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

by H. L. Murphy

  So far our experiences weren't of the type to wish for repetition. It couldn't possibly be that every living person surviving the nightmare had gone mad. There must have been some normal people left, or as ‘normal’ as we ever were. Out there, somewhere, there must have been other folks just doing their best to live through the day, good people who could help to make this boat less of a floating coffin and more of a life boat. Something to consider after my family was safe.

  On that note, I walked into the wheel house and picked up the handset. “Carroll, what's your status?”

  “My status?” Carroll sneered. “Well, Commodore, my status is I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. The start up sequence looks simple enough, but the manual is referencing things I've never heard of. I could start the engines up perfectly, or blow them the fuck up. I just don't know.”

  “Quit your whining and figure it out,” I snapped. “A horde is descending upon us as you proselytize the Dao of Half Assery.”

  I drew in a deep breath to continue my soliloquy, the glass of the bridge door, hatch?, whatever the fuck, exploded into the room itself. Reflex alone kept me from being perforated over and over as round after round found their way into the room. Upon the floor I spat truly obscene epitaphs into the handset, Carroll all but forgotten as the incoming fire demanded the right of way.

  “What the hell is going on?” Carroll yelled above the general din of noise.

  “It's the local Seaman’s Union,” I shouted back, “they're here to discuss dues.”

  “What?” Carroll asked, his confusion evident, but I didn't have time to explain things.

  “Get the engines started, goddamn it,” I screamed at my friend. I dropped the handset upon the floor, and crawled over to the steel door. The door, hatch, what the fuck ever, opened easily enough, though the gunfire increased dramatically. Slowly, carefully I peaked around the edge of the hatchway, doorway?, fucking nautical bullshit, to gain some idea of the situation. In the deepest, most disturbed corner of my mind I came to the conclusion that if I were to see zombies packing assault weapons I would lose my tenuous grasp upon sanity. In that instant I would truly know the utter futility of my struggles to endure so I might protect my family. For if the undead could bear and make use of firearms there would be no hope left whatsoever. Never have I prayed so fervently in all my life for this one single thing.

  “Please don't let them be zombies. Please don't let them be zombies. Please don't let them be zombies.”

  When my eyes found the black clad men unleashing cyclic fire at my supposed position, I nearly cried out in ecstatic joy. I, however, kept my exaltation to myself. Sounds of any kind would only be used to track my movements and adjust their angle of fire. The longer these swine were permitted to rain death upon us unchecked, the greater the possibility my Lizzy would burst onto the scene. This thought, along with her inevitable death, drove me from the bridge. I crawled, at first, quickly taking cover behind a slab of plate steel.

  Insanity, pure unmitigated insanity. It's the only explanation I have for my actions. Nothing else makes any sense whatsoever. I had gone mad, had likely lost my mind somewhere between bashing in fat DePao’s skull and being booted from the crossmember by the Gypsy. What makes me so sure? Simple, I wasn't pissing myself in terror, I was laughing like a loon.

  I leapt to my feet with a warbling battle cry, very similar to the keening shriek of a terrified ten year old girl, and rapid fired as many 7.62mm rounds at the nearest would be commando as I could while the shock value of my war cry lasted.

  It lasted about a second and a half, maybe two seconds, and then I was taking cover as a wall of full metal jacketed rounds came my way. Shrapnel from disintegrating rounds began shredding my clothes and, more importantly, my skin and the first few layers of subcutaneous flesh. This close, with so many rounds, I knew the injuries should have been far worse, but it appeared the super charger on my immune system was still actively engaged in saving me from the results of my own bad decisions.

  The singular, high pitched gunshot cut through the torrent of automatic gunfire even as I heard one of the commandos curse and redirect his fire. I wasn't sure how many gunmen were out there, but James had just reduced their number by one. I dropped onto my side, exposing myself as I opened fire at the first target I could locate. It just so happened to be the prick shooting at my best friend. Whatever he was holding was small, with a high rate of fire judging by the fusillade he directed at James. Three rounds from my rifle caught the man in the back, blood geyser end from each impact. I couldn't tell if he called out before he fell, though I was hoping he had. I hoped he was still alive enough to call out to his buddies to save him. God help me, I wanted those buddies to come get him so I could kill them all.

