Invasion of the Dead (Book 2): A Fistful of Zombies

by H. L. Murphy

  “Can…can you drive a…boat?” I asked between subdued gasps.

  “Of course,” Angie, damn her non gasping eyes, answered. She was just little miss revving to go. Let's see her disassemble and reassemble an M1911A1 blindfolded.

  “Okay, pick something you can handle,” I said while I glanced back at the fence line. “Maybe something with a shower. Yeah, a shower would be real nice about now. We could, you know, take turns scrubbing the funk of fifty thousand zombies off. Just saying, a shower would be nice.”

  “Right, so definitely not that yellow speed boat right here?” Angie snarked. Goddamn it, couldn't she pretend to be a little winded? To spare my fragile ego the self recriminations which were coming?

  “Just get moving,” I snarled. I even stood up straight while I did it. My eyes immediately found the boat, the boat housing the two people I loved most in all the world. The old bucket of rust never looked so beautiful as that moment in time. Angie snickered at my manly attempt to save a touch of dignity and ran past several empty berths to a smallish cabin cruiser. I followed at a more sedate pace, watching the fence line for movement. The dark of night was slowly giving way to predawn, but there was still too little light to really make out anything. I really had no idea where either of my enemies were, and I wasn't about to go psychic surfing again. It was entirely too likely I would give away my position. Instead I turned and ran for Angie's new boat. She was within the boat fiddling with the controls so I took that opportunity to untie the mooring lines, more nautical terms, and push the boat away from the little dock. I leapt on at the last moment before turning to raise the ZK-383 to cover the shoreline.

  “Avast ye scurrilous scalawags,”I whispered to myself, thinking of the old pirate movies I enjoyed as a kid. “This here's me own vessel, ye’ll not be touching me booty.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Angie said from behind me. Contrary to what she would later state I neither squealed like a girl nor prematurely fired off a burst from the sub gun. I will admit to swearing profusely, but only because miss barely broke a sweat snuck up on me.

  “Fucking Christ, woman,” I spat. “Why aren't the engines going?”

  “I came out to untie the lines,” she smirked,” and found you playing pirate, didn't I? Just like a cute and cuddly little boy. How old are you right now? Five? Six?”

  “Forty-two and already tired of this shit,” I pushed her questing hand away from my cheek. “Get the engines started, and let's get the fuck out of here.”

  “Don't think I won't tell Lizzy about this,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared back into the cabin. A second later the gentle rumble of the engines coming to life told me I might just hold Lizzy in my arms again. It was as we pulled away from the docks she appeared out of the night, a vision of Hell on earth.

  She'd enjoyed a fresh regeneration because her skin was bereft of scratches, gouges, and burn marks. Unlike before, the bitch Queen of the Undead hadn't bothered to regenerate Madalina's long black hair. With the exception of being completely hairless the only other oddity was the fact she stood there naked. Unless you count all the fresh blood covering her from head to toe. I couldn't help but wonder whether the vile undead bitch killed Simon out of need or pleasure. Did it feel that kind of pleasure? Zombie Green did, but he was an aberration.

  “Give it to me, Finnegan,” the Queen of the Undead annunciated in her dulcet tones, much like ten thousand panes of glass being slowly crushed into powder. “Give it to me.”

  “Sure, baby, no problem,” I said and walked to the stern of the cruiser. I stood there, legs spread, unzipped my fly, produced myself, and let rip a stream of urine I'd been holding back the last hour or two. “There you go, it's all for you.”

  Zombie Gypsy merely stared, uncomprehending, at me as we motored away. It struck how very similar our positions were at the Port of Ft. Pierce. Once again she stood there while I sailed away, ingloriously giving the undead bitch the metaphoric finger. Feeling particularly froggy I waved my Johnson at the bitch Queen of the Undead before putting myself away.

  “Fuck off and die,” I shouted.

