Not my problem, buddy,” Smith said in a flat tone which conveyed a disdain for the guards concerns. “I'm just paid to drive the truck, I don't have anything to do with informing the clients.”
The guard grunted disgustedly before handing the forms back to Smith.
“Follow this road around to the stop sign, then follow the signs to the delivery bay. Do not deviate from that path,” the guard snarled, then walked back into the shack.
“Sure thing,” Smith answered softly. Directions from the guard had been unnecessary as Smith had memorized the layout. His cold green eyes glanced out over the parking lot, filled nearly to capacity, and allowed a hateful little grin to creep onto his face. Next to Smith, on the floor of the cab, lay a canvas duffle bag. Within the bag, just visible to Smith, was the entire point of this exercise. A small, CO2 powered dart gun, and a dozen tranquilizer darts filled not with sedatives, but with something of much greater value.
Reversing the big panel truck into the unloading bay, Smith mentally reviewed the actions he must take, and the order in which they must happen. If even one step in the plan were not executed to perfection, there was no chance of him escaping to report. Smith slipped the truck into park, shut off the engine, and slid the silenced nine millimeter into his uniform coveralls before he stepped out onto the pavement.
“What the hell is this?” a fat, slovenly man demanded from the unloading dock. He appeared personally affronted by the presence of the delivery truck.
“It’s this new thing called a truck,” Smith tried to laugh the man off.
“Don't get smart with me, pissant,” the fat man barked and waddled forward. Smith ascended the short ladder next to the dock before the fat man could stop him.
“Then don't be so goddamn stupid,” Smith countered. “Word came down to ship this stuff to you PDQ, so I've been driving all day and I don't need shit from you. Sign this.”
Smith stuffed the forged shipment orders into the fat man’s face, then turned to open the rear of the truck. Within the truck, stacked one upon another, were several crates filled with various parts, except for one particular crate. Set upon the floor of the truck, slightly away from the others, sat a wooden crate containing something of considerably more value. For within the wooden crate was a metallic container with a time release lock. Once the timer reached zero the experiment would begin, though of those present only Smith knew this.
“Unload this shit, and get the fuck outta here,” the fat man snarled as he waddled off. “I got no time for this.”
Briefly, Smith allowed himself to take joy from a momentary image of the fat man being the first to fall before the thing in the crate. Smith checked his watch. The countdown showed five minutes before the unlocking sequence would begin. All thoughts of the suffering to come thrust from his mind, Smith ran a pallet jack under the crate and trundled it into the parts area. As soon as he returned to the truck, Smith pulled off his coveralls to reveal a jumpsuit of a strange black material, then pulled on a hood of the same material. From the duffle bag, Smith removed the tranquilizer pistol, several darts filled with the serum, and a small GoPro camera which he fitted to his head.
Utilizing all the stealth he possessed, Smith reentered the facility and made his way back into the parts department. Smith found a spot within the multi tier storage bins which offered an excellent view of the special crate, as well as the inattentive fat slob sitting at a desk. As he observed the countdown ended and the unlock sequence began. Very small explosive charges detonated, blasting the wooden crate lid free. The sound, through minor, drew the fat slobs attention. Seconds later, the metallic cases lid ratcheted open, exposing the specimen with to open air. Smith checked the feed from his camera, primary contact was about to occur and he wanted to document it properly.
Chapter One
The zombie apocalypse came to life for my family and I early in September, which in Florida means absolutely nothing. Elsewhere, the blazing heat of summer would begin to wax and wane. The barest hints of coming autumn drifting in on gentle breezes, the promise of golden colors, and the passage into winter.
In Florida, it simply invites more heat, more rain, and more stifling humidity. All three were mine to experience as I spent the morning replacing the alternator, serpentine belt, spark plugs, and plug wires. Everything but the alternator was just me trying to stave off potential disasters. The goddamn alternator had given up the ghost the previous night, a couple miles from my home. Thankfully, I owned a Jeep Cherokee produced in great numbers during the nineties and a replacement was readily available. As soon as I completed my manly duties, in regards to vehicle maintenance anyways, I bathed and prepared for work. My beautiful wife, Lizzy, gathered up our two year old daughter, Hermione, to follow me out and say good bye. It was our little ritual, a way for Hermione, and yes, we named her after Emma Watson’s character, piss off, to see me leave for work without her flying into a toddler rage.
Dressed for work, I slid my trusty, holstered 1911 into my waistband. The bottom of my button down shirt covered the weapon nicely. Yes, I carry a concealed handgun, and, yes, I have a license to do so, please take your libtard protests someplace else. The very simple reality of the matter is that bad people do bad things because they can, regardless of the law. The only goddamn thing I have ever found that prevents bad people indulging themselves in their extremely demented pleasures is the potential for extreme, immediate retribution. Under no circumstances whatsoever will I allow anyone to harm my wife or daughter, which is why my petite fireball of a wife has her own nasty little automatic for when I’m not around.