  What’s that? Cold blooded? Ruthless? Fuck you. Haven't you been paying any fucking attention? My people weren't doing anything at all to warrant being attacked by the assholes. They rolled up on us and opened fire without so much as a howdy do.

  I curled up behind the steel plate, just avoiding a very well placed series of rounds. This time I came over the top of the plate to fire at a lone commando dashing from cover to rescue his downed comrade. A noble action I rewarded by riddling his body with fire, a sudden deformation of the man’s skull a clear indication I had blown what passed for his brains out.

  “Sweet fucking Jesus,” I breathed. I was in the middle of traversing my rifle to locate another target when I felt the hot sting of a bullet slam into my left arm, then the left side of my chest. I staggered back, my legs gave way beneath me, and my back impacted the outside of the bridge. I coughed once, blood filled my mouth, and I let it pour freely from between my lips. On the very edges of my perception I could recognize the voice screaming negation even as the fire shifted from my position to another. Pain lanced through the dulling of my senses to remind me I wasn't quite done breathing. As my vision went white with the agony of my wounds I couldn't help but wonder why I wasn't dead yet. I was fairly sure I had died when the Huey’s gunner had put three rounds in my back. More pain equated to an attempt to scream which in turn caused another explosion of blood from my big fucking mouth.

  While my vision had whited out, my hearing was still top notch. Below I made out at least three voices shouting back and forth. At least two men were shouting abbreviated jargon to one another, none of which meant anything to me. Not one word of it had anything to do with tendering an apology and leaving immediately I was sure of that. A coughing fit struck me then, unbelievable pain electrified my upper body with each wracking cough. Finally, I vomited God only knows what all over the deck, and the white out began to fade. Not wishing to know what I had thrown up I pulled myself back to the steel plate and took a deep breath. Focus was quickly returning as the pain in my chest ebbed, to be replaced by a nearly intolerable itching. Growling in frustration I levered myself up to prop my rifle upon the edge of the plate.

  Breathing came hard at the moment, my insides were still knitting themselves back together. For just a moment, I held my breath as a man stepped into my sights. I squeezed the trigger gently, barely able to summon the strength to do so. The recoil of the rifle knocked me flat, whole new realms of searing pain penetrated my chest. A single ragged breath eased my suffering as the pulsing waves of agony, which succeeded the explosion of feeling, convulsed every muscle in my body.

  Thick soled boots sounded on steel steps, running at speed with the attendant grunting breaths. James, I knew, didn't wear heavy boots. Every single KnightStar killer I had come across seemed to favor the heavy military style boots, and hadn't I just been shot by a black clad asshole the spitting image of a KnightStar killer? Why yes, yes I had.

  “Fuck,” the word literally bubbled out of my mouth along with an unfortunate amount of blood. My hands groped for my rifle, but came up empty. The boot steps were closing fast so I reached for my pistol instead. The weapon came free just as the barrel of a rifle appeared over the rail, gunwale, whatever the unholy fuck some nauti
cal shithead decided to call it. My pistol leveled on the man carrying said rifle a second too late. We locked eyes, both of us knowing I was going to die, for real this time.

  There is now, for me at least, no sweeter sound than the thunderous boom of a twelve gauge, pump action shotgun discharging at close range. Lizzy the Wondrous stepped from a hatchway to fire her beautiful beast of a shotgun into the man’s head from two feet away. Her angelic face was set in the fiercest countenance of aggressive determination I had ever witnessed in my life. In fact, I was so elated by her timely arrival I completely glossed over the horrifying reality which accompanied point blank double ought buckshot to a human head. Although, no amount of mental gloss could conquer the shower of blood, bone shards, and brain bits which descended upon the both of us.

