Invasion of the Dead (Book 1): Treasure Coast Zombies

by H. L. Murphy

  It turned out I was both right and wrong. The horde wasn't at the gate, but I could see in the far distance evidence of their approach. Smoke, fire, and the distant sounds of rifle fire gave proof of the hordes existence. If we remained in place, the horde would find us. They would shamble right up to the ship and just keep coming no matter how many we killed. I considered loading the vehicles back up, but where could we go the zombies couldn't follow? And what about fuel? The Defender ran on diesel, but James’ toy truck used gasoline. I suppose we could try buying fuel for a while to come, but what about after the government shut off access to our bank accounts? Or there just weren't any attendants to turn the machines on? I had no idea how to work the register controls. Cars? Maybe we could siphon fuel from parked or abandoned cars?

  I spat furiously and turned to stare at the ship’s bridge, the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room becoming blatantly obvious.

  “Oh,” I said quietly, praying no one else was up and about. “Way to stay on top of things, Finnegan.”

  Moments later I was outside Carroll’s cabin, knocking continuously. Few men in my experience could sleep as soundly as Carroll. Didn't matter what was going on around him, he would snore on in complete ignorance. I wanted to pound the door down and drag Carroll from his bed, but I was afraid of his state of undress. It would be just my luck to discover the man sleeps commando, and get an eyeful of his junk. That was the last thing I needed to see.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Carroll pulled open the door ready to beat me into pudding, “what is your problem?”

  “Get dressed,” I demanded. “I need you in the engine room. Get the diesels cranked up. I don't want to hear you don't know how, just get it done.”

  “I don't know how,” Carroll started to complain, but stopped at the fire in my eyes. “I'm sure it can't be that hard. Why am I doing this?”

  “Because a horde of undead cannibals is headed our way. Best place for us is just off shore,” I said as I walked away, headed for the bridge. What I knew about boats, let alone freighters, couldn't fill a thimble, so I was now well and truly out of my comfort zone.

  Nothing bad could possibly happen now.

  The bridge of the old ship was everything I expected it to be. Which is to say, generally unlabeled, confusing, dirty, and quite possibly rusting away beneath some seriously thick paintwork. Five heart hammering minutes passed as I tried to find a way to communicate with the engine room. It finally occurred to me to pick up the telephone handset looking device and press the button labeled engine room. What? I was under a lot of pressure at the time. Let's see you do better.

  “Come on, pick up,” I spat into the receiver. “Come on, come on. I can see a dust cloud from the horde.”

  “Stan’s pizzeria, mushrooms and opossum assholes are the specialty of the day,” Carroll managed to get out in one smooth monologue. He did it so well I didn't even think to give him shit. He had to be feeling a little stress about now, and he was staying calm.

  “Hey, you guys still have that Raccoon testicles Stromboli,” I asked. What can I say? It was working for him so I figured why not give it a try. Juvenile? You bet, but I did feel some of my stress melt away so…fuck off.

  “Nah, we’re fresh out of balls…” Carroll trailed off as his verbal mistake struck home.

  “Oh, really,” I dived in to attack. “So essentially what you're telling me is that are completely without balls? Is this a new condition, or has it always been this way?”

  “Fuck you, Finnegan,” Carroll rejoined.

  “No thanks, Lizzy is more than willing to shove a cylindrical object up my ass,” I quipped. The line went silent as Carroll processed my statement. I could hear him stumbling over his words as he tried and failed to take a verbal swing at me. “What's the word on the engines, Carroll?”

  “Everything looks like it should work,” he managed to get out. “I'm just not sure how to get anything started.”

  “Well, how do we have power right now?” I asked, genuinely unsure how the damned lights were on.

  “The boat is tied into the he power grid on shore,” he answered smoothly. “I noticed the power cables running from the boat to a small shack near the bow.”

  “Oh, I hadn't noticed that.”

  Ever vigilant, that's me. Practically Holmesian in my attention to detail. Jesus fuck.