I went downstairs to collect my lunch bag, which went directly into my backpack, and pulled on a new fedora. I know, I know, nobody wears wool felt hats in south Florida. Hi, I’m nobody, so very pleased to meet you. Something about the old style hats appeals to my admittedly tweaked sense of fashion.
“Angus J. Finnegan,” Lizzy called out as I was about to step out the door. I really wish I could go back in time to the exact day my father felt compelled to name me after his long dead grandfather, and convince him I’d have been better off being called Sue. Take a moment
to think about that…get it yet? “Come back here and kiss this baby girl.”
“Of course I’m going to kiss my girls,” I smiled. I marched back to my girls, planted a bunch of gentle kisses on Hermione’s forehead, and a longer, more personal kiss on Lizzy. We walked out to my Jeep, I slung my pack into the passengers seat, started the engine, and sat Hermione on my lap. She absolutely loved to touch all the controls, grab my work badge hanging from the rear view mirror. Finally, I had to pass my beautiful little girl back to my equally beautiful wife. Slowly, I backed down the driveway onto the street, my wife and daughter waving to me the whole way.
That was my last view of my family before the rise of the zombies. They stood there smiling and happy, untouched by the nightmarish terror of the living dead. I would give anything if this horror hadn’t come in their lifetimes. Given the memoirs of those who suffered through impossible situations previously, I knew I was not the only one to make that offer. Neither they nor I ever found anyone to take up the offer.
Ah, well, on with my story.
I-95 seemed normal for the first twenty minutes, then I began to see alerts concerning an incident ahead. An incident on I-95 could mean anything from a ten car pile up to a Smart4Two with a flat tire. Anything in between could bring traffic to a snail’s pace, or, worse, to an absolute halt. It happens all the time, normally intelligent individuals seemed to lose thirty IQ points and regress to a herd mentality. Rubberneckers aggravated the problem by taking an unnecessarily long time to take in the spectacle of human suffering. Disgusting voyeurs, indulging their perverse desire to look upon the face of pain and death even as decent people struggle to fend off the reaper.
When my exit came up and I hadn’t spent an aeon idling in the middle of the highway, I counted my blessings and hit the off ramp. Like so many others, I didn’t give the warnings another thought as I sped off. My concern at that moment was whether or not there would be enough parts available to complete an entire assembly. For the past eight years I have made an outstanding living building military grade helicopters. Even after the joker in the White House announced he was scaling back the military presence in Iraq and Afghanistan orders for rotary wing aircraft were rolling in. Australia, Singapore, the U.A.E., and the Saudis placed orders for the latest and greatest versions of our best helicopters. Personally, I thought, and continue to think, that selling military equipment to potential adversaries wasn’t the best idea, but money speaks louder than common sense in corporate circles.
I passed through the facility gate, my badge on display, and drove the mile from entrance to parking lot. Before I located a parking space, I slid my .45, and spare magazine, into the glove box. Technically, we aren’t allowed to carry firearms on the facility grounds, but I have always had issues with arbitrary authority and any attempt to infringe upon my civil rights. When I came to a stop I locked my glove box, grabbed my bag, and began the hike to the manufacturing area. Not content with the distance from the gate to the parking lot, the designers of the facility placed the parking lot five hundred yards from the building, complete with the first of many security check points. These check points were passed through by swiping your badge over a card reader. Three check points later, I finally walked into the air conditioned shop floor.
In the far back of the shop, in one of the three break room areas, my locker awaited me. My pack went on top of the wall of lockers, despite specific instructions from management not to do so. It’s hard to take anything management says seriously. When I started eight years ago they laid down what they meant to be hard and fast rules. Even with my authority issues I thought this was a good idea. A work force our size needed some guidelines to keep everybody from going apeshit at the first opportunity. Inside the first year I knew management couldn’t enforce their rules, but stuck to them because most of them made perfect sense to me. About the time a particular coworker had been fired, for the third time, only to have the union get him reinstated, for the third time, I lost what little respect I had for them. It didn’t help my outlook that the employee in question, Calvin Hastings, was also facing serious drug charges concerning the possession of five kilos of cocaine. I’m sure the police stacked on a whole slew of charges to go along with possession, but I really couldn’t be bothered to remember. His personal life is more or less his own business until it impacts events at work. The last time he did the revolving door tango, it was because he had been caught snorting a line of coke inside the tail assembly of a sixty million dollar helicopter. By the grace of God alone did our government liaison not hear about it. Every employee in the building would have been out of luck in that event. The government watchdogs would have shut the plant down for a week while they sorted out who to blame. Isn’t that nice?