  For just an instant, I thought she would reply. I doubt her response would have been nearly as pithy as me waving my dick at her, but I would have liked to know what her response would have been. Unfortunately, Zombie Green made his presence known at that exact moment by clamping his distended jaws down on Madalina's scrawny neck. Even from where I watched I heard the crunch of vertebrae and the rip of muscle, tendon, and spinal cord as his jaws snapped closed. The only reason the undead matron continue to stand was because Zombie Green held her in place while he devoured his first mouthful. Then with surprising care, Zombie Green clamped his mouth onto the wound and drank Zombie Gypsy’s blood. I watched in absolute fascinated horror as the bitch Queen of the Undead wailed in…fear.

  Interlude Nine

  “Sergeant Hursley, I want that M2 right here,” Captain Vincenzo yelled into the comm. His rifle snapped up and spat Ineffectual fire at the latest in a series of inhumanly resilient foes. It seemed as if the entire island had been populated with one form of genetic freak after another. The massive canine beast had only been the tip of the iceberg. Judging by the many and varied altered species the good doctor had been keeping herself quite busy unlocking the mysteries of the genetic code. The worst by far hadn't been the practically bullet proof soldiers, oh no, the worst by far had been the arachnids. Even thinking about it made the Captains skin crawl. Three good Marines had died before that shit show concluded, and still the defenders threw themselves against the Marines. Whatever Dr. Zhao had done to them clearly affected the decision making paradigm. It was the only way to explain how a defeated defense force would continue to hurl themselves into the face of certain death.

  Sergeant Hursley and two other Marines came stumping up, carrying the venerable heavy machine gun and tripod. In short order the trio had the gun mounted and pumping fifty calibre BMG rounds into the enemies reinforced position. Steel reinforced concrete vaporized under the hail of fire. Behind the diminishing cover a gargantuan man of disfigured proportions howled unintelligible nonsense and hurled grenades at the Marines. Prepared for this action, the Marines merely kicked the grenades back towards the freak or picked them up, pulled the pin, and threw them back. It seemed, in the things haste, it sometimes failed to pull the pin before tossing the device.

  Bits of concrete shrapnel and debris flew in all directions as the M2 utterly shattered the barricade, and the freakishly deformed monstrosity behind it took several rounds. Blood misted as the nearly explosive results of a BMG round penetrating unarmored flesh and blood, even badly mutated flesh and blood, became evident. Arms, parts of arms, legs, and parts of legs disappeared as the hypercavitation effect liquified tissue, bone, and sinew alike.

  “Cease fire,” Vincenzo slapped the gunner on the shoulder. “First squad on me, Hursley break down Ma and follow ASAP.”

  Running ahead of his men, Vincenzo took cover behind the remains of the concrete barricade. Crouching there, the Captain finally understood exactly how large the monster on the other side must have been because what remained of the barricade was more than enough to shelter his entire squad. Peaking around the corner, Vincenzo got an eyeful of yet another potential nightmare. The man behind the barricade had clearly been crossed with one of the arachnid creatures because it had multiple legs, but stunted and misshapen compared to the rest of him. It was impossible to see how the deformed soldier could have possibly moved around, or even been able to bear what must have been a painful existence.

  “Let's go,” he said and moved around the barricade into the hallway proper leading into the fortress. All air ops against the structure had ceased the moment Vincenzo reported they were about to enter, and the officer suddenly missed the reassuring presence of the fighter bombers and the helicopter gunships. From this point on, his team was entirely alone. No back up, no fire from on high. Nothing.

  Captain Vincenzo l
ed his men into the lions den. Past the impressive double doors, the marines immediately noticed the drop in temperature and humidity. Furthermore, the interior of the structure resembled nothing so much as a modern office building found all over the globe. Sheetrock, cubicles, and computer terminals everywhere. As he stood there staring, Vincenzo could even hear muzak playing playing over a PA system.

  “What the serious fuck?” Corporeal Johnson whispered from behind Vincenzo, who was definitely inclined to agree. The reality of the interior was so incongruous it was difficult to accept even at third glance.