  “Uh, I did find a binder with instructions in it,” Carroll interrupted my self flagellation. “The hand writings really bad though, so it's going to take me some time to figure it all out.”

  I turned to face the approaching dust cloud, trying to calculate how long we could waste on a lost cause before we would need to load back into our vehicles and drive away.

  “You have an hour, no longer than that,” I said flatly. Carroll immediately began to protest. “You have one hour to work it out, and if you can't we need to reload the cars and get the hell out of here. Period. Go to work.”

  “What's going on?” James asked groggily from the hatch. See, on a boat a door is called a hatch, at least that's what all the nautical movies I could remember seeing called them so that's what I was calling them now. Since I was taking a swing at being a sea captain I might as well talk like one. So blow it out your bilge. Or something like that.

  “Companies coming,” I said, and pointed towards the growing cloud. I took another look around the bridge, this time looking for manuals of any kind. Now that I had a direction my search proved fruitful, sort of. I found all manner of manuals, though few of them were in English, and none of the remaining manuals seemed concerned with the actual operation of the ship. Oh, well, trial and error it was.

  “I don't see shit,” James squinted through his glasses and the early morning mist, which by the way was carefully calculated by a cruel spirit of capriciousness to lend a decidedly creepy aspect to the docks. “Are you sure?”

  “Look past the mist into the distance,” I said, passing James my binoculars. “The rising dark cloud is dust and sand kicked up by thousands of marching feet. Undead, marching, well, shambling feet headed right here.”

  “You know,” James turned to me after a long, long look through the binoculars,”you are a fucking shit magnet. Seriously. If there was anyway to make the zombie fucking apocalypse worse, it would find you out of every fucking asshole still alive. Zombie horde? Not nearly good enough for you, so let's throw in an intelligent zombie that can control the average zombie. That's a good start, but can we stick it to this schmuck a little more? How about a psychotic group of private military contractors armed to the teeth with machine guns, helicopters, and nukes? Not bad. I like the way you're going, but can we wind it up a bit more? Okay, the zombies can assimilate each other if they become too damaged to continue. They become a super zombie with multiple heads, arms, and legs. Perfect.”

  The whole time James carried on with his diatribe, I was doing my best to work out what everything did. When, at long last, James brought his monologue to a close I turned to face him.

  “So? What are you saying?” I asked evenly.

  “I suppose I would like to know who the fuck you pissed off for karma to keep sticking it in and breaking it off,” James smiled at me.

  “I wish I knew,” I laughed tiredly, keeping my argument with St. Pete to myself. Still not sure if it was a daydream, or an actual conversation.

  “What's the plan?”

  “Get this tub away from the docks, anchor off shore, and go from there,” I said hopefully.

  “What about the cars?”

  “Until we know for certain my plan will work, I'm keeping them as a back up plan,” I explained. Although I left out the part about the horde being right on top of us if we needed to leave overland. “Maybe you could move them over by a warehouse, someplace out of direct line of sight?”

  “Don't want your precious Defender to get dinged?” James poked at me. I shot him the bird as he walked off laughing.

  “No,” I whispered to his retreating back, “I don't want the
horde to destroy them. Sooner or later, we’re going to need them again. Maybe today, may next week. We can't stay at sea forever.”

  I turned back to the computer station I hadn't wanted James to see. By pure chance I had switched the display off before my friend could read the Presidential declaration of martial law, the suspension of the constitution, and the embargo of all shipping from the quarantine zone. Any vessel caught outside the half mile zone would be fired upon immediately by either the navy or the coast guard.

  So much for my brilliant plan.

  Interlude Nine

  Stephen Banks pulled his Riviera into an industrial warehouse area slowly, his eyes searching the shadows for any potential witnesses. The odds of his completing his mission and escaping undetected were, admittedly, abysmal. Still, Banks was a professional, and a perfectionist, so if it was possible he would make every effort to ensure none lived to tell the tale. Outside warehouse number four Banks remotely activated the roll up door. Within he could just see the edges of the white panel van painted in the local power company livery.

