by H. L. Murphy
“This will not be easy,” Vincenzo stated flatly. His eyes ran over the topographical image, then stared long and hard at the structure itself. “Bad terrain, the structure will be easily defended, and those emplacements look perfect for heavy machine guns.”
“That's what God created air cover for, Captain,” Mayweather responded. “I want a complete breakdown of this island by 2200 hours, then I want an assault plan on my desk by 0500hours tomorrow. Do not scrimp on force numbers or authority, if you need it say so. Everything thing in this strike group is at your disposal so long as you bring me Dr. Zhao alive.”
Chapter Nine
I honestly have no fucking idea how I've survived this long with an incurable tendency to take on problems that aren't mine. I mean, I didn't need the added burden of hauling these two girls along with James and I across the creepily silent city of Stuart in search of more supplies and a way back to our secret base of a boat with everything in one trip. It had been simple to establish that James and I had located the missing Farah and Penelope, what hadn't been so simple was to establish a clear line to the ocean. Seconds after leaving the deputy to her own devices, the piercing call of the police siren had shattered the still of the night. There couldn't be many more of the miserable bastards left, but getting into another fight with the Zombie Queen fast approaching and with Zombie Green already in the city and busy dismantling American icons, kicking my ass, and eating leftover deputies just seemed entirely too sadomasochistic.
“I'm in favor of finding a boat, now,” James argued. His eyes and head searched this way and that for anything and everything. “We have more than enough for now.”
“One, in the zombie apocalypse there is no such thing as enough for now,” I countered. “Two, I still don't have a new hat, or cigars. Three, what about those two? They aren't exactly commandos, nor, I'm betting, are they maritime mechanics. Their chief virtue seems to lay in the fact they're young, the dark haired one is bitchy, and the blonde flicked my pity switch.”
“Hey, we can hear you,” Farah, the dark haired micro bitch, shrilled through the cabs rear window. If the tone of her voice could rise just a half octave higher I was certain we could use her to burst the eyes of the undead, provided she didn't liquify our brains along the way. Was it too late to stop and kick them out? I could do that. We were right by the Jeep dealership, so it wasn't as if they couldn't grab a ride of their own.
“Good, it was my erstwhile hope to include you in a conversation about which you have no say whatsoever, now shut the fuck up,” I bellowed into Farah’s extremely shocked face. Looking at her now, I doubted she had ever encountered any version of male outside the pacifist hipster brand. You know the kind, lots of skinny jeans, tattoos, and man buns. Christ on fire, I hate man buns. Whenever I saw a man bun sporting hipster sipping on their soy mocha half caffe latte, I went out of my way to collect a fresh box of tampons to sling at him until he ran crying from the immediate area. I am not a crunchy granola kind of man, I'm just not.
“Subtle, very subtle,” James snarked as he shook his head and tried to hide the half smile on his face.
“Where are you thinking for a boat?” I asked, still fuming about the man bun adoring fucktard in the back complicating my life and complaining about the manner in which I kept her alive. My best friend looked over at me with a slow, wicked grin before speaking.
“Hell Gate Point,” James smiled wickedly. It was this first time I really noticed the hint of madness behind his eyes. Not like ‘I'm going to split you open with an axe and eat your spleen,’ madness, but more along the lines of ‘the entire world is falling down around our ears so we may as well have a little fun before it's over,’ madness. The Point was a popular spot, always had been, but in recent years monied individuals had established a marina not too far from it. A rather exclusive marina.
“You want to ride in style.”
“I want to ride in style.”
The words came at precisely the same instant, and for a moment we were transported away from the abandoned city, from the dried splashes of blood and gore, from law enforcement driven past the brink, and we were fifteen years younger out for a drive and talking trash about things we were going to do if we ever raised enough money. Or worked up a enough disdain for life, the future, and those above us in the financial strata.
It was a good moment. The kind that carried men and women through the unimaginable horrors man could inflict on man, and helped to bolster flagging resolve in those at the sharp end of the stick.
Which was why KnightStar shit bags chose that exact moment to crash our party.
Two black, nondescript SUVs swung onto the road behind us headlights putting out enough lumens to grow potatoes on Pluto. This was, apparently, the cue for Farah and Penelope to shriek in a range usually reserved for shattering crystal goblets, and to do so six inches from my ears. If, by chance, I had known what to do, James would never have been able to understand a single syllable coming from my lips and passing through the sonic wall of shrill notes being projected within the cab. I know this because I watched James lips move, but could only hear the shrill cry of millennial cry babies shitting themselves at the prospect of having to face a world without safe spaces and trigger warnings.
Out of the sunroof of the lead SUV emerged the biggest fucking slab of beef disguised as a human being I had ever seen in my life, and that included Big Green. He didn't even bother with a real shirt, opting instead for the barely sewn together steroid monster sleeveless teeshirts worn by gym rats with delusions of Mr. Olympia. Over that the titanesque bastard worn a snazzy, definitely more snazzy than my tactical vest, tactical vest from which he would feed what looked like an M-60 machine gun, but in his hands it looked like a toy. Surprisingly, I could hear this steroid fed, would be viking hurling a challenge at me even over the ear drum splitting shrieking of my ill advised attempt to clear my conscience of Lou and Dub’s less than gentle demises. Wow, is that some self realization shit or what? I knew popping those two would come back to karmically screw me.