My fedora, a present from Lizzy, goes on top of my bag during working hours. Hanging inside my locker is a baseball cap emblazoned with the company logo and flagship helicopter. At least, it’s current flagship aircraft. Give them ten years and they’ll sell the military on a whole new design, with several multi-year contracts worked in. It’s all about the long term with the top level executives. Which is why the company can afford to pay me thirty-five dollars an hour to build aircraft. On good days, I even earn it.
My things secured, I marched off to acquaint myself with the days labors. As a senior aircraft mechanic I can pick and choose the work I do, so if I don’t feel like ending up covered in caustic solvents and binary epoxy compounds then I pass it to a low level mechanic. Mostly though, I don’t. I’m paid, and paid well, to build the aircraft not play pass the buck.
However, since I spent the morning working on my Jeep I didn’t really feel up to anything too complicated. I snagged a simple assemble and install job, and got to it. Kits were issued from the Parts Crib, when the attendant could be bothered to do his job, which was rarely. Recent shifts in personnel stripped the truly competent attendants from this section and deposited the current pile of excrement. At five feet five inches and just shy of three hundred pounds, Nick Depoa was the reigning champion of excuses.
“..it’s on the next truck…”
“…we can’t release that till next Tuesday…”
“…that kit was rejected because the primary unit was damaged in transit…”
“…first shift checked it out, then checked it back in, but didn’t bring it back…”
It all sounds good, doesn’t it? Biggest pile of lies you’ve ever heard. I’m genuinely surprised Depoa isn’t in Congress. By the way, I know it’s all bullshit because I can always find what I need in the bins not fifty feet from his desk. Apparently, Nick doesn’t believe it’s within his job description to actually do anything beyond scratching his balls while watching basketball and bitching about the players. The only positive thing that can be said for the fat bastard is that he never misses work, ever. Hurricane came through a few years ago and he volunteered to be a part of the crew looking after the place.
The first sign my day is about to go to shit was the empty chair where Depoa’s fat ass should have been. Permanent indentations in the chair’s cushion spoke of his long running desire to meld with the seat in some twisted fusion of man and furniture. The disgusting receptacle of botulism Nick called his coffee cup lay on its side, the revolting contents in a cooling pool of putrescence both on the desktop and the floor. Rumor had it the man hadn’t scrubbed his cup free of residue in the three years of his ownership. Considering his overall poor hygienic habits, I found this totally believable. The man boasted of his record low water bills, which he chocked up to the fact he only showered on Wednesdays. That being said, I couldn’t readily detect his odoriferous aroma, though there was something…rotten in the air.
“Nick,” I called out, glancing about for anyone else to help me. As usual, the supervisory staff was nowhere to be seen. “Come on, Nick. I don’t have time for this. There’s this new thing called a schedule…”
My words trailed off as I walked around a seven feet high stack of boxes, a trail of
reddish fluid led away from me into the main bins. Several of the powered lifts used in the crib were hydraulically assisted, but hydraulic fluid, while red, was more transparent than what I was looking at. My eyes rose slowly to track the trail when someone finally spoke.
“Hey, Finn,” Pee Wee Miller called from the door to the parts room. Pee Wee, real name Francis, was our resident exercise guru. At a whopping five feet seven inches, Pee Wee was the most physically fit person in the facility, man or woman. At lunch, while most of us were eating, Pee Wee ran the entire perimeter of the property. For fun. I had five inches on him, and thirty pounds, but he always made me feel like I should have eaten my greens and spent far more time in the gym benching a ’56 Buick. That’s saying something since I can’t stand spinach or cabbage. “Where is everybody?”
“Hey,” I called back to him, my eyes tracking to Pee Wee before turning back to the trail of red. Since Pee Wee is also one of the most polite guys on my shift, I never give him grief. “Haven’t spotted anybody yet. Hey, Pee Wee, come look at this.”
“What’s that?” Pee Wee asked. Standing next to me, Pee Wee reminded me more of Lou Ferrigno more than was quite right. Paint him green and he could body double for the Hulk. No more CGI, live and in living color, the Incredible Hulk.
“I haven’t got any fucking idea,” I answered honestly. My hand strayed to the folding knife in my pocket as I stepped forward to follow the trail before us. Accidents happened all the time, just usually on the aircraft. “Nick? You okay? Talk to me, you fat, insipid, gluttonous prick.”
Yeah, the picture of caring and warmth, that’s me.
Boxes stacked well past OSHA regulations bracketed me as I continued forward, my folding knife suddenly open and in my hand. I heard something, something I couldn’t immediately reconcile with my environment. A sloshing, ripping noise punctuated with deep grunts. What the unholy fuck? I thought the words at the same moment Pee Wee spoke them. Weird.