  The Riviera idled into the warehouse where Banks transferred the special pelican case into the rear of the van, along with his survival essentials. Already secured within the rear of the van was the actual nuclear device itself. The pelican case contained the uranium core, without which the so called suitcase nuke was little more than a firecracker. With practiced ease, Stephen Banks installed the uranium core, inserted the detonation charges, and charged the control panel.

  Banks had never seen the need to keep the components separate, but his superiors in the T R Society had made the decision long before Banks had been entrusted with the project. A scientist had tried to explain that by keeping the pieces separated, the possibility of radiation leakage was minimized. Therefore, the radiation detection grid in place around Washington D.C. would never even pick up the vaguest hint of uranium. Whether that was true or not remained to be seen.

  The device reassembled and programmed to detonate at a prearranged time, Banks pulled on a set of nondescript coveralls over his street clothes. A simple, blue baseball cap completed his ensemble. He now appeared no different than any of ten thousand repair men across the country, and any description of his person would lead investigators, provided anyone survived to give an official statement, nowhere.

  Checking the time, Banks discovered he was fifteen minutes ahead of his own rigorous schedule and decided he could afford time enough for a cup of coffee. He climbed into the the van, it's interior coated in a special lead infused paint to help reduce any signature, and drove to a nearby gas station, where he paid cash for a large cup of very strong coffee. Four packets of sugar managed to tame down the nearly burnt coffee enough for Banks to suffer through. He had just reached the bottom of the cup as Banks pulled up to the target zone, three blocks from the White House. It was, in Banks’ estimation, a damned shame to lose so important a symbol of the American nation, but in the war against the Outbreak sacrifices had to be made. Perhaps one day, many years in the future, his people would be able to build a memorial to the courage and determination Banks was displaying.

  Smiling at the thought, Banks stepped out of the van, his MP 7 concealed with his coveralls. He carried a set of orange caution cones, which he arranged as though he were preparing to begin work. It was as he stood up he noticed the three young black men approaching him, each moved with the exaggerated swagger of would be gangstas. Decades of unremitting violence had formed these young men into what Banks saw now, thugs who knew only one way to interact with the world about them. They would take what they wanted from Banks, beat him for sport, and possibly kill him just to prove to one another how hard they really were.

  Banks turned away from the approaching trio long enough to retrieve the extremely compact submachine gun. By the time he faced the thugs once more they had closed the distance and were practically on top of him. Any such emotion as panic had long since been drilled out of Stephen Banks so he calmly stroked the trigger as he pointed the weapon at the nearest attacker. A three round burst stitched the young man in the gut, dropping him on the spot. The young man, a seventeen year old delinquent named Jamal Wilkes, was so shocked by the injury he couldn't even work up the initiative to scream. Wilkes’ two neighborhood buddies, Carl Johnson and Little Tom Mackie, stumbled as their life long friend dropped to the ground, three bullets in his belly. It was Carl Johnson who made the intellectual leap from Wilkes spouting blood to the strangely calm white boy. The white boy who had been holding something as he turned to face a serious ass whupping. That same something was now making a muffled pop barely audible over the grunt Little Tom made before his head just exploded. Carl spun from Little Tom to face the dead calm visage of Stephen Banks, the weapon now clear to him.

  “Wait, no..” Carl managed before the weapon spat death at him as well. Carl felt the bullets impact his chest, searing pain lanced straight through him, his bladder involuntarily released the Colt .45 Carl had drank fifteen minutes before as he and his buddies had discussed how to raise enough sending money to drink again the following night, and then Carl felt the impact of his body hitting the cold asphalt of the street. His pants now soaked with urine and blood Carl looked up to see the dead faced white boy aim his weapon at Jamal, saw the puffs of smoke as the rounds exited a short cylindrical device, and heard the wet, meaty impacts of the rounds as they entered Jamal’s head. A moment later Carl watched as the barrel of the weapon swung to point at his head. The rounds cut off a strangled cry.