  “Awesome,” I mumbled around the residual splatter. Lizzy spun towards the sound of my voice, chambering a fresh she'll as she did so. Her eyes went wide the second she caught sight of me. Can't really blame her, I must have been a hell of a sight to behold. Riddled with bullets, covered in my own blood, and randomly coughing up disturbing quantities of my own life’s essence. Thankfully, she wasn't so stunned that she forgot to duck down. “Why aren't you with Hermione?”

  “Shut up,” Lizzy cried, a veritable waterfall of tears streamed down her face as she took stock of my wounds. My dearest love ran her soft hands over my face, making an even bigger mess, as she must have come to the inevitable conclusion. She was going to lose her husband right before her very eyes. “No, no, no, no.”

  “Christ on fire,” I mumbled as I struggled to get to my feet. Yes, I know I didn't inform my wife of my new found ability to cast off death’s icy touch. I knew at that moment in time Lizzy was utterly convinced I was dying. The thing was, I wasn't. I was actually feeling considerably better, if a little snacky. From the sounds of rapid gunfire, James was still alive and causing our enemy considerable grief. How long he stayed that way depended upon me getting off my not dying ass.

  “I'm okay, goddamn it,” I snarled, my strength finally returning. Still unsure where my rifle was I duck walked over to what remained of the KnightStar agent. He may have been a stone cold killer, but he certainly had good taste in weaponry as evidenced by the SCAR still clutched in his hands. “Christmas come early.”

  I unhooked the rifle, dropped the mag, checked it, slid it home, and chambered a fresh round. Below, two men were steadily advancing on James’ position. The two kept up a constant stream of fire, pinning my friend in place. Another few seconds and they would have overrun his cover.

  My first volley of fire cut the nearer of the two men nearly in half. The heavy thirty caliber rounds scythed into his gear, and through his body armor. The second man didn't miss a beat as he changed his direction of movement as well as his line of fire. Still, as good as he was the man simply couldn't watch everywhere at once. James popped around the side of his cover to lay down a harassing fire. The mercenary rocked to one side and I was certain he had taken a round to the center mass. Having just gone through something very similar I was inclined to feel sorry for the man, but the knowledge the little shit and his friends would have killed my entire family kind of dried up any such emotion. I switched my weapon to single fire and took careful aim.

  The SCAR barked once and the mercenary crumpled to the asphalt. The agonized moans and screams issuing forth told me he was still alive. Good, my shot hadn't gone wide. I turned to tell Lizzy to get back to Hermione only to find my loving wife starring at me in awe. In a flash, she was on me. Her hands probed the bullet holes in my shirt, seeking the wounds she knew must be there to find nothing of the sort. Her frantic motions slowed, then stopped.

  “How?” The single word slipped between barely moving lips, more an exhalation than a spoken utterance.

  “I don't know,” I said honestly. “I really don't. I wish I did, but I don't. All I know is that I keep healing, keep coming back to you, for you, for Hermione.”

  “I…I…” Lizzy started, stopped, geared up, slapped me like she had caught me banging her best friend, and then kissed me like there was no tomorrow. I was either in good standing, or she was about to blow my head off. With women you can never tell until the fateful moment.

  “Go to Hermione,” I said when Lizzy broke off trying to suck my lungs out. She smiled,wiped away a river of tears, and ducked down the hatchway. The moment I turned to descend the boarding stairs my rifle sling caught on something behind me, and I discovered my errant SBR Kalashnikov. Somehow the goddamned thing had worked itself behind my back and in my post gunshot shock induced euphoria I had failed to realize the uncomfortable thing stabbing me in the back was my trusty weapon. Hooray…

  Oh, I didn't drop that beautiful SCAR, no fucking way. Headless Harry donated six capped off magazines and a lovely pair of NVGs. To be honest, I didn't think I needed them, but James might.

  “James,” I yelled, “don't shoot that asshole anymore. I want to have a conference with him.”

  “A conference?” James shouted from cover. “What kind of conference? I think these assholes have all the fucking confidence they need.”