  “Cut the chatter, eyes up,” Vincenzo ordered, forcing his mind into action. “Clear and secure, two by two. Johnson, you're on me. Go.”

  Endless cycles of training showed in the smooth professional manner in which the Marines spread out, checked, and secured the entire floor. Every single computer terminal appeared to be running the same sequence of machine code, though none of the Marines could identify the programming language being used.

  “What am I looking at?” Vincenzo demanded as he stood before a terminal, watching line after line of code stream by.

  “No idea, sir,” Johnson answered as he took this opportunity to record a segment of the code for later inspection. “It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. If I had to venture a guess I'd say the mainframe is compiling data, but I can't be sure.”

  “Is it possible the system is deleting?” Vincenzo asked.

  “It's possible, but unlikely,” Johnson replied. “If the target is attempting to erase all record of what happened here, the simplest solution begins and ends with C4.”

  “Right, just blow the fucking thing to pieces and stop worrying about it,” Vincenzo nodded. “Alright, enough screwing around. Upward and onward.”

  With the remaining squads now rejoined Vincenzo headed for the stairs.

  "Valkyrie One, interrogative,” a calm, deep voice intoned over the next generation comm system.

  “Odin Six, Valkyrie One, send traffic,” Major Joe Ratachek responded. His flight computer indicated another two hours flight time at current speed and altitude, more so if he were to unload the ordinance his bird carried. To that end, Ratachek brought the monocle targeting system onto the fleeing cabin cruiser.

  “Valkyrie One, do you have target Yankee Twelve in sight?”

  “Odin Six, that is an affirmative,” Major Ratachek answered almost happily. “Give the word and I can terminate.”

  “Valkyrie One, negative,” the voice stated flatly. “Do not fire. Yankee Twelve is not a viable termination target. How copy?”

  “Odin Six, Yankee Twelve is a target of opportunity, how copy?” Major Ratachek returned hotly. Why the hell was someone rear echelon mother fucker bird dogging him now? Of all the times to sit on his fucking shoulder and arm chair quarterback, this dipshit picked now? He was seconds away from taking down an honest to goodness Class Three hybrid, the equivalent of a twelve point buck, and some desk riding pussy suddenly feels sorry for the fucking thing?

  “Valkyrie One, RTB,” the voice announced coldly. “RTB with your ordinance intact, and without terminating target. How copy?”

  “Negative copy,” Ratachek countered. “Under what authority do you counter the TO list?”

  “Valkyrie One, this order comes directly from COG,” the voice explained patiently. “Now, RTB, or the remote self destruct will be utilized. How copy?”

  “Mother fucker,” Ratachek said to himself, then keyed his mic, “Valkyrie One copies all.”

  With a heavy sigh, Ratachek switched off weapons systems and satisfied himself with giving his lost prize an enthusiastic middle finger. He had come so close. Reluctantly, the Major turned the cutting edge, experimental attack helicopter from the Atlantic Ocean and pointed the nearly silent craft south by southwest. Unlike so many of its predecessors, the AH-99 could cover ground faster than many fixed wing aircraft. That had been the direct result of an industrial race to produce a functional counter rotating main rotor assembly which could then be used in conjunction with a pusher propeller arrangement. Publicly, the breakthrough had come from a Connecticut based aviation company operating a campus right here in Florida. Moreover, the prototype aircraft had broken through the two hundred fifty knot goal the engineers set, inspiring immense interest from both the military and also from a number of three letter agencies. Naturally, once the prototype was upsized, some proprietary sound dampening equipment added, and stealth materials applied the agencies in question were practically chomping at the bit to back the program. The urban pacification applications alone were sufficient for Homeland Security to work an additional one hundred million dollars into their budget. Currently known as the AH-99 Phantom, only three had been produced, in secret, before Outbreak Day brought the production program to a screaming halt. Fortunately, those on scene had kept their wits about them, and locked down the flight hangar until help arrived in the form of team of special operators whose identities were so classified Major Ratachek wasn't even cleared to know the team existed let alone what branch of service they were.