“Get down, you fucking retard,” I screamed into the face of Farah Fuckwit as she finally stopped screaming long enough to draw breath. I was trying to line up a shot on the asshole with the Swiss cheese making machine gun when Farah, little shrill Farah Fuckwit, shoved my barrel out of line. The little twat actually tried to pull my rifle away, shrieking something about not letting me continue the cycle of violence. I was so stunned she got away with it before I came to my senses and yanked the rifle out of her hands. She screamed as the front site post scraped through her palms, drawing blood as it went. I was too furious to even curse her stupidity as I angled myself out the door’s window, totally off balance as I lined up a shot with my off side. The M-60 wielding man mountain reacted first, pumping a frightening amount of lead my way. I expected to be perforated in about a hundred places, but didn't feel a single bullet strike me. Choosing not to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, I snapped off a couple hastily aimed shots and creased the Demigod’s bicep and killed a street lamp. Not much for my efforts, I admit. It might conceivably have gone better if James had not chosen that exact fucking moment in time to swerve the truck all over the goddamn road like he'd been sucking down a gallon of cheap vodka.
“What the fuck are you doing? I can't hit shit like this,” I yelled into the cab.
“They blew out a rear tire,” James yelled back, giving me the finger to emphasize how very much he did not appreciate my criticism. “I'm having problems with the traction.”
“Jesus titty fucking Christ, what is with these assholes,” I screamed to no one and everyone. While blaspheming I thought it might help my cause to riddle the lead SUV with bullets, so I performed a mag dump into the engine compartment and windshield. That really caught the attention of the man mountain fondling the machine gun. Mostly because it was his turn to be sprayed with nearly boiling antifreeze as half a dozen rounds exploded through the aluminum and plastic radiator. Red mist coated t
he interior of the now spider webbed windshield, quickly removing that particular SUV from the fight. Naturally, the second SUV rushed forward to take up the fallen standard. This time, though, it seemed the kid gloves came off as a side door opened to reveal a GAU-17, mounted on a goddamn slide out rail system. “That's just not right.”
The schmuck behind the cannon triggered an obscene number of rounds, starting low and walking the fire up to yours truly. I cannot ever stress enough how much I never want to be shot by one of those ever, in all my life. However short it may be.
However, the line of fire stopped before it could rip my precious flesh to unidentifiable shreds of bloody meat, and James took this opportunity to make a hard right off A1A and headed south, towards Hell Gate Point. Aw, what the hell, why not ride in style? Now I'd accommodated myself to the new driving pattern it wasn't nearly as impossible to lay down a withering cover fire. Just highly improbable that I would hit anything of value. A second magazine of poorly aimed, rapidly fired rounds followed the first. I completely obliterated a neon shop sign, but only annoyed the SUV by chipping the paint. I rocked in a third magazine and took a deep, calming breath that did very fucking little to actually calm me down. Snarling to myself for wasting so much ammunition, I squeezed off deliberate, aimed shots. Believe me, the occupants of the SUV took notice of my improved aim. So much so, they mini-gun made another appearance. Bad move on their part since I was now dialed in and unflappable again. Or as close as I was ever likely to get to unflappable, which, in reality, was just this side of screaming obscenities about their mothers while double tapping everything in sight. The same shit eating little fucker sat behind the murder machine, his grin an indication of just how much he enjoyed doing this kind of fucked up shit. It pleases me immensely to report the smile never left his clean shaven face as I put a seven-six-two round through his skull. It would please me even more to report the shot was one hundred percent skill, but that would be utter bullshit. It was a luck shot, one hundred percent luck shot.
Enraged, the occupants of the SUV fired on the truck in earnest. The renewed fire gave the harpies in the truck bed cause to duck down where their excruciating calls of abject terror were muffled, and it just so happened to open up a new fire lane. I ducked back into the cab, and lined up a shot on the approaching SUV. James swore at me for being an inconsiderate prick as hot steel casings flew from my rifle to slap him in the face and neck.
“You rather I let them shoot you?” I screamed over the cacophony of battle. A vigorous shake of the head was the only response I got. “Didn't think so.”
Concentrated fire shredded the passenger area next to me, but I escaped serious injury. I say serious injury, but I received no less than three white hot grazes along my ribs. That was entirely too unpleasant for words so I just screamed incoherently as I pumped round after round into the windshield of the SUV. Unlike the first vehicle, my rounds didn't find tender flesh. At least, not yet. Far from being discouraged I renewed my assault as a fresh fusillade of ammunition insisted on the right of way. This time I caught a round in my left shoulder, left thigh, and left forearm, which broke the radial and ulna, before I could move back to the shredded passenger side.
“Mother fucking shit biscuits,” I yelled myself hoarse even as I scrambled to draw a protein bar from my not even remotely snazzy tactical vest. My teeth ripped through the plastics wrapping and I shoved the bar into my mouth, molars immediately ground into the unpleasant tasting foodstuff nearly causing my incisors to slice into my own fingers. Is accidental cannibalism still considered cannibalism? For some reason a great big, earth shaking klaxon went off in my brain, accompanied by a neon warning sign stating the most dire consequences.