  “Naw, more like a if you don't stop trying to kill us I'm going to hunt down your families and roast them alive conference,” I explained. The subject of our exchange lay bleeding profusely, barely fifty yards from James. Yeah, I know, all the super bad ass commando operators use meters. Well, guess what? I'm not a super bad ass commando operator. I use fucking inches, feet, yards, and fucking miles. Suck it, bitch.

  I'm not sure when the killer became aware of my presence, but once he fully realized I was kneeling next to him the reflexes took over. I know he wanted to pull his chest mounted Glock, wonder pistol of the Apocalypse, and pump two rounds into my brain pan. Unfortunately for him, severe blood loss had practically crippled his movement. It was child’s play to stop him. The man must have stood about my height but carried significantly more muscle, probably why James’ shot hadn't killed him outright. However, the most outstanding feature of the man was his enormous mustache, which he had waxed into a single curl on each side. The thing was massive. I gazed with undisguised envy at the overgrown lip fuzz. As I admired his mustache I noticed the camera attached to the man’s chest plate.

  “Hello,” I said, waving at the camera. “I don't know where you are, but I do know who you are, and if you don't stop trying to murder my family I will pull your heart out through your asshole.”

  Subtle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I couldn't say whether or not my message reached anyone living. For all I knew the command and control facility for these murderers had been overrun and I was threatening to violate the undead. James came up to the dying man, and with a decided lack of ceremony, shot the man in the head. For the second time since the start of the firefight I found myself showered in someone else's brain matter. I don't care how many times it happens in the days and years to come, that shit will always freak me out.

  “Jesus fuck,” I spat someone else's blood from my mouth and really just refused to contemplate the nature of the bleeding blob of God only knew what that landed on my tongue. I knew what it had to be, but I simply refused to acknowledge the truth of it.

  “I think we should have a little talk,” James tried to remain calm as the words spilled forth. Adrenaline was still pounding through his system, making his hands tremble uncontrollably. It isn't entirely possible for me to convey how happy I was his rifle wasn't pointed in my direction.

  “One minute,” I said then began pulling at the wires protruding from the camera. Eventually I just yanked the camera free of the chest rig. I dropped the now useless camera next to its owners body and began riffling through his gear. “What's on your mind?”

  “What's on my mind?” James repeated. “Are you fucking kidding me? I saw you get hit, Finn. I saw you take at least one bullet. You should be dead. Jesus fuck, man, you're covered in blood.”

  “Point of interest,” I said, handing James two pistol m
agazines, forty-five caliber rounds, “I took two bullets. One in the arm and one in the chest. Hurts like a mother fucker, and don't listen to anyone that says different. Although maybe that's just because my body didn't drop straight into shock. I don't know, I just know getting shot really fucking hurts.”

  From within a belt pouch I produced an eight by ten semi glossy picture of yours truly. It was my driver’s license photo, which means it was the worst possible representation imaginable. There was also a couple pages attached to the photo detailing…the sum total of my life to date. To see my life reduced to a computer printout was, to say the least, disturbing.

  I had been singled out. Of all the many and varied assholes running around this apocalyptic shitfest, I had been singled out. KnightStar was devoting resources to locating and exterminating me. It was a very…disquieting notion to realize you are no longer safe at the top of the food chain, but rather have become the quarry of hunters.

  “Goddamn, Finn,” James whispered from next to me as he took in the photo and paperwork. We stared at the second page a long time. The order to ‘terminate at all costs’, followed by ‘collect blood and DNA sample’, ending with ‘all bystanders to be considered expendable and to be sanctioned with extreme prejudice’.

  “Take this,” I broke from the spell cast by my personal death warrant and handed James the SCAR-H. As soon as his hands closed over the weapon I handed over the magazines. Although he didn't complain about the upgrade he did appear more than a little confused. “They're close. I can feel Zombie Gypsy drawing near. I think we’re going to need all the punch we can get before Carroll works out those goddamn engines.”

  I stood up and walked away, headed to the nearest body. I continued to loot the dead as I went from body to body. Occasionally I would pass James another weapon, or more ammunition, until I located an item which put a smile on my blood soaked face.