  Moving quickly, but deliberately, Banks pulled each man into the van before he also climbed in to remove his stained coveralls. The presence of the three men had put Banks’ schedule at risk. Not to mention the very real possibility a witness was at that very moment calling the police to report a triple homicide. From his bag, Banks pulled a dark windbreaker. Slipping it on, Banks then moved the van two blocks closer to the White House. He then got out and walked away from the vehicle as though he hadn't a care in the world. Except, of course, for the MP 7 he felt compelled to leave in the van. If a police officer stopped him, it would be impossible to explain the presence of the weapon. Banks’ identification could justify the pistol he still carried, but not a submachine gun.

  Walking three blocks away from the homicide scene, Banks climbed aboard a city bus and allowed himself to be driven far from the area. Twenty minutes later, Stephen Banks stepped off the bus, and walked into a train station. Thankfully, the train service hadn't become quite as invasive as the airlines. Although, his official identification would have quelled any concerns the conductor may have had. Banks, however, didn't wish anyone to be aware of his presence, so he made use of one of his many aliases. Before he boarded the train, Banks went into the men’s room, removed his jacket and threw it away, and pulled on a cable knit sweater instead. The ball cap went back into the bag, and banks pulled on a first rate, pre fitted wig of blond hair. He also glued on a mustache of matching color. Colored contacts came out, and a new man stood staring at Banks in the mirror.

  Banks climbed aboard the train five minutes before it pulled out of the station, headed south. Despite the relatively slow pace, Banks knew he would be well outside the blast radius long before the device went boom. Besides, it wasn't as if Banks actually intended to travel all the way to Daytona Beach, Florida. No, he merely needed to go another fifty miles before he would depart the train for a more independent means of travel. Suddenly hungry, Banks stood and proceeded to the dining car, where he was able to procure a sandwich and a soda at extortion prices. As he ate, Banks could hear the attendants radio playing softly. Music had been replaced by a news conference, a conference where the president was speaking. He was going through his usual stupidity about who we, as a nation were, and how we, as a nation, were going to move forward. Banks had heard it so many times he knew what the man was going to say before he said it. Right up to the moment the president declared martial law as the only effective solution to the growing biological crisis af
fecting south Florida.

  So, he thought as the man continued to justify his tyranny, the Admiral acted just in time. Not only was the president standing in the way of the San Juan Mandate, he was attempting to out flank the T R Society.

  “Checkmate, fool,” Banks whispered to no one.

  By the time the device detonated, effectively destroying the city of Washington D.C., Stephan Banks was driving a 1966 Jaguar E type into the Blue Ridge mountains. Whatever the presidents plans had been, they had died with the unpatriotic would be dictator. That most of the members of both houses of Congress, the entire Supreme Court, and civilian population also met their end meant nothing to Banks. He had accomplished his mission, and preserved the San Juan Mandate and Admiral Mayweather’s authority to fulfill its guidelines. The Admiral would preserve the nation where the president had failed to do so.

  As for Stephan Banks, he would drop off the grid for a while, just in case.

  To that end, he drove the E type deep into the mountain range, only stopping once he located the hidden road which led to an underground bunker stocked with everything a paranoid doomsday prepper would ever need to survive. Up to, and including, a heavy machine gun mounted on a rarely used surplus hummer. How, or even when, he would use such a thing he didn't know, but Banks had been given the opportunity to purchase the vehicle from a particularly corrupt supply officer in Iraq and had chosen to err on the side of caution.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time seemed to bleed away as James maneuvered both vehicles within a mostly empty warehouse, out of sight. In doing so we hoped to prevent them from becoming tempting targets for either the Zombie Gypsy, or for other survivors. I'm not sure I would begrudge any living soul the use of my Defender in a life or death situation, but I wasn't going to leave the keys in it either. That errant thought brought up another point, what the hell were we going to do if we found other survivors?