Chewing on my protein bar, I worked the safety on my rifle and slung it across my back. It would useless until my arm healed. My forty-five, however, would operate just fine one handed, so out it came. These shots needed to be well aimed to inflict maximum damage so my rate of fire dropped off. Naturally, the mercenary scum in the SUV took this opportunity to pop out of various openings to gain better sight pictures. Three assholes with automatic rifles, dressed in black fatigues, heads covered by helmets mounting NVGs, and uber snazzy tactical vests probably equipped with ballistic plates took aim at my sorry unarmored ass.
A funny thing happened as I watched the mercs appear, time, or my perception of it, seemed to grind down to near infinitesimally small increments. My arm came up at normal speed, and I seemed to have forever to line up my shot on asshole number one’s throat. Even as the bullet left the barrel of my pistol I was tracking to asshole number two. A double tap sped, relatively speaking, towards the killer’s right eye, and I was lining up on the final gunman. Somehow, someway, the changes I had under gone were allowing me to move much faster than should have been possible. Don't believe what the DNC tells you, there is no such thing as a free lunch. All this was sure to come with a terrible cost, I just didn't have time to worry about it at that moment.
I squeezed the trigger for the final time, and as the bullet exited the barrel I seemed to catch back up with the normal flow of time. I watched in stunned awe as scarlet mist erupted from each man’s face, only to be swept away by the wind almost immediately. The driver of the SUV must have realized events had gone sideways because he stomped on the brakes, and turned off between buildings. In the distance, I could see the previous SUV lumbering up slowly. They had been bloodied, but KnightStar wasn't out of the fight just yet.
“How long till we hit Hell Gate Point?” I asked James, barely able to contain my scream when I brushed my broken arm across the shredded seat.
“Thirty seconds,” he shouted, not wanting to take his hands off the steering wheel. Steam was rising from beneath the hood. That's not good, not good at all. Rounds from all the automatic fire must have found their destructive way to the engine.
“Good, because those assholes aren't done pissing on our parade,” I tried to smile, to make light of the situation, but I was in too much pain to bring it off. I was healing, I was devouring a protein bar, and I was tired from all the near death stupidity. And from the psychic presence of Zombie Green. It sunk in that a huge chunk of my exhaustion was entirely due to the crushing weight of having Zombie Green trying to break into my mind. Knowing that didn't banish my physical exhaustion in the least little bit, but it gave me something to focus on. Namely keeping that undead abomination out of my skull. The goddamn Queen of the Undead worked her way into my subconscious mind once before, and nearly destroyed my personality. That was not something I ever wanted to go through again.
The truck slid to an unsteady stop in front of the marina, multimillion dollar boats still bumped against the docks. James practically bounced in place at the idea of scoring one of the monstrously enormous boats. It didn't matter we didn't have enough people to run it, he was busy dreaming big on what might be our last day breathing.
“You two, get out of the goddamn truck,” I shouted at the girls. Reluctantly, the two poked their heads up over the truck bed to glance around in stultified awe. I reached in to unload the supplies, and decided these two were going to earn their keep starting now. “Take this and follow James. No! Don't run your fucking mouth at me! Move your skinny ass!”
I tossed one backpack at Farah Fuckwit and handed another to Penelope, mainly because she wasn't the one pissing me off.
“James, take one of the smaller, faster cabin cruisers,” I shouted as I unloaded more supplies. Christ on fire, what was I thinking grabbing all this heavy shit? The pain in my left arm decreased from having my balls in a vise, to somewhere around having a ten penny nail driven through three finger by a pneumatic nail gun. Obscene, but infinitely more manageable. Along with that reduction came the grinding of bone against bone as they reset into position.
A quick assessment of the situation made it abundantly clear the kill team would arrive long before we could escape. I ran the last of the supplies to a thirty-five foot boat James was busy drooling over.
“Then how are…” James started to asked, but the sound of a light machine gun going cyclic cut him off.
“Go!”’I screamed and ran back to the truck, which was rapidly coming apart under the attention of the machine gunner. “You wanna dance? Let's dance!”
Chapter Ten
Under no circumstances whatsoever is a semi-automatic Kalashnikov going to match the sheer volume of rounds put out by an M-60 light machine gun. That's nothing more than a fairy tale, and not a particularly well thought out one. So while the oncoming wall of lead definitely possessed the right of way, I was busy laying on the ground aiming beneath the truck. With careful aim I shot out the front tire of the SUV, just before an entirely new volume of fire reminded me the SUV wasn't empty. Using a military term, I displaced. Which in civilian speak means I ran like hell to marginally better cover. The cinder block construction prevalent in south Florida assured me maybe thirty seconds of cover while I dumped an entire magazine into the body of the SUV. This had the dubious effect of redirecting fire from the now on fire truck, to my marginally better cover. Thirty calibre rounds chewed through the cinder block instantly, eroding the scant protection between me and an hideously painful death. Despite it all, the foremost thought in my mind was ‘thank god they don't have grenades’.