  As the secret facility came in sight, Ratachek once again mused on the irony that his base of operations was only two miles from the origin of the Florida outbreak. The industrial giants which shared space together, had been consumed by the undead together had little or no idea the most important aviation program of the last thirty years was being carried out less than two miles from their desks.

  The Major shook his head as he brought the nearly silent aircraft over the remains of a Cold War era attempt to disguise a research facility from the Soviets, the town that never was, Apex. Supposedly abandoned in the late 1950s, but really kept going as a catch all for whatever flight research tickled the companies fancy. All the whackos flocked to Nevada hoping to get close to Area 51, as if anything of interest had been flown out there in the last forty years. No, all the really cool stuff was being flown out of little nowhere places like this.

  “Valkyrie One on final,” Ratachek announced, not bothering to activate the running lights. There were still enough zombies in the area that lights were considered optional.

  “Copy, Valkyrie One,” a different, more friendly voice answered. “Proceed to Hangar Bravo, then report to Colonel Saunders.”

  “Copy,” Ratachek groaned inwardly. The goddamn Colonel would ream him out good and proper for questioning the on air orders. Well, fuck that. As the pilot on station Ratachek was within his operational parameters to terminate targets of opportunity. Especially when those targets had been assigned by COG intelligence.

  Setting the bird, which he affectionately thought of as Betty, down, he taxied to the assigned hangar, noticing as he did so the flurry of activity swarming over the second of the three prototypes. That was worrisome. As far the Phantom was concerned, nothing in the air over North America could touch it. The pilot, Captain Bill Thomas, had flown Apaches for years before being tapped for this project. On the rare occasions Ratachek was being honest with himself, he would admit Thomas was a better stick when things got hairy.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Running the aircraft in, shutting it down, and waiting for the blades to cease their dangerous counter rotation, Ratachek considered what may await him. Maybe the Colonel wanted to discuss whatever had happened to Thomas. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than balling him out over a TO.

  The moment Ratachek stepped into the Colonel’s office he knew nothing good would be following. Standing next to the Colonel, was a tall, blond man with an eye patch covering what Ratachek assumed was an empty socket. Hideous fresh scarring covered the side of the man's face, but didn't seem to bother the man since a broad grin split his face.

  “Major, my name is Eric Linner,” the voice matched perfectly to the operator called Odin Six. “And I'd like to discuss the target you have designated as Yankee Twelve.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Finnegan’s Wake.

  That's what is blaring from the boats speake
rs as Angie and I slowly approach the stern. If you don't know, the song is about a workman that takes a bad fall and hits his head on the way down. Everybody thinks Finnegan is dead so they carry him home to give him a wake, and incidentally eat and drink everything in sight. Since the mourners are all Irish, a drunken brawl ensues during which the presumed dead Finnegan is showered in whiskey and revives to the wonderment of all. It is impossible for me convey the number of times I have been taunted in my life with that fucking song.

  I fucking hate Finnegan’s Wake.

  Since my wife and all my friends know I hate that fucking song, I take it as a bad sign. Not all is as it should be on the old S.S. Get The Fuck Outta Town. Luckily, I’ve had time to not only clean myself, but my motley assortment of weapons. There really wasn't enough time to instruct Angie in the nuances of pistoleering, so I went over the ZK-383 until she understood how to fire and reload.

  “Follow me up and over, but keep that fucking weapon pointed away from me,” I explained my plan to her. “Once we’re aboard we’ll find Lizzy and work out what's going on from there.”

  “What if we run into people,” Angie started, saw my expression, and pushed on with her question anyways,”people that we don't know?”

  “That,”’I said as I gently lifted the submachine gun,”is what this is for.”

  “Uh, that's kind of…” Angie trailed off as my expression hardened.